32

Miss Student Body

‘Are you sure about this wig?’ I ask Maggie. We’re making our way from the bar, which is the main point of illumination and dazzles bluely like a swimming pool at night. Everywhere else is inky dark.

‘Blonde suits you,’ she replies over her shoulder, half speaking, half shouting because a heavy baseline has begun to reverberate from an early ’80s hip-hop track, so loudly I can feel it in my heart. It’s years since I’ve been inside a nightclub and this cavernous maze, which has the surround sound of a multiplex cinema, is a far cry from the glitterball hang-outs of my Stevenage youth, their tricolour disco lights and boxy amps.

Tuesday night is ’80s night at the Punch Bowl in Ipswich and everyone is encouraged to dress the part. Tonight is also the regional semi-final of Miss Student Body, which is why we’re here, me in my stone-washed denim and Maggie doing a fair impression of Carol Decker. Maggie insisted on the outfits; she said they’d help us blend in.

‘Where shall we sit?’ I defer to Maggie because she was always the one to decide: back in our teens it was all about being noticed but tonight it’s more about camouflage.

‘No one will spot us here,’ she says, stepping gingerly up two shallow stairs, ‘I can hardly see my own knees.’

By no one she means Pippa. When I mentioned the competition to Maggie she threw back her head and laughed, Wouldn’t you love to be a fly on the wall? And that one casual remark has somehow resulted in us driving across the east of England dressed like extras from a Bananarama video. Our plan is to slip into the club, watch the competition and then slip away. But the operation is more than idle curiosity on my part: it’s being done in an effort to understand my daughter, to shed the blinkers of what she calls my lefty prejudices. Despite its name, I want to believe that Miss Student Body is for confident and even, yes, empowered young women.

Our circular table overlooks the low runway around which a young crowd is assembling. A veil of dry ice begins to roll over the platform like lakeside mist.

‘What are Rockshots anyway?’ I ask, eying up the screens emblazoned with electric pink branding. The contestants must be waiting behind them.

‘Flavoured tequila shots. Yuk.’ Maggie pulls a face. ‘One of their reps came into the pub. Taste like melted ice-pops laced with booze. How’s the G&T?’

‘All right. It’s taking the edge off.’ For the last twenty minutes I’ve been swinging between nervous excitement and all-out anxiety. ‘Think I’ll ditch these,’ I say, unrolling my legwarmers.

‘They go with the outfit,’ she says, laying a restraining hand on my arm.

‘I’ve had my share of looking daft recently,’ I say, then immediately regret alluding to the make-over show because we’ve agreed to put it behind us.

‘Honestly Tessa, I thought I was helping out, thought it might even bring you and Pete closer together…’ She knows about Pete and the supply teacher, but I don’t want to go over it all tonight. ‘Still, it’s not as if I’m a relationship guru, is it?’ She shrugs and takes a sip from her blue-tinted glass. ‘Actually I’m having a break from the internet stuff.’

‘Are you?’

She nods. ‘It’s wearing me out.’

‘You’ll meet someone, you’re bound to,’ I say pointlessly because what do I know, and what if she does and he turns out like her ex-husband Rick who got himself a gambling habit and worked his way through their joint account? And who says she’d be happier if she met someone anyway? How many relationships start off the same way, two people sharing a lovely bubble which carries them high over the dreary factories of daily life until they’re dropped onto a stretch of waste ground, blinking, wondering what happened.

‘What’s on your mind?’ asks Maggie, and I check myself.

‘Nothing.’ I raise my glass, ‘Here’s to a good night out.’ We clink and chat about nothing much until a brassy fanfare sounds and a voice announces: ‘Ladies and Gentlemen, welcome to Miss Student Body.’ Squeals from the crowd. My stomach turns over. ‘Please welcome your host for the evening…’ I’ve a feeling the host in question is behind the screen giving his own introduction ‘…Gary Bunch.’ Maggie squeezes my arm and Gary springs on stage looking suitably pumped up, his hair a study of highlighted spikes. He addresses us with holiday camp bravura before introducing the four judges who each take their seats at the foot of the runway. One of them is the owner of the nightclub, a porky chap in a cummerbund who looks all set for a dinner dance.

‘Are you ready Ipswich?’ cries Gary after some more spiel. Ipswich confirms that it is and Gary’s voice hits a high. ‘Right then, let’s meet the girls!’ He waves an arm to herd them in and the sound system erupts with a diva belting out a song the crowd knows – something about letting me show you what I’ve got – and a dozen young women stride onto the runway dressed in party outfits. They’ve obviously been instructed to dance because there’s plenty of jigging and twirling. One girl mimes the stirring of a giant bowl of invisible cake mixture.

‘There she is!’ says Maggie. I catch sight of Pippa, her hair falling in loose curls around her shoulders. ‘She looks fantastic.’

And she does. Moving fluidly in a short tulip-shaped skirt with a long-sleeved red top, she spots a friend in the crowd and waves.

‘Let’s hear it for our Miss Student Body finalists!’ calls Gary, still whooping up the audience. When the contestants have done a circuit of the runway they form a line, ready for Gary to approach with his microphone. They are all lovely and all wearing numbered wristbands. ‘And what’s your name?’ he asks a tall girl in a sequined mini dress, turning to the crowd as if to speak on their behalf. He could very well have a day job demonstrating food mixers in shopping centres.

The tall girl, Eve, tells Gary she’s studying medicine. Cue a toe-curling remark about doctors and nurses. Eve laughs along because seven years at medical school must be expensive. He moves down the line, giving out vital statistics and engaging in the same embarrassing banter. Is this irony? It’s hard to tell. And is he meant to be sending himself up too? I remember Dom in our living room, crossing one giant Goth boot over the other and shaking his head.

‘And next we have…’ My heart is bolting as the mic is presented to Pippa. She leans towards it and gives her name.

‘P-p-p-p-Pippa,’ says Gary with a stagger. ‘And what are you studying over there in Kent…’ He glances at his clipboard but thankfully doesn’t have any double entendres for European Studies and Economics. Seeing her up there I feel the same anxiety as when she played the Fairy Godmother in an infant school production of Cinderella.

‘So you’re here to win?’ asks Gary.

‘I’m here to have a good time,’ she replies, less comfortable now, one hand locked to her hip.

Is she having a good time? I take another sip of gin and tonic and try to relax, but the next thing to come out of Gary’s mouth puts paid to that.

‘I heard a whisper that someone in your family wasn’t a big fan of this competition.’

Pippa seems surprised by the question and hesitates. ‘My mum wasn’t too keen.’

‘And why’s that?’ asks Gary cocking his head in mock innocence.

Pippa stands too close to the mic and it pops. Gary pulls it back. ‘Um, she’s a bit old school.’

‘What?’ I say aloud.

‘Is that right?’ says Gary, who then asks her something about burning her bra, which elicits cheers from a group of lads in the front. Pippa bites her lip then remembers to smile. It’s like watching a car crash. The only problem is that my daughter is one of the victims and there’s no way I can pull her from the wreckage.

‘Is this as bad as I think it is?’ I ask when the girls have finally been interviewed and the break arrives.

Maggie grimaces. ‘It’s pretty bad,’ she says like a doctor confirming test results. ‘I’ll get you another drink.’ She’s gone for ages and I sit in the deafening gloom, wondering whether to leave. Duran Duran pumps through the speakers. A girl with a charity bucket is circulating, and when Maggie sets down the drinks there’s hardly time to discuss what we’ve seen before Gary is back to introduce the talent round. The crowd has swollen. The anticipation is palpable, reminding me of the one and only time I went to a greyhound race, that moment before the traps sprang open.

By the time Pippa is introduced we’ve had one too many contestants singing warbly American ballads and the audience are restless. My fingers play fretfully with my nylon hair. Please don’t sing, I whisper, trying to remember if I’ve heard her sing anything since she used to entertain us with The Dingle Dangle Scarecrow. When her name is called she walks on wearing the party outfit and high heels, a basket over her arm. Some sections of the audience are talking amongst themselves. At the centre of the stage she stops, puts the basket down and signals for music. But the music isn’t the intro to a ballad, it’s a burst of Scott Joplin, and from the basket Pippa removes three beanbags which she throws and catches in a simple loop. After a few seconds she halts, silences the music, gives the crowd a knowing look and replaces the beanbags. The incidental chatter dies down. This time she removes from the basket a banana, a tangerine and an apple, holding up each piece of fruit deliberately. She cues the music again, flings the fruit up and begins to juggle. A few cheers. I’d forgotten all about her childhood talent. When she was little she’d to come to rallies with me, there were always kids for her to play with, and by the time she was thirteen she could juggle five beanbags and do tricks. At a change in the music she dips into the basket and removes another banana which she presents with a theatrical bow.

Standing square, holding the four pieces of fruit, she throws the apple up and follows it with the orange, but she’s off balance and catches them prematurely, rocking on the high heels. Come on Pip. This time, she kicks the heels off and stands barefoot, looking at the top centre of the imaginary arc to keep focus. One banana goes up, the tangerine, another banana then the apple until she’s throwing and catching in a fluid loop. She walks in a circle, faces the audience and reverses the direction of the loop to the sound of applause. As the piano music reaches a last chorus she changes the pattern by crossing the bananas so they’re arcing high over the other fruit. The urge to call out like a stage-school mum is nearly overwhelming. Me and Maggie are already clapping hard even before the music stops.

‘She’s got to win with that,’ cries Maggie.

‘I know!’ I yell back, high with pride and excitement.

Gary returns and asks where she learned to juggle. Smiling naturally now, she invites him to have a go. The audience urges him on until he’s forced to try. When he does the beanbags fall to the floor with a thump, thump, thump. Pippa takes the mic and gives instructions but Gary’s not getting it. After the second attempt he takes the mic back, thanks her again and directs her to the wings. Still feeling the glow of maternal pride I watch the last acts pass before us – a girl limbo dancing under a length of bamboo and another playing a bass recorder. Pippa could definitely walk away with this. Definitely. Suddenly I’m glad we came, glad to be wrong, glad I’ll be able to tell Pippa this. And then Gary introduces the final section of the competition and my heart drops like a beanbag.

‘Swimwear?’ I say to Maggie. ‘He’s not serious?’

But he is. On they come a few minutes later in a flourish of flesh and assemble side by side to a roar of alcohol-fuelled cheering.

Eve the medical student is first up and she sashays forth in her black bikini and sarong, which she whips away at the end of the runway, pivoting to appreciative whistles. Gary rubs his eyes in mock amazement. ‘What about that ladies and gentlemen.’ Eve takes her spot beside him.

Maggie calls Gary something in Anglo Saxon.

My eyes dart back to Pippa who’s now wearing an orange one-piece and a pair of heeled sandals. Run away! I want to shout. Miss East Anglia is followed by Miss Cambridge who appears in a high-cut yellow costume. And then Gary raises the mic to his lips and calls for my daughter.

The diva music ramps up as she walks the runway wearing an uncertain smile and not much else. At Gary’s side she casts her eyes to the crowd, some of whom are yelling out.

‘Looking lovely. How about a twirl for our judges?’ Gary’s in charge again and he’s enjoying it.

Poor Pippa. She smiles and agrees she’s having fun, though her body language says otherwise – she’s standing stiffly, four strangers giving her marks out of ten. Oh God. Gary consults his clipboard, ready to ask one of his inane questions – if you had to choose, which of the seven dwarfs would you date? – but just as he’s starting to speak there’s a commotion. Two figures spring on stage. One has a megaphone. She shouts something indistinct which becomes clearer: Grades for brains not for bodies! The contestants group together like gazelles.

‘What’s happening?’ says Maggie. I’m on my feet. Gary doesn’t know what to do, and nor does Pippa. The megaphone wielder clutches something, and with a rapid movement she hurls it at Gary, but he dives out of the way and as he does, a cloudburst of blue powder hits Pippa on the side of the head.

Pippa! I’m shouting her name, pushing through the crowd to reach the stage. The bouncers get hold of the two protesters but half a dozen others rush up. They have more bags of powder. ‘Stop!’ I shout, and then there’s strong light and I’m on the platform with my daughter, who is frightened and half dressed, blue powder spread like a swathe of bruising over her face and shoulders. ‘Leave her alone!’ I shout, trying to snatch another of the bags. Pippa is frozen with shock. The crowd are in uproar. Gary’s professionalism has slipped and he’s swearing.

‘Mum…?’ There’s horror in Pippa’s voice. A bouncer grabs me from behind.

‘I’m her mother!’ I shout, trying to wrestle him off. With my arm still locked in his he asks Pippa if it’s true, his face an angry orange suntan. She backs away but says it is and he lets me go.

Two fat-necked bouncers are shoving the protesting girls off stage but yet more dive out of the crowd to replace them, skipping around and unfurling a banner which reads ‘Miss-ogony’ in luminous letters. The DJ cranks up the music. A girl in a princess costume and heavy boots is running after Gary, attempting to bomb him and despite everything, it’s gratifying when she lands a bag of purple flour on his head.

Pippa disappears behind the screens with the other panicked contestants and I follow into the backstage chaos where girls are shrieking and a woman in a Rockshots t-shirt is trying to calm them down. There’s a lack of light and the floor is strewn with clothing. Pippa blinks at me from her half-blue face. ‘What are you doing here?’ She says it as if I’m the one who’s thrown the powder. ‘And what are you wearing?’

Raising a hand to my head I remember the blonde wig and pull it off.

‘It was for ’80s night.’

She stares disbelievingly. The dye is smudged against her shoulders and arms and as she wipes her cheek a streak of colour transfers to the back of her hand. A new thought occurs to her. ‘Did you organise this?’

‘What?’

She gestures, ‘Whatever that was… that protest.’

‘No, oh Pip. No. We came to… to support you…’

‘Who’s we?’ Now she really looks appalled. ‘Is Dad here?’

‘No. No. Me and Maggie.’

‘Maggie? You came for a laugh?’

‘No!’

‘What then?’ She kicks off the high-heeled sandals and puts a leg into her jeans.

Another girl in a swimming costume is close behind her, squealing to a friend about this being a complete bloody joke and what she’s going to do when she finds out who those mingin’ feminists are. Pippa grabs a sweatshirt from the floor and pulls it over her head, marking the neck with dye. I want to help but she’s scrambling about, unzipping her bag, digging for tissues to wipe her face.

‘The juggling was brilliant, Pip, I haven’t seen you juggle for years.’ She’s worsening the powdery smear as she wipes. ‘Where are the loos, let’s get you cleaned up.’

She turns away. ‘I can do it.’

‘Oh, love.’

‘You were right, OK. Is that what you want?’ Her voice is controlled desperation. ‘This was a mistake.’

‘No, no. I don’t care about being right…’

But she’s not listening. A t-shirt flies sideways as she roots in the clutter. I want to tell her I don’t care about proving points. I want to comfort her. But she has her back to me.

‘Do you want me to go?’ I ask. She doesn’t reply. Still holding the scratchy wig like the pelt of some ruined creature, I re-enter the pandemonium.