Free The Bex Factor by Simon Packham

heated, I glance across at Twilight, who’s leaning coolly against the water dispenser, and roll my eyes at her. She seems more interested in the
contents of her little black book. But maybe my luck is changing, because Mrs Magwicz and Bart Smedley are so wound up in the question of whether one Oscar nomination actually makes you a good
actor that they don’t notice her glide into the lift, followed by yours truly. It’s a good job Twilight hasn’t got a stethoscope, because my heart is thumping like crazy as the
doors close and I press the button for the ninth floor.
    ‘That woman is amazing ,’ she says, dropping her false fangs into her black leather shoulder bag.
    It could be claustrophobia, it could be her perfume, or it could be that little black dress, but whatever it is I’m starting to feel very dizzy in here. ‘She’s OK, I suppose. I
didn’t like the way she kept on about “personal hygiene”.’
    ‘Not that ludicrous Magwicz person. I’m talking about Nikki. Some of this stuff is absolute gold dust.’ I catch a glimpse of her perfectly formed handwriting as she flips open
the little black book and starts reading. ‘ There is nothing more seductive than an artist who appears to be on the verge of a nervous breakdown . Clearly that’s something
I’m going to have to work on.’
    ‘You really want to win this, don’t you?’
    Twilight snorts derisively. ‘I know what you’re doing, Bart, and it won’t work.’
    ‘It’s Matthew, actually. Only, in here they call me Matt.’
    ‘Well, listen, Matt ,’ she says, trying to find her reflection in the shiny silver door. ‘You might be able to play your little mind games with some of the other
no-hopers, but you’re wasting your time with me.’
    ‘What do you mean?’
    ‘Don’t play the innocent. I want this more than the whole lot of you put together, but I promise you now, I will never ever fall into the trap of looking desperate.’
    ‘That’s not what I . . .’ We continue in silence to the seventh floor, where I finally work out something else to say to her. ‘So . . . Twilight, are you into, like,
vampires and stuff?’
    ‘Oh please,’ she says, scouring away at the fake blood on her chin. ‘Do I look like someone who’s remotely interested in tragic, adolescent wish fulfilment?’
    ‘Then why are you dressed as a —?’
    ‘Don’t tell me you’ve never heard of the Zeitgeist?’
    ‘The what?’
    ‘The spirit of the age, dumbo.’ She looks even more beautiful without her black make-up. ‘You can’t watch television for five minutes without a vampire jumping out at
you. Every teenage boy in Britain will want to sleep with me, and every teenage girl will want to be my friend.’
    ‘What, you mean you’re just doing it to get more votes?’
    ‘Doors opening,’ says the lift, in a voice almost as mocking as the look on Twilight’s face. ‘This is the ninth floor.’
    ‘So your name’s not really Twilight?’ I say, realising how stupid that must have sounded as I chase her down the corridor.
    ‘What do you think?’ she says, coming to a halt outside her room and reaching for her key card.
    I do my best not to sound too excited. ‘That’s a coincidence. I’m just next door.’
    ‘Hardly,’ says Twilight. ‘The stage school brat is right opposite.’
    ‘We’ve got that photo-shoot tomorrow morning. We could get the lift down together, if you like.’
    ‘Whatever,’ she says, swiftly disappearing into her room only to re-emerge a moment later. ‘Oh and Matt, there’s just one more thing.’
    I do my best not to fall into the trap of looking desperate. ‘Yes!’
    ‘Would you mind not staring at me all the time? It’s actually a bit creepy.’
    Sometimes, I’d much rather be at home. I’m a bit lost without my MP3 player, so after I’ve flicked through all five hundred channels (nothing on), eaten the
stale shortbread from the complimentary tea and coffee making facilities and mangled my