Dream On (11 page)

"Any time," Max said, and put a hand on her
shoulder. Then he fished in his pocket. He pulled out a twenty pound note and
gave it to her. "Get yourself and the lad a nice pizza for your tea, on me." He laughed. "Or whatever else you consider a treat, I don't know! Get a
couple of DVDs out, a bottle of wine for yourself. I know I can't have it
anymore, but I'd like to think of you chilling out with a nice bottle of Pinot,
or something!"

She looked up at him, and the tears welled up in
her eyes all over again. "Thanks, Max. That's lovely of you. Thanks."

"De nada. You need cheering up, that's all." He
walked over to the cupboard and got out her bag and coat. "Have a good evening,
Jan."

She felt like kissing him, but instead smiled,
thanked him again, put on her coat and walked out into the rainy evening.

Janice did have a good evening, after all; she
bought pizza and ice cream, horribly expensive Ribena for Harley instead of
cheap squash, and a bottle of white wine for herself. She didn't get a DVD;
she and Harley played games and drew pictures together, instead. After she'd
put him to bed and read about Gordon The Big Engine until he fell asleep, she took
the rest of the wine and logged on to MySpace, where she got chatting to a very
nice chap called Tom.  He liked Whitesnake, he said, and lived fairly locally;
Whittlesey. His picture showed longish dark hair, sexy dark eyes, and a kind
smile. By the time Janice went to bed, she had a smile on her face, too.

"We need to go further afield. We can't just keep
playing the pubs round Fennington," said Dave. "We've got to broaden our
horizons. Come on, we're Vikings, aren't we?"

"No," said Ritchie. "No, Dave. We ain't."

"Oh, well, you know what I mean! We need a proper manager
who can get us some gigs in London. Like, you know, The Royal Standard. Walthamstow. That's where bands play when they're just starting to get a
following, isn't it? Sort of, like, you get to play there and you're on
your way?"

"Not really, not anymore," said Boz. "The 'rites of
passage' venues don't really exist like they used to. There are some we
could try, though - everyone wants to play The Hope and Anchor in Islington, and
The Highbury Garage. Upstairs, that is. Couldn't hope for downstairs, not
yet."

"Why not?" Shane asked.

"Well, 'cause we'd need to be a canny bit bigger than we
are right now, bonny lad!" said Boz.

"Ariel was telling me about the Purple Turtle in Camden," Dave said, feeling a rush just at the mention of her name. Just saying it made
him feel proud. She was sleeping with
him,
not any of the rest of them. Nor anyone else in the whole world.

Boz snorted with laughter. "Nah, man, they'd hoy us out as
soon as we started playing! Either that or laugh us out. It's
trendy, you know? Probably about right for cool chicks like Ariel, but not
for us gang of ruffians!"

"I don't see what's wrong with just being a pub
band," said Shane. "We're earning a bit, and people like us. It's a
laugh, isn't it?"

"Yeah, if you don't mind poncing about in your
local dressed up like a focking sheep," said Ritchie, and strummed a few chords
on his much adored new Stingray.

"Aye, okay, I'll check some London venues out, see
if I can put a few words in the right ears," said Boz. He coughed. "In the
meantime, lads, I've arranged for us to go round to see old stonehead Kelvin on
Saturday, to get the CD off the ground."

"That's excellent!" said Dave. "Right, let's get
started! We've got to get all the songs good and
tight
!" He clenched
his fist. "So, what are we going to have on the CD? I thought, 'Saved', 'Valhalla',
'Cross the Sea', 'Flying High', and that new one I started last week
-
'Stampede'.

"Good shot, Dave, I liked that one!" Shane said.

"What, you mean that one that sounds exactly like
'Jailbreak'
by Thin Lizzy?" said Ritchie.

"Oh, yeah," said Shane.  He laughed. "That was why
I liked it." He picked up his guitar. "Couldn't we just do
'Livin' on a
Prayer'
?"

"We probably will, next week," Ritchie said. "Except that
Dave'll think he's written it."

Boz and Shane burst out laughing and Shane tossed
his golden locks from side to side.

"Yeah, Dave's half way there!"
he sang,
"Whoa-ho, he's livin' on a prayer!"

Dave forced himself to join in with the laughter. They just didn't understand.

"Look at this!"

Melodie Waters burst into The Romany, dark locks
flying, purple leather jacket flying open, too, to reveal a heavily fake tanned
décolletage
.

She sat down, quite heavily for her, on the corner
seat next to where Ariel sat with three quarters of Thor; Shane had ducked out
of the usual Sunday lunch time get together because he was 'on a promise', he
said, with a Polish girl called Lena who worked in the plastics factory where
he was currently employed.

"Look!" she said again, and thrust a rolled up
magazine onto the table.

Ariel picked it up; it was just another of Melodie's
celebrity gossip magazines.

"Look at page twenty-seven!" Melodie said. "Will somebody
get me a drink?"

"I'll do the honours, pet," Boz said. "Vodka and tonic,
right? Same again, everyone?"

Ariel glanced at Melodie's glowing, excited face;
she hadn't seen her this animated since she'd learned that the Beckhams'
marriage was in trouble.

Page twenty-seven. Ariel read; everyone else was
quiet as she did so. And then she looked up and grinned, too.

"Why not?" she said. "Let's go for it!"

Dave and Ritchie grabbed the magazine from her, and
scanned down the article; next moment, they were grinning, too. Even Ritchie.

A satellite channel called Inspire TV was to hold
auditions for a new talent show, called Raw Talent. The format would be along
the lines of The X Factor, with separate sections for bands, under and over
twenty-fives, but with a difference. There would be no Simon Cowell figure,
concerned only with who would make his record company the most money. No
stylists, to turn the acts into carbon copies of what was already or had been
popular. No big dramatic stage presentations with flashing lights and dancers
- just, as the name of the programme implied, raw talent.

The prizes did, of course, reflect the size of the
TV station; there was also no contract with a major record company, no
immediate nationwide press coverage. However, the first prize was ten thousand
pounds, a four page article and photo shoot in the magazine they were reading,
and a spot at a moderately prestigious open air festival in Derbyshire, called
Serendipity, the following summer.

'... fed up with manufactured pop artists, the MTV
generation?'
 Ariel said, as she pored over and read out loud sections from the article.
'Inspire TV are
looking for credible artistes, who might write their own material, play their
own instruments. Yes, we want to see raw talent; maybe your voice is your
instrument; we're rooting out singers who have not only the 'X' factor, but
something different, too ...'

There were also second and third prizes of five
thousand and two thousand pounds, with smaller articles in the magazine.

"My God," she said, "this is just the thing for us, isn't
it? For all of us."

Dave looked at her; their eyes met, and they
smiled.

"We've got to do this," Dave said. "Just imagine: Thor,
Ariel Swan and Melodie Waters, win first, second and third prizes!"

"Melodie Valentine," said Melodie.

"What? I thought your surname was Waters."

"It is. But it's no name for a celebrity, is it? I'm going to call myself Melodie Valentine. Or Melodie Joy. Maybe
even just Melodie."

"Oh. Right," said Dave. Perhaps he could call
himself Lars Erikson, after all.

"That ain't a bad idea, Mel," said Ritchie, taking
his pint from Boz, "it's like our Pete says, you've got to create the brand."

"Yes, but isn't that what this is
not
all
about?" said Ariel. "This show is about substance over style, not just brand
creation. That's why it looks so good."

Dave took a sip of lager. He didn't care. He was
still going to change his name to Lars Erikson.

"Aye, I like it," said Boz, putting the magazine back
on the table. "Let's go for it; we might as well, mightn't we? You never
know who you might meet at these things, even if you don't win."

"The auditions take place during the second week of
January," said Ariel, running her eyes down the article again.  "Three days. The first day is open, as long as your application has fulfilled their criteria,
and then they start whittling everyone down for the live shows. I'd say we
need to go and apply online, now."

"That gives us six weeks to get ready for it," said
Dave.

"Is that all?" Melodie looked worried. "I'll have
to lose at least half a stone - the camera adds
inches.
And sort out my
extensions. Ariel, we've got so much work to do! Shall we spend a
day on it together, the week before? We need to get our nails done, and
our eyebrows. I might get a pedicure and a skin peel, too."

"Why? Is having, like,
no skin
the in thing
,
then?" Ritchie asked. "And no-one's going to be looking at your feet, are
they?"

Melodie gave him a withering look. "It's about
feeling your best so you're at your most confident," she said. "Personally, I
like to think that my feet are ready to be kissed at all times!"

"Oh, I'm sure Shane will kiss them for you, any
time you like!" said Dave.

She smiled, coyly. "I'm going to get a spray tan, too. I think we all should!"

"Why don't you just sit in a bath filled with
Bisto, like you normally do?" said Ritchie. "Hey, I know! Get a load of
this - you could even practice singing a couple of songs while you're in it,
have you thought of that?"

Melodie just looked at him, expressionless. "It matters
what you look like. I mean, yes, you've got to be a good singer, but looks
matter too. You don't see many really famous singers who aren't great
looking."

"Barbra Streisand. Alison Moyet," said Dave. "Annie
Lennox is
well
ugly."

"Well, she actually
isn't
," said Melodie. "But even
if she was, all those ones you mentioned never went short on the grooming, did
they?"

"I know what she means," Ariel said. "It never
hurts to look your best - and there's no need to be so bloody rude, Ritchie! Have
to say, though, Mel, I was actually going to spend these next six weeks getting
my songs as near perfect as I can!" She smiled at her. "But yes, okay, we'll
spend a day at a beauty parlour, it'll be fun." 

"Right!" said Dave, "let's get these drinks drunk, and then
everyone back to ours to apply for this, right?"

"Not me," said Ariel, "I've got to have a bath and get
ready for work. I'll apply on Dad's computer at home."

Dave looked at her. "You sure?"

She smiled at him. "Yes. Sorry."

When she left, a few minutes later, he followed her
out.

"When's your next night off?" he asked, and she
could see the anxiety in his eyes; she knew how hard he was trying to look cool
and casual, though, lounging there in the doorway.

"Wednesday," she said.

"Do you want to come round, then? Or we could go out,
or something."

"Yeah," she said. "Send me a text."

"You do want to?"

"Yes!" She did; she just didn't want to do so forever
and ever and all the time. Or did she? It was so difficult. Maybe if Dave was properly free -

"I'll perhaps come in and see you at work tonight. Me
and Shane. It's quiz night, right?"

"Yes." Which meant he would want her to go home
with him. Tonight meant a seven hour shift; after quiz night, always the
busiest of the week, all she ever wanted to do was have a bath and take her
aching feet to bed, alone.

"I'll see you later, then."

"Yes." She smiled at him, kissed him on the cheek,
wound her scarf around her neck to keep out the dank, late November chill, and
walked off in the direction of the bus stop.

"Mummy, it hurts!"

Harley had a tummy ache and a hurty head, he said.

He hadn't got a temperature, so there was no need
for a dash to the Saturday morning emergency surgery; he hadn't wanted his favourite
breakfast of a boiled egg and toast soldiers that morning so Janice knew he
really did feel sick, but she suspected the hurty head was a ploy to make her not
go to work. She couldn't possibly let Max down, not on a Saturday, though;
besides, she really needed the money.

She was due in work at noon, but her mother had
called her at nine o'clock that morning to say that her slight cold had
developed into something approaching 'flu; could Carolyn take him? Or Dave -
he was the boy's father wasn't he? Or had he forgotten that, these days?

Normally Janice would have called Carolyn, who
would have been happy to let him muck in with her two, but it wasn't fair to
impose on her if Harley was likely to throw up at any moment. Dave's mother
worked weekend shifts at the hospital whenever she could, so she was not likely
to be at home, either.

Well, there was only one thing for it, wasn't
there?

"Do you feel as if you're going to actually be sick,
darling?" she asked him, cuddling his little body against hers.

"I don't know!" he moaned, and started to cry
again, snuggling against her. "Don't go to work, Mummy! Stay here and
look after me!"

She kissed his forehead and stroked his head.  It
was neither too hot nor too cold, thank goodness. "I've got to go to work,
sweetheart. I've got to earn lots of pound coins so we can eat!"