What She Wants. Cathy Kelly
doing it. She hated show offs. Nicole adored singing and had been exercising her raw husky voice in private since she’d been a child. She often wrote her own songs but it was only for fun. Singing publicly was another matter. There was nothing worse than people who thought they were Kiri Te Kanawa getting up at family parties and sounding like a collection of drunken crows. Nicole couldn’t bear that. But since, at the age of fifteen, she’d sneaked into the local pub for an illegal drink and discovered karaoke, she’d loved it. While the other people she partied with thought that the sing-a-long part of an evening was just drunken fun, for Nicole, it was the best bit. She adored singing to Tina Turner and Whitney Houston tracks and loved having her pals waving their beer bottles up at her happily as they hummed along and cheered. But you had to get someone to get up there with you in the first place, Nicole felt. Otherwise you looked like a stupid show off.
‘Ready?’ she asked Sharon.
‘Just a minute,’ said Sharon, struggling with mascara that promised lashes like Cindy Crawford’s.
‘Right. I’ll phone my mum,’ Nicole replied. Using the office phone saved her from spending too much on the mobile.
She slipped back into the office where Ms Sinclair was still at her desk tidying up. Nicole immediately crouched down and crept along behind the desks until she reached her own. She took the phone down and wriggled into the space underneath where she’d be safe from detection. Sinclair would kill her for using the phone for personal purposes. At least during office hours, you could always pretend you were on a work call. It was annoying that Sinclair hated her so much. It wasn’t that Nicole didn’t work hard: she did. But Sinclair didn’t understand that Nicole could finish her work more quickly than most people in the department, and then she got bored. She couldn’t help the practical jokes, they helped pass the time.
Her mother answered on the first ring. ‘Hello love,’ she said to Nicole’s whispered hello.
‘Hi Mum,’ hissed Nicole.
‘I can’t hear you,’ said Sandra Turner in her soft, breathy voice. ‘Speak up love.’
‘I can’t,’ hissed Nicole. ‘I’m at work.’
‘Oh yes,’ said Sandra vaguely. There was a pause.
There were always pauses in conversations with Nicole’s mother.
‘I’m going out for a bit tonight, Mum. That’s OK, isn’t it. I know you’ve got Bingo but Gran’s coming over for a few hours, isn’t she?’
‘I suppose. She didn’t phone.’
Another pause.
‘Shall I check if she’s coming over, Mum?’ Nicole volunteered. ‘We can’t leave Pammy on her own and she hates bingo.’
‘OK. You do that. Oh, the doorbell. I’ll get it.’
Nicole heard the phone drop and then her grandmother’s voice with the strong accent that was a strange hybrid of Cockney and Irish even after fifty years in London. A few minutes passed before her mother picked up the phone again. ‘Your gran’s here so I’m going out. See you later.’
She hung up before Nicole even had a chance to speak to her grandmother to ask what time she was staying until. Slowly, Nicole put down the receiver. She was glad her grandmother was there: it gave her a chance to have a night out without worrying about Pammy. She needed someone looking after her and sometimes, even though Nicole hated to admit it, her mother wasn’t up to it.
She crept back the same route to the office door where Sharon was waiting for her, all done up now and reeking of Eternity.
‘Let’s hit the pub, babes,’ Nicole said brightly.
The Red Parrot in Camden was not Dickie Vernon’s idea of a nice venue. It was a young people’s pub for a start, full of computer games, with lots of different coloured condoms in the dispenser in the loos and very loud karaoke. But in his job as a talent scout, Dickie had been in lots of headache-inducing places. Not that he ever said he was a talent scout. No, he was a manager, or so he told people to impress them. It was a great pity that his greatest find, the golden-voiced Missy McLoughlin, hadn’t had the balls for the music business. She was something else that girl. If she’d made it, he’d have been home and dry for life. Fifteen per cent of millions, he’d been sure of it. No more sitting around horrible old clubs looking for the next Celine Dion. The independent record label had been so interested until he’d got greedy and asked for more money. He wouldn’t make that mistake again. When they backed off at his increasingly outrageous demands, Missy’s nerve had failed her and she was now the proud mother of a toddler, lived in an Aberdeen semi and sang at weddings and funerals.
Dickie was back to managing the Val Brothers, a barber shop quartet, and taking care of the affairs of a country and western girl singer whose only resemblance to the successful Nashville ladies was her big, blonde hair. Anyone listening to her murdering ‘Jolene’ would immediately start looking for cotton wool for their ears. Still, she looked the part and that was half the battle, wasn’t it?
His trip to the Red Parrot was to meet up with a small record shop owner who was going to introduce him to a teenage rock band who were all still at school. The record shop guy was late and Dickie, bored rigid now he’d done the crossword in the Daily Star, was sinking whiskies. The karaoke machine was switched on and two drunk rugby playing types were howling their way through ‘Purple Haze’. Jimi Hendrix would turn in his grave, Dickie thought.
It was definitely a stag party. There were around thirty lads, all plastered, and one with a blow up rubber doll on his lap. The stag himself, stupid git. Dickie looked away and ordered another whisky. It was half nine, he’d give the record shop owner another half an hour and he was gone.
He blanked out the dreadful singing from the stag night people who were performing one dreadful rendition after another. A curvaceous brunette wearing spray-on jeans and a clingy red top sat at the table next to his. Dickie admired the way her small waist made her bum look curvier. She turned round and smiled at him. Dickie smiled back, giving her the full works, gleaming capped teeth and the Jack the lad cheeky grin that had been working since he was fifteen, a good twenty-five years before. The brunette winked at him.
He might stay a bit longer after all.
The strains of the old Al Green hit, ‘Let’s Stay Together’, drifted out from the karaoke machine and Dickie didn’t notice. He was considering asking the brunette if she wanted a drink when the vocals started. Two voices were singing, one flat and terrible, the other husky and rich. The husky voice penetrated the room, soaring above the music.
Dickie stared, the brunette forgotten. There, on the Red Parrot dais, stood a tall dark-skinned girl belting out this incredible noise. She was young, maybe twenty. But that voice: throaty and full of age, experience and sex. She sang like a world-weary divorcée who’d had it up to here with drink, drugs and men. Life in the very fast lane. If he hadn’t seen her for himself, Dickie would have sworn blind the singer was at least forty and a chain smoker with tired, hard eyes. Her voice resonated with experience, sex, excitement and power.
And incredibly, it was coming from a young, slim girl with an unlined little face that reminded him of a cat’s, slanting eyes and a profile like an Indian princess. Watching that tiny little face transported as she sang, Dickie felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck. He’d found her. His star. His ticket out of here.
‘I haven’t seen you here before,’ said the brunette flirtatiously.
‘Wouldn’t be seen dead here normally,’ Dickie said flatly and went back to watching Nicole Turner. The brunette flounced off.
When the song ended, the audience applauded loudly and Nicole and Sharon bowed happily.
‘Sing another one,’ roared Bacardi King.
‘You sing on your own, Nicole,’ urged Sharon. ‘You’re so much better than me.’
‘No,’ insisted Nicole. ‘You’ve