You Don't Know Me Read online

  My biggest concern is Rose. She’s our best asset – our most reliable singer, and the only one who can play an instrument. But I saw how she was before George’s party. I never want to see that pale, haunted look on her face again.

  ‘Are you sure you’ll be OK with these gigs?’ I ask her one evening at my place, when it’s just the two of us. She’s picking out a tune on her spare guitar, the one she keeps in my room.

  ‘I think so,’ she says, strumming thoughtfully. ‘Last time wasn’t as bad as I thought it’d be. In fact, it was pretty good by the end, wasn’t it? And as long as I’ve got this,’ she pats the guitar, ‘I should be fine. Sorry for letting you down like that last time.’

  ‘But you didn’t!’ I assure her. ‘You were fantastic.’

  ‘It turned out OK,’ she admits modestly. ‘But you practically had to hold me up.’

  ‘Whatever it takes,’ I grin. ‘Anyway, performing for a crowd is good practice for when you’re famous.’

  She laughs and changes the subject by trying out ‘Sunglasses’ in a series of different keys.

  The Christmas holidays are the best we’ve ever had. Not only do our gigs go really well, but we get invited to what seems like every party in Castle Bigelow. Our Interface pages are full of good-luck messages and new friend requests. And Mum’s café is constantly busy with people wanting to congratulate her, and me, and anyone who knows us.

  As Jodie points out, it’s a sad reflection of how little there is to do in Castle Bigelow if you get to be a celebrity by coming eighty-fifth in a competition. But as we sing ‘Sunglasses’ for the hundredth time to a roomful of happy partygoers, who all know the tune, I can’t say I care.

  La La Big Number Scary

  Auditions for the live shows take place over three weekends in January. Ours is the final Sunday, and we’re in the last twenty acts they’ll be seeing. The venue is the Interface headquarters, a multimillion-pound complex just off the M4, where lots of computer companies have their HQs. We looked it up online. It’s very modern and grand, with several large, eco-friendly buildings set among lawns and woods, and even a lake. They’ll be filming us in this amazing conference centre behind the main building, which looks like a series of spaceships parked around a large wooden tepee.

  When we arrive at seven a.m., as requested, it’s not even light. We’re squashed into Nell’s dad’s Volvo again. He’s taken to calling himself the band’s taxi service. One thing I’ve discovered about the music business: it’s tricky if you haven’t got transport.

  The tepee looms ahead of us through the gloom. Signs point to places like ‘Pathfinders’, ‘Eat’ and ‘Vision’. The tepee itself is called ‘Meet’, and we follow the road to it, sitting in a slow queue of cars all disgorging nervous-looking teenagers and their even more nervous-looking parents, who give them quick hugs before watching them go inside.

  In the reception area, a young man with a clipboard comes over to us and introduces himself as Rob. He ticks off our names on his list and waits while we sign various papers that he explains are ‘standard TV release forms’. These allow the TV company to use any footage of us they like, and prevent us doing . . . a bunch of stuff we don’t have time to read about but hope won’t be a problem. With a queue of people forming behind us, we all sign as fast as we can.

  Once a group of about ten of us have signed, Rob accompanies us all to a cavernous space at the back of the centre, which is where all the auditionees will be relaxing and practising.

  ‘Make yourselves at home,’ Rob says. ‘The facilities are at that end.’

  He points to a door marked with signs to the toilets. I get the feeling we’re going to need them quite a lot.

  ‘Oh, and people may be filming at any time,’ he adds. ‘They’ll use it as background for the live shows. You know the kind of stuff. Just ignore the cameras, OK? They like to use natural footage. But don’t worry, you’ll get used to them.’

  We check out the other acts. There are some street dancer girls in leotards, with tracksuits over the top to keep them warm, a few boys mooching about with guitars, a string quartet who set up in a corner and start practising together as if they don’t know that the whole room is listening (who voted for them?), and several people on their own, who sit around looking scared and helpless like us, but are trying not to show it.

  Now I am slightly regretting my outfit choices. They told us to arrive in costume, so we did. People seemed to like what we wore on our first video, so we decided to be brave – although I think perhaps I overdid it. We’re going to be doing the Roxanne Wills song again, so I watched loads of her videos and somehow decided it would be sensible to appear in a gold spangled catsuit that Mrs Venning had been storing since about 1980. Believe me, that is nothing compared to what Roxanne Wills’s backing dancers wear, but here, in this room, I feel mildly silly. Knowing I have a pair of gold heels in my bag to change into doesn’t help. And a cape. For some reason I thought a cape would be a good idea too.

  Nell’s back in the sequin shorts, but she’s got a tracksuit over them for now. Jodie chose silver leggings and a T-shirt from Living Vintage that says FRANKIE SAYS RELAX. Rose is in a purple dress with draped sleeves – a fifties original – and delicate silver shoes. We’re all backcombed to match. No wonder everyone’s looking at us. It’s a relief when the last people trickle in and they take us all off to the theatre, to explain what’s going to happen.

  We sit in the audience seats while a tall man in a black polo-neck jumper, with a sleek goatee beard, takes centre stage. When he talks, his voice is low, but somehow you can hear every word he says. It helps that his face is projected onto a screen the size of a small house, just above his head.

  ‘Welcome, everybody. My name is Ivan Jenks. I’m in charge of marketing at Interface, and it’s my job to find the next act to advertise our product worldwide. And that act could be you.’

  He looks out at us and suddenly flashes us a wolfish grin. Magnified behind him on the screen, it’s mesmerising and almost frightening.

  ‘I want you to think about Interface for a moment,’ he says. ‘We have over half a billion customers around the world, people just like you, who watch us every day on their computers and their tablets and their mobiles. Every day, the advert made by our winner will appear on over a billion devices. Not a million. A billion.’

  Behind him, the projection suddenly shows an image of a phone screen, flashing up loads of different Interface pages. The screen multiplies again and again, until there seem to be thousands of them. Even so, it’s only a fraction of a billion. I can’t actually imagine a billion. Not really. If he just said ‘Lalalala big number scary’ it would have the same effect.

  ‘So we’re looking for something very special from the nine acts we’ll pick from these auditions,’ he continues. ‘You’ve got to stand out. The judges know what it is we’re looking for. Listen to them. Learn from them. Even if you don’t get through, you’re about to get the best masterclass in the music industry that you could ever hope for. Now let me introduce the judges. Linus, come and join us.’

  A short, broad man walks onto the stage. He has close-cropped hair and a lined face and is dressed in a open-necked shirt and baggy jeans. He’s nothing much to look at, but when he opens his mouth to smile, his teeth are so white it’s as if they belong to another person. TV teeth. We all applaud, although I can’t say I’ve ever seen him before. Ivan introduces him as Linus Oakley, a big-time music manager. But we’ve never heard of him, so we’ll have to take Ivan’s word for it.

  Next is Sebastian Rules, the rapper and producer from London. We certainly know him, as he’s been in the charts a lot recently. He’s taller and much younger than Linus, dressed in a razor-sharp grey suit. Jodie nudges me and points at it.

  ‘His own clothing line,’ she mouths, impressed. Jodie yearns for her own line one day. She’s even designed the logo.

  ‘Does he do his own perfume, too?’ Rose asks, nudging me gently.

  J
odie nods happily, not noticing the nudge. Rose and I share a smile. Jodie’s ultimate definition of success is having your own perfume, whereas Rose’s is mastering advanced Spanish guitar, or having a megastar songwriter like Paul McCartney tell you they love your stuff. Nell’s is working at London Zoo. Right now, mine would be making it to the loo in this catsuit without any major catastrophes.

  Finally, Ivan announces the third judge, and Jodie and I squeal with excitement. It’s Roxanne Wills: the singer whose song we’ve chosen for today. She’s a megastar from Florida – a great singer and a fabulous dancer. She’s one of our all-time heroes and it can’t be a coincidence that we’re doing her song. It just can’t. It’s got to be a sign, surely?

  We’re not her only fans, though. When she comes on, the applause is deafening. People stomp their feet and whistle. She stands onstage now, waiting humbly for the noise to die down, looking incredible in a mock-croc mini-dress and five-inch heels. It’s weird to see her in the flesh, after years of only seeing her in magazines and on video. She looks smaller, slighter. But when she eventually grins, her smile is enormous.

  ‘I just wanted to say,’ she says, stepping forward and talking breathily into the mic, ‘that I feel so proud and humbled today to be a part of inspiring the next generation of music makers on Killer Act. I want to send my good wishes to each and every one of you.’

  I feel her look straight at me as she says it, and it’s like getting a jolt of electricity. She’s right there, so close: I could almost touch her. Beside me, Rose raises an eyebrow.

  ‘Patronising, much?’ she whispers.

  But I don’t care. Roxanne’s good wishes are good enough for me.

  The judges stay where they are, while we go back to our original waiting room, ready for the auditions to begin. It’s the start of a very long day.

  After a while, a couple of men in T-shirts arrive with shoulder-mounted TV cameras and wander around, filming conversations. Everybody tries to look interesting and suddenly I can’t think of anything to say. Meanwhile, the waiting is endless. First the street dancers are taken off to see the judges, then the string quartet. Our wait continues.

  At twelve o’clock Rob finally calls us, but it’s only to see a group of three producers, all sitting in a small airless room with about five empty coffee cups on the table in front of them, who want to talk about our ‘journey’. Nell is five minutes into describing the traffic on the motorway before the bearded guy at one end of the table explains that they meant ‘Your journey to the competition more broadly. What made you want to sing together?’

  Oh. That journey. Our backstory-type-thing. We talked about this before we got here, and agreed not to talk about Rose’s parents (she hates it), or my dad (you must be joking), or our sad addiction to Abba and Kylie. Instead, we tell them about Jodie, Nell and me meeting in primary school, and Rose joining us later on. We mention how ‘Sunglasses’ was the first song we wrote together and, no, we haven’t done anything since. God, we sound dull, though. We’re even reduced to Jodie talking about Rolo, her ancient pony (on the basis that animal stories are cute), and Nell telling them about her plan to be a vet. The thing is, we’re just a group of girls who ended up singing together by accident. We haven’t really got a backstory.

  ‘And what made you decide to enter Killer Act?’ the bearded guy asks, looking a bit desperate.

  ‘Oh, we didn’t,’ Nell says cheerfully. ‘One of our friends did it for us.’ I glare at her. ‘Er, not a friend, actually. Just someone we know,’ she amends.

  ‘But we’re really, really glad we made it,’ I add, trying to move the subject away from weirdo stalker types.

  It’s too late, though. To my frustration, they seem to like the story about the friend, especially when they ask for more details and Nell admits we didn’t know who it was at first. Our agony when my phone was stolen sounds quite entertaining to the producers, as does the fact that we entered the competition so late, but gathered votes so fast. Even that, though, is only quite entertaining. In the end they all nod without looking up at us and tell us we can go.

  Part one of the audition: probable fail.

  Next is Bert Blackwell, the musical director. We meet him in a large, airy room containing a grand piano, several instruments stacked neatly against the wall, and another TV guy wandering round with a camera.

  ‘Hi,’ Bert says, welcoming us in. ‘I’ve seen your video. My job is to find out how much talent you really have lurking there. The video’s part of the story, but we want acts with real potential. Let’s see what you can do.’

  OK. No pressure, then.

  He’s gentle, but very organised, and a brilliant pianist, sitting at an electric piano with a vast array of buttons above the keyboard. We sing ‘I See the Light’ for him, first together, then individually. Then he gets us to sing a range of phrases from different songs. It’s quickly obvious – although it never was to us before – that Jodie has the loudest voice, but can lapse into a bad American accent if she’s not careful. She promises to watch it. Nell is the quietest and needs to project. When she’s by herself, she gets so nervous you can hardly hear her. But if she breathes properly, as Bert suggests, her beautiful tone shines through.

  When it’s my turn to sing, I instantly stop at the sound of my husky voice in the mic.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ Bert asks.

  ‘It’s just the gravel,’ I say apologetically.

  Bert frowns at me. ‘Gravel?’

  ‘My old choir teacher said I sounded like a load of gravel being poured down a hole.’

  He smiles. ‘I see what she meant. But I suppose she didn’t think to mention that can be a good thing? Not for choirs, maybe, but for rock songs. Try this.’

  He plays a few bars of ‘Hey Jude’ by the Beatles.

  ‘Do you know it?’

  Of course I do. Dad taught it to me in my cot, practically. Plus, Rose and I often sing the Beatles together. In fact she can’t help harmonising with me when I hit the chorus.

  ‘Not bad,’ Bert says, watching me closely, ‘but you need to be careful of the high notes. You tend to go flat.’

  ‘I know,’ I admit. I don’t have the natural talent of Rose or Jodie. I love to sing, but there is no way I will ever be Paul McCartney.

  ‘Loosen up,’ Bert says. ‘Enjoy yourself. Believe it or not, that will help.’ He smiles enigmatically and makes notes on a clipboard.

  ‘Right, Rose,’ he says eventually. ‘You last. I did some research and I notice from your Interface page that you like jazz. Shall we try some Nina Simone?’

  He starts the introduction of ‘My Baby Just Cares For Me’, which is one of Rose’s favourite songs of all time. All the way through the opening bars she just stares at me. Her eyes say clearly, He did some research on my Interface page? Who is this weirdo? She only has a personal page at all because we did it as an exercise in ICT.

  She looks nervous, but she knows the song so well and Bert plays it so expertly that when the time comes, her voice seems to take off, and there it is again: that warm, jazzy tone we heard at George’s party. To me, it sounds as if she’s got the best voice of all.

  ‘That was lovely,’ Bert smiles when she’s finished. ‘You have impeccable timing. And a real gift. When you’re in your comfort zone, you definitely stand out.’

  Rose shifts around, super-embarrassed, staring at the floor.

  I give her a squeeze, while Bert makes more notes on his clipboard.

  ‘That’s it. You can go now. Good luck with the judges.’

  What exactly was he writing on that clipboard? It was a lot.

  ‘You were amazing,’ I whisper to Rose as we leave.

  She shakes her head. ‘Not really. It’s just a good song, that’s all.’

  Outside, Rob greets us with a grin. ‘That go OK?’ he asks, not waiting for an answer. ‘They’re ready for you now, you’ll be pleased to hear.’

  Rob introduces us to a woman I’ve seen popping in and out, always look
ing busy. She’s dressed in smart grey jeans and a soft black jacket, with sharp brown eyes and blonde hair scraped back into a bun.

  ‘This is Janet,’ Rob says. ‘She’s the floor manager. She’ll take care of you.’

  I notice Janet’s radio mic, and the tired look around her eyes. We’re among the last to be seen. It’s almost evening already, and she must have arrived here, like us, long ago. Nevertheless, she gives us a smile.

  ‘This way.’

  ‘Good luck, everyone,’ Nell whispers.

  As we troop behind her towards the theatre, where the judges are, I think about the musical director’s last piece of advice: Loosen up; enjoy yourself.

  Yeah, right.

  Catsuit Girl

  We creep through the wings, onto the main stage. The judges are sitting at a table facing the stage, just like we imagined, each one spotlit for extra, nerve-racking effect.

  Linus Oakley sits stiffly in the middle. To his left, Sebastian Rules is so relaxed in his chair he’s practically horizontal. But it’s Roxanne Wills who really gets our attention. She’s got one camera zoomed in extra close on her face as we walk in. Perhaps it’s not just in my imagination that we have some sort of connection. Perhaps, somehow, the TV people sense it too.

  ‘How are you?’ she asks, in a low, husky voice.

  We mutter that we’re fine – which is code for the fact that we’re sick with nerves and we still can’t quite believe we’re here at all.

  Linus checks the notes in front of him. There are lots of them. I think I recognise some of Bert’s upside-down scrawls from our meeting with him just now, but I can’t be sure.

  ‘You got your backing track ready?’ Roxanne asks.

  We shake our heads. After our success at George’s party, we’ve decided to pare things back.

  ‘It’s just us and the guitar today,’ Rose explains, after a cough to clear her throat.