Despite my protests, Trudi insisted that I should go ahead with the karaoke plan, even though it was now four o’clock and Des still hadn’t been in touch. She came over and I practised a few times, but my heart wasn’t in it. I couldn’t get over feeling like an idiot about the night before.
‘Put it out of your mind, Lyd. The guy’s a bastard, obviously.’
‘No he isn’t,’ I said. ‘It takes two to tango. He probably feels as stupid as I do and that’s why he hasn’t called.’
‘Did you try calling him?’
‘I’ve had other things on my mind …’
‘No you haven’t. You’ve thought of nothing else all day. Call him now. Put your mind at rest. If he’s gone to ground because the two of you got pissed and lost your marbles last night, then he isn’t the man you thought he was, is he?’ She handed me the phone and left the room.
I stared at the keypad for a couple of minutes before I could summon up the courage to place the call. I heard his voice at the other end of the line.
‘You’re through to the voicemail of Desmond Ryan. I can’t take your call right now, but if you’d like to leave a message, go ahead after the tone.’
I’ve always been hopeless with voicemail. I never know what to say and after I’ve left a message I always feel really dumb. I wanted to hang up, but he’d know I’d called, so I had to say something.
‘Hi there. It’s only me. Call me back if you get time. Trudi and I will be in the pub at eight-ish. The karaoke starts at nine.’ I ended the call. The ball was now firmly in his court.
By seven-thirty, I’d decided he wasn’t going to call back. Trudi insisted that I put on a little black dress and some make-up for a change. I felt like an advert for Barbie goes to Weight Watchers – the ‘before’ picture! – as we made our way through the bar to the little stage where the DJ was setting up the karaoke equipment. Two large ring binders, containing lists of the available tracks, lay open beside the monitor that would later display the lyrics and there was a pile of cards for would-be performers to write their names and song choices. We took a handful of cards and one of the ring binders and sat down at a table nearby. Leafing through, we soon found the song and filled in one of the cards.
‘Are you going to have a stage name?’ Trudi asked. I thought about it for a minute.
‘No – just Lydia. Let’s wait until I’m discovered before I get delusions of grandeur.’ My stomach was churning as the room began to fill up and more people, mostly young and glamorous, handed their cards over to the DJ and he sorted his running order out on a laptop that was wired into everything else. I checked my mobile for the umpteenth time – still no word from Des. Oh well, what did I expect? If you really want to screw things up with someone, sex will do the trick every time. My failed marriage had taught me that much, if nothing else. Reluctantly, I switched the phone to vibrate.
‘Put that thing away – they’re starting.’ Trudi had come back from the bar and placed two glasses of wine on the table.
‘I’m never drinking alcohol again,’ I said, pushing the glass away from me. ‘From now on, I’m staying in complete control.’
‘Yeah, whatever.’
The music started and we turned to watch the first act. A stunning creature who couldn’t have been more than eighteen was belting out I Will Survive, a real karaoke classic, with such confidence I wanted to die.
‘I can’t do this!’ I whispered to Trudi. ‘I’m too old and too nervous.’
‘It’s too late to pull out now. I won’t let you.’
‘You’re as bad as Des!’
‘Not quite,’ she muttered. ‘At least I’m here for you tonight.’
The girl finished her number to rapturous applause and stepped down from the stage into the arms of an equally stunning young man who hugged her enthusiastically. The DJ introduced someone called Patrick, who clearly fancied himself as Rod Stewart and gave an embarrassing rendition of Do Ya Think I’m Sexy? The simple answer to that was … no way.
The DJ nodded at me to indicate that I was up next. There are no words to describe the panic I felt as I rose from my seat and stepped onto the stage, almost bumping into Rod Stewart’s evil twin as he stepped down. Nothing seemed quite real at that point as I stood in a small spotlight, unable to see the audience, and heard the voice over the speakers.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, our next performer is Lydia, and although this is slightly unusual, I have to give her a message before she sings.’
What’s going on here? Just let me get through this, please. I stared at him.
‘A message?’
‘Yes – Janet from behind the bar just gave me this. The caller said you had to get the message before you performed. It must be something very important.’ He was milking the situation for all it was worth; even the audience wanted to know what the message said.
‘What is it?’ I pleaded. The DJ was grinning, so I figured it couldn’t be anything too serious – probably a practical joke of some kind. Eventually he took pity on me and picked up a sheet of paper from his table.
‘OK, love, I’ll put you out of your misery …’ He paused, for dramatic effect. ‘Someone called Des says “See ya tomorrow. Keep Calm and Karaoke!”’
Everybody laughed, including me. The relief was enormous. The music started up, the lyrics appeared on the screen, and I forgot I was nervous. Three minutes and six seconds later, I got down from the stage to an encouraging round of applause. Trudi hugged me and I downed the glass of wine I’d refused earlier, in one gulp. As I sat down to watch the rest of the show, Janet came from the bar and placed a bottle of wine on the table.
‘It’s all right, love. Des has already paid for it,’ she said observing my confusion.
‘He’s here?’ I stood up.
‘Not now. He bought the wine and left as soon as you’d finished your number.’
It was almost ten o’clock when the doorbell woke me on Sunday morning. I’d fallen asleep on the sofa, still dressed in my finery from the night before. I stumbled towards the door in a daze, trying to force my eyes to open fully. Des smiled as he looked me up and down.
‘Hi there, Panda, looks like I missed a good night.’
‘What …?’
Placing his hands on my shoulders, he turned me gently to face the mirror on the wall. I was mortified. My hair was sticking out in all possible directions and last night’s make-up had run, leaving me with huge black circles around my eyes and streaks down both cheeks.
‘I thought you wanted to be Olivia Newton-John, not Alice Cooper,’ he teased, and as I delivered a gentle punch to his arm, I realised things were as normal as they’d ever been.
‘I was so tired I didn’t get as far as the bedroom.’
‘Why don’t you go and sort yourself out – shower, whatever – while I make you some breakfast? I can cook anything you like, as long as it’s toast.’
‘Toast is fine.’ I laughed as I headed for the bathroom to repair the damage.
Over breakfast, Des apologised for not calling on Saturday.
‘I had such a hangover I didn’t get out of bed all day. I’d left my mobile in the kitchen so I didn’t even know you’d called until it was too late.’
‘But you weren’t that drunk on Friday night,’