by Will Davis
Another shooting pain makes my tummy contract. I can’t help but wince and so I hold the mic in front of my face to hide it.
‘Don’t let go of us!’ I sing. ‘Please – just – don’t – let – go – of – us –!’
The three faces of the panel are completely blank, betraying not so much as a flicker of emotion. I don’t know if they can tell my smile is forced and that I’m in agony or not. But they must be able to hear that something is wrong. My voice has lost that silky sheen that’s supposed to go with this song, like in the Lindsay Star original. Instead I sound raspy and thin, a weak-voiced backing singer at best. How can this be happening to me? And with every breath there’s another burning sensation inside, probably my stomach trying to digest its own tissue.
‘I said just – don’t – let – go –!’
I quaver horribly as I reach the crescendo, and for a second I’m not even sure if I’m going to make it. It’s a live broadcast. I picture Dad, watching this on TV, seeing this pathetic performance and being let down by the mess his daughter is making of her shot at the big time. And of course Mr Field will be watching too, listening as my voice gets weaker and weaker and thinking, What the hell is she playing at after all our hard work? But even worse than the thought of Dad and Mr Field is knowing the girls are following my every move on the monitor in the waiting room out the back, sniggering to themselves and secretly thrilled to pieces because they all want me to fail. After just one week I can already tell that they all hate me, just because I’m so obviously better than they are. People are like that. They just want to see you screw up, each and every one of them, so they don’t have to feel bad about being losers themselves. It’s sad, but I suppose it’s also human nature. Not that I give an eff about human nature, or about the other girls – because I’m not screwing this up! I’m the best. That’s why I’m here and that’s why I’m going to win!
Please, God, please, I pray silently as I sing, you have to help me. Don’t let me lose it now. Don’t let me fail.
I haven’t weighed myself since I left home, but I know I’m down to seven. Yesterday, right in front of everyone, Edgar suddenly demanded to know if I’d ever had any issues with my weight. Of course I said no and acted all shocked, but I could tell he wasn’t convinced from the way he looked me up and down and nodded with this wry expression, like he was an eating disorder expert and knew a victim when he saw one. I made a big deal of saying to the camera all about how I think girls who try to look like fashion models are messed-up victims of pop culture and that I’ve always been skinny and that I’m proud of my body shape. But all the while I was thinking ‘too podgy’. Maybe if that witch hadn’t called me that I wouldn’t be having this hell going on in my tummy right now. Look at her, sitting there at the centre of the panel, all self-important like she’s the queen. Jabba the Hutt more like. How can someone so completely unattractive be behind a phenomenon like Purrfect? It just doesn’t make any sense.
With an effort that’s like nothing I’ve ever known before I launch myself into the last chorus, even though my tummy now feels like it’s being wrenched in two and I’m practically ready to faint from the agony. I try to make myself think of the music, of the meaning behind Lindsay Star’s beautiful lyrics. I try to let the melody carry me upwards and onwards, towards the glory I know I deserve. Tiny sparkles are dancing about at the corners of my vision, like someone’s sprinkled glitter across the stage.
‘If you let go, you’ll regret it. Please baby, just – don’t – let – go –!’
I sink to one knee and reach out with the hand that isn’t holding the mic, grasping at the air as if trying to grip on to that special someone Lindsay wrote this song for. I’m on the build-up to the last note and I know I can do it. I squeeze my eyes shut and concentrate hard. This is what you have to do when you’re losing it. It’s the last resort. You think of something that’s so important that it makes everything else fade into insignificance – even unbearable pain. I read that Madonna once did a whole concert with a twisted ankle and a sprained knee. Cher was fifty-six when she did her farewell tour and she danced every single performance no matter how she was feeling. Even the Spice Girls managed to complete their American tour with two of them pregnant and vomiting into buckets in between set pieces. If they can do it then so can I.
I rack my brains for an image to hold on to, something that will carry me onwards and through to the end of the song. And as the music swells for the last time, a face suddenly pops into my head and I focus on it with all my energy and soul. Strangely it isn’t Lindsay’s face, or Dad’s or even Mr Field’s. For some reason it’s the face of that black girl, Riana. She’s got the same expression she had this morning, when I found her out on the fire escape doing who knows what, all splattered with mud and with a bloody knee, but shiny with relief because she thought she’d been locked out. Those boobs! I should have known that they were fake from the very beginning. No one has breasts like that, not naturally. Pathetic really, to feel that you have to have yourself cut open and then have these alien things stuffed inside behind each nipple – not to mention giving sexual favours in order to get a discount! What a slut . . . and yet they felt so real, or at least how I imagine real big breasts would feel. I’ve never touched anyone’s apart from my own, which are hardly even existent anyway. I’ve never touched a black person before either. And no girl’s ever done that, just invited me to feel her chest as if it was the most normal thing in the world.
There’s applause from the studio. I open my eyes and realise that I’ve done it. I’ve performed without collapsing, and even though it was terrible at least I got through it. Surely that’s got to count for something.
‘Let’s big it up for Louise!’ shouts Stina Ellis, the enemy of all things dignified, tottering onstage in a pair of silly spikes that highlight what ugly plump calves she’s got. The lights come up and flood the stage with yellow, so that for a few seconds I can’t see a thing. Then Stina’s nasty orange arm loops round my shoulder and helps me to stand, and the world starts to take shape again: row upon row of faces, the invited audience of Purrfect fans. I strain to hear what kind of applause they’re giving me. You can always tell what the audience is feeling if you listen hard enough. It sounds muted, half-hearted, at best a sympathy clap. Nothing like the deafening noise that greeted all the others when they did their pieces. Even that snivelling twit Ella got a few standing ovations from this bunch of nobodies.
‘Well, I thought that wasn’t bad!’ trills Stina. I hate her so much for this comment that I almost forget the pain in my tummy entirely. She’s wearing a ridiculously tight red dress that compresses her breasts so they burst out at the top like half-deflated balloons. No doubt about the origin of those lumpy eyesores. ‘But it doesn’t matter what I think. Let’s hear what the judges have to say!’
She propels me towards the three faces sat opposite, still blank as can be. Tess leans forward on her elbows and pushes her D&G glasses up her nose. Now she looks like a dark-skinned version of Jo Brand, po-faced and hair all frazzled as if she took one look in the mirror and decided there wasn’t any point in bothering since it’s not like anyone is ever going to think she’s even okay-looking. Sometimes you can’t help but wonder why God bothers creating unattractive people.
‘I expected better,’ she says in her horrible flat toneless voice, like she hardly even cares either way. ‘I thought you were one of the stars of this operation, Louise. But I guess I was wrong.’
There is booing and hooting from the studio audience, but that’s only because the man who does the placards is holding one up and waving it around. Really it sounds like everyone secretly agrees with her. My throat constricts like I’ve just swallowed my own tongue and I almost gag. The pain in my tummy is slowly diminishing now, being replaced with a dull throbbing. This must be what failure feels like.
‘I agree with Tess,’ says Joe in his stupid, camp, whiny gay voice. ‘We expected better from you, Louise. I don’t know w
hat happened up there tonight, but that performance simply stank.’
God, how can you let this happen?
The placards man is now waving his card around madly and there’s even more booing, only this time it’s really loud. I take a deep gulp of oxygen and stand as still as I can. Only Emma’s verdict is left. She’s wearing a blue crop top and looks amazing with her long blonde hair all spread out on her shoulders. She makes Stina Ellis look like a toad. Please God, let her be kind.
‘Louise, are you feeling all right?’ she says, frowning and looking concerned. Thank you, God. I gulp again and shake my head.
‘Oh no!’ cries Stina like she’s in a pantomime. ‘What’s the matter, Louise?’
‘I’m sorry,’ I say, offering a brave smile and shivering like I can’t help it. ‘I’ve not been feeling well. It’s not nerves . . . it’s a virus I think. But I didn’t want to let anyone down!’
‘Oh Louise!’ cries Emma, sounding all motherly. ‘The only person you let down if you come onstage like death warmed up is yourself!’ She turns to the others triumphantly. ‘I knew there was something the matter with her!’ she exclaims. ‘If you look at her progress over the last week she’d never perform like that under normal circumstances!’
‘Well then, if she’s ill why is she even performing at all?’ says Joe, like he can’t be bothered with sick people. ‘And why didn’t she say something earlier?’
He and Emma start bickering, much to the amusement of the audience, who begin to titter. Emma claims that I can’t help being sick and Joe tells her that it’s deeply unprofessional to tell a panel of judges you’re unwell right after you’ve just performed. The smug-faced little queer is probably right, but it’s the truth, near enough, and I can’t help it, can I? Meanwhile Tess the troll just sits there rolling her ugly bug eyes. Finally she decides she’s had enough.
‘The fact is we’re looking for the new Purrfect girl,’ she declares, instantly silencing the other two. ‘The Purrfect girls wouldn’t let anything come between them and their audience, including a virus. Louise – you were capable of getting up there tonight and doing your song and that means you’re still eligible to be voted off.’
For a minute I think a tidal wave has hit. Only a second later do I realise that it’s just the sound of everyone in the audience booing and hissing; this time no encouragement from the man with the placards is needed. They’re actually standing up in the front few rows and yelling for all they’re worth. Tess looks surprised and even deigns to turn her head round and clock a look, as if she’s only just noticed all these people are here in the studio with her. Then she turns back, her mouth set in a nasty grimace.
‘I don’t care how tough it seems,’ she says firmly. ‘That’s show business for you. If you can’t hack it, you shouldn’t be part of it!’
More booing, like the roar of a thousand thunderclaps. Honestly, I’ve never heard anything like it. It feels . . . good.
‘Well!’ shrieks Stina, who I can only hear over the top because her mic is right next to my ear. She’s clearly thrilled by what’s going on and tightens her fat orange snake of an arm around my neck like she wants to show how much she’s on my side. ‘Sounds as though you’ve got some support out there, Louise! Let’s hope they remember you at voting time!’
She suddenly releases me from her choke hold and turns to face a camera as it flies towards us, suspended over the stage by a long crane.
‘Just to remind everybody how it works. Tonight’s special audience will all have the chance to vote for their favourite performer, who will be given a safe pass into next week. From the remaining girls the judges will then select the one who shows the least potential, who will be going home. Tonight one of these girls is definitely not going to be the new member of Purrfect! Ladies and gentlemen – that was Louise!’
Everyone cheers as I walk off. I make sure to sway and make my walk seem as if I’m having difficulty remembering how to put one foot after the other. A real Amy Winehouse impression. It’s not too hard to pull off since I’m genuinely feeling rather giddy. The cheering is at least as loud as any of the other girls got, and it continues for several seconds after I’ve left the stage. I hear Stina trying to calm them down without much success. I can hardly believe it as I stand there in the wings trying to pull myself together – I’ve never been so popular, not even with all the brilliant song and dance routines I’ve done. And all I did was say I hadn’t been feeling well. It doesn’t change my performance, or my voice, or what they saw. Yet it feels nice. In fact it feels wonderful. To be cheered on not because I was good but because I’m a human being who has problems just like the next person. It feels like people out there really care.
Michelle – the bee that was in charge at the auditions – appears and ushers me down the corridor past all these stage hands and technical crew, who all just seem to be hanging out doing nothing in particular except watching Stina’s bottom in her spray-on dress and sniggering into their headsets.
‘Right, someone’ll be along with your costumes for the end,’ she tells me as we reach the waiting room. ‘Then you’ll have ten minutes to change and get ready.’
‘Could I have some aspirin?’ I say coldly. This mean-faced bee is no one’s friend and there’s not even any point in trying to make her feel sorry for you. ‘If that’s not too much trouble,’ I add. Michelle replies that she’ll see what she can do in a voice that implies she couldn’t care less and then stalks off up the corridor.
As soon as I enter the room all the other girls come rushing over to tell me how sorry they are and how much they hope I’m feeling better, apart from Ella, who’s still sitting in the corner with a silly smile on her face dreaming away like she was before I went up. Like anyone would have even clapped for her if she weren’t okay to look at. And Riana, who leans against the wall watching everyone with this smirk while Valerie announces all self-importantly that she could tell I wasn’t well from the colour of my cheeks. Annoying giantess Rebecca informs me she thought I sounded fine except for that last part and not to worry because she’s sure nobody noticed, which is the most ridiculously untrue thing I’ve ever heard. I glance over at Riana, who’s wearing a long white dress with a strip missing down the middle, so half of her chest is on display. Even though I know they’re fake, it’s still difficult not to be a little impressed. She could deflect bullets with those things. No wonder she’s smirking. She thinks I’m going tonight.
‘Costumes!’
A young man opens the door and wheels in a clothing rack holding our outfits. They’re all variations of the same thing: black, lacy, tight-fitting with lots of silver sequins. Behind the guy stands a cameraman, but no sign of Michelle with my aspirin. The girls immediately start tearing off their clothes and yanking costumes from the rack, searching through the nametags, ignoring the guy, who pauses, looking around at all the girls as if he can’t believe his luck. Joni gives him a wink. You can tell she’s a whore, that one, just from listening to the way she talks, she probably doesn’t know the meaning of the word self-respect. Then Riana strides casually forward, plucks up her outfit, turns to the guy and says: ‘Where I come from, a striptease costs money.’ The guy, who’s hardly any older than me, goes beetroot red and hurries out the room. The cameraman stays at the door, still filming, until Riana strides over and closes it on him. She shoots me a smile, and to my surprise I find myself smiling back. Weirdly, I actually have an impulse to hug her.
‘Lord!’ goes Riana to no one in particular. Instantly my nice feeling towards her vanishes. It really annoys me the way people take His name in vain all the time. I pick up my outfit and suddenly I’m filled with a horrible sense of foreboding. Maybe this is the last costume I’m going to wear. Maybe later tonight I’ll arrive back home in the limo and Dad’ll be standing there waiting for me with tears in his eyes, and he’ll say it doesn’t matter and that I’m still the best in the world, and although we’ll go back to normal we’ll both secretly know that it isn’t tru
e anymore. God, if you fail me now I’ll stop believing in you, I mentally project, even though of course that isn’t true because you can never turn your back on Him.
A few minutes later we’re all lined up in the wings listening to Stina going on in her bubblegum voice about how insanely exciting this competition is and how the performances tonight make it impossible for anyone to predict what the outcome will be. My head feels light and fluttery, but at least my tummy has settled down. I almost wish it still hurt, so that at least I had something to concentrate on instead of the impending decision, which I just know is going to be me. I can see it perfectly, Tess saying my name and then the awful, awful, awful walk of shame while all the other girls put on relieved smiles and wave gleeful goodbyes.
I feel a tap on my shoulder. I turn to find Riana with a massive grin. Here in the dark the whites of her eyes shine like a zombie’s.
‘You feeling all right now?’ she whispers.
I shrug, since I can’t be bothered to talk to her right now. It’s all very well for this bee – she doesn’t have anything to worry about. Her voice was all wrong for her song and she looked like a total hooker up on stage, but you could see the audience liked her, and none of the judges had anything bad to say either. Probably she’s in league with the Devil.
‘Just remember to smile,’ she says, as if I needed any advice from her. ‘You’ll be glad you did later, no matter what happens.’