by Will Davis
She and Joe and Tess look at us expectantly. Everyone lets out little screams, including me this time, though it’s obvious that none of us have ever heard of him.
‘Right then, girls,’ says Tess. ‘Patty’s expecting you all in the dance studio at eleven. Until then, you’re free. I suggest you use the time to focus yourselves on your game plan this week. Last night we saw a talented girl leave the competition. You need to ask yourselves what she did wrong and what you can do to avoid the same fate.
‘As for the phones, use them wisely, because we’re not giving out extra credit. Purrfect are often so busy they have to go for long periods of time without speaking to the people they love. You’ve got to be tough in this game. It’s no place for sissies.’
She nods curtly at Joe, who picks up a box beside his feet which I didn’t notice before. He and Emma then walk around the semi-circle distributing special white mobiles with gold stars and the word ‘Purrfect’ printed on them. Emma explains that they have exactly fifteen minutes’ credit on them and do not accept inbound calls. She proudly adds that they’re freebies from Vodafone, and we’ll be allowed to keep them as mementos once the competition is over.
As soon as they’re done and everyone’s talking amongst themselves I hurry off back upstairs to the bedroom. I throw myself on my bed and type in our house number. My fingers keep getting it wrong because I’m shaking so much, but finally I get it. The phone starts to ring. Once, twice, three times. Pick up, pick up, pick up, I scream silently at it.
‘Hello?’ says a familiar voice.
‘Mimi!’
‘Oh my God!’ screams Mimi. ‘Ella!’
It takes about a year just to stop her yelling my name. I keep trying to tell her I haven’t got much time but she can’t stop screaming about how she’s seen me on TV and everyone at school knows who I am and they all think I’m the best and are betting that I’ll be the one who makes it through to Purrfect. It’s very sweet of her, I guess. In fact it’s more than sweet – it makes me feel wanted and special, like someone out there really does care about what happens to me. Tears come to my eyes. But I’m aware that precious seconds are slipping away.
‘Thanks, Mimi,’ I say, hoping she can hear how much I really mean it. ‘Now can you put Jack on, please?’
‘Put him on?’ goes Mimi, like I’ve just asked her to do the weirdest thing in the world. ‘Don’t you know?’
This sense of foreboding hits me. I take a deep breath, and as I do I notice that a cameraman has stolen up behind me and there is a big black lens pointed at me from the other side of the bed.
‘Know what?’
‘He’s not here,’ says Mimi. ‘I thought Mum would have got the message to you or something.’
‘What are you talking about?’ I say shrilly, fighting to keep the panic from taking over and feeling my hand with the phone against my ear begin to shake uncontrollably. ‘Gone where? What are you talking about?’
‘He’s left us,’ says Mimi. ‘Since the night you went him and Mum have done nothing but argue. It’s been like fucking bombs are going off. They even threw things at each other the other day. They broke that bowl I made in pottery class last term! You know, the one with the silver stars on it.’
‘But . . . why were . . . they arguing?’ I stumble over my words, almost choking with the effort of speaking.
‘Oh, I don’t know, adult stuff,’ says Mimi, as if it hadn’t even occurred to her to wonder. ‘They don’t love each other anymore, I s’pose. It’s weird though because now I have to go home after school with Georgina and her mum. She makes microwave meals and they’re disgusting! Rita says she’s going to sort something better out once this week’s issue is in but you know what she’s like—’
‘Mimi!’ I shout, surprising the guy with the camera who is now holding it right in my face. He takes a small step backwards. ‘Where did Jack go? How can I get in contact with him?’
‘I don’t know, he didn’t leave a number. I don’t think he wants to see any of us ever again. That’s what he said, anyway. He was pretty cross.’
‘But didn’t he say goodbye? Don’t you even care that he’s gone?’
There’s a pause at the other end and some talking followed by a rapid giggle. I hold the phone and tremble. I feel powerless, as though fate is coming towards me like the wide open mouth of a huge snake with poisonous fangs. I’m just this tiny paralysed mouse and there’s nothing I can do to avoid being swallowed alive.
‘Sorry,’ Mimi comes back on the line. ‘Listen Ella, you know that black girl – can you ask her how she gets her hair so big like that? My friend Alex is here and she’s been desperate for a do like that since like, for ever, only nothing seems to work no matter how much Frizz-up she uses . . .’
‘Mimi,’ I say, trying not to weep. ‘There’s not much time. Can you get Rita?’
‘Oh, she’s not here. Can you call back later?’
‘No,’ I moan. ‘This is the only phone call I get.’
‘Oh,’ says Mimi.
‘Listen,’ I tell her. ‘I really don’t have much time, but it’s very important you get a message to Jack for me—’
‘I told you, I don’t know where he is!’ goes Mimi stubbornly, doing her spoilt-little-brat thing. I feel my eyes stinging with tears and I quickly turn away from the cameraman, who merely glides round the bed to film me from the other side.
‘Get Rita to tell you. I have to see him! There’s something I need to say to him . . . Okay?’
There’s no answer. ‘Mimi! Will you do it?’ I scream, wanting to murder her. But then I realise that the reason she’s not responding is because the line has gone dead.
‘I can’t believe I’m in the bloody Sun! Right there in the middle of the page next to [bleep]ing Jordon! It’s like being a proper celebrity! Me mum is going to totally [bleep]ing [bleep] herself when she sees it!’
I’m in the music studio in front of Billy at the piano, doing Edgar’s singing posture thing (classic page-three pose more like – stomach in and tits out). We’re waiting for Ella to get over herself so we can go again. Billy’s this little old geezer with a crooked back and lots of ancient saggy skin. You’d never guess from looking at him that he was at the top of his game, working with all these famous singers and record producers and stuff. The only thing that’s impressive about him is his ears, which are fucking massive, and which I s’pose must of been pretty useful, him being a musician and all. He sort of reminds me of the BFG, that Roald Dahl book which I was gonna start reading to Baby this month before I got on the programme. Makes me wonder how Mum’s going with it. I been saving up me fifteen minutes for a time when it feels right, but the fact is I can hardly take it not knowing if Baby’s missing his mum like she’s missing him.
Sorry, sniffles Ella from the corner where she’s gone to shiver and wipe her nose off.
Just take it easy, says Billy. Relax. Singing should always be an enjoyable experience. It should be what you love to do. Otherwise there’s no point, is there?
He’s a bit of a sweetheart, is this codger. He’d be a whole lot more of one if he didn’t have a constant semi going on in his trousers, mind. Think you can guess what made him agree to this gig. Still, you can’t help but like the old perv. Earlier on he told me stories about all the divas he’s known, including this one whose name he won’t say that leapt up on to the piano when she didn’t get her way and started beating the shit out of it with a microphone stand.
No . . . says Ella, making this gross sound as she sniffs up all the snot in her nose, I guess not.
I know she can’t help being a tool, but getting saddled with Ella is like being told you’ve got to breakdance with a fucking hump strapped to your arse. We’ve been at this for over an hour now and we ain’t even got through the whole song yet. I’m starting to get the urge to give that pretty little face of hers a right good slapping. Every time the littlest thing goes wrong she starts weeping like it’s the end of the fucking world. She hits a w
rong note, off she goes. She misses her cue, boo hoo hoo. Even when she does something right she cries, like it’s so unusual she can’t handle it. She could teach old JT a thing or two about crying rivers and then some.
Okay, I’m ready, says Ella, I won’t mess up this time, I promise.
She gives Billy this brave smile and glances at the camera all shy like she wishes it wasn’t there. But it’s always there, and it’s always pointed at her no matter what’s going on. I reckon them producers of this programme probably think she’s a goldmine the way she can’t stop blubbing, like Nikki in Big Brother cos of the way she always flew into a strop whenever she got asked to do anything. These basket cases always make good TV.
Great! goes Billy, like Ella ain’t already promised this and then fucked up the last ten times we tried it. You ready, Joni?
Ready, I say, trying not to sound as snippy as I feel cos frankly I been ready for the last fucking half an hour.
On the count of three then. A one two three!
We get almost as far as the second chorus before Ella cracks. As per usual instead of just going on and finishing the job she just stops dead and starts apologising, forcing me to stop as well, since you can’t very well harmonise on your own, can you?
I’m really sorry, she goes, sobbing away and starting to sound like one of them annoying ringtones you can’t get out of your head. It’s because of my period!
The bollocks it is. I watched her back the other day and told the judges it was why she was late cos I felt sorry for her. But the fact is she’s been like this since she got to the house. Even when I first met her she was a mess. She’s obviously totally ruined, what with this weird thing she’s got going with her paedo of a step-dad. I mean, what the fuck is going on there? Not like it’s any of my business, mind you. I don’t want to know, even though she obviously wants to tell me. I got other things on me mind. Like winning this competition for instance.
Just take yoga breaths, goes Billy. In through your nose and out through your mouth, as slow as you can. It’ll clear your system.
Ella takes another massive snotty breath and leaks a few more tears as she breathes out. Spite of all the crying her skin’s still all pale and clear, like one of them zit-lotion models.
Okay, says Billy. Let’s try it from the top.
He gives me a nod and a grin, and though he don’t say nothing I know he must be thinking to himself, These girls are history! cos it’s just what I’m thinking too. He plays the first few chords and off I go with my solo bit, trying not to lose control even though it’s about the billionth time I done it.
I hear a whisper in the night, I sing, lowering me voice to make it sound husky and soulful like when Eternity did it, That is how I know you’re still here beside me . . .
They’re dead beautiful lyrics, really, and I can’t help meself thinking a bit of Davy each time we do the song. Wonder how he’s holding out. It’s harder for a bloke than it is for a girl when it comes to not shagging, not cos we don’t get the urge, just cos we’re better at controlling it. But after what happened last time with that Shea it’s difficult to believe he’s not banging some tart right this very second. But maybe cos of the power of these words, or maybe cos I still ain’t gotten over that good feeling I had in Utopia that night we got back together, or else maybe just cos the sense’s been screwed out of me by all this fannying around waiting for Ella – whatever the reason, I do trust him. I do believe he’s waiting for me. I gotta, cos I’m fucking gagging for it and the second I’m out of this gig I’m hunting that sexy bastard down and riding the life out of him. If only those sadistic cunts would give us more than fifteen fucking minutes of credit, and them cameras leave me to meself for five minutes, then I could give him a call and have a nice old wet chat. But course Baby comes first, so I’m making do with a text to tell him how much I love him and that he’d better not be sleazing on to no other bird or else I’ll be stilettoing him in the eyeball.
I finish me bit of the song and hold me breath as Ella starts off. Her voice is all shaky still but at least she’s singing. Billy’s wrinkly face gets even more wrinkly as he scrunches it up, obviously on the edge like me to see if she’s gonna fuck up. Again.
Prayers for you before I shut my eyes, she goes, wavering all over the place like she’s got a creepy crawly stuffed down her bra, Prayers for you before I lay me down . . .
And we’re off, into the chorus. We go right through it and into the next two bits of solo, and she don’t fuck up once. As we finish Billy turns to us both with a massive smile of congratulations, the sort of look you’d give a couple of tards who’ve just figured out how to chew by themselves. Ella starts sniffling and looking all proud like she’s just won a fucking marathon. Suddenly I’m screeching at her like I’m off me head. All this stuff I can’t control is coming out of me trap, like word diarrhoea.
Listen up, you silly bitch! I’m going. Pull yourself together and stop acting like a fucking tool! We gotta rehearse this song and have it perfect for the end of the week and at this rate we’ll be lucky if we don’t just go onstage looking like a pair of fucking morons! You might not be serious about this gig but I fucking am. I’ve made sacrifices for this and I ain’t having it screwed up by the likes of you, get it?
Ella looks at me, eyes so big it’s like they’re gonna pop out of her face. She gets it. And sure enough here come the tears, only this time she don’t stick around to do her bawling. Before anyone can say another word she pushes past the camera guy and races out of the studio.
Fuck. Forgot all about the camera. Now they’ll have footage of me looking like a right bitch, and you can bet your arsehole that’s going out on telly at the end of the week. I look at Billy and he gives me this look like he reckons it was totally mean and unnecessary what I just said, which maybe it was, but frankly I’m so pissed off I don’t even give a toss. The camera guy recovers and pauses for a sec like he don’t know whether to go after Ella or to keep on filming here. Then he takes off, probably figuring she’s always good for it.
Maybe you should take five, says Billy in this pointed way, closing the lid of the piano all firm and taking out a pen and notebook like it ain’t really a suggestion.
I don’t say nothing, just walk out the studio and into the corridor outside, trying to stop meself from shaking. If you can believe it I’ve actually got tears coming out me own eyes now. Can’t seem to stop them streaming down me face, totally blinding me so I don’t see where I’m going and run splat into a mound of green, knocking her into the wall.
Sorry, I go.
I wipe away the tears and see that it’s that face-ache, the one with all the attitude who looks like she’d just as soon watch all of us girls drown in our own piss as make anything of ourselves. Michelle’s her name, ain’t it? Just the bitch I don’t fancy seeing right now.
Can’t you watch where you’re going? she snaps, reaching down to fiddle with the strap of her shoe and giving me a proper death glare.
Go fuck yourself, I tell her.
I mean to just walk off and leave her looking all shocked and outraged, but the words don’t come out as smooth as I mean them to, more like a request than an insult. I hold up me head and try to go past her, only I catch my foot on the bitch’s stupid strappy shoe and end up tumbling face first into the wall meself, mashing up me nose right next to a framed photo of Purrfect doing their famous controversial performance of ‘I Want To Be Purrfect’ at the Brit Awards, the one where they all dressed up in those black letter-box outfits that Muslim women wear and then threw them off all dramatic, showing they had nothing but bikinis on underneath. Lucy was still in the band then, and she’s at the centre in an orange string. I look at the photo for a second and then sort of slide down the wall like I’ve just been shot, and end up in this heap of snot and tears.
Are you okay? goes the face-ache.
She takes a look around like she don’t want anyone to see her doing this and then quickly crouches down next to me and press
es a tissue to me nose. I’m off sobbing badder than fucking Ella, only now I’m not mad at her anymore, just at meself for being such a shit. I’ve got in plenty of fights in my time, but I ain’t never picked on someone what didn’t deserve it, and no matter how much of a dead weight that girl is Ella ain’t a bad person. It’s this house, this programme, and all this tension. It’s turning me into a psycho. I take the tissue off this bitch and have a good blow.
Did you hurt yourself? Michelle goes. That was a nasty crunch.
I tell her I’m fine, but she’s looking at me in this funny way, like she’s really worried. I try to push her off and get back on me feet, but before I know what’s going on I’m cracking up all over again, and this time I’ve even gone and thrown me arms around her and I’m boo-hooing away on her shoulder like she’s the big sister I never had.
There there, she goes, it’ll be all right.
Huh, I say.
She don’t seem to hear me. I feel her hand on me back, patting me and her arms squeezing me too, and it sort of feels pretty good, even though I know I’m making a right tit out of meself. But I don’t care about that right now. I close me eyes and just let it all out. Finally when there’s nothing left I open them again and take me arms off her.
You know, it really isn’t worth it, goes this Michelle.
She smiles at me in this sort of sad way, a bit like how Mum smiles after she’s just watched Barbara Hershey dying in Beaches, which is her favourite film. I feel pretty fucking bad about all the mean thoughts I’ve had about Michelle though. She’s obviously a nice person deep down.
What would you know? I says, still managing to sound like a bitch without even meaning to.
More than you think, says Michelle. I’ve been working in PR for years. I’ve seen plenty of girls just like you, all wishing they were special. And they all make exactly the same mistake. They forget they’re special already.