Welcome to the Real World by Carole Matthews Page B

will make of Carl's retro-style. To make up the three judges, there's more often than not a media rent-a-quote presenter from one of the youth programmes. Three people who can break a person's spirits or help them fulfil their dreams. What a position of power to be in! They all look slightly bored by the weight of it.

    Carl takes up position with his acoustic guitar and gives me an encouraging look. My heart suddenly shoots out of the doldrums. I have to do this for my friend. For him alone, I have to give this my best shot.

    We went through a million different songs before we settled on one that would be suitable. It's an old Prefab Sprout number 'Couldn't Bear to Be Special', a bit of a melancholy ballad which I'm hoping will stand out amid the hundreds of ear-splitting renditions of Britney's 'Toxic'. The lyrics of the song really reach out to me and I can only hope that they reach out to the judges, too. I suddenly wish that I'd spent some of the time in the queue doing vocal exercises. How would Evan David have prepared for this? At the thought of him, my mind goes into a tailspin again and I have to force myself back into the present.

    Carl plays the first chord and I call on whatever inner strength that I might, unknowingly, possess and give my performance all that I can summon. My mouth is dry and my palms are clammy. Sweat trickles between my breasts. The first note comes out strong and clear, then the music takes over and I lose myself in it.

    Just when I'm starting to relax and even venture to think, 'This could be my moment', a voice out of the darkness says, 'Thank you', in that same bored-to-death fashion I heard for the previous act. Which seems so unfair as I'm so, so much better than hereven though I'm the only person who seems to think so.

    My singing grinds to a halt. Carl strums what sounds like an annoyed riff.

    'We'll be in touch,' a disembodied voice says.

    'Thanks,' I mutter feebly, sounding pathetically grateful. 'Thanks.'

    Thanks for what? Humiliating us completely? Getting our hopes up and dashing them against the rocks? I want to shout and stamp my feet and say that they should have listened to the whole of the song. Wouldn't that be common courtesy? And then I think of the hundreds and hundreds of other hopefuls waiting for their turn in the spotlight, and I shuffle off the stage in Carl's wake.

    Outside, in the harsh daylight, I can see him shaking. With fear or excitement, I don't know.

    'That wasn't too bad, was it?' he says.

    'No.' I have no idea how to class that experience. Nerve-wracking. Terrifying. Exhilarating. Mind-blowing. My body feels electrified. Adrenaline is galloping round my blood like a wild horse charging inside me. I've never felt like this before and I only know that it's a drug I want more of.

    Carl wraps his arms round me. I wonder if he's going to cry. I feel like I might join him. 'You were sensational,' he says.

    'You weren't too shabby yourself.' We hug each other some more and then we become aware of the people on the street and the traffic and reality hitting home once more. I stand away from Carl.

    His arms hang limply by his side. 'So what do we do now?'

    'We could get some food before I start my shift at the King's.'

    'I meant about the audition.'

    'There's nothing else we can do,' I say. 'We gave it all we'd got.' And I really believe that we didfor our one brief moment of glory. 'If they liked us, they'll be in touch.'

    I shrug as if I really don't care. How can I sound so nonchalant, when at this moment I would sell my very soul to the devil for a chance to appear on the Fame Game show? And, to be honest, I'd sell Carl's, too.

Twenty-three

    M y shift at the King's Head drags interminably. Every time a phone rings anyone's phonemy nerves turn me into a jangling wreck. The good people at Fame Game didn't say exactly how long it would be before they would call if they wanted us back to go through to the next round and audition again. My stomach