Chapter 7
At exactly the same time as Stacey was waving at Yang from the bus, Jerry was donning his chorister’s robes at the church of St Martin-in-the-Fields, which sits on the very corner of Trafalgar Square. Stacey and Yang had in fact gone straight past him, and had they looked across Charing Cross Road they would have seen him with his head low, marching down the street. However, if they had seen him, he wouldn’t have told them where he was going. He’d only confided in Stacey so far that he sang in a church choir. He didn’t particularly know why he hadn’t shared news of this major source of joy in his life with everyone else. Hard to say. Was it that he thought they would laugh at him? Give him that classic British side eye when he announced he did something that they really didn’t understand? Or was it the fact that he sang in a church choir? He had lived in the UK for many years and he was yet to understand how the British really viewed religion. He came from Missouri, where religion was a major part of community life, a thing that gathered people, brought families together, and yet he didn’t get that sense here. British religious beliefs were something to be followed quietly, without fuss or drama. The first thing Jerry had done when he’d arrived was to go to church as he knew that was where he would meet people, and he had hoped that would be where he could sing. And he knew if he could sing then he would have at least some corner of happiness in his life.
It was no coincidence that he wound up in the choir at St Martin-in-the-Fields. It wasn’t his local church, but it was the top of his list. Why? Because it appears in one of his favourite London-based films, Notting Hill . He liked to tell the folks back home that he sang in a choir on a movie set. It also blew him away that the church he sang in was over three hundred years old. Three hundred years old! One could argue that it was older than the United States itself. It was finished before the Founding Fathers signed the Declaration of Independence, for goodness’ sake. This was old on a scale not available in his home country. In St Martin-in-the-Fields he felt part of history, part of something so solid and enduring that he could never be cut adrift.
And Jerry had to sing. Singing was therapy for him, the only thing that took him off into another world and made all his troubles go away. Singing was his lifeline. Of course, listening to singing could also do that for him. He was obsessed with musical theatre. Another factor that had kept him living within five miles of the very epicentre of musical theatre for the world. Just walking down Shaftesbury Avenue made his heart leap, and whenever he felt low or alone he would take himself down to the avenue of sparkle and shine and slide into the box office of one of the many musicals available and pray for a last-minute return ticket at a cut price. Hamilton was his all-time favourite – it blew him away – but Six was a close second. The tale of the six wives of Henry VIII was like a drug. It gave him a high like no other, every time he saw it.
But tonight was choir practice, so he didn’t need to go and find his drug of choice. A shot in the arm of Anne Boleyn dressed like a Spice Girl singing about having her head cut off? No need for that. Tonight was especially exciting, given the choir were preparing for the carol concert – always a highlight, and so very British. He knew he would go home happy tonight.
‘Hey, Jerry,’ said Carol as she walked into the vestry. Jerry had already bagged the corner spot for them, slightly away from the rest of the twenty-two strong choir, who were getting their robes on. There they were shielded by a tall cupboard and so could gossip about their day and share strictly forbidden sweets. Carol, at sixty-two, was one of the oldest members of the choir and delighted in breaking the rules and winding up the choir master.
‘Carol,’ nodded Jerry.
‘Good day?’ she asked.
‘Acceptable,’ he replied. ‘You?’
‘Excellent,’ she replied. ‘Christmas cards written. Thankfully a few old codgers died this year so my list has dwindled slightly.’
‘Every cloud, hey, Carol?’
‘Every cloud, Jerry. You send Christmas cards, do you? It must be close to last posting dates for your folks back in Missouri.’
‘Yep, all done. Then just the phone call on the day covers Christmas generally in the McKinley family.’
‘Mm,’ nodded Carol. ‘You seen that man of yours this week?’
‘For fuck’s sake, Carol – sorry, God,’ said Jerry, crossing himself and looking skyward. ‘I told you, he’s not my man – he’s not anything – he’s just. He’s just …’
‘Fucking you around?’ she asked innocently.
‘You cannot say that in a place of worship, Carol.’
‘We should speak the truth, dear boy, in a place of worship and I for one feel that you are being fucked around. I will sing “O Little Town of Bethlehem” extra loudly later to compensate.’
‘He’s not fucking me around. We meet for coffee, we chat, he’s made no advances whatsoever, so how can he be fucking me around? He just wants to be friends, clearly. He doesn’t fancy me. He could be straight, for all I know.’
Carol arched her eyebrows. ‘Straight men don’t go for coffee and a chat. Straight men don’t seek friendship. They just don’t. He’s gay, he fancies you, but he’s fucking you around.’
‘But why would he do that?’ asked Jerry. ‘Come on, you wise old beast. Why? If he is gay and fancies me then why doesn’t he just ask me out or give me something?’
Carol looked Jerry up and down.
‘Maybe he’s waiting for you to grow a beard.’
‘I didn’t have a beard when I met him.’
‘Maybe a moustache.’
‘I didn’t have a moustache, either.’
‘Maybe he’s waiting for a shift in personality. Maybe he’s waiting for you to make the first move.’
‘Screw you!’ said Jerry. ‘You know I’m incapable of first moves.’
‘But you may have no choice, young Jerry. The path of true love never did run smooth. You may have to make the first move.’
‘Who said anything about it being the path of true love?’
‘Your face did. Every time I mention his name.’
‘Does it really?’ exclaimed Jerry, his hands flying to his face.
‘Of course it does. I can spot the lovesick a mile off. You absolutely need to sort some treatment for that and I reckon your only chance of survival is to make the first move.’
‘No. Can’t do it. No way, Jose.’
‘Big chicken.’
‘If he wants me, he’ll tell me. I just have to be patient. Anyway, Christmas is coming. Romance is in the air, right? Now is the perfect time for him to step forward.’
‘Mm,’ said Carol, offering him a jelly baby. ‘Leave me the orange ones,’ she warned. ‘You could buy him a Christmas gift?’ she suggested. ‘You know, if that doesn’t scream “take me over the frothy milk machine” I don’t know what does.’
‘And what would I buy, exactly? I mean, don’t talk to me about Christmas gifts. We’ve just been landed with Secret Santa at work, but we’re not supposed to spend any money. Do an act of kindness instead. I was kind of up for it until I knew who I’d picked. It’s stressing me out thinking about that, never mind buying a gift for a man who may or may not fancy me.’
‘Maybe you just need to think of what you would like from whoever picked you. I often do that. See something I’d like, then buy it for someone else. It kind of weirdly works.’
‘Well, clearly all I want for Christmas is my tall dark handsome coffee-shop man, but the chances of me getting him are less than zero, as we have just discussed.’
Carol stared at Jerry and then said clearly and succinctly, ‘Then let us pray.’ She took both of Jerry’s hands in hers, still clutching her bag of jelly babies, and then closed her eyes.
‘Dear Lord,’ she said. ‘Please deliver to our dear brother Jerry the love of his life this Christmas in the form of hot guy in the coffee shop. May he come forth with love and kindness to Jerry and may he accept this gift graciously. We both promise to kick the ass of “O Come, All Ye Faithful” and even “Ding Dong Merrily on High” – arguably the worst carol of all time – at the carol concert, if you will just offer this kindness by then. I’m giving you a deadline, by the way, as I find that these things can drag on. The carol concert is next week, in case you don’t have it on your calendar. We do, of course, expect you to attend. Dearly beloved, thank you and good night. Amen.’
‘Amen to that,’ said Jerry solemnly.
‘Well, we’ve done all we can,’ said Carol, opening her eyes and popping a jelly baby into her mouth. She reached into her coat, pulled out a hip flask and took a swig before handing it to Jerry.
‘Really?’ he asked. ‘We’re doing this now, are we?’
‘’Tis the season to be merry,’ she said and winked, then slapped her hand to her forehead. ‘I know what you should do,’ she said. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? I often find when you have these little conversations with God that he finds a way of giving you the answer to your prayers.’
‘Really?’ said Jerry. ‘I’ve never found that.’
‘Invite him to the carol concert,’ said Carol.
‘No way,’ said Jerry.
‘Come on!’ said Carol. ‘It’s perfect. He gets to see you in a long dress by candlelight. If he’s not going to fall in love with you then, he never will.’
‘Why on earth would he agree to come and watch me sing carols?’
‘Because he wants to fall in love with you, of course. It’s the perfect way to find out what his intentions are. If he comes, that is the biggest God-damn sign above his head that he fancies you in the history of the universe. No man on this planet accepts an invite to a carol concert for the sake of friendship. That is pure love. You ask him next time you see him. Promise me. Then this matter is resolved.’
Jerry stared at her for a moment.
‘OK, Carol. I will. But just because it’s Christmas and … and, well, I am desperate.’
‘No kidding,’ replied Carol.
‘Can you help me with the Secret Santa thing as well?’
‘No way,’ replied Carol. ‘Doing a favour for a colleague at work? Are you kidding me? What a totally ridiculous idea that is.’