Chapter Eleven
I choose the stripy top to wear with jeans, and I borrow Jonah’s blazer to throw over the top to add a touch of sophistication.
The pockets are stuffed with old receipts and a couple of tram and bus tickets, which I drop in the bin before leaving the flat.
I take the tram to Salford Quays and walk along the quay to the piano bar.
The place is jammed, with the tables already full and the bar area packed, and there’s the familiar rumble of dozens of conversations mingling.
Ahead of me, taking centre stage, is a white baby grand piano, lit up against the low lighting of the rest of the room.
It isn’t being played yet, but nerves make my stomach dip at the thought of getting up there and singing in front of all these people.
‘Christina!’
My gaze snaps away from the stage at the sound of my name being called, my eyes roaming the place for its source.
A waving hand catches my attention, and my shoulders relax a little bit when I spot Conrad.
He’s bagged one of the tables towards the back of the room and I make my way over, my progress slowed by the volume of patrons packed into the space.
Perhaps I should suggest an open-mic cabaret night at Rollerz to Sally if this is the crowd it attracts.
My boss is always bemoaning the quieter nights in the bar, and we’ve already got the piano, though it’s gathering dust in a storage room at the moment and it isn’t as fancy as the one here on the stage.
‘You came.’ Conrad rises out of his seat to kiss me on the cheek when I eventually make it to the table.
‘Let me get you a drink.’ There are already two glasses on the table: an almost-drained pint and an empty shot.
Conrad picks them both up, finishing off the pint before fighting his way to the bar.
I track his progress as I take my seat, but my attention is snatched away as the lights on the stage dim for a moment before they burst to life again, showcasing tonight’s host as they walk up to the microphone set up beside the piano.
A hush falls upon the venue as they kick off the evening’s event.
‘Good evening, and welcome to Piano Quays’ open-mic night.
I’m River Storm, your host for the evening, and as always, this is going to be a spectacular night of eclectic music and good fun.
It’s an informal event so don’t be shy – come and have a bash, whether you’re the next Adele or you sound like Billy when he stubs his toe on the piano.
Speaking of which…’ The host turns as they’re joined on the stage by a man in a fitted suit, complete with bow tie.
‘Please welcome Billy Lennox, our in-house pianist, who will be providing the music to accompany your sublime singing this evening.’
The pianist bows his head as the room shows its appreciation before he sits at the piano.
‘If you haven’t signed up already to do your turn, please do that now, as the first of our awesome acts will be up in just a few minutes.
So, let’s get warmed up, shall we, Billy?
’ The host turns to nod at the pianist, who begins to play the opening of ‘Uptown Funk’, with host River Storm belting out the lyrics with passion and joy, encouraging the audience to stand and clap along.
Conrad returns with the drinks, pushing the pink grapefruit margarita towards me before lifting the shot glass.
‘Dutch courage.’ He tips the liquid down his throat before switching the dinky glass for his pint. ‘Have you put your name down to sing?’
‘Not yet. I need some Dutch courage of my own first.’ I take a sip of my cocktail. It’s delicious. ‘What are you going to sing?’
‘My go-to songs are “Mr Brightside” or “Old Town Road”.’ He takes two huge gulps of his pint and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. ‘I’m definitely going to need a couple more of these before I get up there though. Are you ready for another?’
I look down at my margarita, which is missing only a sip. ‘Not quite.’
‘I’ll be back in a sec.’ He gets up, gulping back his pint as he fights his way to the bar. ‘Uptown Funk’ comes to an end, and I switch my focus back to the stage, where River Storm is accepting the rapturous applause and making sure the pianist receives his fair share.
‘Our first act of the evening is a very good friend of mine, who I met at Manchester School of Theatre. So please give a warm welcome to Phoebe Paige.’ River Storm steps aside as a woman with bouncy brown curls skips up the steps to the stage and takes her place in front of the mic stand.
She’s confident as she looks out across the bar while Billy plays the intro to ‘Don’t Rain On My Parade’, which I think is from Funny Girl but I only know it from bingeing Glee on Netflix with Jonah.
She is magnificent as she takes control of the stage, belting out the song as though she’s on Broadway, and I’m not surprised Conrad has to ply himself with alcohol to get up there.
I get working on my cocktail, and it’s almost gone by the time he returns from the bar with another pint and chaser.
Luckily, not all the evening’s participants are as accomplished as Phoebe Paige, and not all the songs are as highbrow.
We have performances of ‘Dancing Queen’, ‘Girls Just Want To Have Fun’ and ‘Wonderwall’ mixed with Phantom’s ‘Music Of The Night’ and Wicked’s ‘Defying Gravity’, all with varying degrees of talent.
But I’m still feeling pretty nervous as I step up onto the stage to give my rendition of ‘Could It Be Magic?’.
I look at Conrad as I sing (or I try to – the bright lights make it hard to see anything beyond the stage) but I’m also singing it for Mum and Dad, picturing the way it would always make Mum smile whenever Dad sang it to her.
Dad isn’t the performing type; he’s a large, gruff man who likes to keep his emotions in check, but that made his act all the more silly and uplifting.
I somehow manage to get all the way through the song without embarrassing myself and I feel a rush of accomplishment as I join Conrad back at the table.
‘That was…’ I shake my head and fill my cheeks with air before letting it burst out.
‘Amazing. Terrifying. Something I’m never, ever doing again.
’ I pick up my margarita, which Conrad has kindly refreshed during my performance, the glass wobbling in my hand as I’m so jittery with nerves and euphoria. ‘I can’t believe I did that.’
‘You were great.’ Conrad lifts his pint, hiccupping as my margarita glass clinks against it.
Not only has Conrad refreshed my glass, he’s refreshed his own.
Several times, by the looks of it. His head is wobbling as he tries to focus on me through bleary eyes.
I think he may have overdone the Dutch courage a tad.
‘Fantastic. Splendid. You.’ He points his pint glass at me.
‘You are… You are…’ He titters and shakes his head. ‘You just are. You know?’
‘And you are…’ Plastered. Absolutely hammered. ‘…about to get up on stage.’
‘Yes!’ Conrad slams his pint down, sloshing beer onto the table.
He gives a firm nod before pushing himself up onto his feet with obvious effort.
‘This one.’ He wafts a hand towards the stage, where River Storm is waiting for him to take his place.
‘This one is for you, my lovely Chris… Christ… Christy… Anna. Christiana.’ He clicks his fingers before staggering off.
I don’t even bother to correct him on my name.
He is terrible. Awful. Truly, utterly shite, as he slurs his way through ‘Old Town Road’, and if you could die from secondhand embarrassment, I’d be on my way to the morgue right now. There’s cringing and there’s what my face is doing right now, which is actually quite painful.
‘Jesus. Who let that up on stage?’ There’s a snigger beside me and I look up to see a bloke leaning against the back of an empty chair.
He sees me looking and nods towards the stage, where Conrad is on his knees, head tilted up and eyes squeezed shut as he garbles the lyrics.
‘I was on my way to the loo, but I think he’s scared the wee back up. ’
‘That’s actually my date.’ I wince, regretting admitting that out loud. Why, Christina?
‘Oh. Fuck.’ The bloke’s eyes widen as he covers his mouth with his hand. ‘Sorry. I’m such a knob. He’s not that bad, really.’
‘He really is.’ I press my lips together, feeling a sense of betrayal, even though it’s the truth. Conrad is killing it up there, but not in a good way. ‘He’s a bit drunk.’
The bloke next to me sniggers. ‘A bit? He’s mashed.’
‘I know, but he was nervous.’ I shrug. ‘Dutch courage and all that.’
The song, mercifully, finishes and the bloke continues his journey to the loo while Conrad stumbles down the steps as the audience claps politely. He flings himself into his seat and smothers a burp with the back of his hand.
‘How was that then?’
‘That was…’ I push a smile onto my face as best as I can under the circumstances. ‘…memorable.’
‘Yeah?’ Conrad grins and snatches up his pint, bashing the glass against his teeth before he manages to gulp any down.
‘Definitely memorable.’ For all the wrong reasons, but I keep this bit to myself. Conrad’s going to wake up with a massive hangover in the morning – it would be cruel to add toe-curling shame on top.
‘Shall I get another round in?’ Conrad attempts to push himself up on his feet but fails and sinks back down into his seat.
‘Why don’t we just sit and enjoy the music for a bit?
’ I point at the stage, where the latest act is giving their all to ‘Shake It Off’.
Conrad shrugs and leans his cheek on his hand, his elbow resting precariously close to the edge of the table.
He watches the performance for approximately six long blinks before he slams his hands down on the table and declares it’s time for another drink.