Friends and Rivals. Tilly Bagshawe

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      CHAPTER FOUR

      ‘Oh Jesus. I can’t go out there. Seriously, I can’t.’

      Kendall hovered backstage at the Hammersmith Apollo, holding Ivan’s hand so tightly she’d cut off the circulation to his fingers.

      ‘The place is half empty. No one knows who the fuck I am over here.’

      It was strange, but for some reason the smattering of vacant seats made Kendall feel infinitely more nervous than the packed stadiums she was used to back in the US. Having ten thousand people watching you was like being alone. With that size of audience, and the stage lights blinding you, there were no individuals to worry about, just a screaming, adulatory wall of noise. Here, in this gloriously old-fashioned 1930s theatre, you could look out from backstage and see individual faces. A middle-aged woman here, a pair of teenage boys there. Real people, who’d paid real money to hear you sing. It was terrifying.

      ‘Everyone knows who you are,’ Ivan reassured her, not entirely truthfully. ‘And remember, you’re here to support Adele. You think people don’t know who she is?’

      ‘I guess not,’ said Kendall through chattering teeth.

      ‘Exactly. The venue’s sold out, with a line outside as long as your arm. It’s only ten to eight. Trust me, there’ll be no empty seats by the time they call you.’

      He’s right, Kendall told herself. Calm down. Pacing up and down in a skintight PVC leotard and thigh-high silver boots, a tribute to the great Ziggy Stardust, who’d performed his final concert at the Apollo back in 1973, she knew she looked the part. Adele might be a mega-star with the best voice since Aretha, but no one nailed superstar raunch like Kendall Bryce. If Jack were here he’d have expressly forbidden her outfit. ‘Don’t cheapen yourself,’ was one of his favourite catchphrases. ‘You don’t have to dress like a hooker, or a poor man’s Britney, to get people to buy your records.’ But Jack, thankfully, wasn’t here. While it was true her profile was lower in the UK, the purpose of tonight’s concert was to raise it. She wasn’t going to do that by dressing like Karenfrikking Carpenter.

      Suddenly the lights dimmed and the low bass boom boom boom of Kendall’s backing track began to thump around the auditorium. Ten minutes had passed already? How was that possible? She turned around to look for Ivan but he was gone. In his place were two distracted-looking sound-check guys and the four male backing dancers Kendall had been rehearsing with all week. All of them looked white as sheets, but ironically their nerves calmed Kendall’s own.

      ‘Smile, guys,’ she said confidently. ‘We’re gonna have fun out there, right? Right? Because if we don’t, nobody else will.’

      The curtains lifted. There were a few whistles and whoops from the audience as, still in pitch darkness, Kendall and her dancers took their places. Kendall just had time to tap her headset and nod curtly to the sound engineers that her mic was working properly when the lights exploded into life and the track to ‘Shake It Loose’, her biggest hit to date, erupted into the theatre to wild shrieks of applause.

      After that it was easy. Leaping and gyrating her way through three tracks straight, belting out the lyrics that were as familiar to her now as breathing, Kendall drank in the high of the crowd’s approval like a drug addict plunging the needle into her vein. Watching from backstage, Ivan was entranced. She was a different person onstage, radiating energy and excitement and joy like a one-woman power plant. The music was unremarkable – basic, hip-hoppy, commercial pop of the sort that hundreds of young artists were churning out all over the world. But in live performance, Kendall took it and transformed it into something unique. Her voice, her body, her angel’s face, but most of all her stage presence, screamed one thing and one thing only: star. No wonder Jack was so focused on her as a client. Managing her must be like trying to hold a flame in your hand.

      ‘Good evening, London!’ Kendall shouted hoarsely after the third track, leaning on her mic stand for support and swigging from a water bottle. ‘I gotta tell you, it is wild to be here.’

      The audience cheered and wolf-whistled loudly, although at this point Ivan suspected that they would have applauded the shipping forecast if it had come out of Kendall’s ridiculously sexy, rosebud mouth.

      ‘I know you’re all here to see Adele.’ More applause. ‘So I won’t keep you in suspense too much longer. But I’m gonna perform one more track. It’s from my last album, and some of you may know it. It’s a little song called “Whipped”.’

      The most explicit track she had yet released, ‘Whipped’ was famous largely due to the fact that it had been banned from the airwaves in a number of US states due to its risqué lyrics. In her live routine, Kendall and her dancers hammed up the ‘naughty’ element, with Kendall at one point engaging in a simulated orgy with all four of her leather-clad boys. Yes, it was cheesy, but it was also sexy as all hell. The audience lapped it up like cats in a room full of cream. Even Ivan got a hard-on watching her. When Kendall finally bounced backstage, her faced flushed with adrenaline and triumph and her hair tangled wildly down her sweat-soaked back, it was all he could do not to jump on her then and there.

      ‘What’d you think?’ she panted, her green eyes gazing up into his, searching for approval. ‘It was good, right? They liked me?’

      ‘They loved you,’ said Ivan truthfully. Pulling her into a bear hug, he started to laugh. ‘Poor old Adele. Talk about upstaging the star! I’ll bet her people are spitting blood right now.’

      Despite herself, Kendall grinned. ‘D’you really think so?’

      ‘Definitely.’

      ‘Jack would have hated all the sexual stuff,’ said Kendall. ‘But I think it worked, don’t you?’

      ‘Everything worked,’ said Ivan. ‘And if Jack can’t see that, he’s an idiot.’

       He’s an idiot anyway, for leaving you here with me.

      Tonight confirmed what Ivan Charles already suspected. Kendall Bryce was more than just a pretty face. The girl had something very, very special. Something Ivan wanted, very, very badly.

      Boy was he looking forward to this weekend.

      ‘I don’t understand it.’ Ned Williams ran a hand through his floppy brown hair and sighed. ‘How can she prefer that tosser to me? The new bloody Pavarotti indeed! Just because he’s fat. Badger can do a better Don Giovanni, can’t you boy?’

      The scruffy springer spaniel thumped his tail loyally on The Rookery kitchen floor.

      ‘Armando bloody Lucci, I ask you, Cat. He’s a lard-arse, he’s boring and he’s as old as the hills.’

      ‘He’s forty, Ned.’

      ‘Exactly. What on earth does Diana see in him?’

      ‘Erm, СКАЧАТЬ