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Bad things happen on my birthdays. Like this boozy mob. They look as though they’re enjoying a lynching: mine. Talk about sweating it. Whoever invented the karaoke machine must have had ancestors who cheered at public executions, back when Marie Antoinette fictitiously told everyone to eat cake. I’m supposed to be geeing-up this Fitzroy pub crowd, not that they need it.
Oh god. It might seem as though I’m pulling a dance move, but I’m just trying to avoid getting my heels caught in the gap between the stage risers. With each shift, I have to peel the soles of my boots off the sticky carpet.
I’m staring at lyrics that make me think Justin Bieber and Rihanna are conspiring to give birth to a love child: baby, baby, baby; yeah, yeah, yeah; give it to me, give it to me. The poor excuse for a song breaks into a rap section, and I stand with one hand in my jeans pocket, a dork waiting for the torture to end.
Bob picked the song. ‘The punters’ll go for it,’ he said.
They’re not. They’re holding their beers aloft, laughing at my piss-poor effort to get the party started. My face is burning, and it’s not from the fuggy heat of the bar. It’s because I can sing. Properly. Just not this rubbish. Let me die. Now.
It’s a vocal limp to the end of the track before I shove the microphone back onto the stand. Bob collects several scraps of paper – scribbled song requests from Elvis and Beyoncé wannabes who think they can do a better job than me. Yeah, everyone can sing when they’re drunk. He lumbers onto the stage. ‘Give it up for Lauren, our very own Rihanna!’ The applause is surprisingly enthusiastic, but I’m sure it’s more about getting me off the stage. I’m seriously happy to comply.
Safe behind the bar, I wrap my apron around my waist. It’s back to pulling beers, cracking UDLs and batting off puns based on my crap performance. Suddenly, it’s comedy hour:
‘Hey, love. you should eat more tuna! Get it? Tune-er?’
‘I’ll tune her if she likes!’
Hilarious. As I bend to the lower fridge to grab a pear cider for the chick in the tight skirt and even tighter t-shirt, some dickhead throws a bottle top at my butt. I spring upright, lean across the bar and threaten him with the prong of a corkscrew.
‘Not cool,’ I hiss.
The guy holds both hands up, claiming innocence while his mate beside him guffaws. In the seconds it takes me to realise I’ve chosen the wrong perpetrator, guffawing guy’s shoulder is grasped by a tall blond dude.
‘Apologise,’ the dude says.
‘Sorry, love.’
I’m thrown, unsure whether to tell the blond dude thanks very much, but I can look after myself, or to smile my gratitude. I choose grateful. Decency is rare in this bar. Heckle and Jeckle take their beers elsewhere while the dude sits at the bar.
‘Hey, birthday girl.’
I swear my heart stops for a second. No-one but Snap knows it’s my birthday, that I’m finally legal. I look closer and recognition hits me: the grey eyes, the wide smile, the face – now hidden behind a mass of hipster beard. His hair is longer and tied back in a loose ponytail.
‘Spell serendipitous,’ he says.
‘Harry?’
For a second, I have this insane reflex to turn and run.
