“Before Ben, Charlie had loads of men,” Cat cuts in unhelpfully. “She’s no problem on the pull.” You’re welcome, she smiles at me.
Tristan splutters on his whiskey.
My cheeks are like raspberries.
“Over my dead body is Charlie going out with any of our sleazy friends.” Tristan laughs, but we all hear the steeliness in his voice. “Not happening. They’ll keep their bloody hands to themselves. I’ve seen a few eyeing you already.”
“Well, I like Ben,” Mum intercepts sorrowfully. “It’s time you stopped flitting from boyfriend to boyfriend.”
I roll my eyes. “Then you go out with him.” They all laugh.
Yippee, Charlie’s love life is hilarious.
“How’s work, little sis?” Tristan nudges me. “You get that pay rise you were after?” As they lean in to hear. I’m tempted to lie.
“No,” I reply with a heavy sigh. “My boss is a prick.”
“You’ve been working really hard in this job, too,” Cat nods in a second attempt of support. “Remember in your last one you used to take naps in the toilets and call in sick all the time? You don’t do that in this job.”
“That was years ago,” I hissed back at her. After tonight I’m submitting an application into the
Guinness book of world records for Cat as the worst date ever. “and I was bored at that job.”
“Don’t worry, Charlie,” Jen places a hand over mine. “If you ever need any career advice, I’d be happy to help.”
“Thanks, Jen,” I simmer, “sounds like I can turn to you for any type of life advice.” My eyes snap up to see Danny staring at me, frowning.
“There’s the girl who belches like a builder.” I hear behind me loudly. For fuck’s sake.
Jen’s mouth drops open.
“Excuse us,” I grab the arm of Cat, the belching builder, and flash them my most dazzling smile. “We are going to the bar.”
Charlie
I manage to stay away from them for an hour by camouflaging us amongst a group of investment bankers.
We are sampling the bar’s most exotic cocktails to the joy of the bankers.
There was the ‘bacon-me-angry’ cocktail made with bacon fat-washed vodka, ‘Butternut-oldfashioned’ with bourbon infusion of spiced and sweetened butternut squash, and the plain nasty ‘bloody-tampon’ with whiskey, tequila, vodka, and V8 for a splash of fake menstrual cycle.
Nothing that should ever be in a drink, but that’s why they charge you double, and, hell, this was on Tristan. A girl has to know when to keep her dignity and when to freeload, and I certainly wasn’t paying 22 quid for butternut squash bourbon with my mother hovering in the background.
Tristan was right; he does have a lot of pervy friends. The bankers weren’t my cup of tea, but they served the purpose of giving a confidence boost after the passive-aggressive roasting by Jen. “You’ll sing, Charlie,” Mum announces as she comes up behind me. “Excuse me, boys.” I swing round to see her elbowing her way through the bankers.
She’s red-faced and had too many sherries.
Now my own mother is cock blocking me?
Tristan strolls behind her with a mischievous look on his face.
“What? No!” My mouth falls open. “This is not the time or the place for music from the old country. It’s Kensington, for god’s sake.”
“It’s tradition, Charlie.” Tristan grins. “I’ve made sure that there is a guitar here.”
“Tristan!” I wail. “Why would you do this to me? It’s not even a fucking funeral!”
“Language, Charlie!” Mum tuts at me. “Stop this nonsense. You have a beautiful voice. It’s the only reason I come to these shenanigans.”
“You come here for the free sherry.” I narrow my eyes.
“Tristan, please” I look at him pleadingly, clasping my hands in prayer mode. “If you have any love for me, you’ll stop this car crash.”
He shrugs his shoulders like it’s out of his control. Like he had no part to play in this by delivering the instrument to make it happen.
I whack him across the chest.
“Hey!” he rubs the attacked area. “I actually like your singing. Besides, I couldn’t live with
Mum’s nagging if I didn’t ….”
That’s easy for Tristan to say. I wasn’t sure if the rest of the guests would welcome the interruption. He may find no one turns up to his 41st birthday after this.
I look up at the sexy stage and flinch. It was designed for soul, jazz, or burlesque, not music you would hear at an Irish fiddly dee session.
“Singing at Aunty Mo’s funeral is one thing. I can handle that. Singing Irish covers at an exclusive private members’ club -not so much!” I look up at the ceiling and let out a tiny wail. “Oh my god, why is this happening to me?”
“Stop being dramatic,” he grins. “Anyway, the band is already waiting for you.” “Charlie?” Mum calls.
“What?” I flip around to glare at her. “I’ve given in, damn woman. I’ll sing one song.” She purses her lips into a thin line. “Maybe you could put on a bra before you go on stage?” Argh. I growl loudly and storm off, walking slapback into Danny Walker.
A flicker of amusement runs over his face as he steps aside. “Good luck,” he says in his dry tone. I grunt and move towards the stage.
10 minutes later, and two bloody-tampon cocktails down the hatch, I am waiting at the side of the stage. I look down at my breasts. Perhaps the chicken fillet bra had been a mistake? I’m pretty well endowed in that department. The fillets were meant to make me look sultry under dark lampshades, not naked under a stage spotlight, like some sort of sex show.
It’s too late to inspect them further; the band were beckoning me on stage, introducing me on the microphone.
I climb up the steps, and the lead singer hands me the electric guitar with a sympathetic look on his face.
It’s a difficult transition to crack, moving from jazz to old Irish country. “Thanks for giving us a break,” he grins. “They’re all yours.” He wasn’t half bad-looking.
I put the guitar strap around my neck and felt the stage nerves tornadoing up from the pit of my stomach.