Chapter 24 Sunny
Sunny
Painkillers and cosmopolitans are clearly a heady combo.
Ludo was (metaphorically) on fire. The minute the karaoke machine was turned on, there he was, channelling Velma Kelly, belting out “All That Jazz” from Chicago.
It was complete with a dance routine, and not once did Ludo look at the screen with the little ball bouncing over the lyrics.
Then Rafiq joined him onstage for “Mamma Mia,” and the entire pub was up, singing along and dancing.
I had to hand it to Ludo: he knew how to get a party started.
When the song had finished, he popped his mic back into the stand, picked up his sickly pink cocktail, and sashayed across to our table like a drunk in a nightclub. He flopped down in the chair beside me, like his body was boneless. His bruise was coming in well now. He was going to have a shiner.
“Dead impressive,” I said. And I meant it.
“Thank you!” He raised his cosmo. I clinked my half-finished cider against it. “We theatre kids keep a few tricks up our sleeves for just such occasions.”
As we drank, the unmistakable opening bars of Adele’s “Someone Like You” filled the room. Onstage, Rafiq had the microphone in hand and was swaying from side to side, ready for his solo.
“Whoa, this is a big song,” Ludo said.
“Love Adele.”
So did everyone else in the pub, apparently. The crowd hushed in quiet respect as Rafiq’s rich, melodious vocals soared over all of us.
“My God, that voice,” Ludo whispered. I nodded, spellbound.
The song built. Rafiq had the audience in the palms of his hands.
When he’d finished, the entire pub erupted into applause.
Rafiq bowed deeply, his hands in front of his chest in a gesture of thanks.
He was blushing. I stuck my fingers in my mouth and whistled.
Ludo’s eyebrows went up, his sapphire-blue eyes glassy and incredulous.
“What? We estate kids have a few tricks up our sleeves for just such occasions.”
Rafiq bounded over to the table.
“You have a magnificent set of pipes,” Ludo said. “Have you been classically trained?”
“Classically what?” Rafiq asked.
“Who taught you to sing like that?”
“Adele.” Rafiq looked mystified.
“Yes, it’s her song. But who taught you?”
“No one, bruv. I just sing it the way Adele does.” Rafiq pointed at our drinks. “I’m going to the bar. Can I get you lads anything?”
Rafiq took our order and bounced off, clearly still on a high from performing.
“He just sings it the way Adele does?” Ludo said in disbelief. “No one just sings it the way Adele does. That takes years of training.”
Onstage, some old dude was belting out David Bowie’s “‘Heroes.’”
“You’d never know Rafiq was sitting on a voice like that,” Ludo said.
He was swaying slightly. “Like, at the puffins the other day… it was like birdwatching with a frat bro. He seemed like a real lad, you know? Beer and football and Nicki Minaj. Then he comes out and sings with the voice of an angel. And he’s untrained. ”
I stared at him, debating what to say. Should I smack him down for making assumptions about Rafiq based on stereotypes and impressions?
I could at least point out that Rafiq is an observant Muslim and doesn’t drink?
Ludo went to sip his cosmo and missed his mouth.
He brushed the spillage off his jumper with his hand.
With him in this state, there was no point saying much at all.
The lesson here was for me, not for him.
It was a reminder of the wildly different worlds Ludo and I came from.
In the end, I said, “If we’ve learned anything this past week, surely it’s not to judge a book by its cover?”
Ludo looked up, eyes glassy but intense.
He reached over and grabbed my hand, surprising me.
His skin was warm and sticky. He’d opened his mouth to speak when three very full glasses appeared on the table in front of us.
Ludo pulled his hand away. Rafiq slid into a spare seat beside us.
Whatever Ludo wanted to say, it had only been meant for my ears.
We thanked Rafiq for our drinks. His eyes flicked between Ludo and me.
“Am I interrupting summink?”
“Not at all,” I said, picking up my cider. We cheersed.
On the stage, “‘Heroes’” dude was winding up.
“I’m going to choose another song,” Ludo said, stumbling out of the chair and disappearing towards the edge of the stage to flick through the song list.
Rafiq sipped at his Coke.
“You boys banging then, bruv?” he asked.
I spat my cider back into my glass, spilling it all over my face, my jeans, and my shirt.
“What makes you say that?”
“The chirps, bruv. You been flirting with each other this whole trip.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.”
“I seen it, bruv. With me own eyes. The way you look at each other. I thought you’d been lipsing at least.”
“Absolutely not.”
Rafiq shrugged. “You wanna shoot your shot, fam. He’s bare gassed for you. And I reckon you are for him too.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said. “He’s the competition. Besides, can you imagine me taking him home to meet me mum? I doubt he’s ever been in a council flat in his life.”
“Who you convincing? You’d be great together, fam.”
“Based on what?”
“Chemistry, bruv.”
“Someone’s spiked your drink, mate. You’re high.”
Rafiq shrugged his shoulders. “Don’t die wondering, bruv. I reckon you should shoot your shot.”
* * *
Ten minutes later, Rafiq and I were watching Ludo belt out “Angel of the Morning” with what appeared to be choreographed dance moves. Rafiq put his glass down on the table with a thud.
“If I line up a song, will you sing it with me, bruv?” he asked.
“Nooo. I tried to sing in the bath once, and the water undid the plug all by itself, just to get away.”
“You only have to sing the oh oh ohs. That’s the easy part. I’ll do the rest.”
I was uncertain. Rafiq nudged me with his shoulder.
“Do it for Leicester, bruv.”
“Fine, but if people’s ears start to bleed, or if the birds fall out of the sky, or anyone throws a bar stool at us, you’re on your own, OK?”
When it came to our turn, and the opening notes of Billy Joel’s “Uptown Girl” started to play, Ludo shouted “Tune!” and jumped up onstage with us, joining me in the oh oh ohs.
Within seconds practically everyone in the pub was dancing and singing along.
We bopped and bounced as Rafiq sang the main lyrics and Ludo and I wailed the harmony (if that’s what it’s called).
My singing voice, as promised, sounded like someone had wrapped a crow in aluminium foil and run it through with a chainsaw—but I was having an awesome time.
Ludo looked so happy, losing himself in the music.
As we oh oh ohed, our eyes met, his sapphire blues sparkling like mirrorballs.
He smiled, and I smiled back. I threw an arm around his shoulder, and we swayed in unison, microphones in hand.
It felt… really good to hold him. To feel the warmth of him beside me.
In a few short minutes, it was all over.
A couple of locals jumped onstage and grabbed the microphones.
We returned to our table. I slid into my seat, safe in the knowledge I had not hit a single note, but more confused than ever about my feelings for Ludo.