Contents
Cover
About the Book
About the Author
Title Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Acknowledgements
Ebury Press Fiction Footnotes
Copyright
About the Book
All Catherine wants to do is sing, but a TV show is about to make her a star ...
Catherine Reilly is 24, single and still lives at home with her dad and two of her sisters. The only thing Catherine’s ever been any good at is singing, but she has no connections, low confidence and isn’t exactly glamorous. However, when she sees a TV ad for the latest series of Star Maker – the biggest talent show on national television – she decides to enter ...
Catherine now has the best voice coach in the business, a team of sadistic trainers and stylists and the world’s number one music mogul on her side ... Can an ordinary girl’s dreams really come true?
About the Author
Anne-Marie O’Connor was born in Bradford. She has written plays for theatre, radio and television. She now lives in Manchester with her husband and son.
To Jack
Chapter 1
CATHERINE REILLY WAS sitting in the foyer of a five-star hotel in Manchester city centre breathing rapidly with her head between her knees. Her feet, which she’d pushed into her younger sister’s silver wedges that morning, looked odd from this angle. Her ankles were puffy and red and her toenails, which she had painted orange on the instruction of Lorraine Kelly, who’d informed her that silver wedges and orange nails were ‘bang on trend for summer’, looked like Smarties stuck on the end of cocktail sausages. She had teamed the footwear with a pink swirly-print maxi dress, which was also, on upside-down reflection, probably not a good idea.
Jo – Catherine’s nineteen-year-old sister from whom she’d borrowed the outfit – was studying fashion design at college. Not just that, Jo could throw on a bin bag, wear an opened baked bean tin for a hat and still look a million dollars – she was definitely someone who could pull off a Pucci-print dress and wedges. Catherine felt that she was from a different end of the gene pool to her younger sister – not having gazelle-like legs and thick, bum-length, Angelina Jolie hair. Even if I dressed in head-to-toe couture, Catherine thought to herself, I’d still only look like change from a fiver.
As Catherine silently berated herself for not having thought about this fact sooner, she could feel someone rubbing her back. ‘Thank you,’ she said, weakly lifting her head.
The St John’s Ambulance woman looked at her and smiled kindly. ‘Thought we might need a stretcher.’
‘No, I’ll be fine.’ Catherine felt totally disoriented. One minute she had been queuing up to receive her competition number, the next – overcome by the thought of what she was letting herself in for, auditioning for Star Maker: Transatlantic – she had fainted, collapsing onto a line of seats. She remembered swaying and then nothing – not until she was brought round from a tangle of chair legs. She could just imagine the crash. No gentle swooning for the likes of her, she thought. No being caught by some handsome man in naval uniform and being carried off into the distance like the final scenes of An Officer and a Gentleman – just a St John’s Ambulance woman to bring her round. She just wasn’t the sort of girl that people leapt from their seats to help – the type who always had an air of mystery about them. She smiled too much for that, even when she was trying to be mean and moody. And anyway, she looked like she could probably cope in a crisis.
Catherine was what her grandma used to refer to as a ‘big girl’. She wasn’t abnormal load big; she was just the wrong side of Top Shop. Catherine had accepted the fact that she was never going to wear skinny jeans. She was fairly sure that even her skeleton would have a hard time pulling off anything Kate Moss wore. At five foot six and a size sixteen, with shoulder-length dark brown hair and eyes that were grey or green depending on the light, Catherine thought she looked OK. Not that she spent much time dwelling on her looks; she had far more than that to worry about. That was until today, of course, when she had been queuing to get her number. She had realised that of the girls who were, like herself, in their mid-twenties there were two categories: the thin, gorgeous ones – of which there were plenty – and the deluded ones. That was when Catherine had fainted.
Star Maker was TV’s most watched programme and every year it plucked one lucky person from obscurity and catapulted them to singing stardom. But this year it was set to be bigger and better than ever. It had been renamed Star Maker: Transatlantic and the winner was guaranteed a recording contract – not only in the UK but also the US – with all the might of Richard Forster, the impresario who created Star Maker behind them. Richard Forster was so scathing and reputedly so controlling that he made Simon Cowell look like Bambi. This year too they had promised to bow to the public’s insatiable appetite for the audition process and were screening fourteen nights of back-to-back auditions and then going straight into the programme. Star Maker was taking over the autumn/winter schedule. In the past Catherine had watched the programme intrigued as to why people put themselves through the ordeal of public scrutiny. But this year she had been having a particularly bad day and, seeing the advert on the TV for this year’s competition, had just applied – like someone who’d gone for a walk on Beachy Head and then, in a moment of madness, jumped over the edge.
It was a Saturday evening in the depths of winter and Catherine had been sitting in the living room watching Ant and Dec as her father Mick loudly ate fish and chips next to her. She had felt as if she was about to crack. That morning Mick had delivered some truly awful news to Catherine and, in his time-honoured tradition of treating her as if she was able to deal with anything he threw at her, sworn her to secrecy. He had said that he didn’t want the others to know – the others being her three sisters Claire, Maria and Jo. And while Catherine spent the day crying to herself after her dad’s bombshell, Mick mooched around the house acting as if he had said nothing earth shattering.
‘That, my friend,’ Mick said, holding up a fat greasy chip, dripping in gravy so that Ant looked like he had a chip for a head, ‘is a king among chips. Bloody lovely.’ He dropped it into his mouth like a bird with a worm. Sometimes her father wouldn’t eat for days; whenever Catherine pressed him to have some food he’d say he didn’t have it in him. During these times he would usually take to his bed and only come out for the occasional toilet trip or to tell Catherine something that he had seen on Sky News that had filtered through his morose fug. He had been suffering from depression for years, but that day he had been in eerily high spirits. It was probably shock, Catherine thought. That was certainly what she had been suffering from.
Catherine and her father were alone in the house. Jo had been out at a friend’s house, Maria was living with her fiancé Gavin, and Claire, her eldest sister, lived with her husband Paul and their two children, Rosie and Jake, near enough away to always be popping in but far enough away to not have to bother when the proverbial hit the fan. As the adverts rolled Mick had begun to wonder out loud what he’d like for dessert – ‘Angel Delight or Arctic Roll? The tyranny of choice.’
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Catherine wasn’t particularly interested in the finest foods Iceland had to offer, she felt as if her skull was about to shatter into a thousand pieces. As she was sitting thinking about her father an advert for this year’s Star Maker auditions came on the TV. They were being held throughout the country but one was nearby in the centre of Manchester. An alien feeling of recklessness welled up inside Catherine. She didn’t enter things like this but today she felt as if anything might happen.
While her dad chuntered on about his dessert dilemma Catherine made a mental note of the details she needed in order to enter and when Mick was tucking into his fourth slice of arctic roll, she escaped to the dining room, logged on to his computer and filled out the application form. At the bottom of the form was the question: Why should we pick you? She stared and stared at it. Finally she had written the only thing that she could think to write – the truth: Because I can sing.
Catherine could sing. The only person who had heard her voice in years was Father McGary at the local church. Catherine had been in the choir as a youngster but had left when she was sixteen, blaming her studies but privately thinking she was a bit old to be standing about wearing a ruff. When Catherine was nineteen she had bumped into Father McGary, catching him at a particularly low moment. He had just said mass for one man with a ferret tied to a bit of string and told Catherine that with congregations like that it was only a matter of time before the church closed. He said he missed hearing her sing, and she had admitted that she missed singing. And so they had agreed that she could pop along to St John’s whenever she felt like it and Father McGary would open the church for her. That had been five years ago. St John’s was still open and as far as she knew congregation numbers had improved, or at least ferret numbers had dwindled. She enjoyed her time at church. She wasn’t religious, but having the time to herself to think and practise the songs that she wrote was the most treasured part of Catherine’s week.
Catherine pressed send. It was so simple. Was becoming a star these days really that easy? No trawling the clubs, no building up a reputation, no getting signed to a label and then hopefully getting the public to notice you. Those days were past. Now it seemed all it took was just the click of a mouse. It made Catherine feel queasy, the idea that she had just set something in motion that might lead to untold opportunities – or abject failure.
She didn’t want her dad to know what she had been up to, so – after quickly printing off the audition details – she cleared the history on the computer. It wouldn’t have mattered anyway. By the time Catherine had gone back into the lounge, Mick was snoring, with arctic roll dribbling down his chin.
Catherine took a deep breath and, with the help of the St John’s Ambulance lady, stood up and felt her legs go from under her again. She steadied herself on a chair. It was then that she realised she had an audience. A heavily made-up girl with ringlets and neon pink leg warmers was blowing bubblegum bubbles and swinging her left leg to the side of her head in a limbering-up motion. As her ankle made contact with her ear she held it there for a moment and said, ‘You look well bad. You should go home.’
An earnest-looking young man with asymmetric hair and a muscle top looked at the girl who was still performing her stretches.
‘How can you say that? She needs to be strong. Everything happens for a reason and fainting into some chairs could be a sign that she’s like, totally gonna nail it today.’
Oh no, Catherine thought, I’ve entered a world where people say things like ‘totally going to nail it’. As the girl bent down and touched her toes and muttered ‘God, whatever,’ a girl, about the same age as Catherine, nudged her and smiled kindly.
‘You OK?’ the girl asked. She looked like a normal, everyday girl: short, brown hair, brown eyes, glasses; nothing that screamed ‘Star of Tomorrow’. She was like her, Catherine thought before quickly remembering that she was dressed as a swirly pink blob.
‘Just nerves I think.’ Catherine smiled shyly.
‘Tell me about it. I’m bricking it. Everyone here has made such an effort. I look like I’ve popped to the shops,’ the girl said.
Catherine laughed. ‘I wish I’d just worn what I usually wear.’ Catherine said pulling awkwardly at the maxi dress. ‘Believe me, I don’t usually dress like this. I’ve borrowed my sister’s gear and now I’m regretting it.’
‘You look nice,’ The girl said nodding her approval. ‘I’m Kim, by the way.’
Catherine shook the girl’s hand. ‘I’m Catherine, pleased to meet you.’
‘You too.’
Just as Catherine was about to ask Kim what she going to sing for her audition, the asymmetrical-haired youth began to sing an impromptu ‘You Raise me Up’ by Westlife.
Catherine looked at Kim, who was in turn staring agog, then another fancy-haired young man stepped in and began to harmonise – terribly – with fancy-haired boy number one, who looked put out that his finest moment was being interrupted. Fancy-haired boy number two had his eyes shut, oblivious, as he rattled through a dozen or so key changes until he sounded like Barry Gibb. Catherine was just about to pull Kim to one side and shuffle away from the serenade when Kim’s number was called and she was pulled away by a Star Maker employee. Catherine was on her own. She looked desperately around for the toilet in order to make a break for it when a camera crew – on the look out for TV gold – quickly swung into action and before she knew it she was being interviewed by Jason P. Longford, TV’s favourite presenter. Catherine, who was still light-headed, felt as if she was watching all of this from afar. But then a jolt of adrenalin shot through her as she realised that she was definitely being filmed.
‘Well, they’re certainly raising everyone up around here,’ Jason P. Longford said with a fake chortle before thrusting the microphone into Catherine’s face. ‘You with these boys?’
‘No, I just fainted and they decided to sing to me,’ Catherine said truthfully.
‘She doesn’t look too impressed, does she, viewers?’ Jason said, flashing his bright white veneers and giving a nasty glint to the camera. Catherine was stunned. It wasn’t that she wasn’t grateful, she just didn’t think that the two guys were singing to her for any other reason than they wanted to get themselves noticed. She didn’t manage to say this though; Jason wasn’t letting her get a word in edgeways. ‘And what are you going to sing for the judges?’
Catherine felt faint again. She shouldn’t have come today. Who did she think she was? She wasn’t lithe like the girl with the leggings or funky like the Westlife wannabes. The only person she’d met so far that was anything like her was Kim and she’d been whisked away from her before they’d had a chance to ponder what they were doing there. Catherine was just a girl who worked in a call centre who was so nervous she could barely stand up straight.
An old man hove into view, sidling up to Jason P. Longford, singing ‘The White Cliffs of Dover’ with his dentures on the end of his fingers like a ventriloquist. Catherine’s mind went blank.
‘Not answering questions now, have we a prima donna on our hands?’ Jason asked jovially but with an undercurrent of nastiness.
Catherine’s brain was just catching up with what he was saying to her, she was so mesmerised by the old man. ‘Sorry, no, not at all. I’m singing “Martha’s Harbour”.’ She said quietly.
‘What’s that?’ Jason asked, looking at one of his researchers in such a way that Catherine feared the poor guy would be sacked if he didn’t know the answer.
‘It’s an acoustic song by a band called All About Eve,’ the researcher said, pulling his clipboard to his chest as if it would cover the obvious irritation he felt with the TV star.
Catherine caught his eye briefly – grateful that at least someone around here didn’t appear certifiable. He’s cute, Catherine thought, and then immediately felt bashful and looked at the floor.
For a split second Jason looked like he’d lost all interest but then he quickly rearranged his features back into his for-the-camera face
. ‘Fair enough, but can you do this?’ he said spinning around and pointing at the octogenarian who was now tap dancing and singing ‘Would You Like to Swing on a Star?’ as well as playing puppets with his false teeth.
Catherine looked at him and smiled tightly. ‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ she said.
Jo breathed in sharply as if pulling in her stomach might save her and her family from a ten-car pile up. She’d broken one of her own sacred rules: Never Get in a Car with Claire Ever Again Ever. Not After the Last Time. The last time had been when Jo had asked for a lift to the Trafford Centre and they’d found themselves facing the wrong way on the inside lane of the M60 motorway. After that Jo decided she’d rather take the bus. Knife crime and gun crime were on the up in Manchester – if the news was to be believed – but Jo would rather take her chances with a gang of hoodies on the top-deck of the 845 than step foot into any vehicle Claire was driving. However, here she was, hurtling across Manchester at break-neck speed and it was all Catherine’s doing.
‘What’s with the dramatics?’ Claire demanded, pulling her fingers agitatedly through her honey highlighted hair.
It always amused Jo that her older sister insisted on dyeing her hair blond. The Reillys were dark haired. No point denying it. Even so, Jo did what she could to make her darkness less obvious. Jolen cream, for example. Something a really blondie – unlike Claire – wouldn’t need to think about. Jolen – a hair-lightening cream – was a staple in the Reilly girls’ bathroom cabinet and known simply as ‘tashe cream’. On the night of her eighteenth birthday Jo had had a particularly nasty run in with a tub well past its sell-by date that her sister Maria had assured her was fine. She had applied said tashe cream as instructed but when it began to sting and then burn, Jo realised she had a problem: she’d branded a Mexican Desperado moustache shape onto her top lip. Maria had thought this hilarious. This just went to show, in Jo’s opinion, what an out and out cow her sister could be. It could have been Maria with the My Name is Earl moustache but she didn’t seem to care.
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