The Bex Factor Read online

  By my reckoning there are only two places left. Elizabeth McQueen is sure to take the first one, so as the judges start whispering behind us, I start praying that the final place will be mine. And I’m feeling pretty optimistic until I get my first whiff of Brenda’s perfume. A moment later, I feel her warm breath on the back of my neck.

  Bex

  You’ve probably realised that I’m not one of those girlie girls who wets herself every time she sees a spider coming, but that thing on the table is just so freaky, all I want to do is get out of here.

  ‘Well,’ says Emily. ‘What do you think?’

  ‘Perhaps I’d better find the kitchen, yeah?’

  ‘But you haven’t looked at my paintings yet,’ says Emily. ‘Matthew said he’d rather listen to Country and Western, so I had to do them all.’

  It’s covered with childish watercolours of cats and giant hamsters, and big-boobed blondes with wings. ‘That’s, er . . . really good, Emily. Now where’s the kitchen?’

  ‘You could do one if you like. I’m sure Mum wouldn’t mind.’

  I start backing towards the sliding doors, never once taking my eyes off that sicko thing on the table, almost expecting a vampire to jump out. ‘Sorry, I think I’d better . . .’ And I keep on reversing until someone presses what feels like the barrel of a gun into my back and I’m like, Oh my God, what’s happening?

  ‘You want to watch where you’re going,’ says Mrs Layton, untangling her crutch from the back of my school jacket. ‘You could have had me over.’

  Emily kills herself laughing.

  I don’t know if I’m dying of fright or embarrassment. ‘Where did you come from?’

  ‘Bit jumpy, aren’t we?’ says Mrs Layton. ‘I hope you’re not the sensitive type.’

  ‘Not normally, no. But when I saw that . . . whatdoyoucallit . . .’ I nod at the thing on the table. ‘. . . I felt a bit kind of . . . you know?’

  ‘What’s the matter?’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Have you never seen a coffin before?’

  Nan’s coffin was dark and shiny with brass knobs on. This one looks like a big cardboard box. ‘Well yeah, but I’ve never seen one in a house. What’s it doing on the table?’

  ‘You must know that bit in the funeral service. “In the midst of life we are in death”?’

  Emily stops laughing and reaches for her rabbit.

  ‘Wait a minute,’ I say, trying to remember exactly what Matthew told me about his dad. ‘You haven’t got a body in there, have you?’

  It’s the first time I’ve heard Mrs Layton laugh. ‘Hardly. I have no intention of sharing my coffin with anyone. Not even George Clooney.’

  ‘Your coffin? I don’t get it.’

  Mrs Layton lowers herself into an armchair. She looks like she hasn’t slept for a week. ‘It’s to remind myself of my own mortality.’

  ‘You what?’

  ‘That I’m going to die, you stupid girl.’ She buries her head in her hands. ‘And when the time comes, I’ve booked myself a nice little plot in a wood on the South Downs.’

  ‘But why?’ I say.

  ‘Because I want a carbon neutral burial.’

  ‘No, I mean why do you keep your coffin on the table like that?’

  ‘Because I’ve got MS,’ she says, spelling it out like I’m nine years old or something. ‘It doesn’t go away, you know. It’s bound to get me sooner or later.’

  ‘Mum, don’t,’ whispers Emily.

  Mrs Layton stretches out a wobbly hand and rests it on her daughter’s shoulder. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but it’s true. We need to face facts.’

  Emily looks so upset that I can’t stop myself. ‘It’s not actually true, yeah? People with MS have practically the same life expectancy as everyone else. I looked it up on Wikipedia.’

  ‘Oh that’s right, I forgot,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘Everyone’s an expert now. What are you doing here, anyway?’

  ‘You know what I’m doing. Matthew asked me to help out until you get over your flare-up.’

  ‘Well, we don’t need you,’ says Mrs Layton. ‘We can manage perfectly well on our own.’

  ‘We do need her, Mum,’ says Emily firmly. ‘What if you have another accident in the kitchen?’

  ‘Yes, well, we’ll . . .’ She stops and listens to the phone ringing in a faraway room. ‘Get that will you, Emily?

  ‘Only if you ask Bex to stay,’ says Emily.

  ‘Whatever,’ says Mrs Layton, sounding like a posh version of Shezza. ‘But hurry up. It’s giving me another headache.’

  Emily skips off to answer the phone while Mrs Layton taps out SOS on the arm of the chair and I do my best to start a conversation without coffins or dying in it. ‘We could go out sometime if you like. It’s late night shopping on Thursday, isn’t it? If it’s too far on crutches, I could always push you in your wheelchair.’

  Mrs Layton stops tapping. ‘I think we’d better get one thing straight, Rebecca: this is not some kind of Hollywood buddy movie. I only agreed to this because Matthew insisted. Maybe I do need a bit of help sometimes, but the last thing I want is to be pushed around the shopping arcade by some gum-chewing teenager. Do you understand?’

  ‘. . .Yes.’ If I hadn’t promised Matthew, I’d be straight out that door. And I know it sounds kind of mean of me, but I’m starting to hope he doesn’t get through Basic Training.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ says Mrs Layton, almost managing a smile. ‘I didn’t mean to —’

  ‘It’s OK,’ I say, not really meaning it. ‘I’ll get tea started, yeah?’

  ‘Yes, yes, that would be nice. What have you got planned?’

  ‘My mum made a shepherd’s pie. It’s in my rucksack.’

  That seemed to wipe the smile off her face. ‘I hope it’s organic.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘If you’re such a bloody expert on multiple sclerosis you should know that I have to be very careful about my diet. It’s not rocket science. All I ask is —’

  ‘Mum! Mum!’ screams Emily, bursting into the room and hopping about like she’s dancing on drawing pins. ‘That was Matthew . . . and . . . and . . . and guess what?’ It takes a couple of deep breaths before she can spit it out. ‘He’s done it. He’s actually done it! Matthew’s got a place in the Celebrity Conservatoire!’

  Matthew

  The Celebrity Conservatoire turns out to be a hotel opposite King’s Cross Station. It’s pretty cool, I guess. There’s a swimming pool in the basement, plus I’ve got satellite telly, a big double bed and something called a Corby trouser press in my room.

  My MP3 player died in the middle of ‘Subterranean Homesick Blues’, so after I’d unpacked (two T-shirts, a few pairs of pants and my second-best hoodie) I sat on the bed trying to write a song for Twilight and watching the commuters swarming into the station, half wondering if one of them was Dad.

  Dinner would have been fine if the assistant director hadn’t forced me to sit with Bart Smedley. That kid has certainly got The Tingle Factor. He makes my flesh creep. Every time a cameraman walked past he did a little speech about how he was the most talented singer/dancer at his stage school and how he’d turned down Billy Elliot just to be on the show. Twilight was at the next table with the under eighteens’ chaperone, Mrs Magwicz. I kept trying to catch her eye, but she seemed more interested in her steak.

  After dinner, they filmed the bit where we meet our mentors. Apparently I didn’t look excited enough when Jesamène walked into the cocktail bar, so we had to do it all again. That’s why it’s nearly eight o’clock by the time we assemble in the dance studio for our first tutorial.

  ‘OK, guys,’ says Nikki, ‘pull up a mat.’ It’s the first time there are no cameras present; it’s the first time I’ve seen Nikki Hardbody wearing glasses. ‘Now I’m sure you’re all familiar with that tired old cliché, “fame costs”. But this is where you need to start paying attention, because during our private sessions together, I’m going to show you how you can get it for free.’

  The dance s
tudio echoes with the crackle of universal high-fiving. Only Elizabeth McQueen (the birthmark lady) looks less than totally delirious.

  ‘Problem, Elizabeth?’ says Nikki Hardbody.

  Her soft, lilting speaking voice is such a contrast from the powerful way she sings. ‘I thought Justin was going to be my mentor.’

  ‘Allrightee,’ says Nikki. ‘There’s something I need to clear up before we get started. Of course you’ll be working very closely with your mentors, but, as you know, they’re busy people, so you probably won’t see much of them until the end of the week.’

  ‘Why not?’ says the short one from Soul Survivorz with tramlines in his hair.

  ‘Yes,’ says Bart Smedley, indignantly. ‘Brenda said she was really looking forward to working with me.’

  Nikki’s enigmatic smile never once leaves her face. ‘Brenda’s filming another life assurance commercial, Jesamène’s doing the pre-publicity for her Boxercise DVD and Justin’s flying out to organise a talent show for the victims of the volcano. But don’t worry, guys, I’ve set up office in the penthouse suite so I can be with you 24/7.’

  Beth from The Holy Joannas has her hand in the air. ‘When are we going get our first session with the vocal coach?’

  Nikki shakes her head disappointedly. ‘There is so much more to this business than just singing. I mean, let’s face it, if it was purely about talent, some of you wouldn’t be here.’

  Trevor and Ashley, the identical twins, exchange a meaningful glance.

  ‘Let’s get back to basics,’ says Nikki. ‘I’m not saying this applies to everyone, but from what I’ve seen today, if some of you don’t learn this lesson pretty sharpish you won’t be here next week. Right, Matt.’ She snaps her fingers. ‘Let’s have you up here, please. I want to try a little exercise.’

  You can sense the relief as I join Nikki at the front. ‘What kind of an exercise?’

  ‘OK, I want you to imagine we’re in the middle of the live show. It’s One Hit Wonder Week and you’ve just done an incredible version of “Crazy Frog”.’

  Everyone laughs, apart from Twilight. I try to catch her eye again, but she’s scribbling furiously in her little black book.

  ‘Right,’ says Nikki. ‘I’ll be Willow,’ (Willow Strawberry is the presenter with very long legs and a very short skirt) ‘and you can be Matt!’ She sidles up to me and slips her hand around my shoulder. ‘Well done, you. So come on, Matt, how did that feel?’

  ‘Yeah, well, it felt . . . OK,’ I say, remembering how much I hate these improvisation things in drama. ‘Not as bad as I thought it was going to be.’

  ‘And how are you enjoying your Tingle Factor journey?’

  ‘It’s been erm . . . interesting. I was a bit lonely at first but —’

  ‘No, no, no, no, no,’ says Nikki. ‘The public wants someone who cares. How can you expect them to if you don’t? The answer to the first question is basically “amazing” – “incredible” is fine too, and possibly “fab” if you want to go a bit retro. But the second one is a complete no-brainer. If anyone asks you about the journey, there is only one acceptable response: “I’m having the best time of my life.”’ She pauses for at least ten seconds – just like Mr Catchpole when he wants us to ‘fully absorb our learning objective’.

  ‘Now, how many of you know how to make yourselves cry at will?’

  To tell you the truth, I’m pretty glad when it’s all over and Mrs Magwicz shepherds the under-eighteens across to reception, where she starts listing every famous child she’s ever chaperoned, and I start praying for the lift.

  ‘They wanted me for that part actually,’ says Bart Smedley, ‘but there was no way I’d have been seen dead in a soap.’

  ‘He’s done ever so well since,’ says Mrs Magwicz, shaking her cleavage disapprovingly. ‘He sent me a lovely postcard from LA.’

  Bart Smedley holds his nose and brushes away an imaginary fart. ‘Yes, I saw that movie. What was his agent thinking?’

  As the discussion gets more and more heated, I glance across at Twilight, who’s leaning coolly against the water dispenser, and roll my eyes at her. She seems more interested in the contents of her little black book. But maybe my luck is changing, because Mrs Magwicz and Bart Smedley are so wound up in the question of whether one Oscar nomination actually makes you a good actor that they don’t notice her glide into the lift, followed by yours truly. It’s a good job Twilight hasn’t got a stethoscope, because my heart is thumping like crazy as the doors close and I press the button for the ninth floor.

  ‘That woman is amazing,’ she says, dropping her false fangs into her black leather shoulder bag.

  It could be claustrophobia, it could be her perfume, or it could be that little black dress, but whatever it is I’m starting to feel very dizzy in here. ‘She’s OK, I suppose. I didn’t like the way she kept on about “personal hygiene”.’

  ‘Not that ludicrous Magwicz person. I’m talking about Nikki. Some of this stuff is absolute gold dust.’ I catch a glimpse of her perfectly formed handwriting as she flips open the little black book and starts reading. ‘There is nothing more seductive than an artist who appears to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown. Clearly that’s something I’m going to have to work on.’

  ‘You really want to win this, don’t you?’

  Twilight snorts derisively. ‘I know what you’re doing, Bart, and it won’t work.’

  ‘It’s Matthew, actually. Only, in here they call me Matt.’

  ‘Well, listen, Matt,’ she says, trying to find her reflection in the shiny silver door. ‘You might be able to play your little mind games with some of the other no-hopers, but you’re wasting your time with me.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent. I want this more than the whole lot of you put together, but I promise you now, I will never ever fall into the trap of looking desperate.’

  ‘That’s not what I . . .’ We continue in silence to the seventh floor, where I finally work out something else to say to her. ‘So . . . Twilight, are you into, like, vampires and stuff?’

  ‘Oh please,’ she says, scouring away at the fake blood on her chin. ‘Do I look like someone who’s remotely interested in tragic, adolescent wish fulfilment?’

  ‘Then why are you dressed as a —?’

  ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Zeitgeist?’

  ‘The what?’

  ‘The spirit of the age, dumbo.’ She looks even more beautiful without her black make-up. ‘You can’t watch television for five minutes without a vampire jumping out at you. Every teenage boy in Britain will want to sleep with me, and every teenage girl will want to be my friend.’

  ‘What, you mean you’re just doing it to get more votes?’

  ‘Doors opening,’ says the lift, in a voice almost as mocking as the look on Twilight’s face. ‘This is the ninth floor.’

  ‘So your name’s not really Twilight?’ I say, realising how stupid that must have sounded as I chase her down the corridor.

  ‘What do you think?’ she says, coming to a halt outside her room and reaching for her key card.

  I do my best not to sound too excited. ‘That’s a coincidence. I’m just next door.’

  ‘Hardly,’ says Twilight. ‘The stage school brat is right opposite.’

  ‘We’ve got that photo-shoot tomorrow morning. We could get the lift down together, if you like.’

  ‘Whatever,’ she says, swiftly disappearing into her room only to re-emerge a moment later. ‘Oh and Matt, there’s just one more thing.’

  I do my best not to fall into the trap of looking desperate. ‘Yes!’

  ‘Would you mind not staring at me all the time? It’s actually a bit creepy.’

  Sometimes, I’d much rather be at home. I’m a bit lost without my MP3 player, so after I’ve flicked through all five hundred channels (nothing on), eaten the stale shortbread from the complimentary tea and coffee making facilities and mangled my jeans in the trouser
press, I watch the drunks tottering into the station and try to find something even slightly positive about being described as ‘a bit creepy’.

  Nikki Hardbody would be proud of me. I don’t have to stop myself blinking for two minutes, keep a chopped onion in my pocket or poke myself in the eye. I don’t even have to think of something really sad from my past, because the tears just trickle down my face of their own accord.

  Thank goodness Mum reminded me to charge this thing. I’ve promised to phone home every day, but I don’t suppose I’ll find much to say to her. And right now, I really need someone I can talk to.

  Bex: Hi, Matthew. How’s it going?

  Matthew: All right, I suppose.

  Bex: You OK? You don’t sound . . .

  Matthew: I’m fine.

  (Pause.)

  Bex: How’s the Celebrity Conservatoire?

  Matthew (gloomily): It’s a big hotel opposite Kings Cross station.

  Bex: Oh . . . right. I thought it was, like, this big house in the country. But you’re having a great time, yeah?

  Matthew: Yeah . . . awesome.

  Bex: And what about the others? I bet that lady with the face is in there, isn’t she? Oh come on, Matthew, who else got through?

  Matthew: We’re not supposed to say. You’ll find out on Saturday night.

  Bex: Oh yeah. I promised Emily I’d watch it with her.

  Matthew: Emily’s OK, isn’t she?

  Bex: She was fine until she remembered her science project. But don’t worry. I’m working on it.

  (Pause.)

  Matthew: And what about Mum?

  Bex: She’s . . . fine.

  Matthew: You don’t sound very sure.

  Bex: Why didn’t you tell me about that coffin thing?

  Matthew: Would you have believed me?

  Bex: How do you put up with it? She’s just so angry all the time.

  Matthew: Not all the time. It’s the steroids. They’re really good when she has a flare-up, but they can make her a bit moody sometimes.