My mum was right about last Christmas. I was knocking about with a lad I went to youth theatre with. Except, being thirty-six and not sixteen, I preferred to call it ‘casually sleeping with’.
His name is Dan Finnigan; once an angelic tenor with a flair for accents, and now a chartered accountant. We hooked up over the festive period, almost two decades after I first slept with him. By New Year’s Eve, we’d spent every night either at his place or mine, and even went to the Philharmonic to see Home Alone with a live orchestra playing the score. Rather datey for a matey.
Then I made a bold move. I booked two tickets to see a new musical premiering in Liverpool at the Everyman Theatre. A mutual friend from youth theatre, Vicki Richards, had landed a starring role and plastered it all over her social media. It was impossible to ignore. This musical, The Book of Brexit, looked set to be her big break. I told her I’d be coming with Dan Finnigan to support her.
A-MAZING. I’ll get you both into the after-show party! she replied.
Just what I’d been hoping for.
Dan didn’t thank me for the ticket, or for the after-show invite. Instead, he told me his girlfriend was coming back from Japan. Now here’s the thing. He’d one thousand per cent not mentioned this before in any way, shape or form. Nothing in his flat hinted at a serious attachment in his life: no framed photo, no perfume bottle beside his range of aftershaves, no spare toothbrush. And I’ve got to admit I was upset.
Angry.
No, upset.
Look, I didn’t love Dan Finnigan. The appeal of whatever we were doing definitely stemmed from nostalgia. But he was nice. Nice enough to want more; mainly after a few drinks.
So when he told me about his mystery woman, I not only felt spectacularly dumped, but also like a dirty rag. I was the girl the fella cheated on his girlfriend with. Thank you very fucking much, Dan fucking Finnigan.
I ended up going to the theatre on my own.
And I know I could’ve asked our Kit to come with me, or one of my mates. Most of them would’ve needed to sort a babysitter, though, and well, I just couldn’t be bothered with more knock-backs, more excuses – however genuine – as to why someone couldn’t be my date. Still, I’d see Vicki afterwards, mingle with the cast. So I dressed up, curled my hair before attempting to stylishly mess it up, my blonde still on fantastic form from getting it bleached before Christmas. I wore knee boots, which, being on the tall side, always make my legs look longer, and a short dress with a retro zigzag pattern. Actually, the dress was more like a baggy shirt, but it’s one of my all-time faves. It hangs off in the right places and – God, this’ll make me sound old – it’s comfy. Our Kit had bought me giant hoop earrings for Christmas and, matching them with a thick helping of red lippy, I felt fabulous. Up yours, Dan Finnigan!
The show started with huge promise; an opening number full of brilliantly observed impressions. Vicki belted out a ballad about the pain her character felt leaving ‘EU’; but after that, it’s safe to say the story went zooming downhill.
I took my seat for the second half and noticed a man lingering on the step in the aisle beside me. Big, but not awkward, he had his hands stuffed into trousers that matched his waistcoat and jacket, smartly paired with a blue paisley shirt open at the collar. A confident grin emerged from beneath his wild beard. His eyes were sharp like diamonds.
‘Mind if I sit here?’ he asked.
Ugh. If truth be told, I did mind. If I wasn’t going to be here with a date, I’d prefer the extra legroom all to myself. But this fella was leaning towards me and resting his hand on the back of the empty seat.
‘You see that tiny space in the middle over there?’ He pointed to the block of seats opposite and I nodded. ‘That’s where I’ve been squashed during the first half of – ahem, let me lower my voice – the shambles that we all collectively witnessed. I can’t tell you how relieved I am to find this aisle seat unoccupied.’
‘Knock yourself out,’ I said, with enough sarcasm to let him know I wasn’t in the mood for making friends.
‘I’m Jack.’ He held out his hand.
I took it, shook it and said, ‘Chloe Roscoe,’ befuddled as to why a full intro spurted out.
He laughed, hearty and melodic.
‘I reckon I love you, Chloe Roscoe,’ he said, unafraid to look me in the eye.
I raised an eyebrow and pouted my red lips, unimpressed.
‘You reckon?’ I asked.
And he stretched out his large legs into the aisle, sat back and folded his arms. Releasing a long, satisfying sigh, he looked across at me again, and somehow amused by me – or perhaps my giant earrings – he grinned, so widely I spotted a dimple in his cheek. I wasn’t in the mood to reciprocate.
The lights went down and the show recommenced.
Jack and I laughed at the exact same moments, many of which weren’t at all funny; our laughter was subtle, and perhaps cruel. I could feel his eyes burning into me when the operatic sing-off between Boris and Jeremy kicked off. I glanced his way and scrunched up my nose, cringing. He mimicked me and I elbowed him. I didn’t mind when his knee rested against mine, whether on purpose or due to lack of space. During a boring scene, the most drama being a group of audience members shuffling out of their seats and leaving, I zoned out and imagined that our legs were touching because Jack wanted them to. I was surprised by the shock of electricity it set pulsing through my body. I put my hand on his arm when the lady to my left gestured that she wanted to get out. We both twisted our bodies to the side, allowing her to leave.
‘Guess you and I are Remainers, then?’ Jack whispered, which tickled me.
I realised my hand was resting on his arm, and removed it to twiddle an earring.
When the show finished and us ‘Remainers’ did our best to give the cast a warm applause, Jack said he’d get me a drink as thanks for the seat. I met his assertiveness with a thanks, but no thanks, I was going to the after-show party. Edging our way out of the auditorium, he showed me his ticket, printed with VIP in the corner.
‘Me too,’ he grinned.
‘So are you a reviewer? Or friend of the cast?’ I asked.
‘Neither. I have a well-connected mum.’
‘What does that mean?’
‘She’s a journalist. She’s on daytime TV a lot, arguing for the sake of arguing.’ He lowered his voice and whispered right into my ear, ‘She’s made a fortune being the kind of woman people love to hate. Her Twitter feed is attacked by evil cretins but she doesn’t care. And people are always lovely to her in real life, quite adoring.’
‘Oh, my God. You’re not talking about Patricia Carmichael, are you?’
‘I am indeed.’
‘Wow. She’s your mum?’
‘Guilty as charged,’ he held up his hands.
‘Is she here? I’d love to meet her.’
‘See? People love meeting her! But no. She’s not here tonight. She gets free invites all the time, and a musical about Brexit, well, that’s right up her street, but she couldn’t be bothered travelling all the way up to Liverpool. She’ll catch it in London, if the show makes it that far.’
The private bar was in the bistro, cordoned off for the party. Jack helped himself to two glasses of bubbly from a waiter floating around with a silver tray and offered me one. Thanking him, I tried to think of encouraging words to give to Vicki Richards and now that I had company, I hoped Jack would be kind, too.
‘I still don’t understand why you’re here,’ I said, looking out for Vicki.
‘You mean I don’t strike you as a raving musical theatre fan?’
‘Nope.’
‘Correct, I’m not. I was in Liverpool for a meeting yesterday and Mum suggested I take her hotel and ticket, since she wasn’t using it and it’d only go to waste. Who doesn’t love a freebie?’
‘I’d totally do the same.’
‘Right! I’ve been on a couple of stag dos here in Liverpool. Great city, awesome night out. And when I realised Liverpool was playing at home to Man U – my team – well, I decided to make a weekend of it.’
‘You went to the game today? How did you get a ticket so easily?’
‘I just told you who my mum is.’
‘Hmm. It really is cool to be famous, then?’
‘Well, I get the perks without the fame. Best of both worlds.’
‘Mummy’s boy.’
‘Oh, I am. I really am.’
‘You wanna know what I am?’
‘Shockingly beautiful.’
I knocked back my bubbly, not expecting that brazen compliment.
‘No,’ I said, my cheeks flushing. ‘I’m a Blue.’
‘An Everton fan?’ he asked, confused. ‘Why?’
‘You know it’s so annoying when non-Scousers ask that,’ and before I could get into a petty debate about football, all five foot two of Vicki Richards bounced over and hugged me so tight I lost a few breaths.
‘It’s the woman with the incredible voice!’ Jack bellowed.
‘Me?’ Vicki asked; hopeful, anxious.
Jack took both her little hands within his and they disappeared in his grasp.
‘You’re a wonderful singer,’ he told her. ‘I got that spine tingle. Thank you!’
And Vicki’s wide doe eyes grew even larger, relief flooding through her tiny bones. It was obvious she wasn’t expecting much praise, but Jack said the right thing – and in my opinion, it sounded genuine. In that moment, I could’ve easily said to him, ‘And I reckon I love you, too, Jack Carmichael.’
Of course, I didn’t.
Vicki gushed her thanks before excusing herself to go and say hello to her agent. Jack and I drank free bubbly, our bodies getting closer and closer the more we talked. When the only parts left to touch were our lips, Jack whispered, ‘Come with me.’
And I did.