Chart Throb

by Elton, Ben

  ‘What did you think, Rodney?’ Calvin replied firmly.

  Rodney’s face grew resigned. It seemed he knew his duty and he would do it, excruciatingly embarrassing though it might be.

  ‘I . . . I . . . just don’t think you’ve grown since last year, Iona.’ Sweat was breaking out on his forehead. ‘You know that I loved you and your band last year and I went to a lot of trouble to say so, but I have to be honest here. I just don’t think you’ve grown.’

  ‘Really, Rodney?’ Iona replied, remaining calm but with her eyes flashing furiously. ‘That’s so strange considering how much “nurturing” I received from you after the last series ended. As I recall, for a while there you were most appreciative of what I had to offer.’

  Calvin grinned broadly, not bothering to conceal his enjoyment of Rodney’s predicament.

  ‘I am simply taking a professional view here, Iona,’ Rodney blustered. ‘I like you, you know that, and I did my very best to encourage you after you were eliminated last year . . .’

  ‘“Encourage”, Rodney? Is that what it’s called? Actually, as I recall, it was you who needed the encouragement, particularly when you’d had a few drinks and couldn’t rise to the occasion, so to speak.’

  Rodney’s jaw dropped, Beryl shrieked with cruel laughter and Calvin decided that for the time being enough was enough.

  ‘So,’ he said, ‘it’s a yes from me. Beryl?’

  ‘Oh definitely. A yes from me.’

  ‘And Rodney?’

  Rodney squirmed as he had never squirmed before, withering under the fierce, steady gaze of the woman he had used and was now expected to betray.

  ‘Please, Calvin,’ he whimpered, ‘she’s through anyway on your two votes.’

  ‘Rodney, the people want to know what your opinion is. I need an answer and I think you know what it is.’

  Rodney had no choice. Calvin was the boss. Getting the job on Chart Throb had changed Rodney’s life completely, transformed him from a middle-ranking nobody into a major television personality, the sort of person who received regular invitations to corporate golfing trips. He could not give that up. He simply couldn’t. Besides, how much more could she embarrass him than she had already done?

  ‘I’m sorry, Iona. I just don’t think you can cut it alone.’

  Iona stood still for a moment, staring hard at Rodney.

  ‘Well now,’ she said, ‘in that case I shall just have to try harder to find a way of making an impression on you. Shan’t I, Rodney?’

  All Back to My Place: Graham and Millicent

  Calvin finally ended Millicent’s agony during the last round before the finals. In the part of the show called All Back to My Place, each judge supposedly took a group of semi-finalists into their own home for a period of intense training and ‘nurturing’. The reality was that the time the contestants spent in the judges’ homes was exactly as long as it took for them to perform their song and be informed whether they had made it through to the finals or not.

  In fairness it had originally been thought that some genuine nurturing might take place at this stage of the competition but as the reality of having to actually interact with twelve desperate star-struck strangers in their own homes sank in, the judges had all quickly downsized the level of commitment that they were prepared to make to the show.

  ‘Do you really think,’ Beryl gasped, speaking for all three of them (including Calvin, whose idea it had been), ‘that I’m going to have a dozen desperate fucking nobodies who’ve crawled out from under some little English stone traipsing round my beautiful home and using my toilets? These are the sort of people I’ve worked all my life to leave behind! The people I have gated security to keep a-fucking-way! These are the people who ask for fucking autographs while I’m trying to sneak in to see my surgeon. I hate these fucking people. I’ll greet them at the front door but they’re not to come in. You can take them round the back and they can perform down by the pool. If they need the toilet they can use the one the gardeners use. They are absolutely not to set foot in the house, do you hear me?’

  The home that Beryl’s group were to be allowed to knock on the front door of was at least her mansion in Los Angeles. Calvin was not prepared even to go as far as Beryl; he did not volunteer the use of any of the homes he actually lived in. The ‘place’ where his ‘nurture group’ were to be permitted to gasp briefly in envious awe was a holiday spread in Morocco that he’d bought as an investment. As in Beryl’s case, nobody was to be allowed in the house.

  ‘They can perform on the patio,’ Calvin said, ‘and change in the gym.’

  ‘Can they have a quick dip in the pool?’ Trent enquired, desperate to gain some usable footage to maintain the fiction that the judges were extending some sort of hospitality. ‘Beryl won’t allow that.’

  ‘All right but make sure they shower first. Make fucking sure they’ve turned in their cameras and mobiles before they get within a mile of the gate.’

  Rodney was happy to have his group inside his home but this did not solve Trent’s problem because, rather embarrassingly, Rodney’s home was an unremarkable flat in Battersea. Keely always did her best to big it up in the voiceovers.

  ‘And the group that Rodney is to nurture,’ she shouted ecstatically, ‘are to be whisked off to his luxury penthouse apartment overlooking the romantic River Thames in Good Old London Town.’

  But no matter how she put it, Rodney’s home simply wasn’t a Hollywood mansion, nor was it a huge holiday spread in Morocco. It was still a flat in Battersea.

  The shooting for this part of the contest was always the most complex for the production team because of the travel and accommodation arrangements. The selected contestants had to be transported to one of the three nurturing locations, accommodated in the cheapest nearby motel, shot in various travelogue-style set-ups to prove that they really were there (‘I can’t believe it, I’m on Sunset Boulevard and I’m from Leeds’), and filmed wandering round the luxury grounds of Calvin’s and Beryl’s places, though not Rodney’s (‘I’ve always believed in my dream but seeing all this just makes me want to dream it even more’).

  Then there were the ‘auditions’ themselves, which meant shooting twelve different numbers in each of three separate and problematic locations in which technicians had to remove their shoes and sign gagging orders before being allowed to look for a power socket. Then everybody had to be got home again. The return journeys were further complicated by the necessity to film the failed contestants staring tearfully out of the aeroplane window, contemplating how they were going to inform their poverty-stricken families back home that the long-dreamed-of fame and fortune were not about to materialize.

  The long tease that Calvin had perpetrated upon Graham and Millicent finally ended beside Calvin’s swimming pool. They had just sung ‘Don’t Go Breaking My Heart’, the old Elton John and Kiki Dee hit. As before, Millicent had effectively held the tune and Graham had resorted to gravel-voiced rock posturing to cover his shortcomings. As before, Calvin turned black to white without a scintilla of shame.

  ‘Millicent,’ he said, ‘the way you sang that song broke my heart, dear.’

  He let that hang for a lengthy moment as once more Millicent’s jaw fell open, revealing her fat, pale, familiar tongue.

  ‘I’m afraid the game’s up. Graham can’t carry you any longer, I can’t carry you any longer. I have given you every chance to work and to learn and to grow—’

  ‘I have worked,’ Millicent blurted, for once finding a voice.

  ‘But you haven’t learned and you haven’t grown.’

  ‘People say I’m good!’

  ‘What people, Millicent? People who produce records? People who make pop shows? I don’t think so, dear. The truth is that you are appalling and you had absolutely no business getting as far as you have done on a serious musical talent show such as this one. We all know why you’re here. You’re here because of your partnership with the saintly and endlessly patient Graham. We wante
d to keep him so we kept you but we can’t do that any more, Millicent. Like I say, this is a serious talent show. I am very serious about the music. The music is all that matters. I don’t care about characters, about personalities or anybody’s false hopes and dreams. I am interested in the singing, nothing more, nothing less, and you can’t sing, dear. Sorry, but them’s the facts. And because of you I’m sending you both home. Graham, Millicent. Goodbye.’

  Millicent took Graham’s hand and together they walked away to conduct their tear-drenched post-rejection interview.

  Meanwhile Calvin instructed Trent to film him wandering up and down beside the pool looking torn and confused.

  ‘Torn and confused, boss?’ Trent repeated.

  ‘Yes. Stick the camera on the other side of the pool, clear everybody out of the shot and get a nice big wide shot of me alone, torn, confused and with the weight of pop’s future upon my shoulders.’

  ‘On it, boss,’ Trent said. ‘It’s all good.’

  The camera was set and Calvin (who had ruffled his hair into a mop of anguished concentration) wandered about in the shot looking splendid and alone. He threw his arms skywards as if appealing to God for guidance, he sat on a sunlounger with his head in his hands as if deep in tortured concentration. He took up his phone and, without bothering to call a number, playacted a torn and troubled consultation with a mythical adviser.

  ‘I just don’t know,’ he said into the dead receiver. ‘I can’t let the guy go, he’s too good! But we can’t give her any more chances. The chick just can’t cut it . . . She’s taken the rope and she’s hung herself . . . I guess I don’t have any choice.’

  Calvin put away his phone and called ‘Cut!’ Then he instructed Chelsie to bring back Graham without Millicent.

  ‘Take a crew,’ he added. ‘Make sure you cover the moment when you tell them that I want to see Graham alone.’

  ‘I’ll take two,’ Chelsie volunteered with enthusiasm. ‘Leave one covering Millicent while she waits.’

  ‘Good girl.’

  And so the pantomime was created. Graham and Millicent had been sitting quietly together on the coach that was to take all the contestants back to the airport at the conclusion of the final ‘audition’. There had been much wailing and keening on the coach as the louder personalities who had been rejected lamented their lot. There was cheering too and singing, high fives and punching of the air from the ones who had got through. Only Graham and Millicent were silent. Sitting together, holding hands, they concentrated only on each other.

  ‘I’m happy really,’ Graham had said, finally breaking the silence. ‘I don’t think I could have handled another round of them treating you that way.’

  ‘God, they’ve been shitty,’ Millicent agreed.

  ‘Yes, but it’s obvious why, isn’t it? The drama of it all. I’m not stupid, Milly, I study music, I know which one of us is the better singer. The only singer, in fact, and it’s you. We both know that. I’m an instrumentalist.’

  ‘Do you really think that though?’ Millicent pleaded. ‘I mean I always did think I could sing but honestly they’ve made me lose faith in myself. He is Calvin Simms after all.’

  ‘Come on, Milly. You know I can’t sing.’

  ‘But you are a real musical talent. Maybe they’ve spotted that. Maybe that’s what they’re going on about.’

  ‘Well, we’ll never know now, will we? Because it’s over and I’m glad because what I really wanted to say to you, Milly, and I’ve been waiting till we got chucked out before I said it, was—’

  At that point Chelsie burst on to the bus with her camera teams.

  ‘Graham,’ she said, ‘Calvin wants to see you . . . alone.’

  Graham gripped Millicent’s hand. It was obvious what this summons might mean, the only thing it could mean.

  ‘Why?’ Graham asked. ‘He’s chucked us out. It’s over, isn’t it?’

  ‘He wants to see you.’

  Millicent squeezed Graham’s hand in return.

  ‘You go,’ she said. ‘See what he wants.’

  And so Graham was taken from the bus and brought once more before Calvin.

  ‘Mate,’ Calvin said, ‘here’s how it is. Your journey should not end here. This is where it should be beginning.’

  ‘How do you mean? I thought it had ended.’

  ‘I can change the rules at any time, Graham, and I’m prepared to do that now. I’ll let you through to the finals but only if you go it alone. You have to drop Millicent.’

  ‘But she’s a much better singer than me,’ Graham protested. ‘You may not know it but it’s obvious to me.’

  ‘Maybe she is a better singer, Graham, but that doesn’t make her a great singer and it doesn’t make her a Chart Throb. You, on the other hand, are a real musical talent. You write songs, I hear you are a fine instrumentalist. In the finals you’ll be able to play. You can’t pass up this opportunity.’

  As Graham wrestled with his conscience the cameras crept in ever closer, feeding on his anguish.

  ‘She said that if you ever tried to split us up she wouldn’t do it. That she would never leave me.’

  ‘Why would she want to leave you, Graham? You’re the talent.’

  Graham clearly did not know what to say.

  ‘I’ve been watching you two, you know,’ Calvin said.

  ‘You’re pretty fond of each other, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, yes, we are.’

  ‘Then I guess she knows how talented you are, mate. And what a crime it would be if that great talent was never tested before the public. Do you really think she would want to stand in your way?’

  Of course in the end Graham agreed to continue in the competition alone and he was sent back to the bus, along with Chelsie and a camera team, to explain the news to Millicent.

  Calvin chose the opportunity of a brief pause in the proceedings to call Emma and bring her up to speed.

  ‘How are you going to get round the fact that Millicent was actually the one who could sing?’ she enquired.

  ‘Plenty of dancers and very heavy backing tapes like we always do. But I don’t think he’ll be in the finals long. He doesn’t really have a story now that we’ve got rid of Millicent. I mean, like you say, if he could sing it would be different.’

  All Back to My Place: HRH

  Sitting right at the back of the queue of auditionees due to face Calvin in Morocco were His Royal Highness and Bree, the young battered wife whom Chelsie had discovered in the women’s refuge.

  Calvin had kept Bree at a very low profile until this point, nodding her through as an In and Out in the early stages, but now the moment had come for her to play her part.

  His Royal Highness had been forced to arrive late at Calvin’s holiday home because of an invitation to take tea with the Moroccan royal family.

  ‘I’m afraid I simply can’t be on Moroccan soil without paying my respects,’ he had explained to the anguished production secretary, who had been forced to change his call time. ‘It’s not just a matter of etiquette, it’s also simply good manners. Which I do think are important. Don’t you?’

  When the Prince did arrive, Calvin had him placed at the end of the queue beside Bree. Calvin knew very well that when thrust into anybody’s company the Prince’s instincts would lead him to enquire who and how they were. A lifetime of brief encounters with complete strangers would ensure that His Royal Highness would not simply ignore the woman he was sitting next to.

  ‘How do you do,’ he began. ‘Are you well? Isn’t it fearfully hot? I have an umbrella in my case – would you like to borrow it to ward off the sun?’

  Bree declined the offer, saying that she was very happy to soak up as much sun as she could get, there not being a lot of it in Birmingham.

  ‘Yes, I suppose you’re right,’ the Prince agreed. ‘But really, please do be careful. You know, the carcinogenic properties of sunlight have only recently been fully revealed. Particularly with this awful business of ozone depletion, wh
ich I for one have been banging on about for years. Won’t you at least take a squirt of my Factor 30 for the tip of your nose? My wife insists I positively slap it on.’

  Bree accepted a small blob of sunscreen from the royal tube and dabbed it on her nose.

  ‘You don’t half look like the Prince of Wales,’ she said. ‘I suppose everybody says that to you.’

  ‘Well, they have done quite a lot around here,’ the Prince conceded. ‘Normally it rather goes without saying, but here of course everybody seems to think I’m a lookalike. Ironic really because I can tell you there have been many occasions over the last few years when I’ve wished I was a lookalike.’

  Bree smiled sympathetically, clearly thinking the old boy slightly mad.

  ‘I think he’s all right as it happens,’ she said.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The Prince of Wales,’ Bree said. ‘I once went on an outward bound thing done by his Trust.’

  ‘Goodness. How splendid!’ the Prince said, brightening enormously. ‘Did you enjoy it? I do hope so, it’s really made a difference to so many young people’s lives. That’s something I’m enormously proud of, you know.’

  ‘It was great. We had a real laugh. I’d never been in the country before.’

  ‘And did you learn something, do you think? Independence? Self-reliance? I do think those qualities are so important.’

  ‘Well,’ Bree replied, ‘perhaps I might have done but in the end I don’t suppose I can have, really.’

  ‘Goodness. Why is that?’ the Prince enquired.

  With little further prompting Bree told her tale. It was a long afternoon and there were no other distractions. She told how she had fallen into an abusive relationship, how her violent partner had beaten her and how time and again she had taken him back in the classic cycle of abuse.

  ‘You know the old phrase,’ she said. ‘If he hits you once, shame on him, if you let him hit you twice, shame on you. Easy to say, of course.’

  The Prince had listened sympathetically, murmuring expressions of concern which Bree seemed to appreciate, and all of which the cameras were recording at a discreet distance.