‘You’re supposed to get them to write it on the side of the cups, Trent,’ Chelsie said.
‘Duly noted.’ If Trent was mortified at his reduced status he was covering it well.
‘Right,’ said Calvin, having finally located his double-shot iced mocha with vanilla syrup. ‘This week Blossom goes.’
‘Thank God for that,’ Chelsie exclaimed. ‘If I have to listen to that fucking laugh one more time . . .’
‘You’re not the only person who finds her irritating,’ said Calvin. ‘Look at this.’
And so saying, Calvin showed his two senior researchers the voting information that made his life so easy. Blossom, it turned out, had never risen above fourth least liked out of twelve in the public’s esteem. This would have surprised the public because through weeks one to five she had been represented on the screen as a national favourite, an irrepressible momma with her huge ‘infectious’ laugh, her enormous frame and her constantly reiterated backstory of being ‘only a cleaner who had entered on a whim’.
‘I can’t believe it!’ Blossom would exclaim each week, shaking with laughter when Keely invited her to comment. ‘This is all mad, but I’m livin’ it and lovin’ it and dreamin’ it and I’m here to show the world that ladies of size and of a certain age can still rock!’
Blossom was only thirty-three but, as in the case of Stanley, to be in one’s thirties represented venerable maturity in
Chart Throb
years and Blossom had been groomed to appear as an empowering figure of mature womanhood in a world of itsy-bitsy poppets. She had been given Aretha Franklin and Irma Thomas songs to sing as if she was an ageing soul diva.
‘I LOVE you, Blossom,’ Beryl would shriek at her every week. ‘You are a strong woman and being a strong woman I recognize a strong woman and I love you so much it isn’t funny. You are big, you are bold, you are strong and you are a woman! As a woman myself, who is strong and who has struggled privately with weight issues in the past, I so LOVE you for being a woman of size! You go, girl! Just you go!’
‘Blossom,’ Rodney would agree, applying his famous twinkling charm, ‘your voice is as big as your personality and as infectious as your wonderful laugh. I love you. Everybody loves you. You are a strong woman of size and a true star. Just listen to the public. They love you big time. We all love you big time.’
But Calvin, who read the voting chart each week, knew that the public only loved Blossom little time, and sometimes not even that much. It was therefore an easy matter to drop her in week six.
‘Any special instructions, boss?’ Trent enquired. ‘Shall we give her a punk rock song to sing or put her in hot pants?’
‘No need, Trent,’ Calvin replied. ‘Just tell her to keep on laughing.’
Week Seven
Calvin and Chelsie were staring at the wall on which hung the profiles of the remaining finalists and those who had been deleted.
Tabitha: Dull dungarees lezza but has sexy girlfriend.
Suki: Balloon boobed, fat lipped, tragicomic prostitute.
Bloke: Bricklayers with guitars. Semi pro club act. Dull but worthy.
Graham: Blind. Can’t sing.
Blossom: Fat momma. Big laugh. ‘Just a cleaner’. Can sing.
The Four-Z: Cute. Christian. Good hard luck story. Can sing.
Troy: Can sing a bit. Can’t read a lot.
Iona: Good voice. Rodney used to fuck her.
Stanley: Hero single dad. NOTE: Kids not particularly cute.
Latiffa: Black girl with attitude.
The Quasar: Best Blinger in years. Can’t sing but doesn’t care and nor do we.
The Prince of Wales: Heir to the throne.
‘So what next?’ Calvin mused.
He was coming to confide more and more in Chelsie each day. He discussed with her the thoughts he would have liked to share with Emma but which he could not reveal without showing himself to be that thing which Emma feared most, a man whom she could not trust.
‘This is where I have to be careful,’ Calvin said. ‘The single and only point in the whole series where I’m vulnerable to losing control of the process is in the final episode, the episode where only three candidates remain.’
‘Well, yes,’ Chelsie agreed, ‘but does it matter by then? At that point we’ve either done our job properly and had a hit series with a must-see final which is the television event of the week or we haven’t. Either the nation’s tuning in riveted or we’ve fucked up. Why would you care who actually wins? You’ve always told us that record sales are becoming irrelevant these days. All you’re really producing is next year’s Christian Appleyard.’
‘Yes, that’s true,’ Calvin conceded. ‘Normally I don’t mind who wins the final and I’m happy to leave it as a clean fight with the three remaining contestants playing to their strengths. But this year I have a designated winner.’
‘HRH?’ Chelsie enquired.
‘Yes,’ said Calvin, smiling. ‘I suppose it’s obvious.’
Although Calvin was of course not going to reveal the nature of the deal he had struck with Dakota or the promise he had made to Emma, he was perfectly relaxed about Chelsie knowing something of his agenda. She was after all bound by the same gagging contract that every employee signed alongside the contestants and as to his motives, well, for the heir to the throne to win a TV talent show was still something of a coup, even in an age where people had become entirely familiar with celebrity in every possible compromise and contortion.
‘Who knows?’ Calvin said. ‘I might get a peerage.’
‘I’m afraid he doesn’t get to give them out any more,’ Chelsie pointed out. ‘The government sells them.’
‘Well anyway, I still fancy him to win,’ said Calvin. ‘Thanks, Trent.’
Trent had just entered with a pile of boxes from Pizza Express.
‘So what’s your plan, Calvin?’ Chelsie enquired, not bothering to bring Trent up to speed on the conversation. ‘If it’s a free vote without the judges getting the final call how can you ensure your man comes through?’
‘Yeah? Right,’ said Trent, attempting to look as if he knew what they were talking about.
‘Well, to ensure a particular candidate wins at the final stage,’ Calvin explained, ‘we have to make the two other candidates who reach the final with him less popular than he is. Therefore our job is to ensure that the most popular candidates are dropped
before
it gets to that point. If you want someone special to win in the final then you have to do your manipulating
before
it.’
‘Damn! They forgot the dough balls,’ said Trent, who had been distributing pizzas and salads. ‘Do you want me to run back?’
Calvin ignored the interruption, leaving Trent hovering helplessly at the door.
‘We know from reading the percentages of the telephone votes who are the big threats to HRH. There’s Troy, The Four-Z and Graham. Troy’s a good singer and he’s young, which of course is attractive . . .’
‘And illiterate, which also plays very well,’ Chelsie added.
‘Yes,’ Calvin conceded. ‘I put the whole reading thing in to big up the Prince but it’s a double-edged sword because it works well for the lad too.’
‘The Four-Z are going over pretty big too, aren’t they?’ Chelsie mused, studying the voting chart.
‘Yes, well, they’re actually very good, particularly the lead singer,’ Calvin admitted.
‘And of course Graham’s got the blind thing going for him,’ said Chelsie, ‘plus even if he can’t sing he’s a brilliant guitar player. It looks like the two we need to go through to the final with HRH are Iona and the Quasar.’
‘That’s exactly how I read it,’ Calvin said approvingly.
‘Me too,’ Trent added from the door.
‘So who do we dump first?’ Chelsie enquired.
‘Who do you think?’ Calvin asked.
‘Well, boss—’ said Trent eagerly but Calvin was having none of it.
‘Trent,’ he said firmly, ‘I’m asking Chelsie.’
‘From the chart it looks as though The Four-Z have the edge. They’re definitely the most popular act and getting more so each week, so they’re the most dangerous to HRH. Clearly we should tackle them first. That way, if we can’t bring them down in a week, we still have some time to spare.’
‘Chelsie,’ Calvin said gently, ‘we can always bring them down if we want to.’
The Four-Z were indeed hugely popular but their popularity was based principally on their leader, Michael Harley, who had obvious musical talent and huge personal charm. What Lionel Richie was to The Commodores, Michael Harley was to The Four-Z.
‘All we need to do is rebalance the band,’ said Calvin.
Calvin therefore sent Trent to inform the group that Michael’s prominence was becoming a problem with the public.
‘It looks egotistical, like you’re hogging it, mate.’
Michael was devastated. He was very much a team player so he was horrified that anyone might suggest he was being selfish.
‘What should we do?’ he asked.
‘You stand at the back and let the other three have a go. Particularly Jo-Jo,’ Trent said, naming the least popular of the other boys. ‘Rodney loves him. He’s convinced that the public want to see more of him.’
The members of The Four-Z were surprised to hear this, not least Jo-Jo himself, who had always considered he was a bit of a lucky passenger. On the other hand if Rodney, their ‘nurturing’ judge, was saying that Jo-Jo should come forward then that was enough for them. Rodney was a music
expert
, the boy band Svengali, popmaster extraordinaire, as Keely never tired of saying in her introductions.
‘OK,’ said Michael, ‘whatever it takes. What song do you think we should sing?’
‘“Cop Killa” by Public Enemy,’ Trent replied.
The group were again a little taken aback at the choice that had been made for them. They were all good church-going boys and their musical tastes were very middle of the road. Soul was about as funky as they got and they had certainly never considered covering any Hip Hop or Gangsta rap. Trent, however, assured them that Rodney was convinced it was time for The Four-Z to branch out, to get more contemporary.
‘He thinks you need to get more black,’ Trent explained.
‘But we’ve always sort of tried to be for everyone,’ Michael said. ‘We don’t believe in defining people by racial group.’
‘Ah, you see, there you go,’ said Trent. ‘
Big mistake
. Chucking away votes. There’s a vast audience out there that is totally unrepresented.’
‘You mean Hip Hop and Gangsta rap fans?’
‘Exactly.’
‘But aren’t they unrepresented because they don’t watch the programme?’
‘That’s the point, isn’t it? If you can draw them in then you unlock a huge constituency.’
The band were understandably dubious but had no choice other than to perform the song assigned to them. Having been greeted with the hugest cheer of the night, they proceeded to shock and alienate everybody by doing a Gangsta rap led by Jo-Jo, with Michael standing at the back scarcely participating. It did not go well. There were even one or two boos.
There followed the customary manufactured post-show ‘quarrel’ between the judges, in which Rodney was roundly condemned for having let down his act so entirely.
‘I cannot
believe
you let them sing that song, Rodney!’ Calvin sneered. ‘It was appalling, and you should get your head tested.’
‘The boys wanted to be more contemporary,’ Rodney replied, dutifully sticking to his brief.
‘You mean the boys were happy with that song?’
‘Yes, of course.’
The astonishment on the band’s faces at this point was not covered by the cameras.
‘I believe in allowing my acts to grow, Calvin, to make mistakes,’ Rodney continued.
‘Well, they certainly made one tonight.’
Calvin had also ensured that the other acts did their very best that week. Knowing that The Four-Z were the biggest threat, he was leaving nothing to chance.
The Quasar, whose chirpy optimism and unashamed self-belief had originally been deeply irritating, was starting to become mildly attractive. Wearing only tight shorts and cowboy boots, he did a version of Right Said Fred’s ‘I’m Too Sexy’ which the judges pronounced ‘wildly entertaining’.
‘Quasar,’ Rodney gushed, ‘that was sheer brilliance. You owned the song, you owned the stage, the audience loved you, you deserve to be a big, big, big star and I know that you will be.’
‘Quasar,’ said Beryl, but so dripping was her voice with gruesomely flirtatious, croaky, mumsy, kitten-like sexiness even in that one word that Calvin moved the process instantly on, fearing that she was about to refer to her soon-to-be-completed female sexual organs and the welcome mat that would always be laid out for the Quasar.
Iona, who had been gaining ground each week because Rodney (on Calvin’s insistence) continued to insult her, sang ‘Amazing Grace’. She did this accompanied only by flute and acoustic guitar. This was an old
Chart Throb
trick to impress the punters, and it did.