Be Careful What You Wish For (31 page)

It’s just after seven and Brian and I are making our way to the nearby Apollo Theatre to see
The Rocky Horror Show.

‘Perhaps we should have taken a cab,’ Brian complains as he stops yet again to do up one of his suspenders. Tutting impatiently, he fumbles with the fasteners, his slim hands, so dexterous when it comes to the intricate workings of a Hassle-blad camera, now a pair of clumsy ornaments. ‘Jesus, how do you birds cope?’

‘Birds have feathers, Brian,’ I point out stonily. ‘
Women don’t
.’ Folding my arms across my pink cardiganed chest, I catch my reflection in the window of Starbucks. I’m wearing a pleated pink skirt, American tan tights and a pair of lace-up shoes I’ve had since I was seventeen when I worked as a Saturday sales assistant at Dolcis.

The outfit was Jess’s idea. She’s one of those huge fans who’ve seen the show about a hundred times and know all the steps to the Time Warp. She organised the whole thing, ringing the tickets hotline months ago, lending me her spare costume and excitedly telling me I’d make ‘the perfect Janet’. Her enthusiasm was so infectious I felt quite chuffed by the compliment. Only the problem with Jess is she does tend to go over the top. I stare doubtfully at my frumpy reflection. Think Doris Day in Hush Puppies.

Honestly, I don’t want to sound like a spoilsport, but when people say fancy dress is fun,
who
exactly is it supposed to be fun
for
?

By the time we reach the theatre it’s nudging dusk. Purplish grey smudges of clouds are hanging above the trees, like big fat bruises, providing a backdrop for
The Rocky Horror Show,
which is illuminated in shimmering white lights on the theatre. Crowds of outrageously dressed people are milling around outside, practising their steps to the Time Warp and comparing costumes. Scanning the throng for James, who said he’d meet me here, and Jess, who was coming along with a crowd of air stewards, I squeeze past a giant of a man covered with tattoos and sporting fishnets and black suspenders like Brian’s. It’s perturbing at first, but I’m getting used it. Everyone – I repeat,
everyone
– is wearing fishnets.

Brian leads the way and I follow him into the foyer. Which is when I hear a peal of throaty laughter, shooting like an arrow above the chattering buzz. It’s immediately recognisable.

‘Jess!’ I yell, and spot her surrounded by a group of handsome men with buffed arms. Obviously the air stewards. She throws her arms round me and gives me a hug. ‘You look fantastic,’ I gasp.

‘You think so?’ she says, and does a little twirl. She’s wearing the obligatory basque, fishnets and stilettos, but all that Bikram yoga has paid off. I make a mental note to attempt a few sun salutations next time and not spend the whole lesson in a child’s pose pretending I’m on my ‘cycle’.

‘So do you.’ Her brow furrows. ‘Hey, are you OK?’

Trust Jess. Only a best friend would notice I’ve got something on my mind. Momentarily I toy with not telling her, then realise how ridiculous that would be: I tell Jess everything. ‘I just found out Daniel’s getting married,’ I say matter-of-factly.

She shuffles me into a corner. ‘Married?’ she hisses disbelievingly. ‘To whom?’

‘Well, you’re never going to believe this . . .’

‘Who?’ she demands.

‘Lady Charlotte.’

Jess’s jaw drops. ‘You’re serious?’

‘Deadly.’

‘Bloody hell, Heather. How are you feeling?’

I shrug. ‘You know.’ She nods understandingly. ‘But what’s worse . . .’

‘There’s worse?’
For Jess, this is an impossibility. To her, marriage is a race and you have to beat your ex to the finishing line. The other way round is the ultimate shame.

‘Brian and I are the official wedding photographers.’

In a rare occurrence, Jess is rendered speechless. Then she finds her voice: ‘Well, you’re far nicer than her anyway. She’s got cankles.’

Despite myself I have to smile: Lady Charlotte’s cankles are obviously infamous.

‘And as for that two-timing toad Daniel, you’ve met someone much nicer now. You said yourself, James is perfect.’

‘You’re right. I’m fine, honestly . . .’

‘Oy, slut.’

Someone jeers as they walk past and I twirl round to see who’s being shouted at. Then realise, with a shock, that it’s me. ‘Did you hear what he just called me?’ I gasp, affronted.

‘Get used to it, honey,’ giggles one of Jess’s stewards, who introduces himself as Neil and offers me honey-roasted peanuts. ‘It’s all part of the show. Whenever you see Brad on stage you shout, “Arsehole,” and for Janet you shout, “Slut.”’ He winks at Brian, who blushes and accepts a peanut. Strange, I could have sworn he told me he was allergic.

I turn back to Jess and put my hands on my hips in mock-offence. ‘Are you trying to tell me something?’ I pout good-naturedly.

She ignores me and grabs the elbow of a big, muscular man who’s got his back to me. ‘I want you to meet someone,’ she says, unable to keep the pride out of her voice. ‘Heather, this is Greg.’

He turns now and bats his false eyelashes at me. ‘A pleasure,’ he says, and smiles. And it’s the smile I notice: crinkling up his mouth it stretches out a pale silvery scar that runs up through his Cupid’s bow. It seems vaguely familiar.

‘You too,’ I smile back, trying to place him. Not easy when a man’s wearing false eyelashes and women’s lingerie. ‘Have we met before?’ I ask.

‘Oh, no,’ he says. ‘I’d definitely remember you.’ And he looks at me in a way that, if he wasn’t with my best friend Jess, I’d think was flirting.

‘So, where’s your man?’ asks Jess.

‘Oh, Gabe mentioned something about going to his uncle’s for dinner.’ It’s still niggling at me: where have I seen Greg before? It’s like when you see a film and can’t remember the name of an actor.

‘I meant James,’ she says pointedly.

‘Oh, right, of course.’ Why did I think she was talking about Gabe? ‘He should be here in a minute – he’s probably stuck in traffic.’

‘Hey, the show’s about to start. We should go in,’ interrupts a steward, rescuing me.

‘Yeah, come on, let’s find our seats.’ Jess links arms with Greg.

Everyone starts filtering off, leaving me in a rapidly emptying foyer waiting for James. It’s getting really late. Where can he be?

‘Excuse me, miss,’ I feel a tap on my shoulder and turn round to see a uniformed attendant. ‘You’ll have to take your seat now or I can’t let you in.’

The swirly carpet of the foyer is now empty, but for a few ticket stubs and scattered popcorn. Perhaps I missed his call in all the noise and confusion. I dig around in my bag and find my mobile, only to discovers there’s no reception.

‘Miss?’

The attendant is still waiting patiently.

‘Oh, sorry.’ I give the door a last hopeful glance, then reluctantly hand him my ticket. He tears off the stub and gives it back to me, then stands aside as I go into the theatre. I pause. ‘If a tall, dark-haired man should arrive . . .’ I hold out James’s ticket.

‘Of course.’ He tucks it into his breast pocket. And, as he gives me a look that’s so sympathetic it’s obvious he thinks I’ve been stood up, I turn and hurry inside.

 

T
he squeaking of the orchestra tuning up signals that the show’s about to start and I quickly try finding my seat in the packed theatre. No doubt I’ll be right at the back, slap-bang in the middle of a row as usual and I’ll have to do the shuffling-along thing, apologising and trying not to trip over people’s feet. I squint at the row numbers and glance wistfully to the front. There’s a couple of empty seats right at the end of the row. Gosh, I wonder who’s got those. I wish it was me.

Hang on a minute . . . In all the anxiety over James’s no-show, I hadn’t paid much attention to the row number on my ticket, but now . . . I double-check – that is me! A front-row seat! For once I’ll be able to see everything rather than the back of someone’s head. Cheered, I peer behind me at the rest of the theatre and spot Jess. She’s waving at me and mouthing, ‘Where’s James?’ I shrug a ‘Don’t know,’ look, peer once more at my watch, then sit down next to Brian.

Only it’s not Brian, I realise, as I turn to whisper in his ear. Brian has switched to sit next to Neil, leaving me beside a stranger. Which is fine, of course. I’m a big girl.

It’s just that James’s empty seat is on the other side of me. Staring at its big, velvet emptiness I feel a bit sorry for myself. And then, just as the novelty of feeling like a VIP in a front-row seat is wearing off and I’m spiralling into a host of anxieties about how I’ve been stood up, I’m going to have a horrible night and I might as well go home now, the orchestra strikes up, the curtains pull back and
The Rocky Horror Show
begins.

For the next hour I’m transported into an outrageously camp world of transsexuals from the planet Transvestite. The rest of the audience seems to know the entire script off by heart, erupting into greetings of ‘arsehole’ and ‘slut’ whenever Brad and Janet appear on stage and waving torches over their heads. Most of the time I’m at a loss as to what’s going on and try to pick things up as the show progresses.

Which isn’t easy, especially when someone passes me a newspaper for no apparent reason. What am I supposed to do with it? Not read it, that’s for sure, I tell myself, looking at it distractedly and noticing it’s the
Evening Standard.
Suddenly I get that weird sensation again, vibrating up through my fingertips, which are smudged with ink from fingering the headline: ‘
LOTTERY JACKPOT STILL UNCLAIMED, WINNING TICKET FROM WEST LONDON
.’

Oh, my goodness! It must be my stolen ticket!

I stare hard at the headline, my mind whirling, but now I’m being dragged to my feet to do the Time Warp and everyone’s hands-on-hipping and I don’t have time to think about anything but having stupid, ridiculous, outrageous fun.

‘So, what did you think?’

The show’s over and we’re inching our way towards the exit through the crush of the crowds leaving the theatre. I grin at Jess, who’s wrapped round Greg like a feather boa. ‘It was great, really great,’ I say, as I find myself still humming the Time Warp – God, that song’s catchy.

‘Even better than
Phantom
,’ gushes Neil, and I see Brian glow with shiny-cheeked happiness – even though his face has swollen and gone all blotchy. See? I
knew
he had a nut allergy.

‘Is anyone hungry? I know a place that does the best chicken tikka,’ says one of the stewards, whose name I wish I could remember.

And then, of course, it comes to me in a flash: Rick.

‘Nah, not for me, mate,’ mutters Greg, who seems a little agitated. ‘I’ve got to head back to Kent. Early start,’ he explains, and throws an arm round a visibly dismayed Jess.

As we spill out into the cool evening darkness of the street I contemplate them together for a moment, a vague unease clinging to me. I try to put my finger on it, but I can’t. Maybe it’s nothing. Maybe I’m just being over-protective. After all, Jess seems to adore him.

‘Heather? Is that you?’

A voice distracts me and I see a man walking towards me, dressed in black trousers, a checked jacket and a pair of thick-rimmed glasses.

‘James?’ I ask doubtfully.

‘Yep, it’s me,’ he says, with a self-conscious smile.

‘Hey, look, it’s Brad,’ whoops Rick.
‘Arsehole.’
He’s about to burst into hysterical laughter when he senses from my glower that perhaps this isn’t the right time and quickly shrinks back.

‘Sorry I was late. The show had already started. I tried calling you . . .’

‘There was no reception in the theatre,’ I explain. ‘Have you been waiting long?’

‘I had a drink at the pub and watched a bit of the rugby.’ He gestures across the road. ‘Though in this outfit I got some funny looks.’ He runs his fingers over his shoulder-wide lapels.

My mouth twitches into a smile. ‘You didn’t have to wait for me, you know.’

‘I know.’ He pauses and we look at each other across the steps. Maybe I’m imagining it, but I can feel awkwardness between us. ‘Do you want a lift home? My car’s parked just over there.’

‘Sure.’ I realise that’s an expression I’ve picked up from Gabe and add, ‘That would be great, thanks.’

I turn to launch into a round of goodbyes, but everyone’s arguing over whether to go for an Indian or Chinese and I change my mind. Better just to slip quietly away, I decide. Whispering to Brian that I’m leaving I hurry back to James before Jess sees him. I know she’s dying to meet him and if she spots him, that will be it: interrogation time.

‘So, how was the show?’ asks James, as we walk towards the car.

‘Great,’ I say. ‘But completely crazy.’ I can’t help noticing he’s not holding my hand. Something’s definitely up.

‘Good,’ he says evenly.

The conversation peters out and we fall silent.

We reach the car, James beeps the alarm and we climb inside. I sink back into the squashy leather seat and look out of the window as James pulls into the traffic. And then neither of us speaks for ages. Well, actually it’s less than two minutes – I sneak a glance at the digital clock on the dashboard – but
it feels
likes ages. It’s one of
those
silences. In the past I’ve heard couples talk about comfortable silences, as if it’s something to aspire to, something to boast about, and I could never understand why. Now, sitting in James’s Range Rover in a silence so claustrophobic I feel as if it’s suffocating me, I understand perfectly.

‘I wasn’t waiting for you, I was waiting for me.’

For a moment I think he’s talking to himself. But then he addresses me directly. ‘Tonight. I waited for you because I needed to talk to you. We need to talk.’

At once I feel both relieved and apprehensive. Translated, I know this means
James
needs
me
to talk. I know this because I used to shout the same thing at Daniel because he would never open up to me. James, on the other hand, couldn’t be more open: he’s always wanting us to talk about things. So much so that it’s exhausting.