Bella Summer Takes a Chance Page 8

  I felt a little vomity as I prepared to saunter as casually as humanly possible to The Musician’s table. Sitting with him was a man wearing sunglasses. It was near midnight. Indoors. He didn’t appear to be blind. There was no white stick, no dozy Labrador at his feet. Excess arrogance rather than lack of vision seemed to be the reason for the shades.

  As I stepped off the stage, the booking manager’s wave caught my eye. I was more than happy for the detour, and the extra time to compose myself.

  ‘Hi, B., nice set,’ he said, smiling. He was a nice man, though we didn’t usually chat much. ‘I just wanted to let you know that we’re thinking of making a few changes. To the programme. This recession, you know, it’s cutting into business quite a lot, so, well, we’ll be running all-instrumental jazz evenings for a bit. I just wanted to let you know, in case you wondered why we weren’t booking you. It’s not you, you’re great and we’ve really enjoyed having you here. It’s just, well, we need to cut back, for now, and assess where we are.’

  He looked terribly embarrassed to have resorted to the old ‘It’s not you, it’s me’ speech. I felt myself shaking. But shocked as I was, I still felt sorry for him.

  ‘Wow, okay, well, thanks for telling me. I’ll be sad not to play here, but I understand. Are you able to keep the rest of the guys?’ Given that the band’s combined age exceeded that of the United States, I wasn’t hopeful that they’d find new employment.

  ‘Oh, yes, they’re okay, thank you for asking. Here, I’ve got your cheque. Really, B., thanks so much.’ He kissed my cheek, handing me my last music-related pay cheque. ‘Can I get you a drink?’

  ‘Well, all right, em, thanks for having me. And yes, I’d like a glass of Rioja please. You know what? Make that a vodka and tonic.’

  ‘Double?’

  ‘Please.’

  I was officially an out-of-work musician. Finally it had happened. My musical aspirations had withered into sultanas. It was an uncomfortable realisation to accommodate after more than two decades of thinking of myself in a certain way, of being validated as a singer, by having a manager, by getting gigs. But really, I should have noticed my incredible shrinking musical persona before. It had been ten years since I had a manager or worked regularly. Was I really that delusional? Yes, I was. That’s what made the booking manager’s news such a kick in the gut – the distance between where I was, and where I thought I’d been. Small steps back up the ladder seemed possible. But Evel Knievel would have struggled to make the leap I was going to have to make if I really wanted to succeed. And it struck me as I stood there watching the musicians pack up that I did want it. I really wanted it, so much so that it made it hard to breathe. I’d lost something that was part of me. That realisation kind of put talking to The Musician into perspective. I felt ill for a whole new reason.

  ‘This is a surprise,’ I said to him as I approached their table.

  ‘Yeah, hope you don’t mind,’ he said. ‘We were around here and I remembered you were gigging. Can you sit with us for a bit?’

  He sounded drunk as he introduced me to his friend. ‘Sure,’ I said, sitting beside The Musician. ‘I’m finished now.’

  ‘You’re talented,’ he said, leaning in to me. His kiss tasted of something sweet. Whisky? ‘Great voice!’

  What a sucker I was for a talent-related compliment. Who wouldn’t be? It was miles better than an appearance-related one which, at least when uttered by a man, was often just verbal lubricant to slide you into bed. ‘Thanks. I can’t take too much credit for it. My mum’s a great singer.’ Actually, she was a marvel. Classically trained thanks to parents bent on having an operatic daughter, as a teen she sneaked around offering to sing for free in any seedy club that’d let her on stage. Few dives passed up free entertainment even when it bordered on child exploitation. By her early twenties she was a favourite amongst Chicago’s music lovers. She cut her first record on her twenty-fifth birthday, and many of her songs became embedded in the collective memory of an entire generation. It was ‘But For You’ that made her a national treasure, though. It was one of the enduring love anthems of the seventies, and Mum’s career rocketed from there. She still got asked in restaurants for her autograph. She pretended to be embarrassed but she loved it. Dad too. There wasn’t a man on the planet prouder of his wife than my dad.

  ‘I enjoyed your set,’ said Sunglasses. ‘You have quite a nice range, and real depth and timbre to your voice. It was really clear on that last song. Who represents you?’

  ‘Here?’ I asked, like I had managers scattered around other cities. ‘No one. I really just do this gig.’ Did. Past tense. I wasn’t about to disclose that, though.

  The Musician said that Sunglasses was a manager, kicking my vomitometer into overdrive again. Sunglasses appraised me. ‘Why only here? You could work a lot more if you wanted to.’

  If I’d wanted to. I bridled at the blame that implied. Like getting gigs was as easy as clicking my heels three times. Bookers didn’t exactly have me on speed dial. You had to bust your arse just to get a chance to get a gig…

  Which meant I had no right to feel aggrieved. He was right. I hadn’t had more work because I hadn’t wanted it badly enough. Simple as that. As a matter of fact, it wasn’t just my music that had enjoyed the path of least resistance, was it? I also didn’t like working for foul Fiona. I could have found work away from her, but I didn’t. I let her keep booking me. And I probably hadn’t needed ten years to realise I wasn’t in love with Mattias. It was just easier not to rock the boat. And yes, Sunglasses, since you mention it, I could have put in the legwork to find more gigs and establish myself in London. But I didn’t. Was it too late now? ‘I really want to,’ I told him truthfully. ‘I just hope I can.’

  ‘Well, it takes time, yeah? I’m still building, and always looking for talent. I started mostly on the rap side but R&B is more my thing. Rap is a bit derivative, you know what I mean?’

  I had no idea what he meant. ‘Yeah,’ I lied. ‘Well, I’m glad you enjoyed the set. Yours,’ I said to The Musician, drawing his attention back from the new twenty-two-year-old waitress, whose breasts seemed to have their own gravitational pull. ‘Is in a couple of weeks, right?’

  ‘Yeah, at the 606 Club. Hey, you were really good,’ he slurred again. ‘How about a drink?’ He noticed my glass. ‘I mean another drink? Or don’t you usually stay here after the set? We can go somewhere else.’ He clasped my hand and pulled it to his thigh. ‘Do you want to go somewhere else?’

  ‘What else is open? It’s a bit late now.’

  ‘My place is open.’ He nuzzled my neck. ‘How about that?’

  ‘Well, I do usually get out of here after my set.’ I was hedging, not answering his question directly. Evasive answers were the safety blanket of consultants. If I didn’t say yes, then I wasn’t explicitly agreeing to sleep with him. A sexual get-out clause, nothing to pin on me that’d hold up in court.

  ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Let’s go. We’re heading to my place for a drink,’ he told Sunglasses. ‘Want to come?’

  ‘Nah, you go ahead. I’ve got to meet friends up at King’s Cross. Have fun. B., nice to meet you. And I mean it. You could work more if you wanted to. Here,’ he pulled a card from his wallet. ‘Feel free to get in touch. I might know some people.’

  As I put his card into my bag, I turned off my phone. There would be no awkward interruptions tonight. ‘Thanks! G’night!’ I very much doubted that he meant what he said. I’d met too many like him in the business, who promised the world then didn’t return your calls. Still, my thanks were sincere. It was nice to hear the compliments.

  When The Musician said ‘my place’, I had a certain image. Of an actual flat. I didn’t envision myself sitting on an unmade bed in a filthy room with a mini sink full of glasses in the corner. He lived in a bedsit. In a grotty walk-up in a dangerous-looking part of Zone 2. ‘Er, sorry it’s a bit of a tip. Can I get you a drink?’ He unearthed an open bottle of whisky from under a pile of jumpers
and rooted around in the sink for a non-infectious glass.

  What had I got myself into? ‘Just a small one, please. I’m not much of a whisky drinker.’

  ‘I developed a taste for it when I lived in Asia. They say there’s nothing more British than an Englishman abroad. We went to the FCC every day when I lived in Phnom Penh.’

  ‘You lived in Cambodia?’

  ‘Yeah, I thought I told you that. I worked with Oxfam there in ’97 and ’98.’

  ‘But wasn’t there a war on?’ I was sure it was no holiday destination in the nineties.

  He chuckled. ‘Well, yeah. If everything is good in a country, then you don’t need Oxfam to be there. It was desperate. It was one of the most fulfilling, life-affirming things I’ve ever done.’

  The Musician’s cool factor definitely trumped his seedy abode. What were a few unwashed dishes and the risk of dysentery against humanitarianism like that?

  ‘I admire you. I wouldn’t have risked my life to help like that.’

  ‘Well, when I signed up it just seemed like an adventure, a lark. I was only twenty. But then I got there and saw the devastation and the suffering and I realised that it was something I really wanted to try to make better.’

  He managed to look bashful and smutty at the same time.

  ‘Come here.’ He pushed a pile of clothes, shoes and dishes off the bed and pulled me down. He really was very sexy, and he knew what he was doing. I’d forgotten how thrilling it was to be in bed with a new man, not knowing exactly what sensations were coming next. Even kissing him was exciting. ‘Do you like this?’ He asked.

  ‘Yes. I like it.’ Please, not the running commentary again.

  ‘And this?’

  Definitely. Since I’d become acquainted with his playbook I felt more relaxed. It was even possible that we were going to score a few goals. I could only hope. Own goals were getting tedious.

  ‘Tell me what you like, B.’

  ‘This. This is fine.’ I was never a big bedroom talker. It always seemed a bit contrived to narrate one’s actions in bed when we wouldn’t do so in real life. Nobody sat at the breakfast table and said, ‘I’m going to spoon this cereal into my mouth now.’ I didn’t need anybody discussing my Corn Flakes, thank you very much.

  ‘No, tell me. What do you like. Say it.’

  It was one thing to encourage his chatter, but to make up my own? I pretended not to hear him, hoping he’d forget his line of questioning. He wasn’t paying much attention anyway. Like our first time, he was rushing things a bit, gearing up for the big finish. After a few minutes he shouted, ‘Tell me you want me to fuck you!’

  ‘Okay.’

  ‘Say it.’

  I couldn’t. I was getting the giggles. Which was not appealing in a sexual partner.

  He stared into my eyes. ‘I want to do what feels good to you.’

  I’d have thanked him if I didn’t fear it coming out in a guffaw punctuated by a snort.

  ‘Can you come?’

  ‘Nope.’

  ‘Okay.’ After thirty seconds of concerted effort he collapsed on top of me. Fait accompli. It served me right for being honest. Why couldn’t men understand that just because we weren’t on the way to an orgasm, it didn’t mean we weren’t enjoying the sex? It was like asking a woman in the bath whether she was going to fall asleep and if she said no, reaching over and pulling the plug. It didn’t mean, I wanted to tell him, that we wanted to get out of the tub. Maybe I should have told him. Perhaps I’d have done womankind an enormous service by imparting this wisdom. If he told two friends, and they told two friends, et cetera, it might become common knowledge, a sea change in sexual relations. Or else he’d be offended and never want to see me again. I zipped my lip.

  ‘You probably want to get a good night’s sleep,’ he said once he’d cooled down.

  ‘Yeah, I’m wiped out.’ Performing always took it out of me. I hoped he didn’t snore. Or hog the covers, or do that melodramatic I’m-so-uncomfortable-with-you-in-the-bed flip-flop when he turned over.

  ‘I’ll get you a minicab, then.’

  ‘Er, okay.’ Was that how it was done now? No sleepovers. No strings. Was I meant to say anything about seeing him again? Or thank him or something? Frederick was right. I needed an etiquette lesson. We kissed at the door. No mention was made of a next time.

  Frederick was awake and aggravatingly chipper as I staggered from my room the next morning seeking caffeine. ‘B.! Have you been fucking??’ He had one of my blackhead strips on his nose. And on his forehead, and his chin.

  ‘Fred, you’re always so subtle. Those are just for your nose, you know.’

  ‘I know, but you’re out of your clay mask. You left me no choice. And you didn’t answer my question, darling, which means that you have been fucking. Do tell. Spare me no details.’

  ‘I’ll do no such thing. It’s none of your business.’

  He put his arm around me as I flounced next to him on the sofa. ‘Spoilsport. I’d tell you.’

  ‘I don’t think I want the details of your sex life.’

  ‘Jealous?’

  ‘Nauseous. Actually, I do have one question.’

  He nodded. ‘Yes, you do need to change condoms during a session.’

  ‘What? No, no, not that. Although, really?’

  ‘Why, of course. Hasn’t he? I suppose it’s not necessary if he’s not lasting more than a few minutes. Is that what you want to ask me about, sweetheart? Because there are techniques, you know, to prolong things.’

  ‘Ugh, no, Frederick, please don’t say another word!’ Deep breath. ‘I want to know about the etiquette, afterwards. You know, when you’re leaving.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘Well, first of all, is it normal not to spend the night?’

  ‘Give me context,’ he said, examining the content of his pores on the strip. ‘Ew, look!’

  ‘No thanks, that’s disgusting. It’s our second time sleeping together.’

  ‘Are you exclusive?’

  ‘I’m not sleeping with anyone else.’

  ‘Have you agreed not to see other people?’ I shook my head. ‘Then you’re not exclusive. And no, it’s not expected that you’d spend the night.’

  ‘But isn’t there an element of common courtesy involved in sex any more?’ I felt there should be, given that we’re courteous when crazy people talk to us at bus stops, and we haven’t even seen their bits.

  ‘If you’re not exclusive, then it’s just sex. He’s not going to stay unless he’s horny and wants to sleep with you in the morning. If he doesn’t, then he’s probably getting it regularly somewhere else.’

  The idea of other women preceding me in that less-than-pristine bed made me queasy. ‘You’re making me feel great, Fred.’

  ‘Sorry, hon. You’ve got to remember how a man thinks. It’s about sex. He comes, he conquers, he leaves. Don’t expect to play happy families.’

  ‘I don’t expect happy families! I expect common decency. When Mattias and I first got together, I stayed the night. There wasn’t any question about me leaving. I thought that was normal.’

  ‘He was just too polite to get you to leave.’ He looked truly sorry to burst my bubble. ‘And speaking of the Swedish meatball, he phoned about half an hour ago. Something about your mobile not working? He needs you to call back about the ballet tonight. Are we dating him now?’

  ‘No, we’re not dating him. He’s taking their new clients to see Swan Lake. He probably just wants to know what to wear.’

  ‘And he’s mistaken you for Gok Wan?’

  ‘No, I–’

  Faith’s attempt to play a tune on the door buzzer interrupted us. Saved by the bell. ‘Come up, Faith, I’m not quite ready,’ I said to the box.

  ‘You’re in your pyjamas,’ Frederick said.

  ‘I said I’m not ready. Please let her in. I’ll get dressed.’

  ‘Do something with that hair as well.’ He wagged his finger at my head.

  Frederick w
as right about one thing. Dating had changed, and I wasn’t equipped for this brave new world. Without wishing to sound like my mother, in my day men were subtler about sleeping around. They at least pretended monogamy, if only for the night. This was all a bit transactional and I feared I didn’t have the right currency.

  My phone danced with messages as soon as I switched it on. Musician: 0. Mattias: 2. Not the result I’d hoped for. But given that Mattias sounded panicky by the second call, I phoned him back.

  ‘Ah, B., thanks for calling. You know your phone was off last night?’

  ‘I know. I had my gig.’ I’d told him that at least twice.

  ‘Oh, right. Did it go well?’

  ‘It was okay, except they’re not going to book me any more. They’re cutting back, apparently.’ Thinking about it again made me feel sick. I wasn’t a singer any more.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that. But you’ll get other gigs. Are you upset? Do you want to talk about it?’

  I had minus twenty minutes to get ready. ‘No, that’s okay. What’s up?’

  ‘I have a very last-minute favour to ask. Is there any chance you can join me at the ballet tonight? Mark was supposed to go, but his wife broke her arm and he doesn’t want to leave her alone with the baby. She can’t lift anything and her mother can’t get here for a few days. And Alex is on holiday. You’d be helping us out a lot, since we can’t return the ticket. And you know how cheap Mark is. He asked me if you’d take the ticket.’

  ‘Well, I suppose I could. I don’t have plans tonight. Sure, yes, I can come. But I insist on paying for the ticket.’

  ‘Of course you’d pay for the ticket. I’m not asking you out.’

  I felt foolish. ‘Right, yes, good.’

  ‘So I’ll meet you at seven at the Royal Opera House?’

  ‘Sure, okay, see you then.’ What the heck. I liked ballet, and it must be killing Mattias’ boss to think of the ticket going to waste. It wasn’t like he usually splurged on corporate entertainment. I think they once packed sandwiches for an excursion to Regent’s Park.