Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (9 page)

So what if he thinks I’m an M People fan? It’s not that bad, is it?

Focus, Maddie
, I tell myself as I flip through the terms of Evan Bergman’s contract, occasionally pausing to pick disinterestedly at my sandwich.

Yes, it’s bad. It’s very bad.

I’m sitting at a table in Vocalise, a neighbouring karaoke bar just round the corner from my parents’. I couldn’t face returning to the club straight after my meeting at Tooth & Nail – there’d be way too many questions waiting there that I didn’t have the answers to – so decided I’d stop off to a) scope out the competition, b) get through Evan’s T&Cs without distraction, and c) give my wibbly legs a break after they (just about) carried me from my disastrous encounter with the World’s Most Handsome Man.

But the contract’s a blur. Every time I get to grips with one of the clauses it starts swimming before my eyes, and by the time I reach the end I realise I’ve just played out a mini fantasy involving me emerging from Tooth & Nail and
not
spilling coffee on him and
not
appearing to suffer from Tourette’s and
not
wearing that stupid bloody brooch, and instead he maybe spills coffee on me and there’s this moment where he awkwardly dabs at my pretty sleeveless top while thinking how beautiful I am and wishing he had the nerve to look me in the eye and maybe find the courage to ask me out …

So then I have to read the whole clause again.

‘Can I get you anything else?’ A girl with cropped dark hair and masses of eye make-up takes my practically untouched plate.

‘No, thanks,’ I say, wondering where my appetite has gone. Normally a crisis calls for some serious cake intake, but the combination of my unnerving meeting with Evan and my even-more-unnerving meeting with Mystery Man has me feeling a little sick. I’m desperate to call Lou, but I know she’s at Simply Voices today – our Monday shifts never cross.

Nevertheless I’m impressed that Vocalise has table service. And it’s not the only thing that’s streaks ahead of Sing It Back. Even at three o’clock on a weekday afternoon they’ve got a handful of punters in – from their suits and shirts I guess they’re on some kind of corporate team-building exercise – and the karaoke isn’t sounding all that bad. This might be less to do with the party’s singing ability and more to do with the state-of-the-art machines, spanking-new microphones and – unless my ears deceive me, as Cher’s ‘Believe’ ramps up – is that a vocoding device? Phew.

The whole look and feel of the place is miles better, too. It’s really cohesive, everything considered, everything intentional. Not like Mum and Dad’s, where the overall impression
is of something designed on a let’s-throw-everything-at-it-andsee-what-happens basis.

The Subject agrees to all filming in relation to the Club … consents to cooperate fully in securing necessary footage … entrusts the Producers autonomy in the editorial process … approves creative direction …

I stir the twizzle stick in my lemonade. It doesn’t
really
matter if he thinks I’m an M People fan. There’s worse things … aren’t there? It’s not like I’d unwittingly accessorised with a ruby tooth and masqueraded as Mick Hucknall. Or said I liked Chumbawumba.

Camera crew will be awarded access to the Club and the Subject’s professional space on a daily basis … the Club will be filmed and edited forty-eight hours prior to broadcast …

No, it’s fine. He’s probably forgotten that part of our exchange already. I mean, the rest of it wasn’t a total car crash … was it?

In accordance with the terms of this contract, the Subject grants her permission …

I’m trying to zone out a particularly harsh number by Anastasia. I must have read this through a million times already.

I check the time on my phone: a little over two hours till Evan’s deadline.

I’m torn. Half of me, the half I recognise, says no to the whole thing. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I don’t know what I’m letting myself – and my staff – in for. It could all go horribly wrong and Sing It Back could be ruined for ever. Most of all, I hate the thought of being in front of the cameras – it’s just not me. On top of that, Evan Bergman left me
feeling distinctly uneasy: there’s something about him I just don’t trust.

But then there’s the other half. Seeing Vocalise in its week-day glory, never mind what it must be like on a Saturday night, brings home the scale of the mountain Sing It Back has to climb. I don’t know if we can do it without Tooth & Nail’s help.

The singing party launches into a song by Four Non Blondes. Right, that’s my cue to get out. Quickly.

Shuffling up my papers, I pay the bill and exit into the bustle of Frith Street, where the sky is looking dangerously like rain. I resolve to return to the club and talk it through with the others. After all, this isn’t just my decision to make: it’s everyone’s.

Minutes later I’m fumbling with my keys outside Mum and Dad’s. The
SING IT BA K
sign, a miserable rat-grey tubing in daylight hours, greets me like a sad dog that’s been kept indoors by itself all day.

The club is shrouded in darkness. I kick my heels off.

‘Simon?’ I call. ‘Jaz?’

No one’s here yet. I switch on the lights and the ones still in operation flicker reluctantly to life, accompanied by an awful industrial
bzzz
. I slide into a booth and dig out the contract, as if staring at it some more is going to provide me with answers. Digging my mobile from my handbag, I dial Lou’s number. It goes to answer phone and I consider leaving a message, before realising that by the time she gets it and rings back I’ll already have gone over Evan’s deadline.

I look at the clock on the wall. It’s Gary Numan’s face, pale and staring, a product of Dad’s ‘experimental art’ phase (at least the ‘mental’ part rings true). Five-forty.

If only I hadn’t run into Mystery Man – it’s completely messed with my head. I haven’t been able to focus properly all afternoon and it’s all because of that stupid conversation. I’ve got to forget it – it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.

My gaze turns to the contract. Though he did say he worked at Tooth & Nail …

No, Maddie
. That is the worst possible reason to get involved. It’s not even a reason.

Suddenly there’s a colossal BOOM! and one of the karaoke machines roars to life. I’m closer than I’ve ever been to wetting myself when I remember this is the one we’ve been having problems with lately. Otherwise I’d think we were being haunted by a poltergeist.

A Peter Andre-loving poltergeist, it turns out, as the opening bars of ‘Mysterious Girl’ settle into their stride.

With a deep sigh I get up and make my way over to the source of the noise. I punch some buttons in an attempt to kill it and there’s a brief moment of reprieve when the thing cuts out, before the screen announces its next offering: ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’ by Color Me Badd.

‘No!’ I howl, furiously tapping the controls. ‘Oh
god
.’

After I’ve tried every single combination of buttons I can think of, it’s still going. I head behind the bar, searching for instructions, anything that’s going to tell me how to kill the bloody thing. I call Simon but his phone’s switched off.

‘Bollocks!’ It’s on its third cycle now – it’s only gone and
jammed
.

As I’m engaging in a last-ditch attempt to find an ‘Off’ button (why don’t more things have ‘Off’ buttons? It’d make
things so much simpler), I feel something cold tap my left foot. And again. My toes start to feel a little wet.

I look up to the ceiling, and a cool drop of water splodges bang in the centre of my forehead. It trickles past my hairline and into my ear.

Great. Now we’ve got a leaky roof.

The bulbs above me splutter and crackle. For a second they cut out completely and I’m left in the dark, alone with Color Me Badd, wanting to sex me up.

As soon as the lights are back, I grab my wallet and rifle through it.

It’s three minutes to six. I fish out Evan’s card.

After two rings, he picks up.

‘Hello, Maddie.’ I can hear he’s unsurprised. ‘You’re just in time.’

‘Good.’ I take a deep breath. ‘Because you’ve got yourself a deal.’

I wake the following morning to the sound of someone hammering on the door. I’m in the middle of a dream where I’m being chased through the swimsuit section at M&S by Evan Bergman. I
know
it’s Evan, even though I can’t see him, but every time I turn round he’s changed into Simon Le Bon.

Now he’s calling my name. Except it sounds more like a woman’s voice …

‘Maddie?’

Bang bang bang
. I open my eyes a crack.

‘Maddie, are you in there?’

Yawning, I surface from the dream and check the time. It’s barely past eight. Throwing off Mum and Dad’s silky zebra print duvet cover (OK, but at least it’s not a water bed), I pad out to the living room and open the door. It’s my parents’ neighbour and good friend Davinia. She’s a professional socialite and gets photographed occasionally for being a friend of some minor royal, but if you ask her what she does for a living, she’ll tell you she’s a jazz singer. Davinia’s been here nearly as long as my parents and is the perfect person to live next door – I can’t imagine who else would put up with all the warbling.

‘Maddie, I’ve been out here for ages!’ she exclaims. ‘What’s going on?’ Even at this hour, Davinia still looks immaculate. Her hair’s wound up in a chic turban and she’s wearing a strident shade of red lipstick that matches her floral Cath Kidston dressing gown. There are little wads of cotton wool between her freshly painted toenails.

I rub my eyes. ‘What do you mean, “What’s going on?”?’

‘I
mean
,’ she says, exasperated, ‘there are people outside with cameras, lots of them. They’re asking for you.’

‘What?’

‘Go and see for yourself. They’ve been here since seven.’ She adjusts the turban with manicured nails. ‘I ignored them at first, but then some man put his thing through the letterbox.’

‘His
thing
?’

‘You know – those big grey cotton buds they use for sound.’

I push past her, fleeing down the stairs in my Fido Dido pyjamas.

‘You could have warned me!’ Davinia sings from behind. ‘I’m not nearly ready for my TV debut! Have you won a competition or something?’

I fling open the door. The first thing I notice is that I’m staring into the eye of a great big camera.

‘What the hell is going on?’ I cry, outraged. ‘Turn that thing off!’

The camera lowers and I see a face I recognise. Alison, the girl from Tooth & Nail reception.

‘What are you doing here?’

She scuffs her biker boots on the ground. ‘Evan told us to get here – he’s late.’ Her voice is still scratchy but it’s definitely better since yesterday.

‘But what are you
doing
here? I mean, what’s all this?’ I gesture round at the equipment. ‘You can’t be filming already – we haven’t even signed the contract yet.’

‘Evan told us it was a done deal.’

My mouth falls open. ‘Well, I guess,’ I splutter, ‘but nothing’s been … formalised.’

‘What needs formalising?’

I struggle. ‘I’m not sure … Forms?’

‘Forms.’

‘I don’t know!’ I look to the other faces. ‘Who are they?’

Alison rests the camera on her shoulder. ‘This is Toby,’ she says, ‘first assistant director.’

A ginger guy with thick black-rimmed glasses and a nice smile leans in to shake my hand. Dazed, I accept it.

‘This is Freddie, he’s a runner.’ Freddie can’t be more than twenty. He’s got an innocent look about him and floppy brown hair a bit like Lawrence’s.

‘And Nathan,’ she finishes, nodding at a skinny guy with a lank ponytail and shifty eyes, ‘our sound guy.’

‘Hi,’ grunts Nathan, chewing gum loudly.

‘Did you just put your boom through my letterbox?’

‘Beg yer pardon?’

‘And I’m one of your camera ops,’ says Alison.

I frown. ‘I thought you were a receptionist.’

She rolls her eyes. ‘I’m whatever Evan wants me to be …’