by Jemma Forte
Now Matthew follows my gaze over to where Mum’s doing a little dance round Hayley.
‘What are you doing Mum?’ I shout over to her, hoping if I frown hard enough she might stop.
‘Bit of Reiki, lovey. Get her energies up.’
‘Right,’ I say before turning to my brother. ‘As a matter of interest, do you find her bloody embarrassing too, Pete? Or is it just me?’
Pete stares balefully back at me but doesn’t commit either way.
‘Aren’t all mum’s a bit embarrassing?’ asks Matthew. ‘Aren’t they supposed to be?’
‘I don’t know,’ I answer truthfully. ‘Are they? Is yours?’
‘Er … yeah I guess, sometimes.’
‘OK, so I can tell by the way you said that, that yours is infinitely more sane and far less embarrassing than mine.’
‘She’s just excited,’ says Matthew, though admittedly with less conviction. Mum’s really upped the ante now. If she doesn’t stop leaping about, there’s a strong chance Hayley will belt her one.
‘I mean if Hayley’s as good as Alison reckons she is,’ says Matthew, ‘Then maybe she does have a chance of winning? Which let’s face it, would be pretty life changing.’
‘Mm,’ I say, hating myself for being so miserably negative when everyone else is so excited.
‘I guess we’re about to find out either way,’ says Pete flatly to Matthew.
The judges are ready. They’ve had a quick break during which we could see them onscreen being powdered by the make-up ladies and given drinks. My stomach lurches with excitement when the camera hones in on their faces and momentarily I feel quite star-struck. It’s all so bizarre. After that, everything happens quite quickly. As soon as the cameras are rolling again we see the floor manager signalling to Hayley. She disappears from the room, but within seconds we see her appearing on screen. She pretty much struts out from the wings towards the X that’s marked on the middle of the floor, which is where she’s been instructed to stand. She looks born to be on camera and for a minute even has me convinced. Maybe we were looking at a winner?
CHAPTER NINETEEN
It’s amazing how much a silence can communicate sometimes. The one that hung heavily in the air of our tube carriage on the journey home managed to be not only tense, but mortified. I’m too weary and traumatised to go into details now but let’s just say that Hayley’s furious about how her audition went. She’s also, understandably, horrified because none of us have any doubt that she will be featuring on Sing for Britain all right, only for all the wrong reasons. We don’t know this for sure of course, but if I had to bet either way I’d say she’ll definitely be making an appearance.
‘If you hadn’t got involved, I would have got away with it,’ Hayley fumes in Mum’s direction.
The rest of us gaze about the carriage, screwing up our faces, either scrutinising the advertising or studying the tube map with over the top levels of interest. Anything that means we don’t have to look at Mum or Hayley.
‘As it is, they’re bound to show it because you made such a fucking tit of yourself,’ Hayley continues.
‘Hayley,’ says my Dad wearily. ‘I know you’re upset, but don’t speak to your mother like that.’
‘Absolutely,’ agrees Martin, trying to sound authoritative, which doesn’t suit him at all.
‘And you can both fuck off an’ all,’ my livid sister splutters, looking less beautiful than usual. Rage has contorted her face into an unattractive snarl, plus one of her false eyelashes is flapping off at the side. It’s not a good look. All her ‘get up and go’ has got up and gone, though to be honest her awful experience has rubbed off on us all. As far as I’m concerned we all look, and feel, like a big deflated bunch of losers.
‘And besides, what right do either of you have to tell me what to do?’ she adds despairingly, having switched the focus of her vitriol from Mum, to Martin and Dad. Though it’s obvious she’s only lashing out due to her own sheer mortification.
By now Dad’s quite ashen with tiredness and he doesn’t answer. He looks disappointed by Hayley’s behaviour though, as does Matthew – a vague silver lining I suppose, looking like a supermodel isn’t everything in life etc.
Still, I guess it must have come as quite a shock to Ray to discover how badly deluded Hayley and Mum have been with regard to my sister’s ‘talent’. He’s definitely smiled at me in a vaguely apologetic way a couple of times too, so I think he now gets that earlier I was only trying to help, not hinder. I wasn’t jealous, I was worried.
‘I think we should all calm down,’ interjects Martin mildly. ‘Then, when we get home we’ll have a nice cup of tea and say no more about it. For what it’s worth, I’m very proud of our Hayley. It took a lot of guts to get up there in front of all those people.’
Mum, who’s been terribly sheepish ever since ‘the incident’ nods gravely.
‘Well said, Martin,’ pipes up Andy. ‘And can I just add that, personally, I’m with Alli. I think you sounded awesome up there Hayls and if you ask me, the judges got it totally wrong. Plus, when you got in there Alison, you reminded me of a lioness protecting her young. It was like, totally amazing.’
‘Thank you Andy,’ says Mum gratefully, staring at Andy as if what he just said was a fine and awe-inspiring piece of rhetoric as opposed to utter bullshit. If she chooses to listen to him, before long she’ll be convincing herself she was right all along. What a horrifying thought.
I’m busy groaning inwardly when, for a fleeting moment, Matthew catches my eye. There’s a hint of a question there and I’m pretty sure he’s wondering what I’m doing going out with such a dickhead. I have no idea how to convey that I wouldn’t touch said dickhead with a barge pole, so can’t bear to face him. I turn away.
‘They probably won’t end up using our bits anyway,’ Mum adds hesitantly. ‘They have so much to choose from I’m sure.’
Again, our silence is deafening.
‘And if they did,’ she continues, clearly trying to convince herself more than anyone else, ‘I reckon it would come across fine, no matter what you mouldy old lot think.’
That night it’s unbelievably fantastic to escape my stupid family and to get out of the house. A sort of ‘don’t mention the war’ style pact has been made about what took place today, which is fine by me. Of course, the whole world will be finding out what happened sooner or later, but for now I’m as happy as them to block it out. It would have been all too easy to cancel Teresa claiming tiredness and post-traumatic stress disorder but I don’t, and as soon as I see her standing outside the club waiting for me I’m really glad.
‘Tell me then,’ she says at once. ‘How bad was it on a scale of one to ten?’
‘Eleven,’ I reply immediately, marvelling at how natural it feels to be meeting up with her after all this time. There’s no awkwardness between us whatsoever, despite having missed out on so many months and months of friendship.
‘Let’s get inside, get a drink and you can relive every excruciating second of it for me,’ she says, and suddenly the prospect of talking to someone who has precisely no vested interest in how Hayley did is a wonderful one.
‘Thanks Teresa,’ I say, feeling quite overcome.
‘You’re very welcome,’ she says, flashing me a wide, sincere grin in the sort of heart-warming way only Teresa is capable of. In that moment I know that not only have we totally forgiven each other for drifting apart but also that I won’t ever take her for granted again.
‘Sorry,’ I say, because suddenly I’m welling up. ‘I’m being a right soppy prat, it’s just it’s so nice to see you. I’ve missed you so much. It really hit me when I bumped into you that time.’
‘Me too, you silly cow,’ says Teresa, hooking her arm through mine and leading us both towards the entrance of the club.
‘There’s a lot going on with me right now,’ I add, suddenly desperate to offload. ‘I don’t know if you’ve heard about any of it …’
‘I have,’ s
ays Teresa, stopping to drag hard on the last bit of her cigarette before stubbing it out with her shoe. ‘Darren heard from Steve, you know, Steve who works with Gary. Your dad’s back isn’t he? And he’s not all that well?’
‘No. In fact, that’s a bit of an understatement …’ I trail off.
Teresa looks at me thoughtfully, weighing up the situation.
‘Well,’ she says eventually. ‘In that case, I reckon what we need is not just a drink but several so come on you, let’s get in there and then, after we’ve let off a bit of steam, we’ll have a proper talk about it all yeah?’
‘Yeah,’ I say, grateful beyond words for her talent at knowing exactly how to handle things, and feeling something akin to relief to be with her. We enter the cavernous club at which point we’re swallowed up by the booming thud of bass.
The next day, I wake up feeling a smidge hung-over, yet calmer than I have in ages. Hanging out with Teresa was like medicine. The conversation was horribly one-sided but I know she didn’t mind. It was such a relief to talk honestly about my dad and how I feel about everything that’s happening. I also reneged a bit on my family’s pact by telling her a bit about our disastrous trip to Sing for Britain, though once I’d said it all out loud, I could see how funny it really was. Obviously I’m going to have to leave the country when it comes on telly, but Teresa found the whole tale so amusing it got things into perspective I suppose. Halfway through the evening I gave silent thanks to Dad for forcing me out of my inertia and into arranging to see my friend. He was right of course. Good mates are hard to come by and worth holding on to. And let’s face it, over the next few months I was going to need all the friends I could get.
For days after the event, at home there’s a definite vein of embarrassment in the air, coupled with an obstinate refusal to admit out loud what a truly humiliating debacle the whole episode really was. Personally I keep my mouth shut and carry on as normal.
I go to work, keep my head down, try to stop thinking about Matthew, who seems to have wormed his way into my psyche, and vent all my frustration towards Andy instead. Frustration that turns into pure hatred the next Sunday when, back from a children’s party and desperate to get into the shower – the weather’s finally starting to get hot so wearing a heavy clown costume is a little … shall we say clammy? – I catch him clipping his toenails in the bathroom.
‘Can’t you at least lock the door when you do that?’ I berate him angrily.
By way of reply he stares at me balefully, an expression I suspect is supposed to incite sympathy when in fact it makes me want to slam the toilet seat down hard onto his fat hobbit foot.
‘What?’ I snap. ‘Don’t look at me like that.’
Andy sighs and lowers his foot before saying solemnly, ‘You and I need to talk.’
‘OK,’ I agree, wondering whether finally he might have got the message that I just want him to disappear.
‘I’m getting the distinct impression that you’re not finding it easy living with me.’
‘You could be right there,’ I say, nodding my head furiously.
‘So …’
‘Yes?’
‘So, I wanted to recommend a really good self-help book called Battling with your inner demons. Apparently it’s really good for people with anger issues.’
‘No Andy, no,’ I disagree. ‘You see, that’s not what I need at all.’
He stares blankly at me.
‘Don’t you get it?’
Looking baffled he shakes his head.
‘Right,’ I continue slowly, trying to keep a lid on the anger that I do indeed have within me. ‘What it is, is that I just think … I think that it’s a bit … weird … you … being here still. And I know you like it here,’ I rush on, raising both hands up to prevent him from interrupting. ‘And I know you love hanging out with Mum and Martin but at the end of the day this is my home and it has been weeks and weeks now since you arrived.’
‘I see,’ says Andy solemnly. ‘In which case I do get it,’ he adds, tapping the side of his nose conspiratorially. ‘You don’t need to say anything else.’
‘So you’ll move out?’ I ask, feeling like I might weep with happiness.
He looks shocked to the core. ‘Oh, no. I mean, I thought that’s what you meant you were going to do. After all, at the end of the day, you’re the one with the problem, so if you want to move out I fully understand. You have my blessing and I won’t stand in your way at all.’
‘Aaaeurgh,’ I rage, slamming the door behind me.
‘Aaah,’ yells Andy back. I stare at the door wondering what he has to yell about.
‘For crissakes Marianne, what’s wrong with ya? That got me on the toe.’
Oh.
‘Well … good,’ I scream, wanting to rush back in and hurl him bodily out of the window. Although what I do in reality is what I’ve been doing for months now. I retreat pathetically to my room where I plug into my iPod and one of my favourite violinists, Hilary Hahn, playing Tchaikovsky’s violin concerto.
A few hours, one soothing concerto and some therapeutic violin practise later, I’ve managed to calm down. I’m hungry, so I skulk out in search of food.
‘Oh darling, I still think he got it so wrong,’ I hear Mum saying for the zillionth time as I enter the living room. As I come round the corner I find Andy sitting at one end of the kitchen table, stuffing his face with a toastie, which my mother has clearly ‘rustled up’ for him, while Hayley is at the other, looking po-faced.
‘I don’t want to talk about it any more. He didn’t get it wrong,’ she retorts furiously. ‘And how come until now you’ve always agreed with everything the judges have ever said?’
She has a point.
Mum looks up and stares blankly at me for a second. ‘Thank god you’ve finished playing that ruddy instrument. What a flipping racket.’
Andy half-chokes as he laughs uproariously at her dig. I glare daggers at him.
Sometimes I simply hate my life. What the hell am I doing living in this house at my age? I’ve got to get out. Though how I’ll do this I’ll never know. It will require some thought but I think I’ve reached a point where it has to be a priority.
A few days later I get a call from Dad. He sounds pretty down.
‘What you doing?’ he says.
‘Not a lot,’ I reply. ‘Just got back from another scintillating day at Roberto’s.’
‘Right, so what are your plans? Are you off on one of your jaunts soon or summink?’
‘No,’ I answer, probably a little too promptly. How can he think I’d go anywhere now, when he’s so ill.
‘Why not? That’s what you do innit?’ he says, sounding grouchy.
‘Are you in a mood with me or something?’ I ask tentatively.
‘Nah, I just wish you’d give me a straight answer sometimes. Truthfully, it frustrates me that you don’t seem to have any idea what you want to do. And if you’re waiting around for me to pop me clogs then don’t. I want you to live your life, not spend it sitting around waiting for stuff to happen.’
‘Well thanks,’ I say, feeling hurt. ‘S’cuse me for thinking you might actually want to spend some time with me before …’
‘I do,’ Dad interrupts at once. ‘I do and I’m sorry, I don’t mean to be out of order it’s just your apathy really concerns me Marianne.’
I don’t like where this conversation is headed so decide to change the subject.
‘I’ve got a music lesson booked in next Thursday. Do you want to come? I mean, don’t feel you have to but you did say you’d like to hear me play.’
This seems to do the trick. His mood transforms.
‘What time? I’ve got check-ups in the morning.’
‘It’s not till six-thirty.’
‘In that case I’ll be there,’ he says far more brightly. ‘Only I might need a lift.’
‘Done, and I’m pleased you’re coming. Apart from anything else it might stop my teacher from banging on about applying to
music college. She’s booked an appointment to have a tour round it next week.’
‘Has she?’ he says with such joy in his voice I regret not having finished my sentence quicker.
‘Yeah she has … though I was about to say I doubt I’ll bother going.’
Dad sighs heavily and an awkward silence ensues while I try and work out what to say next. I can tell he’s in a strange old mood. He breaks it first.
‘Today, for once, I don’t have to be at the hospital so can I come round later? Hayley’s gonna be there ain’t she?’
‘Course you can come round, and yeah, Hayley will be here. In fact she seems to be spending most of her time here lately. I reckon her and Gary must be having a bad patch or something.’
When he turns up Dad looks exhausted, although that seems to be pretty much par for the course these days. He’s also come by mini-cab, so obviously feels too weak for the bus.
‘Are you OK?’ I ask after I’ve let him in and followed him into the sitting room.
‘Not too bad,’ he says. ‘Not too bad … not that great either but …’
To my horror as he sits gingerly down onto the settee I notice him wince with pain. Hayley, who’s flicking disdainfully through Mum’s copy of Bella magazine, has obviously noticed too because looking wary she puts it down.
‘You all right?’ she demands to know in her usual tactful way. She always sounds so angry.
‘No, it’s nuffink. I’m fine,’ he insists, screwing up his face as he forces back down whatever pain he’s undoubtedly feeling. The next second he’s back in control once more.
‘So,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ve told Mrs Demetrius you’ll be at my lesson next Thursday if you still …’
Just then, Mum interrupts by poking her head round the door. ‘Oh, I didn’t realise you were here Raymond. You all right, lovey?’
‘Fine thanks,’ replies Dad, avoiding her eye completely.
‘I’m going upstairs for a workout in a minute,’ Mum says, slithering round the door coquettishly. ‘I’ve got a new DVD. It’s Coleen Nolan’s. Got to give these things a go haven’t you? Keep the old figure. Especially after an extra little éclair at tea-time,’ she adds. Dad still doesn’t take any notice and I can tell Mum’s peeved because she wants him to look. Wants him to take in her shiny black leotard, pink leggings and black legwarmers.