by Elton, Ben
‘I’ll bet they have. Well, Rodney always wanted more press coverage, now he’s got it and I hope he’s satisfied.’
‘They’re all saying Calvin’s going to have to drop him from the judging panel.’
‘Speak up, will you. You’re all muffled.’
‘That’s because the top of your head is bandaged. I said Calvin’s going to drop Rodney from the show.’
‘Hallelujah! Can you imagine what it’s like having to sit next to that little shit? When can I get these bandages off?’
‘He said we could take them off any time after eleven. It’s ten thirty now.’
‘And more to the point, where the fuck am I?’
‘Home.’
‘LA?’
‘No, dickbrain. The London house. It’s the morning after you finished Chart Throb. Don’t you remember? You checked into the clinic straight after the show and they did it at six this morning. Then I collected you and brought you here. This is all your idea, Mom, trying to squeeze in a quick bit of cosmo before we start the new season.’
‘All right, all right. I remember, and don’t call your mother a dickbrain.’
‘Well, don’t talk like one and you’re not my mom.’
‘I am your mum, Priscilla, and I’ll talk however I like since I have just emerged from an anaesthetic.’
‘How do you feel, by the way?’
‘Pretty woozy . . . my arms and legs are numb.’
‘Yeah, he said you’d feel that. You have to rest.’
‘Fine by me. I’m fucking knackered. I’ve just finished ten weeks of paying for our lifestyle, young lady. Jesus, it gets harder each year.’
‘Great show though. Last night was awesome. Except I got stuck with that weird chick for a while.’
‘What weird chick?’
‘You know, the weird chick that got chucked off at Pop School.’
‘Darling, they’re all weird. How do you expect me to remember them?’
‘You were really nice to her, you told her to learn and grow.’
‘I’m nice to all of them, Priscilla, it’s my thing. I’m a mum.’
‘The one with the tear. You know, they trailed her for weeks.’
‘Oh, her. Shaiana. Fucking lunatic.’
‘You got that right. She was scary.’
‘When?’
‘Last night. I just told you.’
‘She was there?’
‘Yes! Aren’t you listening? She came right up to me and started talking.’
‘She shouldn’t have been there.’
‘Well, she was and she sure is mad at you guys. Particularly Calvin.’
‘God, I hate it when they get angry and righteous. Who the fuck do they think they are? Like the world owes them a living. Fuck them. So they have a fucking dream. Everybody has a dream. What makes them so special?’
‘You told her she could sing.’
‘Yes and then we told her she couldn’t. Haven’t they watched the show? That’s what we do.’
‘And could she sing? I thought she could sing.’
‘And what the fuck would you know, Priscilla? Of course she couldn’t fucking sing.’
Emma opened her eyes slowly. For a moment she wondered where she was. But only for a moment, then with an overwhelming sense of happiness she realized that she was in Calvin’s bed and that they had made love all night.
She was alone but she could hear the shower running. She was glad actually to have just this moment to collect herself, to stretch out and luxuriate in the wonderfulness of being her. To squirm and yawn and lose herself within the biggest bed and beneath the biggest, softest duvet she had ever experienced.
It had all worked out so well. He loved her, he had said he loved her and he had proved it with his lovemaking. He had fought to win her trust and he had won. She was his and she wanted nothing more than to remain his for ever.
Then the telephone rang.
Inside the shower Calvin did not hear it ring. He was lost in the cascading water and the guilty turmoil of his thoughts. He no longer loved her. The boil had been lanced and he no longer loved her. He could not believe how quickly his heart had turned. He had loved her utterly the evening before, as he took her home and then to bed. He had continued to love her utterly for at least half the night and had truly believed in all those hours that he had found his soulmate, the perfect sweet girl who was so different from all the others he had known before. But then around four o’clock in the morning, as she had dozed and he had lain awake smoking a cigarette, he had begun to wonder whether he did love her and after she had woken up and they had made love once more he began to realize that he didn’t. By the time he got up to have his shower he was certain. The boil had been lanced, the conquest made and he no longer loved her. She had been a challenge, a project. He had won and now it was over.
Emma did not answer the phone. It was Calvin’s phone and not her business, so she let it ring until the answer-phone kicked in.
‘Good morning, Mr Simms,’ said that soft, familiar, old-fashioned voice. ‘It’s the Prince of Wales here.’
The light was becoming brighter. The noise of scissors cutting through fabric was suddenly surprisingly loud in Beryl’s ears.
‘How do you feel?’ she heard Priscilla say.
‘My eyes are OK, I think, but I can’t move my arms.’
‘They were restrained so you wouldn’t pull at your bandage while you were asleep. I’ll get to them in a moment.’
The light was very bright now even though Beryl’s eyes were still shut. It was shining through the lids.
‘Fuck,’ Beryl exclaimed. ‘Dim the lights, babes.’
Beryl felt the light darkening beyond her lids and nervously she tried opening her eyes again.
‘You know, I really don’t think you should have told her she could sing if you thought she couldn’t.’
‘What?’
‘And if you thought she could sing then you should have put her through.’
The bandages were gone from Beryl’s ears now and she could hear more clearly. Her daughter’s voice had changed.
‘What are you talking about?’ said Beryl, peering into the shadows, wanting to rub her eyes but unable to do so as her arms were restrained.
‘Shaiana.’
‘Who?’
‘Me.’
‘Well, goodness gracious,’ the voice said, ‘you did it and I must say it has been the most tremendous fun. I’ll admit that when you first approached me all those months ago I had no idea how much I would enjoy the whole thing and of course, as you predicted, it has increased my popularity enormously, which is most gratifying. I realize that one shouldn’t court public favour but nonetheless it really is nice to be liked for once. I’ve been offered my own chat show, you know, and a record deal of all things. Quite extraordinary, I feel like Val Doonican. There’s even been a suggestion from the Big Brother people that they put hidden cameras into Buck House and follow us all about for a bit. I had to tell them that I did not think Her Majesty would think much of that idea. Anyway, thank you once again for your faith in me and, more importantly, your support for the ancient institution which it is my honour to embody. Anyway must dash, there are reporters climbing over the wall and crushing my petunias. So all the very best and, as we pop stars say, it’s been real.’
Scarcely had the Prince rung off when the telephone rang again. As Emma lay waiting for the answering machine to click on once more, she tried to grasp the meaning of what she had just heard. Calvin had been lying; he had known about the Prince being a contestant from the beginning. It was he who had suggested it. But why? If he truly was a monarchist as the Prince had said, why lie about it to her? She was a monarchist herself.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. It followed on immediately from Calvin’s outgoing message.
‘Way’ll, Calvin,’ said a female voice that reeked of the Mississippi, ‘Ah guess you wern. Ah confess Ah never draimt y’could make that dull old fossil inta
a Chart Threrb. So way’ll dern. Maybe you rilly are as good as you think you are. Now, ais you know, Ah aim a Serthern werman an’ Ah always tra t’be a werman of ma werd. But historeh has taught us Dixie Belles ta also take a practical view an’ hence Ah merst declare our lil’ bet null an’ void. Ah shall see ya in tha deevorce court, Calvin. Bye-bye now.’
As Emma lay listening to this, her skin cold despite the rich duvet that enveloped her, she was thinking of her father. When he had left the family home he had left his daughter nothing but a lesson, a lesson in men. Once more it seemed that Emma had failed to learn it. Once more she had trusted a man.
More fool her.
She got up and dressed herself quickly. Despite the turmoil in her mind she found space to feel foolish, as many a girl had done before her, putting on a crumpled evening gown in the cold light of morning.
Emma had reached the bedroom door when Calvin emerged from the bathroom. For a moment she thought she might keep on running, for she was fully dressed and he was wrapped in only a towel. There was nothing he could have done to stop her. Instead she turned to face him.
‘The Prince of Wales called,’ she said, ‘and your wife. They both left you messages. I heard them.’
Calvin’s face showed that he understood immediately what this meant.
‘Ah’ was all he could say.
‘I suppose I should thank you,’ Emma said, attempting a bitter little smile and failing. ‘I really do believe that I’ll now be spared the trouble of ever trusting a man again.’
The room was still in deep shadow but Beryl could now see that the woman standing at the foot of her bed was not her daughter.
‘You fucking witch,’ Shaiana shouted, ‘you told me I could sing and then you said I couldn’t!’
Now Beryl recognized the voice. The penny, which had been teetering on the edge of the abyss, suddenly dropped and Beryl knew that she had been catapulted into the ultimate celebrity nightmare, the thing that those in the public eye feared most: she was caught in the clutches of a psycho fan.
‘Where am I?’ Beryl stammered.
‘Never mind where you are, witch. Just you worry about what’s going to happen to you.’
‘How did you . . . ?’
‘How did I get you here? Hey, I may not be able to sing but it seems I can act, can’t I, Mom!’ and with these last words Shaiana added the brattish half-Californian whine of Priscilla Blenheim.
‘Shit!’ Beryl exclaimed.
‘Dark glasses, a bit of a sulk, those enormous new tits she had done. There really isn’t much to your overprivileged little bitch of a daughter, is there? I stuck two footballs up my jumper, put on a pink wig and picked you up from the Porchester with no questions asked. Of course it did help to have these.’
Shaiana stepped up to Beryl and waved something before her face. Beryl’s eyes had become more accustomed to the light now and she thought she could make out a driver’s licence, a Californian driver’s licence.
‘That’s right,’ Shaiana crowed. ‘Photo ID, a driver’s licence – an American driver’s licence. Guess who it belongs to?’
‘No!’ Beryl gasped.
‘Yes! That’s right. Priscilla. Your precious stepdaughter.’
Flinging down the driver’s licence on to Beryl’s helpless body, Shaiana pulled out a mobile phone, a phone of the very smartest and most expensive kind.
‘Amazing phone, this,’ Shaiana said. ‘Took me hours to work out how to use it. It even has a voice recorder. Just listen to this.’
Shaiana pressed a button and Beryl gasped and nearly choked as she heard the voice of her stepdaughter, desperate and afraid.
‘Mom, Mom! Please!’ came the voice from the little machine. ‘I’m scared, Mom. She has me, she hit me, I think she drugged me . . . I’m tied up . . . I don’t know where I am. Please, Mom, give her what she wants. Do what she says. Please. Please!’
Shaiana turned off the phone.
‘I hadn’t meant to hit her,’ she said, ‘not then anyway, but then I thought how much me hitting her would hurt you and I couldn’t help myself.’
‘You have to stop this now, Shaiana,’ Beryl said, attempting to sound calm and motherly, ‘while you still can before you ruin things for yourself for ever . . .’
‘Weren’t you listening, Beryl?’ Shaiana replied. ‘Didn’t you hear what I told you when I did my last audition? Didn’t you listen? I told you that I had no plans beyond the show. I told you that when it was over I had nothing. I told you that, Beryl. So don’t talk to me about ruining my life, it’s been ruined, you ruined it already. You told me to dream the dream and then you took that dream away . . .’
‘Not me, not me!’ Beryl spluttered. ‘Calvin did it.’
‘No, you did it, Beryl, because at least Calvin was honest about me from the start.’
‘Well, Rodney then . . .’
‘Oh, come on, Beryl! Even I know that nobody gives a fuck about Rodney. But you. You gave me hope. You told me to dream the dream.’
‘Shaiana, please, listen to me, we tell them all that! Don’t you understand? You took it all too seriously. Chart Throb is an entertainment show. It’s not about the singers. It’s not about talent. It’s a people show, it’s just a laugh . . .’
‘Yes, and the laugh’s on us. The dreamers!’
‘But of course it is, Shaiana, how could it be anything else? We’re a prime-time entertainment show, you have to remember that. We aren’t serious. If you’re serious about becoming a singer, Shaiana, go and audition for LIPA or some other stage school. I can write to the principal for you if you like.’
‘You told me to dream the dream.’
‘I know I did and I’m sorry, Shaiana, but Chart Throb isn’t about fulfilling your dreams. Calvin doesn’t care about your dreams, he doesn’t care about you at all. Do you know what he calls you? Mingers, Clingers and Blingers, that’s what. We all do. I’m sorry but it’s true. I don’t know whether you can sing or not. I don’t care. You put your faith in the wrong people, Shaiana. Don’t trust us, and don’t believe in us. Let me go and I’ll try to help you find people you can trust. Please.’ Beryl struggled to free her arms from the straps that bound them to the bed. ‘What have you done with Priscilla?’ she stuttered. ‘You mustn’t hurt her.’
‘What would you care about Priscilla, you avaricious old witch?’ Shaiana snapped. ‘You fucked up her life as badly as you’ve fucked up mine.’
‘What!’
‘You used her! You used your whole family. Come on. Who came out of The Blenheims as top dog, eh? You. You and you alone. Priscilla and Lisa Marie just looked like the sullen, sulky, fame-fucked fuckwits that they are, and Serenity looks what she is, which is semi-brain-damaged! And then there’s you! Good old Beryl Blenheim, the rock chick, the ubermum!’
‘I made Priscilla famous.’
‘Famous for what? For nothing. For swearing? For whining? Not famous enough to sell any albums, that’s for sure. Jesus Christ! Lisa Marie and me were in drug rehab before we got the fucking vote! I was in the National Enquirer talking about my drug hell while you were selling my fucking life to Fox TV!’
For a moment Beryl didn’t notice.
‘Whose idea was that fucking show, Mom?’
She noticed now.
‘Mom?’
‘Not mine or Lisa Marie’s, we were kids.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Not my real mum’s either, she’s so screwed up she doesn’t know what day it is. But there’s always been one fully functioning brain in our family, hasn’t there? One clear head, and that’s good old Mom’s . . .’
‘Stop it! Stop pretending to be Priscilla. I’m not your mother. You’re just a fucked-up crazy woman. You have nothing to do with me or Priscilla . . .’
The girl strode across the room and flicked the light switch.
‘Oh, come on, Mom!’ she snapped. ‘Didn’t you work it out yet?’
Beryl lay blinking in the light.
‘Work what out, you mad bitch? Let me go!’
‘I’m fucking Priscilla.’
‘You are not! You are a crazy woman and you need help. Where is my daughter?’
‘I told you, right here, Mom.’
‘Stop calling me Mum!’
‘Gladly! Fine. Fantastic. That’s great news. You never were my mom anyway.’
‘And stop this bloody madness.’
‘Mom, you’re not listening. You didn’t listen when I was Shaiana and you’re not listening now I’m Priscilla.’
‘You are not Priscilla. You are Shaiana!’
‘Yes, I am Shaiana and I am also Priscilla. Priscilla is Shaiana and Shaiana is Priscilla. We’re the same fucking person. It’s been me from the start.’
Beryl opened her mouth to exclaim once more but no words came. Suddenly the second penny dropped.
‘Good,’ said Priscilla. ‘Do you get it now?’
Priscilla pulled at her hair, removing the wig with which she had disguised her own pink locks.
‘You can’t be,’ Beryl stuttered, but she already knew that she could be.
‘Of course I can,’ Priscilla replied. ‘A wig, a bit of make-up. Pretending to get a grotesque boob job. I never had one, by the way, that was part of distancing me from Shaiana. Originally I was going to give her the fake boobs but I thought it might constrict my chest movement when I sang. I don’t know why I bothered with a disguise anyway, you scarcely looked at me when I auditioned. You were never going to spot me in a million years. The only person you care about on that show is you!’
‘I am so fucking angry with you, Priscilla,’ Beryl shouted in fury.
‘Oh no! How will I bear it?’ Priscilla sneered back.
‘You really have been Shaiana all along?’
‘Yes, I keep telling you. I made her up.’
‘But for God’s sake, why? You’re Priscilla Blenheim, why go on fucking Chart Throb?’
‘Why? Why do you think? To see if you really thought I could sing!’
‘What?’
‘I have put out an album, Mom, and it has failed utterly. But you let me. You managed me. Good old Beryl Blenheim, the rock god from way back, thought I was worth an album deal. At least you believed in me, I always hung on to that, but then I started to wonder. Maybe I truly was just a nobody, somebody who happened to be famous because her stepmother put cameras in her fucking bedroom and broadcast her adolescence on Cable TV . . .’