Just Last Night(105)

“Swindon? You’re sure?” I say.

“Yep,” Fin says, necking more beer. He complains about the “Carrington half stone” he’s put on since we started dating, three months ago. As someone who regularly spins out brushing her teeth to watch him shower, I can confirm it suits him.

“Right, that’s the last question,” the quizmaster says. “We’ll have a short break, then I’ll be back to do the scores.”

“When do you fly back this time, Fin?” Justin says.

“Wednesday,” he says. “I’ve reached the plausible limit of Skype consultations, for the time being. Eve’s going to join me for her month in New York, the week after.”

He reaches up and touches the nape of my neck, under my ponytail. “I’m going to show her the tourist stuff this time, which I’ve never had a cause to bother with until now.”

“Can’t wait. That’s when me and Rog gonna PARTAY,” Ed says, doing heavy metal horn hands. “Slash, watch a lot of Queer Eye and eat Dixy fried chicken.”

“Really grateful to you for the house and Rog sit,” I say.

“Pleasure is mine. Your house beats my flat any day.”

Ed got a tough time from Hester over the sale of their home and ended up announcing his lack of interest in reentering the property market, for the time being. He’s renting a flat at the moment, but it’s a real manhole—dirty bike propped against radiator, no pictures up. He’s on Tinder and has some tragicomic tales already. It feels quite the switcheroo, Justin and I being in serious relationships, Ed single.

“Your boss is definitely OK with your sabbatical?” Ed says.

“OK-ish,” I say. “She’s signed it off.”

“Shhh,” Francis says. “Results!”

“I smell victory,” Ed says. “Breathe it in, my bitches.”

“If we had victories as often as you smell them, Ed, we’d be banned from this quiz the same way Ben Affleck isn’t allowed in Vegas casinos.”

“Really, what for? Being rich?” Ed says.

“They certainly don’t chuck you out for being rich, they do ban you for being too good at blackjack,” Fin says. “That’s why the house always wins.”

“Counting cards.” I nod.

“He wasn’t counting them, he told me that . . .” Fin stops, eyes wide at all our shocked faces. “I mean, I read that he said . . .”

We all screech in delight.

“OK. Here are the answers . . . ,” the quizmaster says, and we swap sheets with the next table for marking. We do improbably well, compared to usual.

“And last . . . I asked, which branch did the Slough branch merge with in The Office?”

“If it’s Reading, I hate you all,” Justin says.

“It was of course, Swindon. Sunny Swindon.”

“Yes!” Ed says. “Nice one, Finlay.”

We exchange papers back again.

“Forty-six!” I say.

“Alrighty then! Who got . . . fifty out of fifty . . . ,” bellows the quizmaster.

We’re tense, Francis and I holding hands, eyes squeezed shut.

“Forty-nine!” Silence.

“Forty-eight!” Silence.

“Forty-seven!” The Packable Anoraks got forty-seven, surely. Silence.

I open my eyes.

“Who got . . . forty-six?” the quizmaster says.

We look at each other. “Us! We did!” the five us shout in unison, waking Leonard. Unfortunately the Packable Anoraks have bellowed too.

“Bring your papers up here, please,” and Francis scrambles up to hand it over for verification.

Within minutes, the quizmaster says: “Ladies and gentlemen, seems we have a dead heat here. So you know what that means: a tie-break question. Can each team nominate a member to come up here. I will ask a question, only the two nominees get to answer. The first to give me the right answer, wins.”

The Packables send their best man, who looks like a furious wizard, patting him on the back as he steps up. “Go on, Tony!”

We look at each other.

“Eve,” Fin says. “You’re equal to this challenge. Go get us that trophy.”

“Oh no, I’m shite.”

“Not shite. Up,” Fin says, and Ed, Justin, and Francis make noises of agreement.

“Here it is, the tie-break. Remember, shout it out because it’s fastest answer as well as correct answer, now. The ballad ‘I Will Always Love You’ was a smash hit for the late Whitney Houston in 1992, spending fourteen weeks at the top of the Billboard charts. However, Whitney didn’t write it. Who did write it?”

“BARRY GIBB!” Tony from the Packable Anoraks shouts, like he’s been Tasered, to football-stand cheers from his team.

“That is incorrect, I’m afraid,” the quizmaster says, as the din subsides. “Would this lovely lady like to give her answer?”

I look at the hopeful faces of my team, their fists clenched in anticipation. Finlay winks at me.

“Is it . . . Dolly Parton?” I say.

“We have a winner!” the quizmaster says, and my corner of The Gladstone erupts in hysteria.

“Congratulations, to . . .” He picks up our answer sheet and squints through his readers at the name. “Susie’s Losers.”