Perfect on Paper by Gillian Harvey (top 20 books to read txt) 📕

up into a larger area, where a man leaned casually against a wall, sporting a pink tutu and a curly pink wig. ‘All right darlin’?’ he said as she passed, as if this was just a normal situation.

‘I don’t …’ she said to a young lad in a T-shirt marked ‘Crew’ by her side. ‘I just don’t …’

‘Everyone says that,’ he reassured her, without making eye contact. ‘Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.’

Mr Flasher was first. Breathing deeply through his nose, he whipped off his mac and sprang through the doors into a room whose door had been labelled ‘Audition Room’ with the help of a sheet of A4 paper, a biro and some Blu Tack.

Clare peeped in. The room itself was no more than a corporate meeting room. There was a wooden table with metal legs on which someone had put a sign with the word ‘Judges’ in comic sans typeface. It wasn’t exactly a high-budget, live-TV situation. She thought back to the number of times she’d watched You’ve Got Talent, thinking that the auditionees had literally walked in off the street.

‘So, who are you and where do you come from?’ asked a woman with a clipboard, sitting on the edge of a table.

‘I’m Martin, I’m from Hatfield and I’m sixty-nine years old!’ said Mr Flasher.

The woman glanced at a man who was seated at the table. They exchanged a look and a nod. Clare thought about talent shows she’d seen on TV, where anyone over sixty got treated as if they were suddenly cute and eccentric, rather than borderline insane and dressed in a ridiculous costume.

Clare’s dad was sixty-nine, and if he wanted to go on a talent show dressed in a leotard, she was pretty sure she’d have him sectioned.

Catching her eye, the woman with the clipboard stood up and closed the door gently. ‘Sorry,’ she said. ‘Won’t be long.’

Clare blushed – caught out. Now she’d probably never know exactly what Mr Flasher’s talent was.

Minutes later he exited the room, beaming.

‘How did it go?’ Clare asked.

He gave her an excited thumbs up. Then a girl, who looked no older than Katie, clutching a folder of papers, came up and rested her hand on his back. ‘Now,’ Clare heard her say, ‘do you know how you’re getting yourself home, sweetheart?’

Clare looked at her crumpled piece of paper again as the man in the pink tutu disappeared into the judges’ room, desperately memorising lines before her moment. She wasn’t going to get through of course, she told herself. But then she had no desire to get through really. She just wanted to see if she could make a small dent in the consciousness of those around her. And whatever lay in wait for her, at least she didn’t have to face it wearing a sequinned leotard.

Minutes later, there was a bang as the door opened abruptly and its handle hit the wall behind. The tutu man, now clutching a saxophone, walked out, red-faced after a stinging dose of reality. Then Clare found herself being shoved in the small of her back.

‘You’re on!’ grinned a girl with a folder.

‘I …’ she said. But it was too late.

‘Best of luck!’ came a voice. Clare looked. The handsome man with the curly hair was grinning and leaning against the wall, the boys lined up messily behind him. When their eyes met he gave her an elaborate wink.

‘Thanks,’ she replied, feeling sick but excited at the same time.

‘So,’ said the woman with a clipboard as Clare entered the room, her knees suddenly jelly-like. ‘What’s your name and where do you come from?’

‘I’m …’ She thought back to the pseudonym she’d given when she’d filled in the paperwork. ‘Martha. From … from Hatfield.’

‘Hi Martha. So, when you’re ready?’

Clare glanced over towards the slightly open door and saw a couple of the teenagers looking at her, their faces swimming and decapitated in the darkness. One of them gave her a thumbs up, and she returned the gesture on instinct.

Then the door closed. Beyond the silence in her room she could hear the thump of a beat – the boys were clearly having one last rehearsal along the corridor.

‘Do you want me to get them to turn it down?’ asked the man, leaning forward as if to stand up.

‘Oh, no. Honestly, it’s OK,’ she smiled. The last thing she wanted to do was to spoil someone else’s chance.

‘OK, well, when you’re ready,’ prompted the woman.

Then there was nothing to do but to get on with it.

‘Why do I feel so down?’ she said, her voice sounding small and quivery.

‘I’ve got a job, a house in town,

Two kids, a husband,

Everything,

That middle age is meant to bring.

So why is it I feel so “meh”?

I look around me, everywhere,

Are people who look

Just like me

Except they seem content, you see.

I’m not, I’m “meh”

Don’t feel like me,

Or not the me

I thought I’d be.

I want to laugh and feel alive

There’s more to me than nine to five,

Than being mum, or being wife

Or employee – I need a life.

This might seem dumb

But I want to say

Look around you – every day.

You’ll see women, just like me

We look dull, it’s true, you see

But peel away the “meh” and look

Not at the cover, but the book!’

She looked up from the notebook, which was shaking slightly in her hand. The man sitting at the table clapped his hands a couple of times. ‘Good,’ he said. ‘Good, but probably not quite right for this.’

He glanced at the woman, who leaned and whispered in his ear. ‘But make sure we’ve got your details Martha,’ he added. ‘Just in case.’

‘OK,’ Clare said, wondering what the woman had said. It didn’t matter that she wasn’t going anywhere. She’d known it was a long shot – but she’d pushed herself to do something different – and it had felt pretty good to put herself out there.

And they might not have roared with approval, but at least she’d had a captive audience for once.

Chapter Eight

Clare splashed out on another taxi to get