The Funny Thing About Love

13. Nell

13

NELL

Sometimes the best idea is the stupidest one.

Talia said that once, on a podcast I listened to. Granted, she was talking about the craft of writing surreal comedy sketches, rather than the craft of getting random people to sing in public. But still, I’m playing her quote on repeat in my head right now as I try to work up the guts to do what I’m about to do.

Because it is very definitely a Stupid Idea.

I look over at Mike, who is standing a few metres away from me in the crowded piazza, his boom mic dangling over my head like an axe. Dev is beside him, his camera up on his shoulder and pointing directly at me. They both give me what I take to be encouraging smiles.

Oh God. Oh God, oh God, oh God.

Dev nods to show that he’s recording.

I clear my throat. Am I really, really going to do this?

Apparently, I am.

I start singing.

I only know one Lina song – her biggest hit – the syrupy disco tune ‘Down There’. I don’t even like it particularly, but the lyrics have seeped into my brain via osmosis after hearing it so many times on the radio. It’s the same one Chloe belted out briefly in the kitchen last night.

‘You raise me up when I’m down there. Without a word, without a care. You lift meeee, you raise meeee, when I’m down thereeeeeee.’

God, I sound dreadful. It doesn’t help that my nerves are making my voice wobble way more than it usually would too. I can’t even bear to look at Dev or Mike in case their encouraging smiles have switched to agonised, horrified grimaces, so I keep my gaze focused on the huge clock at the top of the piazza. But I can feel people’s eyes on me. I can sense people stopping and staring and giggling all around me.

What exactly was my plan with this, again? I guess I was hoping that if I stepped up to sacrifice myself at the altar of humiliation, it might encourage a few other people to offer themselves up too – either in the spirit of fun, or (more likely) out of pure pity. Either way, I’d have some clips in the bag at least.

But – no. It’s literally just me, singing tunelessly by myself while passers-by either laugh or stare.

But I keep going. I keep singing.

Even if I don’t get a single person to join me, at least the writers will see how far I’m willing to go for this show. How much I care. I’m prepared to make a total and utter dick of myself in one of London’s busiest tourist spots. And beyond that probably, since people are now filming me on their phones. I am fully prepared to become a meme. ‘Talentless Covent Garden Singing Girl’. I’ll probably be all over social media by this evening.

As I reach the chorus, my face is on fire and my legs are about 95 per cent jelly. It’s actually a miracle I’m still standing.

But then something snaps me back to attention.

My heart skips as I hear another – male – voice join mine. It’s followed almost immediately by a third. Surely not . . .? I brave a glance at Mike and Dev, and yep: they are both singing along loudly with me, still holding their boom mic and camera. They’re both wearing wide grins, and I feel a tiny amount of my mortification begin to dissolve. A powerful rush of affection for both of them replaces it.

And then another miracle happens: a fourth voice chimes in.

Still singing, I look round to see a little girl – she can’t be older than about eight – in a dress and a French braid, jiving on the spot while bellowing along with us.

Her parents are standing behind her, laughing at this impromptu performance. She spins round and jabs a finger at them.

‘Daddy! Mummy! You love Lina too! You sing too!’

The parents give weary smiles and start joining in, and I am so overcome with relief that I almost start laughing. People are openly stopping and staring at us now, some of them even beginning to sing along with us.

Our collective volume suddenly shoots up when what appears to be an entire stag party comes bounding over towards us. It’s a group of about twenty lads, all clutching cans of lager, one of them – presumably the groom – dressed as a leprechaun.

‘Ah, mate, this tune is a banger!’ one of the boys yells, as the whole group starts bellowing the lyrics at the tops of their lungs.

The little girl shrieks with joy at the sight of the massive drunk leprechaun. He bows and starts doing a jig in front of her, as her parents – and everyone else – roar with laughter around her.

It’s mad. It catches like wildfire and just keeps spreading. A big group of girls, about the same age as me, lock eyes with the stag-do guys and start singing right back at them. It’s like something out of a very random – very tuneless – musical. And still the song keeps fanning out, catching and expanding, like a sonic Mexican wave, sweeping more and more passers-by into its orbit.

Dev’s camera is off me now, thank God. He and Mike are roving through the chaos, trying to pick out every singer. But it’s impossible; there are too many of them. The song has now spread halfway across the piazza, to where a street performer is doing his thing in front of a big crowd of tourists. The guy is up on one of those stupidly tall Victorian bikes, juggling flaming batons. Since a large chunk of his audience is now belting out ‘Down There’, he shrugs and joins in.

As the end of the second chorus approaches, he hurls all four of his fiery clubs high into the air, leaps off the bike and then catches them as he lands – while singing the final note louder than anyone.

The whole piazza breaks into spontaneous applause. People are doubled over with laughter, cheering, hollering, high-fiving. The adrenaline is racing through me. This is, by quite a long way, the craziest thing I’ve ever seen.

And I made it happen. Sometimes the best idea is the stupidest one.

Through the crowds, I spot Mike scurrying around, his boom mic slung over his shoulder, trying to pass out as many release forms as he can to the still-clapping crowd. I look around for Dev and see him bounding towards me wearing a grin that splits his beard in half. He sticks his fist out and I bump it.

‘Nell,’ he says, ‘I think we can probably head back.’