Lyrebird by Cecelia Ahern

Author:Cecelia Ahern [Ahern, Cecelia]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9780007501885
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 2016-10-02T16:00:00+00:00

21

‘That was incredible, fucking incredible,’ Jack Starr booms down the corridor after Laura.

They all turn around, camera included, and Bo and Solomon move out of the shot.

Jack goes directly to Laura and places his hands on her shoulders, looks at her square on.

‘Lyrebird, that was unbelievable … magical. Are you sure you haven’t got a tape recorder in there?’ He pretends to look into her mouth. ‘Seriously …’ He tries to calm himself, he is genuinely pumped. ‘That was phenomenal. I have never seen anything like that before, never heard anything like that before. I don’t think anyone in the world has seen anything like that before. I mean, of course we’ve heard it before, but not all from one human mouth.’ He laughs. ‘All those sounds, water, wind, people, laughter, you gotta give me the list of everything. I mean, wow. We’re going to make you a star!’

Laura’s cheeks turn pink. Solomon’s insides cringe and, as if Jack has realised the cheesiness of what he has said, in Solomon’s company, he looks uncertainly in Bo’s direction.

‘Cut,’ Bo says, straight away.

‘Let’s talk in your dressing room,’ he says, quietly. It seems the entire production team and all the contestants have lined the corridors to watch their exchange. They go to Laura’s dressing room; Laura, Bo, Jack and his producer, Curtis. Solomon and Rachel tail behind but the door starts to close in their faces. Rachel doesn’t care and backs away but Solomon pushes against the door. Jack’s head pops around the corner, ‘We don’t need cameras or sound right now, thanks.’ He winks and closes the door.

Rachel eyes Solomon. ‘Easy,’ she warns. She leans against the wall of the corridor, keeping her eye on Solomon.

‘One of these days I’m going to drive my fist up his arsehole.’

Rachel raises an eyebrow. ‘Some men would pay for that.’

He smiles. ‘He probably has.’

‘Nah. There’s plenty of women that would do it to him for free,’ Rachel responds. ‘Anything to be famous.’

‘You really hate it here, don’t you?’

‘I’m all for talent. Susan has a ten-year-old niece who plays Vivaldi’s Four Seasons on the violin with her eyes closed. Incredible. But she plays at school feis’s and family gatherings. No reason to put her on stage and put her through this kind of shit,’ she says, lowering her voice as a twelve-year-old contortionist walks by with her parents, face full of TV make-up and her costume bag over her shoulder.

‘I suppose they’re proud. They want to show the world. Share it.’

‘That’s the thing, people keep asking her parents, why won’t they let her do more with her talent? Put her on a TV show or something. Why? Because she’s good at something?’ She shakes her head, bewildered. ‘Why can’t people just be really good at something? Why do they have to be the best at something? I mean, my feeling on it is …’ She searches for the words, really passionate about it now. ‘There’s sharing a gift, and there’s … diluting a gift. You know? They already have her looking like Helen of fucking Troy.

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