Chapter Thirty
I read the ‘About’ section of the Steps tribute band again, more slowly this time, the dread feeling heavier with each word, and I whimper when I get to the bit about Kit and Charlie being a married couple as well as bandmates.
‘What are we going to do?’ Luckily, Sally is simply repeating my question and not asking me to answer it, because I have no idea how we solve this.
Kit and Charlie are part of the Steps tribute act we had booked for our New Year’s Eve entertainment, and now they’ve cancelled.
Because of me. Because I pursued Kit. It doesn’t matter that I didn’t know about his marriage, that he told me he was single and I acted accordingly.
My boss is mad at me because, like it or not, fairly or not, they have cancelled because of me.
I want to fight my corner, to rail against the injustice, but no words will form, and it doesn’t matter anyway because Sally isn’t looking for an answer and she carries on without waiting for my input.
‘You are going to apologise. You are going to beg and plead for them to change their mind and retain the booking. I already tried and it didn’t work.’
‘You want me to apologise? To Kit?’ The thought alone makes me feel sick. I never want to speak to that man again, never mind ask his forgiveness. He was the one in the wrong. He was the cheater. I am the victim, and apologising for that is gross.
‘Not to Kit, no. But to Charlie?’ Sally presses her hands together, her eyes wide and her breaths sputtering out of her.
‘Please?’ And I realise then that Sally isn’t angry; she’s scared.
She shakes her head. ‘No, of course you mustn’t apologise, to anyone.
But we have posters out there in the bar, and leaflets on every table telling everyone how fun it’ll be to spend their night – and their hard-earned cash – here at Rollerz on New Year’s Eve, except it won’t be fun when the only thing they’ve got to entertain them is the bloody ancient jukebox.
’ Sally sighs and presses her fingertips to her hairline.
‘We need this booking, Christina. Do you know how difficult it’s going to be to book anyone decent now?
Anyone worth booking will have been snapped up already, and I know this because I’ve already spent the afternoon ringing around. ’
‘I’m sorry.’ I drop my chin onto my chest so I don’t have to look at Sally’s distraught face.
‘I had no idea Kit was in a Steps tribute act. He said he was in a band but he never…’ I trail off as I remember the band he was the warm-up act for in Europe was a Buck’s Fizz tribute act.
It makes more sense now I know more about Kit’s band, but what are the chances that I’d hook up with one of the members of the band we’d booked for New Year’s Eve?
Extremely low under normal circumstances, but vastly increased when you have the universe pushing you into potential relationships, obviously.
‘I know that.’ Sally smiles at me. Sort of.
It’s so wobbly and weak it’s almost grotesque.
‘But we need to fix this, because…’ She takes in a shuddery breath.
‘Because the bar is in trouble.’ She drops her face into her hands and starts to knead her forehead with her fingertips.
‘It has been for a while, to be honest. The increases in business rates and insurance are killing us. Did you know they’re thinking of closing the cinema across the road?
If that goes, we’ll be toast, but people’s habits have changed.
Prices have soared, for everything: food, drinks, utilities, wages, entertainment licences.
And this place has been stuck in a time warp.
It needs updating. Modernising. But I simply don’t have the money to do it.
’ She stops kneading her forehead and covers her eyes with her hands, as though she can hide, child-like, from the problem.
‘But the bar’s been busy.’ I have the blisters on my feet to prove it.
‘It has, you’re right.’ Sally peels her hands away from her eyes.
‘But only for pockets of time – hen and birthday parties, events like today with the barbecue and quiz. New Year’s Eve.
But at other times we’re simply not bringing in enough.
The big event nights are what’s keeping us going – barely – so we really can’t afford to lose that income.
We need to fix this, Christina. We need to find a new act for New Year’s Eve. ’
‘But you said it yourself – anyone half-decent will be booked by now.’
Sally shuffles to the door and drags it open. She pauses at the threshold, turning to face me. ‘We have to book someone, otherwise we might all be out of a job.’
‘Is it really that bad?’
Sally presses her lips into a thin line and gives a single nod of her head before she shuffles out of the office.
I sink into the chair at the desk and push the keyboard out of the way so I can lean my forearms on the desk, dropping my face onto them.
I wish I’d never met Kit. In fact, I wish I’d never made that stupid meet-cute wish in the first place.
I rue the day I made it because it’s ruining my life.
Not only am I afraid to step out of my own front door in case I’m confronted with a meet-cute, but my job is also now in jeopardy.
I love my job at Rollerz. I love the people I work with, and I don’t want to do anything else. So I have to find a new act.
Sitting up with my lips pressed into a line of sheer determination, I pull the keyboard back into place and start typing. I will find a new act for New Year’s Eve.
Except sheer determination isn’t enough, and I’m faced with brick wall after brick wall.
Everyone even a quarter-decent is already booked and despite weeks of research and ringing around, my only options are a magician-and-dog double act (and from the YouTube clips, the dog simply sits and watches, barking occasionally, but never as part of the act, and the magician is crap) and a dance duo who have the coordination of a drunk donkey with a drawing pin stuck in its hoof.
‘What about karaoke? Everyone loves karaoke.’
I appreciate Audrey’s suggestion, I really do, but I have to shake my head, because there’s no way Sally will accept a karaoke night for New Year’s Eve.
Karaoke is a bog-standard Friday night thing, not something to attract crowds into our bar to bring in the new year.
It should be one of our busiest nights, but we’ll be lucky to entice our most loyal regulars to join us if I don’t offer them something more engaging than a karaoke machine.
The pub up the road is having an extravaganza of burlesque, live music and stand-up comedy, and they’re already selling tickets for the event.
‘We could do a bit of burlesque, couldn’t we, Olive?’ Audrey turns to her friend, her eyebrows raised, after I’ve explained the situation.
‘We took a class. And I’m very flexible.’ Olive winks at Rhys, who chokes on his drink. After completing the final module of Dorian’s art class, we’ve decamped to the bar across the road for farewell drinks.
‘I don’t think my boss will want the same kind of act as the pub up the road.’ I thump Rhys on the back as he coughs and wheezes. ‘But what’s next for you ladies?’
Audrey rubs her hands together. ‘We’re booked in for a rage room on Tuesday.’
‘A what?’ There’s a tableful of puzzled faces but it’s Thea who asks the question we’re all wanting the answer to.
‘A rage room.’ Audrey leans forward as she imparts her wisdom.
‘You’re let loose in a room for thirty minutes, trussed up in protective gear so you can bash stuff to smithereens.
Computers, crockery, TVs, all sorts. I’ve got eighty-odd years’ worth of frustrations to exorcise and I’m going to pretend it’s my husband – may he blaze in the fires of Hell – being pummelled with the baseball bat.
’ She mimes taking a bat to an appliance, making an oof sound with the movement. ‘I can’t wait.’
‘I’m looking forward to going to the aquarium.’
My eyebrows rise at Olive’s tranquil plan, a stark opposite of Audrey’s anticipated activity, but I should have known she had something more daring up her sleeve than watching the little fish.
‘Did you know you can pay to swim with the sharks? I’ve always wanted to do it, and I could drop down dead at any moment, so why not do it while I have the chance?’
‘You two are an inspiration.’ Thea raises her glass, giving a nod before she takes a sip. ‘I might have to get some tips on things to keep me occupied now Daniel and I have agreed to see how alternating weeks with the kids go. I won’t know what to do with myself for my week without them.’
Audrey rubbed her hands together. ‘We’ve got loads of ideas. Have you thought about ziplining? We did that last summer and it was exhilarating, and we’ve always wanted to give paintballing a go if you want to team up?’
I tune out of the conversation as my mind wanders back to the rage room and the stuff I could smash up while imagining it’s Kit on the receiving end of my brute force.
I can already feel the tension lifting from my shoulders as I picture myself taking a baseball bat to a TV, imagining the screen is Kit’s stupid, lying, cheating face.
I made such a monumentally bad decision with him and I’m not sure I’ll ever be able to trust my own judgement again.
‘What about you, Christina?’
I blink away the image of pulverising Kit’s face as I hear my name. Audrey is looking at me, her pale, barely-there eyebrows raised.
‘What are your plans now?’
Other than digging a hole and burying myself in it?
‘I think I’m going to carry on with the art.
Find a weekly class.’ Like the class at the library, but without the dog walker and his fiancée and the judgmental life model.
I’ve loved our course, loved exploring my creativity, and it’s the only positive thing that has come from all the meet-cutes I’ve endured for the past few months.
We say our goodbyes to Audrey and Olive, promising to keep in touch, and then I drive us home, dropping Rhys and Thea off before continuing to the flat.
I know Jonah doesn’t want to take the stairs, but he humours me and my aversion to the lift, and our chests are both heaving by the time we stumble into the living room.
‘I don’t feel like cooking tonight.’ Jonah flumps into his chair. ‘Fancy a takeaway?’
‘Absolutely.’ I curl up on the sofa, as though I can ease the ache in my chest – which has nothing at all to do with the hike up the seven flights of stairs and everything to do with the fear of losing my job – if I can make myself as small as possible. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘Chinese, obviously.’ Jonah brings his phone over to the sofa and I push myself up into a sitting position, a small smile finding its way onto my face. I love that we never have to debate about what to order because we’re totally in synch when it comes to takeaway preferences.
But my smile fades and I flop back down on the sofa as soon as I’ve put my order in, tucking my knees practically under my chin.
I feel wretched; my heart aches, my brain is fuzzy, and there’s an ever-present knot of dread in my stomach.
But at least I feel safe here with Jonah, knowing no meet-cutes will be thrust upon me, that there will be no Mr Wrongs to contend with as we stuff ourselves with fried rice and crispy duck and salt-and-pepper chips while watching a soothing, guaranteed-happily-ever-after romcom.
Jonah lets me choose the film and I opt for Picture Perfect because it’s an unadulterated pick-me-up with a swoon-worthy, fake-dating storyline and a banging soundtrack.
The food arrives and I get the film ready while Jonah answers the door.
My stomach rumbles at the delicious smells wafting from the bags and I’m relieved that my appetite has started to return as I haven’t been able to stomach much more than toast, crisps and ice cream since the Kit-is-a-shit reveal.
‘Wait a minute.’ Jonah frowns as he opens the first tray.
‘We didn’t order chow mein, did we?’ I shake my head as Jonah rifles through the bag.
‘And where are the spring rolls?’ He pulls out another tray, lifting its lid before showing it to me.
‘This isn’t our order.’ He replaces the lid and checks the receipt attached to the bag. ‘This is for flat thirty-four.’
‘Quick, bag it back up.’ I grab the chow mein, making sure the lid is secure before placing it back in the bag.
‘We’ll try and catch them before they scoff ours.
’ Now my appetite is back, I’m desperate for a spring roll, and I think I’ll cry if I don’t get my chips.
I’ve had the man I thought was my universe-delivered true love snatched away from me – I can’t lose my chips too.
There’s a knock at the door as Jonah is folding down the top of the paper bag and I grab it from him before marching down the corridor, praying it’s the people from number thirty-four in search of their takeaway to exchange for ours.
‘Hi.’ The guy on the doorstep holds up a paper bag, his eyes dropping to the identical bag I’m holding. ‘I’ve got your takeaway and I assume that’s mine?’
I could weep with relief and joy as he hands over his bag, swapping it for mine, and it takes every ounce of self-restraint not to snatch up a spring roll and stuff it in my mouth right here on the doorstep.
‘What are the chances we’d order at the exact same time, with the exact same driver?
’ The occupant of number thirty-four shakes his head in wonder, a smile playing on his lips.
To him, the chances of this situation occurring are minuscule, but for me, it’s pretty standard.
‘I can’t believe I forgot spring rolls.’ He thwacks his forehead with the palm of his hand.
‘And that crispy duck smelled amazing. Hey.’ He grins, a thought suddenly occurring to him.
‘We should pool our resources.’ He waves a hand between our bags of food. ‘Make one big meal to share.’
And there it is. The thing I was expecting. Dreading. Because while to him this is a simple takeaway mix-up, to me this is yet another stupid meet-cute. It turns out I’m not even safe in my own home anymore.
‘I’d rather stick to my own meal but thank you for bringing this over.’ I don’t bother smiling at my neighbour. I don’t even make eye contact. I simply shut the door in his face and pretend the incident never happened.