Don’t You Forget About Me(52)

‘Good luck!’ they all chorus, having loaded up with drinks and heading upstairs to bag the best seats. Please, God, let them hog so many that other people can’t fit in too. I can tell my sister and brother-in-law are politely perplexed as to exactly why I would do this, yet trying to be encouraging about a new avenue of interest for me. It beats a life of only reciting which flavours of crisp we stock.

Minutes ’til the event starts. I have no idea how long other people’s readings will be. I need to keep my mind occupied. Luckily Kitty is exactly the tension valve release I need.

She asks if she can call her car insurer back, I say sure, and flit around cutting limes into wedges, while Kitty at the end of the bar discusses the premium on her Fiat Cinquecento.

Kitty says: ‘Oh, what? K for kilo. Oh I see …’

I don’t normally listen in on phone calls but I catch her expression at this moment and Kitty looks so perturbed, it’s impossible not to be intrigued.

‘I … I mean, Insect. Tits.’

I frown in startled confusion at her.

‘Tits again. Yellow. From the start? Kilo, Insect, Tits, Tits, Yellow.’

I stuff my fist in my mouth to stop myself from laughing.

Kitty mutters a few more words, and goodbye, and rings off.

I cry: ‘What THE HELL was that about?’

‘Oh my God, he said to spell my name with the police alphabet and I didn’t know it! Oh my GOD! I said tits!’

I am nearly bent double laughing.

‘Tits Tits Yellow?!’ I gasp.

‘I couldn’t think of anything beginning with T! Oh my life.’

‘Strangely enough, Tits Tits Yellow is my porn name,’ I say, and as the words leave my mouth, realise Lucas is in earshot, approaching.

‘What if they cancel my insurance?!’ Kitty wails.

‘What for?’ I say.

‘… Lewd wordness?’

‘I don’t think “lewd wordness” is an official cause of invalidating insurance.’

Kitty gets her phone out and starts Googling. ‘Oh no, Georgina, it should’ve been kilo India tango tango Yankee.’

‘Yeah that sounds more likely than “tits”. Or “insect”, to be honest.’

‘I can never call Direct Line again!’

‘Imagine how boring his day is usually, Kitty, you did him a favour.’

We can’t help corpsing again. Ah, the bonding power of shared laughter. I’m safe to tell Devlin I approve of setting Kitty on.

‘Georgina,’ Lucas interrupts. ‘Upstairs? They’re asking for you. You’re on.’

I startle and look at the time. How has the clock flown forward this fast? Oh, the sudden nausea.

‘Oh, oh yeah,’ I turn to find my bag under the bar, and pull my crumpled notes out.

‘Good luck,’ Lucas says, when I straighten back up.

‘Is it proof I’m out of my mind, to be doing this?’ I say. Stage fright has rushed up on me and my teeth are almost chattering.

‘I don’t know what you’re like when you’re in your mind,’ Lucas says, with a smile.

Ain’t that the truth.

Kitty had disappeared round the corner of the bar, and she reappears, handing me a prosecco, like it’s a charmed amulet for a quest. ‘Take this with you! Good luck!’

I do like Kitty.

In the long walk up to the function room, holding the prosecco aloft, I think about what my dad said, about me being a show-off who hates attention. As I reach the doorway, I see a painter’s easel, set up with the topic – Share Your Shame: MY WORST DAY AT WORK! And a running order. They’ve spelled my name ‘Georgina Hawspool’.

I’ve been in here when it was empty, full of packing boxes, and now it’s rammed with people, mostly sitting, but some clustered around the small bar at the far end, which Devlin is manning. Thank God it wasn’t Lucas.

Strings of Edison lightbulbs have been strung up against the green paint and the place still smells spicily musty, you can tell it’s had dust sheets thrown off it mere weeks ago.

A shallow stage at the far side of the room has a microphone on a stand. It’s real now. What on earth was I thinking?

The compere is a twenty-something feature writer from The Star called Gareth who introduced himself to me earlier. He’s clearly been killing dead air, as he sights me with relief and says: ‘Georgina? Georgina! A round of applause for Georgina, please, who is doing our last reading.’

I take to the stage, unfold my two sheets of paper and survey the room, people shuffling in their seats, muttering.

Oh, there are the judges, sat like three wise owls, a woman and two men. And yes, Mr Keith IS one of them. Well, that’s that then. Less to lose.

I open my mouth, cough and feel the weight of expectation.

‘Hello, so. Wow,’ the microphone gives out a squawk of feedback and Gareth calls: ‘Stand back a little, that’s it.’

I already feel like a tit.

‘Sorry … I don’t know if you’ve ever heard of the Waiter Test. It’s the idea that you can assess a person’s character through how they treat service staff. If you go on a date with someone, don’t just judge them by how they treat you. Having been a waitress, a barmaid, a cocktail waitress, and for a very brief and unhappy time, a nightclub hostess – that isn’t quite as dubious as it sounds, though it almost was – I know how true this is.’