by Will Davis
‘How’s my baby star?’
It’s weird to hear his voice. When I saw him the other week things weren’t the same between us and now I know why. It’s because I’ve grown and he hasn’t. Being here at the centre of it all I’ve learned things he doesn’t know about and can’t begin to appreciate a million miles from sleepy little Appledore. The trouble is Dad never made it in showbiz, and he can only understand what it’s like by remembering his dreams of making it. He doesn’t have the reality to draw on, because he never got this far. I always used to see him as this big protective figure who’s there for me no matter what, but suddenly I’m seeing him a different way. As needy.
‘You’re almost there, darling,’ he says and I realise I’ve never noticed before how old he sounds. His voice is raspy, like it’s been slightly ruined from always speaking a shade too loudly to get heard above everyone else.
‘I know,’ I say.
‘Tomorrow you’ll go out and you’ll perform like a superstar, better than you’ve ever performed before. And you’ll make me the proudest father in history.’
I imagine him as an old man. Really old, like Gramps. Mum’ll be dead by then, of course. She’ll definitely be the first to go since she’s never been much good at taking care of herself and has already got varicose veins and high cholesterol. I always thought it would be nice when it was just Dad and me together. I used to have visions of taking him to concerts, of him being my manager, the most loyal and loving roadie in the world. But there’s another possibility which I haven’t wanted to face up to, which is that it won’t be nice at all. That he’ll become this presence I can’t get away from, who always thinks he knows best and always tries to control me and convince me that what he wants is what I want too. Dad didn’t make it, but I’m going to, and what happens to the people who don’t? They latch on to the people who do. The tragic thing about this competition is that I’m starting to see how truly lonely it is at the top. Even your own family ends up on the outside.
‘Louise?’ says Dad. ‘Are you with me?’
There’s real nervousness in his voice behind the urgency. As if he can sense what I’m thinking. As if he’s already wondering how he’s going to fit into the equation once I’ve made it into Purrfect.
‘Yes,’ I say firmly.
‘This is the most important night of your life. You cannot afford to lose focus. If you do then you’ll never forget. You’ll regret it always.’
When he says that I almost choke up. Here I am betraying my own father with these horrible thoughts when all he wants is for me to succeed. And he does know what he’s talking about, because what he says is true. This is what I’ve been working towards since I was fifteen. Since that first audition when they were putting Purrfect together and I stood in front of Tess and the other judges, willing them to give me a chance, and had that chance torn away from me by two hateful words. Dad didn’t make it in the industry, and that makes him an expert in the field of needing to make it. He loves me and I can’t afford not to listen to him.
‘Okay,’ says Dad. ‘We’re all going to be there. Me, your mum, Mr Field, everyone you know. I’ve arranged a special trip for your whole class at school, my expense. They’re all coming, Louise. They’re coming to see you win. So don’t let us down!’
‘I won’t,’ I whisper, trying to imagine my whole class in the audience, all those girls who’ve laughed at me and called me rude nicknames in the school corridor. I bet they all want to be my friend now.
After a few more words of encouragement Dad says goodbye without putting Mum on, since he says he doesn’t want me distracted by her at this stage in the game. Trembling, I set the phone down. Opposite me is the camera. Its dark lens looks like a black hole and I’m suddenly struck by how obsessed we all are with these little machines – especially when you consider that’s all that they are. When you think about it we treat them a bit like God, because like Him they see our every move. They catch our every word and record our every last blink. But the way they differ from God is that unlike Him they can’t see what’s going on on the inside. They can’t read minds, they can only read faces and actions. They don’t see your soul.
Just then the guy behind the camera shifts in his seat, making the dark circle before me wobble and bringing me back to my senses. I must have fazed out for a moment. I’m tired and drained. And hungry. I need to practise, eat and then get a good night’s rest. As Dad said, tomorrow night is the most important night of my life, and if I mess it up I’ll regret it for ever.
But instead of getting up and going to the studio to rehearse I continue to sit there at the table, not moving, almost like I’ve turned into a statue. I’ll move in just a moment of course, it’s just right this second I can’t seem to motivate myself. It’s the strangest feeling. I suppose this is what fat people and the drop-outs at school must feel like all the time. I ought to be getting panicked and focusing myself on the prize. But all I can think is that for what I’ve been doing with Riana I’m probably going to go to hell, and yet what’s really amazing is that I just don’t seem to care.
‘I made a mistake! I was given this amazing opportunity and I blew it! But Purrfect are so fantastic and brilliant – if you’ll please give me one more shot I just know I’ve got what it takes!’
I buy the ticket with Rita’s card, which she gave me to pay for Mimi’s music lessons. I ask for a single since I don’t plan on ever coming back again. The woman in the ticket office, this fat redhead with piercing blue eyes, gives me a funny look across the counter and I find myself getting instantly paranoid that maybe Rita’s already twigged somehow and alerted the authorities that I’m missing, and they’re keeping a look-out for me at all the stations. But then she leans forward and says in a quick whisper: ‘You were ace on that show, love.’
The journey takes for ever. I listen to the radio on my iPhone and they keep playing Purrfect’s new single, ‘Adam and Eve’, which makes me feel nostalgic. It’s like the further away from London I get, the further away I’m getting from this amazing opportunity I gave up. I keep remembering them talking to us from the television set when we were in the limo, and how great it felt to hear my name coming out of Fina’s mouth, like she actually knew and cared about who I was.
Eventually I doze off in my seat. I wake up with a start to find we’re drawing into a station. I think surely we must be there by now, but then I catch sight of a sign and realise it’s only York, which means there’s still half of England to cross yet. I lean back against the seat and drift off again. This time I start to dream. I’m walking down a red carpet towards the studio and I’m dressed in this amazing backless black gown that flows out behind me, like the dress Nicole Kidman wore in that Chanel advert. All around me photographers are taking pictures and fans are screaming my name. I pass them and walk through the entrance. A big security guard stands before me with Tess at his side. They both have their arms folded and are staring at me like I have no right to be here, and that’s when I remember that it’s true, I don’t, because I’ve quit. ‘Please,’ I say, ‘please just give me a second chance!’ Tess looks at the security guard and I know she’s about to tell him to throw me out. I start to beg, telling Tess that I realise I was a fool and I won’t let them down again, but I know it’s hopeless. I’m going to have to turn around and walk back out through those doors and down that carpet, and this time the fans will be jeering and laughing, and the cameras will be taking pictures of my shame. Tears slide down my cheeks. Then, to my astonishment, Tess extends her hand. Ever so softly she strokes my face and as she does she smiles. It’s an amazing smile – warm and genuine. With that smile all the fat and the ugliness falls away from her face. Underneath she’s beautiful. Not in the way a model’s beautiful, but in the way that Mary in one of those stained-glass windows you get in cathedrals is beautiful, like she’s all surrounded by light. Her eyes shine with so much love and kindness I almost start crying again. ‘Of course you can have another chance,’ says Tess g
ently. ‘You always were my favourite, you know.’ She takes my hand and leads me past the security guard and up the stairs. Just then another voice, a loud female computerised monotone, informs us that ‘The next stop will be Edinburgh where this train terminates.’
I open my eyes. Instead of Tess there’s a creepy-looking man in a grey raincoat sitting opposite, staring hard at my legs. I quickly scramble up from my seat and join the others getting off the train.
Still feeling a little woozy from the journey, I follow the tide of people along the platform until we’re through the barriers and inside the station. Here everything is loud and confusing. There seem to be glass partitions in every direction, and people are jostling me right, left and centre as they make their way across the main floor. As I stand there trying to get my bearings and not be swept away, I catch sight of something that makes me gasp. It’s a huge billboard, the size of a whole wall, hanging above a Costa Coffee. In massive curly golden letters is written The Purrfect Search, and next to it is a picture of all the girls in the competition back from when we first entered the house. I remember them taking that photo, how the photographer had us all cluster around and pout at the camera wearing these little sparkly corsets and feather boas that looked like they were from the same wardrobe as the one Mya, Pink, Christina and Lil’ Kim had for their ‘Lady Marmalade’ video. Seven faces stare moodily out of the poster. Anya, Riana, Valerie, Rebecca, Joni, Louise. And me. I’m there too, right at the centre with my hands on my hips, giving it attitude I’ve never really felt in my whole life. My hair is all wavy and exploding out about my face, and the other girls are spread out around me in sexual, decorative stances. I look strong, confident and determined – powerful even. Nothing like how I really look. It’s the most extraordinary picture and it completely stumps me. For a few seconds all I can do is stare at this huge Amazon version of me standing in the centre of this billboard and think to myself: that’s who you were, that’s who you could have been, that’s what you gave up.
But I gave it up for love. Love is the reason why I’m here in this unfamiliar city, and I mustn’t forget. Behind the billboard, almost hidden by some steps, I make out the words Tourist Information and I start to fight my way over.
‘Excuse me, can you help me get to this address?’ I ask the gaunt man behind the glass, and show him the piece of paper I’ve written it down on. He looks at it blankly and then at me like he’s wondering if maybe I’m a runaway. Finally he reaches down and posts a little pamphlet under the glass. There’s a map of Edinburgh on it.
‘It’ll be somewhere in the north,’ he says, his cheeks getting even gaunter as he speaks. ‘You can get the bus to that district from Waverley Bridge. It’ll take you about an hour.’
‘Thank you,’ I say, though he’s already turned away. I hurry across the station to where there’s a sign that says TAXIS. I’m so close to Jack now I can practically feel him breathing, and there’s no way I’m prolonging our separation by messing about with buses.
I get into the first taxi I come to, even though the driver’s this ugly bald guy who gives me a leering look I don’t like when I ask him if he’ll take me north. But it turns out he actually knows the street, and in a Scottish accent that takes me a minute to decipher he promises to have me there in just fifteen minutes – unless I want to stop for a quick drink, that is. I’m a bit freaked out by this but I suppose maybe this is the way they do things up here, so I tell him no thank you as politely as I can and he grunts and starts up the ignition.
Of course I’m far too distracted by thoughts of Jack to appreciate Edinburgh properly, but I can’t help noticing how pretty it is. There’s this huge, beautiful castle on a hill right outside the station, just like the ones you get in fairy tales. I imagine Jack and me walking through it, me wearing a beautiful brocade ball gown and Jack in breeches and a long flowing cloak, a bit like the outfits in the Prada campaign for autumn, holding each other’s hands while white rose petals rain down upon us. The driver notices me looking at it and turns midway through steering round a bend to tell me they used to tie nooses round convicts’ necks and then throw them off the battlements. It’s horrible how someone can just completely annihilate your lovely perception of something, even if they are telling you something cultural. I pretend not to have heard him and start fiddling with my mobile, like I’m typing in a really important text.
There’s some traffic so it takes us much longer than the driver said it would to get to Fenland Avenue. It’s starting to get dark by the time we arrive, which is annoying because I had this really strong image of me walking down the street and Jack coming in the other direction and us seeing each other at exactly the same time, and sunshine pouring down on us as we run open-armed to meet each other.
‘Well, here we are, m’dear,’ says the driver, turning to wink at me. I look at the street we’ve turned into. It’s ugly and shabby, lined with buildings that look like they’re one gasp away from falling down completely. Not at all the sort of place I’d have expected to find Jack. No doubt it’s only temporary though, while he looks for somewhere better to live. And anyway, I think, what does it matter? I don’t care if he and I have to stay in a dump with no hot water and no electricity, with dogs that bark all night and screaming babies in the next room, just so long as we can be together.
It’s absolutely freezing outside. I’m wearing my Fornarina coat, which is my favourite because it’s such a lovely slinky material, only it’s also very thin and I stupidly didn’t think to bring a scarf with me. I quickly pay the driver. It occurs to me that maybe I ought to ask him to stay until I’m inside Jack’s flat, but as soon as I’ve shut the door he drives off, honking his horn as he turns the corner. I take out the piece of paper again, even though I’ve had the address memorised since I got it off that woman’s computer. Number 9, like the love potion in that song. Slowly I walk up the street until I reach a set of crumbling stone steps leading up to a faded brown door that was probably once red, with a nine scratched crudely above the eyehole. This is it. I climb the uneven steps and press the button by the door. There’s a jarring sound of rusted bells.
No answer. I ring again and again, but still nothing. He’s out, probably flat hunting. Shivering, I turn to look up the street. It’s completely deserted, eerily illuminated by pools of yellow light from the street lamps. I slip my earphones in and press play, then huddle myself up into a ball against the door to wait for the love of my life. Weirdly, I actually feel good about doing this, even though I’m probably risking pneumonia and frostbite. But it’s like a trial I have to go through, the final one before Jack and I can be reunited. If I can just do this, then everything will work out. I’ll wait here for days if I have to.
After a few minutes all the exposed skin of my face and neck starts to go numb. It’s a horrible feeling when that happens, because it’s like you’ve lost control of your own body. My face could actually be coming off and I wouldn’t know it. I try to shift around and bury my cheeks in the folds of the large Fornarina collar, but that just means exposing more of my neck. I screw my eyes shut and attempt to lose myself in Monique’s beautiful lead vocals to ‘Kiss Me Before The End Of The Night’ while the other girls Ooh and Ahh soulfully in the background.
I’m shaken awake by a tall figure standing over me. I’m so cold I can hardly think, and it takes me a while to remember where I am and why I can’t feel any sensation in my arms and legs.
‘Ella?’ a voice I recognise is saying with alarm.
Jack is looking down at me, his cheeks red and puffy from the cold, his jaw slightly slack in this adorable expression of complete bewilderment. He looks like an astonished little boy. I try to get up but my entire body is so devoid of feeling I simply tilt forward, almost tumbling head first down the steps. Jack catches me by the shoulders and pulls me up. I stand unsteadily, leaning against the door for support.
‘Ella . . . what are you doing here?’
I try to smile, but even my lips are frozen sol
id. I concentrate, channelling all my joy at seeing him into my eyes. Jack stares back at me, as if he’s unable to comprehend what he’s seeing. I know he must be wrestling with the mixed feelings in his heart, but I also know that buried somewhere amongst them he must also be deeply glad to see me.
‘Jack, who is she?’ whines a nasal voice. At the bottom of the steps there’s a tall thin woman wearing that amazing long black coat with the tassels on the sleeves that Giselle was photographed in during Paris Fashion Week. She’s in her forties at least, with blonde hair and highlights quite a lot like Rita’s, only shorter and sleeker. She’s also caked in bronze make-up, like she’s just dived into a swimming pool of foundation. The streetlight doesn’t do her any favours and even from here I can see that it’s practically standing out an inch off her face. Out the corner of her mouth dangles a long white cigarette, which she drags away on without having to remove it, puffing out great tufts of toxic cloud.
‘Nobody,’ replies Jack over his shoulder. ‘Just a girl I know.’
He’s obviously ashamed of being with her, and I would be too. Rita’s words come back to me, about how he would be with some rich woman, spending all her money. It doesn’t matter to me though, and I try to convey this to him through my eyes. That all that matters is I’ve found him and we can be together.
‘Well, what does she want?’ moans the bronze woman. ‘I thought we were going to spend the evening just you and me. She’s not going to be hanging around, is she?’
‘Ella,’ whispers Jack. ‘You can’t be here. Not now. You have to go.’
He doesn’t mean it, I can tell. He’s just saying it because he thinks he has to. He’s obviously made some silly promise to this woman and feels like he has to keep it. A touch of feeling comes back into my lips and I force them into a smile. I wish I had the strength to kiss him. That’d get the message across loud and clear to that old prune down there.