Scarcely had the Prince rung off when the telephone rang again. As Emma lay waiting for the answering machine to click on once more, she tried to grasp the meaning of what she had just heard. Calvin had been lying; he had known about the Prince being a contestant from the beginning. It was he who had suggested it. But why? If he truly was a monarchist as the Prince had said, why lie about it to her? She was a monarchist herself.
The answer wasn’t long in coming. It followed on immediately from Calvin’s outgoing message.
‘Way’ll, Calvin,’ said a female voice that reeked of the Mississippi, ‘Ah guess you wern. Ah confess Ah never draimt y’could make that dull old fossil inta a Chart Threrb. So way’ll dern. Maybe you rilly are as good as you think you are. Now, ais you know, Ah aim a Serthern werman an’ Ah always tra t’be a werman of ma werd. But historeh has taught us Dixie Belles ta also take a practical view an’ hence Ah merst declare our lil’ bet null an’ void. Ah shall see ya in tha deevorce court, Calvin. Bye-bye now.’
As Emma lay listening to this, her skin cold despite the rich duvet that enveloped her, she was thinking of her father. When he had left the family home he had left his daughter nothing but a lesson, a lesson in men. Once more it seemed that Emma had failed to learn it. Once more she had trusted a man.
More fool her.
She got up and dressed herself quickly. Despite the turmoil in her mind she found space to feel foolish, as many a girl had done before her, putting on a crumpled evening gown in the cold light of morning.
Emma had reached the bedroom door when Calvin emerged from the bathroom. For a moment she thought she might keep on running, for she was fully dressed and he was wrapped in only a towel. There was nothing he could have done to stop her. Instead she turned to face him.
‘The Prince of Wales called,’ she said, ‘and your wife. They both left you messages. I heard them.’
Calvin’s face showed that he understood immediately what this meant.
‘Ah’ was all he could say.
‘I suppose I should thank you,’ Emma said, attempting a bitter little smile and failing. ‘I really do believe that I’ll now be spared the trouble of ever trusting a man again.’
The room was still in deep shadow but Beryl could now see that the woman standing at the foot of her bed was not her daughter.
‘You fucking witch,’ Shaiana shouted, ‘you told me I could sing and then you said I couldn’t!’
Now Beryl recognized the voice. The penny, which had been teetering on the edge of the abyss, suddenly dropped and Beryl knew that she had been catapulted into the ultimate celebrity nightmare, the thing that those in the public eye feared most: she was caught in the clutches of a psycho fan.
‘Where am I?’ Beryl stammered.
‘Never mind where you are, witch. Just you worry about what’s going to happen to you.’
‘How did you . . . ?’
‘How did I get you here? Hey, I may not be able to sing but it seems I can act,
can’t I, Mom!’
and with these last words Shaiana added the brattish half-Californian whine of Priscilla Blenheim.
‘Shit!’ Beryl exclaimed.
‘Dark glasses, a bit of a sulk, those enormous new tits she had done. There really isn’t much to your overprivileged little bitch of a daughter, is there? I stuck two footballs up my jumper, put on a pink wig and picked you up from the Porchester with no questions asked. Of course it did help to have these.’
Shaiana stepped up to Beryl and waved something before her face. Beryl’s eyes had become more accustomed to the light now and she thought she could make out a driver’s licence, a Californian driver’s licence.
‘That’s right,’ Shaiana crowed. ‘Photo ID, a driver’s licence – an
American
driver’s licence. Guess who it belongs to?’
‘No!’ Beryl gasped.
‘Yes! That’s right. Priscilla. Your precious stepdaughter.’
Flinging down the driver’s licence on to Beryl’s helpless body, Shaiana pulled out a mobile phone, a phone of the very smartest and most expensive kind.
‘Amazing phone, this,’ Shaiana said. ‘Took me hours to work out how to use it. It even has a voice recorder. Just listen to this.’
Shaiana pressed a button and Beryl gasped and nearly choked as she heard the voice of her stepdaughter, desperate and afraid.
‘Mom, Mom! Please!’ came the voice from the little machine. ‘I’m scared, Mom. She has me, she hit me, I think she drugged me . . . I’m tied up . . . I don’t know where I am. Please, Mom, give her what she wants. Do what she says. Please.
Please!’
Shaiana turned off the phone.
‘I hadn’t meant to hit her,’ she said, ‘not then anyway, but then I thought how much me hitting her would hurt you and I couldn’t help myself.’
‘You have to stop this now, Shaiana,’ Beryl said, attempting to sound calm and motherly, ‘while you still can before you ruin things for yourself for ever . . .’
‘Weren’t you
listening
, Beryl?’ Shaiana replied. ‘Didn’t you hear what I told you when I did my last audition? Didn’t you listen? I told you that I had no plans beyond the show. I told you that when it was over I had nothing. I
told
you that, Beryl. So don’t talk to me about ruining my life, it’s been ruined, you ruined it already. You told me to dream the dream and then you took that dream away . . .’
‘Not me, not me!’ Beryl spluttered. ‘Calvin did it.’
‘No,
you
did it, Beryl, because at least Calvin was honest about me from the start.’
‘Well, Rodney then . . .’
‘Oh, come on, Beryl! Even I know that
nobody
gives a fuck about Rodney. But
you.
You gave me hope. You told me to dream the dream.’
‘Shaiana, please, listen to me, we tell them all that! Don’t you understand? You took it all too seriously.
Chart Throb
is an
entertainment
show. It’s not about the singers. It’s not about talent. It’s a people show, it’s just a laugh . . .’
‘Yes, and the laugh’s on us. The dreamers!’
‘But of course it is, Shaiana, how could it be anything else? We’re a prime-time entertainment show, you
have
to remember that. We aren’t
serious.
If you’re serious about becoming a singer, Shaiana, go and audition for LIPA or some other stage school. I can write to the principal for you if you like.’
‘You told me to dream the dream.’
‘I know I did and I’m sorry, Shaiana, but
Chart Throb
isn’t about fulfilling your dreams. Calvin doesn’t care about your dreams, he doesn’t care about you at all. Do you know what he calls you? Mingers, Clingers and Blingers, that’s what. We all do. I’m sorry but it’s true. I don’t
know
whether you can sing or not. I don’t
care.
You put your faith in the wrong people, Shaiana. Don’t trust us, and don’t believe in us. Let me go and I’ll try to help you find people you can trust. Please.’ Beryl struggled to free her arms from the straps that bound them to the bed. ‘What have you done with Priscilla?’ she stuttered. ‘You mustn’t hurt her.’
‘What would you care about Priscilla, you avaricious old witch?’ Shaiana snapped. ‘You fucked up her life as badly as you’ve fucked up mine.’
‘What!’
‘You used her! You used your whole family. Come on. Who came out of
The Blenheims
as top dog, eh? You. You and you alone. Priscilla and Lisa Marie just looked like the sullen, sulky, fame-fucked fuckwits that they are, and Serenity looks what she is, which is semi-brain-damaged! And then there’s you! Good old Beryl Blenheim, the rock chick, the ubermum!’
‘I made Priscilla famous.’
‘Famous for what? For nothing. For swearing? For whining? Not famous enough to sell any albums, that’s for sure. Jesus Christ! Lisa Marie and me were in
drug rehab
before we got the fucking vote! I was in the
National Enquirer
talking about my drug hell while you were selling my fucking life to Fox TV!’
For a moment Beryl didn’t notice.
‘Whose idea was that fucking show, Mom?’
She noticed now.
‘Mom?’
‘Not mine or Lisa Marie’s, we were kids.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Not my real mum’s either, she’s so screwed up she doesn’t know what day it is. But there’s always been one fully functioning brain in our family, hasn’t there? One clear head, and that’s good old Mom’s . . .’
‘Stop it! Stop pretending to be Priscilla. I’m not your mother. You’re just a fucked-up crazy woman. You have nothing to do with me or Priscilla . . .’
The girl strode across the room and flicked the light switch.
‘Oh, come on, Mom!’ she snapped. ‘Didn’t you work it out yet?’
Beryl lay blinking in the light.
‘Work what out, you mad bitch? Let me go!’
‘I’m fucking Priscilla.’
‘You are not! You are a crazy woman and you need help. Where is my daughter?’
‘I told you, right here,
Mom
.’
‘Stop calling me Mum!’
‘Gladly! Fine. Fantastic. That’s great news. You never were my mom anyway.’
‘And stop this bloody madness.’
‘Mom, you’re not
listening
. You didn’t listen when I was Shaiana and you’re not listening now I’m Priscilla.’
‘You are
not
Priscilla. You are Shaiana!’
‘Yes, I am Shaiana and I am also Priscilla. Priscilla is Shaiana and Shaiana is Priscilla. We’re the same fucking person. It’s been me from the start.’
Beryl opened her mouth to exclaim once more but no words came. Suddenly the second penny dropped.
‘Good,’ said Priscilla. ‘Do you get it now?’
Priscilla pulled at her hair, removing the wig with which she had disguised her own pink locks.
‘You can’t be,’ Beryl stuttered, but she already knew that she could be.
‘Of course I can,’ Priscilla replied. ‘A wig, a bit of make-up. Pretending to get a grotesque boob job. I never had one, by the way, that was part of distancing me from Shaiana. Originally I was going to give her the fake boobs but I thought it might constrict my chest movement when I sang. I don’t know why I bothered with a disguise anyway, you scarcely looked at me when I auditioned. You were never going to spot me in a million years. The only person you care about on that show is you!’
‘I am
so
fucking angry with you, Priscilla,’ Beryl shouted in fury.
‘Oh no! How will I bear it?’ Priscilla sneered back.
‘You really have been Shaiana all along?’
‘Yes, I keep telling you. I made her up.’
‘But for God’s sake, why? You’re Priscilla Blenheim, why go on fucking
Chart Throb
?’
‘Why? Why do you think? To see if you really thought I could sing!’
‘What?’
‘I have put out an album, Mom, and it has failed utterly. But you let me. You
managed me.
Good old Beryl Blenheim, the rock god from way back, thought I was worth an album deal. At least you believed in me, I always hung on to that, but then I started to wonder. Maybe I truly was just a nobody, somebody who happened to be famous because her stepmother put
cameras in her fucking bedroom
and broadcast her adolescence on Cable TV . . .’
‘Everybody has cameras in their bedroom these days, Priscilla! Everybody’s life is on TV. So what? Enjoy! Jessica Simpson filmed her marriage, Britney filmed her pregnancy, Tommy Lee filmed his education, the Osbournes filmed themselves sitting on a
couch
, for God’s sake, and
still
they had three hit seasons! The entire nation is queuing up to get on
Big Brother
and be filmed 24/7! What I gave you is what
everybody
wants . . .’
‘I’m not talking about everybody! I’m not talking about the Osbournes or Jessica Simpson or Tommy fucking Lee. Maybe they liked it, maybe they wanted it but I’m talking about
me
!’
‘And didn’t you like it? All the parties and the limos? You certainly looked as if you liked it.’
‘Everybody likes parties, Mom, but you can’t party all the time.’
‘Why not?’
‘I wanted to do something. I wanted to see if I
could
do something. So I decided to find out what you really thought. And now I know. I sang my very best for you guys. I did “Wind Beneath My Wings” like I was born to sing it and you thought it sucked! Why did you let me make an album, Mom, if you thought my voice sucked?’
‘I didn’t think your voice sucked, darling,’ Beryl tried to explain, ‘I thought Shaiana’s voice sucked.’
‘Shaiana’s voice
is
my voice!’
‘No, it isn’t! I’m sorry but the two are different. I know you were being Shaiana but that doesn’t make you the same thing. It’s just different, it’s about the whole package . . .’