Star Struck (14 page)

‘I think you need oiling,’ Cherie said cuttingly in her baby-sweet voice.

‘You don’t use your surname?’ Carrie asked.

‘No. Do any of the great singers? Madonna, Prince …’ Star scrunched her face up, evidently trying to think of another superstar known by just one name. ‘Kylie.’

‘Minogue,’ Cherie offered helpfully.

‘Yes, but she’s just Kylie, really.’

‘What are you going to sing for us today, darling?’ Richard asked, obviously trying to hurry things along.

‘“Nessun Dorma”,’ Star said matter-of-factly.

‘Bloody hell,’ Kim said, sinking down in her chair.

‘Right …’ Richard said. ‘It’s an interesting choice for a pop competition, but off you go.’

Catherine held her breath. Star was such an exhibitionist that she was sure that this would be an over-the-top,
disastrous
performance. But what Star did next surprised everyone in the room. She might have been dressed like Britney on acid but she sang like Catherine Jenkins; her voice was beautiful and pure. It was sweet and gentle through the verses, rising to an almighty emotional crescendo. Everyone in the room jumped to their feet and applauded as Star took a bow. Catherine was standing with her mouth open. Star was unpredictable, that much she had to give her. The judges’ comments reflected the audience’s exuberant reaction.

Richard Forster rounded up the comments. ‘I’d like to see more versatility from you, I need to hear that operatic voice lend itself to other genres of music. But I have to say, that was an outstanding performance.’

Star beamed, delighted with herself. She then looked at the crowd and arched an eyebrow.

‘Did she just give an entire room a dirty look?’ Kim whispered.

‘Catherine Reilly,’ Will shouted.

Crap, Catherine thought, how am I going to follow that?

‘Good luck,’ Kim nudged her.

Catherine stood up, feeling sick and dizzy. She hoped that her nerves didn’t get the better of her. She couldn’t afford to let that happen. Her roommates had all given great performances on the first go. Catherine walked towards the stage. I’m going to do this for Dad, she thought. He’s ill and he could do with some good news. She so desperately wanted him to be proud of her and to know that she was good and was doing this for a reason. She stood on the stage and looked out at the four-hundred-strong audience.

‘The family didn’t follow you this time?’ Richard asked.

Catherine shook her head. He was smiling, right, that was a joke, Catherine thought, not knowing whether to laugh or start singing. She was sure she was doing a very good impression of a startled bunny.

‘When you’re ready, Catherine,’ Richard said.

Catherine closed her eyes and pretended that she was the only person in the room. That she was back at church practising alone with only the pigeons nesting in the roof for company. She had decided to sing the Sinead O’Connor hit ‘Nothing Compares 2 U’. She knew when to sing gently at the beginning, when to punch through the lyrics in the chorus, when to let rip with emotion and when to hold back. She opened her eyes as she finished the verse and chorus that was required of her. Everyone in the room was applauding and cheering, which was a good sign, but Catherine didn’t know if it was good enough for the judges.

‘That, Catherine …’ Richard Forster paused for effect, ‘was really, really good.’

‘Thank you,’ Catherine said.

‘Totally,’ Carrie agreed.

‘Really beautiful.’ Cherie nodded.

‘You’re one to watch for me,’ Lionel said, nodding his head in agreement.

Catherine hurried from the stage and sat down beside Kim. Catherine felt a tap on her shoulder and turned round to see Star looking at her. Catherine – thinking that Star was about to congratulate her on her performance – said, ‘Well done, Star. You were great.’

‘Thanks. I know.’ Star didn’t reciprocate the compliment. ‘Looks like the competition’s on with us three, doesn’t it?’

Kim’s eyes narrowed. ‘If that’s the way you want to play it, then yes, it is.’ She turned around and folded her arms.

Catherine joined her, feeling terrible. She didn’t like making enemies but it seemed Star wasn’t giving her much choice.

‘Right!’ Will shouted to the 384 hopefuls. ‘We’re going to call your name out, you’ll come to the front in groups of twelve and we’ll tell you whether you have made it through to the next round. Those who have, please take a seat again, those who haven’t, go back to your rooms, collect your stuff and we’ll arrange for you to get home.’

Catherine looked at Kim, alarmed; that was quick. In ten minutes she might be calling Claire and asking her to make the long trip from Manchester. But then again, what did she expect? It was a competition.

The first twelve people in the firing line went up. Among them was a woman in her sixties who had put in a sterling performance of ‘Penny Arcade’ – a Roy Orbison classic, so she had informed the judges – replete with barmy dancing and arm waving, a teenage girl who had sung ‘Thank You’ by Dido and a young guy who had really impressed the judges with his rendition of ‘Stand By Me’, but Catherine wasn’t sure looked that he looked like a pop star. Catherine really couldn’t tell if they were going through or not. She looked at Kim, who shrugged. She didn’t know either. The line up themselves didn’t have a clue, they were all staring at one another to see if they could spot an obvious failure or stand-out performer in the group.

‘Guys, thank you for your time and efforts but unfortunately on this occasion it’s a no.’

Catherine’s stomach sank for them. The young Dido girl started to cry, a few of the others hung their heads and shuffled off the stage, only the woman in her sixties seemed unperturbed. ‘I had a lovely time, Richard love, thank you.’

‘No problem, sweetheart.’ Richard nodded his special nod that Catherine had noticed he reserved for ladies past the menopause.

The next group went up. This time Catherine was sure they were all going through, they had been great. ‘We’ll see you all again this afternoon!’ Carrie informed them. They all jumped around, screaming with excitement.

‘Guys, there’s three more stages before we get to our final twenty-four, don’t get too excited,’ Richard said. They all piped down and shuffled off the stage.

Next up was a group that had a really strong line up; each one had performed well. Catherine looked at Kim and said wisely, ‘They’re through.’ Kim nodded her agreement.

‘Sorry guys, it’s a no,’ Richard said.

Catherine shot up in her chair. ‘Bloody hell, I wasn’t expecting that.’

‘Bye bye,’ Star said nastily. Kim shot her a look. ‘What? They could all sing but none of them had star quality, did they?’

‘I think I might be going home,’ Catherine said, looking at the sorry group as they trundled off the stage. The next group were an odd bunch; some had been fantastic, some had been mediocre. Catherine decided to give up trying
to
work out which way it would go. Will called the final names for the group. ‘Star Prichard.’ Star stood up and walked towards the stage as if she owned the manor and everyone else there was her servant.

‘Guys …’ Richard paused for the camera, ‘we’ll see you this afternoon.’ Everyone except Star jumped for joy. She just walked offstage, totally assured of her right to be in this competition.

‘She’s unbelievable,’ Kim said, shaking her head.

‘Catherine Reilly,’ Will announced. Catherine stood shakily and walked to the front of the hall. She watched the others in her group and seeing other people who had impressed the judges head up to the front didn’t make her feel any better. Good singers were already packing their bags to go home. ‘And Kim Nevin,’ Will said finally. Kim had been great so maybe they’d done enough to get through. If not, they’d be going home together.

Richard looked at them all with the poker face that Catherine had seen him use so many times on TV. ‘I’m sorry, guys …’ Catherine’s stomach hit her feet, ‘… you’re going to have to do it all again this afternoon.’

It took Catherine a moment to realise this meant they were through. Kim ran over and hugged her. ‘One hundred and ninety-two down, one hundred and ninety-one to go.’ Catherine did a quick calculation in her head; she was about to correct Kim and say ‘One hundred and ninety to go.’ Leaving – in her wildest dreams – her and Kim in the final. But she stopped herself short. Maybe Kim did mean one hundred and ninety-one to go and Catherine – although they were getting along really well – was still just another competitor?

‘What am I on about?’ Kim said suddenly. ‘One hundred and ninety to go. Me and you get to the final and you win, that’d do me just fine.’

Catherine beamed at her new friend. ‘Don’t be daft; I’d like you to win.’

She genuinely meant it. Wherever she went out of the competition didn’t really matter to her as she never thought she’d even get this far. Catherine was relieved to have met someone like Kim, someone who knew what friendship was and wasn’t going to let the silly business of competition get in the way of what was really important in life.

Chapter 6

‘I CAN GET
it for you if you want,’ Jo volunteered kindly as her dad sat watching the telly in a sulk. He hadn’t spoken for over an hour, other than to tell her how ill he was.

‘Get what?’ Mick asked, evidently pleased that his moaning seemed to be working and Jo was about to do something for him.

‘Your violin.’

Mick narrowed his eyes at his daughter. ‘You’re a piece of work you, Joanna.’

‘Takes one to know one …’

‘I don’t know where we got you from sometimes, I really don’t.’ Jo knew what was coming next. ‘And then I remember where I got you from …’

Your mother
, Jo mouthed as her father said simultaneously, ‘Your mother.’

‘That’s right, Dad, that where I came from: Mum,’ Jo said wearily.

She bent down and inspected her toes. She was using the few spare hours before she went to bed to paint her nails and give herself a mini-facial. She had carefully checked the instructions on the packet of the face pack, unlike last time. A few months ago she had stolen one of Maria’s free passes to the gym and decided that she was going to make like a lady-who-lunches and wear a face pack in the sauna. Unfortunately, the face pack she had
purchased
was a self-heating one; which coupled with the heat from the sauna was a lethal combination. Jo had fled the sauna clutching her face and screaming – like the melting witch in
The Wizard of Oz
– and had dived into the pool, scattering a group of pensioners who had been minding their own business, enjoying an aqua-aerobics class.

‘Speaking of Mum …’ Jo said, she knew it was like picking a scab but she couldn’t help herself, ‘have you heard anything from her?’

‘Me? Why would I hear from her?’ Mick asked, shifting uncomfortably in his chair.

‘I’m just asking.’

‘Well, don’t be daft.’ Mick tutted and stared at the TV.

‘I’m not being daft. I’ve not heard from her either.’

Mick looked out of the corner of his eye at his daughter and then resumed watching the TV. Jo couldn’t work out what that look was about. Was he trying to work out if she was secretly seeing Karen and wasn’t telling him? That certainly wasn’t the case. The last time Jo had seen her mum was a year ago, in a dodgy coffee shop in Urmston called the Acropolis. The name always amused Jo; there wasn’t anything remotely Greek about either the Acropolis coffee shop or Urmston. She thought they could at least try to spice things up once in a while by serving Ouzo or smashing a few plates, but they just served bad cheese butties and weak tea. Jo had insisted on the venue, she knew it would annoy her mum – who thought she was way above Urmston these days – and that was the way Jo liked it, because Karen liked to call the shots, not the other way round.

Mick might call Jo a piece of work, but Karen was the original article. She had left when Jo was twelve to set up home in Chorlton with Jay, whom she’d been having an affair with for less than two months. Jay always corrected anyone who called him just a plain old artist. ‘Conceptual artist,’ he would say. ‘Piss artist,’ Jo had countered last time she had seen him, eighteen months ago. Her abiding memory of Jay was that he smelt of old booze and cigarettes and was always waiting for a grant from the Arts Council. His last ‘exhibition’ had taken place in his and her mum’s house. It had been entitled
Loss
and consisted of a turquoise ten-foot synthetic moulding of Jay’s penis. Jo had asked why it was turquoise. Jay had said that it represented the Id. After that Jo didn’t think that there was any point ever speaking to him again.

Karen had agreed to meet her youngest daughter in the Acropolis in Urmston after Jo had refused to get the bus to Chorlton. Chorlton was full of people like her mum and Jay and Jo hated the place. It was all artists and bohemians and bongo-playing hippies with more money than sense who’d bought their houses for ten pence in 1990 and were now sitting on a small fortune. Jay hadn’t even bothered to buy his house for ten pence; he’d inherited it from his dad. This meant that he and Karen could sit around doing whatever they pleased and not have to worry about working a nine-to-five job, as everything was paid for. This didn’t stop Karen always claiming to have no money or to be always on the lookout for something free, but it did mean that no one really listened anymore when she went into ‘poor me’ mode.

The meeting had been fraught. Karen told Jo that she
wanted
to apologise for leaving her when she was young but that Jo needed to understand that Mick had been impossible to live with and that she and Jay had a sexual connection. (Puke, Jo had thought at the time. Who needs to hear that from their mum?) She then said that Jo couldn’t blame her for wanting her own life; that she had given up years of her life for her kids. Jo had pointed out that that was surely the point of parenthood and you couldn’t just up-sticks because you felt there was more life in Chorlton with a halfwit artist. Karen had called Jo selfish, Jo had called her mother a sad old cow and the owner of the Acropolis had asked them to keep their voices down.