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Authors: Ella Kingsley
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doesn’t
really
matter if he thinks I’m an M People fan. There’s worse things … aren’t there? It’s not like I’d unwittingly accessorised with a ruby tooth and masqueraded as Mick Hucknall. Or said I liked Chumbawumba.
Camera crew will be awarded access to the Club and the Subject’s professional space on a daily basis … the Club will be filmed and edited forty-eight hours prior to broadcast …
No, it’s fine. He’s probably forgotten that part of our exchange already. I mean, the rest of it wasn’t a total car crash … was it?
In accordance with the terms of this contract, the Subject grants her permission …
I’m trying to zone out a particularly harsh number by Anastasia. I must have read this through a million times already.
I check the time on my phone: a little over two hours till Evan’s deadline.
I’m torn. Half of me, the half I recognise, says no to the whole thing. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I don’t know what I’m letting myself – and my staff – in for. It could all go horribly wrong and Sing It Back could be ruined for ever. Most of all, I hate the thought of being in front of the cameras – it’s just not me. On top of that, Evan Bergman left mefeeling distinctly uneasy: there’s something about him I just don’t trust.
But then there’s the other half. Seeing Vocalise in its week-day glory, never mind what it must be like on a Saturday night, brings home the scale of the mountain Sing It Back has to climb. I don’t know if we can do it without Tooth & Nail’s help.
The singing party launches into a song by Four Non Blondes. Right, that’s my cue to get out. Quickly.
Shuffling up my papers, I pay the bill and exit into the bustle of Frith Street, where the sky is looking dangerously like rain. I resolve to return to the club and talk it through with the others. After all, this isn’t just my decision to make: it’s everyone’s.
Minutes later I’m fumbling with my keys outside Mum and Dad’s. The SING IT BA K sign, a miserable rat-grey tubing in daylight hours, greets me like a sad dog that’s been kept indoors by itself all day.
The club is shrouded in darkness. I kick my heels off.
‘Simon?’ I call. ‘Jaz?’
No one’s here yet. I switch on the lights and the ones still in operation flicker reluctantly to life, accompanied by an awful industrial
bzzz
. I slide into a booth and dig out the contract, as if staring at it some more is going to provide me with answers. Digging my mobile from my handbag, I dial Lou’s number. It goes to answer phone and I consider leaving a message, before realising that by the time she gets it and rings back I’ll already have gone over Evan’s deadline.
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s Gary Numan’s face, pale and staring, a product of Dad’s ‘experimental art’ phase (at least the ‘mental’ part rings true). Five-forty.
If only I hadn’t run into Mystery Man – it’s completely messed with my head. I haven’t been able to focus properly all afternoon and it’s all because of that stupid conversation. I’ve got to forget it – it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
My gaze turns to the contract. Though he did say he worked at Tooth & Nail …
No, Maddie
. That is the worst possible reason to get involved. It’s not even a reason.
Suddenly there’s a colossal BOOM! and one of the karaoke machines roars to life. I’m closer than I’ve ever been to wetting myself when I remember this is the one we’ve been having problems with lately. Otherwise I’d think we were being haunted by a poltergeist.
A Peter Andre-loving poltergeist, it turns out, as the opening bars of ‘Mysterious Girl’ settle into their stride.
With a deep sigh I get up and make my way over to the source of the noise. I punch some buttons in an attempt to kill it and there’s a brief moment of reprieve when the thing cuts out, before the screen announces its next offering: ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’
really
matter if he thinks I’m an M People fan. There’s worse things … aren’t there? It’s not like I’d unwittingly accessorised with a ruby tooth and masqueraded as Mick Hucknall. Or said I liked Chumbawumba.
Camera crew will be awarded access to the Club and the Subject’s professional space on a daily basis … the Club will be filmed and edited forty-eight hours prior to broadcast …
No, it’s fine. He’s probably forgotten that part of our exchange already. I mean, the rest of it wasn’t a total car crash … was it?
In accordance with the terms of this contract, the Subject grants her permission …
I’m trying to zone out a particularly harsh number by Anastasia. I must have read this through a million times already.
I check the time on my phone: a little over two hours till Evan’s deadline.
I’m torn. Half of me, the half I recognise, says no to the whole thing. It’s a disaster waiting to happen. I don’t know what I’m letting myself – and my staff – in for. It could all go horribly wrong and Sing It Back could be ruined for ever. Most of all, I hate the thought of being in front of the cameras – it’s just not me. On top of that, Evan Bergman left mefeeling distinctly uneasy: there’s something about him I just don’t trust.
But then there’s the other half. Seeing Vocalise in its week-day glory, never mind what it must be like on a Saturday night, brings home the scale of the mountain Sing It Back has to climb. I don’t know if we can do it without Tooth & Nail’s help.
The singing party launches into a song by Four Non Blondes. Right, that’s my cue to get out. Quickly.
Shuffling up my papers, I pay the bill and exit into the bustle of Frith Street, where the sky is looking dangerously like rain. I resolve to return to the club and talk it through with the others. After all, this isn’t just my decision to make: it’s everyone’s.
Minutes later I’m fumbling with my keys outside Mum and Dad’s. The SING IT BA K sign, a miserable rat-grey tubing in daylight hours, greets me like a sad dog that’s been kept indoors by itself all day.
The club is shrouded in darkness. I kick my heels off.
‘Simon?’ I call. ‘Jaz?’
No one’s here yet. I switch on the lights and the ones still in operation flicker reluctantly to life, accompanied by an awful industrial
bzzz
. I slide into a booth and dig out the contract, as if staring at it some more is going to provide me with answers. Digging my mobile from my handbag, I dial Lou’s number. It goes to answer phone and I consider leaving a message, before realising that by the time she gets it and rings back I’ll already have gone over Evan’s deadline.
I look at the clock on the wall. It’s Gary Numan’s face, pale and staring, a product of Dad’s ‘experimental art’ phase (at least the ‘mental’ part rings true). Five-forty.
If only I hadn’t run into Mystery Man – it’s completely messed with my head. I haven’t been able to focus properly all afternoon and it’s all because of that stupid conversation. I’ve got to forget it – it’s not like I’m ever going to see him again.
My gaze turns to the contract. Though he did say he worked at Tooth & Nail …
No, Maddie
. That is the worst possible reason to get involved. It’s not even a reason.
Suddenly there’s a colossal BOOM! and one of the karaoke machines roars to life. I’m closer than I’ve ever been to wetting myself when I remember this is the one we’ve been having problems with lately. Otherwise I’d think we were being haunted by a poltergeist.
A Peter Andre-loving poltergeist, it turns out, as the opening bars of ‘Mysterious Girl’ settle into their stride.
With a deep sigh I get up and make my way over to the source of the noise. I punch some buttons in an attempt to kill it and there’s a brief moment of reprieve when the thing cuts out, before the screen announces its next offering: ‘I Wanna Sex You Up’
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