Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (45 page)

‘It’s me.’

Abruptly he sits up, Hugh Grant hair in a state of dishevelment and dribble patches down his shirt. ‘Shit.’ He looks around him. ‘Where am I?’

‘You’re in the broom cupboard.’

He grapples about, slowly getting with the programme. ‘But I’ve got to—’

‘It’s too late, Lawrence,’ I say, folding my arms. ‘Show’s over – they’ve all gone home. I recommend you do the same
before I consider selling my own story. Oh, sorry, I forgot: I’m not as desperate as you.’

‘Maddie—’

‘Come on, Lou,’ I take her arm, ‘he can show himself out.’ Then I pause, turn back. ‘And Lawrence?’

He gawks at me sullenly.

‘Don’t call me, OK?’

Back in the bar, the first face I see is Nick’s. He’s laughing with my mother about something and I decide he’s got just about the warmest, loveliest smile I’ve ever seen. I still can’t believe what he did tonight. I still can’t believe he’s mine.

Lou squeezes my arm and heads back to Simon. Sing It Back is feeling the love – there’s Mum and Dad, Jaz and Alex, Lou and Simon, me and Nick … and there’s a distinct possibility of something going on with Two Shay, but I vow to keep my nose out of that one.

‘We can’t wait to watch the programme!’ Dad cries as he and Mum finally get the machine working. ‘Jaz has them all – thirty-four, I think she said?’

I cringe. ‘Spare yourselves.’

Nick loops an arm round my waist as Mum oohs and aahs over the new playlists, finally settling on Stevie Nicks’ ‘Rooms on Fire’.

‘I’ve just got one thing to ask you,’ I say, putting my hands on his chest and looking up into his dark eyes. ‘That day we met outside Tooth & Nail … that really wasn’t planned?’

Nick pulls me close. ‘Do you think I’d have worn such a good shirt if it was?’

I don’t have time to grin before he’s kissing me. And all the while he’s kissing me I’m imagining that shirt and the good-smelling neck and the bare chest beneath and and and …

It’s for definite. This one is for keeps.

One month later

Taxis never show up on time. In my world this exists as an indisputable fact, like always losing socks in the wash or never knowing the answers to the orange questions on Trivial Pursuit.

I’m sitting outside Sing It Back in the late-August sun, perched on my upturned backpack and contemplating buying another trashy magazine to accompany me on the flight. I’ve whipped through
Hey!
magazine at high speed, and I’m not just looking at the pictures (though admittedly I never read
the true-life stories about breastfeeding piglets or having your woodwork teacher’s baby).

The truth is I’m horribly addicted to reading about Jaz and Alex – and they’re leading nearly every story on the major UK mags. The headline in
Hey!
this week reads WE MASSAGE EACH OTHER’S FEET – JALEX EXCLUSIVE! Not essential reading, I’ll admit, but compelling nonetheless. And it’s not just because they’re my friends; it’s because I know they’re on cloud nine and loving every minute. Jaz, in particular – these days she’s the country’s number one reality TV star; she’s got the nation hooked on her weird and wonderful outfits, her outrageous make-up … and especially her on-trend guinea pig. (Come to think of it, is anyone massaging Andre’s feet?) Not only are the trio famous, the three of them are veritable style icons. I’m not entirely sure how Alex feels about sharing the limelight with a rodent, but he’s so devoted to Jaz that I think he’d share it with a tree stump if that made her happy.

And I’m proud of her. On achieving the fame she so long desired, Jaz could well have stuck two fingers up to Carl and told the world what a nasty piece of work he was. Last we heard he’d slunk back to the States, complete with sort-of-black eye courtesy of Alex, and was hovering on the cusp of bankruptcy – the reason he’d come to find Jaz in the first place, it turned out. But she hasn’t done any of that, and that’s why she’s the bigger person. Instead she’s moving on with her life.

What their newfound celebrity does mean is that Jaz and Alex no longer work for my parents. It’s kind of sad, but luckily I still see them all the time – and anyway, Lou and Simon, sickeningly (just sometimes) in love, have upped their shifts at the club. Lou quit Simply Voices on the same day as me, the
idea being that she could complete her Psychology course in the day and pour cocktails to a warbling soundtrack at night. Simon has joined a writers’ club and is having a stab at his first novel – he says it’s going to be based on all of us, but frankly I don’t know how you’d write about that without scaring people off.

I check the time on my watch. Damn! We’ve got to be at the airport in an hour, and so far there’s no sign of transport
or
of boyfriend. Where is he?

The hot sweet smell of doughnuts drifts in from a nearby vendor. I’m going to miss London. And, though I never thought I’d say so, I’ll miss Sing It Back as well. Sitting where I am now, just below the newly restored sign, complete with once-missing C, I realise there will always be a place for me here, no matter what. And I have to pat myself on the back for at least a part of the club’s revival. This place isn’t just my parents’ future, it’s mine as well – and it feels good to know it’s secure.

Since the wrap of
Blast from the Past
, Mum and Dad have been enjoying a roaring trade: they’ve never known success like it. They’ve been inundated with offers for more TV series, fly-on-the-wall documentaries and reality shows, but say they’re keeping the bar clear of this kind of exposure. (I think they decided this after reviewing each episode with far too fine a toothcomb – something I did warn them about. To their credit they resisted comment, but even they must be shocked at some of what went on.) I believe they’re now considering an offer for their own daytime talk show – some journalist recently billed them as the next Richard & Judy. Sheesh.

Still, I know they would have given it all up in a heartbeat
to have Archie back … and happily, now they won’t have to. Because following Dad’s frantic fortnight-long search – including a potential lead that saw him heading south to Eastbourne, to Bournemouth, to Dorset, to Cornwall – something miraculous happened. It was early on a Tuesday morning, just Mum, Dad and me having coffee downstairs, when Archie walked through the door, just like that, and put his cap down on the bar with the words: ‘What the ’ell’s ’appened to this place?’

Everyone was over the moon. Archie didn’t retire in comfort, after all: quite the contrary, in fact. He’d just returned from a few weeks of exotic adventure on an all-expenses-paid Caribbean cruise, surrounded by beautiful women and every luxury he could imagine, sipping cocktails pool-side (no Singapore Sing, sadly) while he acquired a tan the colour of Yorkshire tea. So much for the seaside retreat, I thought, but we don’t mention that. He, feeling only slightly remorseful at having taken the money and run (‘What’s a man goin’ t’do?
I
knew I’d come back, even if you didn’t’), put some of the money from Evan’s fat cheque (and it was a
very
fat cheque, we later learned) into the new Sing It Back sign. ‘Yer might not need it,’ he said, ‘but I want t’do my bit.’ The rest went to a charity supported by his elderly cousin (who amazingly does exist, though whether she’s still alive or not remains to be seen).

I check both ends of the street and fold the magazine into my bag.
Come on, come on, come on …

A guy about my age with a Mr-Twit beard ambles past, checks out the name of the place and grins at me. I get that now – people recognising me and asking for my signature and stuff. It’s nice, in a way, but it’s not something I’ll miss. I’m
hoping once we get back the interest will have waned, which seems to be the way these reality things go. Not to sound ungrateful, but I like doing my Tesco shop in tracky bums and slippers and no one having a clue who I am, especially when I’m hungover and I need several bags of salt and vinegar Chipsticks and a paddling pool’s worth of Dr Pepper before I can function properly.

Rob’s been the luckiest of us in that respect – depending on how you look at it. He’s put Ruby du Jour to bed for a time, says he wants to ‘try being myself for a while’. It means he doesn’t get recognised unless he wants to, which must be how Robert Smith from The Cure feels when he rubs off his red lipstick at the end of the night and brushes his hair.

I squint down the street. A figure is coming towards me, all messy dark crop and lovely blue T-shirt, his backpack slung over one broad shoulder. My heart does a happy little jig, as it does every time.

Nick has been just as fortunate – only today he was approached to work on a new Channel 12 documentary about the Suez Canal. Since the finale of
Blast from the Past
he’s been in a position to cherry-pick jobs again, with the TV industry on its knees begging to collaborate. Especially since a host of other TV execs came forward with their own horror stories about Evan Bergman. Thankful, relieved, but most of all impressed, they’re now full of admiration for the man they once scorned: a man who was daring enough to speak out. Even Pritchard Wells was reported as saying he was ‘a credit to British broadcasting’, and apparently, now it’s safe to talk in favour of Nick, has been hearing rather different accounts of the night involving his ex-wife.

By the time he reaches me, Nick is wearing a massive grin.

‘Sorry,’ he says, kissing me on the cheek, ‘I got away as soon as I could. Cab here yet?’

‘Speak of the devil.’ I smile, spotting the approaching car over his shoulder.

It pulls up and the driver gets out to help us with our bags.

‘Off anywhere nice?’ he asks, flipping up the boot.

Nick opens the door for me. ‘Can’t tell you,’ he says, winking conspiratorially, ‘it’s a surprise.’ He raises an eyebrow. ‘Ready for your big adventure?’

I grin. ‘Ready as I’ll ever be.’

And I really am. I’ve had all sorts of amazing job offers over the past few weeks, the likes of which I never imagined in my wildest dreams I’d be turning down. Best of all is the variety: in one week alone I was approached for three presenting jobs (one of them for kids – not sure I could be
that
chirpy at five in the morning), a well-known TV personality asked me if I’d consider being her PA (hang on a sec –
me
consider
her
?), an upcoming reality show wanted me on board for ‘concept development’, and several London clubs came forward for my help getting their business back on track. But none have been quite right.
Blast from the Past
has made me re-evaluate things. My goal was always to work in the media, but the months I spent in TV have taught me to tread carefully: you can get in as much trouble behind the cameras as you can in front of them.

Anyway, I’ve got a swoon month with Nick to enjoy before I make my decision: a totally glorious, totally private, totally secluded month, with no filming, no obligations, no second-guessing, and nobody who has a clue who we are. I fully intend to enjoy every single second.

Nick’s hand finds mine as the car pulls off. London washes past in a tapestry of colour, the brushstrokes of a city we’re leaving behind.

That could be why I’m stalling – some of the offers I’ve received have been totally unexpected. I always assumed I’d stay in the wings, looking on, watching other people, helping them shine; never taking centre stage over backstage, just waiting for something to happen … an epiphany, a revelation, a moment.

One thing Evan Bergman’s show taught me: there’s more to karaoke than just the songs. Getting up there, holding a microphone and singing your heart out is more about having something to sing about than it is about being able to sing. That sort of confidence puts the don in Madonna, the beast in The Beastie Boys, the ultra in Ultravox.