Noooooo Gertrude!
Don’t be lame!
Come to the bbbar
Fine bra lame.
I’m staying ay willies
Willy’s
wiLLIAM’s
There’s another text too. From Arthur.
I hear that you said no to joining us for drinks!
Did you know that you’re lame?
I laugh.
So lame! I actually got a better offer for after-work drinks.
The sun does not wake me before eleven. Bee is still not home. I have one new text.
Proud of u.
ARTHUR SAYS YOUcan tell a lot about a person by how they approach karaoke. I can’t tell if he actually thinks it, though, or if it’s just one of those things that people say to sound more intelligent than they are. He doesn’t crack when he tells me, the perfect picture of sincerity, so who knows.
Either way, the next date is a night of karaoke, although he does not announce this until we are finishing our drinks in the dingy London-style pub he chose for dinner. (The parma was reportedly passable; my prawn curry special demonstrated why you shouldn’t order seafood at a pub in the middle of a city.) He is quick to stress that he has already pre-paid for three hours and four people, so any backing out would be akin to flushing his money down the drain, and he knows that his dear friends would never wish to do that to him.
At first I think this is for my benefit; perhaps he’s concerned that karaoke would be a bridge too far for me. He definitelyhas a slightly jumpy vibe when he tells us. I can admit that the prospect makes me nervous. I can’t remember the last time I sang in public (miming the hymns at school doesn’t count).
I don’t have time to overthink it because he’s demanding I chug my drink and ‘get a wriggle on’. And anyway his subterfuge, I now gather, is not about me at all: William looks murderous. The silent conversation exchanged between the two men suggests that William hates karaoke more than he hates mismatched socks and that Arthur is very much aware of this and booked the date anyway. William glances at Bee, whose face is…hard to read. Bee is never hard for me to read. Maybe it’s the booze. Does Bee like karaoke? I’m not sure we’ve ever discussed it. William puts a hand over hers on the table, nods to Arthur and starts to get up, saying nothing else.
The four of us walk in silence, two by two, a few blocks to the karaoke bar. William has an arm around Bee, and they have their heads tilted as they whisper softly while they walk. Arthur and I maintain a respectful friendly distance on the footpath, although our hands brush when he moves closer to allow someone to pass. I flinch and cross my arms. He moves back to our customary distance. In summary, I feel like the vibes are off.
I am right.
The nine-thirty slot is apparently highly coveted—or perhaps this is just every time slot on a Friday night, what do I know? We can barely squeeze inside past the burly bouncer, surrounded by bodies and noise: not singing but shrieking anticipation. I can’t hear any music in the waiting area, so the soundproofing must be really good. The shrieking isn’t givingme much hope for the music quality, so thank goodness for the padding in the walls.
We walk down a red corridor lined with doors, each with a smaller porthole revealing some truly tragic dance moves and air guitar. Arthur, in the lead, is holding a superfluous little white basket much smaller than the two microphones it contains. We come to a stop about halfway down. The room itself is black (to hide the stains?) with red wannabe-leather couches along one wall, facing a small stage. Screens flank three sides: they currently display a timestamp that tells us Arthur’s booking has 2:59:23 remaining. The staffer explains that we have an alcohol credit as part of the fee, and that the phone attached to the wall can be used to summon drinks. He tells us not to stand on the furniture and closes the door behind him. We stand in silence with blue disco light dancing over our faces.
Not a moment after, another staffer enters with a tray of shot glasses filled with clear liquid and a jug of something clear.
‘Thank god,’ William mutters. He places the tray on the small glass table in front of the couch, then grabs shots for himself and Bee, which they instantly down. It’s weird seeing him so jittery.
Arthur offers me one of the other shots and we look at each other before tossing them back. ‘Do you want to start us off?’ he asks. Oh. Shit. Now I actually have to do the thing. Panic. Fear. Heaving breathing setting in.
‘I wouldn’t even know what to choose!’ I say. I suddenly can’t remember the name of, let alone the lyrics to, any song.I’ve listened to music before, haven’t I? He takes my empty shot glass and replaces it with the something in the jug, which turns out to be vodka soda. William and Bee have set themselves up on the couch, practically on top of one another, sipping politely at their drinks and talking quietly. They could be in a laneway cocktail bar right now by the look of them. They’re not looking at Arthur or me and clearly have no intention of going first. Or possibly at all.
‘I’ll go first,’ Arthur says in a soothing tone. ‘Maybe I’ll load up a few songs so you don’t have to worry about it, yeah?’ I nod. I’ve now forgotten all words. He turns to the computer touch screen and starts typing as frantically as he can, given the lag. William disentangles himself from Bee to make a call on the drinks phone and then returns to her side.
Arthur is a bit of a showboat, it turns out, though it might be the shots. He stalks to the stage and bends his head low over the microphone. A single stroke of a piano key. Then another. And another. Arthur is throwing down the gauntlet. Arthur is starting with My Chemical Romance. I wonder for a moment if he had an emo phase in high school. I could see him with a fringe and some black eyeliner. Hot.
It is definitely more screaming than singing, so I can’t tell if he’s any good. But he flails his body around with frankly ludicrous disregard for his own safety and nearly trips over the table during the guitar solo, and I can see the security guard sticking his head into the porthole, ready to pounce should he jump on the couch. Which it kinda looks like he isthis closeto doing.
Bee and William bop along beside me, mellow like they’relistening to elevator music. Then a microphone is thrust in my face. In an instrumental break, Arthur says, ‘You don’t have to get up, but maybe start with trying to sing along?’ So I do. After downing the rest of my drink and pouring myself another. Bee nudges over their empty cups and I refill those while Bee sinks back into William.
