Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen (6 page)

I sigh deeply. ‘We’ve got a long way to go, Jaz.’

The door behind the bar opens and Simon backs in with a crate of washed glasses. After our meeting he and Jaz persuaded me to sit in on a typical weekend Sing It Back session,
to get a renewed feel for what we were dealing with. In a first-ditch attempt to save money, I gave Archie and Ruby the night off: I had a feeling we wouldn’t be at capacity.

‘Cheer up, mate, it might never happen.’ Simon grins as he starts stacking the shelves.

I smile back. ‘What put you in such a good mood?’

He shrugs. ‘Nothing.’ Then he says, in a way that’s a little
too
casual to be casual, ‘How’s Lou?’

My smile threatens to widen but I keep it in check. ‘Oh, she’s fine. Studying hard.’

He upturns a fan of wine glasses and expertly slots them into place. ‘Psychology, right?’

I love that Simon listens – I can’t even recall telling him that. ‘Yep,’ I say over a squealy version of ‘I Will Always Love You’. ‘You know she’s doing this module where she gets to, like, read what other people are thinking.’

Simon makes a face as he squeezes past Jaz, immersed in some article about WAGS’ interior decor. ‘Psychology’s different to telepathy, Maddie.’

‘It’s true!’ I lie. ‘Especially men. She can tell
exactly
what’s going through your minds. It’s all in the eyes, apparently, something about how often you blink when you’re talking to a girl. Hey, I’ll ask her next time I see you together!’

‘Don’t,’ he says far too quickly. ‘I mean, I wouldn’t want to put her on the spot.’

As he busies himself I decide that if such a module really did exist, I’d have passed with flying colours. Simon
so
likes Lou!

‘Go on then, what do you think?’ he asks, swiftly changing the subject.

I frown. ‘Of what?’

‘Tonight. Bad as you thought it’d be?’

‘Worse.’

Simon shrugs. ‘Means the revival’s going to be even better, then, surely?’

‘Surely.’

The party of four’s two-hour slot has come to a close. As they drunkenly pull on jackets and make their way out into the night, one of the girls trips over the stage, giggling as she lands on her bum.

‘Cheers, guys. G’night.’ I give them a wave, quashing the impulse to run over and hug them for being the only people prepared to give us their hard-earned cash.

Apart from one, that is. Moments later, in die-hard Sing It Back tradition, the man at the opposite end of the bar gets to his feet and dusts himself off. He’s been here all night, as he is every Saturday, cloaked in the shadows and quietly drinking his Morgan’s Spiced. Short and rotund, he has longish wispy brown hair that laps over an elaborate shirt collar. His chest is a great barrel, the buttons straining to hold him inside. His trousers are black leather.

Loaf.

Is this guy still at it? He’s been propping up the bar in this borderline-creepy way for as long as I can remember, and from Simon and Jaz’s bored reaction, I can tell his habits haven’t changed a bit. With a roll of his eyes, Simon goes to clear the table of pint glasses while Jaz programmes the song in – always the same: ‘Bat Out of Hell’. Apparently Loaf never buys a full session; this must be a perk for his never-ending custom. I don’t want to sound brutal, but this is the sort of perk Sing It
Back could well do without. He’d better make the most of it while it lasts.

It’s the sort of perk my ears could do without, too – that’s if they’re not already leaking blood. While Simon’s loading up the dirties I watch, transfixed, as Loaf gallops through the first chorus, slamming his meaty chest with the passion of it, dropping to his knees in a move that comes so close to splitting his trousers I wince. At one point the karaoke machine jams, so it’s stuck on ‘Bat-ba-batbatbatbat’ until it rights itself. Loaf doesn’t seem to mind – if anything, it fuels his performance as his body jerks and shudders to the music.

Minutes later, it’s over. There’s a deafening silence. I feel like we’ve just come out of a wind tunnel. Jaz’s hair looks even more wild than normal, as if she’s had an electric shock.

Loaf gets up, straightens his shirt and slides some cash on to the bar. Grabbing his coat, without saying a word, he heads for the door.

‘Who
is
that guy?’ I ask when he’s gone.

Simon shrugs.

‘Don’t you think it’s weird?’ I say. ‘I mean, that none of us knows anything about him?’

Jaz pops a stick of gum in her mouth. ‘Maddie, meet our only regular customer.’ She picks up the fifty-pound note. ‘S’long as he’s not waiting around for change, I don’t care who he is.’

‘What about these?’ Lou presents a pair of my father’s gold MC Hammer-style pantaloons. ‘Help the Aged?’

I flop back on the bed. I’m tired, but every time I close my eyes I see Dad dancing to ‘U Can’t Touch This’. ‘We’re not chucking anything away,’ I say wearily.

‘But there’s no
room
for your stuff!’ Lou puts her hands on her hips, surveying the contents of my parents’ wardrobe. ‘Seriously, I’ve never seen so many clothes.’

‘Yeah, well, I’ll buy one of those storage things. You can get a plastic one for a fiver.’

Lou nods. ‘I’ve got tons of those shoe ladder ones – I’ll bring some round.’

I prop myself up on an elbow. ‘Thanks, but I’m kind of hoping I won’t have to cram all my worldly possessions into a rat-run of teeny-tiny holes.’

Lou sits down on the end of the bed. ‘Tell me again why you’re doing this?’

It’s a week later and I’ve just moved into my parents’ flat. Up till now I’ve been sharing a place in Camden with some friends from uni (Lou moved to London too late) but recently the place has turned into a glorified squat, what with people’s boy-slash-girlfriends living there all the time, so I wasn’t too cut-up to leave. I spoke to Mum about it a few days ago. The conversation went something like this:

Mum: ‘Darling …
crackle spit crackle
[dodgy European pay phone] … happening for you?’

Me: ‘I can’t hear you very well, Mum. Is everything OK?’

Mum: [First part indecipherable] ‘… wonderful …
crackle
… lost his trousers! … Seven hundred, can you believe …
crackle
… Craig McLachlan’s hair!’

Me: ‘You keep breaking up on me, Mum. Listen, I’m crashing at yours for a bit to save money, hope that’s all right?’

Mum: ‘Of course, poppet … sensible …
crackle
… my special mayonnaise?’

Shortly after that we said our goodbyes.

‘It’s all going to work out fine,’ I inform Lou, swinging my legs off the bed and padding into the kitchen. ‘I’m not going to sit around on my arse just waiting for my life to happen.’ I rummage about in the Sainsbury’s carrier she brought round
and fish out a bag of Maltesers. ‘Thanks for the chocolate therapy,’ I say, throwing six in my mouth at once.

‘You look tired,’ observes Lou, picking her way through the stacked-up cardboard boxes until she reaches the sofa. She tucks her legs up under her and hefts a dog-eared tome from the side table, scanning its bright yellow cover.

‘
Business Management for Dummies
?’ She shoots me a raised eyebrow.

I shrug. ‘I tried to find
How to Take Over Your Mad Parents’ Karaoke Bar and Save It From Dereliction for Dummies
but I guess they haven’t published that one yet.’

Lou laughs. ‘Oh, Maddie.’

I sit next to her, offering her my last Malteser – it’s not my last Rolo, but the sentiment’s there. She sucks it thoughtfully.

‘Why don’t you get some sleep,’ she says. ‘I’ll unpack all this.’

It’s tempting. I’m so tired I feel like I haven’t been to bed in days. Which is sort of true: I’ve spent the past week drawing up official plans for Sing It Back and revising Mum and Dad’s outlandish accounts. Even their budget for the bare necessities is way off! With their current business structure (impressed?), it’d be a miracle if the club still had running water in a month, never mind anything else. I can’t have been going to sleep much before three every morning, hoping inspiration might strike in the small hours, trying to find ways of making the numbers add up, and even after that I’ve been lying awake fretting till the sun comes up.

‘Do I look rough?’

Lou nods. ‘Yeah. But who cares.’

I pull my hair into a ponytail. ‘The costs are terrible,’ I mourn.

‘You knew that already, didn’t you?’

‘Not the extent of it.’ I bite my lip. ‘And, you know, it’s one thing to keep the place going, but these plans we’ve got … I just don’t see how it can work.’

Lou gets up to make tea. ‘Have you sorted the loan?’ she calls as she flicks the kettle on.

‘I saw the bank yesterday – they’re doing the checks now.’ I put my head in my hands. ‘But even then, Lou, I can’t see it happening. The loan might help get the place out of debt but it’s not going to make the sort of difference I’m thinking about.’

‘Then scrap that,’ Lou says reasonably, stirring the tea bags. ‘All they wanted you to do was look after it. You don’t
have
to do this re-launch thing.’

‘I know.’ I yawn. ‘I just wish there was some other way … I know there’s a solution out there, if only I could find it.’

Lou comes back in. ‘What do the others think?’ she asks, putting the tea down in front of me. ‘Two sugars – you need it.’

‘Thanks.’ I take a hot sip. ‘Who d’you mean?’

Lou’s blonde head dips slightly. ‘Oh, just … Ruby and that lot.’

I grin. ‘If you’re asking about Simon, yes, they’re all behind it.’

Lou looks at me, wide-eyed. ‘I wasn’t!’

‘Sure.’

‘We have been talking a bit online.’ She smiles shyly. ‘He’s really sweet.’

‘I know,’ I say, looking at her sideways. ‘He’s a nice guy. You should ask him out.’

‘Maddie!’

‘What?’ I say, my karaoke troubles momentarily forgotten. I’m glad someone else’s love life has a pulse – not that I’ve got time right now for the emotional vampire that is the post-getting-dumped dating process. ‘Isn’t that what people do?’

‘I couldn’t possibly,’ says Lou primly.

‘He likes you, Lou – I can tell. He’s just shy, probably thinks you’re out of his league.’

‘Rubbish,’ she announces, but I detect a hint of a smile. She reaches for the biscuit tin. ‘I need a HobNob.’

I grin at her. ‘Exactly!’

That afternoon I shuffle into Sing It Back, ready to break the bad news. Ruby du Jour, clad in a leopard print jumpsuit and three-inch heels, greets me at the door.

‘Sweetie, where’ve you been?’ She gives me a fragrant hug and grabs my hand, leading me into the dank club. ‘We’ve already started thinking about the new decor,’ she babbles. ‘Jaz has got some
fabulous
ideas off those WAGS. Not that you’d catch
me
sitting around at home all day, waiting for my husband to come home. Those footballers, honest to god, they get paid a fortune – and for what? Did you know Steven Gerrard’s favourite meal is macaroni cheese?’

I slip on to one of the bar stools, blinking back fatigue. ‘No, I didn’t know that.’

The scene at the club breaks my heart a bit – and not for the usual reasons. Jaz and Archie are sitting in one of the mustard booths, scribbling on a piece of paper. The old man’s face
is aglow with excitement and even Jaz is focused on the task at hand. There’s an array of different-coloured pens on the table, and every so often Jaz reaches into her hair to take one out – or put one back, I can’t be sure. I wonder if she’s got a whole stationery set in there.