I'm Still Standing: A feel good, laugh out loud romantic comedy
Page 14
I nod. ‘Okay.’
‘Say it now. We’ll do it together.’
I slow my breathing and together we say the words aloud. ‘I’m excited. I’m excited. I’m excited.’
‘How do you feel now?’
I smile at him. ‘Excited?’
‘Good, now let’s get this show on the road.’
The clock strikes eight and I begin watching the door. Couples and clusters of very cool-looking young people start to gather outside. I imagine them following their GPSs all the way across town and then texting their friends to say, yeah, we’re here, we think this is the place, the one on every poster, flyer in town alongside complete social media bombardment thanks to Ruby’s relentless (and brilliant) digital campaign. This is the place all the hype is about.
I run my fingers through my hair, muttering to myself, ‘I’m excited. I’m excited. I am feckin’ excited…’
A gaggle of girls pour in through the door: our first customers. They are laughing and giggling, all of them wearing conical cardboard party hats. It’s Tara and her aircrew mates.
Tara spots me behind the bar and starts waving and bouncing up and down. After a flurry of hugs and kisses, she introduces me to the girls. ‘It’s Gemma’s birthday, so we thought we’d come and support you! Rent-a-crowd are us!’
Oh how I appreciate her lovely intentions. She’s the greatest. I line them up twelve tequila slammers on the house.
‘To your new adventure.’ Tara winks before we both lick the salt and throw back our shots.
The place slowly starts to fill up. I weave my way across the dance floor, through Tara’s crowd of girls, and slip into the ladies’ toilet for a quick breather before it gets too busy. Happily, the end cubicle is free – always my favourite – and I turn the latch on the door and have a well-earned sit down.
I think it’s the tequila that did it: finally helped me loosen up in every sense. I rest my head against the toilet-roll dispenser, grateful for the moment of solitude, a chance to compose myself before the big night sucks me in and I learn whether we will sink or swim.
I hear voices outside. And Tara’s shrill laughter.
‘The thing with my sister is that she always puts others first. She always does the right thing over what’s actually right for her. Let me give you an example: marrying James O’Connor. Talk about a disaster waiting to happen.’
OMG. She’s talking about me.
I stand up quietly and press my ear against the cubicle door.
‘Evelyn was always the quiet, head-down, books-under-her-arm type at school. She could easily have been the big sister I hated for being so good at everything: good at school, good at home, everything tidy and underlined, good at listening to old people tell long stories without wincing or shuffling, good at always knowing the cues to offer a cup of tea.’
‘Golden girl?’ I recognise the Spanish accent; it’s Tara’s flatmate, Inez.
‘Exactly. So it’d be easy to hate her if you were a complete jealous bastard. But nobody did because that’s just what she’s like – she sees the gaps in things, she pays attention to cracks and sees where the need is. That’s what my father used to tell us – Evelyn sees the cracks, and that’s a gift; sure it’s through the cracks that the light gets in.’
‘So she saw the need in James?’ offers Inez.
‘Exactly, he lured her in and then he trapped her,’ says Tara.
I hear a flush next door. No! Don’t stop this conversation. I want to hear more! I never knew Tara felt this way, saw me this way. I knew she wasn’t crazy about James, but I had no idea she felt he had trapped me.
‘Although they were in the same school year, they hardly crossed paths until Dad hired James for some building work one summer. That was where it started. Evelyn made bulging ham salad sandwiches and hot flasks of dark tea for him; she’d hop up on the wall and chat to him as he plastered and painted. The next thing we knew he was taking her out to gigs and for meals, and that seemed to seal the deal. They were a couple from then on. He never let her out of his sight. It was all concerts and drinks with his friends, and then weekends away and beach holidays abroad. All her own friends fell away, as did all her own plans. She became James’s support act. Everything revolved around him – do you want to come to Dublin for a night out? I’ll have to ask James. If she saw a dress in a shop window, she’d have to text him. Someone asked her a question in a crowd, her eyes would dart a look at him. It was like a secret language of approval, like a choirgirl miming the words in case she sang the wrong ones.’
‘Control freak,’ says Inez.
‘Yeah, if there’s such a thing as a really lazy control freak. That’s James O’Connor.’
I hear the taps running. I kind of want that to be the end now. I’m shocked. I never thought of James as a control freak. I thought of him as a bit of a drifter, but with the right direction I thought he had a good heart. I thought he was there because he loved me, not because he wanted to control me.
They continue. I can hear lipsticks clicking open.
‘James set up his building business while Evelyn went to university. But he bought her a car so she’d have no excuse not to live at home and see him every day. I didn’t like that.’
I didn’t really like that either to be fair, but I thought it was a good idea at the time. And then our lovely dad died. And I suppose in a way we were all relieved that I was sticking around, so Mum wasn’t on her own. Tara had already moved to Dublin to start her training, how could I let mum lose everyone all at once?
‘I wanted Evelyn to experience student life properly; to get drunk and meet new people and go to house parties and wake up on a strange sofa beside someone she didn’t know. Stuff that would broaden her world, bring her out of herself, show her that she didn’t always have to be Evelyn the good daughter/student/girlfriend/tea-bringer. I suspect James had the same idea and put things in place so that good Evelyn would stay exactly as she was.’
‘So how do you think she is doing? Now that it’s all over?’
Yes, how am I doing?
‘I don’t know. She’ll give you the shirt off her back or her last chip, but when it comes to accepting good old-fashioned assistance herself, she’s at a loss.’
‘I think she will do fine. She has a sister who loves her, and we can achieve anything with love and support. What’s that you always say? “Begin where you are, and then reach for the stars.” She will be okay, we will make it so.’
Thank you, darling Inez! is what I want to call out, but I keep quiet. I have to do this on my own. I have to make it so by myself.
And with that, I hear them zipping up their make-up bags, and they are gone.
I will never let Tara know that I heard her speak like this about me; she would be mortified, but she’d probably also tell me more. Neither of which I want to happen. Because that chapter in my life is over, that girl is gone.
I leave the loos and grab my chance to gather the team out back. Ruby’s brought some friends in tonight to help out, poaching them from their other casual glass-collecting jobs for our big night. She’s in charge of floor service, and I’ve got to say, she’s done a great job so far. All five of her friends are dressed in our Rosie Munroe’s red, white and black T-shirts, hair pulled back off their faces, apron pockets full of pens, notepads at the ready.
‘Right, guys,’ I begin. ‘Tonight is our big chance. It’s make or break really. If all goes to plan, then we’ll have broken into the scene and we can start booking bands a couple of nights a week, which should see us making this dream a reality – putting Rosie Munroe’s back on the map and a new lease of life for all of us. Equally, if it doesn’t go to plan, whether it’s the drink, customer service or something else that falls short, we’re going to find it difficult, if not impossible, to claw our way back. It’s a tough industry; people have lots of choices and little time or interest in revisiting something that doesn’t deliver. We’ve got one shot tonight to really go for it.’
We hug, high-five and slap each other’s backs, smiling our determination to make this the greatest night Rosie Munroe’s has had in over twenty years.
By quarter to ten, the place is absolutely packed. Christy is standing by the double doors as a very friendly bouncer, welcoming the crowd, directing them in, bantering happily with everyone in the queue that is now snaking around the corner. Colm is behind the bar, smiling widely as he serves drink after drink to the mass of people.
‘Sound check and lighting sorted,’ shouts Danny as he leans across the bar. I can barely hear him over the excited chatter of our swelling crowds. ‘All we need is for Supanova to lug their gear on stage and we’re ready to go. Are they out back?’
Um… no. There is no one out back. I shake my head and look across the sea of faces. ‘I haven’t seen them at all. I presumed they were already setting up with you.’
There is a hint of panic in my voice, and Danny’s instruction to stay cool is evaporating very quickly. No band? What the hell? They have one job: show up and play. And they haven’t even got the first part of that right. Where are they?
I feel my stomach double over on itself. ‘This can’t be happening, right? You definitely booked them?’
Danny is trying to smile and assuage my fears, but I can see a slight alarm in his eyes as he searches the crowd for five dishevelled-looking band members, complete with instruments, spray-on black jeans and no sense of time or direction.
‘Let’s give it five more minutes. They may just be running late. Leave it with me.’
I don’t like leaving things with people. Especially things that have all my money and reputation riding on them. The stage is still in darkness. A restlessness has overtaken our crowd, and I see their furrowed brows and anxious checking of phones. Shouldn’t something be happening by now? Ruby and the others thread in between the seated and standing drinkers, but rather than taking orders, they are being stopped now by customers with frowning faces and open palms. What time is the music starting? What’s the delay? I came here to see Supanova. What the hell is going on?
I wish I knew.
I don’t know what to do. But I’m going to have to do something. We’re minutes away from losing this crowd. And if we lose this crowd, we’ve lost our whole venture. This won’t be the home of new music; it’s not the home of any music – just confused whispers and enquiring murmurs. I’ll have to take the stage myself. Explain what’s happened. Just tell them straight that we’re sorry, the band haven’t shown up, and… offer them all a free drink? As reasonable as that sounds, there must be nearly four hundred people in here right now. I’m already in minus figures after the refurb and all the staff I’ve got to pay tonight. I can’t absorb another loss like that.
Danny said to give it five minutes. That was thirty minutes ago.
Right. I push up the counter hatch. I’ll need to get on stage and offer up a grovelling apology. Let’s hope they understand. Or at least let’s hope they don’t throw anything at me.
And if they do throw stuff, please let it not be glass.
‘They’re still not here,’ Ruby says, looking at her watch. ‘What shall we tell everyone?’
My heart rate is high. ‘No sign of them at all?’
She shakes her head.
I ask her to take over at the bar and start battling my way through the crowd. Why did I ever think we could do this? It’s too big, too much, too risky. I am feet away, the feeling of dread rising like acid bile into my mouth, when suddenly the lights go up and a figure walks onto the stage.
It’s Danny. He must be about to break the news himself.
I stop in my tracks and take in everything we worked so hard to save. We came so close. I look around, breathing in the heat of our packed house. Our beautiful lighting, our red-painted walls with gold skirting. Our varnished counter and floorboards, our gorgeous uniformed staff. And, of course, our empty stage.
We really did nearly make it.
Up until this very moment, I believed.
What happens next is not going to be pleasant. The crowd will be seriously pissed off. We have no other bands, no other line-up. We put all our trust and money in Supanova. I glance back to Ruby behind the bar and realise that we should have told the staff first; they will be the ones bearing the brunt of the customer angst. I have no idea what Danny plans to say, but however it comes out, the punters won’t be happy.
Danny adjusts the height of the microphone and taps on it. ‘Welcome to Rosie Munroe’s,’ he announces, giving a small wave to the crowd.
The drinkers nudge each other, the roar of conversation fades to a hush and they all turn their faces up towards him and settle in to listen; they know this drill, this is what they came for, and boy, are they ready.
Danny pulls up a stool and sits down.
‘I’d like to thank everyone for coming tonight. Saturday nights are precious; you work hard, you want to spend your time and your money on something worthwhile – and you chose us. Evelyn and myself and all the staff are really happy that you did, and I want to say from the bottom of our hearts that we appreciate it, thank you.’
He’s working up to telling them, trying to get them on side before he delivers the big blow. I bury my face in my hands, peeking through my fingers at him up on the stage. I hope nobody physically assaults him.
But then he grabs his guitar from the stand and positions it on his thigh. He glances over the audience several times, but he doesn’t spot me. At least I think it’s me he’s looking for.
He clears his throat, curls his fingers around the neck of the guitar and closes his eyes for a moment. A hush descends.
He starts to finger-pick, and then a shadow lifts from his eyes and he’s smiling, like he’s excited about what’s going to happen. His smile lights up his face and illuminates the entire room – at least that’s what it seems like to me. He looks incredible.
‘So, a bit of a surprise for you first.’ He looks into the audience again, and this time he finds me straight away. ‘Because I love a surprise.’ He winks at me, and my heart crashes to the floor.
He’s going to play.
I can’t smile or wave or nod back at him. I’m too nervous to move. I love Danny’s set outside, but these guys have travelled here to see a professional band. Are they going to be okay with a busker’s playlist? Please let this work, whatever he has up his sleeve, please let it make everyone realise how talented and caring and lovely he is. I want them to clap him and whoop and appreciate him and fall a little bit in love with him. Just like me.
‘Some of you might remember my brother Rory and me from various gigs around the place.’
‘The Musketeers!’ someone in the crowd shouts, and a dawning seems to ripple through the rest, heads bobbing and nodding. Spontaneous applause erupts. Danny blushes red.
‘Thank you. I appreciate that. Well, the thing is, there’s just one lone Musketeer these days. Tonight is the first time I’ve played on stage without him – and I’m not going to lie to you guys, it feels strange.’ His gaze finds mine again. ‘But we’ve promised you a night you’ll never forget, and that’s exactly what you’re going to get.’
He plays the opening chords of something I don’t recognise. And I realise that it’s not something anyone will recognise. He’s playing his own composition, an original.
Oh my God, he must be shitting himself. I am so proud of him, all I want to do is wrap my arms around his neck and hold his face in my hands and tell him so. But I remain completely immobile as he sings his own words to his own music, keeping his focus on his fingers as they work t
he strings.
We never knew a time
When we did not share
Our birth, our day, our years
Our then, our now, our dreams, our fears
We were us and we – not I and me
We were them and they – not him and he
We were their and theirs – not my or his
Once forever was not mine, but ours
As I listen, I clutch my hand to my chest, blown away by the beauty that he can create all by himself with just a few words and a voice and an instrument. It’s mesmerising. For the entire length of the song I barely move, barely breathe, afraid I’ll miss a beat.
When you died you took with you our shared, our special we
Leaving behind this lone Musketeer
A lost and singular me
The sheer honesty and raw emotion in his expression, in his entire body, has transformed this room into a hushed, charged, sacred space. My hands are pressed against my breastbone; the whole place is suspended in a collective moment of breathlessness. And then a slow, lone clap begins beside me, a distinguished older gentleman with white-silver hair, wearing a black leather jacket. The rest of the crowd join in, and I look around me, at men shaking their heads, running their hands through their hair, women dabbing their eyes and holding fingers under their noses to bite back the urge to cry.
Everything and nothing has happened, all inside a couple of moments.
He did it. He did it for us. He stepped outside his fear, exposing himself in the most revealing way to tell his truth, to share it in order to save our night. To save our chance of a future together at Rosie Munroe’s. And if I’m completely honest with myself, if I step outside my fear of uncertainty and decide to expose myself in the most revealing way, just as he did, I know what I’ll find. I’ll find that I may be falling in love. It feels like he has taken me over at every level. He hasn’t just swept me off my feet, but swept me away, wiped me out. I want to go to him so badly.