‘Like her, do you?’
I step back into the shadows so she can’t see that I’m blushing. ‘Twilight’s OK, I . . .’
‘Of course you do – you’re a fourteen-year-old boy.’
‘Sorry I was only —’
‘No need to apologise. Actually, I think it’s rather sweet. In fact, I could almost see you as a kind of twenty-first century Kylie and Jason.’
‘Kylie and who?’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ says Nikki, producing her PowerBook from behind a Yukka plant. ‘But if ratings are down, it might just be worth considering. Now get out of here. Rumours don’t spread by magic, you know. Oh and Matt?’
‘Yes.’
‘Don’t you ever pull another stunt like this again. Otherwise we’ll have to dig out that contract you signed before Basic Training.’
Bex
‘I can’t do it.’
‘You’ve got to,’ says Emily, pushing me into her mum’s bedroom and closing the door behind us.
‘Do I have to?’
‘Well I can’t do it,’ whispers Emily. ‘I’m only eight and three quarters.’
Mrs Layton is sitting on the side of the bed in her dressing gown. She’s puffing and blowing like she’s just finished a marathon. ‘Can we get this over with, please?’
‘Where is it?’ I say, struggling not to throw up on the pale crème carpet.
‘On the dressing table,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘It’s all ready for you.’
My head starts spinning. I stumble across the bedroom, like my brother on a Saturday night. And there it is – smaller than I expected, but still dead scary – lying on a lace mat between a bottle of perfume and a silver picture frame. ‘What a cute photo,’ I say, thinking that if I can keep her talking I won’t have to go through with it. ‘That’s Matthew, isn’t it?’
‘Yes,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘He loved that doctor’s outfit.’
The little boy in the picture is holding a plastic stethoscope up to his mum’s stomach. ‘You both look so happy.’
‘We were,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘It was just before my first . . . episode.’
‘The bump’s me,’ explains Emily. ‘I kicked so hard Mum thought I was going to be a footballer.’
‘That’s what your father was hoping anyway,’ says Mrs Layton.
One bedside table is empty; the other reminds me of those modern sculpture things we did in art. It’s a mountain of paperbacks, every painkiller you’ve ever heard of, three dirty coffee cups, an old-fashioned radio and an empty CD case with Relaxing Sounds of the Rainforest on the front. Mrs Layton somehow manages to pull out some paracetamol without bringing the whole lot down on top of her. ‘Bloody child-proof bottles. Open it for me, will you, Emily?’
‘Yes, Mum.’
Mrs Layton swallows a couple of pink tablets and washes them down with a mouthful of cold coffee. ‘Now for heaven’s sake, get a move on. This is humiliating enough as it is.’
‘Yes . . . right,’ I say, my hands trembling almost as badly as hers, as I break open the top of the pre-loaded syringe and attach it to the needle. ‘What’s it for anyway? I thought you’d stopped taking those steroid things.’
Mrs Layton grabs her pillow and squeezes hard. ‘The steroids help me recover more quickly after a flare-up. The injections are supposed to make the flare-ups less frequent.’
‘And do they work?’
‘How should I know? I just do what the so-called experts tell me. Now please. I know I shouldn’t be such a baby about it, but this really doesn’t get any easier.’
‘Matthew said I should keep hold of the syringe for a minute, to bring it up to body temperature.’
‘How’s he doing, anyway?’ she says, squeezing her pillow even tighter. ‘You seem to know more about his life than I do.’
‘He’s doing good. He just texted me to say that everything’s fine.’
Mrs Layton is almost smiling. ‘You like him, don’t you, Bex?’
‘No, ’course I don’t,’ I say, hoping I’m doing a better job of convincing her than I am of convincing myself. ‘Well, not like that anyway.’
‘It’s OK. I’m not some jealous psycho-mother, you know. It could do him good to have a nice girlfriend.’
Emily giggles and starts reciting, ‘Bex and Matthew, sitting on a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G. First comes love, then comes marriage. Then comes a baby in a golden carriage.’
‘Right,’ I say, not looking down at the needle because I know it will make me dizzy again. ‘I think we’re ready. Let’s do it, yeah?’
Mrs Layton screws her eyes tight shut and pulls up the hem of her dressing gown. ‘God I hate this.’
‘It’s OK, Mum, says Emily. ‘Bex knows what she’s doing.’
‘Yeah . . .’course,’ I say, dabbing the top of Mrs Layton’s thigh with a sterile wipe and thinking how white her legs look. ‘I’ll just . . . I’ll just . . .’
‘Just do it, Bex,’ says Emily, firmly.
Matthew said it’s important to get the needle deep into the muscle. I pick a spot between two moles and press down slowly. But human flesh is way tougher than the orange we practised on, and I have to press dead hard before a few centimetres of needle is buried inside her. ‘Don’t worry, Sue. We’re nearly done.’
It takes ten seconds to inject her with the sky blue liquid. Afterwards, all that’s left is a tiny pin-prick of blood, like in that fairy story.
And I’m like, Yeeeeees I did it, until the room goes all swirly and a wall of pale crème starts hurtling up towards me.
‘Bex,’ says a distant voice. ‘Bex, are you OK?’
When I come round, Mrs Layton is standing over me with a glass of water. ‘I think you must have got a bit overheated.’ She smiles. ‘Here – drink this.’
Emily is holding her rabbit against her cheek. ‘Are you all right, Bex?’ she says in a squeaky voice.
I nod and take a sip of water. But you know what? I’m, like, twenty times better than just all right. Because when I woke up, I started thinking about the results show on Saturday night – the bit at the end where Willow Strawberry tells the lucky ones they could ‘still have The Tingle Factor.’
I’d kind of convinced myself that Shezza would never believe that Matthew could be my boyfriend. In fact, I was so sure I’d even started rehearsing my confession speech. But maybe it’s not as impossible as it sounds. Because according to his mum, I could be ‘good for him’. According to his mum, I could still be Matthew’s girlfriend.
Matthew
The warm-up guy whips the studio audience into a frenzy and an army of AFMs (assistant floor managers) make last-minute adjustments to the smoke machines as we line up behind the set, ready for our first entrance. I check my dog-collar, trying hard to remember everything Nikki taught me about making love to the camera and trying not to sound too full of myself.
Everyone’s nervous. Trevor and Ashley are juggling their plastic bones, Roxanne can hardly keep her hand still long enough to slap on another layer of lipstick, Phil Carvery is still shell-shocked after what happened at the rehearsal and Elizabeth McQueen looks like she’d rather be having her wisdom teeth pulled out. And I hardly recognise Yvette, Mary and Beth in their catsuits. The Holy Joannas were devastated when Nikki changed their name to UP4IT, but their new image certainly went down well with Soul Survivorz.
It’s just my luck to be sharing a dressing room with Bart Smedley. He’s started this bizarre conspiracy theory that Twilight actually pushed him off that table on purpose. No one believes him, of course, but it’s obviously getting to her. She didn’t even seem that pleased when I said I’d changed my mind about leaving. So I keep telling myself it’s only the first week. Like Nikki says, ‘Live telly makes a guy look five pounds heavier and about fifty times more attractive.’
The tension cranks up a notch as the theme music roars around the sound system, the judges appear at the back of the studio and Willow Strawberry comes across to wish us good luck.
‘Righ
t, you lot,’ she says, looking completely amazing in high heels and a white dress the size of a postage stamp. ‘I hope I made myself clear at the rehearsal. Just because I’m nice to you on camera doesn’t mean we’re friends.’ She glares at Phil Carvery who made the mistake of putting his arm round her during the bit where she introduces him to the judges. ‘Don’t touch me, OK? Don’t even breathe on me. Have you got that?’
Her trademark niceness is back in place the moment she hears the first whoosh of the smoke machines and the doors at the back of the set slide open.
‘Now here is your host, Miss Wiiiiiillow Strawberry!’
Next it’s the judges’ turn. The Tingle Factor logo spits out a blinding laser show and the audience whoops even louder than at the rehearsal as Brenda, Jesamène and Justin make their way to the judges’ desk accompanied by a cacophony of classical music and a series of well-timed explosions.
My legs start shaking by the time Willow gets to her banter with Justin. That’s our cue.
‘So Justin, you naughty man, we all know you’re a pussycat . . .’ The audience laughs. ‘. . . but some people say you can be a tiny bit harsh.’ The audience laughs even louder. ‘So I’m sure we’d all like to know . . . Are you going to be a bit kinder this year?’
‘Listen, Willow,’ says Justin. ‘This isn’t a game. We’re talking about creating a new celebrity here. And if that means telling it how it is, then so be it.’
‘You have been warned,’ says Willow. ‘And now, let’s meet this year’s finalists. Which one of them has The Tingle Factor? That’s for you to decide. But let’s hope for their sake that none of them ends up in the doghouse!’
‘Good luck, Bart,’ whispers Twilight, as the assistant floor manager gives us the signal to take our places. ‘I’m so sorry you won’t be able to do those back flips.’
Last year’s runners up, KFT, launch into their new single as we charge back to the dressing rooms.
Bart Smedley is already whingeing. ‘She may look like a sweet little vampire, but underneath she’s evil.’
‘Well, I thought that went OK,’ I say, trying to change the subject as I rip off my floppy ears and hand them to the dresser.
‘If you ask me, it was a complete dog’s dinner,’ says Bart. ‘Without the acrobatics it had about as much pizzazz as a sleeping nun.’
According to Nikki, my sparkly magician’s outfit is supposed to be ‘ironic’. I slip on the waistcoat and wait for my dresser to sort out the bow-tie. ‘At least I managed to get most of the steps right for a change.’
‘You didn’t have any steps,’ snorts Bart. ‘Nikki let you loaf around at the back by the lamp-post. And how come Twilight was the only one who didn’t have to be an animal?’
‘Because she was supposed to be walking the dogs?’
‘Careful, you idiot,’ says Bart, as his dresser forces his choke chain over his broken arm. ‘And that goes for you too, Matt. You’ve seen what she’s done to me. That Twilight’s ruthless. Watch your back. It could be you next.’
Bex
Shezza’s downstairs microwaving some cheesy nachos during the adverts. Her bedroom is exactly the same size as mine, but I’m dead jealous of her new telly.
‘Hurry up. It’s nearly starting again.’
‘Yeah, all right,’ she calls. ‘Keep your hair on.’
Matthew’s up last. And I’m getting really nervous for him. Justin’s definitely worse this year. He told Soul Survivorz that ‘We Are The Champions’ sounded more like ‘We Are The Losers’ and said that the most painful thing about Roxanne’s rendition of ‘Love Hurts’ was the terrible singing. The studio audience loved the theme song from Titanic, but in Justin’s opinion, Elizabeth McQueen, ‘could be going down’.
Only UP4IT (‘Hot, hot, hot!’) and Twilight (‘You remind me of a young Judy Garland’) got halfway decent comments. I love Twilight. She’s not afraid to show her feelings. Just before the break, there was a little film about what happened in the Celebrity Conservatoire this week. It was mainly the twins messing about with fire-extinguishers and Bart Smedley’s accident, but you should have seen poor Twilight sobbing her heart out when someone asked if she missed her mum.
‘Has that cow finished blubbing yet?’ says Shezza, stuffing her face with nachos and handing me a half empty bowl.
‘Twilight’s not a cow. I don’t know why you keep calling her that.’
‘Because she’s as fake as her fangs; you tell your Matt to watch out for her.’
Shezza’s been a different person since I told her I was dating Matthew. It’s like I’m the cool one for a change. She even asked me what nail varnish to wear.
‘Shut up, Shezza. He’ll be on in a minute.’
‘Hey, Bex, have you met his mum and dad yet?’
‘Only his mum . . . She’s all right.’
‘He must really like you, then. Guys don’t introduce you to their mum unless they’re crazy about you.’
‘Do you really think so?’
‘Has he told you he loves you yet?’
‘Shhh, I’m trying to watch.’
‘My next artist is going to be huge,’ says Jesamène. ‘He’s cute, he’s sexy, he’s the boy with the guitar. Singing his version of Take That’s 1992 classic “Could it be Magic?”, it’s the lovely Matt.’
‘That can’t be right,’ I say, as the spotlight goes up on Matthew, sitting at the top of a flight of stairs strumming his guitar. ‘He hates this song.’
‘But doesn’t he look gorgeous in that outfit?’
‘What’s going on? He told me he wasn’t going to do it.’
Matthew accompanies himself for the first bit, but as soon as the band comes in, he hands his guitar to a dancer in a sparkly leotard who leads him to the bottom of the stairs. ‘I don’t believe this.’
‘Hasn’t he got a cute little bum?’ says Shezza. ‘You’re so lucky, Bex.’
Matthew stomps to different parts of the stage, followed by a load of half-naked girls who dance around him while he makes weird faces at the camera. ‘That’s disgusting.’
‘Jealous, are you?’ says Shezza.
‘I don’t understand. This is so not his kind of music.’
But the judges love it. Brenda wishes she was twenty years younger (more like forty), Jesamène says he reminds her of a young Paul McCartney and Justin reckons ‘we might just have found ourselves a major recording artist’.
I try to be excited for him. The trouble is it feels all wrong. When Matthew tells Willow Strawberry that he’s ‘truly humbled’ by the judges’ comments, he sounds like a completely different person, but it’s his answer to her final question that really does my head in.
‘So come on, Matt. How are you enjoying yourself in the Celebrity Conservatoire?’
‘Amazing, incredible; I’m having the best time of my life.’
As soon as the lines are closed, we race upstairs with a bag of popcorn for the results show.
Shezza goes mental, but after the judges’ comments, it’s not exactly a surprise when Willow Strawberry tells Matthew, ‘You could still have The Tingle Factor’ and he joins Twilight and the others in the winners’ enclosure.
No one ever remembers who gets knocked out first. Just for the record it’s Soul Survivorz. The judges save Bart Smedley, which means that Roxanne is out too. But I don’t hear much of her speech about the amazing, amazing journey, because I can’t stop worrying about Matthew.
I really liked the way he treated his music so seriously. And he never seemed to realise how talented he was. So how come he suddenly sounds so up himself? Something’s the matter with him, and I need to find out what it is.
Matthew (eagerly): Well? What did you think?
Bex: Yeah, it was . . .
Matthew: Aren’t you going to congratulate me, then?
Bex: Well, yeah, but —
Matthew: Did you hear what Justin said?
Bex: Yeah.
Matthew: He said I could be a major recording artist.
Bex: Well no but —
Matthew: They want to film me and Bart doing karaoke. Why did you call anyway?
(Pause.)
Bex: Are you OK, Matthew?
Matthew: I just got through to the second week of Tingle Factor. What do you think?
Bex: It’s just you seemed a bit . . .
Matthew: A bit good?
Bex: No . . . I mean you were great, but . . . I thought you said you hated that song.
(Pause.)
Matthew: I did.
Bex: You said you were going to tell Nikki you wanted to sing something else.
Matthew: I changed my mind.
Bex: By why? I don’t get it.
Matthew: I saw the bigger picture, OK? Sometimes in this business you have to make compromises.
Bex: And you’re happy with that, are you?
Matthew: (Pause.) ’Course I’m happy. What’s it got to do with you, anyway?
Bex: I just thought . . .
Matthew: Wait a minute. I know what this is all about. You don’t want me to be here, do you? You’re just jealous because you didn’t make it.
Bex: No. ’Course not. I wanted to make sure you were OK, that’s all.
Matthew: I’m fine, so you can stop worrying. Look, I’ve got to go, OK?
Bex: Don’t you want to hear what I’ve got planned for your mum?
Matthew: Sorry, haven’t got time right now. I’ll speak to you later.
Bex: Yeah, but I wanted to —
Matthew: See you.
Bex: But I’ve had this great idea. What I’m going to do is . . . Matthew?
Matthew
The dance studio is much quieter now that Soul Survivorz have gone. The twins Trevor and Ashley (or Trash as everybody calls them now) try to lighten the mood by hiding the choreographer’s asthma inhaler, but the atmosphere is already pretty tense by the time he’s finished showing us the steps for ‘Hard Knock Life’ and Nikki arrives for our tutorial.
The Bex Factor Page 9