Page 56 of Worth Every Game
“Sing something happy. This is shit,” comes another voice.
The numbness I felt at first morphs to heat, sweat beading on my forehead and the back of my neck.This is horrible, but I can handle it.Can’t I?There aren’t that many people here, but I wish Marie and Kate weren’t witnessing it. They’re both so together… so accomplished. Kate’s a businesswoman to her core, and Marie will probably become a consultant at the hospital before she’s forty.And me… what good am I? What have I done? What will I ever achieve?
Why are these doubts running through my head right now?I’m on stage, my fingers strumming. I’m still singing, but even I can hear how bad it sounds. I can’t perform when my head is a mess. I’m not in the moment. Not present. My heart is racing and I’m overwhelmed with doubt and fear, and the awareness of those people out there in the bar, shadows I can’t make out, waiting to jeer at me.
“Get off,” comes a voice.
And then, even through the light hitting my eyes, I see something careen through the air towards me. It slaps hard against my shoulder, bursting like a water balloon. I gasp, fear sparking through me like a million needles. My mind erupts with panic.What’s happening?
The remains of whatever hit me slops to the floor by my feet. A slice of tomato.
A slice of fucking tomato, all greasy and covered in ketchup like it had been nestled inside a burger before it was launched across the room.
For a few moments, I’m stunned. My cream shirt is spattered with a mixture of ketchup, tomato juice and burger grease. Some is in my hair. On my face.
The thoughts come like a torrent. How did this happen? How am I here, singing in dive bars where no one is listening, and if they are listening, they’re abusing me?
The bar is quiet, but whispers and jeers begin quickly, rising like a tide of discontent. An impulsive anger jerks me out of my seat, and I stand, guitar hanging around my neck by the strap. “Hey,” I call out. “Who did that?”
I look around, catching sight of Marcia standing before a table in the corner, three burly blokes sitting at it. I can’t see their faces from here, but I would guess they’re maybe around my age.
Rage rises through me like a storm.How fucking dare they!
I’m out of my mind. This isn’t me. But anger is firing like rockets, propelling my limbs as I storm off the platform, through the tables, ignoring the punters staring at me.
I haven’t progressed far from the stage when one of the bouncers grabs my shoulder. “We’ve got this.” He pins me in place, moving around me to join Marcia and another bouncer as they escort the men out. They stumble and yell as they are jostled towards the exit. They’re definitely drunk, but one of them catches my eye as he’s being manhandled from the table and there’s a nasty leer in it.
I don’t know what I did to deserve this tonight, but just as the thought passes through my head, the man yanks his arm from the bouncer and throws something.
A split-second view tells me it’s another slice of tomato, but before the thought is even fully formed it hits me right in the face. The slam of it stings, and I yelp, blinking away the splash of seeds and juice from my eyelashes, wiping it with my fingertips. And suddenly my anger vanishes, subsumed by a powerful wave of sadness, and for a moment I worry that I’m going to break down in the middle of the Marchmont, weeping in front of everyone.
Marie is on her feet, storming after the receding figures of the men, pointing her finger and screaming at them.
Kate swoops out of nowhere, her arms circling me. “Let me take you home,” she says, and all I want is to fall apart in her hug, to weep and cry from the shame and humiliation, crumbling beneath the weight of the frustration that after all these years and all the songs and the hours of playing,thisis where I am. But I don’t. I take a shaking breath and nod, then walk out of the bar with my head held high.
Kate’s hand rests gently on my shoulder and Marie, face like thunder, is pushing through the bar to join us, but even so, the only thing I’m really aware of is the echo of Jack’s words again.If she were any good, she’d have made something of herself by now.
20
JACK
Ihaven’t seen Elly since I interrupted her practising and we ended up yelling at each other last week. I’ve been in the office or out for drinks most nights, and her hours are so random I never know when she’s going to appear. I’ve heard her practising the guitar in her room, but I haven’t wanted to disturb her.
It’s been a heavy week at work. We’ve had tenders out with developers for three new sites across the UK, and on a fourth site, where development is already underway, they’ve uncovered a fucking Roman burial ground, which is going to delay construction for God knows how long while the archaeologists go in and investigate.
I unlock my front door earlier than normal. I’ve had enough. I’m ready to relax. But more than that, I want to see Elly. I want to get things back on a more friendly footing… back to normal. If we even have a normal to return to. I suspect we don’t.
Maybe we’re done. Maybe that lap-dance orgasm incident was too much. Or maybe it was the fight. She’s probably still avoiding me. I guess she could be thinking the same of me, but I haven’t been doing it deliberately. Either way, that changes tonightbecause our game is nowhere near complete, and I’d much rather play with her than fight with her.
I hang up my overcoat and march into the kitchen, rolling my sleeves up as I go. I have no idea what time Elly is coming back, but if I’m going to break down her resistance, or at least have a little fun after this shitty week, then I might as well get started.
I don’t cook often, but when I do, I make it count. There’s rarely anything in my fridge to cook with, but today I gave the housekeeper instructions to stock up and leave the cooking to me. She bought everything to make coq au vin. If I want to win this game and have Elly begging me to sleep with her—God, what a fucking delightful thought—then I need to crack out the big guns.
I grab down an apron from the back of the door. It’s one Seb Hawkston gave me as a joke, and it’s printed with a man-sized image of Michaelangelo’s David. Full frontal marble nude, dick and balls and all. Somehow, it seems appropriate.
I open a bottle of wine and pour myself a glass as I cook, and put on some music.
An hour later, and there’s no sign of Elly, but the coq au vin is simmering and I’ve polished off half a bottle of wine.