‘Isn’t it funny how people like to pretend to be Irish?’ Andy mused. ‘No other country in the world has that effect on people, does it? ’
Catherine laughed. ‘My sister Jo pretends to be South African sometimes.’
‘Really? Why?’
It’s hard to explain why Jo does a lot of things, Catherine thought. ‘She just likes the accent, I think.’
Andy nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. ‘It is a good shouting accent. “Release the hounds!”’ he said, in a perfect South African accent.
Catherine laughed. ‘That’s even better than Jo’s!’ she said, impressed.
‘Thanks, I have hidden talents,’ Andy said with mock seriousness. ‘So then. You’re scared of heights … What else should I know about you before I can’t speak to you any more because everyone else is trying to get a piece of you?’
Catherine thought for a moment, what else was there to know about her? ‘Not a lot.’
‘Tell me about your dad.’ Catherine looked at Andy and could tell by his face that he thought he had made a mistake. ‘That’s if you want to …’
‘He’s poorly, that’s all there is to it. I’d rather not talk about him, if that’s OK.’
‘Course, yeah. No problem. Bad idea,’ Andy said quickly. ‘OK, tell me about singing. What made you enter?’
Catherine began to explain and then realised that it was her dad’s announcement that he had cancer that had forced her to enter the competition. She immediately felt guilty. What sort of daughter would do that? She began to tell Andy what had happened and found herself half an hour later, still sitting, sipping her drink from her lady’s glass and explaining everything to Andy about her family and her role within it.
‘You shouldn’t feel guilty!’ Andy said, ‘There’s nothing to feel guilty for.’
‘Well, I do.’
‘Is it Catholic guilt?’
‘What?’
‘Well, your dad’s parents were Irish, just wondering if you were Catholic.’
‘Sort of. We went to Catholic school and used to go to church but I only go there to sing now. Anyway it’s not Catholic guilt, it’s guilt guilt.’
‘I think you’re really hard on yourself,’ Andy said gently and touched her hand. It was then that she realised she was crying. Catherine wiped her eyes.
‘Sorry, you must think I’m a wreck, fainting, crying. Nice first date.’
‘It’s a great first date,’ he smiled. ‘I’m really enjoying myself.’
‘This isn’t very New York though, is it?’ Catherine said after a while.
Andy looked around. ‘No it isn’t,’ he said touching the bike wheel behind them.
‘I’ve hardly seen anything of New York since we’ve been here, I mean I know we’re here, but I could be anywhere.’
‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ Andy asked.
‘Where?’
‘Come with me.’ Andy said, standing up and taking Catherine’s hand.
* * *
‘Where are we going?’ Catherine squealed. Andy had walked her from the taxi with his hands over her eyes. Catherine could tell they were near water, there was a freshness to the air that she hadn’t felt since she’d arrived in New York.
‘I just wanted to show you a bit of New York but I’m rubbish at doing this blindfold thing. They always do this in the films and it looks easier,’ Andy said, taking his hands away.
Catherine gasped. The Statue of Liberty was lit up on the other side of the Hudson River. The lights from the city glinted on the water.
‘Wow!’ Catherine sat down on one of the benches that line the Battery Park Esplanade. Andy sat next to her.
‘I was trying to think where to take you, you know, a pub or club, somewhere that New York was famous for, but I thought you might get recognised again so I just thought here would be a nice idea.’
Catherine looked at Andy. What a really thoughtful thing to do, she thought.
She was just about to thank him when he turned to her. ‘I think that we’re both quite shy really, aren’t we? I mean, I know that you get up and sing in front of people but you’re like me – shy – when it comes to things like this.’
‘Things like what?’ Catherine looked into Andy’s eyes.
‘This,’ he said, leaning forward and kissing her.
Catherine moved in towards him as he put his arms around her. And they sat, alone in the half-light and kissed and it was the most perfect moment that Catherine could ever remember.
Chapter 20
IT HAD BEEN five days since Jo and her family had returned from New York and in that time Mick had managed to become the man of the moment. Claire said it reminded her of when Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards shot to fame. Jo didn’t remember this Eddie guy but apparently he had been a hopeless ski jumper who – with true Dunkirk spirit – had represented Britain at the winter Olympics years ago and come, predictably, last. The country loved a loser and the bigger the loser the better. Well, Mick was a loser and the country had already loved him for having the David-taking-on-Goliath balls to challenge Richard Forster; now that they knew had cancer he was fast approaching national treasure status.
Mick was in the dining room. He’d been mooching around in his dressing-gown all morning. ‘I don’t think I need representation, thank you,’ Mick said to the person on the other end of the phone. ‘Good day to you.’ He replaced the receiver and whistled chirpily as he entered the kitchen.
‘Who was that?’ Jo was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting open the sleeves of a Fair Isle cardigan that she intended to turn upside down, sew together and make into a skirt.
‘Max Clifford again. I told him last time, thank you for those buns you sent and words of kindness but I’ll be looking after my own public appearances.’
Max Clifford’s firm had sent a basket of muffins to the house. Mick hadn’t been able to work out why someone would send ‘buns’ and had even got Jo to go online and find out how much ‘a tin of buns from London costs’. When Jo located the firm that had delivered them and told her dad the hefty price tag, Mick nearly fell over. He was evidently pleased that someone would go to the trouble of trying to court his business and to do it with buns seemed to be going the extra mile.
The portable TV was on in the corner of the room. Something on it caught Jo’s attention. It was Carol McGiffin talking on Loose Women, ‘No … I’m sorry but I just can’t imagine under what circumstances it would be a good idea to sell your story to a newspaper about having cancer. I just can’t …’
‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Jackie Brambles interjected. ‘He just went along to support his daughter and all this has come out.’
‘Well, if he was just supporting his daughter then he should have just stayed at home and voted for her,’ Carol McGiffin was adamant. There were boos from the audience.
Jackie Brambles turned to the camera, ‘We are of course talking about Mick Reilly, whose hilarious appearance in support of his daughter on Star Maker, we have recently found out is tinged with sadness, as he has cancer …’
‘That bloody McGuffen woman, I don’t know who she thinks she is with her toy boy and her “I married Chris Evans” she does my bloody head in …’ Mick huffed. The fact they were talking about him seemed perfectly normal to him though, oddly, Jo realised.
‘Well, I have to say …’ Jane McDonald began.
‘Oh, not her, “I’d rather have a cup of tea than sex”, we’ve heard it all before. Get back on your boat,’ Mick complained to the TV.
‘I like him, he’s got balls and a good fighting spirit. Good on you, Mick, if you’re watching, I’m rooting for you!’ Jane McDonald gave a thumbs up on the screen.
‘I’ve always liked her,’ Mick said, backtracking.
‘I can’t believe they’re talking about you on Loose Women,’ Jo said, genuinely amazed. Even though her father had featured in a number of papers and magazines this week and the phone had barely stopped ringing with offers of personal appearance oppor
tunities, Jo still couldn’t come to terms with it. Things like this didn’t happen to people like them.
‘Heard anything from Mum?’ Jo asked. She was half expecting her mother to be the next guest on the show.
‘No,’ Mick said, avoiding his daughter’s eye.
‘Told you.’
When they had arrived at Manchester Airport, Jo had turned to her dad as her mother had pulled her bag down from the overhead compartment and said, ‘We won’t see her for dust.’
Karen had jumped in a taxi and promised to call and only Jo, it seemed to her, had known not to hold her breath. Maria and Claire had both asked Jo if Karen had been in contact and Maria had even told Jo that she thought that they had all had a lovely time together. It had made Jo sad to hear this – she wished it was true but she knew it wasn’t. Karen just looked after number one.
Jo’s phone began to ring.
‘Tell them I’m out,’ Mick said. ‘I’m off for a bath.’
‘It’s my phone, why is someone going to ring you on my phone?’
‘Because,’ Mick pointed at the TV, ‘I’m all over the shop.’
Jo gave her father a withering look. ‘That’s the most accurate thing you’ve said in a while.’
Mick tutted and walked out of the room, the cord from his dressing-gown trailing on the floor. There was a suspicious-looking substance on the tip of it. Jo curled her lip in horror and then – seeing the tub on top of the work surface – realised it was Nutella. Her father really was a slob.
She answered the phone. ‘Hello.’
‘Hi, is that Joanna Reilly?’
‘Speaking.’
‘It’s Nurse Roper from Christie’s.’
Jo’s stomach lurched.
‘Is it your dad that’s been in all the papers this week?’
‘The very same.’
‘Right … In that case, I think you might want to come down to the hospital because I really don’t want to do this over the phone.’
Jo’s heart fell into her boots. ‘OK, tell me where to be and when.’
‘Here we are standing on top of the Empire State Building with some of the finalists of Star Maker!’ The presenter shouted excitedly. Star, Catherine and Kim and three of the over-twenty-five men were standing on the observation deck being buffeted by the wind. Catherine was finding it difficult to match the interviewer’s enthusiasm after her last vertiginous experience at the top of a New York building. She had been mentally preparing herself for the experience all morning and was now performing breathing exercises while having an argument with herself that went along the lines of What’s the worst that can happen? I could climb over the projective barrier and throw myself off lemming-style, that’s the worst that could happen. This was about the thirtieth interview the Star Maker contestants had done this week and Catherine had been requested for each one. Not only did it mean that she was finding it difficult to concentrate on her rehearsals for this week’s live show, but it also meant that resentments were beginning to surface towards Catherine. She had tried addressing it with Will and Richard but they had told her that she needed to stop complaining and get on with it. Her stock was high at the moment, thanks to the interest in her dad and her performance on the previous show.
‘So, Catherine,’ the interviewer thrust her microphone in Catherine’s face, ‘You’re the hot favourite at the moment, how does that feel?’
Catherine shifted awkwardly. ‘I wouldn’t say that. It’s very early days and there are lots of strong singers in the competition, like Kim and Star,’ Catherine said amiably. Star gave her a dirty look and Kim smiled at Catherine but Catherine could sense that all the attention she was getting was irritating her.
‘Well, we here at Rock Music Radio would!’ the woman turned to the camera, beaming. ‘And one thing I’m sure that all of the great British and American public out there is wondering … how’s your father?’
‘He’s fine, thank you for asking,’ Catherine said uncomfortably.
Mick was sitting in the back garden scouring the day’s papers. ‘Look at that picture. Do I look like that?’ Mick put the paper to the side of his head and pulled a face. Jo didn’t answer, she was trying to choose her words carefully, because she was so angry she wasn’t sure she would be able to get the words out.
‘Dad, I don’t know how to say this, so I’m just going to come right out and say it.’ Jo gathered herself. ‘Have you got cancer?’
The colour drained from her father’s face. ‘What sort of bloody question is that?’
‘A straight one.’ Jo held her dad’s gaze. ‘Well?’
‘Why would you ask something like that?’ Mick shifted in his seat.
‘Because you don’t seem to be receiving any treatment, you won’t talk about it and you aren’t registered as having had treatment anywhere in Manchester. So I’ll try again: have you got cancer?’
‘Who told you that I’m not registered?’
‘A nurse.’
‘There’s such a thing as patient confidentiality, you know.’
Jo pressed on. ‘Have you got cancer?’
‘I can’t believe you would even think to ask me such a thing,’ Mick said, unable to maintain eye contact with his daughter.
‘Answer the question, Dad: have you got cancer?’
Mick curled his lip at Jo and shook his head as if bitterly disappointed with her. ‘I thought I had.’
‘What do you mean, “thought”?’
‘I just mean that I “thought” I had. I could feel something inside me.’
‘But you haven’t got it, have you?’
‘The doctor says I haven’t, but they can be wrong, them doctors.’
Jo slumped onto the garden bench next to her father and looked out over the small lawn where they used to play as children. ‘Do you know what it’s been like for us thinking that you have cancer? And all this crap in the papers and all this crap with Mum …’ Jo paused, thinking about her mother’s role in this. ‘She knew, she told me she thought you were lying.’
‘She didn’t!’ Mick sounded panic-stricken. ‘She didn’t, she thinks I’m sick, she doesn’t think I’m a liar.’
Was that it? Was that what all of this boiled down to? That he didn’t want Karen to think badly of him? Never mind the hurt he had caused his daughters, never mind the fact that he’d profited from this and dragged his sorry story through the papers.
Jo turned to face her dad. ‘Is that why you did it? To get Mum’s attention?’ she asked quietly, desperately wanting the answer to be no.
‘She never took me seriously. Not like that idiot she’s shacked up with. Him and his oh-so-important art. I had something oh-so important wrong with me, or so I thought. I could feel it inside me, couldn’t I? So I told her. Thought she might see sense …’ Jo put her head in her hands. ‘… but she didn’t, all she wanted was him. Even when she came with us last week it was all about the money so that she could get Jay some spuds for his potato prints or whatever he’s doing next …’
Mick’s attempt at humour didn’t work. Jo just stared at him. ‘Have you any idea what you’ve done?’
‘Oh, leave me alone, Joanna,’ he said belligerently.
‘Leave you alone? I will, but they won’t.’ She pointed at the tabloids. ‘When this gets out, because it will, Dad, these things always do, then all these people who’ve been wishing you well and rooting for you are going to feel like fools and they’ll turn like that.’ She clicked her fingers. ‘And you’re going to wish you’d never opened your mouth,’ Jo got to her feet and walked away from her dad.
‘I thought I had it.’
‘Well, Dad, to use one of your tired old phrases, “You know what thought did, don’t you?”’
‘Well, that was just great,’ Star snapped at Catherine as they made their way through the crowd that had gathered at the entrance to the Empire State Building to see the Star Maker finalists. It seemed that every day they became of more interest to the public. Catherine tried
to walk through the crowd but people were shouting her name and shoving bits of paper towards her, hoping for an autograph. Just the idea that someone would want her signature seemed bizarre to Catherine. She was hardly Kate Winslet. Catherine turned round to see what Star was referring to but she was busy having her picture taken with some of the fans.
‘In the car,’ one of the Star Maker security guards said, giving Catherine a shove. She landed in the back of the limo and looked out to see just how many people had been waiting for them to put in an appearance.
‘There’s hundreds of them,’ Catherine said breathlessly.
‘Because Richard makes sure that people are tipped off as to where we’ll be,’ Star said, climbing in next to Catherine. Kim followed.
‘Really?’ Catherine asked.
That couldn’t be right could it? He spent so much time pretending that he was protecting the contestants from the press that it seemed ridiculous to her that he would be tipping them off.
‘Of course, really,’ Kim said. ‘He runs every aspect of the show, you must know that by now. From the song choices to what we wear to who interviews us. Come on, Catherine, he brought your mum and dad over and got them to sell their stories to the papers.’
‘That was different.’ Catherine didn’t even believe her own words. Why was it different, that was exactly what had happened.
‘And it’s done you no harm,’ Star said bitchily.
Catherine’s nostrils flared angrily and she sat forward in her seat, glaring at Star.
‘How dare you! My dad is sick, I’m not trading on it. I wish it wasn’t happening. As for Richard having anything to do with it, I didn’t ask him to do it and I certainly didn’t ask my parents to get involved.’
‘Well, they did, and now everyone loves you,’ Star said, holding up her mobile phone with a copy of that day’s Daily Mirror. There was a picture of Catherine as a child with the caption, BORN TO BE A STAR. That picture had been in the loft for years. The only way the papers could have printed it was if one of her family had taken it to them. Catherine’s mind raced, she was becoming suspicious of everyone – she hated being like this. She had just wanted to sing, now she realised just how naive she had been. How had she ended up as the centre of a media storm? She was sure it would blow over very quickly when some real news came along and people would soon forget about her but while she was at the centre of all this attention, she hated it.
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