‘They’d better have built that set by next week,’ Val grumbles as the chorus gets into full swing on a fast track called “A Weddin’ and a Beddin’”. ‘We may be short-staffed, but we still can’t afford to lose business.’
I go about the usual jobs of priming the pumps and emptying the bins, my brain scaring itself on the subject of Jem. Is he lying at the bottom of Leasford Hill with a broken neck? Face down in the canal? Does this town even have a canal? Hell, it has a river. Is he face down in the river?
I take out my phone, tap in a message and press send before I can think it through too much.
You OK?
Maria saunters over with her purse out. Her eyelashes are absurdly long and lush. I squint at them, trying to work out if they are falsies.
‘Fanta for me. No Jem tonight?’ she asks, peering over the top of the bar in case he’s hiding down by the wine fridge.
‘Doesn’t look like it, does it love?’ says Val.
I start dutifully watching Sam as per Tab’s instructions. He is drinking Tabby like a cool glass of water as she laughs about something with Patricia. He still likes her. He just needs . . . a little push in the right direction.
‘You want a Coke, babe?’ Maria calls, looking back at Sam.
Sam starts guiltily. ‘Uh, sure. Thanks.’
‘There will be plenty of time for refreshments later, Maria,’ says Desmond. He pulls out a bottle of pills and necks a couple. ‘We have the whole of Act Two to cover this evening, an act with plenty for you to do, so I would appreciate your attention.’
‘Silly old fart,’ says Maria, in a not-very-subtle voice. She sweeps her blond hair over one shoulder and returns her hard blue-eyed gaze to me. ‘One Coke, one Fanta.’
I am already siphoning the fizzy stuff into two glasses: one brown, one orange. ‘Two eighty,’ I say, pushing them towards her.
‘I’ll take the vodka shot off your wages tonight, shall I?’ says Val as Maria carries the glasses back to her chair, handing the brown one to Sam.
‘What vodka shot?’ I say, a little shocked at her apparent ability to see round corners.
‘The one you put in the lad’s Coke. Trying to cause trouble?’
There’s no point in denying it. ‘Just trying to make things right where they’ve gone wrong,’ I say cautiously.
Fortunately, my boss seems amused. ‘You’ll be telling me he’s eighteen next. I suppose a vodka shot’s money in the till. Your money in the till. So I’d say we’re square. Besides,’ she adds, looking at where Sam is morosely drinking his Coke, ‘I quite fancy seeing a smile on that lad’s face before I die.’
I hit Sam with a couple more singles before the mid-way break thanks to Maria’s total disregard for the director’s repeated demands that she leave the bar alone. It’s costing me a fortune. The cast rips through the songs, hammering so hard at “A Weddin’ and a Beddin’” that by the time they reach the break I have it jumping around my brain like frogs on a trampoline.
‘Well?’ Tab pushes eagerly through the crowd at the bar. ‘How’s it looking? What’s Sam been doing? Seen anything I should know about?’ She glances around. ‘Where’s Jem?’
‘Not you too,’ Val says.
‘Absent,’ I say as Val moves down the bar to serve the clamouring hordes. ‘And no, I don’t know why and I haven’t had a message and I’m feeling spooked that he’s not here because of me. I wasn’t very nice to him when I left on Saturday. He’s disappeared, and no one—’
‘Hey shexshy,’ Sam says, popping up a little blurrily next to Tabby. ‘’Nother Coke pleash.’
Tab looks astonished.
‘I recommend a glass of water to go with it,’ I say, giving Sam the Coke I prepared earlier. ‘Too much high fructose corn syrup can mess with your digestion.’
Sam sinks the glass of water I offer and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘Tabbywabby,’ he says suddenly, nudging her in the shoulder as he lines up his fourth vodka and Coke of the evening. ‘Did I ever tell you how pretty you are?’
‘Whisky, Delilah,’ says Patricia, muscling in between Sam and Tab. ‘Lots. With ice.’
“What’s going on?” Tabby mouths at me, nodding so vigorously at Sam that her head looks like one of those bobbing woodpeckers you sometimes get on pencils.
‘I’m loving this show,’ says Sam, swinging round to the assembled cast. ‘Ishn’t everyone loving this show? We love you, Desmond. We love you, Honor. We love you, Tod Shnorter dude that wrote this stuff.’
‘Tod Slaughter,’ says Maria, narrowing her eyes.
‘Shwat I shed. Shnorter.’
‘That boy needs to sober up,’ comments Eunice, sipping a glass of red wine at the end of the bar.
‘Let me top that up for you, Eunice,’ I say. ‘On the house.’
‘I’m watching you,’ says Val without actually looking up.
At this rate I’ll spend my entire evening’s wages on other people’s drinks. Still, if I achieve the objective of reuniting Sam and Tabby, it will be worth it.
‘Desmond would like a large glass of water,’ says Honor, squeezing up against the packed bar. Behind her, the old director is sitting at a table mopping his head with a large spotted handkerchief. ‘And I’ll have an elderflower cordial.’
‘Last of the big spenders,’ Val mutters at me, pushing a pint glass of water and a bottle of elderflower juice towards the vocal coach.
‘Get OFF me,’ Sam says loudly.
Maria is trying to tug him towards the double doors. ‘You need some fresh air, Sammy. You’re not well. You have one of your biggest numbers after the break. Your concentration’s totally off.’
‘I’m ferpectly well,’ Sam announces. ‘Get your armsh and your teeny tiny fingersh off me. I want another Coke.’
‘Bladdered,’ observes Patricia, her whisky halfway to her mouth.
Sam’s a lot drunker than I was expecting. A single shot of vodka seemed too small to cause much damage, but maybe four was a mistake.
Maria gets him as far as the box office. He suddenly gives her a bad-tempered shove, lurches sideways and ricochets off a nearby pinboard. Notices and a couple of brightly coloured pins flutter to the ground. Maria loses her balance and lands on the sofa, the one I sat on at the first rehearsal when Jem curled his fingers in my hair.
‘Sam, what are you doing?’ Tabby demands, rushing over. The rest of the cast watch in fascination.
‘Tabbywabby,’ mumbles Sam again, brushing a flyer for a donkey sanctuary off his shirt front and reaching for her. ‘Kish me.’
Tab heroically ignores him. ‘Are you OK?’ she asks, helping Maria back to her feet instead.
‘I’m fine,’ says Maria, thin-lipped, tugging her dress down and trying to straighten her hair. ‘But I have a few questions for your curly midget friend on the bar.’
‘She’sh not a midget,’ says Sam with a hiccup. ‘She’sh lovely.’ And he throws up copiously down the closed box office window.
I should definitely have stopped at three.
‘I’m on it,’ I squeak as Val glares at me. I fetch a bucket, a cloth and a squeegee bottle of disinfectant and enter the vomit zone.
‘Shorry,’ Sam mutters as he sinks on to the sofa, rests his elbow on the armrest and buries his face in his hand. Shoving Tabby away, Maria sits down beside him and pats him gingerly.
I want to put my arm around Tab as she stands there, all alone on that horrible brown carpet, but I am mopping sick off the ticket desk. I have a feeling my intervention wouldn’t be appreciated anyway.
‘Break’s over!’ calls Honor.
With a collective sigh of regret, the cast drifts back to their chairs to resume the rehearsal. Maria helps Sam to the toilets with a pinched expression on her face. Tabby moves silently back to a chair beside Eunice
as I finish my mopping and cart the bucket back to the kitchens.
And Desmond the director stands up, riffles the pages of his score, makes a strange bleating noise, clutches his chest and falls to the ground with a boom.
‘Of course it’s not your fault,’ Tabby says for the millionth time as we mount the Gaslight steps on Saturday evening. ‘He’s ancient. Had a heart condition for years.’
‘But if I hadn’t pulled that stunt with Sam and the vodka—’
‘That, as we have established, is totally irrelevant. Desmond was purple in the face about Maria and the bar refills already. It would have happened whatever you or anyone else did. Anyway, he’s obviously going to get better or Honor would have cancelled tonight’s rehearsal and most likely the show as well.’ She pauses, halfway up the steps. ‘Do you think Sam will be here tonight? I wonder how he’s feeling?’
‘Like death in a blender, probably,’ I groan.
‘He told me I was pretty. He asked me to kiss him. Should I have kissed him?’
‘And had your reunion kiss forever etched on your memory as tasting of puke? No.’
‘Oh why is Maria still with him?’ Tab cries passionately. ‘I swear, she doesn’t even like him that much. Did you see the disgust on her face when they left last night?’
‘Sam’s basically a decent guy, popular at college, nice-looking, good singing voice, wears muscle-enhancing shirts, blah blah,’ I say. ‘Maria’s not going to give up that easily. Plus she probably enjoys annoying you. It’s hard when your boyfriend goes woozy over his ex in public.’
Tab gives a snort of laughter, then stops. ‘Is it bad to have enjoyed that?’
‘Darling Tabbywabby,’ I say, ‘it’s as evil as evil can be.’
She squeezes my arm. ‘Anything from Jem yet?’
‘Ooh,’ I say, and point at the sky. ‘Pigs.’
‘What?’ says Tab, looking up.
Last night was bad, but tonight is guaranteed to be worse. Sam will probably threaten to report me for assault by alcohol – assuming he’s here and not nursing a killer hangover – and Tab’s director is three-quarters dead in the Royal Surrey Infirmary. With or without Jem, I am looking at an evening in Fun Central.
Honor is pale, the gathering cast subdued. Sam, white as paper, is sitting with Maria, who is holding his hand ostentatiously and playing with her hair with her free fingers. Rich and Henry – who play Don Pedro and bad guy Don John – are sitting even closer together than normal. Patricia is uncharacteristically silent; Warren too. I make my way behind the bar as Tabby takes her seat beside a red-eyed Eunice. A hopeful glance in the empty kitchen tells me Jem isn’t back. My spirits sink even lower.
‘Two things to report,’ says Honor when everyone has taken their seats. ‘One, Desmond’s condition is stable but not improving. Two, I will have to take a decision next week on whether doing this show is still realistic without Desmond in the driving seat.’
There is a horrified hubbub. It’s hard to tell what some of the hard-core members of the cast are more concerned about: their director’s health or the fading chance of their moment in the spotlight. I mechanically polish the glass in my hand. If the show is under threat, so is my job. Without the show, the bar will be less full and Val will have no further need of my services until panto season – and maybe not even then. How am I going to survive?
‘Desmond would want us to continue,’ says Eunice. She is looking particularly rough and her cardie is buttoned up wrong.
Honor looks harassed. ‘That’s easy to say but hard to achieve. Desmond knows precisely how to make the most of the two weeks remaining to us. Being so well-known for his work in musical theatre, he is also the reason people come to watch the show. Without him, we will struggle to sell the tickets that we need to make this viable.’
‘Rubbish,’ Patricia says, roused to speech. ‘People come for the tunes, for the flash of nostalgia. For the romance, for the fact that tickets are only a tenner. We can still do this if we stick together!’
There is a smattering of applause.
‘You don’t understand, Patricia,’ Honor says. ‘Word is out that Desmond’s off the project. And the Peacock Theatre in Woking has just pulled Me and My Girl and are staging What an Ado! in two weeks’ time instead.’
‘Those Machiavellian backstabbers are after our audience!’ shouts Henry.
‘What have I missed?’ says Jem behind me.
My stomach drops like a severed elevator to see him standing there like a very real, very wide-shouldered, dark-blue-T-shirted sex-god Colossus – even with the enormous disfiguring bruise running down the side of his face.
‘You look like you’ve been in a car accident,’ I say when I can speak. ‘Have you been in a car accident?’
‘Good, isn’t it? Took several hours.’
He gives a small smile, and winces at the pressure it puts on the tight skin around his eye. We look at each other, brown on grey-blue, as the air thickens with the long, silent week that has passed. I can’t decide if I want to kiss him or kick him.
‘Paint doesn’t puff up your face,’ I say. ‘Unless you’re allergic. Are you allergic?’
Why does that matter? my brain screams. You’re doing this ALL WRONG.
‘Who said anything about paint?’ he says.
He bends down to heave up the trapdoor leading to the cellar. I catch him by the arm. He feels firm and warm and real. It’s so very hard not to melt like cheese on a radiator.
‘That’s it?’ If I don’t sound loud and angry, I’ll know I’ll sound pathetic and needy instead. ‘You’ve been off the radar for an entire week and that’s all you’re going to say?’
‘I can add “ouch” if you like,’ he says, looking at my tightly gripping hand.
‘Why didn’t you answer my text?’ I say in a small voice.
He straightens up, the trapdoor clattering open between us. ‘What text?’
‘The one I sent last night, asking if you were OK.’
He looks surprised. ‘I didn’t get it.’
My phone is ruining my life.
Cast members shuffle about gloomily on their chairs, turn pages, whisper together as Honor goes on about being flat here and sharp there.
‘I got the one about the wolf though,’ he says. ‘You really should go see your bank.’
Oh good. The bank thing again. Just what I need to hear at this, my most vulnerable moment. Not trusting myself to speak, I go back to cleaning glasses.
Tabitha sends me a startled glance as she registers Jem in all his bruised magnificence standing beside me at the bar. Within moments, Maria is resting her slim arms on the bar top so that her bangles jingle against the wood. Her cheeks have a pretty flush to them.
‘So,’ she says to Jem. ‘What happened to you?’
‘A fight, funnily enough,’ he replies, fingering his cheekbone.
I detect a hint of sarcasm, which cheers me.
‘Very macho.’ She flicks a glance at me that brims with dislike. ‘I want to lodge a complaint.’
‘About what?’ asks Val, coming out from the kitchen.
‘Her.’ Maria jabs a finger at me. ‘Lacing my boyfriend’s drink with alcohol last night.’
‘I don’t know what you mean,’ says Val blandly.
‘Maria,’ calls Honor, tapping her music stand.
‘Sam’s underage, you know,’ Maria continues, ignoring the summons. ‘It’s illegal, what she did.’
‘So was your double vodka,’ Val counters.
I glance up from the glass I’ve assiduously been polishing. Maria looks like someone has just chucked a bucket of cold water on her head.
‘I wasn’t drinking,’ she says in confusion.
Val taps her nose. ‘I don’t like dropping my underage customers in it. B
ut my licence is at risk when kids like you get at the optics.’
‘But I wasn’t—’
‘You need to be careful.’ Val looks Maria up and down. ‘The booze is already starting to make you fat.’
I watch with ill-concealed delight as Maria gulps like a fish at a fireworks display. Val drums her fingers beside the prominently displayed Don’t be offended if we ask your age sign on the bar.
‘What’s it to be?’ Val inquires.
‘Maria!’ calls Honor in exasperation.
‘Fanta,’ says Maria at last. ‘Two.’
‘That was brilliant,’ I say, overcome with gratitude as Maria walks slowly back to her chair with two Fantas on a tray and a strong haze of ‘outmanoeuvred’ about her head. ‘Thank you.’
‘If it happens again, you’re out,’ says Val.
‘Understood,’ I say humbly.
I reach up on tiptoe to put the glass on its shelf. When I come back down again, I catch Jem looking at me, his elbows propped on the bar behind him.
I can’t figure out his expression at all.
On Tuesday night I lie on my bed, staring at the tiny heap of cash on my bedside table. After Sam’s vodka shots, Eunice’s wine and my usual contribution to the household budget, I am out of pocket already. Reaching down, I pick up my Vans and consider the holes in both soles. I can’t walk to and from college in heels or flip-flops. There’s no way I’m doing it in my tatty old school trainers. How much will a decent pair of shoes cost?
Honor said she’d make a decision about the show on Friday. No more show, no more job. No more brown packets. No more Jem.
I put my so-called earnings in my bedside drawer, switch off the light and fail to sleep for several hours.
‘I’ve cracked “Love Eternal”, my solo,’ Tabby announces at lunch on Wednesday. ‘I was doing it last night with Honor and Warren and I actually got to the end without losing it by pretending Warren was Sam. The power of imagination is a wonderful thing.’
We both glance to where Sam and Maria are queuing at the food counters, hand in hand. Tabby blinks hard.
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