Bryony Bell's Star Turn (2 page)

Suddenly an ear-splitting ‘Hiya, kids!' told her that Ken Undrum had arrived.

Sliding the sausages under the grill, Bryony raced to the front door, flung herself into his arms, and gazed into his bright, blackberry eyes. ‘Stage hypnotism tonight, Mr Undrum?' she whispered, hoping he hadn't forgotten his promise.

And, of course, he hadn't. His red handlebar moustache quivered as he nodded his shock of flame-coloured hair. ‘Gee, Bryony honey!' he replied. ‘Didn'tcha just read my mind!'

Mrs Quigg, the music teacher, whirled round on the piano stool and surveyed the stage disapprovingly over her half-moon spectacles.

‘
Do
stop fidgeting, Angelina,' she said. ‘And try to look a bit more like the Multitude of the Heavenly Host, could you?'

Angelina peered morosely out through her braids. ‘It's quite hard, Mrs Quigg,' she pointed out, ‘when there's only me, and one of my wings is loose.'

Mrs Quigg dragged her hands through her hair, dislodging several hairpins. ‘It's called “stage presence”, dear,' she said. ‘And if you want to be a proper actor you'll have to develop some.'

Sitting on a bench beside Abid, Bryony watched their class teacher march over to Angelina and tug the string round her waist.

‘There we are,' Mrs Ogilvie said, giving her a shake. ‘Solid as the Walls of Jericho.'

Mrs Quigg raised her eyebrows heavenwards, then she ran her fingers lightly up and down the piano keys. ‘I composed this,' she explained to Angelina, ‘to sound like the flutter of angel's wings. So please do not forget it is your cue to flap and sing.'

She glared over to where Bryony was sitting. ‘And when the Virgin Mary sees the Multitude of the Heavenly Host,' she added, ‘she gives them her full attention –
doesn't
she?'

Bryony leapt to her feet, adjusted the tea towel round her head, and shuffled forward.

‘OK, Angelina,' said Mrs Quigg. ‘
Behold, I bring you great good news
! And make sure you sound the final consonants, otherwise it sounds like “grey goo”…'

It was the second week of rehearsals and already everyone was feeling the strain. Mrs Quigg, spurred on by the success of her
Ugly Duckling
that summer, had written another musical which, she had announced confidently, was a
tour de force
to end all
tour de forces
.

The words
tour de force
had brought Abid out in a rash, but when Mrs Quigg had told him he was to be Joseph he had gulped, wheezed deeply, and assured her he would give it his best shot.

The only remaining thing the play needed, Mrs Quigg had told the cast, was a show-stopping Big Number. But when they had asked what the Big Number actually
was
, she had blushed and explained that the muse had not yet descended but that she was expecting an imminent visitation.

‘We are talking about the mystery of artistic inspiration,' she had explained solemnly. ‘One simply cannot rush these things.'

As the days passed, however, and no artistic inspiration was forthcoming, Mrs Quigg's mood had darkened. She frequently burst into tears, and not even Angelina's angelic voice could lift her spirits. Rehearsals were a nightmare.

Quite apart from sympathising with Mrs Quigg's battle with the muse, Bryony had her own private misgivings about the Nativity play. OK – she was the star, and that was as it should be. But when you looked at what an angel got to wear (layers of sequined white chiffon, a diamond tiara, and enormous gold-foil-covered cardboard wings), compared to the Virgin Mary (two tea towels, a sheet, and a grey shawl with a pillow stuffed underneath), there was no doubt which part
she'd
rather play.

Bryony gazed enviously at Angelina while Angelina sang the Angel song as sweetly as ever. Secretly, she slipped her hand underneath her shawl and felt inside her pocket. A tingle of excitement ran up her spine. The reply to her letter – and
exactly
what she had hoped for! She had hardly had time to take it in, let alone show it to Abid. She couldn't wait for playtime to come.

‘Superb, Angelina!' Mrs Quigg beamed up at Angelina as the last notes tinkled away. Then she glared at Bryony. ‘Bryony Bell,' she growled. ‘An angel has just appeared to tell you that you are going to be the mother of the son of God, and you stand there looking like a cauliflower. Now
think
! How will that joyful news make you
feel
?'

Bryony tugged at her tea towel and glanced over to where Abid was standing tugging at his. He mouthed something. Bryony narrowed her eyes, then turned back to Mrs Quigg.

‘Pleased?' she said hopefully.

‘
Pleased
?' repeated Mrs Quigg. It was clearly not the correct answer. ‘Is that
all
?'

Bryony looked over at Abid again; but Abid shrugged his shoulders.

‘Very pleased?' she tried miserably.

‘Oh, honestly!' shrieked Mrs Quigg. ‘Surely
you
, coming from a show-biz family, can think of something a tad more powerful than “very pleased”?'

Out of the corner of her eye, Bryony could see Angelina putting her hand up. She had a more than usually self-satisfied expression on her face.

‘Yes, Angelina?' Mrs Quigg said expectantly.

‘If
I
were playing the Virgin Mary, Mrs Quigg,' Angelina replied in her most simpering voice, ‘
I
should be filled with the utmost awe.'

‘Awe,' Mrs Quigg repeated, rolling the word around her mouth. ‘Awe,' she repeated, savouring it. Then she glared back at Bryony. ‘Exactly!' she barked. ‘A little more
awe
from the Virgin Mary, or she's going to end up losing her star part.'

At that, much to Bryony's relief, the bell rang. As everyone threw off their tea towels, she pulled Abid impatiently towards the classroom. ‘Just wait till you see this!' she hissed.

‘It's not that book about hypnosis you got from Mr Undrum last night?' Abid looked worried. ‘Only I can't cope with much more today.' He sank down onto a chair and put his head in his hands. ‘Oh, Bryony,' he said miserably. ‘I do
hate
being an actor!'

Bryony sat down beside him. ‘You used to hate singing in public,' she observed. ‘And there you were a couple of months ago, wowing half the States.'

‘That was different,' Abid sighed. ‘That was singing. It's all this
acting
I can't stand. I just hate it when I have to gaze at you, my eyes filled with a mixture of love and compassion, and say, “Not much longer, my darling. Behold I see the star ahead”,'

‘You do it very movingly,' Bryony pointed out. ‘And it means the world to Mrs Quigg.'

‘I know it means the world to Mrs Quigg,' Abid agreed. ‘But it's more than I can stand.'

Bryony concealed a sigh. ‘Think yourself lucky you can sing,' she said impatiently. ‘
I
have to act all the flipping time because I
can't
. And all
I
want to do is skate.'

Then, to Abid's surprise, she leapt onto a desk, pulled an envelope from her pocket, and took two pieces of paper out of it. ‘But it is time to forget your sorrows,' she announced, unfolding the top piece of paper, ‘for behold I bring you glad tidings of great joy! From the Director of Channel 4, no less – so pin back your ears.

‘
Dear Ms Bell
,' she read, as Abid gazed open-mouthed. ‘
Thank you for your letter. After due consideration, we have great pleasure in taking up your proposal to make a docu-soap of life with the Bells.

‘
As you suggest, we will install a film crew to follow your family throughout the coming twelve months
.

‘
Time being of the essence, if we are to have a Christmas special, we would wish to begin screen tests immediately. We trust this meets with your parents' approval
.

‘
We enclose a contract, the terms of which we are confident will be satisfactory
.'

Bryony unfolded the second piece of paper and waved the contract in front of Abid. ‘Feast your eyes on
this
!' she said. ‘Enough to keep the
Broadway Belles
grounded for at least a year, don't you think?'

Abid stared, blinked, and stared again. ‘All that money…' he breathed, ‘…and fame too. Oh, Bryony, you're a genius!'

He stood up and applauded Bryony, who curtsied. Just as she was surfacing, Mrs Ogilvie entered the classroom. Bryony braced herself for the backlash, but amazingly none came. Instead, Mrs Ogilvie merely raised her eyebrows.

‘Might I make so bold as to suggest,' she commented, as she swept past with a pile of spelling books, ‘that we do not let our Nativity play parts go
quite
so much to our heads?'

When Bryony finished reading the letter from Channel 4 to Big Bob, Clarissa, and the little Bells, the kitchen fell silent. Then everyone spoke at once.

‘We've
nothing
to wear!'

‘We'll need complete makeovers!'

‘And personal trainers!'

‘And image consultants!'

Struggling to make herself heard over the list of requirements, Clarissa announced:

‘Three cheers for Bryony!' And, when these had been duly delivered, rather spoilt the effect for Bryony by adding, ‘
Now
we'll be headhunted for Hollywood, nothing surer.'

When everyone had calmed down, Bryony edged closer to Big Bob, who was quietly tightening the screws around the stuffed bear's head. ‘What do you think, Dad?' she whispered nervously. ‘Be good for
Bell's Building 'n' Joinery
,
won't it?'

‘Ever so good, Bryony love,' Big Bob assured her. ‘Specially if we get close-ups of my dovetail joints and my French polishing.'

Clarissa, meanwhile, was rounding up the little Bells with some difficulty. ‘Off to the music studio!' she said, knotting Little Bob's scarf. ‘Mustn't let this excitement keep us away from our daily practice.'

When they had disappeared, Bryony hopped up onto the table and leant her head against Big Bob's shoulder. ‘
Sure
you like the idea of a docu-soap, Dad?' she said anxiously. ‘I kind of wondered whether you'd think it was a bit…' She struggled to find the right word.

‘Tacky?' Big Bob suggested.

‘Oh, Dad…' She bit her lip. ‘You
don't
think it's tacky, do you?'

But Big Bob merely gave each screw a final turn. ‘Safe as houses,' he grinned, giving the head a tug. ‘Wouldn't do if it fell on us in front of the great British public, would it!'

Bryony grinned back. ‘Anyway,' she said, ‘the docu-soap'll keep them at home for a bit, won't it?' and to her relief, Big Bob nodded.

‘Take the “e” out of “Belle”,' he agreed
thoughtfully. Then he propped his screwdriver behind his ear, smoothed his moustache, and beamed at her, first in one direction and then in the other. ‘What do you think, lass?' he asked. ‘Which is my best side?'

When the film crew arrived a week later and Bryony saw Trish the producer, she thought she had never, in all her born days, met anyone so right-on cool.

Trish was coat-hanger thin and even taller than Abid. Her hair was very short and blonde except for an orange crest down the middle. Her enormous green eyes shone like stars in an eye-shadowy black sky. Her smile would have been sparkly even without the red jewel shimmering from the piercing in her top lip, and her hooped earrings were so big, each could have fitted round her neck.

She wore an extremely tight T-shirt and extremely baggy combat trousers covered in pockets out of which spilled an incredible array of useful objects like elastic bands, scissors, and measuring tapes; and she carried a clipboard.

‘I was thinking,' Clarissa said as she led Trish, two heavily laden cameramen and a sound
engineer into the living room, ‘that perhaps you could film me ever so slightly out of focus?

‘With a pink
aura
round my head,' she added, sinking down onto the settee and adjusting her white silk housecoat. ‘Mmm?'

Trish closed one eye, looked Clarissa up and down, and made some notes on her clipboard. ‘Wicked,' she muttered several times. ‘Though I think lilac for the aura, if you're OK with that?' And she began to check her cast list.