Dream On

by Terry Tyler

  Well, if Dave could do it, why couldn't she?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Raw Talent!

  Confirmation of their first auditions arrived on a Saturday morning, and thus began the countdown until Monday, January the thirteenth, 2008.

  "The studios are in Wembley - I'll suss out a Travelodge," said Ariel, "and we all need to book the time off work, now."

  "Yeah, we need to book the whole three days off," Ritchie said, "'cause we're all going to make it through to the live shows, aren't we?"

  "D'you think that's, like, tempting fate?" said Dave. "I mean, if we presume we're all going to make it through, we probably won't."

  "No, it's being positive," said Ritchie. "Our Pete says you've got to have a positive mental attitude. PMA, he calls it."

  "Ritchie's right," said Ariel. "I'm not going home on the first day, I'm telling you that, now."

  "So what happens, then?" said Melodie. "I couldn't be bothered to read all the technical stuff."

  Ariel caught Dave's eye for a moment and smiled. "It's hardly technical." She picked up the documents she'd brought with her to the pub, and glanced down them. "What happens is, we all go to the studios on the Monday, where everyone in turn gets a quick few minutes in front of a record industry talent spotter - in other words, an A&R man - and a researcher from the programme. If you don't get through that stage, you go home. If you're one of the lucky eighty, the next day you get to audition in front of a panel of three; a festival organiser, the programme producer, and the record industry guy, again. They do the solo singers in two sections according to age, the bands in another. This is the bit that'll be televised later. You know, it'll be like on The X Factor, when they go in front of Simon Cowell and Louis Walsh for the first time. After that - " she cast her eyes down the page again, " - the eighty are cut down to forty. Then, on the third day, the forty perform again."

  "So all our mates will see us making twats of ourselves on telly, when the record industry guy - I bet he is like Simon Cowell - when he says 'this is the worst audition I have ever seen', right?" said Shane, and laughed.

  "Well, we hope not," Ariel said. "Anyway, that's it. We go home, and wait for a phone call. They only bother to contact the ones who get through; out of the final forty, you see, they pick fifteen for the live shows where the public can vote, either by text or phone. Just fifteen."

  They were all silent for a moment.

  "I'm going to be in that fifteen if it kills me," said Melodie. "I reckon what you've got to do is say a few sort of controversial things, so you get noticed, yeah?"

  "Well, either that, or make sure you sing really, really well," said Ariel, raising her eyebrows.

  "Or give one of the judges a blow job!" put in Shane.

  "Think I'll stick with brushing up me guitar skills," said Ritchie.

  "I've already started dieting," said Melodie. "Do you think I ought to have some blonde highlights?"

  "No," said Ariel, "suits you dark. But it's about the music, this show, remember?"

  "Yeah, you might want to practise your scales while you're waiting for your nail polish to dry, as well, love," said Ritchie.

  "Scales?" said Melodie, with a frown. "Oh yeah, I've done them at my singing lessons."

  "This is it, isn't it?" said Dave. "We could be on our way. Any of us. Or all of us."

  "I bloody hope so," said Melodie. "Anything that'll rescue me from living in a rabbit hutch above a dry cleaners and wrapping up bunches of bloody flowers from nine 'til five, five and a half days a week, has got my vote."

  "Even if one of us doesn't win, you never know who you might meet at these things, like I've said before," said Boz. "And if you don't like your rabbit hutch you can come and share mine anytime, Mel, pet!"

  "I thought my chat up lines were bad enough," said Shane. He leant across the table and gazed into Melodie's eyes. "You're just too good to be true," he sang, "can't take my eyes off you - "

  Ritchie grinned. "Is that one of Dave's new songs?"

  ***

  Janice was surprised to see Dave standing at the door; it was half past one on Sunday afternoon, and she'd just been thinking about putting up the Christmas tree for Harley. Wasn't Dave always in the pub at this time on a Sunday?

  "Hi," he said, when she opened the door. "Can I come in?"

  "Of course," she said. "You don't normally stand on ceremony. There's no need to be sheepish, just because you've got a new girlfriend."

  Dave kissed her on the cheek, rather tentatively; his skin felt cold next to hers. She wanted to put her arms around him, underneath his leather jacket, like she used to, but she held back. Used to. It wasn't so long ago, really, was it?

  "Daddy!" Harley leapt up and bounded over to him, and Dave picked him up, kissing him on the cheek, too.

  "Hello, Mr D!" he said.

  "What's that in there, Daddy?" said Harley, feeling inside his jacket. "It's a book! Is it for me?"

  "No." Dave put him down and took the book out. "It's for your great gran." He looked at Janice and handed it to her. "I thought Evelyn might like it. I thought maybe we could all go and see her."

  It was a volume of photographs, of Fenland scenes, new and old.

  "It's lovely," she said, flicking through it.

  Dave looked a bit embarrassed. "Well, I thought, she can't read anymore 'cause she can't remember what the last bloody paragraph said, can she? But she's still sharp enough to get bored 'cause she hasn't got enough to do. And look - " He leant over Janice's shoulder and turned a few pages. "There are some old photos of that village near Ely where she grew up. She'll probably remember it being like that."

  Janice breathed in the smell of him and felt weak with wanting to put her arms around him. She looked up at his face, and smiled. "This is a really brilliant idea. Thanks."

  "Shall we all go and see her then? Now?"

  "Yes. Just let me get changed into something half way respectable." (And chuck on some mascara, lipstick and perfume). "Harley, sweetheart, d'you want to go and get your shoes on?"

  Dave didn't say much on the drive out to the care home; Janice couldn't help wondering about the motivation for this surprise show of goodwill. Guilt, genuine concern for Evelyn, or trying to curry favour, get back in her good books? Could be any of them, she supposed. Or, more likely, a combination of all three.

  "Who's that little boy, then?" Evelyn asked, peering at him.

  "That's Harley, Gran," Janice said. "My son. Mine and Dave's."

  "Dave?"

  "Yeah, come on, Eve, you know me!" said Dave. "'orrible Dave, you remember?"

  Evelyn smiled at him, though she looked quite blank.

  "Dave bought you this book, Gran," Janice said. "It's got some lovely pictures in it."

  Dave held the book out to her, opening it at the pages he'd shown Janice. "Look," he said, "that's where you lived when you were a child, I remember you telling me."

  Evelyn beamed at him again. "This is very nice of you, dear. It's lovely to get presents." She opened the book and peered at it, quite absorbed for a while, smiling as she turned the pages. "I used to live there," she said, pointing at a picture of a large manor house. Then she lost interest, and looked around the room again. "I'd like to go home now. Can you take me, or will I have to phone for a taxi?"

  "You have to stay here, Evelyn, so they can look after you," Dave said, leaning forward and taking her hand in his.

  "Yes," she said, and seemed to drift off for a moment. Then she looked at Janice. "I'm sorry, dear, I can't remember your name."

  "It's Janice, Gran. Your granddaughter."

  "No! Don't be silly!" She laughed. "Janice is only a little girl!"

  "I was a little girl, a long time ago. I'm grown up now. Look, there's Harley. He's my son."

  Dave stood up. "Shall I see if I can get us all a cup of tea?"

  "Mm," said Evelyn. "I don't know if I've got time. I've got to be getting home. They'll be wanting their dinner."

  "It's okay, Gran, y
ou haven't got to go anywhere. You're safe here," Janice said.

  "Yes." She turned to look out of the window, her wrinkled, parched skin lit up by the winter afternoon sun as she did so. For a moment, Janice saw a flicker in her eyes of the old Evelyn, the one who'd been so witty and sparky and funny. But then it was gone; when her grandmother turned back the shutters were down again, and she gazed at them as if she hadn't got the faintest clue who any of them were.

  "She's much worse, isn't she?" Dave said, as they were driving back, breaking a long silence.

  "Mm."

  "I was quite shocked."

  "Yeah. It varies; the deterioration's not a gradual slope, like I thought it would be. Sometimes she seems more switched on than others."

  "It must - well, it must be so upsetting when she doesn't know who you are. I mean, it got to me a bit, and I'm not even her flesh and blood."

  Janice sighed. "It's okay for me. It's Mum who feels it the most."

  Dave took his left hand off the steering wheel and stroked her thigh in a way that was comforting rather than sexual; it felt wonderful, just the same.

  "I'm sorry, Jan."

  "What for?"

  "Oh, everything. You know."

  "Yeah." She looked back at Harley, who was sound asleep in his seat in the back. "You and Ariel, then, is it the big romance?"

  "Stop it, Janice."

  "Well, is it?"

  "No," he said, looking into the wing mirror as he changed lanes. "It's just - oh I dunno. It's just a thing. I mean, she isn't my girlfriend. Not really."

  "Do you wish she was?"

  Silence.

  "I'll take that as a yes, then."

  They turned into Greyfriars Estate. "I don't think we should be talking about it, that's all," he said.

  "Well, you've changed your tune. You wanted to, the other week."

  "Yeah, well - look, Jan, you did chuck me out, you know. It wasn't very easy for me, at the time. It was pretty shit, actually."

  "Mm. Well, it was pretty shit for me before you went. When I was the one keeping everything together and you were doing your drunken depressed self-indulgent bit."

  "Yes, but we'd already got through that by the time you told me to go."

  "In your head, maybe."

  They reached number twenty-seven, Woodstock Close. Dave stopped the car, and Janice burst into tears.

  For a moment he just sat there and let her cry. Then he took her hand.

  "What's up, babe?" he asked her, quite gently.

  "Oh, what do you think is up?" she hissed at him, between sobs, as quietly as she could so that Harley didn't wake. "Gran's turning into a vegetable, I miss her so much, it's like she's already gone - and I'm all on my own, I never have any fun, and just when I think you're going to start acting like a grown up man and give us a bit of support, you start all this stupid band stuff up again, and get yourself a new girlfriend, and we hardly ever see you."

  "I'm sorry." He sounded helpless.

  She hated how pathetic she sounded. Dependent. She never wanted to seem pathetic and dependent.

  "Oh, just ignore me," she said, and wiped her eyes. "You're right, I chucked you out, and apart from you seeing Harley there's absolutely no reason why you should come round at all. It's up to me to make my life better, isn't it? We're not together anymore - I saw to that, didn't I?" She knew how angry and bitter she sounded, now, but she couldn't help herself. "Did you know Ariel came round to see me?"

  He looked up. "Did she?" Ah, yes, that had sparked his interest. "What happened?"

  "Nothing much. We just talked. She's very nice. I liked her. I can see why you're in love with her. And she's so fucking pretty I want to smash her perfect little face in!"

  "Janice!" She could tell he was shocked. She never, ever swore in front of Harley.

  "He's asleep," she said, and opened the car door. "Bring him in for me, will you? Then you can be getting off to do whatever you'd rather be doing."

  She stormed up the garden path and into the house, flinging the door open, closely followed by Dave, with his sleeping son in his arms.

  "Do you want me to stay a while?" Dave asked, putting Harley down on the sofa with exaggerated care and following her out into the kitchen, where she leant against the sink, tears rolling down her face. "I'll stay all evening, if you like. I'm not due anywhere."

  "No," she said. "I want you to go. It makes it worse when you're here." She was reminded of a song she'd liked when she was young teenager. Why do you come here, when you know it makes it hard for me when you go? It was funny; she'd known even then what that feeling would be like, even though, of course, she'd never been in love, not then. And now she was living that feeling, in all its glory.

  Had her intuition told her that it was her destiny to know heartache better than happiness?

  After he'd gone she worked out some of her pain and anger by sheer physical effort - getting the step ladder out to go up into the attic and find the Christmas tree and its decorations. Harley wanted to help, of course, and that made her want to cry all over again, because it was something they should enjoy doing together, all three of them, but now, of course, they were just two, and she felt so ratty and agitated that she had to make a real effort not to keep snapping at her son.

  They'd just put the star on the top of the tree when a tell-tale cramp in her lower stomach told her that her period had just started; of course, she had PMT. That was why everything had seemed so much worse than usual these last few days. Knowing that was a very slight comfort. The trouble with bloody PMT, though, was that although you knew it would pass, that knowledge didn't stop you wanting to break windows while it was happening.

  She didn't feel calm again until Harley was in bed and she'd languished in the bath for half an hour; then, wrapped up in her fluffy white dressing gown, she poured herself a large glass of wine (this was getting to be a habit!) and sat down at the laptop.

  MySpace.

  Ooh - another message from Tom!

  'Hi there,' he wrote, 'I hoped you'd be online earlier, but maybe you're out. Have you had an okay weekend? Is it back to the grind tomorrow, or have you been working in the café all weekend? I haven't done much Went to see a Whitesnake tribute band last night with a couple of mates. Pretty good. They were called Dale's Covers, should you ever come across them! Good name, isn't it?! Hope to hear from you soon. Best, Tom x'

  Oh, a kiss! He hadn't put a kiss at the end of a message before!

  Janice took a sip of her wine and started to reply.

  'Hi Tom, lovely to hear from you! No, I haven't done much this weekend - you know I don't get out much, it's so hard. My mother has a better social life than I do! I can get her to babysit sometimes but she's often out and about with the new man in her life.

  Yes, work tomorrow - not 'til noon, though, thank goodness! I haven't started to think about Christmas properly, yet. That's bad, isn't it? It's only two weeks away.She was about to mention something about Christmas trees and getting presents for Harley's stocking, but stopped - mustn't sound too domestic; that was hardly alluring, was it? She didn't even know if Tom had children himself. Come to think of it, she didn't know much about him at all, only that he liked Whitesnake and chatting to her.

  She refilled her glass, and thought for a moment. What did Tom do for a living? Oh, yes, that was it. He was an estate agent. Probably the sort of person Dave and Shane would consider too 'straight' for words.

  '... well, I hope your Monday morning isn't too Monday morning-ish, and that you sell lots of houses! Love, Janice -

  (Should she? Yes, why not?)

  Love, Janice x '

  She went out to the kitchen to pack Harley's lunch box for the morning - apple, yogurt, cereal bars, fruit juice carton, cheese slices. When she returned to the laptop, Tom had replied.

  'I was thinking; d'you fancy meeting up some time? I'm quite near you, after all - I like talking to you on here, and I wondered if you'd do me the honour of letting me take you out some t
ime? I'm free on Thursday night, if that's okay with you. You mentioned babysitters - this is enough notice, isn't it? You choose a restaurant you like and I'll drive over, book a hotel room for the night so I don't have to do the first date sober, ha ha, and we could have dinner together, how about that?'

  Hell, yes! In a moment, the world seemed like a much better place. An attractive man wanted to meet her, take her out - all on the basis of one photograph on her MySpace page, and about ten short messages. There, Dave Bentley, what do you think of that, eh?

  They made arrangements, Janice choosing Angelo's Italian restaurant in the town centre - Dave had taken her there on her birthday, a couple of years before, and she'd loved it; apart from the food, the place had a delightfully relaxed, intimate atmosphere. She'd find a babysitter if she had to pay them double, quadruple, even - this was one date she most certainly was not going to miss!

  After they'd said goodnight, Janice clicked onto Thor's profile page.

  Lots of new fans. Several people commenting how great their last gig had been. The music was on there now, at last; it was funny to hear Dave's voice singing those words about the Viking warrior leaving his wife and child. She'd thought, at the time, that the song had been about her, but maybe she'd just been flattering herself.

  The music was now available to download, she read, five original Thor songs, penned by Dave Bentley, and produced by KelvinSound, whatever that was. Or you could buy a CD. Dave hadn't even told her they were doing a CD. She didn't know when they'd done it, or where. She knew so little about his life, these days.

  She clicked onto Ariel Swan, next. Nothing much on there - but, oh, look - she had her songs on her page, too, now. Perhaps they'd been to record them together, Ariel and the boys. Cosy.

  Janice browsed around, studying this page and that, listening to another song by Thor, looking at photographs, trying not to scour Ariel's profile for things that would upset her even more (loving comments from Dave, perhaps?). She almost clicked on to listen to a song of hers called 'Grey', but decided against doing so, just in time.