Lizzy Harrison Loses Control (6 page)

‘Ah, right, Milo it is,’ I say. ‘Thanks. Great. So what’s your special rugger-bugger name then, Dan?’

‘Er, you can just call me Dan, like normal,’ he mumbles, grabbing his pint and fixing his eyes on the empty stage. ‘I think the lights are going down – must be about to start.’

‘Dan, you total liar, it’s perfectly light in here. No excuses, dish it.’

Dan is valiantly ignoring my stare when Bangers shouts from the end of the table, ‘Oi, Windy, pass the chips, will you?’

‘Windy! Ha, no wonder you didn’t want to tell me. Suffering from some digestive issues, are we?’ I tease, and Dan’s mouth twists into a smirk. He turns his chair towards me and is about to reply when Johnno interrupts, painfully earnest from across the table.

‘Er, no, actually, Lizzy – I mean, ah, Milo, was it? We actually call him Windy because of the nineteen-seventies children’s television programme
Camberwick Green
, which featured a character, in fact a
miller
, called Windy Miller. Windy Miller, Dan Miller, do you see?’ He looks at me with the patient expression of a kindly teacher instructing the class dunce.

‘Ah, right, I
think
I get it,’ I say innocently, sipping my beer and avoiding looking in Dan’s direction. Johnno seems well-meaning, so what’s a bit of patronizing between new friends? ‘Thanks so much for explaining.’

‘No problemo, Milo, no problemo. Glad to help out,’ Johnno says, settling comfortably back into his seat and proceeding to expand on his theme. ‘Now you see,
Paddy
here gets his name because he actually comes from the
Emerald Isle
, also known as the
Republic of Ireland
, and people from there are sometimes called either Paddies or Micks. Some might say these are
pejorative
terms which—’

‘Johnno, mate,’ interrupts Dan. ‘I think we might want another pitcher of lager before the show starts. Do you mind doing the honours?’

‘No problemo, Windy, no problemo. Leave it in my capable hands,’ says Johnno affably, and he heads over to the bar.

‘Great bloke, Johnno, great bloke,’ says Dan, watching as Johnno instantly strikes up conversation with a tall brunette in the bar queue. That’s to say, he’s doing most of the talking. ‘Amazing winger on the pitch. Tedious as fuck off it, unfortunately.’

‘Don’t be mean – he’s just trying to make me feel comfortable,’ I laugh. ‘At least he means well.’

‘Yeah, he does mean well. I just wish he’d mean it a bit further away so I could talk to you properly.’ He smiles at me over the top of his pint.

‘Oh, really?’ I turn towards him on the bench. ‘And what do you think we need to talk about properly, Dan? What colour rugby shirts are in this season? Refereeing decisions in the Six Nations Cup? Which key is best for singing a rousing chorus of “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot”?’

‘Oh, Lizzy,’ says Dan with mock seriousness. ‘Everyone knows you should sing “Chariot” in the key of C. But I think we should talk about you tonight.’

‘What are you on about, you lunatic? I’m offering you the chance to talk about rugby but you’d rather talk about me? Whatever is there to discuss?’

‘Where do we start?’ he says, his twinkling eyes belying his stern tone. ‘So many issues, so little time.’

‘Issues? What sorts of issues?’ I tease. ‘Have you been talking to my therapist again, Dan Miller? You know that’s terribly unethical.’

‘Well, your therapist, by which I mean my bossy sister, is full of interesting revelations about her best friend.’ Dan grins, and suddenly I’m feeling paranoid. What exactly has Lulu told him?

‘Is she now?’ I ask warily. ‘And what might those revelations be, exactly?’ Please, please,
please
let it not be anything about my status as accidental celibate – I hope some things are sacred between friends. It’s not that Dan doesn’t know I’ve been single for ages – of course he does; I see him all the time since I spend half my life at the house he shares with Lulu. But I’d rather he, and everyone else we know, imagine I’m up to all sorts of exciting antics offstage.

‘Something about giving up on your Wednesday nights together in search of adventure – which I suppose is what brings you here. And what I want to know, Lizzy Harrison, is just how much adventure can you handle? In Balham?’ Dan chuckles into his pint glass at the very idea, which is fairly annoying as his idea of crazy adventure is probably of the ‘wearing a pair of comedy breasts in public’ variety. I am far more adventurous than he could ever be, I reassure myself, even if I don’t look it tonight in my librarian number.

‘Oh, I can handle plenty of adventure, Dan, in Balham or anywhere else,’ I say, smiling at him sweetly. ‘Can you?’

‘Why don’t you try me?’ He turns on the bench so he’s facing me, one thigh pressed against mine.

‘Oh come off it, Dan! You? Adventurous? You’ve always been the straightest man I know. Except when you dress up in women’s clothing, of course,’ I say, though I don’t really think this is a sign of latent homosexuality since I have yet to encounter the rugby bloke who doesn’t grab any excuse to slip into a dress to amuse his friends.

‘You and Lulu always did have a funny idea of what it is to be adventurous,’ says Dan, his mild tone disguising a surprisingly effective barb.

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ I ask, stung.

‘Well, just that if it doesn’t fit in with
your
idea of cool, then it doesn’t count,’ he says.

‘Dan, I’m in a dodgy bar in Balham dressed like Miss Moneypenny and you’re lecturing me on being too cool for school?’ I say, jiggling my desperately unattractive glasses on the end of my nose to make him laugh. ‘Is this about your hair?’

‘Yeah, it always comes back to the hair, doesn’t it?’ he chuckles. ‘You and Lulu won’t be satisfied until I’ve got myself some wanky boy-band directional fringe.’

‘I’m just concerned those lovely curls of yours might get in your eyes on the rugby pitch,’ I say teasingly, poking his thigh with a finger. ‘Always looking out for your needs, Dan.’

‘Oh, really?’ he says, attempting an air of mystery. ‘What needs might those be?’

‘Dan,’ I reply, ‘your needs are very simple: sport, beer and birds. They haven’t changed since you were a teenager, so don’t go making out you’re all complex and inscrutable.’

‘Plenty of things have changed since I was a teenager,’ says Dan, still aiming for gravity but fighting a losing battle against smiling.

‘Yeah?’ I laugh. ‘Like what? Not your hairstyle, that’s for sure.’

Before he has a chance to reply, Johnno reappears, stumbling back to the table with two pitchers of beer. He drops down on to the bench with a satisfied sigh, saying, ‘Now then, Lizzy, ah, Milo, where were we? I think we were about to talk about how our friend Bangers got his name . . .’ To my immense relief, the house lights dim almost immediately and a hush descends over the audience.

Dan leans over to whisper in my ear. ‘I hope your friend is an entertaining one, Miss Moneypenny.’

Oh God, I hope so too.

The compère steps on to the stage, blinking into the lights. He looks surprisingly harassed for a man who’s just introducing the acts, and there’s a piece of paper in his hand which, even from this distance, I can see is covered with scribbles and crossings-out.

‘Ladies and gennelmen!’ he announces, squinting out into the audience. ‘Welcome to the Queen’s Arms comedy night, where we have three wunnerful acts waiting in the wings to entertaaaaaaain – ’ a spotlight sweeps through the audience – ‘
you!
’ The spotlight picks out Bodders at random from the crowd, pint half raised to his lips; he raises it above his head in acknowledgement as the crowd cheers and whoops.

‘And for the rest of you,’ the compère continues, ‘we have three mediocre acts. Ah, just kidding – we’re following our usual programme. Our first act will be Dave Diamond, a debut act, so I hope you’re all going to be very kind.’ The audience goes
awww
. Dave Diamond? Surely not. Is
anyone
here going by their real name tonight?

‘After Dave we have our old friend Stanley Judd (cheers from the audience). I see he’s got his fan club in tonight.’ The spotlight roams the room again and stops on a small Jack Russell perched forlornly on a bar stool at the back of the room. Oh ha-ha, my aching sides. This is going to be a long night.

‘And after Stanley, I’m delighted to say we have a surpriiiiise guest, ladies and gennelmen. I’m not going to spoil it by telling you anything except that he was a regular here once upon a time and, though he’s gone on to greater things, ladies and gennelmen, he hasn’t forgotten his old friends here at the Queen’s Arms.’

Dan leans in again. ‘So which of them is it, Lizzy? Who’s your special friend?’

‘Wouldn’t you like to know?’ I say pertly, stalling for time. I’m getting the impression Dan thinks I’m here to see some new love interest, and I’m not about to admit to anything that might incriminate me. ‘Tell you what, have a guess once we’ve seen all three acts and I’ll tell you if you’re right.’

A woman from the table next to us glances over to glare in our direction with a hissed ‘shush’.

‘Such mystery, Lizzy, such mystery. I can see you would definitely be worth spying on,’ whispers Dan with an amused smile.

‘Welcome to the stage, puhleeezzze, ladies and gennelman, in his first appearance at the Queen’s Arms, let’s hope it’s the first of many, the one, the only Daaaaave Diamond!’

The compère leaves the side of the stage as a very large man in a fez enters, patches of nervous sweat blooming under the arms of his blue checked shirt. His short hair is brushed forward and glistens with either hair gel or more sweat; it’s hard to tell at this distance.

Dave shuffles towards the centre of the stage, clutching the microphone with white knuckles, as if it’s a grenade that might go off if he relaxes his grip even a fraction.

Please be good, Dave the Comedy Courier, I think. Please, please be good.

Dave, who has gone an unpleasant shade of grey, gulps and shifts his considerable weight from left foot to right foot.

‘Now then, now then,’ he whispers into the microphone.

Oh God, an irony-free Jimmy Savile impression? In the twenty-first century? There is complete silence from the audience.

‘Now then, now then,’ says Dave again, a little louder. I can feel the mood of the crowd shifting already from amused curiosity to impatience. Loyally, and slightly insanely, I laugh as loudly as I can manage, even though I’m not sure if this is meant to be a joke. Bangers, Bodders, Johnno, Dusty and Paddy all turn round to stare in disbelief, first at me, and then at Dan for knowing such a peculiar person. Dave is clearly every bit as surprised as they are, and squints out into the audience to see his solitary fan.

‘Now then.’ Dave is valiantly, some might say ludicrously, going for a third attempt with the same opener when a streak of denim and flying blond hair launches itself from the wings, wraps its arms round Dave’s legs and pulls them from under him. Dave’s fez falls first, and his eyes open wide in shock as he crashes down on to the stage like a felled redwood.

‘Bloody good tackle, mate,’ shouts Johnno, leaping up from his seat. ‘Bloody good tackle.’ The rugby boys thump each other on the back, impressed for the first time tonight.

The streak of denim springs to its feet like a cat, smoothing its long, unbrushed blond hair away from a face so familiar the audience gasps. The fierce cheekbones are unmistakable. The famously full lips saved from looking girlish by a strong jaw. The dark lashes enhanced with a liberal application of mascara.

Randy fucking Jones. I might have known.

He grabs the microphone from poor Dave, who is still lying stupefied on the floor. The flustered compère has rushed on to the stage and is trying to help Dave up, while another man, I’m guessing act two, Stanley Judd, is gesturing furiously from the wings with a ‘get him off’ hand signal.

‘Sorry about that, mate,’ says Randy, as if apologizing for treading on Dave’s toes or something equally inoffensive. ‘Thought you might need a hand out here. Now, where was I?’ He grins wolfishly into the crowd, who are on their feet cheering and clapping – they think it’s all part of the act. Randy pulls at his tight denim jacket, which just meets the heavy leather belt that holds up his even tighter jeans. On anyone else, the preponderance of denim combined with long hair and cowboy boots would suggest a dodgy Seventies heavy-metal roadie, but somehow Randy’s confident swagger and chiselled face make every other man in here seem hopelessly uncool in comparison. Still, I tell myself, I bet he stinks like a roadie, even if he’s getting away with looking like one.

Behind him, Dave is helped up at last and ushered into the wings, crestfallen. I can hardly look at him for pity. You might argue that Randy saved him from comedy shame, but Dave deserved at least a chance to be crucified on stage in front of all of us. It’s what he would have wanted.

‘Where was I?’ repeats Randy. ‘Ah yes. Rehab, that’s where, gorgeous,’ he says, addressing a statuesque redhead at one of the nearest tables. ‘Ever been?’ He leans forward, trips on the heel of his own boot and nearly topples into her substantial cleavage. ‘Ooops, nearly,’ he laughs and staggers backwards to regain his balance.

‘He’s off his face, mate,’ says Dusty under his breath. And he is.