‘I’m really touched, you know that, but I can’t let you stay with me,’ I explain. ‘I don’t mean to be ungrateful, it’s just that this is going to take hours and I’ll get tetchy and I’ll pick fights with you and that won’t be fair on you and then we’ll fall out even worse than we have already.’
There, I think that about covers everything.
Dixie isn’t even listening; she’s watching the television cameras. The programme interviews various saddos in the queue and I am determined not to be one of them. I don’t want anyone knowing that I was once insane enough to think I could do this, and then went further with the madness and turned up to audition.
The presenter is hyping the crowd up to scream and go wild and she’s asking who everyone is and then – oh no, oh, absolutely no blinkin WAY, no, nono – she’s seen Gypsy and she’s approaching to talk to us.
‘Who’s this little creature here?’ she’s asking. ‘Can we get a shot of this little cutie?’
Gypsy is in a frenzy of leaping and barking, like she knows she’s going to be on television.
I hear Dixie say, ‘Hi, I’m Dixie Purvis and I’m here with my friend …’ She looks round but I’m gone. I’m hiding behind a huge guy with a tuba so I won’t be safe for long – novelty items always turn up on the show and a tuba is not an instrument you meet every day on the street.
‘Our friend is doing stand-up,’ I hear Maya say, approaching the camera crew.
I peek round the tuba and see Delia Thomas has put on specs and is talking to the camera. It’s like she’s taken on a completely different character, but it’s kooky and funny.
‘Yeah, Val, I’m trying out,’ she’s saying to the presenter. ‘I’m going to talk about my life and how impossible it is. Like, my dog ate a big chunky corner of my French grammar book,’ (Gypsy jumps up and down on cue!), ‘so now I’ll never know the verb “to give” or how to conjugate it – French people are going to think I’m a deeply selfish person.’ She shrugs. ‘What can you do? It’s like wearing glasses, people think no guy will ever make a pass at you – not so, they practise their lines on girls like me and that’s good, up to a point – trouble is I can see them clearly because of the specs, so that balances things up, too much really.’
She’s really got a good patter and everyone around us is laughing and I realize I have nothing to match that. Singing, as I plan to do, is different and can’t be compared, but I know it’s not special because I haven’t written my own song, for example, and from where I am* Delia does have something unusual and good. My throat starts to ache and close in. I don’t feel well.
The camera crew move on and I sneak back to my friends. Dixie has slotted us into the queue with Delia and Maya, as if that was where we were to be all along. I thought the twenty minutes earlier waiting for the bus was long, but no, THIS is what a long time means. We shuffle forward for hours and with each step I feel worse and worse. Finally, we make it into the building but it’s hotter than hell in here and I think I’m going to pass out at any minute. We’re given numbers and then we wait some more. And more.
Dermot and another nine guitars come out punching the air – they’ve got a call back. I could not feel more tiny or insignificant. The ‘lil’ name is apt for me after all.
‘Are you OK?’ Uggs asks. ‘You look really pale.’
I nod, but I’m not convinced I am OK. I try to speak but I can’t seem to make a sound. Nerves, no doubt. I do my breathing exercises, like we do at choir practice. That feels a bit better.
After waiting for six or seven centuries, suddenly we’re at the door and Delia is going in – Oh. My. Actual. GOD. I’m next. I do some more breathing but I must be doing it too fast because I get very woozy and have to sit with my head between my legs.
Delia comes out smiling and everyone’s voice now sounds like it’s coming to me through treacle. She’s saying, ‘I’m called back,’ but it’s deep and drawling: ‘Eyemcawwwlllledbaaaaaaack,’ and it’s certainly not at the right speed.
A woman with a clipboard grabs me and shoves me through the door going, ‘Goooodluuuuuck,’ and I’m inside a big room with a table at the other end and sitting there are Danny Faller (legend and a v v hard man to please), Nicki Richie (singer and professionally fabulous showbiz person) and Tate Goodwin (impresario and top manager). I stagger towards them and try to say my name but my voice won’t come. A tiny squeak is all I manage and when I stand in front of them and try to gather myself to sing, the terror is so great that the world goes black and I faint clear away.
When I open my eyes I see a circle of familiar faces leaning over me, all looking very concerned. I am no longer in the Room of Dreams but in a Corridor of Lost Opportunity. The show must go on, it seems, and it has, without me. Thankfully the Ten Guitars are not among the spectators, so I may have escaped Complete and Utter Humiliation.†
The woman with the glasses wants me to sign a form which gives permission for the show to use the footage of me fainting through the Fear but Dixie says, ‘No way,’ and, after an argument, the woman goes away looking peeved that they can’t broadcast my shame. I’m so glad my friends are here for me.
‘I’m sorry, Dixie,’ I croak.
‘Don’t be stupid,’ she says.
‘Are you going to make fun of me because of this?’
‘Of course I am,’ she says.
Uggs shakes his head. ‘Too soon,’ he says to her.
‘Yeah, too soon, NOW,’ she agrees. ‘But a time will come.’
I actually manage a small laugh at that and then Gypsy licks my face and I even keep smiling then. Clearly I need medical attention.
