Now, the stare thing’s something I’ve tried to avoid seeing in the media, because it tends to give me the shivers. It’s been a pretty hard task dodging it over the last year or so, though, because it’s Zamiel’s favourite move and is invariably included in every Spawn video clip, ad et cetera. And the stare is just a stare when it comes down to it—really, that’s all it is, just a stare.
But, boy, is it an effective one.
Because Zamiel’s stare, with Jas’s dark, dark eyes, whitened face and lashings of kohl eyeliner, is mesmerising. Like one of those hypnotic swirls. As you watch, you seem to go deeper and deeper in, and try as you might there’s no pulling away. Just as I’d felt before, in the hotel room.
I squirm in my seat and avert my eyes from the video screen.
Thankfully, the song is over soon enough, and a group of guys from the Beer-drinking Society get up and sing Men at Work’s ‘Down Under’—screaming out the bits about Vegemite sandwiches. The song is Jas’s saving grace. It gets everyone bar the English Sharon and Tara and the Irish couple singing along and forgetting about Zamiel, his likeness to Jas and the fact that Sharon can’t seem to leave him alone.
Even though it’s not on the way to her table, Sharon manages to walk past us as she crosses the floor to her seat. ‘Hope you liked it,’ she says to Jas with a lick of her lips.
He turns to me when she’s out of earshot. ‘Ugh. Did you see that?’
‘I could hardly miss it.’
‘What’s she talking about, anyway? How could I like it? She bloody murdered that song up there.’
I know what’ll take his mind of Sharon. ‘Guess what?’
‘What?’
‘We’re on next.’
Jas sinks the rest of his beer in reply.
A minute or two later, I’m dragging him up front. He’s not exactly being supportive about me having to sing on stage when I’ve never done it before. I’m scared out of my wits, even with three and a half drinks under my belt. While we wait for the music to start up all I want to do is sprint straight out the front door of the bar.
But I don’t.
I glance up at Jas, beside me, hoping for some words of encouragement, maybe even a few tips. But Jas, with his years of performing experience, looks as if he wants to do a runner as well. He doesn’t, however. Instead, he picks up one of the microphones and hands me another one.
Here goes.
‘Er, hi. We’re Jas and Charlie. Again,’ he says, introducing us. ‘This is going to be harder for me than for Charlie. I don’t speak any German—except, of course, for Zwei Bier, bitte! and Wo ist die Toilette, bitte? So anyone who can speak a bit, try and sing along with us…’ He trails off as the music starts.
I take a big breath and watch as the words come up on the video screen. They’re moving quickly and, being in German, I have to concentrate on them with all my might just to read them out.
I struggle through the first lines, trying to make the unfamiliar words fit the tune. It’s a while before the two words I do know finally flit across the screen. And when Jas sees them—99 Luftballons—he belts them out as loud as he can.
Everyone laughs.
I keep right on struggling through the next verse, but, having done this, things then seem to get a bit easier. The words begin to fit in, I start to feel less nervous and take in the atmosphere.
Beside me, Jas joins in with whatever he can work out from the screen—usually just the 99 Luftballons bits, which everyone is now belting out every time they come up. Jas looks relieved when they join in, and as more and more people come on board he starts to visibly relax on stage.
Big mistake.
Because as soon as he relaxes I think he forgets why he didn’t want to sing in the first place. And when he lets himself go, it’s hard for him not to look like Zamiel did before. Drunk as Jas is, he seems at ease now, unlike everyone else who’s been on stage this evening. It’s his movements that give him away, I notice when I’ve got a spare moment. Everyone else was gawky and self-conscious. But not Jas. He knows how to move on a stage to make people watch him. He knows how to hold the microphone properly, knows how to use it properly. He has a presence, while I…
I just have a bad voice, I realise as I squawk a high note out particularly badly. I try to concentrate on my singing then and not watch Jas too much. Though it’s difficult. Because watching him is, I hate to admit it…incredibly sexy.
I put it down to my Jim Morrison rock star thing. I could never understand that—why I found Jim Morrison so attractive. The man was grubby and drugged out of his mind, with dirty hair and clothes that had seen better years, let alone better days. Not my type at all. But somehow you didn’t see those things when he was on stage. Off stage—blah. But when he was on stage there was no denying that man was some very choice eye candy. And as long as you couldn’t smell him you were OK—the dream could live on.
What is it about women and the rock star thing? What makes a relatively plain guy suddenly so attractive when he’s singing and there’s hundreds of women drooling before him? Another mystery that will never be answered, along with ‘Where’d the last chocolate biscuit go?’ and ‘Who left a tissue in their pocket in the wash?’
I try desperately to ignore the fact that Jas is beside me. I keep singing and try to control those stupid, stupid hormones of mine. But it’s difficult, because the fact is I’m pissed.
Sehr pissed.
I look out at the audience for a second or two and see Sharon watching us just that little bit too closely. Standing near her, Shane follows my gaze to see that I’m keeping an eye on her. He goes up to her then. Distracts her for a bit.
What a man—what a tour guide, I think, hoping Jas has seen his efforts.
Finally we reach the end of the song and everyone claps. Jas and I clamber off the stage. ‘That’s it for me,’ he says. ‘Never again. Come on, I’ll buy you another drink after all your hard work.’
I decide not to tell him about the relaxing on stage thing. After all, it’s over and done with, and if I tell him now he’s only going to worry he’s given himself away.
We pass Sharon and Shane on our way to the bar. ‘Hope you liked it,’ Jas simpers, and I pull him away from her. He’s drunker than I thought and seems to be looking for trouble now. When I turn back Sharon’s still watching us, not quite knowing what to make of it all, especially the comment. Shane winks.
‘How much have you had?’ I ask Jas as we sit down at the bar.
‘Not enough,’ he answers. ‘Hey, look.’ He points to a row of about fifteen bottles on the bar. ‘Schnapps. And lots of it. Let’s do it.’
‘Do what?’ I eye him warily, trying for the life of me to forget all the things I’d thought of doing to Jas only minutes ago.
‘Them all, baby!’
That’s what I thought he meant. I feel drunk just looking at the bottles. ‘Maybe one.’ I feel his arm brush mine and my hormones kick in again. Down, hormones, down. ‘Maybe a couple…’
‘Great!’ Jas says, and calls the barman over. A minute or so later I have five shot glasses placed in front of me.
Pineapple, cinnamon, peppermint, butterscotch and tropical.
We try each schnapps shot at the same time, starting with the pineapple and working our way through. We use as many poncey winemaking terms as we can to describe them.
‘This one’s very…fruity,’ Jas says, after tasting the tropical schnapps—the last shot.
I laugh at that. Really laugh. Tropical. Fruity. Actually, it’s quite hard to stop. Which makes me recognise the fact that I have now missed the turn-off for Really, Really Pissed and have instead taken the Completely Smashed exit ramp.
The party steps up a notch then. A group of guys get up and attempt the Beatles’ ‘Twist and Shout’ which everyone sings along to. Next is ‘Love Shack’ by the B52s and then ‘YMCA’ by the Village People.
I swivel around on my seat to watch them, and when I glance back a few minutes later Jas has a w
hole new line-up of shot glasses in front of him. He sees me looking.
‘Thought we should move onto singles,’ he says. ‘Got a lot of flavours to cover.’
I shake my head. ‘Not me. You’re going to have to do this round by yourself, unless you want to be picking me up off the floor in the next ten minutes or so.’
Jas opens his mouth to argue, but then shuts it again and shrugs. He picks up one shot glass and downs it in one go.
Then the next one.
And the next one.
And the next one.
One more and he’s done.
‘What are you trying to do? Put yourself on the liver transplant waiting list?’
‘Nah, just makes her look better.’ Jas points out Sharon, who happens to be staring at him. She waves. ‘Man, she’s thick,’ Jas says, and immediately orders a couple of beers. ‘Doesn’t she know? Doesn’t she get it?’
I begin to say there’s a lot of things I’m not getting either this trip, when the barman places Jas’s beers on the bar. ‘That’s enough, then,’ I say in a motherly ‘don’t mess with me’ tone, worrying about the number of drinks he’s downed. He must be ninety per cent proof by now.
Group after group take the stage, and the evening starts to become a blur. The same songs appear over and over again but nobody seems to care—not now that they’ve got more than a few drinks under their belts. When there’s a bit of a break, Jas taps me on the arm.
‘What?’ I lean in so I can hear him.
‘Thanks for inviting me, Charlie,’ he says. ‘To Oktoberfest.’
‘That’s, um, OK.’
‘I’m really, really happy,’ he continues.
‘I can see that.’
‘Really, really, really happy.’
‘That’s great.’ I pat him on the arm. ‘Really, really, really great.’
He goes to stand up then. ‘Where’re you off to?’ I say.
‘Got to go…’ he says, heading in the direction of the men’s. He seems reasonably focused on getting there, and when Shane stops him halfway and starts talking to him I don’t worry. He’ll be fine. Shane will look after him. I turn back to the bar and order a glass of water.
I’m just sucking on a piece of ice from the bottom of the glass, thinking Jas is taking his time, when I hear it.
Hear him, that is. Jas.
I get up off the bar stool and turn around. He’s up on the stage.
I walk down the few steps from the bar so I can see properly. Shane’s still there. A few steps away. I make my way over to him.
‘Where’s Sharon?’ My eyes search for her as I ask. She’s not where she was before, at a table with a few of her friends.
‘It’s OK. I sent her off with a few of the Beer-drinking Society kids for some fags.’
I pause, thinking this over. ‘Are you telling me you put him up to this?’
‘But he wanted to sing.’ Shane grins. ‘Couldn’t stop the man.’
Oh, no. At least Sharon’s gone, I think, quickly checking the door before I turn back to watch Jas. He’s as drunk as a skunk and I can only hope Sharon and co stay away for a few more minutes. Jas was so worried about it before—about being found out. The only reason he isn’t now, and is cavorting around on stage as if he lives there, is because he’s completely and utterly plastered.
‘A command performance,’ Shane says to me. ‘I can’t wait.’
The sad thing is, neither can I. I know I should go up there and wrench Jas from the stage, but I can’t. I can’t do anything but stand here and stare. My feet are glued to the floor and my eyes to Jas.
And then he starts.
I know the song as soon as I hear the first few bars. Violent Femmes, ‘Add it Up.’
Jas begins right on cue, sounding way, way too good to be in some karaoke bar. Funky or not. Don’t hurry back, Sharon. Don’t hurry back…
He moves through the first verse expertly. It’s halfway through the second verse, when he starts singing about why he can’t get a screw, that I start to forget about Sharon.
Bugger Sharon.
And I forget about the little talk I had with myself in the room this evening too. The one about thinking I could resist this man if I wanted to.
Bugger the little talk.
Because. Jas. Looks. Fabulous.
He’s really enjoying himself up there. And, just like before, he has that presence again. I watch, entranced. But then all of a sudden Jas starts to seem a bit taken aback. He’s scanning the crowd, his eyes flitting from one face to the other. He looks back at the bar again—he’s searching for me, I realise. A few more passes over the crowd and he spots me.
And that’s when he moves into the third verse.
He gives it all he’s got. Right at me. My knees go weak as the lyrics come flooding back to me. And then, right when I’m least expecting it, he does the stare. The Zamiel stare.
I am rooted to the spot, for want of a better word.
Shane leans over. ‘So much for our date. My bets are on you getting some tonight…’
I unfreeze then. ‘Hey, don’t give me that crap. I know, remember? About the Fine Arts.’ In my drunken state, I don’t care who hears.
He nods. ‘I know. It doesn’t matter. I’d still bet on you getting some tonight.’
I start to argue. ‘I told you, we’re not…we don’t…it’s—’ before I give up. And we both turn back to watch the rest of the performance.
When Jas finishes there’s an almighty cheer. He makes his way off the stage—missing a few stairs here and there—and over to where Shane and I are standing. He flings one arm around my shoulders and I almost collapse under his weight as he leans on me for support.
‘What happened to never again?’ I ask him.
He laughs. ‘Couldn’t help myself.’
I give Shane a look. Sure.
Sharon arrives then, pushing her way in beside us and Shane. ‘What’s going on? Did I miss anything?’
Shane winks at us. ‘Nothing, darling. Just some drunken old hack on stage.’
‘I’d better sit you down,’ I say to the wavering Jas, and, seeing there are no seats left at the tables down here, pull him off in the direction of the bar and decide I’ll just have to pay the bartender not to serve him this time. When he’s back on his stool, I order another few glasses of water.
‘Here, drink this,’ I say, pushing one over to him when they arrive.
He does as he’s told, and has another one besides.
‘Bit better?’ I ask.
He nods. ‘Needed that. But now I’m really going to have to do the FFP.’
‘The what?’
‘The first fatal piss. Of the evening. You watch. Be going every ten minutes after this.’
‘I really didn’t need to know that,’ I say.
‘You asked!’
I don’t argue. I asked, true. I just didn’t want to know. ‘Go on—go.’ I wave one hand at him.
He goes. This time, though, I watch him walk the whole way, not wanting any more accidental sing-alongs.
Which reminds me of what has just happened. The song. The stare thing. And it’s then, watching him walk away, that I know I’m going to have to tell him what’s going on. I can’t just say ‘bugger the little talk’—dismiss it like that. I’m going to have to lay down some rules. Because I really can’t do this any more. It has to stop.
So that’s it, I think. And right then and there, on the bar stool, I start to form my plan. I’m going to tell him. I’m going to tell him tonight, while I’m still drunk and have the guts to do it. I’m going to sit him down when we get back to the hotel and tell him I lied that night at Brown’s—the night I told him I don’t feel that way about him any more.
I only said that because I didn’t know what else to say, and I think I was scared of endangering our friendship again. The truth is, I still have feelings for him. All kinds of feelings and most of them not very ladylike. In fact most of them could be attributed to the goddess Hussy
, and she and I don’t know how to stop them. Even knowing they’re unrequited isn’t enough to turn me off. Which means there’s nothing left to do to make it stop but explain the way things are…
And then tell him that we shouldn’t see each other any more.
It’s the only solution. The only workable solution. I may have fooled myself for a good forty-eight hours or so back there, but when it comes down to it I can’t just be friends. I’ve tried that this trip and it hasn’t worked. Thus, it has to end.
I take a deep breath and swivel back around on my chair.
‘You look serious,’ Jas says, coming over to lean on the bar.
The bartender places a shot glass in front of me. When did he order that? ‘What’s this?’ I ask.
‘Cherry. You like cherry.’
‘I don’t know if I can…’
Jas moves in closer to me. So close I can feel his leg hot against mine. Oh, God. He puts the glass up to my lips and stares right into the back of my eyes. ‘You can.’
I down the shot and ask the bartender for another two glasses of water.
As Jas and I drink them I sneak a look at him from time to time, wondering if I should just tell him now—get my little speech over and done with. But, no, I decide in the end, the hotel’s better. We can talk there. Properly.
I drink two more glasses of water before my bladder tells me it’s really time to hit the bathroom.
As I start to get up Sharon gets onto the stage and the first few bars of Bette Midler’s ‘The Rose’ start up.
Everyone boos. And rightly so.
I knew I wouldn’t have fitted in with those girls.
‘Coming with you,’ Jas says, as Sharon keeps singing, regardless of what the crowd thinks. ‘Going to have to go again in a few minutes anyway. And who knows? Mightn’t be able to hear her from back there.’
I stumble, and I mean stumble, my way across the floor in the direction of the ladies’. That one cherry schnapps has taken me way beyond completely smashed territory now. So far beyond it, in fact, that I’m starting to get the sinking feeling that I’ve had far, far too much to drink and that the stumbling is going to get much worse before it gets better.
It's Not You It's Me Page 17