by Will Davis
I’m just about to say something really cutting back, like next time I want advice from a slab of singing silicone I’ll ask for it, but just then the intro music starts and we’re all walking out onstage in a line, holding hands like we’ve rehearsed with Patty. Ella’s hand in front of me is ice cold and trembling so much it’s annoying and makes me want to slap her. Meanwhile Riana’s hand behind is almost red hot by comparison and completely still.
‘So girls,’ shouts Stina at our faces once we’re all lined up in front of the judges. Opposite the light is blinding, and I can’t help but think that it’s like facing a firing squad. I’ve never felt such foreboding in my whole life. Oh God, please don’t desert me. Not now, in my hour of need.
‘Are you ready to hear the verdict?’
We all smile and nod. Effing Stina then takes out a card from the envelope she’s holding and reads off it with heart-attack-inducing slowness.
‘First of all I will reveal the name of the girl tonight’s audience has chosen to go through into the competition next week,’ she says. ‘This girl will have a safe pass into next week and the judges will not be able to expel her.’
The band begins a drum roll. I shoot a quick glance at Riana, strong and confident beside me, and remember the way the crowd practically screamed after she finished her awful version of Celine Dion’s lovely ballad. She’s staring out into the audience, her smile so big and white it looks like a half moon stuck to her face. I’m smiling too, but next to hers it must look feeble and pathetic, the smile of a loser. I want to die.
‘And the name of the girl through to next week is . . .’ says Stina, and I want to kill her for pausing once again. I want to see her bludgeoned to death with her own stupid mic, her even stupider skin-tight dress all stained with oozing gore.
Strike her down, God. Strike her down this instant and I don’t care what happens!
‘. . . Louise!’
For a few seconds it’s like my senses have shut down because I’m not even aware of what is going on. Then I realise the other girls are crowding round me and hugging me, screaming and clapping and pretending to be pleased that I got voted for instead of them. And Stina is giving my shoulder a nasty squeeze and congratulating me. I can’t even hear what the stupid slag is saying. The tears are pouring out of my eyes and I just let them. I can’t speak for happiness. God, I think, looking directly out into the light which seems the most likely place for him to be, I promise never ever to doubt you again!
‘I’m so happy to have got through. So happy. But . . . it’s strange . . . Like we’re living our lives underwater or something. Nothing seems like it can be real!’
I’m woken up by the sound of screaming. At first I’m completely disoriented, and I think I’m in my own room back in Kensington and that Rita or Mimi are being murdered or something terrible like that. Then I sit up and see the dorm around me and the other girls, also shaking off sleep and peering up to see what the fuss is about. It’s Valerie. She’s standing at the door in her pyjamas holding a pile of newspapers, her mouth open as she reads from the one on the top. And then I remember: I’m here. I made it. I didn’t get sent home.
The girls all spring out of bed and cluster around her. It’s not long before everyone’s emitting similar high-pitched shrieks of delight, snatching up papers from Valerie’s arms and staring at them like they can’t believe what they’re seeing. I sit up and watch, wondering dimly what’s going on. My head feels fuzzy from sleep and my stomach aches, which is a sure sign my period is coming on. I was having a weird dream about the contest, where we were performing on a ship that was sinking: everyone had to wear lifebelts while they did their songs, and we kept on going even though we knew we were all going to drown. I rub my eyes, trying to shake off that nasty hollow feeling of impending doom that’s followed me into the real world. Valerie detaches herself from the group and marches over.
‘Here you go, Ella,’ she tells me, thrusting a paper into my lap. Her face glistens. It’s funny how excitement really opens up your pores. ‘Go on. Have a look!’
I look down at the paper. It’s the Telegraph’s TV section with reviews of last night’s telly, and there’s an article about The Purrfect Search. What you immediately focus on is the picture above, which shows Valerie in her black all-in-one Dior jumpsuit with the rhinestones, her eyes closed and the mic raised to her lips midway through her performance of ‘What a Girl Wants’.
‘Oh my God,’ I say.
For some reason it never occurred to me that the programme would be reviewed in all the papers, or that anyone would actually write articles about it, even though Rita told me Fascinate! were thinking of doing one. I was too busy being thankful for not being voted off. When Anya’s name was read out and they showed the close-up of her face, all white and trembling, on the massive screen behind the stage, I thought I was going to die for her. She looked so upset. Like life for her was over. When we all went to say goodbye she clamped her arms around me in this vice-like hug, and it was like she was trying to hold on to the programme and not let it slip away. I felt like I was betraying her by letting go.
‘Read what it says!’ orders Valerie impatiently.
I read. It says that the programme is just another in a long line of reality TV shows, searching for the next big thing, this time for the super-successful girl band Purrfect. Then it goes on to say that no matter what you might think of this kind of programme, it makes for pretty addictive viewing, and mentions several of the girls by name. The last part is about Joni and me: ‘Joni, sewer-mouthed chav, provides most of the laughs, while skinny blonde car-crash-waiting-to-happen Ella offers plenty of cringe-inducing moments that’ll either have you rooting for her or else wishing she’d do us all a favour and get some therapy.’ I’m stunned, scarcely able to hold the paper.
‘Don’t let it get to you,’ advises Valerie in a worldly voice, as if she knows all about the pressures of being a celebrity. ‘The important thing to remember is that you’ve got exposure. That’s all that matters.’
I look over at Joni, who’s poring over another paper with Rebecca. Both of them are laughing. ‘Fucking mental!’ she screeches, at which point she notices the cameraman who’s edged his way into the room and is filming over their shoulders. Her hand flies up to her mouth since she’s been told off for swearing lots of times and she giggles: ‘Oops.’ Behind them Riana is leaning against the wall, grinning. She looks up and catches my eye, turning her paper round to give me a glimpse of what she’s reading. I’m amazed to see a massive picture of her, dressed in a white string bikini and smiling out like a page three girl. Next to her is the caption, The Singing Stripper! It’s the Sun, and the article is entitled Who’s Going To Be Purrfect? There are little portraits of the rest of us, including me, but before I can see what’s written there Riana shrugs and flips the paper back round. Over in the far corner the cameraman is now filming Louise, sitting up perfectly straight on the bed with her hair immaculately brushed and glossy as ever, turning the pages of a paper with a detached smile, like she gets written about all the time. ‘I think it’s important to stay grounded,’ she’s saying. I look back down at the Telegraph and my name in print and suddenly I’m overwhelmed because I’ve remembered the other reason I was so nervous about last night. Jack.
‘Attention, girls!’ barks a harsh, unmistakable voice. Everyone looks up, somewhat freaked out by the sight of Tess standing in the doorway of the dorm surveying us all in our night things.
He’ll have seen it. Probably with Rita and Mimi beside him. Everyone we know will know that he went there and exploded in front of all those people and attacked the sound man. Everyone will have seen him making a fool of himself, and will wonder why he got so mad. I feel a lump rising in my throat, but Tess is talking and so I force it back down.
‘I hope you’re all enjoying your first brush with fame,’ she says, gesturing dismissively at the papers. ‘You can expect more of that from here on in. And if you’re wise, you’ll le
arn to ignore it and focus on the job at hand. Because we’re looking for a performer, not some glamour model.’
She shows her teeth and lets her gaze drift round the room like she’s probing for signs of weakness, looking each one of us squarely in the eyes. It’s disconcerting, her way of doing this, almost as if she knows some incriminating information about you and wants you to understand she is only waiting for the right moment to screw you over with it. She reaches me last of all, and I look into her eyes, magnified by those horrid silver glasses that don’t do a thing for her. I feel myself begin to tremble. Everything seems to go quiet and for a second. I wonder if she really does know something. Like about Jack, for instance. Maybe he’s been in contact with the organisers to complain about the broadcast and she’s put two and two together. Or else maybe she’s just figured it out from reading my thoughts. It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest if it turned out she had some kind of evil superpower like telepathy. She’s exactly the sort of person you’d expect to have it, and it would go a long way towards explaining how such a bitch got to be such a successful band manager.
Tess brings her hands together in a loud clap which makes me jump and breaks off her gaze.
‘This week you will be working in pairs and performing duets with one another at next week’s studio session. You’ll be assessed individually, and as before, one of you will be voted off. No more free passes! Ten minutes to get dressed. We’ve got a treat for you downstairs. Remember, girls, this is no time to get complacent. You’ve got a lot of work ahead of you, and if you don’t give it your all, you won’t make it.’
With this she turns abruptly on her heel and stalks out the room. For a few seconds there is silence while we all absorb her words. Those feelings of relief and happiness at being chosen last night have been sucked out and replaced by a sense of urgency and fear. Immediately everyone is tense, and when I offer Valerie back the paper she merely looks at me like I’m a mutant and turns away to get dressed. I put it down on the bed and go through to the bathroom. I pause in front of the mirror and stare at my reflection, bleary-eyed, hair unkempt, skin red and still marked with pillow creases. Hardly the stuff of a future megastar. Hardly the stuff of anyone worthwhile at all. The lump in my throat is rising again, only this time there’s nothing stopping it. I push open a cubicle door just in time to aim the pellet of puke that bursts out of my mouth into the toilet bowl. It’s an ugly yellow colour, a bit like urine. I wipe my mouth with some toilet paper and drop my head over the bowl, waiting for the sick feeling to go away, trying not to think about Jack and how much he probably hates me right now. When I lift my head I notice what looks like a black snake on my thigh. I let out a little scream, before I realise that of course it’s just a trickle of blood. Guess I’ve started. Shit, and my tampons are back in the drawer beside my bed. I pull out more toilet roll and make a wad out of it. As I do there’s a pounding on the door behind me.
‘Ella? You all right in there?’
It’s Joni. I mumble back that I’m okay, only for her to shout ‘WHAAAT?’ forcing me to repeat myself and making me wish that I was more like her. Joni’s so strong and confident. Nothing ever fazes her. Criticism, bad experiences, stupid mistakes – they all just bounce right off like they didn’t even happen. Not like with me. Sometimes I still catch myself thinking about stuff that’s happened to me ages ago and getting cold rushes from the memory of it. Even tiny things that don’t matter, like nobody wanting to be my partner for a physics experiment at school and having to do it with the teacher at her desk up at the front of the classroom while everyone sniggered. Stuff like that – I still get shivers thinking about it. And big things too, like being told by Rita that Daddy wasn’t coming back from Nepal. Or the last time Jack drove me out to the common and stared out at the woods for what seemed like an age before telling me it was time that we stopped seeing each other.
If only I knew he didn’t blame me, then I wouldn’t feel so bad.
‘Come on Ella, everyone else has gone already!’
It’s Joni again. Damn it.
‘I’m coming!’ I yell. I quickly wipe away the blood and push the wad up under my panties. Using the tank as a crutch I lever myself up to stand. It isn’t my fault – that’s what I need to remember. And maybe, just maybe, seeing himself as he can sometimes be is a lesson Jack needs to learn. I mean, maybe he’s even grateful to me. He might even have seen my performance and realised that he made a mistake. He might even be thinking of me like I’m thinking of him, right at this very moment, wishing I was there in his arms and he was looking down into my eyes and getting lost in them.
‘Ella!’
There’s a scratching sound from the next cubicle and then a banging on the divide and I look up as Joni’s head pops over it.
‘Guessed as much,’ she grins. ‘Here.’
A miniature white torpedo flies past my face and plops onto the floor in front of me. I pick it up and give her a grateful smile, though I’m actually rather embarrassed.
‘I’ll see you downstairs, all right?’
Everyone’s waiting for me in the studio room. Tess, Joe and Emma are standing against the wall and two cameramen with little headsets are set up in opposite corners. A semi-circle of chairs has been arranged facing the panel but only one of them is free since the other girls are all sitting ready and waiting. Everyone looks at me.
‘Sorry . . .’ I stutter.
‘Ella, the music industry doesn’t do lateness,’ says Joe. He’s wearing his usual combo of Armani T-shirt, combats and shades, only this time the shades are slanted upwards and have red lenses which make him look demonic. He taps the face of his gold Armani watch with a French-manicured nail. ‘If you don’t show up on time, people won’t wait for you. They’ll write you off as dead. It’s as simple as that.’
‘I’m really sorry,’ I say again, feeling myself burning up.
‘I told you, she got her period!’ calls Joni from the corner, rolling her eyes like she can’t believe how unreasonable Joe’s being. I can’t believe she’s actually told them this is the reason I’m late. My cheeks now feel like they’re on fire. Joe lets out this super-long sigh and shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve disappointed him deeply. Then, just as I’m about to combust with shame, to my amazement Tess comes to my rescue.
‘Yes, Joe,’ she says meaningfully, as though being a man he couldn’t possibly understand – which is true when you think about it. ‘There are certain times in a woman’s life when she can’t just drop everything to go compete in an industry dominated by men. For example when her vagina is gushing with blood!’
Riana, sitting right in the middle of the semi-circle, bursts out laughing, but everyone else just looks embarrassed. Joe wrinkles up his whole face like he’s never heard anything so disgusting and holds up his hand with the palm turned towards Tess.
‘I don’t want to know!’ he whines in a suddenly childlike voice. ‘Let’s just move on, okay?’
Emma shoots me a smile and motions for me to sit down. I slot myself into the last seat by the wall and duck my head, willing myself to stop blushing.
‘Right,’ says Tess. ‘Now that we’re done explaining the workings of the female body, we have a nice surprise in store for you girls. As a reward for passing into the second week, you are each to be allowed one fifteen-minute phone call to talk to your parents, spouses, siblings or whoever. You can make this call at any point over the coming week, it’s up to you.’
My heart starts to beat faster. The burning in my cheeks is replaced by a burning of excitement. I can call Jack. I can speak to him and tell him that it wasn’t my fault and that I love him and that the song I was singing last night was meant for him. When he hears that I know he’ll forgive me.
‘And now down to business,’ says Tess, nodding to Emma. Emma clears her throat and steps forward, smiling at us. I wish the other two would smile like her – easy and genuine. It makes such a difference to the way you feel.
‘G
roup work is a key component of being in a girl band,’ she says. ‘It requires strength, discipline, hard work and above all cooperation. At this week’s final you will be performing duets with a partner. This exercise will test your abilities to form professional working relationships.’
Joe steps forward, puffing out his stomach as he raises his clipboard.
‘The names of the duets and the songs you will be working on are as follows,’ he says. ‘Valerie and Rebecca – “Miracles”.’
Valerie and Rebecca each let out little screams and grab each other’s hands. They’re lucky, since they get on so well already. I’m immediately scared, since no matter who I get put with they’re bound to wish they hadn’t got saddled with me. I don’t think I’ve ever been in a team for anything where I wasn’t one of the last people to be picked. Let it be Joni, I pray to the clipboard Joe is holding. At least she won’t mind, since nothing bothers her.
‘Joni and Ella – “Prayers for You”.’
A wave of relief floods through me, so great that I almost pee myself. I turn to Joni with a big smile, only I’m shocked to see that she’s not smiling back at me. In fact she looks horrified, like she’s just been told she has to sing her duet with a performing monkey. When she catches me looking at her she quickly grins and shrugs, but it’s too late and I’ve already seen how she really feels. I look away quickly, desperately pretending I’m not on the brink of tears. I guess her reaction is understandable. I wouldn’t want to work with me either. Joe keeps reading, but I’m not listening anymore and I don’t catch what song Riana and Louise are doing. Neither of them gives any indication of whether or not they are happy to have each other for a partner, they both just nod gravely like they’ve got a job to do and even though it may be grim nothing is going to stop them from doing it. Why can’t I be like that? Why do I have to be so weak all the time?
‘And now for the special news,’ Emma declares. ‘Working on your duets with you will be one of Britain’s most respected vocal coaches, Billy Bickler. He’s worked with the likes of Natalie Imbruglia, Rachel Stevens and Sophie Ellis Bexter. This week, he’s going to be focusing all of his attention on you!’