Chapter 11 #2
I walk over to the phone and twiddle the knobs on the loudspeaker, stalling for time, only for it to emit a high-pitched screech which has the audience wincing.
‘I’ll start with one of my, erm, favourite, erm, hits from way back in the eighties.’
Now I just can’t seem to get the tuning back where it was. I should never have touched it and, judging by the lack of response, the crowd don’t seem to give a shit about hearing any hits from the eighties anyway.
‘Just get on with it,’ someone shouts in a bored voice.
Now there’s an atmosphere. An awkward atmosphere.
I feel the sweat running down my face. I swipe at it with the back of my hand, causing a smear of glitter, some black eyeliner and a smattering of rhinestones to come away.
At the side of the stage area, the Dollz are looking at me with horrified confusion.
Luckily, the twinkling notes of my first song float lightly out of the speaker.
Had I known that the Dollz were ending on such a banger, I would have rethought my choice and now I severely regret choosing such a slow pop ballad to open with.
I sing along to the haunting melody of ‘You Are the Reason’ and luckily the tremble in my voice is barely noticeable.
I manage to get to the end and, while it does show off my vocal range, there’s an almost collective sigh of frustration from the audience as what’s left of the energy is immediately sucked from the room.
I wipe my face again to stop the sweat pouring into my eyes.
It’s bad enough having to force a whole bar full of punters to listen to music they hate, without looking like a Picasso.
There’s a smattering of polite applause afterwards.
If they didn’t like that, then they definitely won’t like the next one.
I signal wildly at the manager to skip the next track but he’s busy serving at the bar, too far away to help.
I reluctantly start singing and sidle over to the PA system to change it myself.
I wouldn’t normally change songs halfway through but literally the whole bar has gone back to talking and drinking and no one seems to be listening to me anyway.
I can barely bring myself to look at Matteo, or Nacho or his friends, or Jorge and definitely not the Dollz. This is beyond humiliating.
Fumbling with the microphone, I stop the track mid-flow and search for something else. The crowd is growing restless, and the bar manager is giving me a warning look. He has been joined by a dark-haired beauty who is frowning at me under her thick fringe.
‘Siri! Siri, search previous playlist!’ I yell in panic while I try to make sense of why my fingers have become as much use as cocktail sausages.
My phone blares into the handheld mic in a robotic tone, ‘Previous search: hot guys in Benidorm.’
Fuck!
The whole place suddenly goes quiet as everyone turns in my direction. ‘Searching: hot guys in Benidorm called Matteo.’
Fuckety fuck!
The crowd bursts out laughing. Like lightning, I flick to my music library. I hit select on the first track to appear and suddenly the opening notes to ‘Somebody to Love’ immediately blare out.
Of all the tracks! Shitting, shitting hell. He’ll definitely think I’m desperate for him now. It’s as though I’ve been possessed by an evil spirit hell-bent on ruining my life.
‘I can be your Matteo if you want, love!’ a red-nosed man in socks and sandals jeers. The Dollz, oblivious to the heckling, are chatting to the nuns who have turned up just in time to witness how diabolical I am being. Nothing short of an exorcism will get me out of this mess.
It’s no use, I’ll just have to brazen it out.
I blink slowly and start singing. I just won’t make eye contact with Matteo.
It’s a big tune but I carry it comfortably and by the time I reach the chorus, I’ve surprised myself by moving around on stage, encouraging everyone to sing along.
It’s completely out of character for me, but the bar manager seems relieved and says something to Matteo that he doesn’t quite find funny.
He’s standing rigidly at the back of the bar, staring at me.
He must think I’m a crackpot. The only upside being he’ll think I’m a crackpot interested in him, rather than Nacho.
I try to ignore that my dress is sliding up my backside as my make-up and jewels are sliding off my face, and I belt out the tune to get the crowd back on side.
It was a shaky start, but I think we’ll all be able to get past it and salvage the show.
Thankfully, I get significantly more applause for that song and babble at the crowd while I fiddle with the phone to find a suitable song to play next. The pressure is excruciating.
‘How about a bit of Ed Sheeran?’ I say hopefully, desperation permeating from my skin. Once again, I flick my eyes over to Matteo, who is speaking on his phone while the dark-haired beauty is talking rapidly at him, in between firing me evil looks.
It’s like the last five years of failed auditions for the Sinfonia all rolled into one.
I click on the only track I know all the words to: ‘Perfect’.
Like a lullaby soothing an angry baby, the opening notes float out across the sea of bald heads.
Adrenalin is pumping through my veins, so when it comes to singing the gentle harmony, I sing in Italian.
I totally fucking forgot that I knew how to do this.
Italian! It was one of my final year projects at university.
For a moment, I manage to block out the nightmare of Benidorm and lose myself in the lyrics.
The Dollz are beaming as they slosh their cocktails in time with me.
Matteo’s face is unreadable. His eyes are darker than ever.
I put everything I have into this performance.
In fact, the song is hurling out of me as if my life depends on it.
I end up turning away from the crowd to sing the rest of the song directly to Matteo.
People are turning round in their seats to see who I’m singing to.
I think he must be getting a bit embarrassed at the attention, so for the final line of the song, I concentrate on the crowd, when suddenly the unthinkable happens.
My phone battery dies and with it the music.
I finish the final notes a cappella as though it was all intentional, refusing to be thrown by a technical hitch.
I press the palm of my hand to my solar plexus and hold the note, climbing higher and higher to the fade.
What does throw me, however, is that out of my peripheral vision I notice Matteo leave the bar. He weaves quickly through the crowd with his phone clamped to his ear, the dark-haired beauty hard on his heels, and disappears. It’s like a punch to the guts.
There’s a second of silence as I stand there catching my breath before the crowd erupts into applause.
‘Thank you,’ I say, glancing over to my phone, which is completely and utterly dead. As the crowd bellows requests at me, I nod, smiling brightly. ‘Erm, does anyone have an iPhone charger I could borrow?’
There’s a confused sort of period where everyone starts patting down their pockets and looking around them and under tables as though iPhone chargers could be lying randomly about.
‘What model is it?’ someone asks, which gives way to a group discussion about cable lengths and battery life. The manager approaches the stage and hands me a charger with a look of incredulity.
All in all, the mood deflates again, and I limp through the rest of the set after that, unable to sing any of their Ed Sheeran requests. I’m a mess. It’s a relief when it comes to an end. I return the charger to the manager.
‘I’m sorry about that. I’m usually much better and much more organised.’ He simply tuts and walks off.
My phone springs to life. It’s Nancy.
‘What sort of bollocks was that?’ she barks hoarsely.
I listen to her tearing strips off me. Nothing I don’t deserve.
‘So basically, you’ve been showing off your vocal chops instead of giving the crowd what I promised them, and you’ve embarrassed me in front of Spain’s biggest talent promoters, Connie. ’
I wince at how angry she sounds.
‘I’m furious with you,’ she rasps. ‘I’m putting the Dollz in as the headline act for the rest of the week and you as support. And you’re lucky to get that. If there was anyone else to replace you with I would. Do not let me down again!’
‘It was my phone,’ I say weakly, knowing there’s absolutely no excuse I can give. Not the dress, not the glitter, not the Dollz… not the phone. I failed to prepare and behaved very unprofessionally. Perhaps Nancy is right. I haven’t got what it takes.
‘How did you find out so soon, anyway?’ I ask. ‘I’ve literally been off stage for two minutes.’
‘Because the promotors were watching.’
Argh! Perhaps I can go and grovel my apologies.
‘What do they look like? What are they called? I’ll try and catch them.’
‘Alex is the one who hired you on the phone, and the other is Matteo. He’s the head of Jezebel Music, and from what I’ve seen of him, he’s a total fanny magnet. If you’ve lost me his business, I’ll never hire you again.’
Oh no. No. No. No. No. No.