by Will Davis
I find myself wondering if this is true. I was seven when Daddy died and I know he loved me more than anything else in the world, apart maybe from Rita. I remember him as this friendly giant who never had a bad word to say to anyone. But memory gets chewed up over time, and I sometimes wonder if I haven’t gone and made a hero out of him, and if he was really as great as I remember him being. Sometimes, in dreams, I even get confused between him and Jack, which is quite weird, considering.
But I do know that sooner or later Rita will have to cave. She doesn’t care enough not to. Sure enough, at ten thirty there’s another knock at the door. This time it’s Jack.
‘It’s me, Ella,’ he says in his deep gentle voice. Hearing my name coming out of his mouth always gives me a strange feeling in my stomach, like a butterfly has somehow got in and is batting around trying to get out again. I’ve just put on this mask of pea-coloured deep-cleansing clay that’s supposed to provide the ultimate defence against blackheads. It feels like acid on my skin.
‘What do you want?’ I shout.
‘I’ll take you to the audition. If that’s what it’ll take to get you to come out of there and eat something.’
The exhaustion in his voice is hurtful. It makes that flapping butterfly instantly melt into a lumpy sick feeling, like that instinctive heaviness you get in your gut when you know something’s really wrong. Suddenly all I want to do is wipe away the clay, fling open the door and throw myself into Jack’s arms, sobbing about how sorry I am and that it’s okay, he doesn’t have to take me. All I really want is to be close to him again, to feel the warmth of his body pressed around me, to see him smile and hear him say it’s all right and that he knew I’d come to my senses.
‘You’ll have to explain it to Mimi though,’ says Jack then with a sigh. ‘She still thinks we’re going ice-skating Saturday. We won’t be able to do both.’
Fuck Mimi, I think. It’s always Mimi this and Mimi that with Jack now. I don’t care if Rita prefers her – like Mimi’s always saying, she is Rita’s biological daughter. But the way Jack organises his whole life around her is disgusting. When Rita first got with Jack I was the one who welcomed him into the family, not Mimi. I was the one who made an effort to get to know him, who offered him second helpings when he came for dinner and put his shirt in the wash when he stayed over. Mimi just ignored him. But Jack and me – we were close right from the start. All that stuff I told him, like how hard I found it to make friends with the other girls at school and how lonely I was. And the stuff about Daddy too and how I wished I could remember him better. Now it’s like he just wants to wash his hands of me. Now that Mimi’s fourteen and getting boobs, she’s the one who gets all the attention, like at seventeen I’m already past it.
‘Okay, Ella,’ says Jack, still in that exhausted tone, like he’s got a fatal illness that’s preventing him from speaking in a normal way. ‘I’m going to bed now. You’ve won, okay?’
I listen to his footsteps as he goes, and it’s like they’re in time to the beat of my heart. I just want Jack to come back to me, that’s all. So we can be like we were, with Mimi and Rita out of the picture. I turn back to the mirror, look at the warty green goblin before me and force myself to smile. Hundreds of tiny cracks appear in the dried clay like the wrinkles I’ll no doubt get when I’m seventy. But underneath I’m still young and still pretty, I tell myself, even if I do look a bit like a rabbit. Soon he’ll be begging me to remember him.
‘My name’s Joni, I’m nineteen and I’m from Reading. Me whole life all I’ve ever wanted is to be a pop star. Purrfect is one of the greatest bands ever. They’re all so gorgeous and talented and I’m just so excited to even be here, I can’t tell you what it means to me. It’s like, the biggest thing that I’ve ever done me whole life!’
Me and Wend decide we gotta arrive early cos we wanna be among the first to get seen, before the judges get all bored and stop paying proper attention. We want the best chance possible.
It means getting up at seven and bunking off work, which means I’ll probably get the sack since I’ve already had two warnings and the third is the cruncher. Plus I have to sneak past Mum. She had her posse round last night and the whole kitchen stinks of their horrid fag smell. She’s right there slumped over the kitchen table, snoring away, surrounded by empty bottles of cava with fag butts piled at the bottom of them. It ain’t no pretty sight, I can tell you. I pour her a glass of water and stick an Alka-Seltzer in it for when she wakes up, so she don’t take out her hangover on Baby. She’s going to be right pissed off with me when she finds out where I been, but I don’t care. Some things, you just got to do.
The whole journey to London me heart’s thumping like it’s on speed or something, and I can’t even concentrate enough to hear what Wend is saying to me. She sees how nervous I am and to take me mind off it she starts singing ‘Tied Up For You’, which is the duet between Fina and Kharris, the one with the video where they’re both in separate cars racing each other. Me and Wend always sing it when we’re feeling low. She does Fina’s bit and I do Kharris. I’m a good singer, if I do say so meself. Only this time when it’s me verse the words catch in me throat and all that comes out is this puny whiny sound. Wend starts laughing but suddenly I’m really shitting meself, thinking I might as well just turn around and go back home, save meself the embarrassment, cept that ain’t an option cos we’re already pulling into Paddington and it’s too late. But right then, just as the train comes to a stop, the sun comes out and shines in through the yellow glass and makes everything look all bright and happy, and I get that Gabrielle song in me head, the one about dreams and how they really can come true if you make ’em, and I know I gotta do this. I gotta try, even if it don’t come to nothing.
We get off and go into the toilets, Wend distracting the guard by asking him if she’s got a visible bra line so I can duck under the barrier and save us 20p. Every bit helps when you’re skint. Then we both nip into a cubicle and get into our dresses. You got to look the part at these auditions, otherwise they won’t take you serious, that’s what I reckon. Wend is giggling like a mad thing, and I keep having to tell her to shut up in case someone hears.
They’ll think we’re dykes, I say as I zip her up, now breathe in.
So let ’em, shrugs Wend. Then she turns, leans in close to me and whispers, Maybe one of us is!
She whips up her hand and covers me mouth with it, then starts snogging away at me like I’m fucking JT. I shove her off and that’s when I hear this nasty ripping. I look down to see the front of me dress clean torn away from me tits. It’s only gone and got attached to Wend’s stupid fucking necklace, the one with the big silver heart she nicked from River Island.
Oh my God! I scream. Wend quickly pulls the dress off her necklace, ripping it even more, the stupid cow.
Don’t worry, I can fix it! she goes, grabbing it and patting it back into place like this is going to help. It ain’t so bad . . . just needs a safety pin or two, that’s all.
It’s a fucking write-off! I shout.
Forty quid this dress cost me and it’s brought me nothing but bad luck. I got it in the January sales, and the first time I wore it was the day that wanker Davy admitted he’d been shagging Shea from the estate over the road. Stupid rag’s like an omen or something. I pull it off me and start putting me jeans back on. Kiss goodbye to your chance at being in Purrfect, I think. I give Wend a good glare so’s to let her know I reckon this is her fault.
When we’ve done our make-up we walk up to where the studio is, Wend complaining the whole way and saying we need to slow down cos she’s got her spikes on. They’re buggers of shoes, those spikes of hers, squeezing the sides of your feet and cutting off the circulation to your toes. I know cos I borrowed them once for a night out and fuck did my feet scream the next day. But that’s the price of style, and I ain’t got no sympathy for her now that I’m back in me jeans and a T-shirt which ain’t even been washed all week. It weren’t my fault! Wend keeps squealing,
in between saying Ouch! but I just shrug and carry on walking. If she gets this and I don’t I’m gonna belt her right across fucking London.
At the studio in Shepherd’s Bush there’s already this queue stretching all the way down the street. So much for getting here early. Wend lets out a great moan but there’s nothing for it so we queue up behind this lanky posh girl who’s here with her parents. Her dad’s all over her, saying stuff like Remember to breathe, like he thinks his daughter’s gonna accidentally forget and fall down dead. This girl’s dressed all in black and has her nose pointed at the sky like everything below it is too whiffy for her. She catches me and Wend checking her over and looks up and down at us with this smirk like she thinks we’re a couple of right slappers. Wend demands to know what she’s looking at and she looks away fast, but she don’t stop smirking. Just ignore her, I tell Wend, though what I’d really like to do is give this girl a good clout, cos you can tell she reckons she’s better than us. But you got to be civilised, specially when there’s a camera crew going up and down the line asking people questions and stuff. When it gets to this girl in front she turns on this blinder of a smile and starts on in this posh voice like the queen about how she’s Purrfect’s number one fan and has been having singing and dance lessons since she was an embryo or whatever and how she just knows she’s got what it takes to be in the band. Real cool and confident. Her mum and dad stand behind her looking all proud, like she’s their gift to the world. Then this girl opens her mouth and lets out this string of Ahs, only she goes up and down and all over the place, and instead of sounding like a right fanny like anyone else would of course the bitch sounds just like Mariah fucking Carey. Me nerves start to kick in big time. Don’t worry, they’ll never choose her, she’s got no tits, Wend whispers, but I can see this girl’s got her nervous too cos she keeps chewing at her nails.
When the camera gets to us I go all shy and say the first thing that comes into me head, can’t even remember what. Wend just giggles like a right twat. You can see the faces of the guy behind it and the one with the mic, like they think we’re a couple of tards with no chance. As they move on to the next girl standing behind us I think of Mum and Baby at home, and how I’ve fucked up yet another job with this stupid idea of coming here. I can feel the sweat prickling under me armpits.
But there ain’t no going back. This miserable woman in a shiny pink skirt comes down the line handing out these disclaimer forms and tickets with numbers on them, saying once we’re inside we gotta wait till the number gets called. She’s got a face like a dog just marked his territory on her shoes. We’re getting closer to the doors and now Wend is practically jumping up and down with excitement, like her feet have just miraculously stopped hurting, or more likely got deadened from the pain. She keeps on singing snatches of songs, and then yelling how she can’t believe we’re really here doing this. After a bit this girl’s dad in front of us turns round and says Do you mind not making that sound right in my ear? to her. Wend’s too busy screaming to hear him. Get your ear out of her face then, I snarl back. He looks proper outraged by this, but his daughter grabs his hand and says Just ignore her, Dad, all superior, the witch. I’m about to start having a go at her, like who the fuck does she think she is, when I get distracted by this horrible wailing. Everyone looks up to see this lardy girl coming out the entrance having a total fit. She’s all red, tears are streaming down her face and her hands are all clenched up. Some other girl runs out after her and tries to calm her down, but the fat girl shakes her off shrieking, They’re wrong! It’s not true! I’m a size twelve and I’ve got perfect pitch! Then she starts running down the street streaming snot all the way, with her poor friend running after her shouting stuff like Sally wait – you’re just big-boned, that’s all! Wend is pissing herself beside me, but suddenly I’ve got this need to have a piss properly, and it’s so bad me knees are starting to knock.
Toilet, I says to Wend and make a dash for the entrance. Course everyone thinks I’m pushing in, and this group of right bolshy bitches at the doors start having a go at me and trying to shove me back. They’re proper Northern lasses, which means built, and I ain’t got no chance against them. Luckily the face-ache in the pink skirt comes by and demands to know what’s going on. I tell her I gotta go and she says all right and lets me inside, saying Be quick.
Inside the loo this amount of piss comes out like I didn’t know I could fit up there. Whole pints of the stuff. It’s bliss and I let out this Ah sound cos I think I’m the only one in here. Then there’s this giggle from outside. I flush the loo and go out all mad cos this day’s turning into a real experience, and not in the good sense, only to find this blonde girl blubbering away in front of the mirror like a right nut job. I don’t know what to do, so I stand there looking at her. Then I go back in the cubicle and get her some tissue.
Here, I go, handing it to her. She takes it with this pathetic look of gratefulness and blows her nose. Sounds like an avalanche, I want to tell her, but I don’t in case she takes it the wrong way. She’s one of them fragile, dainty types, the sort that look like they’d just blow away if you was to even speak too loudly to them.
I didn’t think it would be like this, she goes (another posh-o, I think). I’m so nervous. I feel like I’m going to throw up. What if they hate me? I should just tell Jack to take me home.
Don’t be daft, I tell her, but nicely so she doesn’t think I’m being mean. It’s just an audition. If they don’t like you then screw ’em.
This girl looks at me like I’m her fucking saviour or something. Now that she’s stopped crying I can see she’s real pretty. One of those girls me and Wend are always slating cos they don’t know what a proper problem is. But I don’t hate her. In fact, I’m quite glad she’s like this, all pathetic, cos it makes me feel better about meself. I have a quick squiz in the mirror, check over me make-up and give me hair a pat down. I look all right, even in the skanky T-shirt. And I think, well you got as much right to be here as anybody, ain’t you? Then I think of Baby at home and imagine him growing up with a famous pop star for a mum, getting bought all the best toys and being driven to school in a limo. Worth a shot, ain’t it? Course it is.
Come on, I go to this girl. Time to get back out there and face the music.
She nods slowly, all serious like we’re going to war or something, but she puts on this brave look and follows me out. I see Wend over at the doors and wave to her. Thanks, goes the girl to me as I leave her, and she gives me this look like she really means it. And suddenly I feel real good about meself, cos it’s like maybe it was worth it coming up here after all, even if they do think I’m rubbish, just to get that smile. Like you can still do a decent thing in this miserable old world and be appreciated for it.
‘I’m Louise, I’m eighteen and I’m from Appledore in Kent. I believe God gives everyone a gift and for me it’s performing. I’ve been singing since I was little and I can span five octaves. I play the piano and I dance, too. I love all kinds of music and I really love to sing, but most of all what I love is to perform. It’s what I was born to do.’
‘A hundred and six?’ barks the sour-faced bee in her cheap imitation Armani skirt. It’s my ticket. I turn to Dad.
‘Kill it,’ he says. It’s what he always says. They’re the magic words, what I need to hear before I go in there and show them what I’m made of. Mum just hangs on to Dad’s arm like the pointless appendage she is, and pulls her usual worried expression at me as though she thinks there’s a chance I might actually fail. But I can’t think that way. If I do, then there is a chance. That’s what Mum will never understand. She’s not strong like Dad and me. And that’s why she’s never been good for anything but housework and making pots of tea.
I nod to Dad very slowly, absorbing the positive energy he’s giving out. It’s what I always do after he says the words. He used to be in the entertainment business himself, way back when I was little, before he saw a gap in the market and went into advertising instead. He kn
ows what it’s like: how you can’t give just a piece of yourself or let yourself contemplate failure. How you’ve got to give it your all or else you might as well not even bother.
Dad nods back to me. I turn and stride towards the doors. To one side is the last girl who went in, now being interviewed by a camera crew. She’s sniffling and being comforted by her mum. She’s pretty, but straight away you can see why they didn’t choose her, no matter what she sounded like. It’s her posture, shoulders all hunched forward. Desperate. Posture like that begs an audience ‘Please like me!’ and that’s a cardinal sin on stage. You cannot ask your audience to like you; you have to make them.
I give my ticket to the fake Armani woman, doing my best to ignore the lethal rays of bad energy radiating off her. Then, just before I enter the room I reach up and undo a couple of buttons of the shirt I’m wearing so that the lace from my bra peeps out. That’s something Dad would never advise me to do, but he always taught me when you’re in the spotlight every detail gets noticed. Sadly God hasn’t given me much of a bust, but what He did grace me with I fully intend to make the most of. I’m wearing my Victoria’s Secrets bra, which is supposed to be able to make even a flat chest look voluptuous. My bra thus doctored, I take a long cool breath and whisper ‘Okay God’, just to remind Him now is the time in case he’s off being distracted by starving Africans (which is completely rightful use of His time of course, but I’m only asking Him to spare me five minutes). Then I go in.
Inside it’s not nearly as large or impressive as I remember from last time. It’s just a normal-size white studio room, empty apart from a table at one end, with three people sat behind it, a bit like an early series of X Factor. Two women and a guy. There are two cameramen dressed in black, one filming on each side. One of them takes a few steps forward and thrusts his camera at me. I hold my head high and give the panel my best winning smile.