by Jemma Forte
Hayley shoots me a murderous look.
‘I can’t stand Céline Dion,’ pipes up Matthew cheerfully, earning himself respect from me and a frown from Hayley. Unperturbed, he grins back at her. He looks so disarmingly handsome Hayley quickly changes her tune, lowering her heavily made-up eyes in a coquettish fashion.
I feel a stab of something that feels horribly like jealousy in my stomach. Despite the fact she’s married and in the presence of her husband, she still can’t help but flirt with every male that comes her way. Having pulled out all the stops today she’s looking gorgeous too, so I wouldn’t blame Matthew if he fell for her very obvious charms. Everyone else does.
Honestly I can’t tell you how soul-destroying it is at times, knowing I share Hayley’s DNA, yet having come off at such a genetic disadvantage. I mean, if I really pick them apart, our features probably aren’t that dissimilar. Yet the way hers are arranged on her face simply make for a far superior end product. It’s sickening. My sympathies lie deeply with Beyoncé’s sister. It can’t be easy.
Today Hayley’s wearing a navy rain mac, and she’s tied the belt round her waist. I dread to think what she might, or might not, have on underneath. She’s had her long blonde hair blow-dried into a 1940s wave. She’s got red lipstick on, high heels and false eyelashes.
‘What are you going to sing then?’ asks Dad, who’s lost a bit of weight recently but is looking pretty well on the whole. I hate seeing him in a wheelchair, though he did say it was only because it’s bound to be a long day.
‘Well,’ says Hayley, ‘I still need to do a power ballad obviously …’
I despair.
‘So I’ve picked Bleeding Love by Leona Lewis.’
‘Oh, fantastic choice,’ enthuses Martin gravely.
‘Nooo,’ I wail.
‘Oh for fuck’s sake Marianne, what now?’ snaps Hayley.
‘It’s too low for your voice and you’ve gone from the sublime to the ridiculous. My heart will go on is all up and down the scales whereas Bleeding love is all one level so if you’re even remotely off key you’ll sound like a dirge. Besides, it’s not a good tune to do acoustically and they always say they’re looking for the next big thing, someone relevant and fresh. Not someone who’s churning out karaoke versions of singers from years gone by. It just won’t sound relevant.’
Gary’s sitting next to Hayley, munching crisps. Today he’s wearing long, baggy shorts, Adidas flip-flops and a sequined ACDC t-shirt – though I doubt he could name even one ACDC track. ‘Who do you think you are all of a sudden?’ he says, giving me a creepy wink, ‘Simon Cowell?’
I give him a withering look.
‘Well I think Bleeding Love’s a great choice,’ says Martin, who’s wearing brand new sandals today. Surely a man wearing sandals isn’t entitled to a musical opinion.
‘Look,’ interjects Ray, fighting to be heard as the tube whizzes through the tunnel. ‘If Hayley’s anything like as musical as Marianne, whatever she sings will knock their socks off. So why don’t we just let her go with what she’s comfortable with?’
I feel as though I’ve been told off and had, of course, forgotten that Dad has no idea how bad Hayley is. Because of this he must have jumped to the logical conclusion that if she’s auditioning for a huge network show, she must be talented. I’ve done nothing to persuade him otherwise because I don’t tend to enjoy slagging off my sister for no reason and of course, according to Mum, she’s Chigwell’s answer to Judy Garland. Still, I feel stupid now and like I’ve been made to look as though I’m being mean and bitchy, when in fact I’ve genuinely only got my sister’s best interests at heart. From now on I’m keeping my mouth shut. Arms folded, I gaze out the window.
‘What would you do, my angel?’ Mum asks Pete. ‘If you were auditioning.’
Pete shrugs. He looks thoroughly unimpressed at having been dragged along today.
‘Go on, what would you do?’ I repeat, curious to know.
‘I wouldn’t. Sing for Britain’s a pile of exploitative crap,’ he mumbles.
‘But if you had to,’ I insist. ‘If someone was going to kill your entire family if you didn’t.’
Pete considers this long enough for us to know that given the choice he’d far prefer us all to be massacred than appear on the show.
‘OK, if your entire Elvis collection was going to be destroyed.’
‘In the Ghetto,’ he responds instantly.
‘That would be OK,’ I say. ‘I bet the judges would be glad of something so original. Though I still think anyone trying to emulate someone so famous is risking comparison.’
‘Well I agree with Martin,’ interjects Andy, who’s wearing his awful bum bag today, short shorts, which frankly are obscene, topped off with his tight, pale pink polo shirt. I can tell that the woman sitting next to him is trying her best not to make contact with the hairy flesh of his fat, white thighs. I shudder involuntarily.
‘Bleeding Love is a great choice. I’ve come to really love Leona since I met you guys. She’s a total classic,’ Andy adds, like anyone gives a shit what he thinks.
I can’t help it. I turn and give him what can only be described as a death stare, which satisfyingly he recoils under.
‘What would you sing Marianne?’ asks Matthew, in a friendly enough way, though I’m not convinced he isn’t laughing at us all, just a little. It’s hard to tell. His face seems to naturally always be verging on a smile.
‘Don’t know,’ I shrug, feeling a bit embarrassed and unable to get myself out of my awful mood. ‘Can’t sing.’
‘OK, what would you play?’
‘Bitter Sweet Symphony by The Verve perhaps?’ I mutter eventually. ‘It’s a pop show so I guess that might go down all right. You know the string section at the start? Or perhaps a Queen number? Or Toxic by Britney Spears? The strings are great in that.’
‘Now that I’d like to see,’ he replies, nodding approvingly. His brown eyes are so warm and friendly. I can’t help but compare him to Andy who looks peevish and unhealthy next to him. Matthew clearly does a lot more moving than my ex-paramour too.
‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’s pretty much one of my all-time favourite tracks.’
I’m surprised. I look at him and smile. Matthew smiles back and I look away feeling pleased yet unsettled as I experience a wave of totally inappropriate lust. Probably partly triggered by meeting a vaguely kindred, musical spirit. Not something I’m particularly used to.
‘I don’t think someone standing there playing the fiddle would exactly capture the imagination of the public though somehow, Matthew,’ laughs Mum raucously. ‘And besides, I had a vision last night and in it, the judges definitely told Hayley they were looking for a powerhouse like her.’
I glance at my dad who I can tell is trying not to laugh. When he catches my eye he gives me a little wink. I might be imagining it but I swear Pete notices our facial exchanges and smiles to himself too.
It’s strange but good to have Dad with us and something I never would have believed could happen a year ago.
I think Martin finding out about the past has helped Mum immensely. It must have been hard keeping so much a secret and now that the truth is out there and Martin hasn’t left her, she’s found it relatively easy to allow Ray into our lives. She hasn’t spent much time with him of course, but they’ve shared exchanges on the doorstep and each time it’s got a little easier and less frosty. Essentially they’re both being adults about the situation, and as a result are able to cope being altogether today.
When we finally arrive at the arena Hayley starts getting quite nervous. I’m not bloody surprised. By the time we reach our stop it’s obvious that most people on the, by now, stuffed full carriage are also heading for the auditions. As we approach the stadium thousands upon thousands of people are all moving in the same direction. As a result it takes our group a while to get there but once we have, the first thing we do is get Hayley registered. She’s given number 33980. It’s going to be a long day
all right, and Mum’s already acting as if she’s on drugs, squealing and squeaking with excitement. The words ‘peak too early’ spring to mind just as she takes off her jacket, revealing a t-shirt that has ‘Hayley’s your winner’ plastered across her expansive bosom. I roll my eyes but can’t deny experiencing a frisson of excitement about the fact we’re all actually here. It’s pretty surreal. Of course, given that I often escape England in the winter, I’ve not been around to watch every series, but when I am here I love the show. Though I have no idea how anyone could put themselves through the ordeal of trying out for it, unless they were absolutely sure as sure can be that they were supremely talented.
We stand amidst a sea of people. People who all genuinely believe they have a shot at topping the charts. Camera crews are roaming about, getting sections of the crowd to cheer on cue. This is all mildly entertaining for a short while though it isn’t long before my initial excitement wears off and I start feeling a bit claustrophobic. Then Mum sinks to a new low.
‘Here, Matthew lovey, push Ray out a bit further so they can see the wheelchair next time they come round.’
‘Pardon?’ I say, sounding as stunned as Matthew looks.
‘You know,’ she says, nudging me. ‘You don’t mind do you Ray, it’s just they’re bound to let us go to the front if they see we’ve got a disabled in the group.’
Matthew, who’s too polite to say anything, waits to see what I’m going to say next and I’m all set to protest when Dad winks at me.
‘I honestly don’t care love and, to be honest, your mother probably has got a point. Besides, I don’t know how much more of this flaming screaming I can take.’
There isn’t much I can say to this so I shrug helplessly at Matthew, though refuse to take part in working out the mechanics of getting Ray’s chair out. I don’t approve of exploiting his illness, even if he doesn’t appear to mind. I also don’t like being in a crowd very much and am starting to feel a bit anxious and tense about the entire situation. In the end we’re so hemmed in that it takes not just Matthew, but also Gary and Martin, to manoeuvre his wheelchair through the crowd to a side position at which point Mum’s evil plan only goes and works when an eagle-eyed researcher spots us and immediately insists we go to the top of the queue. Though admittedly, she’s a little taken aback when she sees the size of our party. Pretty soon, however, we’re all inside the building in the vast, hangar-like waiting area.
It’s a change of scene, but still bedlam. All around us people are tuning up, while proud friends and relatives gaze admiringly at them. The sound of everyone warbling away to themselves as they practise is a muddle of noise. Still, thankfully we do at least manage to find a spot where there are a couple of spare seats.
‘Are you all right?’ I ask Dad.
‘Yeah babe, t’rrific,’ he replies, though in all honesty he doesn’t look that great. He already looks shattered. Silently I question the wisdom of him having come along.
‘Right, shall I get our little picnic out?’ says Mum, who by contrast is literally having the best day of her life. She’s so upbeat and chirpy I’m almost tempted to ask Matthew whether he’s got any spare valium he can sort her out with. She’s doing my head in.
Feeling irritated, I watch as she bends down from the knees so that she can lay out a blanket on the floor, as if we’re at a posh garden party, as opposed to waiting in a packed, concrete room with no windows. Struggling to get up again in her tight pink pedal-pushers, she goes to open up the rucksack that Martin’s been carrying for her.
‘Right, I’ve made some little sandwiches, we’ve got some pork pies, sausage rolls, nice ones from Greggs, Scotch eggs, crisps, cold sausages and then I’ve got some naughty things for afters. Any takers?’
‘I couldn’t eat,’ says Hayley, as the reality of how many people she’s competing against slowly dawns on her. She looks distinctly worried.
I take no satisfaction from this. I’m too busy wondering what Dad’s saying to Matthew. They’re a few feet away from us and Matthew, who’s bending down so that Ray can say something to him, is listening intently. I wonder whether something’s wrong. Maybe he feels faint like he did the other week? Feeling positively twitchy at this point, and totally unable to be cool about anything, I cross over to them to find out what’s up.
‘Everything all right?’
‘Yeah, yeah,’ says Ray. ‘T’rrific thanks. It’s a day out innit?’
‘What are you two planning then?’ I ask, sounding even to my own ears rather shrill and neurotic. What’s wrong with me today?
‘Nothing,’ says Matthew. ‘Ray’s got a bit of back pain so I’m going to give him some codeine.’
‘Is it bad? Only if it is, maybe you shouldn’t stick around here all day? How much pain are you in exactly?’ I say, fighting with the fluttery panic that I’m suddenly experiencing.
‘It’s not that bad babe,’ replies Ray calmly.
‘Well that’s what you said that day you came to the house to meet Hayley and look what happened then. And how do I know you’re telling me the whole story? I mean, you said the chemo and the transfusion and the steroids were all making you feel better, and yet today you’re in a wheelchair.’
I know I’m sounding almost accusatory and I don’t mean to, but what I’m saying is true. I can’t keep up with the rapid changes and declines in his health.
‘Listen, do you fancy a quick walk to get a drink?’ asks Matthew.
‘Er no, I think Mum’s bought loads of drinks if you’re thirsty,’ I reply vaguely before continuing my rant. ‘I’m not being horrid, Dad. It’s just that you coming here is crazy and it worries me if it’s going to make you feel like shit. If you’re feeling bad then you need to rest, and I’m not sure that this is the place to …’
‘I fancy a drink from one of the machines though. Come with me, Marianne?’
I look at Matthew, confused. Why was he interrupting? Then I realise. He doesn’t want a drink, just the opportunity to talk to me out of earshot.
‘Oh … well maybe actually, yes, let’s get one.’
We walk a little way away from the group.
‘Are you OK?’ asks Matthew.
‘Um … yeah, fine,’ I lie. The truth is I think I’m on the verge of a really badly timed panic attack and am almost finding it hard to breathe. ‘It’s just there’s a lot to think about at the moment and I’m not so sure this is the best environment for Ray and …’ I’m all set to gabble away for the foreseeable future but Matthew isn’t having any of it.
‘Hey, take a deep breath,’ he says, gently but firmly. I’m about to protest but then realise that actually someone taking charge of my panic is a good thing. It needs reining in, so I do as I’m told. I take a deep breath. Then I take another and another and slowly the extra oxygen seems to have an effect and I feel myself returning to something approaching normal.
I don’t know what’s wrong with me, or why I’ve chosen to feel so strung out about everything at this precise second. I think perhaps it’s the combination of the wheelchair, coupled with seeing how reliant Ray is on Matthew. I feel so helpless knowing that I can’t do anything to make things better. The truth is I also don’t want Matthew to be the one Dad relies on. It should be me, his daughter. I’m the one who cares about him the most. I wish he didn’t have to go through this nightmare. I wish it wasn’t him. I wish it wasn’t my dad. I don’t say any of this out loud but it must be written all over my face and I can feel the panic rising again.
‘I know how hard this is for you,’ says Matthew, who by contrast is the definition of calm and composed, his eyes full of warmth and empathy.
No wonder Dad likes hanging out with him so much. How can I compete? Why do I even want to compete? He’s Dad’s nurse for goodness sake and yet I can’t shake this feeling that Ray spending time with anyone else means less time for me. And time is something we don’t have much of. I feel my eyes welling up ominously. Oh Christ, don’t do this now. It so isn’t the time or the
place.
‘Look,’ says Matthew, gently holding my arms so I’m forced to look at him and have to listen to what he’s saying. Muddled in with all the other things I’m feeling I’m now aware of a definite thrill in response to this physical contact.
‘I hope you don’t think I’m speaking out of turn here, but I want you to know that your father is an amazing guy and very strong. He’s coping extremely well on an emotional level.’
‘Is he though?’ I say, needing to know the absolute truth. ‘Is he really, because I don’t get how he can be. It’s so … so awful and shit and … sad.’
‘He is,’ says Matthew firmly. ‘I mean, it’s all relative and sure he’s had his moments and will continue to have good days and bad. He wouldn’t be human if he didn’t. But generally speaking, he’s fairly resigned to his fate compared to many I’ve seen. He’s resilient and philosophical, which helps.’
‘He’s so brave about it,’ I say, biting my lip and looking somewhere over Matthew’s left shoulder. ‘Only the trouble is …’ I say, concentrating very hard on not crying. ‘The trouble is, Matthew that … I’m not sure I am … you know … coping very well on an emotional level.’ My voice cracks and I have to blink very hard but just about manage to hold it together, although it’s touch and go because Matthew’s looking at me with such kindness I hardly know where to put myself. He gives me a moment to compose myself.
‘I’m sorry,’ I manage eventually, clearing my throat. ‘It’s not exactly part of your job description, dealing with unhinged relatives.’
‘It kind of is, actually,’ he says cheerfully.
‘Oh. Well I really didn’t want to be doing this here today.’
‘I know,’ says Matthew. ‘Which is why I bought you over here. I could tell a few emotions were brewing.’
‘I guess you’re used to reading these sorts of situations,’ I say, flooded with newfound respect for what he does and relief that I seem to have got my feelings back under control, which is when the embarrassment hits me and I can’t look him in the eye any more.