Star Struck (35 page)

Catherine came to a few minutes later. When she looked around there was a crowd staring at her. ‘What’s going on?’ she asked.

As she spoke, the crowd cheered.

‘We thought you were out for the count!’ The maître d’ said, with over-the-top bonhomie.

‘She looks so cute in real life,’ Catherine heard someone else say. ‘Like a little doll,’ she heard another voice agree.’

‘I do hope her father is OK, he’s been so brave, I was reading about him on the internet.’

Catherine struggled to sit upright. She grabbed Andy’s hand. He was kneeling at her side and she whispered in his ear, ‘Please … get me out of here.’

‘She’s not very well, let’s just get you back,’ he said to Catherine, pulling her to her feet.

‘Let me help …’ A burly man stepped forward to help, ‘I loved you last night, you rocked,’ he told Catherine. Other people in the ever-increasing crowd agreed. Catherine could hear even more murmuring about her father and then she was in the lift.

‘Thank you. We’ll be fine from here. I just want to get her back, it’s been a very busy week …’ Andy said as the doors shut. Catherine looked at herself in the lift mirror. She was pasty white, even through her fake tan.

‘What the hell just happened?’ Catherine asked in amazement.

‘I think you’re famous.’ Andy said, looking at her reflection in the mirror; they both burst into fits of laughter.

‘Well, where are we going to go then, so that I don’t get hounded by my adoring public?’ Catherine said, pretending to be a prima donna.

Andy thought for a moment. ‘I’ve got just the place.’

The Cobbler’s Thumb was an Irish pub down a back alley, about five minutes walk from Columbus Circle, but once through the door it looked like it was a million cultural miles away from New York. Andy held the door open for Catherine and she stepped through, thinking that this was possibly the first time in her life a man had held a door open for her. When she was with her dad he always marched through first and left the door to swing violently back at her; Catherine had actually become quite good at catching it before she got smacked in the face.

Once through the door Catherine and Andy were greeted by a cacophony of fiddly-de-dee music the like of which Catherine was sure hadn’t been heard in an actual Irish pub in the last thirty years. Andy looked at Catherine and raised an eyebrow.

‘Come on,’ she said, pulling him inside.

‘Howaya?’ the American barman asked in a fake Irish accent.

‘Good,’ Catherine answered.

‘And yer man?’

Catherine looked at Andy. ‘How’s yer man?’ she asked cheekily mimicking the barman.

‘Fine.’ Andy nodded, ‘Grand, even.’

The barman didn’t realise he was having his leg pulled.

‘What’s your poison?’ The barman’s accent was slipping, he was oscillating between Irish, American and pirate.

‘He’s going to say “O be sure”, in a minute,’ Catherine whispered to Andy.

‘I’ll have a pint of …’ Andy looked at the bar.

‘Guinness?’ the barman offered.

‘No, just lager, thanks.’

‘And what can I get for the colleen?’

‘Same please,’ Catherine said, smiling.
Colleen?
Where was this guy from?

‘We don’t serve pints to ladies.’

Catherine laughed out loud. ‘Really?’

‘Sorry, missus, we try to keep some standards.’

Catherine looked around. The place was a dump, with bikes nailed to the walls, rows of dusty copies of
Ulysses
perched on bookshelves and a copy of the Proclamation of the Free Irish State peeling off the back of the bar.

‘Of course,’ Catherine nodded. ‘I’ll have a lager in a lady’s glass, please.’

She and Andy stood in giggly silence until the barman had served them and then they retired to a booth. ‘What’s he on?’ Andy asked.

‘Oh God, he reminds me of when Dad used to drag us down to Chorlton Irish club when we were kids. My dad’s parents over from Ireland, and every now and then he’d get all misty-eyed for a country he’d never lived in and we’d have to go and listen to some terrible band play “The Fields of Athenry”.’ Catherine laughed remembering.

‘Isn’t it funny how people like to pretend to be Irish?’
Andy
mused. ‘No other country in the world has that effect on people, does it? ’

Catherine laughed. ‘My sister Jo pretends to be South African sometimes.’

‘Really? Why?’

It’s hard to explain why Jo does a lot of things, Catherine thought. ‘She just likes the accent, I think.’

Andy nodded as if this made perfect sense to him. ‘It is a good shouting accent. “Release the hounds!”’ he said, in a perfect South African accent.

Catherine laughed. ‘That’s even better than Jo’s!’ she said, impressed.

‘Thanks, I have hidden talents,’ Andy said with mock seriousness. ‘So then. You’re scared of heights … What else should I know about you before I can’t speak to you any more because everyone else is trying to get a piece of you?’

Catherine thought for a moment, what else was there to know about her? ‘Not a lot.’

‘Tell me about your dad.’ Catherine looked at Andy and could tell by his face that he thought he had made a mistake. ‘That’s if you want to …’

‘He’s poorly, that’s all there is to it. I’d rather not talk about him, if that’s OK.’

‘Course, yeah. No problem. Bad idea,’ Andy said quickly. ‘OK, tell me about singing. What made you enter?’

Catherine began to explain and then realised that it was her dad’s announcement that he had cancer that had forced her to enter the competition. She immediately felt guilty. What sort of daughter would do that? She began to tell Andy what had happened and found herself half
an
hour later, still sitting, sipping her drink from her lady’s glass and explaining everything to Andy about her family and her role within it.

‘You shouldn’t feel guilty!’ Andy said, ‘There’s nothing to feel guilty for.’

‘Well, I do.’

‘Is it Catholic guilt?’

‘What?’

‘Well, your dad’s parents were Irish, just wondering if you were Catholic.’

‘Sort of. We went to Catholic school and used to go to church but I only go there to sing now. Anyway it’s not Catholic guilt, it’s guilt guilt.’

‘I think you’re really hard on yourself,’ Andy said gently and touched her hand. It was then that she realised she was crying. Catherine wiped her eyes.

‘Sorry, you must think I’m a wreck, fainting, crying. Nice first date.’

‘It’s a great first date,’ he smiled. ‘I’m really enjoying myself.’

‘This isn’t very New York though, is it?’ Catherine said after a while.

Andy looked around. ‘No it isn’t,’ he said touching the bike wheel behind them.

‘I’ve hardly seen anything of New York since we’ve been here, I mean I know we’re here, but I could be anywhere.’

‘Shall we go somewhere else?’ Andy asked.

‘Where?’

‘Come with me.’ Andy said, standing up and taking Catherine’s hand.

* * *

‘Where are we going?’ Catherine squealed. Andy had walked her from the taxi with his hands over her eyes. Catherine could tell they were near water, there was a freshness to the air that she hadn’t felt since she’d arrived in New York.

‘I just wanted to show you a bit of New York but I’m rubbish at doing this blindfold thing. They always do this in the films and it looks easier,’ Andy said, taking his hands away.

Catherine gasped. The Statue of Liberty was lit up on the other side of the Hudson River. The lights from the city glinted on the water.

‘Wow!’ Catherine sat down on one of the benches that line the Battery Park Esplanade. Andy sat next to her.

‘I was trying to think where to take you, you know, a pub or club, somewhere that New York was famous for, but I thought you might get recognised again so I just thought here would be a nice idea.’

Catherine looked at Andy. What a really thoughtful thing to do, she thought.

She was just about to thank him when he turned to her. ‘I think that we’re both quite shy really, aren’t we? I mean, I know that you get up and sing in front of people but you’re like me – shy – when it comes to things like this.’

‘Things like what?’ Catherine looked into Andy’s eyes.

‘This,’ he said, leaning forward and kissing her.

Catherine moved in towards him as he put his arms around her. And they sat, alone in the half-light and kissed and it was the most perfect moment that Catherine could ever remember.

Chapter 20

IT HAD BEEN
five days since Jo and her family had returned from New York and in that time Mick had managed to become the man of the moment. Claire said it reminded her of when Eddie ‘the Eagle’ Edwards shot to fame. Jo didn’t remember this Eddie guy but apparently he had been a hopeless ski jumper who – with true Dunkirk spirit – had represented Britain at the winter Olympics years ago and come, predictably, last. The country loved a loser and the bigger the loser the better. Well, Mick was a loser and the country had already loved him for having the David-taking-on-Goliath balls to challenge Richard Forster; now that they knew had cancer he was fast approaching national treasure status.

Mick was in the dining room. He’d been mooching around in his dressing-gown all morning. ‘I don’t think I need representation, thank you,’ Mick said to the person on the other end of the phone. ‘Good day to you.’ He replaced the receiver and whistled chirpily as he entered the kitchen.

‘Who was that?’ Jo was sitting at the kitchen table, cutting open the sleeves of a Fair Isle cardigan that she intended to turn upside down, sew together and make into a skirt.

‘Max Clifford again. I told him last time, thank you for those buns you sent and words of kindness but I’ll be looking after my own public appearances.’

Max Clifford’s firm had sent a basket of muffins to the house. Mick hadn’t been able to work out why someone would send ‘buns’ and had even got Jo to go online and find out how much ‘a tin of buns from London costs’. When Jo located the firm that had delivered them and told her dad the hefty price tag, Mick nearly fell over. He was evidently pleased that someone would go to the trouble of trying to court his business and to do it with buns seemed to be going the extra mile.

The portable TV was on in the corner of the room. Something on it caught Jo’s attention. It was Carol McGiffin talking on
Loose Women
, ‘No … I’m sorry but I just can’t imagine under what circumstances it would be a good idea to sell your story to a newspaper about having cancer. I just can’t …’

‘But he didn’t, did he?’ Jackie Brambles interjected. ‘He just went along to support his daughter and all this has come out.’

‘Well, if he was just supporting his daughter then he should have just stayed at home and voted for her,’ Carol McGiffin was adamant. There were boos from the audience.

Jackie Brambles turned to the camera, ‘We are of course talking about Mick Reilly, whose hilarious appearance in support of his daughter on
Star Maker
, we have recently found out is tinged with sadness, as he has cancer …’

‘That bloody McGuffen woman, I don’t know who she thinks she is with her toy boy and her “I married Chris Evans” she does my bloody head in …’ Mick huffed. The fact they were talking about him seemed perfectly normal to him though, oddly, Jo realised.

‘Well, I have to say …’ Jane McDonald began.

‘Oh, not her, “I’d rather have a cup of tea than sex”, we’ve heard it all before. Get back on your boat,’ Mick complained to the TV.

‘I like him, he’s got balls and a good fighting spirit. Good on you, Mick, if you’re watching, I’m rooting for you!’ Jane McDonald gave a thumbs up on the screen.

‘I’ve always liked her,’ Mick said, backtracking.

‘I can’t believe they’re talking about you on
Loose Women
,’ Jo said, genuinely amazed. Even though her father had featured in a number of papers and magazines this week and the phone had barely stopped ringing with offers of personal appearance opportunities, Jo still couldn’t come to terms with it. Things like this didn’t happen to people like them.

‘Heard anything from Mum?’ Jo asked. She was half expecting her mother to be the next guest on the show.

‘No,’ Mick said, avoiding his daughter’s eye.

‘Told you.’

When they had arrived at Manchester Airport, Jo had turned to her dad as her mother had pulled her bag down from the overhead compartment and said, ‘We won’t see her for dust.’

Karen had jumped in a taxi and promised to call and only Jo, it seemed to her, had known not to hold her breath. Maria and Claire had both asked Jo if Karen had been in contact and Maria had even told Jo that she thought that they had all had a lovely time together. It had made Jo sad to hear this – she wished it was true but she knew it wasn’t. Karen just looked after number one.

Jo’s phone began to ring.

‘Tell them I’m out,’ Mick said. ‘I’m off for a bath.’

‘It’s my phone, why is someone going to ring you on my phone?’

‘Because,’ Mick pointed at the TV, ‘I’m all over the shop.’

Jo gave her father a withering look. ‘That’s the most accurate thing you’ve said in a while.’

Mick tutted and walked out of the room, the cord from his dressing-gown trailing on the floor. There was a suspicious-looking substance on the tip of it. Jo curled her lip in horror and then – seeing the tub on top of the work surface – realised it was Nutella. Her father really was a slob.

She answered the phone. ‘Hello.’

‘Hi, is that Joanna Reilly?’

‘Speaking.’

‘It’s Nurse Roper from Christie’s.’

Jo’s stomach lurched.

‘Is it your dad that’s been in all the papers this week?’

‘The very same.’

‘Right … In that case, I think you might want to come down to the hospital because I really don’t want to do this over the phone.’

Jo’s heart fell into her boots. ‘OK, tell me where to be and when.’

‘Here we are standing on top of the Empire State Building with some of the finalists of
Star Maker!
’ The presenter shouted excitedly. Star, Catherine and Kim and three of the over-twenty-five men were standing on the
observation
deck being buffeted by the wind. Catherine was finding it difficult to match the interviewer’s enthusiasm after her last vertiginous experience at the top of a New York building. She had been mentally preparing herself for the experience all morning and was now performing breathing exercises while having an argument with herself that went along the lines of
What’s the worst that can happen? I could climb over the projective barrier and throw myself off lemming-style, that’s the worst that could happen
. This was about the thirtieth interview the
Star Maker
contestants had done this week and Catherine had been requested for each one. Not only did it mean that she was finding it difficult to concentrate on her rehearsals for this week’s live show, but it also meant that resentments were beginning to surface towards Catherine. She had tried addressing it with Will and Richard but they had told her that she needed to stop complaining and get on with it. Her stock was high at the moment, thanks to the interest in her dad and her performance on the previous show.