by Elton, Ben
‘Babes?’ he enquired. ‘What’s up?’
Chelsie asked a runner to take the auditionees discreetly aside before explaining herself.
‘Trent is happy with Vicky’s hair and make-up.’
Trent tried to take command.
‘Look, I didn’t say—’
Calvin cut him short.
‘What’s your point, babes?’
‘Yes, babes . . .’ said Make-up rather aggressively. ‘What’s your point?’
‘My point is, look at her,’ said Chelsie. ‘She’s been fully made up, slap, powder, they’ve done her hair, covered her pimples, for God’s sake.’
‘Well, yes, she’s a featured story, isn’t she?’ said Make-up.
‘Yes, she’s a featured story but have you read your character notes?’ Chelsie snapped. ‘You’ve made her up as a Blinger and she’s a Minger.’
‘No, Chelsie,’ Make-up protested. ‘She’s a Blinger.’
‘Look at your notes! What is the point of me and the continuity team writing them if nobody ever reads them? She’s a Blinger personality but physically and talent-wise she’s a Minger. That’s the point of the story. She’s a classic Ming Bling! She thinks she’s great and she’s just about to find out that she’s not. That’s why we’ve set her up! So that Rodney can brutalize her and Beryl can go all mumsy and defensive. But for Beryl’s mumsiness to work, the girl’s got to look pathetic. Deluded, naïve, totally out of her depth, and here’s you lot trying to make her look like Rita Hayworth.’
‘We just—’
‘Surely the crapper she looks, the sillier and sadder her pretensions become. We need her acne! It’s her best feature!’
Keely asked if she could be excused from the conversation at this point.
‘Sorry, I just can’t hear this. I’ve been to drama school,’ she explained, ‘and as an artist I feel strongly that I have to believe in my performance. Honesty is the first rule of acting, I think Olivier said that, or Pacino, and if I’m to convincingly interview Vicky as Bling I simply cannot be a part of a conversation in which the entire production team condemn her as Ming.’
Keely then stood apart while Chelsie referred everybody to the character notes.
‘We’ve got our key quote down here, that this girl thinks she could be a better mover than Britney and a better singer than Céline. Surely this has got to be a no make-up, greasy hair and spots job?’
Calvin looked over Chelsie’s shoulder at Vicky. Then he looked at his watch: seconds were, as always, ticking away. On the other hand, if they were going to do it they had to do it properly.
‘Chelsie’s right,’ he said, turning to Make-up. ‘No slap, greasy hair, and if there’s time accentuate the acne.’
With that, Calvin returned to the audition room leaving Chelsie a very unpopular victor.
‘You didn’t have to go running to Calvin,’ said Trent.
‘I asked you what you thought,’ Chelsie replied. ‘You said you were happy with her.’
Hair and Make-up removed their previous efforts from Vicky’s face and hair. ‘You’re so young, dear,’ they assured her and her mother. ‘You don’t need make-up. Calvin wants to accentuate your youth and freshness. Might as well, eh? It doesn’t last for ever, does it?’
Then it was time for Keely to record her ‘before’ interview.
‘Bet you’re really nervous, aren’t you?’ said Keely once the cameras were rolling.
‘Well . . .’ the mother answered. ‘She would be nervous but she’s worked so hard and everyone she knows thinks she’s a real talent. She really believes she’s ready for this.’
Keely glanced down at her notes.
‘Are you going to be a star, Vicky?’ she asked.
‘Yes,’ said Vicky, ‘I’m going to be a star.’
‘It’s her dream,’ her mother added.
‘Then you go, girl!’ said Keely, giving Vicky a hug.
Vicky then made her way through the hessian-backed door which separated Conference Room B in the Bullring Complex from Conference Room A, its adjoining, slightly larger twin.
After Vicky had left, Trent directed Keely and Vicky’s mum to ‘listen’ at the door as if they could hear what was going on within, which in fact of course they couldn’t.
Inside the Cumbrian Room the auditions had finally begun.
‘Hello, hello,’ Beryl shouted out as Vicky emerged and presented herself. ‘Who are you then?’
‘I’m Vicky.’
‘Vicky!’ Beryl gushed as if the name alone was evidence of something special. ‘Vicky, Vicky, Vicky, you’re so young! You’re a baby!’
‘I’m sixteen, Beryl.’
‘Oooooooh,’ croaked Beryl, contorting her stiffly Botoxed features into a drippingly mumsy expression as if she’d just been presented with her own newborn infant. ‘Sweet sixteen! My little girls are only seventeen. God, I miss them. As a mum I really miss them. You could be their kid sister. You’re a baby! God, I miss my kids.’
Sitting next to Beryl, Calvin smiled. For all that he loathed her, he could not deny that she was quite brilliant at her job. A real find, in a class of her own. Beryl was a star independent of him, booking her had been a stroke of genius and it was worth putting up with her for that.
Rodney was fidgeting. Only twenty seconds into recording and it was obvious that Rodney was already worrying that Beryl was hogging the limelight.
‘Yes, Vicky’s very young,’ he said, trying to make his presence felt. ‘But can she sing?’
‘Of course you can sing, can’t you, Vicky?’ Beryl cooed. ‘Just you ignore him.’
‘I will ignore him, Beryl, because I can sing and I’m going to prove it to you.’
‘You go, girl. Just you go. Own that song.’
If ever there was a cue for a song this was it, and by rights Vicky should have sung at this point. There were after all a hundred more people in the holding area and once the show was edited it would appear that there was a crowd of at least a thousand outside. The judges had already spent an entirely disproportionate amount of time on this one unimpressive-looking girl who could no more be a pop star than a heavyweight boxer. If this had been a genuine audition the judges could not possibly have spent more than a moment with Vicky. But this was not a genuine audition, this was entertainment, and most of the people waiting outside in the holding area were merely fillers. Vicky was a story and the groundwork had to be laid.
‘So who do you admire, Vicky?’ Calvin asked, paying out the rope with which Vicky was expected to hang herself.
‘I really like Britney and Céline Dion,’ Vicky replied.
‘Good choices,’ Rodney said, nodding wisely as if this represented encouraging evidence of Vicky’s critical and intellectual faculties. ‘Great artists, both of them. Those are very good choices for role modelling.’
‘Do you think you could ever be like them?’ Calvin enquired, paying out a little more rope.
‘I think I could be bigger than them, Calvin.’
Chelsie had prepared the girl well. Vainly self-deluded though she was, she would never have been quite so aggressively arrogant in front of three famous people had Chelsie not assured her that this was what the judges loved to hear. ‘They really respect confidence,’ Chelsie had said, ‘so totally big yourself up.’
Having heard her big herself up, Calvin pulled an expression which indicated that he was surprised and by no means convinced that Vicky would be bigger than Britney and Céline, but that he would reserve judgement until Vicky had had the chance to show what she could do.
‘All right, Vicky, what are you going to sing for us?’
‘I’m going to sing “Hit Me Baby One More Time” by Britney Spears.’
‘Good choice,’ said Rodney, nodding wisely. ‘That is a great choice of song. Clever choice.’
‘You go, girl!’ Beryl said.
It was of course appalling, as the research notes had promised it would be. Utterly excruciating, both flat and sharp, loud
and quiet (during the sexy croaky ‘oh baby baby’ bit which Calvin instantly noted down for inclusion in the DVD) and devoid of any entertainment value whatsoever beyond that of the freak show. Yet despite the fact that it was a car crash from the first note Calvin let Vicky sing her entire number. Despite the fact that there were numerous better singers waiting in the holding area, despite the fact that most of the original applicants were better singers, Vicky was allowed to sing the whole of ‘Hit Me Baby One More Time’ and occupy a full fifteen minutes of the judges’ time during their single day in Birmingham. Vicky might not have been much of a singer but she was very good telly.
As the girl sang, each judge, aware that they were being covered by a solo camera from behind Vicky, ran through their ‘amusing’ faces. Calvin did his wideeyed ‘I can’t quite believe this’ look and Rodney did his smug smirk. Beryl’s was best of all and she didn’t even have to try. She was famous for her dead-eyed stare of blank shock and incomprehension, a brilliant mix of both witty and tender which was in fact merely the result of the drastically reduced mobility left in her features after the brutal regime of Botox and surgery that she had put them through.
When the song was finally over Vicky stood nervously awaiting judgement, still unaware of what had been planned for her.
‘Vicky?’ said Calvin finally. ‘That was . . .’ He paused for what seemed an age while the girl stood trembling with anticipation. ‘Awful.’
Vicky didn’t quite seem to understand.
‘Wh . . . wh . . . what do you mean?’
‘What do I mean? What do I mean?’ Calvin asked. ‘I mean it was terrible, pathetic, just awful, hopeless.’
The girl was clearly stunned, as well she might have been. Nothing had remotely prepared her for so negative a reaction, let alone such a brutal one.
‘Hit me, baby?’ said Rodney, using a line he had been working on throughout Vicky’s entire performance. ‘I wanted to hit you. The only good thing I can think of to say about it is that it took my mind off my haemorrhoids.’
Beryl slammed the table.
‘Hey, Rodney, that is out of order. She’s sixteen!’
‘I don’t care if she’s six hundred, she’ll never be able to sing. The girl’s a joke, don’t give her false hope. She needs to go and work in a shop.’
Calvin was quietly impressed. He had worked so hard on Rodney’s cuddly side on the previous series that he had not quite realized the man’s talent for spite. Perhaps he should get some meaner storylines.
‘Hey!’ Beryl snapped. ‘That’s enough, mister! Yes, it was a little . . . inadequate, but she’s sixteen!’
‘And she’s talentless.’
‘Don’t you listen to them, Vicky!’ said Beryl, finally including the traumatized girl in the conversation. ‘You have a dream, that’s a good thing.’
Vicky could only stare, clearly still trying to understand what was happening to her, trying not to cry.
‘If Vicky’s dreaming then she needs to wake up,’ said Rodney with a grin. ‘Because her dream is our nightmare.’
Again Calvin was surprised at Rodney’s natural talent.
‘That’s enough!’ shouted Beryl, also playing her part beautifully. ‘She’s sixteen. You are out of order, Rodney. Totally out of order! I did not sign up for this. This is not what I do. You’ve crossed the line, Rodney. Don’t you listen to him, girl.’
‘Right,’ said Calvin, suddenly going all decisive and professional. ‘What’s the verdict? Rodney?’
‘Are you joking? No. No. No. Sixteen noes. One for each year that this girl has not been able to sing.’
‘Beryl?’
Beryl gulped, paused and gulped again. She allowed her lips to tighten. She stared long and hard at Vicky, forcing her eyelids wide open so that a film of water began to appear on her eyes. She looked down, she looked up again. She played with her pencil. There was a universe of sadness and regret written across her face. Meanwhile Vicky stood and quivered.
‘Oh God . . .’ said Beryl. ‘I can’t do this.’
Calvin turned to the traumatized girl.
‘Vicky?’ he said gently, seductively. ‘Tell Beryl how much you want it, how hard you’ve worked, how good you really are. It’s your last chance, appeal to her.’
‘Please, Beryl,’ Vicky responded. ‘Please. I want this so much. I’ve worked so hard. I’m good, I know I’m good. Please. I’m begging you.’
‘Oh, don’t do this to me, Vicky,’ Beryl pleaded back, apparently on the verge of tears.
‘I need an answer, Beryl,’ Calvin prompted.
‘It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s . . .’
There was a ridiculously long lip-quivering pause.
‘It’s a no, Vicky. For the talent it’s a no. But not for the dream! It’s a big, big, big yes, yes, yes for the dream. But it’s a no to the talent. I’m so, so sorry, babe. You don’t deserve this. You’re sixteen.’
‘And it’s a no from me,’ said Calvin brutally. ‘Goodbye.’
Vicky began to cry. Beryl jumped up, went round the table and, grabbing Vicky, gave her a hug.
‘You know what, babes?’ she whispered, gently escorting her from the room as if to save her from further humiliation. ‘You don’t need this, you don’t have to take this. You enjoy your dream, girl. You own it. You own that dream.’
As Beryl reached the doorway she turned and glared at Calvin and Rodney, the mother hen with every feather fluffed out as she protected a defenceless chick.
‘She’s sixteen!’
Outside the audition area, Keely was waiting with Vicky’s mum and a camera crew.
‘How did it go? How did it go?’ Keely asked anxiously, almost convincing even herself that she didn’t know.
The look on Beryl’s face said it all.
‘Look after her, she’s been hurt,’ Beryl said before leaving Keely to play the second act of the drama with the girl and her mum.
‘Babes,’ said Keely, ‘What happened?’
‘They laughed at me!’ Vicky choked, a camera barely two inches from her face. ‘They said I was a joke, that I should work in a shop.’
The mum was genuinely stunned. She had always tried to be aware of the possibility of rejection but that her daughter could be so brutally humiliated and dismissed had not even occurred to her.
‘Come here, babes,’ said Keely, hugging Vicky. ‘Don’t you worry about what they said. Don’t think about it. Forget it. What did they say?’
‘Rodney said I was like haemorrhoids, that if I lived to be six hundred I wouldn’t be able to sing.’
‘He didn’t! What a horrible man! Well, never mind, babes. It’s over now.’
But Chelsie, hovering nearby and waiting to whisk both Vicky and her mum off to the Bite Back Box for a further dose of knife-twisting, knew that it was far from over. The scenes currently being filmed would be played over and over again for months to come. In trailers, in the show, in the repeats, on the support channels and finally on the spin-off DVDs. Every single person Vicky and her mum knew would witness their humiliation time and time again. Their laughable delusions would eventually come to be known verbatim by everyone at Vicky’s stage school, everyone at Vicky’s mum’s work.
Beryl had been right. Vicky needed to enjoy her dream. She was going to pay a high price for it.
While Chelsie took Vicky to the Bite Back Box, back in the auditions room Trent and a crew were recording Beryl’s return.
‘And . . . Action!’ he shouted.
Beryl stormed back into the room, her face like thunder.
‘She was sixteen, Rodney!’
‘She’s old enough to know better.’
‘You bullied her! You demeaned her! I didn’t buy into this. I did not sign up for this! We’re dealing with a kid’s dreams here!’
‘Yes, and like I said, our nightmare.’
It was hardly a convincing row, pretty wooden in fact, but cut up and with music it would just about serve.
‘Try and be a bit
more angry, Beryl,’ Calvin directed. ‘Tell him to apologize.’
‘I think you should go and apologize to her and her mother,’ Beryl duly shouted. ‘Give her a hug and tell her you’re sorry.’
‘I have nothing to apologize for. You’re being ridiculous,’ Rodney replied.
‘Be tougher, Rodney,’ Calvin interjected. ‘Say it again but say she’s being pathetic and stupid.’
‘OK . . .’ Rodney collected himself. ‘Can you give me the cue again, Beryl?’
‘Fuck off! What do you think this is, Hamlet? My line was perfect, just fucking do yours.’
‘It helps me get into it if I have a cue.’
‘And do I care?’
‘Oh, go on, Beryl,’ Calvin snapped. ‘Just give him the fucking cue!’
With ill-disguised resentment Beryl repeated her line. ‘Apologize! Give her a hug and tell her you’re sorry.’
‘I have nothing to apologize for,’ Rodney shouted, rather unconvincingly. ‘You’re being pathetic and stupid.’
‘Right,’ said Beryl, jumping up, ‘have some of your own medicine!’
She grabbed her glass.
‘Cut!’ shouted Trent. ‘Don’t throw it! Don’t throw the water!’
Beryl put the glass down.
‘Lots to do this morning,’ Trent said. ‘Can’t have Rodney wet yet. We’ll pick up the coffee-throwing as we go into the first break. Right. More Mingers.’
Three More Mingers
Outside, Chelsie had returned from the Bite Back Box where she’d had mixed fortunes with Vicky and her mum. Vicky, too upset and confused to speak, had given nothing more but with only minimum prompting her mum had produced one classic bite.
‘Just you wait, Calvin Simms,’ she spat at the camera. ‘My Vicky will be a star and then you’re going to have to eat it!’
That was good enough for Chelsie. There was a long morning ahead and so, with only the most perfunctory farewell, she left mother and daughter to slink off to contemplate the ruination of their dreams while she returned to the holding area. There, while Keely had her make-up retouched (Vicky’s tears had streaked it slightly), Chelsie began to tee up the first Minger quickie of the morning.