‘I want to order off-menu,’ he said.
‘Uhm. Off-menu?’
‘Ask Chef to do me some oysters.’
‘We have oysters Kilpatrick.’
‘Yes, I can see that. I want them
au naturel
with a little lemon and a drop or two of Tabasco. OK?’
Of course it was not OK, this after all was England. Living in LA, Calvin had developed the local power habit of ordering off-menu and, like many other returning expats, found it difficult to get used to the agonizing slowness with which the British were adopting American habits and manners.
‘We have oysters Kilpatrick,’ the waitress repeated. ‘They’re very nice. Chef serves them with grilled bacon, chopped chives and Worcester sauce.’
‘I know what oysters Kilpatrick is, darling.’
‘Well . . . Would you like them?’
‘I would like oysters
sans
Kilpatrick.’
‘Umm . . .’
‘Here’s what Chef does, my love, OK? Chef takes the oysters, Chef
doesn’t
add the bacon, Chef
doesn’t
add the chopped chives, Chef
doesn’t
add the Worcester sauce and Chef sends them to me. Meanwhile you, my darling, pop over to the bar and grab me a couple of wedges of lemon and the Tabasco sauce. How’s that?’
The poor girl was not paid to operate on her own initiative; all she could think of was the nightmare of trying to reprogram the computerized billing system which had all the dishes and prices pre-set.
‘I think we’ll have to charge you for the Kilpatrick bit, sir. I mean, we won’t be able to deduct the price of the bacon from the overall price.’
‘That will be fine,’ Calvin said. He seemed to feel that the fact that he could afford to buy the restaurant entitled him to act as if he had
actually
bought it.
The minutes ticked by and Rodney squirmed with impatience as, slowly but surely, Calvin plodded through the ordering of his main meal and then, having summoned the wine waiter, insisted on discussing with him the virtues of almost every wine on the list including the stickies. Eventually, however, even Calvin’s considerable powers of procrastination were exhausted and he was forced to enquire as to what might be on Rodney’s mind.
Rodney took a deep breath and prepared to deliver the arguments he had so often rehearsed.
Then Calvin’s phone rang.
‘Sorry, Rodney, better take this,’ Calvin said, without bothering to conceal the fact that he had not yet checked the digital display to find out who it was. Rodney was left to conclude that Calvin would talk to anybody else in the world rather than him. In fact the frown that passed across Calvin’s face as he did now glance at his Nokia seemed to suggest that Calvin now regretted committing himself to take the call.
‘Damn,’ he said, ‘Christian.’
‘Ahh,’ Rodney replied, nodding in a knowing manner. He knew very well why Calvin might wish to avoid conversing with Christian, it had been all over the Bizarre page in that morning’s
Sun.
Christian’s contract was not to be renewed.
‘Hi, Chris,’ Calvin said with a grimace but attempting a light, airy tone, hoping to imply that this was just another call. Calvin might have built a reputation as a pitiless Rottweiler, TV’s answer to Richard III, the man who made Simon Cowell look like a pussycat, but he was in fact nothing of the sort. He was tough certainly and horribly corrupted by his immense power, but he still had feelings and like any other person he disliked confrontations and scenes. He disliked having to tell a perfectly decent young man that his dream was absolutely and irrevocably over.
Rodney felt the sadness too, for he had also liked Christian. On the other hand he was deeply annoyed. He had had Calvin’s attention, Calvin had actually invited him to speak his mind, and now he, Rodney, a major figure in the industry, a
player
, would have to hover on the sidelines, nursing his Campari while Calvin wasted his time talking to somebody whose second (and final) album had stalled at forty-eight.
‘Yes, Christian, it’s true. We won’t be renewing,’ Calvin was saying. ‘Of course I was going to call you myself, I’ve no idea how the
Sun
got hold of it . . . Christian, please, keep it together. It’s an album deal, nobody died.’
But of course somebody had died. Christian Appleyard, pop star, had departed this earth and what was left was a pathetic creature indeed. Christian Appleyard, sad act, loser, joke. The distance between fame and notoriety, between adulation and derision, cannot be measured in feet and inches; the tipping point is merely a moment, a moment when suddenly the consciousness of the public changes. Crowds are fickle in a way that individuals can never be. An individual has a conscience, while a crowd can afford to follow its rawest, basest instincts and its instincts were clearly that Christian’s fifteen minutes were well and truly up.
‘Screw ’em,’ Calvin was saying. ‘So some builders laughed at you. So what? Did they ever get a number-one album? You did, mate. Nobody can take that away from you.’
It was true, nobody ever could take that away, not even Christian himself, although he would come to wish he could.
‘Look, Christian mate,’ Calvin continued. ‘You’ve had a lot of fun, we’ve all had fun but, you know, parties come to an end . . . Brad’s still selling albums, Christian, you’re not, that’s why he still has a deal, that’s the reality of the business.’
Bradley Vine, runner-up to Christian’s winner on the first ever
Chart Throb
two years before. Apparently he still had it, Christian did not.
‘The mums like him, mate, what can I tell you?’ Calvin explained. ‘You had the kids, he had the mums. Mums have more loyalty than kids and that’s life.’
Calvin looked at his watch. He should not be having this conversation. He should never have given that lad his number, but it had all been so exciting that first time around. They had all felt like a team, judges and contestants together. Even Calvin had got carried away a little. For a moment even he had half believed that what was being created was real.
‘Look, I have to go, Christian. We’ll talk again, OK . . . I don’t know when, but we’ll talk.’ Calvin pressed red and put his phone down.
‘Wants to know why you’ve dumped him?’ Rodney enquired.
‘I didn’t dump him, the public did,’ Calvin replied.
‘So . . .’ said Rodney, anxious to return to his interrupted agenda.
Calvin’s phone rang again. Both men glanced down at the display and saw the word ‘Christian’. Calvin let it ring.
‘So, you were saying?’ Calvin enquired. ‘There was something you wanted to discuss?’
But Calvin was still not really listening because when the statutory four rings were over he took up his phone, pressed ‘names’ and scrolled down to the C’s. Christian was nestling between Christina Aguilera and Christian (Coldplay), two steps up from Chris Evans. Elevated company indeed, the sort of company among whom, one year before, Christian Appleyard might almost have expected to be in reality, but now those days were gone. Calvin pressed delete, the gap between Christina Aguilera and Christian (Coldplay) closed and Christian Appleyard was gone.
No More Mr Nice Guy, Please
Finally Rodney was able to make his point.
‘I feel I need to show the public more of the real me,’ he said.
‘The real you?’ Calvin enquired.
‘Yes. I think the public’s ready for it.’
‘Ready for it?’
‘Yes.’
‘The real you?’
‘That’s right. I get a lot of comments. You know, feedback.’
‘Asking to see the real you?’
‘Well, more of it. You know, people say that they want to see me really, really . . . show them, to really show them . . .’
‘The real you.’
‘Yes.’
Calvin squeezed his lemon wedge over his oysters. ‘Oh . . . Sorry, mate. Never could aim a lemon.’
‘That’s all right,’ said Rodney, wiping juice from his eye.
Calvin chewed an oyster and quaffed deeply at his wine, letting Rodney stew for a while.
‘So, Rodney,’ he said finally. ‘Exactly which bit of the real you do you think the public’s missing out on?’
‘The tough bit. The two-fisted, straight-talking hard man with the rapier-sharp putdowns bit.’
‘Wow. Big bit.’
‘I feel I’ve become bland.’
‘You’ve
become
bland?’
Whatever Calvin might have meant by his heavy intonation, Rodney chose to ignore it.
‘Yes, always being so nice. I think it’s getting boring,’ he said, developing his argument.
‘Isn’t it nice to be nice?’
‘Well, you certainly don’t seem to think so, Calvin, with your worldwide Mr Nasty franchise.’
‘You know, good cop, bad cop and all that, with Beryl in the middle. It’s the classic judging line-up. Worked for
Pop Idol
, worked for
American Idol
, worked for
X Factor
and it works for us.’
‘I’ve been looking at old tapes. They used to ring the changes a bit. Louis Walsh used to get to be mean occasionally on
X Factor.
They did a whole episode based around it.’
‘That was before the formula got absolutely nailed. We nailed it. We don’t deviate. That’s why we’re number one now.’
‘Well, anyway. I don’t think it’s you and me with Beryl in the middle. I think it’s you and Beryl with me on the periphery.’
‘I see.’ Calvin chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘And you think the answer is for you to be mean?’
‘Well, sometimes yes. I mean last series I was pretty much
always
nice. I just want to vary it a bit, you know, surprise people. Shake things up.’
‘You think you could pull it off?’
‘Of course I can, I’m creative, a songwriter, I did lyrics. I’m good with words.’
‘I remember –
Sex baby. Sex baby. Saturday night. Yeah. Ooh baby. Ah baby. Saturday night.’
‘Exactly. Number four in Belgium. I’m
good
, Calvin, really and I want to do more of the putdowns. I’ve been writing some. I’m quite pleased with them . . . “If you were any flatter, darling, we could use you as a coffee table.”’
There was a pause. Calvin looked at Rodney, his face a blank.
‘I’m sorry?’ he said finally.
‘What?’
‘I don’t understand what you’re saying, what do you mean use me as a coffee table?’
‘Not you.’
‘You just said you could use me as a coffee table.’
‘Not you.’
‘Who?’
‘One of the contestants.’
‘Which contestant?’
‘Any contestant, a hypothetical one. That was one of my putdowns.’
‘What was?’
‘“If you were any flatter we could use you as a coffee table.” Flatter. Singing flat. It’s a joke.’
Calvin paused for a moment, clearly working the idea through in his head.
‘Oh, I
see
,’ he said finally. ‘Well, good luck, mate.’
‘Umm, thanks.’
The two men ate in silence, with Rodney trying to work out whether he had made any progress. Calvin decided to change the subject. He had not intended to bring up his plans for Rodney’s ex-girlfriend over dinner but as he could think of nothing else to say he did it anyway.
‘I’m bringing Iona back, by the way.’
Rodney choked on his wine.
‘Please don’t tell me you’re surprised.’
To Calvin it was the most obvious move in the world. So much drama, so much tension. The encounter would be excruciating.
‘You do understand I have to do it, don’t you, Rodders? I mean you two having been an item and then you dumping her and all that. Brilliant telly, her coming back to audition once more in front of the very man with whom she once shared a bed. Just fantastic. Then of course there’s the fact that she needs to come back and audition at all, having got absolutely nowhere in the last year. Can’t let you off the hook on that one, Rodders. Not after everything you promised.’
Rodney’s face showed he understood exactly where Calvin was going with this. After all, both Calvin and Beryl had rubbished Iona and her band, while Rodney had publicly stated that he intended to make them into stars. Iona’s return to the
Chart Throb
audition process was going to brutally demonstrate that Rodney had not made her into a star.
‘Calvin,’ Rodney stammered. ‘I’d really rather you didn’t . . .’
‘Oh, come on, Rodney. All right, Beryl and I might tease you a bit but so what? One of the consistent themes of
Chart Throb
is broken promises and outrageous predictions. Every week one or other of us gravely informs some wide-eyed innocent that they could sell a lot of records and the public never seems to mind that almost none of them ever do. Tell you what, mate. Here’s a thought: you want to be mean, how about this, we bring her back but you tell her to dump her crappy band. Plenty of drama there and it will certainly make you look tough.’