All the Rage - Prologue

There was no buzz on earth like applause - and the members of All
the Rage had never heard such a roar as this. Through the dazzling
studio lights, they could just discern the wobbly shapes of faces.
Oceans of faces. Oceans of people, cheering and stamping. And the
cherished figures of families and boyfriends, whose Yeahs were the
loudest of all.
The group had just sung to their biggest ever audience - and the
incredible thing was, the baying gallery in here was not even the sum
total of it. Far from it. No, it was the eight million - EIGHT MILLION
- or so with their feet up in front of ITV1 who really counted, for to
them fell the task of picking up their phones and voting in this live
contest.
Glowing with exhilaration, the three girls beamed into the camera
monitors, as they'd been told to, and then at each other. There had
never been such powerful camaraderie between them. It positively
crackled both on- and off-stage - that's what made them such a wow to
watch perform. As they clasped hands now, there was electricity; a
shared pulse that charged through their linked bodies. The grins and
winks they exchanged were proud and congratulatory. We've done it, they
said, aren't we the greatest! These are my best mates, and we're living
our dream!
It was a dream which, in sixteen hectic months, had taken them from the
rough-and-ready pub circuit to primetime television exposure. But where
would it take them next? That was the question filling the girls' minds
now.
'The Sugababes ought to be feeling a tad nervous, is all I can say,'
chirruped Todd Davies, Talent Scout's ever-excitable presenter. He
would have still gushed had they sung like a trio of tortured
cockatiels, but in this case his praise was sincere. All the Rage had
brought the current heats of this popular talent show to a spectacular
close. Todd thought they were easily favourites to be voted back into
next week's grand final.
They seemed like a viewer's - and a record company's - dream to him:
Chantal, with the face and voice of an angel but the body of a whore,
looking divine in a sea blue mini dress; elegant, willowy Faith, in
silky indigo, whose sound had a rich, Madonna-like quality; and little,
husky Justine, wearing blazing orange, all dimples and wiry
energy.
'Don't just take my word for it, though,' Todd continued cheesily,
pointing into the camera, 'let's see how our celebrity panel rates this
hot new girl band. Carla - did you think they were bostin', our
kid?'
Chantal, Faith and Justine hailed from the Black Country - the
industrial hub of the West Midlands - and Todd lampooned their accent
and vernacular at every opportunity. Many Talent Scout viewers were
cringing in their living rooms at this point - particularly in the
Black Country region itself, where many a cry of 'That saft cockney
prat cor do our accent' resounded - but the All the Rage girls were far
too euphoric to take offence. They just giggled along with the
audience, who hooted convulsively at Todd's every wisecrack.
'Well I sure don't know what bostin' means,' Carla Day, 1970s disco
idol, latter-day star of musical theatre and regular Talent Scout
panellist, declared in a New York twang, 'but I'll tell ya something,
honey - I thought these three ladies were awesome tonight! I never
heard It's Raining Men put across with such passion. If the record
companies ain't beatin' a path to your door after this, I'll eat my
sequins, baby!'
The audience whooped like apes, as they did whenever a celeb judge
complimented one of the acts. The girls themselves were delirious. A
Number One artiste had just called them awesome!
'Rory - your thoughts?'
More whoops greeted chest-waxed Australian soap hunk Rory Powers simply
for opening his sexy mouth.
'I agree with everything Carla said, Todd,' he drawled, with a
trademark lazy smirk that drew yet another chorus of squeals. 'And the
girl on the left - '
'Justine,' Todd interjected.
'Justine - sweetheart, you remind me of a young Geri Halliwell!'
Justine blushed with elation. To her, there was no higher eulogy - and
coming from Rory Powers, of all people! She'd had a thing about him for
years.
Chantal smirked to herself also, because a certain person she knew
would barf with envy to see her in Rory's company.
'Reuben,' Todd addressed the third and final panellist, 'd'you reckon
All the Rage will live up to their name?'
'Absolutely,' rasped Reuben Greenway, zillionaire record producer and
laconic wearer of Ray-Bans and black leather. 'A classic disco anthem,
well delivered. They'll be dancing to you three in the discos of the
future!'
'Cheers, Reuben,' said Todd, 'and big thanks to all of this week's
guest judges. But don't forget, viewers, it's your votes that truly
matter. So, if you want to see our trio of bostin' Black Country babes
here next week, dial the following number?or text 'RAGE' to this
number?but not 'til after the show! I know you're all eager beavers,
talent scouts, but the phonelines aren't open just yet! In the
meantime, ladies and gentlemen, give it up one more time for All the
Rage!'
The girls, still clutching hands, demurely bowed and departed
backstage.

In the green room, it was all hugs, shrieks, champagne and pandemonium.
The other four acts, though upbeat, were rather reserved (the girls
sensed their rivals took the competition more seriously, and their
self-esteem was more dependent upon the outcome of the public vote),
but All the Rage were behaving like they'd won already. To them,
appearing on TV, spending a day in a studio, having their make-up
professionally done and being paid compliments by celebrities were
sufficient thrills.
These were Black Country girls who'd practised their art in pubs, not
stage school graduates who were blas? about brushes with showbiz. As
far as they were concerned, the party could start.
The trio yelled 'Yessss!' in unison and leaped into a circle, turning
their traditional group hug into a kind of Greek dance of
jubilation.
'Well done, girls!'
'That was wicked!'
'Rory Powers compared me to Geri Halliwell!'
'Did you hear what that Reuben guy said?'
'What d'you think - bit different to doing karaoke down the old Red
Lion, eh?'
Joe, their manager and so much more, was there already, as their
behind-the-scenes champion, along with the other contestants' mates and
parents.
'That was stunning,' he cheered, and emotionally cuddled them in turn.
This band meant so much to him, and they thought the world of him too,
in differing ways. Things were about to happen to them - and it just
seemed so bittersweet that?No! He mustn't spoil the girls' night by
getting blubby. He swallowed and blinked hard.
'So how do you rate your chances, girls? The panel certainly seemed to
like you the best.'
'Ye-es,' wavered Chantal, ever the cautious one, 'but that lad who did
the Justin Timberlake number could take some beating. All the little
girlies will be begging Mommy to borrow the phone and vote for
him.'
'But it's not the winning,' Justine argued, in her husky, shouty voice,
as she filched four flutes of champagne from the complimentary tray and
doled them amongst the girls and Joe, 'it's the taking part - as you
yourself always used to tell me, Miss Brown! Cheers!'
They clinked glasses sloppily, and giggled as the bubbles spilled over
their fingers and then fizzed up their noses.
But as they stood and drank, an introspective hush suddenly descended.
They became oblivious to their extraordinary surroundings, the other
singers, the backstage crew busying about in black, shouting things
into headsets - in fact to everything but each other as they abandoned
themselves to their thoughts.
In their relatively short association, Chantal, Faith and Justine had
forged an almost psychic bond. They were far more than bandmates; even
'best mates' scarcely covered it. To each girl, the other two were the
sisters she had never had. They were attuned to each other's moods,
tastes and even menstrual cycles.
They often lapsed into companionable silences, but this one felt
different; more loaded somehow. When they simultaneously glanced up
from the depths of their glasses, caught each other's eyes and laughed
nervously, they knew all was not quite wonderful but nobody wanted to
voice such spoilsport thoughts on such a special night.
'D'you reckon it's true what Carla Day said - that we could get a
record deal out of this?' asked Chantal, sounding, oddly, more troubled
than elated.
'It could happen,' Faith responded in similarly wobbly tones. 'Record
company execs watch shows like this, don't they? One of them could ring
in if they like us. Or maybe it's only the winners of these
competitions that get offers - I don't know.' She bit her lip, and
twiddled with the gold ring shining on her left hand - nervy gestures
that were very uncharacteristic. It didn't go unnoticed either that she
had barely touched her champagne.
'That would be a marvellous break for us, wouldn't it?' said Justine,
but equally flatly. 'One that we'd have to be bonkers to turn
down?'
There were nods, further sips and contemplation.
Then Faith took command, and spoke in a 'right, the time has come'
voice. 'Let's go into the dressing room for a bit. I think we need a
chat.'
Justine and Chantal looked at each other for a moment, then Justine
said slowly 'Yeah, that's a good idea. It's quieter in there, we'll be
able to talk.'
'And we've got an hour to kill before we have to be back on air for the
results show,' added Chantal.
'Want me to come with you?' Joe asked Faith, in his intimate,
solicitous style.
Faith initially smiled at him in a 'thanks but no thanks' way, but then
she seemed to lose her bottle, and murmured 'Would you? This affects
you just as much as us, after all.' She squeezed his hand with
gratitude.
The four of them trooped away to the little dressing room which All the
Rage had been assigned for the day. Everything here was so showbiz -
down to the little touches like the gold star bearing the band's name
that had been tacked to their door.
How many nights, after getting changed in putrid pub toilets to sing on
stages the size of orange boxes, had they dreamed of fame, and the
glitzy clich?s that went with it?
How many editions of Talent Scout had they watched at home with fish
and chips on their knees, heckling the telly with 'I can sing better
than her' comments and aching to swap places with the
competitors?
This day had been the best of their lives, and whatever happened now,
whatever the upshot of the dressing room confessional they knew was
coming, nothing could ever erase the fabulous memory it would
become.
As Joe softly closed the door behind them, they wedged into the room,
occupying any spare square centimetre of chair, dressing table and
window sill they could. They were all feeling dizzy from the champagne,
the absolute ecstasy of performing, and now fear too. Their young faces
in the enormous, light bulb-surrounded mirror were highly
flushed.
And now they faced Faith as though she were a boss about to deliver a
'good news and bad' speech to her staff. Faith took a huge breath, and
glanced briefly at Joe, as though to draw courage from his dependable,
ponytailed presence.
'Girls,' she said, 'I've got an announcement to make.'