‘Fetches sticks or something?’
‘He’s a good listener. If I’ve got a problem I always go to Archie first.’ She kisses the photograph and returns it to her handbag. ‘Is there anyone like that in your life, Matthew?’
Bex
‘I think Crystal might be pregnant,’ says Emily, adding a smiley-faced moon to the side of her mum’s coffin. ‘She keeps throwing up.’
I’m too busy painting my pretend boyfriend to take much notice. ‘My sister puked 24/7 when she was carrying Yasmin.’
‘I’m going to feed her loads of watermelon,’ says Emily, ‘just to make sure.’
Shezza won’t stop talking about Matt. She wants him to sign loads of autographs so we can flog them to the Year Sevens, and she spent the whole of food tech asking dumb questions about my new relationship. Is he a good kisser? (What do you think?) What’s his favourite aftershave? (Emporio Armani.) Where did you go on your first date? (A walk in the park followed by a movie.) I love it that Shezza’s so jealous, but what if I get my stories mixed up and she finds out it’s all one big fat lie?
‘Come again, Emily, did you say “watermelon”?’
‘If she eats lots of watermelon, she’ll have a girl.’
He could be my boyfriend – couldn’t he? What’s so funny? We talk on the phone nearly every night. It’s not a lie exactly. More like work in progress or that thing we were talking about in English – a poetic truth.
‘I don’t think watermelon has anything to do with it, Emily. That’s sounds like a – whatdoyoucallit – old wives’ tale, if you ask me.’
‘No it’s not. It’s a well-known fact.’
‘My sister had a girl, and she just stuffed herself with gummy bears.’
But Shezza’s not really into poetry. Maybe I should come clean before she works it out for herself. Or maybe – you’re going to love this, this is genius – maybe I should just find out everything there is to know about Matthew. Like a sort of GCSE in Matthew Layton studies. He’s already told me his top twenty albums and his favourite bands. All I need is to find out some personal stuff, and Shezza will never suspect a thing.
‘We’re going to adopt next time, anyway,’ says Emily. ‘It’s so much quicker.’
And I just thought of the perfect teacher. Mums know everything about their sons. Even the things they don’t want them to know – just ask Kyle. All I have to do is get Mrs Layton to spill the beans about him. Last week she was so moody I wouldn’t even have bothered, but Matthew was right, she has been loads better since she stopped taking those steroid things. Yesterday she told me to call her Sue, and right now she’s actually in the kitchen stuffing aubergines. If I could just get her out of the house for a bit, I reckon she’d tell me everything.
‘Adoption’s a lot less hassle too,’ says Emily. ‘I hate all that maternity wear.’
‘Hang on a minute. Who is this girl, because if she’s at your school, she needs to talk to someone? Does her mum know?’
‘She hasn’t got a mum,’ giggles Emily.
‘It’s not funny, you know. My sister Natalie was nearly seventeen when she had Yasmin, but she was terrified. How old is Crystal?’
‘Really old,’ says Emily, laughing herself stupid. ‘About six weeks or something.’
‘Eh?’
‘Crystal’s my favourite Sim, silly.’
I manage to force a laugh. If I want to be Matthew’s pretend girlfriend it won’t look good if I start slapping his kid sister. ‘Well, that’s all right then.’
‘OK, you two, what’s so funny?’ Mrs Layton is wearing a pink apron with Kiss The Cook on the front. ‘Come on, Emily. Share the joke, please.’
‘Bex thought Crystal was a girl from school,’ says Emily.
‘I should hope not,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘She’s got six children already. I think Mrs Jenkins would have noticed something by now.’ She moves closer to get a better look at her coffin. ‘Quite the artist, aren’t you, Bex? You’ve got Matthew’s mouth perfectly.’
‘What’s his favourite colour, Sue?
‘Oh I don’t know, blue, I think.’
‘And what was his favourite toy when he was little?’
‘What’s with all the questions?’ says Mrs Layton, taking Emily’s paintbrush and doodling a smiley face. ‘Wait a minute. There was that little plastic truck thing with bricks in the back. I’ve got a photo somewhere. I’ll dig it out after supper.’
Something tells me this could be the best chance I get. ‘Tell you what, Sue, how about, after you’ve shown me that photo, we go out for a little walk, yeah? I could push you round the park if you like. What do think?’
Her smile deserts her almost as quickly as Jez deserted Natalie when she told him she was pregnant. ‘I think you’ve got a bloody nerve. I’ve already made it perfectly clear that I’m not interested.’
‘But I didn’t think —’
‘That’s your trouble, isn’t it, Bex? You don’t think, do you? If you saw that metal monstrosity in the garage, you’d keep your ridiculous ideas to yourself.’
‘Mum doesn’t like her wheelchair,’ explains Emily, obviously thinking that someone who can’t tell the difference between real life and a computer game is too dumb to work it out for herself.
‘I loathe it,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Melvin ran a mile the first time the hospital sent me home in one. He could just about cope with the crutches, but that ugly thing was the final nail in my coffin.’
A lightbulb flashes in the cartoon bubble above my head. I want to tell her about it straightaway, but just for the moment, I decide to keep my latest genius idea to myself. ‘Sorry, I thought the park would be nice.’
‘Yes, well, in a couple of weeks, when I get my strength back after this wretched flare-up, I might just be able to stagger round under my own steam,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Supper will be ready in five minutes. Come out when you’ve cleared up the mess.’
Before we put the paints away, I take the chance to change the colour of Matthew’s hoodie. If I’m going to get that A star in Matthew Layton studies, I need to get the details right.
‘Bex?’ says Emily, thoughtfully. ‘Kyle told me you live on the Dogshit Estate.’
‘Don’t call it that. It’s the Dogberry Estate, OK?’
‘You don’t though, do you?’
‘Yeah, ’course. Why shouldn’t I?’
Emily shakes her head and stares into her jam jar of dirty water. ‘I don’t believe it.’
‘Why not.’
‘Because you’re nice,’ she whispers.
And that’s when I realise what a dumb idea it is. Shezza might not be the brightest gummy bear in the Haribo Special Mix, but it’s going to take more than a few random facts about Matthew to convince her that a girl like me is really going out with someone off the telly.
There’s only one thing for it. I’ve got tell him. You never know, he might even like the idea. OK, that is so not going to happen, but he owes me big time. Maybe I can convince him to play along for a bit.
Matthew: What’s up? It’s not Mum, is it?
Bex: Your mum’s fine. At least, she was until I suggested a walk in the park.
Matthew: I thought I warned you about that.
Bex: You did. But don’t worry, I’ve got a really good idea.
Matthew: What kind of an idea?
Bex: I’ll tell you later, when I’ve done the drawings.
Matthew: Drawings? How are drawings going to —?
Bex: Look, this is serious, Matthew. I really need to tell you something.
Matthew: OK, what’s Emily worrying about now?
Bex: Nothing – apart from Crystal being pregnant, of course.
Matthew: Crystal’s always pregnant.
Bex: Shut up, Matthew. This is important, yeah?
Matthew: OK, OK. What’s the big secret?
Bex: It’s just . . . I don’t know how to tell you this but . . . I kind of . . .
Matthew: Come on. I haven’t got all night, yo
u know. (Sighs.) I have actually. I’m supposed to be learning my song.
Bex: Oh . . . right . . . what are you singing?
Matthew: You don’t want to know.
Bex: That bad, huh?
Matthew: Worse. And wait till you see the dance routine.
Bex: If you don’t like it, you should say something.
Matthew: I dunno I . . .
Bex: Tell that Nikki woman how much you hate it. Come on, Matthew, you’ve got to stick up for yourself.
Matthew: Maybe it’s not so bad.
Bex: OK, fine. But if you still hate it tomorrow, make sure you tell her, yeah?
Matthew: I don’t know I . . .
Bex: What’s the point of me doing all this stuff for your mum if you’re not even having a good time? Promise me you’ll say something, Matthew.
Matthew: Yeah, all right. Now come on, what was it you wanted to tell me?
(Pause.)
Bex: It was nothing. Just a silly . . .
Matthew: It’s OK, Bex. I think I know.
Bex (shocked): You do?
Matthew: Yes. And you know what – I felt exactly the same way.
Bex: Eh?
Matthew: You’re scared about tomorrow night, aren’t you? Well, don’t be. I was scared at first, but it gets easier I promise. Don’t worry, Bex. You’ll be fine.
Bex: Oh . . . that . . . Right, yes, thanks. I’ll let you know how I get on. Oh and Matthew . . .
Matthew: Yes.
Bex: Could you send me a few autographs for Shezza and her mates?
Matthew
Our jailor, Mrs Magwicz, escorts Bart Smedley, Twilight and me to the ninth floor at the end of the day, reminds us that our taxi for the breakfast television interview leaves at five-thirty in the morning, wishes us ‘sweet dreams’ and hurries down to the bar.
‘Good night, Matt,’ smirks Bart, finding it a struggle to open his door with one arm in plaster. ‘Loved your work on “Who Let The Dogs Out”. Don’t think I’ve ever met someone with four left feet before!’
I resist the temptation to tell him that I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone I wanted to burn at the stake before, because I want a private word with Twilight.
‘Sorry, Twilight. Have you got a second?’
She’s still glistening with sweat after the dance practice. ‘All right, but make it snappy. I need a shower.’
‘It’s about the show. I don’t think I can do it any more.’
Twilight slips out her rehearsal fangs and smiles. ‘I see.’
‘I hate the song they’ve given me. I’m going to look a complete jerk.’
‘Yes,’ she says, sympathetically. ‘I heard your run-through this afternoon.’
‘I’m not really into all this commercial stuff. My songs are kind of a fusion of nineties Britpop with a twenty-first century dance feel.’
‘Fascinating,’ said Twilight, yawning.
‘It just feels all wrong to be doing music I don’t believe in.’
‘A man of integrity,’ says Twilight, stretching out a long black fingernail and lightly brushing my shoulder. ‘I like that.’
‘Do you think I should tell Nikki?’
Twilight licks her lips. I can’t help wondering what it would be like to kiss them. ‘Yes,’ she says. ‘If you really feel that strongly about it, I think you should.’
‘That’s what Bex said.’
‘And who’s Bex?’ says Twilight. ‘Don’t tell me you’ve got a girlfriend hidden away somewhere.’
‘She’s no one . . . just a kid from school.’ I can’t help hoping Twilight’s a tiny bit jealous. ‘Do you really think I should quit the show?’
‘I’ll miss you, of course,’ says Twilight, ‘but you’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t follow your heart.’
‘Maybe Nikki will let me do a different song.’
‘Yes, maybe,’ says Twilight, doubtfully, ‘but she didn’t take much notice when The Holy Joannas complained about their change of image.’
‘I’ll sleep on it,’ I say, backing into my room, trying not to show how excited I am by the news that she’ll miss me. ‘Maybe I’ll feel better in the morning.’
‘Do it now,’ she says, digging her fingernails into my wrist. ‘You’ll sleep better if you get it off your chest.’
‘Perhaps I’ll just —’
‘Good luck,’ she says, pushing the button for the lift. ‘And don’t let Nikki bully you into anything.’
I hover outside the penthouse suite, remembering how Nikki dealt with Soul Survivorz when they wanted to break-dance in the middle of ‘We Are The Champions.’ Only the thought of Twilight rooting for me, gives me the courage to knock twice.
A muffled voice commands me to enter.
What hits you first is the temperature, hot and sweaty, like the Palm House at Kew Gardens; next – the sound of rushing water and the screech of exotic birds. It takes a while longer to get used to the candlelight. ‘Nikki, Nikki, it’s me, Matt. Where are you?’
‘This had better be important.’
Bart Smedley wasn’t being metaphorical: it really is like a jungle up here. I grope my way through a tropical rainforest of man-sized yukka plants and giant orchids, trying to tell myself it’s just fancy interior design and there can’t possibly be any snakes about. ‘I just wanted to . . .’
A silent scream echoes around my head as I emerge into the clearing and struggle to make sense of the vision in front of me. Nikki Hardbody is lying on a tree-trunk-shaped sofa while a lady in a white coat plunges a needle into her eye. ‘What’s . . . What’s happening here?’
The lady in white slowly pulls out the needle. She hands Nikki a silver mirror before silently retreating into the bushes, like an extra from a Bond movie.
‘Are you all right?’ I say, relieved that Nikki seems to be moving. ‘You’re not ill, are you?’
‘Dr Cheng was fixing my crow’s feet,’ she says, studying herself in the mirror. ‘It’s amazing what a couple of Botox injections can do if you’ve got the right bone structure. There, what do you think?’
Her face looks like someone just threw darts at it. The strange thing is, she’s smiling harder than ever. ‘Erm . . . yeah . . . good.’
‘Now sit down and tell me what’s on your mind.’
I perch on the end of the tree trunk, trying to breathe from the diaphragm like the vocal coach taught me. ‘I don’t think I want to be in the show any more.’
Her face doesn’t move. ‘Oh yes.’
‘It’s no one’s fault or anything. I just don’t think that song is right for me.’
‘Well, that’s too bad,’ says Nikki, trailing an index finger in the indoor water feature. ‘I had high hopes for you.’
‘Really?’
‘I thought you could go all the way.’
‘What if Justin doesn’t like me?’
‘Justin will like who I tell him to like,’ says Nikki snappily.
‘And what about Elizabeth? Bex says she’s going to win it by a mile.’
‘And who’s Bex, may I ask?’
‘Oh no one,’ I say, surprised that she seems to have forgotten her so quickly. ‘Just a girl from school.’
‘She’s wrong, anyway,’ says Nikki. ‘Ugly Betty is a one-trick pit pony who’s already had fourteen minutes and fifty-nine seconds of fame. She won’t even make it to the final if I have anything to do with it.’
‘I thought the public decided that.’
Nikki laughs like a rattlesnake. ‘Oh Matt, you’re so naive. That’s why I fought so hard to bring back the kiddi-winkies section. I can mould you in my own image.’
‘You mean the votes are rigged?’
‘Unfortunately that’s no longer an option. Let’s just say there are ways and means of helping our audience make the right decision.’
‘So why can’t I do one of my own songs?’
‘You will, Matt, you will,’ says Nikki, tightening the cord of her silk kimono. ‘But not in Power Ballads Week. The
number we’ve chosen is perfect for you. Trust me, I’ve worked in telly since before you were born.’
‘Yes but —’
‘I could make you famous, Matt,’ she says, her eyes gleaming in the candlelight. ‘Do you know what that means?’
‘Well, I s’pose . . .’
‘Got a girlfriend, have you?’
I shake my head and move a little further down the tree trunk.
‘Thought not,’ says Nikki. ‘Let me tell you a little story. A few years back, I made a documentary about a teenager with a rare genetic disorder. Barry was no oil painting, believe me, but you should have seen some of his fan mail.’
‘What are you saying?’
‘The Ugliest Kid in the World went out at ten past midnight on an obscure satellite channel. After six weeks on primetime, you could have any girlfriend you want.’
I think for a moment about the terrible song; then I think about the dance routine and the sparkly costume I’m supposed to be wearing. And then I remember what Twilight said: You’ll never forgive yourself if you don’t follow your heart.
‘I suppose I might have been a bit hasty.’
‘Yes, I think you might.’ Nikki smiles, absent-mindedly decapitating a dead orchid. ‘You see, I can do great things for you, Matt. But you’ve got to work with me here. If I’m going be your – how shall I put it? – special mentor, I need you to keep the faith.’
I pull aside the creeper and try to locate the door. ‘Will you be “mentoring” some of the others as well – like Phil Carvery?’
‘God, no; I wouldn’t even call him if my lavatory was blocked. We’d be lucky to get a couple of hit singles out of him.’
‘OK,’ I say, trying to slip it stealthily into the conversation, like planting the bomb in Search and Destroy. ‘How about, I don’t know . . . Twilight, for instance?’
Nikki’s smile seems warmer than usual. ‘Well, of course. Not that she needs much moulding. We’ve got so much in common, she could almost be one of those children I never had.’
‘That’s great. Er, for Twilight, I mean.’
The Bex Factor Page 8