Be Careful What You Wish For

by Alexandra Potter

  I’ve been given fistfuls of flyers so I leaf through them. By now I’ve resigned myself to the awful fact that I’m going to have to see one of the comedy shows, but the question is, which one?

  Gabe’s, I think, before I can stop myself.

  Heather Hamilton, you’re not here to think about Gabe. You’re here on a professional assignment. Turning my attention back to the flyers, I try looking for something that sounds vaguely appealing – which is a bit like asking a vegetarian to choose something from the chilled-meats section at Tesco, but I persist.

  Finally I get to the last flyer. It’s upside-down, and as I turn it over I can’t help hoping it might be for . . . But, no, it’s for a comedy double-act called Bob and Beryl who, according to the Scotsman, are outrageously funny. Hmmm, maybe that will be fun . . .

  Oh for godsakes, Who am I kidding? I don’t want to see some stupid double-act that’s outrageously funny. I want to see Gabe. I have to see Gabe. I’m in love with Gabe. It’s no use trying to ignore it, deny it or pretend it’s not happening. From the very first moment I set eyes on him on my doorstep, with all those freckles and those big baggy blue eyes, I just knew.

  Scrunching up all the flyers I walk over to one of the large cast-iron bins. It’s already overflowing with multi-coloured paper and I’m resignedly stuffing mine on top when one catches my attention. A soggy pink and yellow leaflet, with a silhouette of a man’s profile that looks just like . . .

  ANGEL GABRIEL, SENT FROM HOLLYWOOD TO MAKE YOU LOOK ON THE BRIGHT SIDE OF LIFE. TONIGHT AT THE TAVERN, 9 P.M., TICKETS £7.50. COME AND BE SAVED.

  Right on cue I hear the town-hall clock chime and, heart beating fast, hear it strike nine. I waver, ridiculously nervous at the thought of seeing him again – and on stage. I mean, what am I going to say? How he’s going to react? He might hate me, he might refuse to speak to me. Perhaps it’s better if I don’t go . . . Oh, wow. With my resolve unravelling at the speed of light I catch sight of something that makes me freeze. A beautiful, shimmering rainbow is arching right over the castle. Now, I’m not religious but it looks like a sign. ‘’Scuse me.’ Twirling round, I stop the first person I see distributing flyers. ‘Can you tell me the way to the Tavern? I’m going to see Angel Gabriel . . .’

  I run all the way there.

  Fortunately the Tavern is located in a back-street five minutes away and when I arrive I discover Gabe’s show hasn’t started. Due to earlier technical problems everything is running late. I buy a ticket at the door and slip inside.

  The Tavern is a tiny bar with a ‘Bavarian theme’. I’ve never been to Bavaria but, judging by the décor, it’s obviously a country that favours stuffed boars’ heads and stripped pine. I keep my head down and skulk round the side of the dark, smoky bar. Ahead of me is a long, narrow section and at the end a makeshift stage where a comedian is finishing his act.

  He’s a tall skinny guy, wearing the obligatory T-shirt with a logo – ‘Never Mind The Bollocks’, which seems to be sadly appropriate. Chain-smoking, he’s hanging on to the microphone for dear life and although I don’t know much about stand-up comedy, even I can tell he’s dying. The room’s almost silent, but for the sound of people murmuring to each other, and there’s the distinct whiff of boredom.

  ‘. . . and then this pigeon flew off the ledge and landed right on my shoulder . . .’ I watch him flounder on until my eyes drift through the fog of smoke towards some familiar-looking pink and yellow posters. Sure enough, there’s the same headshot of Gabe in silhouette that was on the leaflet, and the words ‘ANGEL GABRIEL’ stencilled above.

  Seeing them now, I feel a burst of pride. He’s done all this. Printed leaflets, made posters, organised a show, come all the way from LA to Edinburgh to perform. I know he told me about it, but now it’s real. Impressed, I glance around me. There must be twenty or so people in here, which isn’t packed by any means, but it’s still a respectable number for such a small space. And they’ve all paid to watch Gabe, I note, with satisfaction, as the pigeon-obsessed comic disappears off-stage to feeble applause and none of the audience disappears with him.

  That means next up must be Gabe.

  I scan the room for a place to stand. On the way over I decided I’d wait until after the show to approach him, but I need somewhere with a view to take photographs where he won’t see me. He’s probably really nervous, I tell myself. And even if he’s not, I’m really nervous.

  A darkened recess at the other side of the bar looks perfect and I edge towards it past a group of girls smoking cigarettes and talking loudly.

  ‘Oooh, did you see Puppetry of the Penis?’

  ‘No it was sold out. That’s why we came here.’

  ‘Is this next bloke supposed to be any good?’

  ‘Dunno.’

  My ears prick up. They’re talking about Gabe. I sidle past slowly so I can listen.

  ‘Who cares? The tickets were free.’

  ‘You mean you didn’t pay for them?’

  ‘Nah. Some American guy was giving them away earlier.’

  She says it so dismissively, so flippantly, but as the words some American guy register, there’s a sickening lurch in my stomach. She means Gabe. And if he’s giving away free tickets his show must be doing badly. My worst fears are confirmed, I hesitate – and then the lights dim. Fear grips and I scurry into the recess. Oh fuck, this is it.

  A compère arrives on stage, carrying a pint of Guinness, and takes the microphone. ‘Let’s face it, life can be pretty dull . . .’

  There’s a sulky murmur of agreement and some comments about the last comedian that make my toes curl.

  ‘. . . which is why you need the likes of this next comic to rescue you. So, let’s hear it for your very own Angel Gabriel . . .’

  I should’ve stopped him. I should’ve done something – I should’ve . . .’

  As Gabe strides on to the stage I forget to breathe. He looks even more adorable than I remember. I was expecting him to be wearing that awful suit he thinks makes him look cool and edgy, but he’s in his jeans and a grey sweatshirt. As usual his hair’s all over the place, but he’s had a shave and when he pushes his glasses up his nose he looks about twelve. I feel immediately protective.

  And utterly besotted.

  ‘Hi there, great to be here, it’s my first time in Edinburgh. Anyone here from Edinburgh?’

  There’s a bored silence.

  My worst fears begin to get worse.

  ‘I’m from California, but I’ve been living in London for the past few weeks. London’s great. Big Ben, Leicester Square, though I have to admit I was a bit disappointed by Piccadilly Circus. There wasn’t a clown or a performing seal in sight . . .’ He smiles – and I must admit, combined with his drawl and languorous delivery, it’s vaguely comical. But vaguely comical is not enough to give the kiss of life to this audience, who have been left for dead by Mr Pigeon. I glance around the dark little room. There’s barely a pulse.

  My heart plummets. I was right. He’s going to die on stage. Right here, in front of me. In a Bavarian tavern.

  ‘But seriously, this is my first time in the UK and I’ve noticed a few things that are different from back home . . .’

  As I watch him on stage, lit by that harsh spotlight, I want to rush up there and save him. But I can’t. I’m powerless to do anything. I glance round me. No one, but no one, is laughing. Seemingly bewildered by the lack of bitterness and exocet-missile delivery of most stand-up comics, they’re looking at each other unsurely. The atmosphere’s one of dismissal. They’re not prepared to give him a chance. I notice a few people have even started talking among themselves. Shit! Maybe Gabe was right – maybe audiences expect their comedians to be angry and Angst-ridden.

  ‘Like, for example . . .’

  I look back at Gabe. By now I can tell he’s nervous. He’s rubbing his nose, the way he always does when he’s awkward, and his initial confidence has deserted him. There’s an excruciating pause as he swallows hard. Oh, God, I c
an’t watch this.

  Ducking, I squeeze past a couple of people propped against the bar, and dash into the ladies’ loos. The door swings closed behind me, blocking out his voice until it’s just a murmur. Breathing a sigh of relief, I rest my hands on the basin and stare at the plughole. It’s quite the metaphor: outside, Gabe’s dreams of being a stand-up comic are, quite literally, going down the plughole.

  Turning on the taps I splash my face with cold water. I feel so bad for him. All that time and work and effort to be here – and for what? To be ignored? Greeted with yawns? At the memory, I feel a knee-jerk of indignation. Because, despite everything, I believe Gabe is talented. And he’s naturally funny. And I hate to think of him, right this very minute, up there on stage, with no one laughing . . .

  Right on cue I hear a roar of laughter.

  What? It can’t be! Can it? Tentatively pulling open the door, I peer through the fog of smoke. I can’t believe my eyes. I’m not mistaken. People are smiling, and quite a few are actually laughing. Even those girls are nudging each other in the ribs and giggling.

  ‘I was on one of those double-decker buses recently . . .’

  Edging out of the ladies’ I join the audience, and as he continues talking, I can feel the room warming to him. People stop talking and really listen. Gabe is smiling and moving on with a new confidence.

  ‘. . . and there was this little girl crying. I thought, “What can I do?” I felt terrible . . .’ With perfect comic timing he pauses to pull a face that has the audience in stitches.

  ‘Then I remembered I had a piece of candy in my backpack . . .’ There’s a beat. ‘. . . and so I took it out and popped it into my mouth. It was amazing. I felt so much better.’

  The audience cracks up.

  My eyes flit round them, mouths open wide, faces creased, eyes shining. Gabe has their full attention – mine too.

  With new-found respect I watch him as he moves from one dry observation to the next without being pretentious or preachy. Hands tucked comfortably into his pockets, head tipped lazily to one side, he delivers his comical observations with a deadpan delivery and an angelic smile that reels you right in. He’s so much better than I ever expected. The angry wisecracking comic has gone. Instead he’s himself. I feel a tingle of pride. Maybe he took my advice just a little bit.

  And then, before I know it, the show begins to moves to its climax like a snowball gathering momentum. The laughs are bigger and bigger, and tears are rolling down faces. I glance at my watch. Only a few minutes to go.

  ‘. . . but I can’t leave tonight without talking about a special ginger-haired someone I’ve got to know pretty intimately over the past few weeks . . .’

  What was that? Having listened to an entire show of stand-up comedy – which for me is a tremendous effort even if it is Gabe – I’ve been lulled into a sort of daze, but now I’m jolted wide awake. Oh, my gosh, that’s me! He’s talking about me! Heart hammering, I wait on tenterhooks.

  ‘. . . a tomcat called Billy Smith . . .’

  Disappointment throbs and I feel faintly ridiculous for even thinking he was talking about me. After all, why should he?

  Because the idiot’s in love with you.

  I hear Victor Maxfield’s voice again, loud in my head. But I dismiss it. For all I know he’s probably confused me with someone else. Men have a habit of passing on information like Chinese whispers.

  ‘I always used to wonder where that saying, “you dirty tomcat”, came from but now I know.’

  I recover quickly.

  ‘There’s me and my roommate every night in our pyjamas, drinking peppermint tea, watching Sex and the City on DVD – my roommate has the entire series in a boxed set, sort of like an encyclopedia of men . . .’

  Blushing, I glance round the room. There’s a lot of smiling and nodding, and I see men nudging their girlfriends, who are giggling with embarrassed recognition.

  ‘I know we stand-ups lead a pretty wild life. Sometimes we cracked and hit the liquorice allsorts!’ There’s a wave of laughter.

  ‘But Billy Smith?’ On stage, Gabe raises his eyebrows. ‘There was me thinking he’d be curled up in a basket, purring away, but uh-uh.’ Shaking his head, he pulls an expression of astonished awe and respect. ‘That cat is an animal. You wouldn’t believe the traffic that went through that kitty-flap. I swear, he was getting booty calls every night.’

  Suddenly I remember our conversation in the kitchen. Gabe is a genius.

  ‘You know what a booty call is, right?’

  Gabe smiles conspiratorially into the audience. There’s a few sniggers, some puzzled looks, and a lot of people whispering explanations. Until, as people start to get it, there’s a swell of rowdy guffaws.

  He grins. ‘Hmm, thought so.’

  People are crying with laughter now and as they wipe away the tears in their eyes Gabe just keeps coming with his all most wide-eyed innocent delivery,

  ‘. . . Strays, tabbies, a couple of Persian blues . . . they were in and out all night long . . .’ He pauses and looks out into the audience. At first I presume he’s waiting to deliver his punchline but it’s almost as though he’s searching for something. Or someone.

  Then he sees me. And as his eyes meet and hold mine, my breath stops at the back of my throat and holds itself tight with anticipation. And in that moment everything around me seems to disappear, the lights, the chatter, the smell of cigarettes and spilled beer, and there’s just me and Gabe. Back in my kitchen in London with Billy Smith and his ridiculous booty calls.

  His face crumples into astonishment. ‘You’re laughing,’ he mouths silently.

  Thinking he’s talking to them, the crowd responds with hoots and yells. But it’s me he’s looking at.

  ‘I know,’ I mouth back, a smile on my face as a giggle rises inside me. And then, before I know it, I’m laughing. Would you believe it? For the first time in my life I’m actually laughing. At a comedian. In a stand-up comedy club. And as Gabe goes for the punchline I lift my camera, take a photograph and capture the moment for ever.

  The next morning, up and down the country, thousands of Sunday Herald readers open their newspapers to see the black-and-white image of Gabe on stage at the Tavern staring up at them from the arts pages. Underneath is the heading ‘Comedians Taking the Festival by Storm’ and an article about the top ten newcomers and their acts, of which Gabe is one. Turns out the journalist was in the audience too, and was so impressed that she rewrote her article to include him, and emailed it just before the paper went to print.

  I was pretty busy myself. After Gabe came off-stage there was a lot of apologising and explaining to do on both sides and we stayed up for hours, talking about everything. There were a few revelations. His confession that he’d broken up with Mia being the one that caught my attention particularly. But there were others. How when he’d left the flat early that morning he’d circled the block three times before he could find the strength to drive away. How, after much soul-searching, he’d decided to follow my advice and change his act. It all came pouring out.

  And then it was my turn. I told him about Lionel’s heart-attack, making up with Rosemary, Victor Maxfield’s message. I told him everything. Well, not everything. I didn’t mention the bit about his uncle calling him an idiot and saying he was in love with me.

  But I didn’t need to as he told me himself.

  Just before we kissed.

  ‘So what do you think?’

  Snuggled up in a warm tangle of feather duvet, camberwick bedspread and naked limbs, I look at Gabe across the pillows. It’s the morning after the night before and we’re in my hotel room indulging in breakfast in bed and the Sunday papers.

  I wriggle my toes against his and allow my gaze to drift across his mussed-up hair and eyes all puffy with sleep behind his glasses, and can’t help wondering what was I thinking, wanting to read the papers alone without interruptions. I love interruptions. My mind wanders deliciously back to only a few minutes earlier . . .r />
  ‘Hmmm, let me see . . . “fresh new talent” . . . “sheepish, almost whimsical humour” . . . “one of the funniest comedians to hit Edinburgh”.’

  I swat him with my half-eaten croissant.

  ‘Ow,’ he yelps, rubbing his naked shoulder as if he’s hurt. ‘That’s a mean right hook you’ve got.’

  ‘I’m not talking about the article,’ I protest. ‘I’m talking about the photograph.’

  ‘Oh, I see, the photograph,’ he repeats, as if he hadn’t noticed my credit in the left-hand corner, but his mouth is twitching. He studies it intently, eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Och, he’s a bonny wee lad,’ he declares, in his best attempt at a Scottish accent. I shoot him a look. ‘And the photograph’s not too shabby either.’ He wraps his arm round me. ‘You’re very talented, Miss Hamilton.’ He kisses me. He tastes of pastry and orange juice, and just as I’m enjoying it I feel something. Again?

  ‘You know, I’ve been wanting to do this from the first moment I saw you,’ he’s murmuring.

  ‘Hey, you had a girlfriend then,’ I reprimand him sternly.

  ‘Well, actually . . .’ He rubs his nose self-consciously. ‘When I told you we’d broken up I never said when.’

  I look at him, puzzled.

  ‘It was actually months ago, before I came to London.’

  ‘So why on earth did you say you had a girlfriend when Jess . . .’ It dawns on me. That first night. In my back garden. When she tried to seduce him.

  ‘You were her plan B.’ I giggle.

  ‘Plan B?’ He looks wounded, then collapses into laughter. ‘I must remember that.’ He chuckles as he leans over to the bedside table to grab his dog-eared notebook. Untying it he takes the little pencil tucked inside and, as I watch him scribble it down earnestly, love swells inside of me.

  ‘Hey, I’ve got this great joke for you,’ he says.

  ‘Oh, God, please, no more.’ Groaning I try to bury my head under the duvet. I love Gabe, but one comedy show is enough.