Almost there...

‘I can’t believe we’re actually here!’

‘You’ve said that six times,’ Faith reminded Chantal, a tad tetchily.

‘I know, but it is pretty mega, isn’t it?’  Chantal tittered at her reflected face, which was presently crowned with the rollers which would lend her flaxen tresses the Jessica Simpson bounce the stylist had decided would look ultra glamorous on camera.  Juliet, the make-up artist assigned to her, was now daubing Chantal’s face with so much foundation her head could have doubled up as an airbag.  A silver hairdresser’s cape was velcro’d around her, protecting her stunning mermaid blue dress from cosmetic spatters.  Chantal shivered at the cool, expensive feel of the fabric against her skin.

To Chantal and her mates, merely having their make-up professionally applied, in these vast theatrical mirrors surrounded by fat light bulbs, was sufficiently starry. 

Let alone spending a weekend in a lavish London hotel. 

Let alone rehearsing a routine with a troupe of Chippendale-torso’d dancers in leather trousers (‘Thank God we picked It’s Raining Men,’ Justine smirked, ‘they’re a bit distracting, though!’).

Let alone singing on live TV, for eight million peak-time viewers, having their fate determined by a phone and text vote.

Let alone enjoying a chummy coffee and cookies with Todd Davies, Talent Scout’s perennially chirpy host.

Let alone meeting Carla Day, Reuben Greenway and the divine Rory Powers, who formed tonight’s judging triumvirate.

They’d dress-rehearsed this afternoon, in the costumes allotted them by the wardrobe people: sexy designer versions of their usual High Street choices; the traditional blue for Chantal, purple for Faith, burnt orange for Justine.  Their make-up too was going to accentuate what the TV image-makers had already honed in on: Faith was the sexy vamp (best play down the married woman bit); Chantal the innocent with the sad eyes but latent sexuality; Justine the kooky tomboy.

The Talent Scout producers had high hopes, right from their audition, that these were a trio who could enjoy mass appeal, in much the same way as the Spice Girls did in their day (Justine would have been thrilled by the comparison, had she known of it).

Chantal, Faith and Justine were a total delight.  Non-manufactured, non-stage school, just three mates from the Black Country – raw, thrilling, real.  They exuded an asset that the media liked to patronisingly dub ‘council estate glamour.’  They were real-life characters, with whom a publicist could tell a corking story.

A vastly more interesting story than any of their rivals tonight.  There was Alex, a fabulously gorgeous eighteen-year-old who covered a Justin Timberlake hit (‘Why couldn’t the boys have looked like that when I was eighteen?’ drooled Justine); Brett, who was nearly forty, faintly slimy, wore a trilby and smarmed his way through Fly Me to the Moon by Frank Sinatra (‘one for the aunties,’ grimaced Faith); Easy Tiger, a young rock band from Portsmouth, who did Guns N Roses’ Sweet Child O’ Mine; and Helena, a pretty but bland girl who gave a pretty but bland rendition of the Jesus Christ Superstar number I Don’t Know How To Love Him.

‘A year ago,’ Chantal reminisced, ‘I was watching this show alone in my bedroom, sobbing over Ross the tosser!’

She giggled incredulously at the absurdity of that, and at how transformed her life was now.  She hoped smugly that Ross might be watching tonight – though doubted it.  Then again, he was the type who’d love Chantal to achieve ‘celeb’ status just so he could flog his tacky ‘I shagged her’ story to the tabloids.  Still, she considered that a small bridge she’d have to cross if All the Rage ever became famous enough to reach it.

Chantal’s laughter fizzled into sudden, pensive silence.  She affected studious interest in her reflection as Juliet the make-up girl administered Max Factor More Lashes.  At least the mascara provided a strong incentive to not cry.  Which, alas, was what she felt like doing when she thought about the two girls alongside her; her best buddies.  Or, more to the point, the gutting fact that she would soon have to disappoint them; even run the risk of losing their precious friendship.

Chantal had been made an offer which she was very disinclined to refuse.  She felt traitorous for thinking this, but it was a break far more appealing even than a future on the road with All the Rage.  It was concrete too (whereas for all they knew nothing might materialise from this TV appearance) – bostin’ money and all.

Chantal blinked sharply and snapped out of her maudlin haze by recalling a recent amusing encounter.

‘Hey, girls, you’ll never guess who I bumped into in Bilston last Wednesday!’  She was already feeling cheerier, her head wobbling with laughter, sending her halo of rollers jingling.

‘Who?’ asked Faith, muffled by the brush with which Zara, the make-up girl assigned to her, was sweeping Purple Rain across her voluptuous lips.

‘Charlotte!’

‘What, that vile harpy you used to work with?’

‘Yeah – in Morrisons, glamorous hang-out of all the stars!’  Chantal livened up, recollecting it.

She and her old enemy had locked trolleys in the wine aisle.  Chantal was stocking up on liquid aphrodisiacs for a cosy night Chez Brown – it being late bingo for Ken and Shirl down at Gala (Mr and Mrs Brown had rescinded their ban on Kris stopping over – since unmarried sex beneath their roof apparently became suddenly acceptable within the boundaries of an engagement).

Charlotte – her trolley gladdeningly laden with lonely microwave meals – was studying Blossom Hill bottles.  Chantal, having selected her seduction wine for the evening, tried to duck out of her sight, but was too late.  Charlotte, having made her own choice, pivoted to her trolley and saw her.

Stand your ground, Chantal, be confident.  I am a superstar!  Funnily enough, the mantra came more naturally to her now that she was going to be on telly. 

Charlotte still looked trendy and disdainful.  She had clearly come straight from work, and was in one of her fluffy skinny ribs.  This one was lilac, low-cut and skin-tight against her Walnut Whip tits.  She’d teamed it with one of her legendary duster-sized skirts.

She no longer intimidated Chantal, though.  In fact, her acidic burgundy lips fanned out into something resembling a smile.

‘Hi Chantal.  You look fab!  How’s the band going?’ 

‘Brilliant, thanks,’ Chantal retorted in her best ‘I’m far too famous to talk to you anymore’ manner.  She didn’t employ this approach with anybody else, but Charlotte deserved a bit of disdain.

‘I read in the paper about you going on Talent Scout.’

‘Yep, that’s right,’ Chantal cut her short, unsmiling, determined to make the bitch feel foolish by giving curt replies to her faux friendly questions. 

‘I really miss you, you know,’ Charlotte simpered.  She was unbelievable!  ‘Sally, who they’ve got replace you, isn’t a patch on you.’

‘Why – because she stands up for herself, you mean; won’t let you and Gary push her around?’  Chantal was enjoying this.  Oh, wasn’t it sweet to be fight back a long-term oppressor!  Why had she used to find it so difficult?  This was fun!  ‘Or does this Sally just dare to be prettier than you, Charlotte – divert the blokes’ attention from you?’

Charlotte had the grace to wince at this, but recovered swiftly.

‘Listen,’ she sidled up to Chantal and peeped from side to side, as though about to negotiate a drug deal, ‘I’ve heard that Rory Powers is going to be on the judging panel.’

‘Ye-es?’  Chantal made a Trojan effort to keep a straight face.  It was such a ludicrous turn of the tables.  Charlotte never gave her the time of day when they worked together; now she was acting like she wanted a favour from her.

‘I don’t suppose you could get me his autograph, could you?’

The straight face collapsed spectacularly.  Chantal roared.  An autograph!  Was that all the girl sought from the soap star with whom she’d allegedly spent a raunchy night in Wolverhampton?  Ooh, does that mean your little kiss-and-tell wasn’t true after all, Charlotte?  As if I hadn’t worked that out already!

She looked so desperate and furtive, Chantal almost pitied her.  ‘I’ve got a better idea – why don’t you turn up at the studio in person?  I’m sure Rory will remember you!’  Chantal turned trolley and departed, still guffawing to herself – which lured puzzled stares from the shoppers at the tonic water shelf.  ‘If you’re lucky,’ she threw over her shoulder, ‘he might even let you take another bite from his beanstalk!’

‘Everything OK, gewls?’

Todd Davies cut into their giggles as he made his circuit through the backstage warrens.  He was very much a ‘hands-on’ host – so to speak – not one of those prima donna presenters who shows up in his Merc, gets his botox’d face buffed in Make-Up, does the programme and sods off to the Ivy for a caviar supper.

Todd’s magenta suits and cheesy spiel were for the camera’s benefit, and part of the job.  He was in fact amiable and down to earth; the type of ‘people person’ ideally tailored to a contest of Talent Scout’s nature.  He always nattered to the acts pre-broadcast; set them at their ease.  Todd had just caught the tail end of Chantal’s Charlotte-related recital, and smiled both at her droll delivery and the laughing rapport between this trio.  He’d spent quite a bit of time listening to their chatter and stories during the two days.  They finished each other’s sentences, giggled over in-jokes, sang noisy medleys in their dressing room and shared a sisterly bond.

On the strength of their rehearsals, though, Todd sensed that, while Faith and Chantal would attain moderate success; they could definitely earn a passable living from music, if not household-name fame, his secret gut instinct was that Justine was the star of the outfit; the one who future pundits would predict most likely to progress and find fame with in solo career.  She was, he hated to admit it, bigger than the band.  Musically, she may lack the technical proficiency her mates possessed – but what she did have couldn’t be taught or cultivated.  Her personality could power Blackpool Illuminations.  Her One Girl Spice Girls Tribute anecdotes and tales from the pub fascinated Todd. 

It helped that she was the only one still young, free and single.  Faith and Justine were in serious relationships, which they weren’t likely to wish risking.  Engagements and marriages didn’t always withstand the test of fame.  Little Justine had no such ties.

He’d seen it before with groups they’d had on.  One component started to eclipse the whole, and they disbanded.  It was a shame – but that was showbiz.

Not that Todd intended voicing such thoughts to Faith and Chantal.  Not yet.  This was their big night and they were all excited. 

Todd was possibly the first person who spotted the unease and reluctance shared by the girls; certainly before they noticed it in each other.  The first to be aware of the quiet, reflective moments that punctuated their bubbly chats.  Every so often, Justine, Faith or Chantal would disengage into a private world, then snap out of it as though to buoy the other two up.  There was obvious care between them, if they could trouble themselves to maintain a brave and sparky façade for each other’s sakes.

Justine was thus experiencing a lurch of regret now.  She was going to give it all she’d got tonight; get trolleyed on champagne at the after-show do – then she’d have to break the hardest news of all to her two best mates. 

Her years of prolific auditioning had garnered her nothing but choruses of ‘Thanks but no thanks.’  Until now.  It was bloody sod’s law that she should get a whiff of success now she was on the verge of something with All the Rage.

This new, as yet secret, job was so perfect for her, that to turn it down would only engender a life of What ifs and regrets.  But the thought of letting Chantal and Faith down made her sick.  She’d enjoyed the best year-and-a-bit of her life with them.  Justine would always be OK, she was an extrovert, upbeat person who made friends easily – she would settle in happily wherever she found herself in the world – but these two were special and kindred to her.

‘Are you feeling better now, Faith?’ she queried solicitously, to avert her mind.  ‘You were a bit poorly earlier, chuck.’

‘Just a bit of stage fright.’  Faith made a wan effort at a smile.  Her face, which earlier had gone waxy white, at least looked healthier now Zara had been at her with the Max Factor.

‘You don’t normally get stage fright.’  Chantal was concerned at her super-confident mate’s out-of-character collywobbles.

‘Never been on live TV before, have I?’ Faith responded a touch sharply, as though to close the subject.

None of them had, of course.  And by eight o’clock – ‘on air’ time – they were jelly.

All the Rage and their musclebound dancers were the final act.  ‘We’ll make an impact that way,’ Justine inferred, ‘we’ll be the ones who stick in the voters’ minds, and will thus be in with a winning chance.’

But as their fidgets grew, they found themselves wishing they’d gone on first.  For forty-five timid minutes, they watched as their four predecessors were in turn ushered by backstage crew along the black-walled, Dr Who-ish tunnel construction that led into the studio – and returned backstage in varying moods dependent on their success with the judges.

First up were Easy Tiger – ‘A terrific opener,’ declared Carla after their impassioned rock had elicited ape-whoops from the very ‘up for it’ crowd.

Then came Helena.  This time the cheers were noticeably of the polite rather than the rapturous strain.  But the audience, who sided with contestant against critic every time, still loyally booed Reuben when he adjudged ‘Bit bland for me, darlin’, I’m afraid.  I mean, you’re nice to look at, got a cute voice, I can possibly picture you in a West End chorus, but not a lead.  No way a lead.’ 

He could have said far worse, but sensitive Helena, in her sweet lilac pinafore dress, came off stage crying.

Todd announced the first ad break, after which slimy Brett flew to the moon and lived among the stars.

Choirboy-faced Alex was next, who was almost as much of a scream-magnet as Rory.

More ads followed, for thrush cream, mobile phones and Talent Scout’s sponsor, Richey’s Star Spangled Cookies – spotting stars since 1941!!

Then All the Rage were up.

Their progress from the plum sofas backstage down that black corridor and into the smog of dry ice was so urgent and disorientating, it put all three girls in mind of birth.  Both involved being pushed along a tunnel – to an opening that revealed the euphoric faces of their families.  And, in this case, a few hundred other faces.  Well, a few million if they counted the ones currently being stuffed with fish and chips and lager as they watched in their homes.  No, actually best not to think about the millions – that’ll only scare you shitless!  We’ve got to bubble and sparkle, not look petrified.  Million dollar smiles now, like Todd told us!  Teeth and tits!

There wasn’t even time for their traditional cuddle backstage as Todd announced: ‘Act five tonight, ladies and gentlemen – All the Rage!’ and they were drawn magically into that dry ice.

In that electric split-second before the ‘Humidity’s rising’ line, their eyes magically managed to drink everything in.

The auditorium, now miraculously packed after seeming so echoey and ghostly at rehearsal.

The dazing lights.

The Triffid-like camera monitors.

The squadrons of stage crew.

Rory Powers!  He was even yummier in the flesh, so to speak, with that pouty mouth and his cream linen shirt opened just enough to reveal a tanned hint of his illustrious six-pack.  For Justine, Rory was her audience.  As she belted out It’s Raining Men, she would wish it was raining Rorys.  Or David Beckhams.

Carla Day – as resplendent as a parrot in something bright blue, feathery and sequiny.

Reuben Greenway – an emotionless canvas, whose trendy shades disguised eyes that missed nothing.

Then the disco intro erupted, and the baby-oiled hunks were in position: kneeling in parallel formation to create a human lane, down which the girls would strut while delivering the hen party-ish lyrics.

And they were away…

It was all over in a whirl – but what a whirl!

Chantal, Faith and Justine banished their respective qualms and gave the show of their lives.  One of bittersweet excitement. 

They’d each been known to wonder, when watching Talent Scout at home, whether the ear-splitting crowd noise was dubbed on, to make it sound more of a wow party than it actually was.  Being here testified that the audience – though admittedly very buoyed up by the warm-up fellas – needed no TV trickery to amplify their cheers and whistles.

If anybody had a right to be big-headed, it was these three.  They had never felt so loved in their lives.  That clamorous applause!  The judges’ praise!  (They must have done well, to impress Reuben especially, who was notoriously sparing with his eulogies.)  And that crackling camaraderie between the girls themselves.

They carried it backstage, through the champagne and pandemonium and ultimately to the dressing room where Faith motioned them for a little team talk.

So this was it then.  As Joe clicked the door to, they each sensed this was about to be, in its own way, as momentous a stage in All the Rage’s life as the phenomenal performance they’d just delivered.

Chantal and Justine held their respective breath – until Faith said: ‘Girls, I’ve got an announcement to make,’ at which point a relieved expulsion of this breath preceded a dash to fill the pause vacated by Faith.

‘So have I,’ Justine leaped in.

Chantal too – completely forgetting this was Faith’s moment, and she, for politeness sake, ought to have let her have her say first – chimed in: ‘Well, while we’re having our evening of big revelations, I’ve got one too!’

Faith flopped against the door jamb, with a combination of relief, bewilderment and the incessant nausea that had ailed her earlier.  Joe, concerned, squeezed his wife’s hand supportively.  She took another vast breath, as though about to make her announcement, but then bottled it.  ‘Right,’ her voice was untypically small and quavery, ‘we’d best take it in turns then.  You go first, Just.’

‘Look – the thing is – I’ve – I’ve – been offered a chance – that – look I’m gunna to have to leave the group.’

Justine delivered this stammering speech to the wall, her courage very un-Justine-ishly failing her.  In the assimilating silence that greeted it, she eased open her eyes, which she’d clamped shut in trepidation, and rotated them deathly slowly to the faces of her loved ones.  To her amazement, they appeared to be taking her bombshell stoically well. 

‘And what is this chance?’ Faith asked softly, her gaze similarly furniture-focused – in her case, at the floor.

‘It’s a Spice Girls show.  A touring production.  I’ve got the role of Geri!’

‘The Spice Girls split up years ago,’ Joe pointed out, uncharitably but secretly rather gutted – as gutted as the girls were at the unavoidable demise of a band that had come to mean the world to them all, ‘who’d want to see a tribute to them?  I mean, I know you’re still mad on them and that, but I thought that was just you.’

‘Everybody’s going retro crazy at the moment, Joe – wanting to relive their teen years!’  Justine exploded out of her subdued contrition to express the elation she could no longer suppress.  ‘Anyway, the Spice bit’s only part of the show – Retro Heaven, it’s called.  They’ve got Take That lookalikes in it an’ all.  It’s so up my street, I just couldn’t turn it down.  I know there’s a possibility we could get a contract on the strength of tonight, and I know it seems insane walking away from such a thing – but then I am insane!  Besides, there are no guarantees we’ll get anything out of this – this Retro thing’s a concrete offer.’

‘You never mentioned that you’d auditioned for it,’ Chantal commented gently.

‘I was afraid of tempting Fate.  And of upsetting you lot too.  I went for the audition weeks ago, and never dreamed in a squillion years that I’d actually get it.  It’s a six-month tour initially, though it could be extended if we sell enough tickets and generate enough interest.  We’ll be playing in theatres all over the UK.  I am so, so sorry for letting you down.’  She was spraying tears by this point, like a human sprinkler.  ‘I’ve absolutely adored doing what we do together.  But you know me – I’m a Spice Girls fan through and through, always will be.  I guess in my heart I’ll always be the One-Girl Spice Girls Tribute – except now I’ll have four other girls to help me with the act.  The last thing I want to do is lose your friendship over this.  In fact, I’m rather hoping you’ll come to see a few performances.’

‘We wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ promised Chantal earnestly, ‘and I think that in all this activity we’re rather forgetting our manners.  Congratulations, Just.  I know what this must mean to you.’  She squeezed her friend in an overdue hug.  This blessing meant the world to Justine, who let out a fresh bawl.  After a second, Faith joined in with the hugging, though she was still wan and tense.

‘When does your tour start, sis?’ Joe asked, equally choked.

‘In the new year.’  Justine smiled at him, empathising with his emotion.  ‘We start rehearing just before Christmas.  Then we start in Oxford in January.  I’ll be able to do all the gigs we’ve got booked this side of Christmas, though, so I won’t be leaving you all in the lurch straight away.  What’ll you do after that – advertise for another vocalist?’  She swabbed away her crusting tears with her child-sized knuckles.

‘Doesn’t look like there’ll be a need.’  Chantal leapt at the chance to bare her own weighty secret.  In the thick hush that ensued, three pairs of eyes panned around to her. 

‘What do you mean?’ Justine frowned.

Chantal gave an ironic little smile.  All that fretting and remorse about abandoning the girls – and Justine’s news had rendered it needless after all!

‘You’re not going to believe this, but I’ll be leaving myself in the new year.  I’ve been offered a new job to – with Colonel K!’

‘Colonel K?’ Justine shrieked.  ‘Colonel K?  As in Kris’s band?’

‘Well yes,’ Chantal chortled lightly.  Justine’s surprise was understandable – it was just the way she’d made it sound as though a million groups existed who bore the name Colonel K.

‘They’ve been considering recruiting a girl singer for a while.  For backing vocals, and duets with Kris, but also to do a few more “female” songs to take the pressure off Kris’s voice.  Of course Kris suggested me – and the other lads seemed quite happy to let me join!  It’s weird – a couple of years ago, I used to dream of performing duets with Kris, but thought I was way too inadequate.  Now I’m going to be doing it for a living.’

‘When did they ask you to join?’  Justine again.

‘A couple of months ago.  I haven’t done a gig with them yet, but I’ve been rehearsing for a few weeks now.’  Chantal cringed at how sly she thought she sounded.  ‘I didn’t mean to go behind your backs.  I just didn’t want to say anything until I’d committed myself, for fear – like you said, Just – of tempting Fate.’

‘Are you sure that’s a wise idea – working with your other half, I mean?’  Justine swallowed the tactless ‘after all the problems you’ve had’ she’d been about to add, but it did seem a terribly hasty turn of events.

Chantal’s sure and passionate reply, though, allayed any dubiety.  ‘Oh yes!  It was different when me and Kris were just going out, but we’re engaged now, and saving to get wed.’  Her face was all peachy, and Justine was reminded of the first time she’d heard her friend gush about her gorgeous boyfriend, the night they’d met, in those toilets.  ‘We harmonise together so brilliantly.’

‘On stage and off!’

‘Quite!  There’s a true chemistry there.  Just as there is between us three.  Besides, this will be an ace opportunity for me and Kris to have a bash at living together.’

‘Living together?’  Justine failed to figure out how cohabitation could be a consequence of singing together.

‘Well, Just,’ Chantal twizzled with an earring, studied her nails, folded and unfolded her arms, ‘you’re kind of – not the only one who’s going to be on your travels soon.’

‘No?’

‘You see, not only am I Colonel K’s newest recruit, but we’ve been offered a brilliant contract.  It’s a residency.  At the Hard Rock Café – ’

‘The Hard Rock Café?’ Justine yelped.  ‘In London!  Oh Chantal!’

‘Well, no, it’s not actually the London one.  They’ve got branches all over the world – and this one is the Hard Rock in – er – Singapore!’

‘Singapore!’

‘Oh, isn’t it fab!’  Now it was Chantal’s turn to replace subdued self-reproach with total glee.  ‘Kev – bless him – has got a contact out there, and he suggested us for the job.  We’re gunna be the house band, as it were.  Doing two shows a day.  Starting in the new year as well.  We fly out there on the seventeenth of January.  If we accept, that is.  Which obviously the lads want to.

‘I’m not completely naïve about this whole living together business, though.  I mean, obviously there is a possibility it might not work out.  We might discover we can’t abide the sight of each other after a few months under the same roof.  ‘In that case, I guess we’d split up once we finish in Singapore – have to continue working together, honour the contract and all that – then I’d come home, lick me wounds for a bit and try and get some solo gigs on the old pub circuit.  Enough folk know of our reputation to want to give work to an ex-All the Rager.  But I’m hoping that won’t have to happen.  Me and Kris are both determined now we’re gunna give this a go.’

‘Then I wish you all the luck in the world!’

And Chantal became the epicentre of another inevitable mass hug.

‘So Kev knows all about this?’  Faith wasn’t quite sure what made her voice this illogically jealous reflection.  She had no right at all to be peeved, since she was the one who had started off this whole ‘I’ve got an announcement’ thing off.

Talking of which…she hadn’t actually made it yet!

Typifying the telepathic bond between them, Justine burst in: ‘Hey, all this talk about me and Chantal, and we’ve completely forgotten why we’ve all crammed in here in the first place!  Faith –’ she turned dramatically to her sister-in-law – ‘I believe you had an announcement of your own!’

‘You could say that.’  Faith grinned at Joe, her mood truly celebratory and relaxed now her friends had beaten her in the ‘revelation’ race.  The guilty pressure was off her shoulders; she had no reason whatsoever to worry about letting the girls down.  From being so sallow one minute, she was suddenly glowing.  She was positively giddy with relief.

‘Chantal, Justine – ’ Faith must have been feeling better, for she was in play-character mode again: this was the histrionic pause before the killer punchline – ‘I’m three months pregnant!’