“That’s what Taylor would do,” nods Chloe.
“That’s right, he would,” agrees Julian, who still has no idea who ‘Taylor’ is.
I’m not sure I agree that singing karaoke to a bar full of holidaymakers in Tenerife is the best cure for a broken heart — or even the best way to get over the discovery that the man you’d recently started to think you might be falling for is still with the fiancée he said he never wanted to see again, as is the case here. But it’s all I’ve really got.
Jamie turned out not to be The One.
It looks like Alex isn’t either.
So I’ll be going home tomorrowwithouthaving found the love of my life; which is disappointing, but then again, I suppose it was always a bit ambitious thinking I could do that in a week.
Next time, I’ll book a fortnight.
For now, though, I’ve checked off everything on my list that was ever actually possible … with the exception of singing on stage.
I know what I have to do. And if Taylor can do it with a broken heart, then I can definitely do it with a slightly maimed one.
“First up,” booms Disembodied Voice Man, “We have a young lady called Summer. Give it up for Summer, everyone!”
The Crones turn as one to look at me, their faces tense in anticipation of me choking again, like I did last time. So I take a small amount of satisfaction as I watch their expressions change to surprise, and then pride, as I stand up and straighten my shoulders, as if I’m about to go into battle.
“Go on, Summer,” yells Gerald, as the crowd applauds politely. “You show ‘em!”
I don’t knowwhat, exactly, I’m supposed to be showing anyone, but I can only hope it’s not how to walk in high heels, because my legs are trembling so much as I make my way to the front of the room that it’s hard to stay upright. Before I know it, though, I’m walking up onto the stage, and the orange-faced compere is handing me the microphone, beaming at me with teeth so white they light up the room.
“Right,” he says, turning to the karaoke machine. “Shallow, coming up.”
He starts fiddling with the buttons on the machine, and I stand there waiting for the music to start, a sea of expectant faces staring up at me.
So, absolutely no pressure, then.
“Go on, Summer!” Rita yells into the void, her voice echoing around the vast room, and making everyone shuffle around in their seats to see who my single supporter is. After a second, they all swivel back to face me — but there’s still no music.
“Sorry, love,” says the compere. “Having a bit of trouble getting this thing started. Maybe you could tell a few jokes or something while you’re waiting?”
I gape at him, horrified. The only joke I can think of is the one that involves me standing up here imagining I’m going to be able to sing for everyone; and the punchline is — yet again — probably going to involve me running out of the room again, close to tears. I can feel them gathering already.
The crowd starts to murmur impatiently. There’s still no music, and there’s even less chance of me telling any jokes — or not anyfunnyones, anyway — so it looks like the joke’s on me.
Again.
I glance hopelessly over at Orange Face, who’s resorted to switching the machine on and off repeatedly, in the hope of making it start up. The lights on the front, however, remain as blank as my memory as I frantically search it for the lyrics of the song.
You’re no Mariah Carey, whispers the ghost of Jamie Reynolds instead. And I listen. I crumple inside. I get ready to run.
But then there’s a sudden movement at the back of the room, and someone steps forward.
“Tell me something, girl…” says Alex, in a loud voice, which carries all the way to the stage, silencing the crowd, who turn and look at him as if this is all part of the act: him walking slowly towards me, his ocean eyes fixed on mine.
The entire room seems to hold its breath, although it’s probably just me. Alex is looking at me as if itisjust me, though.
Just me in the room. Just me in theworld. Just me, listening to him speak the opening lines ofShallow— the Bradley Cooper bit — and feeling like it’s the first time I’ve really heard them.
I didn’t realize those first lines were made up of three separate questions.
It didn’t occur to me that each one of those questions feels like it’s directed right at me.
Alex did, though. He hasn’t even known me for a full week yet, but Alex somehow saw me in the lyrics of this song, and in the questions it asks me. He doesn’t break eye contact as he stands there, looking up at me as if I’m the only person in the room, so when he reaches the end of the verse, and the last of the three questions, it feels like the most natural thing in the world to answer him.
