Her broad smile faded as she looked at her watch. Adam was nearly half an hour late. She tutted and then decided to pop to the loo to check her makeup.
By the time she got back, there was still no sign of Adam. She was starting to get worried. Onstage a tiny, bespectacled, bobble-hatted Geordie chap she’d never seen before was singing his own version of “Doe a Deer,” but with different, supposedly hilarious words. Mediocre as he was, the audience, most of whom were pretty drunk by now, appeared to be loving it. So infectious was the laughter that even Rachel couldn’t stop herself smiling.
As she turned round to help herself from the bowl of peanuts on the bar (she was ravenous by now), she noticed a familiar figure standing at the far end. The battered suede jacket and 501s had been replaced by a trendy long-sleeved V-neck T-shirt and khakis, but she was in no doubt about who it was.
“Omigod,” she hissed, “it’s him.”
Xantia’s obnoxious woman-hating letch of a washing machine repairman was standing at the bar waiting to be served. She prayed he hadn’t seen her standing there. What if he came over and spoke to her? Should she cut him dead? She threw a handful of peanuts into her mouth and began munching nervously. She wasn’t sure precisely when it had happened, but there was no doubt she was turning into a jerk magnet. First there’d been him, the washing machine guy, then that Tractor bloke at the pub, now the washing machine wanker again. What she had done to deserve them, she had no idea.
“OK, folks . . .” she heard the Geordie shout, “now I want everybody to join in. You all know how it goes now. . . . Right then. After three . . .”
Christ, Rachel thought, what if he came over and started coming on to her? Why did Adam have to be late? She swiveled round on the stool so that she had her back to him.
“Doe—the dosh to buy my beer,”
the audience sang.
“Ray—the bloke who buys me beer.”
And what was he doing here anyway? Perhaps it wasn’t mere coincidence that he was in the audience tonight. Maybe he had traced her through Xantia and was about to become a real pest or even, God forbid, a stalker.
“Me—the bloke I buy beer for / far—a long way to the bar.”
She downed another handful of nuts. On the other hand, maybe she was being paranoid and he was a harmless, innocent customer.
“So—let’s have another beer/ la . . . la-la-la-la-la-la.”
Then again, perhaps Shelley had been right. It was just conceivable that he was cross-eyed like she said and hadn’t been staring at her tits at all. If he came over, maybe she should give him the benefit of the doubt.
“Tea—no thanks, I’ll have a beer.”
“Hello. I don’t know if you remember me . . .” a male voice boomed over the singing. Rachel shot round. The washing machine repairman was standing in front of her, holding a pint of Guinness and what looked like a spritzer.
“Which will bring us back to doe—ho, ho, ho.”
He paused to let the laughter and applause die down.
“I’m the bloke,” he continued eventually, smiling what Rachel took to be a deeply sarcastic smile, “you trod on the other day—at the Marxes.” He was much taller than she remembered—six four or five at a guess. And more solidly built.
“Er, excuse me?” she shot back indignantly—her good intentions of offering him the benefit of the doubt evaporating in an instant, “I think I had every right to be angry. After all, you were incredibly rude.”
“I’m terribly sorry,” he replied. “But I don’t think I was in the remotest bit rude.”
“Not in the . . . ? I can’t believe I’m hearing this. You stood in Xantia’s hall ogling my tits. I’d call that rude. What would you call it?”
He looked at her quizzically and took a moment to reply.
“Oh no,” he said slowly, a penny clearly dropping inside his head. “Do I feel like a berk. I’d come over here to have a go at you, when it was all my fault. Now I get it. You thought I was eyeing up your . . .”
She blushed. His sandy-colored hair was fashionably short with long sideburns. She’d not noticed that before.
“Well,” she said, “weren’t you?”
“No, not at all. I was staring at your T-shirt.”
“My T-shirt,” she repeated doubtfully.
“No, honestly, I was,” he said anxiously. “You have to believe me. You see, until recently I was going out with this woman who owned an identical top. In fact she was wearing it the first time we met. It was a painful split and seeing it again just knocked me for six, that’s all.”
She began shaking her head. “But it was a plain white T-shirt.”
“Well, yeah,” he said, “a plain white T-shirt that had ‘I’m having a party in my pants, want to come?’ printed across the front.”
Rachel’s jaw dropped. “That’s absurd,” she said with a half-laugh. “I think I’d have noticed if I’d been wearing something like that, don’t you?”
He shrugged. “You’d have thought so, but I guarantee that’s what you had on.”
“You promise you’re not making this up?”
“Absolutely.”
There was a warm openness to his face. She was suddenly in no doubt that he was telling the truth. She stood thinking.
“Oh my God,” she said slowly, realizing what must have happened. She’d been so desperate to get out of her top after wetting it in the shower that she’d simply pulled on the first one in the freebie pile as quickly as she could, without so much as glancing at the front. What was more, even when she’d taken it off to change back into her own dry clothes, she still hadn’t noticed the motif.
“I’d got my T-shirt wet when I was cleaning Xantia’s shower, and I’d borrowed one in a hurry. I never looked at the front. . . .”
His face broke into a broad grin. She couldn’t help noticing the smattering of freckles over his nose.
“Well, at least we’ve got that sorted,” he said in a friendly way. “I really am sorry about what happened. I just got a bit carried away. I didn’t mean to embarrass you.”
“No, I’m sorry for being so unpleasant. Shelley—she’s my best mate—she said that because you had a copy of
The Clitorati
sticking out of your pocket, I’d clearly got you all wrong. She reckoned you were most likely looking at something else completely because you were cross-eyed like the lion in
Daktari
.”
“Cross-eyed?” he repeated.
“Yeah. Oh God I’m sorry, now I’ve embarrassed
you
.”
“No, you haven’t.” He was still grinning this boyish, slightly lopsided grin that she couldn’t help finding attractive. “It’s just that I’ve never been compared to a cross-eyed lion before.”
“Look, I’m really sorry. I shouldn’t have mentioned it.”
“Please, it’s OK. Really.”
Neither of them spoke for a moment or two.
“So, bit of a coincidence you turning up like this,” she said eventually.
“Not really. I’ve been coming here since it opened back in the eighties.”
“Oh right,” she said, wondering how she could have even considered he might be a stalker.
“I’m Rachel by the way,” she added politely.
“Yes, I know, I just saw your set.” Another lopsided grin.
“Oh right, course. You did tell me your name the other day, but it’s gone right out of my head.”
“Matt. Matt Clapton.”
“Hi, Matt,” she said, holding out her hand.
He motioned his head toward the two glasses he was holding. “Er, I don’t think I can quite.”
“Oh God. No, course you can’t,” she said, feeling herself go red. “Stupid of me.” Her hand fell back to her side.
There was an awkward silence.
“I thought your set was great,” Matt said eventually. “Very, very funny.”
“Really? Thanks.” Rachel started twirling her hair round her finger—the way she always did when she felt self-conscious.
“Yeah. You were brilliant. I mean it wasn’t just the gags. . . .” He was becoming so animated now that the beer was starting to splash onto the floor. “But your timing’s totally spot on. You had the audience eating out of your hand.”
“Honestly? You really think so?” The hair twirling got faster.
“Absolutely.”
More silence.
“Well,” he said, “I’d better get going. There’s somebody waiting for me at the front there.” He nodded his head in the direction of the stage. Rachel turned to look. All the tables in the front row were empty except one where a slim, pretty woman with long blond hair was sitting nibbling peanuts. Having finished with the T-shirt girl, she thought, he hadn’t wasted any time finding somebody else.
“So, is it good, then,
The Clitorati
?” she said as he moved to go.
“Oh the book. I haven’t read it. When you rang I realized I’d run out of paper, so I ended up writing down your address on the inside of the cover. It actually belongs to my flatmate.”
“Oh well, I hope she’s enjoying it.”
“He,” Matt said.
“Oh right. Sorry. I just assumed . . .”
They both hovered awkwardly for a few more seconds.
“Right, well . . . see you then,” he said. “And I really am sorry about the other day.”
“Yeah, me too. Bye.”
As he walked away he turned back to give her another lopsided grin.
Onstage Pitsy Carter was about to lead her less than enthusiastic audience in the second songfest of the evening. “Right, all together now,” she yelled. “. . . Oh, don’t go jogging in a white track suit when you’ve got a heavy flow. . . .”
* * * * *
“It was the chili that did it,” Adam groaned as he continued to press the chapati firmly to his nose. They’d used up all the paper napkins.
“Don’t be daft, Ad,” Rachel said, watching his blood seep out from round the chapati and drip onto the tablecloth. “Chili makes people sweat, it doesn’t give them nosebleeds. You know as well as I do, it’s your mother who caused it.”
Having lost their table at Momo, they had ended up at the Taste of the Raj in Tottenham Court Road. Adam had been suitably apologetic about turning up late. He’d spent the morning clothes shopping. Then when he’d gotten home he’d decided to update his wardrobe catalog. (He kept a meticulous card index file of all his clothes—right down to his socks and pants—which told him exactly what shirt, tie and socks went with which suit.) It was past six before he knew it. Seeing how genuinely sorry he was, Rachel hadn’t had the heart to get cross with him.
They’d almost come to the end of their meal when Adam’s mother, Sylvia, phoned him on his mobile in a state of near hysteria. It turned out that her bridge had come out in a piece of nut brittle during
Hetty Wainthropp Investigates
and she was insisting that since Adam was in London, he should come over to Stanmore and fix it right away.
“Mum,” he’d said in a pleading tone, “it’s past ten and Rachel and I are just finishing dinner. Plus, I don’t have any instruments with me. Can’t it wait until Monday when you can see your own dentist?”
Apparently it most definitely couldn’t. He continued his feeble protest for another minute or two before finally caving in. No sooner had he done so then blood started gushing from his nose.
“I think it’s stopping now,” Rachel said, thinking, not for the first time, what an overbearing old bat Adam’s mother was.
Gingerly, he pulled away the chapati.
“Yeah,” she said, leaning forward slightly and peering at his nostrils. “It’s fine.”
He put the chapati on his side plate, on top of the bloodied napkins.
“Oh by the way,” he said nasally. “I don’t suppose you happened to see last Monday’s
Guardian Media
? The
Telegraph
’s advertising for a features editor. . . .”
“Adam,” she said gently, reaching out and taking his hand. “We’ve been over this a thousand times. Comedy is what I do now. It’s my life. I am not about to give it up.”
“But this is such a great opportunity. Sixty grand plus a car. It’s a decent package.”
“Maybe, but—”
“OK, OK,” he cut across her, in a resigned tone. “Forget about the job. Look, there’s something else I want to discuss with you too.”
“Go on,” she said, wondering what on earth was coming.
“I’ve just been on the phone to Barry, my accountant. He’s adamant we shouldn’t delay getting married much longer. Thing is, I’ve done some pretty profitable share deals this year and it turns out that if we get married before April 6, I can sell my shares and pass the profit over to you without having to pay capital gains tax. I’d be saving thousands and the money would stay in the joint kitty.”
As he took a calculator from his breast pocket, Rachel threw back her head and laughed. “Do you know, Adam, I haven’t got the foggiest idea what you’re on about.” She paused and wetted her lips. “But that dibby thing you do with your finger on the calculator is like pure sex.”
He grinned at her for a moment or two. “Rache, what I’m saying isn’t even remotely complicated. You just can’t be bothered to listen, that’s all.” He tapped in a few more numbers. “Right, just bear with me a sec. . . .”
“Adam,” she said quietly, trailing her finger over the tablecloth. “There’s this nationwide comedy competition happening in a few weeks and I’ve pretty much decided to enter.”
“Right,” Adam said, putting down the calculator. “I reckon—at a conservative estimate—I could save twenty grand in capital gains tax if we got married before April. Christ, even you have to admit that’s not to be sneezed at.”
“No, I suppose it isn’t,” she said. “But about the competition . . .”
He wasn’t listening.
“You don’t have to make your mind up now,” he was saying. “But getting married straightaway makes extremely sound financial sense for both of us.”
“All right,” she said. “I’ll think about it.”
He put down the calculator. “So tell me about this competition.”
She explained. “It’s such a fantastic opportunity,” she said, brimming over with excitement. “Lenny reckons I’d be daft to pass it up.”
“I dunno, Rache,” Adam said, running his finger idly over the rim of his beer glass. “I hope you’re not overstretching yourself. I mean, the opposition is bound to be pretty fierce.”
“I know,” she said. “It’s a risk, but it’s one I’m prepared to take.”
“Look, I can’t tell you what to do. Though I have to say that in my experience, competitions are for losing, not winning . . . but if it’s what you really want to do . . .”