Chapter 1 Six Months Earlier Damon
Six Months Earlier
Damon
‘A year of challenges,’ I blurt out. ‘You and me.’ I plant my hands on my hips as if this is the greatest idea of all time.
‘Like what?’ It’s taking Melissa’s gaze a little extra time to focus on me, a sure-fire sign the alcohol is taking its toll.
I don’t really have an answer, so I wing it. ‘Once a month,’ I grin, ‘we’ll take turns to challenge each other to do something completely out of our comfort zones.’
Her top lip curls, suggesting she already hates the idea. She looks to Adrienne, the only other woman in our group of ten or so mutual friends, like she’s hoping she will offer her a valid excuse to get out of this. Adrienne gives a playful shrug, as if to tell her she’s on her own.
Melissa raises her voice to be heard. ‘Damon,’ she says firmly, ‘aren’t we already about to step further away from our comfort zones than we’ve ever been before?’
I look at her, puzzled. One of her fake lashes is coming unstuck.
‘Our baby plans,’ she says.
‘But that’s different,’ I reply. ‘And it’s also why this might be our last opportunity to do something for ourselves.
We can organise challenges that won’t break the bank.
Remember, you were the one who told me we needed to be more spontaneous.
Try new things before we hit our thirties and get stuck in ruts. ’
The truth is I’m not so much stuck in my rut as firmly cemented inside it.
‘I meant signing up for cookery classes or going to more gigs,’ Melissa says. ‘Not wing-walking on bloody biplanes. Every penny counts for us right now.’
Elsewhere in The Abington, our first pub of the night, Steve has selected Neil Diamond’s ‘Sweet Caroline’ on the jukebox, and now our friends are singing along with the ba-ba-ba’s.
I put my arm around Melissa’s shoulders to offer a persuasive squeeze.
‘I promise we won’t do anything that’s going to cost us an arm and a leg, or that’ll find us in mid-air. So what do you say?’
Her hesitation means I’m winning her round. ‘Okay, if I really have to,’ she concedes.
I clink her glass with mine to seal it. Truth be told, I expected her to put up more of an argument.
‘Who’s going first?’ asks Tommy. ‘You or Mel?’
‘Anyone got a coin to flip?’ I ask the group at large.
None of us has. Apple Pay killed coins.
‘I’ve got a coin-tossing app,’ Tommy offers and opens his phone.
‘Millennial wanker,’ I say.
‘Heads,’ says Melissa. She lets out a huff when it lands on tails.
‘So what’s it going to be?’ Tommy asks me.
It has to be something that won’t so much push her from her comfort zone as hurl her. Something cheap, cheerful, spontaneous – and that she’ll hate me for. Because where’s the fun in serving her something she’ll enjoy?
A smile spreads across my face. I’ve got it.
Ten minutes later and we are in the back room of an ill-furnished but hospitable karaoke bar in Northampton town centre.
It’s three days after New Year’s Eve, and most people are hibernating at home or launching a dry January to pay for their alcoholic sins.
Only a handful of punters are here, listening to a woman perform what has been, until this moment, a passable rendition of Whitney Houston’s ‘I Will Always Love You’.
‘I think the climax has eluded her,’ I whisper to Melissa.
‘Story of my life,’ she deadpans.
Two others are waiting to sing before it’s Melissa’s turn. I’ve never seen her down a pint so quickly. Dutch courage.
I’ve chosen karaoke for two reasons. One, I know how much she hates being the centre of attention, and two, she kind of scream-sings, and it’s bloody hilarious.
Somehow, she can hit notes Mariah Carey could only dream of, only not necessarily on purpose or in the right order.
To rub salt into the wound, I’ve chosen Queen’s ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’, a song with more key changes than a locksmith.
When she at last receives the call, she nervously makes her way to the stage and turns her back on us all.
Even after the first Mama, I can hear Freddie Mercury’s moustache bristling as he turns in his grave.
Excruciating, and delicious. When she finishes caterwauling some six minutes later, we can finally stop cringe-laughing and applaud.
She hurries off stage and I high-five her.
That’s why I love this girl. She has bigger balls than me.
But something’s off. She’s not glaring at me with as much loathing as I hoped for. After an uneasy beat, the reason for her suspiciously cheerful demeanour strikes me: she has something worse lined up for me.
This woman knows me inside and out: my loves, my longings, my likes and my loathings. And there’s a list of the last a mile long.
Perhaps these challenges weren’t such a great idea.
‘Come on then,’ I tell her. ‘Put me out of my misery.’
She smiles. ‘Aren’t you just dying to know?’