The Footballer's Wife by Kerry Katona

places expectantly. Tracy looked at Markie. He was a good-looking lad, she thought. He didn’t look like her. He had dark hair and a Roman nose and was tall, unlike Tracy, who was five foot five in her heels. She must have been staring at him for too long because Markie turned to her and stared back.
    â€˜Want a picture?’
    â€˜Can’t I look at my son if I want to?’ Tracy asked.
    â€˜Course you can but you were taking the print off me.’
    Tracy saw Tony walk in carrying Kia. He walked over to the group and said hello. Tracy had barely seen her grandchild or Leanne’s boyfriend in a year.
    â€˜Come to your nana, Kia, I’ve missed you, chicken,’ Tracy said, holding her arms out. Kia buried her head in Tony’s chest, reluctant to follow Tracy’s instructions.
Suit yourself then, you brat,
Tracy thought. Tony shook Markie’s hand. Tracy looked on with interest. She couldn’t be sure but she thought that the two men hadn’t spoken in over a year, since Markie’s wedding. He had only managed to be married to his bride for seven hours before he was citing irreconcilable differences on account ofthe fact that she’d shagged his friend. There was an awkwardness between Tony and Markie, but Markie soon got to his feet and came back with a drink for Tony. Leanne watched all this carefully but, once she realised Tracy was looking at her, trying to work out what was going on, she faced forward, turning her attention to the acts.
    The PA crackled into life and a deep voice that was obviously Len putting on an American accent announced, ‘Live, tonight from Bolingbroke Lane Working Men’s Club, it’s the Elvis extravaganza.’ The music from
2001: A Space Odyssey
blasted out over the tannoy and a single light that wasn’t quite plugged in correctly came on and flickered unimpressively. The stage setting wasn’t living up to what the music promised.
    A small squat man wandered out on stage dressed in a shirt with big collars and a pair of Farahs. He had a guitar slung around his neck. ‘Uh huh huh,’ he said in his best Elvis voice. Which wasn’t good.
    Tracy stifled a laugh. ‘Fuck me, Joe Pasquale,’ she whispered to Markie, who smiled.
    The man’s Elvis impersonation was terrible. He sang ‘Blue Suede Shoes’, which Tracy knew was a sure-fire way not to win. Kent had been droning on about it all day. ‘Hound Dog’ and ‘Blue SuedeShoes’ were the two songs that made judges roll their eyes and want to shout ‘Next!’
    He was followed by two equally unimpressive acts. Tracy was happily lining up vodkas and keeping an eye on Len Metcalfe’s whereabouts when a young man came on stage dressed in leather trousers and a leather jacket. He nervously approached the mike. As his backing music began, something happened. A look of calm confidence came over his face and as he sang the first line of ‘Always On My Mind’ people began to sit up and take notice.
Oh oh,
Tracy thought.
Kent’s had it.
The young man finished his excellent rendition and received a standing ovation.
    Kent was on next. Tracy didn’t want him to make a fool of himself or, more importantly, her. She quickly threw a vodka down her neck and steeled herself for his performance. The music to ‘It’s Alright’ began to play and Kent slid in from the side of the stage on his knees, jumped straight up onto his feet and burst into song. There were whoops and cheers from the audience. Tracy couldn’t believe what she was seeing – it was like actually watching
Elvis
. Kent gyrated around the stage, flipping his pelvis towards the audience, causing screams from some of the womenwatching. Tracy looked around for a moment, making sure that she was right in thinking that Kent was pulling off the performance of a lifetime and then decided to relax into it; she even started clapping. As he finished he slid