Spin Cycle (20 page)

The pair stood in the wings, Clipboard in front, a few feet nearer the stage, holding Rachel’s handbag. After a minute or so the makeup girl turned up, wearing a gormless smile and a hat like an inverted flowerpot over short blond ringlets. She began dusting Rachel’s face with powder and spraying lacquer onto her hair. Onstage, Lenny was doing a few minutes emceeing before Pitsy came on.

“Thank you, Dennis,” he was saying, referring to the previous comic, “for that rare insight into the British and their bogs. Of course where I come from we don’t wash our hands after going to the lavvy. In fact we don’t wash them after unblocking the lavvy. . . .”

There was a burst of laughter from the audience. A moment later he was introducing Pitsy.

The makeup girl continued to fiddle with Rachel’s hair. Despite her nerves, she managed a quiet snigger. If anybody was about to get their comeuppance it was Pitsy bloody Carter.

“I’ve been going out with this bloke for the last year or so,” she began. “Of course we’re totally incompatible. I’m a Virgo. He’s an arsehole. . . .”

As the audience roared, Rachel let out a loud gasp.

Clipboard swung round and hissed at her to be quiet.

Rachel couldn’t apologize on account of her mouth being wide open and her hand over it. With no thought to the makeup girl, who was still busy spraying and arranging Rachel’s hair, she moved a few paces closer to the stage.

“He’s always going on about what a gentleman he is. To which I say, ‘why—because you get out of the bath to piss in the sink?’ ”

Another huge laugh.

Rachel couldn’t believe Pitsy’s audacity—not to mention recklessness. She was going live on national television with Noeleen Piccolo’s material.

Then suddenly it changed.

“So anyway, have you ever thought how different things would have been if the Twelve Apostles had been gay?”

Rachel’s stomach gave one almighty lurch. Assuming her ears were deceiving her, she simply stood there listening and blinking.

“The Last Supper would have been brunch. The water at the wedding feast of Canaan . . .” Rachel’s stomach lurched a second time. She opened her mouth to speak, but all that came out was a tiny muffled yelp. She tried again. Her jaw moved up and down, but still no words came. Instead she stood there in gobsmacked, wide-eyed shock and amazement.

“And the Sermon on the Mount would have been a musical.”

A roar—with clapping—could be heard from the audience.

Finally Rachel managed to blurt out a few words. “Omigod,” she said in a strange strangulated gasp. “That’s my material. Pitsy’s stolen my material. She’s fucking stolen it.”

Clipboard swung round for a second time.

“For heaven’s sake, will you please be quiet.”

“But you don’t understand. She’s . . .”

“Look, you’re just having a last-minute panic,” Clipboard soothed. “Try to relax. You’ll be fine when you get out there.”

Pitsy was getting into her stride by now. “. . . like, who’s ever heard of a bloke telling his girlfriend: ‘I think we have a problem with our relationship’? . . . or a woman gazing at a guy and saying: ‘Jeez, what a cute scrotum’?”

Another surge of laughter from the audience.

By now Rachel was hyperventilating and quite literally tearing at her hair. Seeing this, the makeup girl let out a distraught squeal and came at her with a brush.

“Look, just piss off, will you?” Rachel hissed. The startled girl leaped six feet backward.

“You don’t understand, it’s
mine
. That’s
my
set,” Rachel said in a whispered shriek. “Every word. Every sodding bloody buggering word.”

It occurred to Rachel to march out onto the stage and put a stop to Pitsy’s set. But enraged as she was, she had the sense to realize that nobody would believe her. She would come across as a jealous, ranting madwoman and end up being removed by Security. Added to that, her career would be over. As if it wasn’t already.

So she just stood there, continuing to tug at her hair and jump up and down with fury.

If she got hold of Pitsy she would kill her. No, first she would phone Noeleen Piccolo and the two of them would kill her. Then they’d throw her body to the dingoes.

It wasn’t long before Rachel’s rage gave way to panic. She had no material to go onstage with. Nothing. It was all she could do to stop herself bursting into tears. There was nothing for it, she’d just have to go on and perform old stuff. She took a deep breath. OK . . . OK, she thought, doing her best to calm down and focus. What would she use for an opener? But her mind was a blank. A complete and utter blank.

She looked at the stage. Pitsy had finished her set and had left, presumably from the far side. The applause was deafening. She turned her head toward the audience. People were standing up, whooping and cheering. The vote was a mere formality, Rachel thought. Pitsy had won. Pitsy had stolen her material and won. Rachel’s head started to spin. She felt sick. Thinking her legs were about to give way, she grabbed the stage curtain for support.

Finally the applause died down and Lenny started telling the audience that he was about to put on a slide show. There was more loud laughter and applause when a moment later the back of the stage was lit up with pictures of children’s playground slides.

The next moment Lenny was announcing Rachel’s name.

“Right,” Clipboard said. “Remember what we told you in rehearsal—just go out there, have fun and ignore the cameras.”

Then she dug her clipboard into Rachel’s back. Rachel frequently got the jitters before going on, but she’d never experienced anything like this. Numb with fright, she didn’t move. Clipboard dug a second time. After a moment or two, she took a couple of faltering steps toward the stage. She was about to take a third when she felt somebody grab her arm.

“Rachel. No. You can’t.”

She turned. It was Matt. Shelley was standing by his side. Both of them looked breathless and utterly distraught. Matt drew her back into the wings.

“She stole my material,” Rachel blurted out. “That woman who was on before, she stole it.”

“I know,” he said, putting his arms round her. “Shelley and I saw everything.”

“Look,” Clipboard cried out—her voice a mixture of panic and exasperation, “will somebody just explain to me what’s going on? Who stole what? Rachel, you have to get out there. Please. They’re waiting.”

“She’s not going anywhere,” Shelley announced, reaching out and grabbing Rachel’s handbag off Clipboard. “Except home.”

“Rachel Katz . . .” Lenny announced anxiously for the second time. And for a second time her music struck up.

By now Matt and Shelley were virtually frog-marching Rachel past the bewildered technicians and backstage people toward the stairs that led down to the stage door.

“Please. You can’t leave,” Clipboard called frantically as she and the makeup girl came after them. “Come back.”

“Rachel Katz,” Lenny announced again with a nervous laugh and a loud clearing of his throat. More music.

“Oooh,” Rachel heard the makeup girl squeal.

“It’s just like that scene in
The Sound of Music
when the Von Trapps escape to Switzerland.”

Choking back tears, Rachel did her best to think of a few of her favorite things, but couldn’t.

CHAPTER 20

It was a few seconds later, as they reached the stage door, that Rachel finally broke down. For a full five minutes she sobbed uncontrollably into Matt’s shoulder, while Shelley patted her gently on the back.

“Come on, sweetheart,” Shelley said eventually, “let’s get out of here. There’s nothing you can do now.”

Rachel sniffed. Then she suddenly raised her head and broke free from Matt’s embrace. “That’s just where you’re wrong,” she said, her face etched in grim determination.

Before Matt and Shelley could stop her, she was charging back up the stairs toward the green room where she knew all the contestants would be glued to the TV monitors, as one by one the panels from thirty regions nationwide announced their results. She threw open the door and charged in, looking positively thunderous. Everybody turned round, startled. She could tell by their awkward expressions that they’d been gossiping about her and why she had apparently lost her nerve. She searched round frantically for Pitsy, but couldn’t see her.

“Pitsy,” Rachel’s voice boomed. “Where the bloody hell is that bitch? Come on. Tell me, where is she?”

Nobody spoke. They simply gawked at this raving, panting woman, boiling over with fury, who had quite obviously lost her grip in the minutes leading up to her performance and had now progressed to some kind of frenzied psychosis.

“She’s not here,” somebody said tentatively, clearly trying to placate the madwoman. “We haven’t seen her. Try the loo.”

Rachel spun round on her heel and virtually collided with Shelley and Matt.

“Rachel . . . please. Stop this,” Matt implored her, taking hold of her arm. “Shelley’s tried the loo. She isn’t there.”

But Rachel wasn’t listening. She yanked her arm away, ran down the corridor and charged into the ladies’ room. If she got hold of Pitsy she would rip out her intestines and wrap them round her pointless, scrawny little neck.

Like some deranged, premenstrual kung fu fighter, she kicked open every cubicle door. Nothing. Pitsy had clearly gone into temporary hiding. Only to emerge, no doubt, when the final score was announced and she was declared the winner.

A second later Rachel was running up and down the corridor shaking door handles and yelling Pitsy’s name. “Janeece, I’m going to get you, you marsupial-fucking, kleptomaniac bitch.”

Every room was locked. She could think of nowhere else to look. Frustrated and defeated, she stood bashing her head slowly against one of the doors.

“Come on, Rache,” Matt whispered, putting his hands on her shoulders. “Why don’t we all go back to my place and get monumentally slaughtered?”

She let him put an arm round her.

“No, the two of you go,” Shelley said diplomatically. She handed Rachel her bag. “I’ll go back upstairs and wait for Lenny to come offstage. Someone should tell the poor guy what’s been going on. Then I’ll go home and phone your mum and dad and Joe to let them know you’re OK. I’ll say you’ll phone them tomorrow. You’re not up to it now.”

She gave Rachel a hug, shot Matt an affectionate smile and headed toward the door. Full of gratitude, Rachel stared after her. It was true she was in no fit state to talk to any of them. Not yet.

* * * * *

Once they’d got going and the van warmed up, Rachel began to calm down a little. She started thinking about how Pitsy might have got hold of her material.

“Oh my God,” she said slowly after a minute or so. “I know how she did it.”

She gave Matt the lowdown on Pitsy and how she’d stolen Noeleen Piccolo’s material. Then she told him about the day she’d been at the Red House waiting for Lenny, when Pitsy had turned up. “She spilled her Guinness down me. I went to the loo to sort myself out, leaving my bag at the table. My notes were inside. I must have been gone a good ten minutes. Christ, she had time to read through everything—write stuff down even.”

“Perhaps she didn’t have to write it down,” Matt said thoughtfully. “Maybe she photocopied it. My flatmate drinks at the Red House. I’ve been there to pick him up a couple of times when he’s got legless and I’ve noticed it’s got a Kinko’s right next door. Thing is, why would she do it?”

“Same reason she stole Noeleen Piccolo’s material. Pitsy’s deeply untalented and she knows it. But she’s also pathologically desperate to be famous. What do you do when you’re as desperate—not to say nutty—as she clearly is and you can’t come up with your own gags? You pinch somebody else’s.”

Matt simply shook his head in disbelief.

“Thank you for being there,” she said, managing a smile. “I can’t tell you how much it means to me. If you and Shelley hadn’t rescued me, I’d have gone out there and made a complete arse of myself.”

He squeezed her knee. “Look,” he said warmly, “I know everything seems bleak and hopeless right now, but you will get your career back on track. And with talent like yours, you will make it to the top. It’s just going to take a bit longer than you thought, that’s all.”

“Yeah, maybe,” she said softly, to please him more than anything.

Neither of them spoke for a moment or two.

“You know,” Matt said thoughtfully, “there must be some way of exposing this Pitsy creature.”

“How? There’s no copyright on jokes. And even if there were, I’d have no way of proving the material she used tonight was mine.”

“Yes, you would. I read it. I came to your flat last week—the day I met Sam—and read it.”

She smiled again and rubbed his arm affectionately. “And who do you think’s going to believe you? You’re sleeping with me—you’re bound to say that.”

Reluctantly, he agreed with her.

* * * * *

Although it was the Sunday before Christmas, there was virtually no traffic and they reached Matt’s flat in Muswell Hill in less than twenty minutes. It was at the top of a large, slightly rundown thirties block.

While he fetched some whisky tumblers from the kitchen, Rachel went into the living room and sat down on the battered aubergine leatherette sofa, removing what she assumed was part of a washing machine motor from the small of her back. She began looking round the room—at the smoked-glass table (covered in smears, half-full coffee mugs, old newspapers and more mechanical odds and sods), the balding, crusty brown carpet, the Andy Warhol Campbell’s Soup print, the teak fire surround (with a bottle of Eau Sauvage on top—Matt’s flatmate’s, she assumed), the torn vertical blinds at the window. The whole place gave the impression of having been put together round about 1974 and not having seen a Hoover or can of Pledge since. All it lacked was a stainless steel fondue set and a bowl of stuffed olives gathering dust on the sideboard. God, she thought, Adam would demand one of those antigerm warfare suits before he’d set foot in here. She on the other hand—although she wouldn’t have wanted to live there—couldn’t help finding it all rather blokeish and appealing.

“You know, Shelley would love this room,” she said when he came back with the glasses and a bag of ice.

“This? It’s a pit.” He went over to the white melamine wall unit and opened the fold-down door of the cocktail cabinet.

“Yeah, but it is just so retro.” Like the chief mourner at a wake, Rachel felt relieved to be discussing something mundane for a few moments.

“Shelley loves anything like this. You haven’t seen her flat. It’s amazing. A bit over the top colorwise, maybe, but she’s got a real feel for design. If you were OK with hanging on to the furniture and keeping the seventies theme, she could really make something of this room.”

“Funny you should say that,” he said. “I’ve got the decorators coming in tomorrow to give me an estimate to do the whole place. They said they could work through Christmas and finish it in time for when my mum comes to stay in the New Year.”

Rachel looked at him, frowning. “You’ve found people to work through Christmas?”

“Sikhs,” he said.

“Oh. Right. Well, why don’t I come tomorrow and bring Shelley? She’s bound to have some bright ideas.”

He came over and handed her a glass of Scotch. “You sure you’re going to feel up to it?”

“Probably not,” she smiled. “But I’ll only sit at home obsessing about Pitsy if I don’t.”

“OK. Great,” he said. “I was going to ask the two of you over anyway. I’m planning to test-drive my Third World invention. It’s finally finished. The Burkina Faso trade delegation are coming to see it at the beginning of January and with a bit of luck they’ll . . . well, you never know.”

He sat himself down next to her on the sofa.

“That’s fantastic, Matt,” she said, pulling him toward her and kissing him. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

She glanced at her watch. “The voting must be over by now,” she said. Before he could stop her she’d stabbed the remote.

“Call it morbid curiosity,” she said, taking a glug of Scotch. “But I have to be certain she won.”

The TV screen was filled with shots of a jubilant Pitsy in the green room surrounded by all the other contestants, swinging her winner’s trophy in the air and swigging champagne from a magnum bottle.

A tear rolled down Rachel’s cheek.

“Surprise. Surprise,” she murmured. She turned to Matt. “That should have been me.”

“I know,” Matt said softly, wiping away the tear with his finger. He got up, came back with the whisky bottle and topped up her glass.

“Of course,” Pitsy was trilling to some TV reporter Rachel didn’t recognize, “I couldn’t have done it without my aunt and uncle, who have supported me in my career ever since I left Australia.”

“I didn’t know she had an aunt and uncle over here,” Rachel said.

Pitsy was immediately joined by two more people.

“Oh my God,” Rachel yelped, almost choking on her Scotch, “it’s Xantia and Otto . . . Pitsy’s their niece?” She watched as they both hugged and kissed Pitsy. “I don’t get it. Xantia said her niece’s name was Vanessa.”

The sight of Pitsy and the Marxes posing for the press photographers was suddenly more than Rachel could bear. She turned off the TV.

“Hang on. Hang on,” Matt said, leaning toward the coffee table and picking up the
Radio Times
. “I’m sure there was a piece about the contest in here.” He flicked through the pages. “Yeah, right. Here it is.”

He passed her the magazine. A double page was filled with individual pictures of all the contestants, Rachel included. Underneath each one was a short biography.

“I never knew about this,” she said, shaking her head. She found Pitsy’s picture almost immediately and began reading the blurb. “. . . ‘born Killadingo, Queensland, 1974 . . .’ blah, blah, blah . . . ‘proud parents Roy and Nadine Carter . . . British-born Nadine is sister of the world-famous interior designer Otto Marx.’ Right, here it is . . . ‘parents named her Vanessa, but since turning professional in 1999, she has opted to use her second name, Janeece.’ ”

She tossed the magazine back onto the table.

“So,” Matt said, “do you think the Marxes have any idea what she’s been up to?”

“Dunno. I mean, the Marxes are jerks, but I can’t imagine them actually being part of something like this.” She leaned back against the sofa and began rubbing her eyes.

“Come on, you’re knackered,” Matt said. “Why don’t you get some sleep now?”

This time she didn’t argue.

* * * * *

Matt’s bedroom was strewn with clothes, newspapers and even more bits of metal and mechanical junk.

“Sheets are clean though,” he said as she took a pile of circuit boards off the bed and put them on the floor.

He pulled her to him. “We will sort this out, you know,” he said softly. “Somehow. I promise . . .”

“We?” she said. “How d’you mean ‘we’?”

He paused and took a deep breath. “I mean,” he said, holding her eyes in his. “I love you.”

“You do?”

He nodded. “You sound surprised,” he said.

“Well, I thought maybe you might, but I wasn’t sure.” She sat down on the bed. He came and sat next to her. Then with his hand on her chin, he turned her face toward him.

“So do you feel the same way?”

She gazed back at him. “Definitely,” she said.

Their deep, tender kiss seemed to go on forever. Afterward he hugged her so tight she could barely breathe.

She knew full well she should tell him about Adam and that she was planning to end it the moment he got back from South Africa, but she couldn’t. She was afraid he might be angry with her for not being straight with him and after the night she’d had, she felt utterly incapable of dealing with it.

After he’d let her go, he opened the chest of drawers and gave her a neatly folded shirt to put on. Then he insisted on making her hot milk.

When he came back, she was already in bed. He handed her the milk in a
South Park
mug. When she’d finished, he lay down beside her, stripped to his boxers, holding her and stroking her head.

“Night,” he said, kissing her forehead.

Despite the whisky, the hot milk, and him holding her, she couldn’t drop off.

“Matt, you awake?” she said after ten minutes or so.

“Just about,” he mumbled.

“I can’t sleep,” she said. “I just keep going over and over what happened tonight. You haven’t got any sleeping pills, have you?”

He propped himself up onto his elbow and switched on the bedside light. “No, I’ve got something far better,” he grinned.

“Oh, Matt, I’m knackered. I really don’t feel like . . .”

The next thing she knew he had thrown off the duvet. Slowly he began unbuttoning the shirt she had on, nipping and kissing her breasts as he went.

“Right, take it off,” he said, “and roll over onto your stomach.”

A few moments later he was straddling her and she could feel oil being drizzled over her back. There was a powerful smell of lavender.

Slowly and expertly he began massaging her neck and shoulders, pressing his fingers into the hard, knotted muscles. A couple of times she flinched with pain. Then, very gradually, the discomfort began to ease and she could feel herself starting to relax.

“Oh, you are good at this,” she whispered. “Very good.”

He carried on like this for a while. Then suddenly he began kissing her neck and shoulders. Lying beside her now, he trailed his fingers along her spine. Soon he was stroking her bottom through the cotton of her pants. As he ran his finger between her buttocks, she quivered with delight.