by Sue Limb
Jess walked into her tiny dressing room. A card was propped against a bottle of water on the dressing table. Jess grabbed it, wondering if it would be from Fred. But it was in a stranger’s handwriting. Jess ripped it open. It was a good luck card with a massive silver horseshoe adorned with pale blue satin bows, and it said: Here’s to a great success – you deserve a triumph! Congrats, from Martin and his Band of Brothers. Jess felt simultaneously grateful to Martin for being so kind, and annoyed that the card wasn’t from Fred. Still, she managed to thank them effusively.
Then she wandered into the hall again. She really ought to find out if Fred was here. In a way she hoped he had turned up, so he could be blown away by the brilliance of her hosting routine. On the other hand, if he wasn’t here it would kind of be a relief. But she had to know. So she headed for the bar area and found Mr Parsons polishing glasses with his usual slow dignity.
‘These glasses are a disgrace,’ he informed her sourly, holding one up to the light. That was typical of Fred’s dad – no hellos, none of the usual small talk – he always just plunged straight into the important stuff. ‘I’ve half a mind to ask for a refund.’
‘A refund?’ asked Jess, all at sea. She still hadn’t mastered some of the details of organising a dinner dance.
‘We hired the glasses from Frobisher’s,’ commented Fred’s dad. ‘A rip-off. Don’t worry, I’ll let them know what I think of them in no uncertain terms.’
‘Oh, er, well, good,’ spluttered Jess, supposing that Frobisher’s must be punished for their slackness and Mr Parsons was the man for the job. ‘Er, how’s Fred?’ she asked, trying to sound casual. ‘Is he here?’
‘He’s somewhere around.’ Mr Parsons shrugged gloomily.
Jess made her way back to the dressing room. Throngs of people were arriving, but she couldn’t see Fred anywhere. However, now she knew he was here. She couldn’t wait to perform – it would prove to him how fantastically she could do without him. She knew her stand-up script was a winner and she was really looking forward to doing it. It was a kind of treat for her – a reward for not giving up.
Chapter 33
All the same, she was terrified, of course. Jess lurked in her dressing room, chewing her fingernails.
Occasionally she fired off a text to her mum at front of house. THEY’RE PILING IN! Mum reported. EVERYBODY LOOKS STUNNING! JACK’S BRO AND HIS FRIENDS FROM UNI HAVE COME IN DRAG!
Oh no! Trust George and Co to turn up and try to turn the whole thing into a freakin’ charade! On the other hand, maybe it wouldn’t matter. Maybe it would add to the hilarity of the whole occasion. Jess was dying to take a peep at them, despite all her misgivings. However, she stayed where she was.
There was a knock on her door. Her heart, already hammering with terror, gave a panicky lurch. But it was only Martin.
‘In about two minutes,’ he said, looking at his watch, ‘when we’ve finished this number, Dave will do a drum roll and you should just step into position and do your welcome stuff. Your dad’s fixed you up with a spotlight, so don’t get dazzled and fall off the stage!’
‘You’re such a spoilsport, Martin,’ quipped Jess. ‘How else are we going to get the evening off to a flying start? The band sounds absolutely great, by the way.’
Martin smiled. ‘We’re not bad for veterans,’ he said. ‘I must get back onstage – I’ve got a piano solo coming up.’
He disappeared, and Jess followed, kicking off her shoes and mussing up her hair (result: sparkly hands, but it all seemed to add to the Cinderella look).
She waited in the wings, stage left, her heart hammering even harder. The band’s number finished and straight away there was a drum roll. Whole bucketfuls of adrenalin surged up Jess’s neck. She stepped forward into a pool of light. Now she could see nothing.
‘Please, please!’ she said in a plaintive Cinderella voice. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, don’t tell anybody I’m at the ball! I’m not supposed to be here! My ugly sisters are here somewhere – ah, there they are …’ She peered randomly into the blackness. ‘Oh no, sorry, madam, the light is so poor in here!’ This got a laugh, the first one of the evening – always a relief. The audience seemed to be determined to enjoy themselves, which is good news for a comedian.
‘I was supposed to stay at home chopping up rats for the ratatouille,’ Jess went on, to more laughter. ‘But I couldn’t resist creeping in through the back door, because I wanted to catch a glimpse of Prince Charming! Oh, he makes my little heart go pit-a-pat!’ Jess took up a fragile doting pose, hands clasped in adoration at the very thought of royalty. ‘Has anyone seen him yet?’
‘He’s out clubbing!’ shouted a voice from the back of the room.
‘Oh no!’ sighed Jess stagily. ‘I was so hoping to see him! I thought maybe I could pick up a bit of his dandruff – does that count as DNA? – then I could clone my very own prince back home on the windowsill!’
The audience laughed some more, but then Jess saw, out of the corner of her eye, a white shape weaving its way through the tables, towards the stage. What on earth? She peered through the dark. Was it one of George’s stupid jokes … ? What! What? Oh no! A huge wave of panic crashed through her body.
It was Fred!
His head was poking out of a sheet on which streaks of green had been painted. What!? Fred sprang into the spotlight beside her and looked confidently out at the audience. Dave improvised a drum roll.
‘My name,’ announced Fred, ‘is Prince Amoeba.’ There was a laugh and a gust of applause. ‘And though I don’t have a backbone, I do at least have the presence of mind to welcome you all to this Valentine’s event. Welcome, my friends, to Chaos!’
The band improvised a little riff of music, and the audience cheered and banged on the tables. Jess was furious. Fred had hijacked her routine! What was all this mad stuff about being an amoeba? She had no idea what Fred would say next – this was so off the wall. And how dare he put her in her place about welcoming people!
‘I don’t suppose many of you know much about amoebas,’ Fred went on swiftly, so Jess didn’t have a chance to open her mouth. ‘I was discovered in 1757 by August Johann Rösel von Rosenhof. This was before the days of TV talent shows, so unfortunately it didn’t lead to a recording contract.’
There were cries of ‘Shame!’
Jess could only stand there at his side, her mind simultaneously racing, reeling and somehow blank. She couldn’t show her anger – she had to pretend this had all been planned. It was a nightmare. Presumably this amoeba stuff was what Fred had been working away at all week, all by himself on his so-called sickbed. It must have been inspired by Jess calling him an invertebrate. How could she relate it to Cinderella? It was impossible. She just had to stand there like a dummy while Fred ranted selfishly on, stealing her limelight.
‘In potentially lethal environments, such as a dinner dance,’ said Fred, giving her the briefest glance, ‘I roll into a ball and secrete a protective membrane around myself – in fact, I become a cyst.’
‘Well, we all know that,’ snapped Jess drily.
‘I’m hoping to evolve into a higher life form,’ Fred raced on, ‘but it’s still very much at the blueprint stage. It could take me, oh, three million years or so.’ And suddenly, with a flourish, he disappeared from the stage.
Dave improvised another little drum roll, and there was a roar of applause, which should have given Jess a couple of seconds to collect her wits and work out what to say next.
There was a pause, and frantically she tried to remember the next bit of her script – although, would it make any sense after this amoeba garbage? To her horror, her mind went totally blank. There was nothing in her memory banks except a howling blackness. She went hot, then cold. For a moment she thought she was going to faint. The moment seemed to last for hours. Then, somehow, words came to her. She had to carry on where Fred had dumped the routine. Her Cinderella material seemed irrelevant now.
‘Well, that’s my little pet amoeba,’
she said, her voice shaking slightly. ‘He only consists of one cell, but hey! Who’s counting?’
This got a slight titter, but nothing like the big laughs Fred had managed.
‘Of course, I haven’t got a ticket,’ Jess went on, recovering her senses and remembering she had introducing to do, ‘but I did overhear somebody backstage say that our DJ tonight is gorgeous Gordon Smith.’ Another drum roll, a round of applause. ‘And the band performing is The Martin Davies Quartet! A buffet supper will be served at 8.30 by Polly Put The Kettle On and her team of cute chefs!’ There was clapping and cheering. ‘But don’t all rush – I’ll tell you when it’s time to grab your grub! Till then, enjoy yourselves. I must go off and defrost the chandeliers!’
Jess turned and ran backstage, hearing the comforting sound of the band striking up behind her. She headed for the sanctuary of her little dressing room, slammed the door behind her, slumped down in her chair, buried her head in her hands and shuddered. That terrible split second when her mind had gone blank! It was one of the worst moments of her entire life, and it was all Fred’s fault. It was a good job he wasn’t here – she might actually have hit him.
After a few minutes there was a knock on the door. Jess whirled round in indignation, but it was only Mum with Ben Jones.
‘You were brilliant, love!’ said Mum. ‘And trust Fred to take a really original approach!’
‘Yes,’ said Jess uneasily. She couldn’t bear to reveal what had actually happened: that Fred had ruined her routine, the evening and possibly her life.
‘Is he going to be an amoeba all night?’ asked Ben.
‘Ah!’ said Jess, heroically managing a tight little false smile. ‘You’ll just have to wait and see.’
The awful thing was that she would just have to wait and see, too. She couldn’t go out and track Fred down for a showdown in front of everybody – all the guests had to think the double act was supposed to be like that. And clearly Fred’s stupid amoeba idea had been a great hit. Jess remembered the applause he’d got – warmer, more excited applause than hers. She felt bitterly, bitterly betrayed and stupidly jealous.
Soon it was time for the buffet to be announced. Polly came round to Jess’s dressing room and told her everything was ready. By now the bar was heaving, the joint was jumping and Dave had to roll his drums like a thunderstorm to get everyone to be quiet. Once again Jess stepped out into the spotlight. She glanced around. No sign of Fred. Then there were giggles from the back of the room, strange sounds, a kind of hurly-burly. Chairs were being moved about, and there was laughter and some good-natured hilarious screaming. Jess peered into the dark, inconveniently dazzled by the spotlight. Somebody in a monkey suit was rampaging around the tables. Oh no, what next?
It had to be Fred. He grabbed a woman and hauled her to her feet. Her hair came off – oh no, it was George Stevens, with a blonde wig and a red satin ball gown. He hoicked its straps back up on to his brawny rugby-player’s shoulders, and screeched. The ape embraced him, then raced up to the stage.
‘I see you’ve evolved a bit since we last met,’ said Jess sourly, abandoning her Cinderella character and all its wonderful jokes.
‘I wish I could say the same for you,’ said Fred. He tilted the ape’s head back so his own face was visible.
‘I don’t need to evolve,’ Jess retorted. ‘I’m perfect already.’ She was managing to improvise, thank goodness, but it felt really lame compared to her lovely Cinderella script.
‘Nobody’s perfect!’ Fred insisted. And there was a little ta-tum on the drums because that was a famous quote, the last line of the wonderful film Some Like It Hot, which, annoyingly, was Jess and Fred’s favourite movie.
‘That’s not what Prince Charming told me,’ said Jess, trying desperately to reintroduce a vague hint of Cinderella. ‘He came round to my dressing-room door with a bunch of red roses and a bottle of champagne just now, and asked me to be his valentine.’ There were whoops of excitement from the crowd.
‘Poor innocent child,’ said Fred. ‘You shouldn’t let your head be turned by these Hooray Henrys. Place your trust in an ape – you know it makes sense.’
‘But I can tell your affections are otherwise engaged,’ said Jess crisply. ‘I saw you flirting with that blonde lady at the back of the room.’
‘That was no lady – that was my wife,’ said Fred, leaning forward conspiratorially. Another ta-tum from the drums – Dave was very quick to respond whenever he heard a corny old joke.
‘Anyway, ladies and gentlemen, it is now officially feeding time,’ announced Jess. ‘Please queue for the buffet at your convenience.’
‘Funny place for a buffet,’ commented Fred. ‘Not very hygienic, I’d have thought. Well, folks, enjoy your supper. I’m off to guzzle a banana in my nest of leaves. I’m hoping to evolve into Homo sapiens by the end of the evening, but I can see that some of you have a lot further to go than that.’ He threw this remark to the back of the hall, where George’s table was. They raised a cheer, and people started to get up. Jess could see there was no need for her to say anything more, so she slipped back to her dressing room again, feeling desperate and defeated.
There was a knock on the door – it was Flora and Jack.
‘Come out and have some supper, Jess!’ suggested Flo. ‘That buffet looks amazing – and you haven’t got any more hosting to do till the end, have you?’
‘No, I suppose not,’ said Jess, wriggling back into her shoes. ‘Is Fred out there?’
‘Nobody knows where he is.’ Flora shrugged. ‘I thought you would know.’
‘I expect he’s festering in a swamp somewhere.’ Jess tried to sound light-hearted rather than murderous – a challenge.
It was pandemonium out in the hall. The DJ was spinning his food music (as opposed to mood music) while the band had a break. People clutched at Jess as she passed, and hugged her and kissed her and told her how much they were enjoying themselves. She felt relieved as all the dread of the preceding weeks vanished – Chaos was a success. But her bitter fury at Fred’s hijacking of her routine was still burning in her chest.
‘Come to our table,’ said Flora. ‘We’ve got a chair for you.’ Jess found herself sitting with George and Humph (both dragged up in wigs and ball gowns) and Tom, who looked completely normal in his tux and had a sweet girlfriend with long shiny hair and very pink cheeks.
‘Jess, this is Rhiannon,’ said Tom. ‘And this is Lady MucRaker and her daughter – what’s your name, mate?’ he asked Humph.
‘Susannah,’ said Humph in a camp lisp.
‘Great costumes,’ commented Jess. ‘It made me realise we should have specified fancy dress on the tickets.’
‘This isn’t fancy dress, child!’ screeched George, looking down his nose at her. ‘I’ll have you know these are top-notch designer threads, rented from a chic little boutique in Mayfair!’
‘Stunning!’ Jess nodded.
‘But tell me, dear.’ George leaned across the table for a secret word. ‘Are you engaged to that very distinguished ape? Because, if not, I’m tempted to have a crack at him myself. Such charisma!’
‘Oh no, he’s available,’ Jess smiled. ‘Although he may have evolved into something else by now.’ Suddenly she felt hungry, and she tucked into some chargrilled tuna with tabbouleh. Polly was right, it was delish.
Jess wasn’t in the mood for dancing, so after the supper break she just sat and watched George and Humph fooling around. They both insisted on dancing with Jack (who looked embarrassed) and Tom (who looked as if nothing would embarrass him, ever). She tried to relax and enjoy herself. But she couldn’t get past the monstrous injustice of what Fred had done to her. And because nobody must know, somehow she had to try and keep smiling. It was hard work – her face felt tired and twitchy.
Then, as the evening neared its end, Jess sneaked away backstage to get ready for her last appearance. This time she was introduced by Gordon the DJ.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he cried, ‘let’s ha
ve a big hand for … Cinderella!’
Jess slid into the spotlight and curtsied to the crowd. There was clapping, cheering, stamping and whistling. When they had quietened down, she spoke.
‘The organisers have asked me to read out this little message,’ Jess said, fishing a crumpled piece of paper out of her corsage and smoothing it out. ‘Oh dear, sorry, I forgot I can’t read.’ At this point she was supposed to interact with somebody in the audience and get them to read out a shopping list – pumpkins, mousetraps, firelighters, etc. – but once again her routine was swept aside.
Fred leapt into the spotlight, dressed as a naff Georgian prince with a powdered wig, white tights and buckled shoes. The tights looked ridiculous on his long skinny legs, and he struck up a ludicrous pose. The audience screamed with laughter as he tried to maintain his dignity. Fred turned on them with an indignant glare.
‘As you can see, I’ve now evolved about as far up the food chain as I can possibly go,’ he announced pompously.
‘Bring back the amoeba!’ shouted somebody at the back.
‘At the last chime of midnight I shall devolve back into an amoeba, and not a moment sooner,’ said Fred firmly. ‘Until then, it only remains for me to thank you all for coming, and ask you to bear witness as I ask this ravishing creature if she will be my valentine!’ Elaborately, he tottered down on one knee and held out his hand in a preposterous appeal to Jess.
Suddenly her mind went blank again as the howling blackness enveloped her. How dare he pitch her into this? She boiled with rage.
‘I’m sorry,’ she informed him icily, ‘I can’t be anyone’s valentine right now. When the clock strikes midnight I shall turn back into a pumpkin – although some would say I’ve been a pumpkin all along! Goodnight, everybody, and thanks for coming!’ She turned and ran offstage, then paused in the wings to listen – Fred was saying something else.
‘What?’ he cried theatrically. ‘No glass slipper? Not even a dropped contact lens? Who was she? She’s gone! And I don’t even know her name!’