Confessions Of A Karaoke Queen by Ella Kingsley Read Free Book Online Page B

Reality TV? Hmm. I’m not the biggest fan. OK, I am partial to my autumn fix of
The X Factor
– but that’s not
actual
reality TV, it’s a proper competition that just happens to be on camera. Like
I’m a Celebrity
. And
Strictly Come Dancing
. And
Masterchef
. Oh, and
Britain’s Got Talent
. Anyway, forget that. My point is that it’s very different watching it than, well, being it. And yet here I am on the way to meet some hotshot telly producer about potentially starring in my own show. What on earth am I doing?
    But this could be the only option Sing It Back has. I have to at least give it a chance.
    A bit of a walk later and my feet are starting to hurt – I knew I should have changed into these heels when I got here – but then I spot a building that I think
must
be it. It’s a modest four-storey townhouse with a white portico, sort of smart and shabby-looking at the same time. It just looks so … media.
    Sure enough, there’s a gold panel to the left of the door which reads TOOTH & NAIL PRODUCTIONS . I press the buzzer.
    A gravelly voice comes over the intercom and spits out ‘Tooth & Nail’ in a way that makes it sound like the name of a teen slasher movie.
    ‘Er, hi,’ I say, leaning in. ‘I’ve an appointment with Evan Bergman. Eleven o’clock.’
    ‘Second floor.’
    The door clicks open and I step inside. The hall is a vast white empty space, a black cast-iron spiral staircase winding upits middle, precise as a corkscrew. I ascend nearly on tiptoes, the points of my heels threatening to disappear through the ornate grill.
    On the second floor a striking brunette is sitting behind reception, cradling a phone to her ear. She’s wearing skinny jeans and biker boots, one of which is propped up on the desk. On her T-shirt there’s a name tag with a handwritten
ALISON
scrawled across it in black felt tip. She shoots me a jagged look and gestures for me to sit on one of the leather banquettes.
    I pretend to flick through a magazine. It’s one of those trendy A3 ones consisting entirely of pictures of models wearing bin bags and looking cross. I search in vain for
OK!
.
    Alison is nodding and
hmm
ing. When she hangs up she regards me stonily, her eyebrow raised. Clearly not one for talking, then.
    ‘I’m here for Evan Bergman,’ I say. ‘I spoke to someone downstairs, but I’m not sure who. One of your security guys, he was quite gruff—’
    ‘Actually that was me,’ she growls. It’s like the girl in
The Exorcist
. I must look alarmed because she adds, ‘I’m sick. My throat’s killing me.’
    She doesn’t look all that pleased to be here. ‘Maybe you should go home?’ I suggest.
    Instead she grimaces. ‘Boss won’t let me.’ The last bit catches and then she’s coughing in harsh, hacking bursts till she’s so red in the face I have to go and pat her on the back. I’m half worried she’s going to projectile spew green stuff all down my outfit.
    ‘Thanks,’ she snarls. ‘Bloody cold.’
    ‘I’m sure he’d understand. You seem really poorly …’
    Alison shakes her head and glances over her shoulder, presumably to check she’s not being overheard. At the end of the corridor is a pair of sliding frosted doors.
    ‘You seem nice,’ she whispers hoarsely, ‘so off the record, let’s just say Evan’s not the easiest person to work for.’
    ‘I’ve never met him.’
    Her phone rings and she picks it up. ‘Yes?’ She looks at me and gives a curt nod. ‘Yes, she’s here.’ Cough, cough. ‘I’ll send her in.’
    Alison hangs up. ‘You’re about to.’

     
    Evan Bergman is standing at the window with his back to me. He’s holding his hands together behind him in the stance of a powerful man surveying his empire – even though the view out his office window is the back of a Burger King car park. Only when he hears the door go does he turn round and extend his hand.
    ‘Maddie Mulhern,’ he says, and his voice is smooth as silk, ‘welcome. I’m Evan Bergman,