It's Not You It's Me Page 16

  ‘Maybe.’ I don’t give her any further explanation, leaving her to wonder if I prance around in a dirndl on a regular basis.

  ‘Oh.’ She seems a little unsure of what to make of this. ‘OK. See you later, then.’

  I close the door with a smile on my face. Something gives me the feeling we’ll be seeing a lot of Sharon later on tonight. Or Jas will be, anyway. And, if she has her way, probably more than he wants.

  I let Jas sleep on while I hog the bathroom. I do the whole wash the hair, shave the legs, dry the hair, primpy-preeny Big Night Out deal. I only check to see if the mobile’s really turned off or not every five minutes or so. When I’m done, I don one of the bathrobes and go out into the room to sit at the table and paint my nails. I pick up the few souvenir postcards I bought that morning and flick through them absentmindedly. As I stick them back in their paper bag I spot the dirndl, where I’ve left it behind on my bed. Trust Jas to buy me something completely idiotic I never would have bought myself but just love anyway.

  I watch him as he sleeps. It’s really been great having him here, I think, as I eenie, meanie, miney, mo between the bottles of nail polish on the table. I don’t think I’d be having half as good a time if I’d had to tag along with the likes of Sharon and Tara in the Hofbräu tent. I let a chuckle escape, thinking that Sharon probably couldn’t have picked me up and saved me in such poor heroic fashion as Jas did today, either. And I can tell Kath and Mark are pleased I’ve got someone watching out for me too. They seemed to be worrying a fraction less when I called them before my kip. Yep. Jas being here has made all the difference.

  I look down and concentrate on painting the fingernails on my right hand the sparkly blood-red I’ve chosen. It really has been great, spending this time with Jas. And I think I’ve almost accomplished what I decided I wanted—for us to get our old friendship back. The one we used to have. Well, almost. Things are still a bit strained at times, like after that embarrassing hug the other day where I held on too long, but we can’t expect everything to get straight back to how it was right away, can we? We’ll get there, though. Of course we will.

  It’s stupid, that thing people say about how men and women simply can’t be friends. Rubbish. Of course they can! It’s a ridiculous generalisation. And I guess the only way to disprove their silly theory is to show them all by example that they’re wrong. For Jas and I to have the best, closest, platonic friendship ever.

  I’m halfway through my little finger when I feel it…someone watching me.

  But I have to wait to check. It takes two more strokes to finish the nail I’m painting. Finally I sneak a glance up at Jas, polish brush poised.

  He’s looking at me. Staring at me. And I know that for me to have felt it he’s probably been doing it for quite a while.

  As soon as he sees me seeing him, he closes his eyes again with a quick smile. And I tear my eyes away. I sit there, brush still poised in the same place, winded.

  What a load—I put the brush back in the bottle—of shit.

  Because right then, when our eyes met, all I wanted to do was get up, go over and get into bed with Jas. It was almost magnetic, the feeling I just got from his eyes. I sit like this, staring down at the tabletop, for the longest time.

  What is wrong with me?

  The man is gay.

  I think.

  Oh, I don’t know. Either way, we’ve been through this. He isn’t interested. Not in the way I want him to be interested, anyway.

  I want to give myself a good smack on each cheek for being so stupid. Give myself a slap, hoping I’ll wake up to myself. I have to realise a few things and I have to realise them fast. I mean, who do I think I’m fooling with all my ‘best friend’ bullshit?

  Well, myself—for a while, maybe. But not very well.

  I groan then, remembering Shane. Obviously Shane was able to see through me from the start. Why else would he ask so many questions about whether Jas and I were together? I look over at the champagne bottle, sitting on one of the bedside tables, still unopened. And, hell, if Shane was able to see through me, who else had? Probably everyone. My gaze flicks over to Jas. Please, no…he can’t have.

  I close my eyes, really, really hoping Jas hasn’t noticed anything. How embarrassing would that be? For my own sanity I have to wake up to myself. Smell the coffee in both cups—as you might have noted, I never quite see the point of just one. Because I am torturing myself, always hoping that I’m going to get what I want from Jas when I know that it isn’t going to happen. At least before, when we lived together and nothing happened between us, I had some hope. Hope that he might feel the same way. Now I know that isn’t how he feels and still I keep right on trying. Why can’t my brain deal with that? Get over it? He only wants to be friends.

  Good friends. Best friends.

  Blah. I feel like spitting at that phrase—best friends. It’s so…sickening.

  I remember back to when we lived together. Before I realised how I felt about Jas. When we used to do touchy-feely things all the time. A hug here. A kiss on the cheek there. But that’s all it was—a moment in time. Of course it wasn’t for me. Where I was concerned it meant a little bit more than it should have. But for Jas that’s all it was. A moment. A gesture. Nothing more.

  And there’s the catch—‘nothing more’ simply isn’t enough for me. I’ve been fooling myself, thinking I could settle for anything less than the whole relationship deal. Being friends was never going to cut it for me and I should have realised that sooner on this trip.

  Though, really…get a grip, Charlie. As if being best buddies could have even worked for us in the real world anyway. It would have been practically impossible. I’d never see him. I mean, every week he’s in a different city. It would have just been too hard. We would have fallen out of contact again within days. Because now that Jas is Zamiel he has a whole different life.

  One that I’ll never be involved in.

  One that I’ll never be invited to be involved in, more importantly. What it comes down to now is we’re from different worlds. He’s on the beautiful people team and I’m on the non-beautiful people team. And it’s not that I’m being down on myself or anything, it’s really just the cold, hard truth. We don’t have anything in common any more— I am of the non-beautiful and Jas has his beautiful people world to go back to after this trip. Even if he does have to wear a whole lot of make-up and crack a whip to get through the door.

  So that’s it. Realism. It just wouldn’t work out. Like the Capulets and the Montagues, our two sets are fated never to mix socially.

  I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the mirror then, pulling faces, and wonder how the hell I got onto Shakespeare. Beats me. I start to wonder if I’m inadvertently sniffing nail polish fumes. Maybe I just imagined all of this, including Jas staring at me? I glance up at him hopefully. He’s asleep, or pretending to be. Hoping he really is, I turn my attention back to the table and put every ounce of concentration into painting those last five nails and trying not to think about that bed and what’s in it that I want so badly.

  Well, maybe I think about it once. Or twice.

  But not after I drink the miniature bottle of vodka and the miniature bottle of gin mixed with some tonic out of the mini-bar. After I’ve done that, I decide to forget about the whole thing. I’d just embarrass myself if I said anything and, after all, we’ve only got approximately seventy-two hours left to spend in each other’s company before he flies to wherever he’s got to go. I’m sure I can resist him for that long. Whatever Sharon might think, no one can be that irresistible.

  God, maybe Mark should have booked me on a drugfest tour of Amsterdam instead of this Oktoberfest caper? Right about now I could do with some of just about every illegal substance that city has to offer. Then again—I inspect the nail polish bottle—sticking my nose too close to ‘Bombshell Red’ seems to be doing the trick all on its own.

  When Jas gets up I order a club sandwich and a bowl of wedges from room service�
��food therapy—and we share this before we head downstairs.

  We don’t mention what happened before.

  Downstairs, most of the people on the tour are already hanging around the lobby and Shane waves us over. ‘Hey, I didn’t know if you guys were coming. So, how’s it all going?’ he asks. ‘Enjoying the festivities? Drinking the beer, love?’ He gives me another slap on the back that makes me cough.

  ‘Yep, it’s great,’ I say. ‘Jas even bought me a dirndl today.’

  ‘Kinky.’ He laughs. ‘Champagne must’ve done the trick.’

  I go to say something, but he’s turned around by the time I get my act together and is already talking to someone else in the group.

  Jas hasn’t heard us talking about the champagne. I still haven’t told him about it, though I’m not quite sure why. He’s busy looking about himself, as if for an escape route. ‘Can’t believe we’re going to a karaoke bar. I might need a drink or two to get through this evening.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be much of a problem,’ I tell him. ‘I think drinks consumed is what tonight’s all about.’ I spot Sharon in the crowd then. She whispers something to her crony, Tara, beside her, and the girl looks over and points at Jas. Sharon grabs her hand, stopping her pointing, and says something before they both turn away. I sigh. ‘Your admirer’s back on the warpath again.’ I turn Jas towards Sharon. ‘She was at the door before, asking if we were coming. Apparently Shane wanted to know, but he’s as surprised to see us as anyone.’

  ‘Maybe I’ll need a few more than two drinks. More like five. Six. Seven.’

  ‘I’m sure Sharon would be more than happy to buy.’

  Jas snorts in reply as Shane starts speaking to the group. Everyone quietens down in order to hear.

  ‘OK, people, I think that’s all of you now, so we’re off—like a rat up a drainpipe. We’re going to be walking a few streets down to Atomika, this funky little karaoke bar. I’ve had a few words to my mates there, and they’ve agreed to give us reduced drinks all night…’

  A cheer from the group.

  ‘On one condition. Everyone, and I mean everyone, has to get up and have a croon.’

  A boo from the group.

  ‘Come on, it’s not that bad. Just take advantage of those reduced drinks and we’ll probably be dragging you off the stage. Now, let us be motionary.’

  Jas looks at me worriedly. ‘I can’t sing.’

  ‘This is no time to get stage-fright, Spawn-boy.’

  He shakes his head. ‘Shhh, not so loud. What I mean is, if I sing she’ll know who I am—that Sharon girl. She’ll find out.’

  ‘So? Big deal. It’s only a matter of time before she works it out anyway.’ I turn to go and follow the group, but Jas catches me by the arm. I look up at him, wondering why he’s so worried.

  ‘You don’t understand. If she finds out, she’ll tell people. I know her type. The media’ll be here in under an hour.’

  ‘Do you really think the media would come?’

  ‘They always come,’ he groans.

  I finally get it then. The Sharon and the media thing. I’d been wondering about it since that day in Reims—Jas’s fretting about the media taking a few photos, worrying that Sharon would work it all out and alert them. It’s bigger than I thought. It’s not that he doesn’t want Sharon to find out who he is and have to give her an autograph and have the other people on the tour interested in him. It’s more than that. He thinks the media are going to turn up and he’ll have to give interview after interview. Photo after photo. Well, fair enough. I’d hardly want a media entourage on my holiday. All Jas is after is a little privacy, and I don’t blame him if that bathroom phone call from Zed’s anything to go on.

  I think about his problem for a moment before I come up with something. ‘Um, how about if you faked it? Sang differently? No one’s asking for a star performance from you tonight.’

  ‘You think I could?’ He seems relieved by my suggestion.

  I check to see if he’s being uppity, but he’s not. ‘Sing badly? Sure you can. If you don’t think you’re up to it, just follow my lead. I’m a pro at singing badly—even in the shower.’

  He takes his hand off my arm then, and looks a bit less worried. ‘Guess we’d better catch up with Shane.’ I follow his lead and we walk quickly out through the door and up to the group, who are waiting at the lights.

  The group walks briskly the rest of the way to the little bar. It’s cold. Winter’s coming. And to add to this I think people are still more than a little hungover from the day’s festivities. This combination leaves us all reasonably quiet, and when Shane tries to start up a rousing chorus of ‘everyone’s favourite beer song’ he doesn’t get very far. As one, we walk even more briskly the rest of the way and the relief is visible throughout the group when we finally get to our destination a few streets later.

  Inside, I have to admit to myself that the place really is pretty funky for a karaoke bar. It’s very retro, with pink and red lighting, which makes it feel warm and cosy. There’s a fifties-looking vinyl bar, and the place is dotted with little white vinyl bucket chairs and tables all facing…

  …the stage.

  You can feel everyone’s eyes stare at it in trepidation as they enter the room. And then, when they’ve all seen it and worked out what it is, there is an instant lemming-like descent on the bar.

  ‘Scotch?’ Jas asks.

  ‘Yep. Scotch and dry, I think. A double.’

  ‘Right.’

  I find a table and take a seat. Soon enough, Jas comes back. With four drinks. ‘Thought we might need them. Dutch courage and all that.’ He puts them down on the table.

  ‘Thanks.’ I take a sip out of one of my drinks. ‘But what are you talking about—Dutch courage? You do this all the time. And usually in front of hundreds of thousands of people who are paying to see you.’

  ‘Usually they’re not intent on “discovering my true identity”.’ He says this in a deep voice, as if he’s reading from an action-packed comic book.

  He’s definitely losing it, I think, taking a close look at him as I keep sipping—I really do need the Dutch courage. ‘Don’t worry about it. I’ll find a song we can do together and I’ll drown you out a bit. You’ll be fine.’

  Jas downs his beer in almost one go.

  ‘If you’re still able to stand upright in half an hour, that is.’

  After everyone’s had a couple of drinks, and a few stragglers have arrived at the club, Shane gets the ball rolling with ‘California Girls’ by the Beach Boys. He includes lots of lovely up-and-down suggestive hourglass-shaped hand movements for all the girls in the audience to enjoy. Poor guy, I think as I watch him trying his damnedest. I hope he’s making a lot of money out of this job and that he doesn’t end up having a psychiatric episode later on, when the flashbacks start. What do they call it? Post-traumatic Oktoberfest stress disorder, I think.

  A few of the girls strut their stuff next, in groups of twos and threes. It’s the usual showing-of-age time warp choices, such as ‘Fernando’ by Abba and ‘Careless Whisper’ by George Michael. That kind of thing. The kind of thing I need to be way, way drunker than I am right now to get up and embarrass myself with.

  Give me half an hour.

  When Jas and I have downed our fourth drink each, I decide I’d better get moving before I end up under the table. ‘I’m going to find us a song,’ I tell him.

  Jas nods. ‘I’ll source us a couple more drinks.’

  It takes me a good ten minutes or so to work through the list of songs available. When I’ve made my choice and stuck us in line, I go back to our table. ‘Guess what I chose?’ I say to Jas as I sit down.

  ‘What?’

  ‘“99 Luftballons” by Nena—they had it.’

  ‘What? In German?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘But I can’t sing in German. Can’t read it. All I can do is the “99 Luftballons” bit.’

  I give him a look. ‘Duh. That’s the who
le idea. I’ll do the verses and you just come in with whatever you can work out. That way you don’t have to do too much singing.’

  Jas’s face perks up then. ‘Duh, yourself. Might even work. When are we on?’

  ‘Not for a while yet. I think there are still about three or four people in front of us.’

  ‘Here you go.’ Jas pushes my two drinks closer to me.

  Hmmm. Should I, or…? Of course I should. If I’m going to be carrying us up there I’m going to need it.

  Jas and I sit back and clap along as a few guys have a go on stage singing a Beatles song. After this, it’s Sharon who makes her way up.

  ‘Got a bad feeling about this.’ Jas turns to me. ‘A really bad feeling.’

  And he’s right to have that really bad feeling, because in the next few seconds we learn that Sharon’s chosen a Spawn song, of all things. She struggles through it badly, all the time looking straight at Jas, which makes everyone else turn around and look too.

  To make matters worse, pictures of Zamiel start flashing up on the video screen halfway through the song. Zamiel walking down the endless corridors of some stadium. Zamiel in the wings. Zamiel running on stage. Zamiel doing his famous S&M banned-in-twenty-countries scene. Zamiel’s fans trying to get on the stage. Zamiel’s bodyguards kicking the shit out of the fans trying to get on the stage. That kind of thing. Good clean, honest fun.

  ‘Jesus…’ Jas groans under his breath and lowers his head a little.

  If he could fit, I think he’d try to slink underneath the table right now.

  I try very, very hard not to laugh as I watch the video. It’s hysterical seeing Jas as Zamiel—the bad boy of the music world—when I know he’s really pretty much like a kitten. No, that’s not fair and, frankly, a bit emasculating. Maybe more like a gummy old lion who’s lost its teeth and roar but can still pace around its cage majestically. Anyway, kitten or lion, it’s something that I never would have thought he had in him—pulling off a character like Zamiel. And I’m having a great old time until the end of the clip…when Zamiel does the stare thing.