telling me all about it in Venice when we were teenagers.
‘I did some vocals,’ he says stiffly.
Giving a little ‘humph’ that is meant to translate into Yeah, right, I shake my head, then quickly grab the bar to steady myself. Gosh, I’m beginning to feel a bit dizzy.
‘What? You think you’re a better singer than me?’
‘Absholutely,’ I slur. Crikey, what’s happened to my tongue? It’s gone all floppy.
‘OK, well, prove it,’ Ž€l, prove ›€,’ Ž€l, he says challengingly.
‘I don’t have to prove anything,’ I retort, glaring at Nate. Actually, make that two Nates, I think, seeing double.
‘Hah!’
‘Hah?’ Trying to focus, I draw back my shoulders. ‘What’s “Hah!” supposed to mean?’
‘It means you know I’m right,’ he says arrogantly.
That’s it. I’ve had it. I don’t know if it’s the vodka, or his smug expression, or more than twenty-four hours with him on Martha’s Vineyard, together with the last few weeks, coupled with the last ten years, but something finally snaps.
Right, that does it. I’ll show him.
‘OK, you’re on,’ I say, rising to the challenge. ‘Listen and weep.’ And without a backwards glance I slide off the barstool and boldly head towards the microphone and speakers that have been set up in the corner of the tavern. Behind me I hear the barman whooping, ‘Atta girl!’ and jutting out my chin, I begin weaving my way among the tables.
I bash into a few accidentally. ‘Oops, sorry.’ I smile as people cling on to their drinks to stop them spilling. Oh dear, I’m feeling rather tipsy. In fact, I’m feeling a lot more than tipsy, I’m actually feeling drunk. The ground sways beneath me and I take some deep breaths. Make that hammered.
Reaching the speakers, a big-busted woman in a tank top asks for my request, then hands me the microphone. Normally at this point I’d be a nervous wreck, but it’s almost as if I’m having an out-of-body experience and am not in control any more. Something else is operating my mind and my limbs, and it has no fear. It’s full of confidence.
It’s called three large vodkas.
I walk unsteadily on to the little makeshift podium and under the spotlight. ‘Um, testing, testing, one, two, three.’ I start tapping the microphone. Well, isn’t that what people always do? It has an immediate effect. People stop chattering and swing round to look at me interestedly. ‘This one’s for my ex-boyfriend, Nathaniel.’ In the shadows I can see him making stricken ‘No, no, no’ gestures. ‘He’s over there, sitting at the bar.’
Unknown
Everyone twirls round and looks at Nate. Suddenly plunged...
‘It’s the classic from Grease,’ I continue. ‘I think you’ll all know it.’ There’s a few murmurs of approval, and buoyed by my newfound confidence, courtesy of Smirnoff, I introduce it. ‘It’s called “You’re the One That I Want”.’
There’s a murmur of approval.
‘ . . . but tonight I want to sing it a little differently . . .’ I pause as my eyes flit around my tiny audience. I see people looking at me expectantly, their curiosity piqued. ‘Tonight “You’re the One That I Don’t Want”.’
There are a few hoots of laughter and someone whistles. Over by the bar I can make out Nate shrinking down on his barstool in pure, undiluted mortification, and then the opening chords of the song start blasting from the crackly speakers.
I’m on!
Taking a deep, drunken breath, I start singing. I’m a bit wobbly at first, but I soon get going. It’s actually quite fun, I realise, as I begin serenading Nate at the top of my lungs. Especially when the crowd starts joining in with the ‘ooh-ooh-honey’s in the chorus. I feel like Leona Lewis, or Mariah Carey, or one of those other big divas, I think, closing my eyes like you see the contestants on X-Factor doing. With a blast of exhilaration I grip the microphone and really go for it.
Wow, and now the crowd is going crazy. I can hear them wolf-whistling and cheering and someone else singing. I flick open my eyes. Is that Nate?
I watch him being pushed on to the stage, a microphone thrust into his hand, a look of horror on his face, as he’s forced to warble into it. He shoots me a strangled look as he does the part of John Travolta to my Olivia Newton-John: ‘You’re not the one I want, ooh, ooh, honey . . .’
The audience goes wild as we grimace at each other across the stage. Forget singing a duet, we’re singing a duel. The karaoke