Chapter 12
After a night of tossing and turning and chastising myself over and over for such a dreadful performance, I haul myself out of bed.
Nancy’s sour tone and harsh words are still ringing in my ears, and each time I close my eyes, all I can see are the disappointed faces in the crowd as I bombed on stage last night.
I heard the Dollz’ noisy return in the early hours and not one of them came to see if I was all right.
Lord knows where they think I sleep. Under the kitchen table?
I drag myself into the bathroom and shower off the remaining glitter and gemstones.
Apparently the industry-strength glue does work on some parts of the body: those sensitive parts that should not have glue anywhere near them.
Then I contemplate going back to bed to hide for the rest of the week.
My head is swimming with negativity. I rerun those moments where I’m inviting people to the gig as if I’m something special.
Come and see me. Come and see how great I am. Come and see me, the greatest thing since sliced bread, at The Jolly Roger.
My phone rings.
‘How are you feeling? Did you get much sleep?’ Liam asks, his warm voice steeped with years of friendship and comfort. He didn’t bat an eye at my hysterical late-night call. It’s like falling into a cloud of cotton wool and just what I need.
‘I’m honestly not sure I can face the world ever again,’ I say, while Liam makes soothing noises back at me.
‘Sometimes you need to hashtag fail at your goals in order to hashtag realise your true potential,’ he says.
‘I bared my soul to Matteo. We shared a truly emotional moment and yet he failed to tell me a very significant detail about himself, namely that he was in charge .’
‘Hmm, with the power to make or break your career. Yes. The gig could have gone better, babes.’
‘Thanks for the reminder.’ I can’t help but raise a tiny smile. We both know I have brought this on myself.
‘Well, don’t look on Facebook, whatever you do,’ he warns, making me frantically scroll through Facebook.
There are endless images of me at the gig in a wide range of anxious poses. I look lost and troubled in each and every single one. A quick swipe down the comments leaves a lot to be desired. I have not exactly been a hit on The Strip.
‘I can sense you scrolling, hun. I told you not to look at it. Just ignore it. People only have one-minute memories these days. They’ll have already forgotten.’
This is the worst I’ve felt in a long, long time.
I have no idea what to do with my life. I’ve spent the last six years coasting from one lame job to another as I stayed by my mother’s side and then stayed trapped in a bubble, not knowing what to do with myself other than try to follow in her footsteps to sing with the Sinfonia.
Five times I’ve been rejected. I’m technically perfect but don’t quite have the X factor apparently.
‘Don’t give up, Connie. This is just a blip. I know you. You’re capable of great things when you choose to be. Don’t let that negative energy cause you to spiral. Rise above it. Do something fabulous to counteract it. I’ll ring you later. Love you, honey.’
He’s right. We’ve been here before.
I clear my mind and concentrate on my breathing.
A melody floats through my brain and comes to me in humming form.
I scribble down words into lyrics and thoughts into verses, and a chorus emerges.
I didn’t get a first in my music degree for nothing and, like a whippet, I add musical notes and play around with chords.
I have no instruments with me so I imagine a guitar and some drums and what they might sound like before I remember the big white piano in the lounge.
Lost in thought, playing the piano for longer than I realised, I look up to see the Dollz crowding around me.
‘Are you okay?’ Big Sue asks. ‘You feeling lost and lonely, are you, pet?’
‘A bit,’ I say, feeling self-conscious. ‘And no, I’m not okay. I’m far from okay. Didn’t you see me last night? I totally sucked.’
They all stare at me, nodding in agreement.
‘I can’t go on tonight. I just can’t. It’s too embarrassing.’ I get up from the piano stool and stand tall, gathering up my notes. It’s important to stand my ground.
‘Yes, you will. You’re our warm-up act,’ Tash says forcefully. ‘We did a great job for you yesterday and today you repay the favour. It’s time to get your big girl pants on, okay?’
I plonk myself back down on the stool with a thump at her harsh tone.
‘Not that she gave us any thanks for it,’ says Cherry sharply. ‘If it wasn’t for us, the whole gig would’ve been a complete bloody shambles.’
She’s right. My lip wobbles. I swallow and sniff up the threat of tears. I feel like such a loser. A huge, colossal waste of space.
‘No offence, babes,’ Tash says with a slight unfriendliness to her tone, ‘but I get the distinct impression that you think you’re too good for Benidorm. Too good to be singing with the likes of us?’
‘Yeah,’ chips in Big Mand. ‘You’ve looked down your nose at us since we got here.
It’s like you think the audience needs you to “teach” them about “proper” singing with your avant-garde this and your vocal range that.
Well, let me tell you, Connie, pet, the audience knows what they want and what they want is not you wailing gloomy tunes at them.
They want happy, uplifting melodies because most of them are on holiday from their humdrum lives and just want to get pissed. ’
‘That’s right. Those fatties in the audience have earned it,’ Tash says. ‘They’ve retired here to escape their families and to dodge childcare duties. And your job is to help them forget the guilt.’
I nod understandingly. She’s right.
‘Yes. You’re right. You were all brilliant.’ I cast my mind back to their dazzling performance. ‘Awesome, actually. It was a great show. I’m sorry I let you down.’
‘It’s simply a matter of being organised, if you ask me,’ says Liberty.
Well, maybe if you hadn’t fucking abandoned me to twelve fucking nuns at their villa with no way of getting to the gig, I too might have been better fucking organised, part of me wants to scream, while outwardly I smile and suck it up. I need to be better than this. I really do.
‘Now, what are we all wearing tonight?’ Liberty continues. ‘This Red Bull event we’re doing tonight has a very strict dress code. You are warming up the crowd for us, so we need you to dress up, sound alive and get them in the mood for dancing. Just like we did for you. Understand?’
‘What sort of dress code?’
While I’m unable to disagree with a single word, I’m praying that I don’t have to dress like a Berlin nightclub dancer. I’m not sure I can take any more humiliation.
‘Cocktail casual. There’ll be famous artists there. Proper singers and lots of talent scouts,’ she reminds us. ‘Plus, Nancy has her spies keeping a close eye on us now, thanks to Connie’s disaster job last night. Who thinks they’ll be able to give her a hand getting ready?’
The group eyes me up and down, sucking in air and shaking their heads in the manner of car mechanics pricing up a job.
‘Thanks, but I can get myself glammed up for tonight. What is cocktail casual exactly?’
When they show me pictures of the glamourous dresses and shoes they are wearing, I feel panic rising again.
‘It’s almost as though she’s never done a real show before,’ says Cherry, seeing my alarmed expression.
‘I wonder what Nancy was thinking? She usually sends us someone top-notch,’ says Big Mand. ‘Not some first-timer. Connie, how long have you been singing in clubs?’
‘Erm,’ I hesitate. ‘Seven years.’
‘ Seven feckin’ years? ’ Tash all but screams. ‘Jesus. How have you lasted this long? Seven years? Seven actual years? Or do you mean seven dog years?’
They all howl with laughter.
‘What time are we leaving?’ I ask tightly.
I’m going to stay civil and polite. After all, I am here to develop a healthy and lasting week-long professional relationship with these attention-seeking, shallow, nun-obsessed boozehounds that just happen to be much better on stage than me, even though they put far less effort in and have been doing it for less time.
There’s no point explaining that the last five years were spent nosediving, as I helped nurse my mother through cancer and became consumed with grief.
‘Hoargghhhay is booked for 8p.m.,’ answers Tash. ‘We’ll pop to Tiki Beach for a confidence drink before we go on stage tonight.’
‘Fine,’ I say, checking the time on my phone.
I can do this. The show must go on.
As they stampede away, I think wistfully of Ged and Liam, always there to support me, and importantly, to advise on my fashion choices to keep me in touch with my inner truth, or as they like to say, to keep me from looking like a village librarian.
I could really do with a fairy godmother about now.
Suddenly, an idea pops into my head. I will text Nacho for help.
He seems the type that would know all about grooming.
Within minutes he has dropped me the location for a salon and the nearest Zara.
I have a quick shower and head straight off.
As I rush into the salon, I am greeted by one of the girls I recognise from cliff diving.
We exchange cheek kisses before I show her pictures on my phone of the nails, hair and make-up I need done.
She hurries me to a seat, and I hear comforting words that sound like lift, tone and highlight as she picks up strands of my hair and rubs them between her fingers.
She frowns, deep in thought, as she pulls my hair down the sides of my face before messing about with side partings as she makes eye contact with me through the mirror.
Almost as though she is telepathically suggesting it is time for an exciting change.