I shower, shave, brush my teeth, and spend an inordinate amount of time choosing what to wear considering I’ll be in the pub for five minutes tops. In the end I opt for black chinos and my brown linen Hackett shirt, because it’s expensive enough to show I give a shit, but not so expensive that I look like I’m trying too hard. I leave the top two buttons undone, ruffle product through my curls, and spritz eau de parfum—Los Angeles by Gallivant.
I’m not sure what I’m aiming to achieve in the five minutes I’ll be in Owen’s presence, but I know from experience this entire ensemble is irresistible . . . to all genders who appreciate a masculine form. Am I trying to make him regret inviting me and then not? Am I trying to make him jealous? Make him want me?
Fuck. Maybe I am.
I shouldn’t. I know I shouldn’t. Even so, I can’t bring myself to change into something less “come hither.”
At six thirty, with half an hour still to go until the start of the quiz, I snatch up my laptop and head over the road. I can’t hang around the house any longer with only my self-doubt as company, and I also can’t bear the idea of all the patrons watching me, waiting for the quiz to start. I’d rather arrive early, set everything up in peace, and leave before most folk turn up.
I misjudged. Massively. When I get to the pub, it’s already heaving. The gay couple arrive at the same time as me. They’re in their late thirties, early forties. One has sandy-blonde hair with a Monopoly man moustache, also sandy blonde, and the other is—I think voluntarily—bald. Thebald guy holds the door open for me. I nod my thanks and squeeze past the men into the pub. The chatter stops abruptly, like someone’s pressed a mute button.
“Wild Card!” Owen calls from behind the bar. He smiles at me, which drops a second later. He’s in the middle of pulling a pint, but flicks the tap off and manoeuvres out through the flip-up bar top. “I was gonna send someone over in a bit. Quiz is off.”
“What? No quiz?!” says the moustachioed guy from beside me. He has a faint Welsh accent.
“Sorry, mate,” Owen says. “Daisy’s not well.” He looks at me, and I understand from the crease of his brow and his apologetic smile that she’s still hungover. Can’t say I’m surprised. “And I’ve got no one to work the bar. Orlando’s sick too.”
Someone behind me snorts, mutters “bloody kids” under their breath, which I know Owen hears but pretends not to.
“What about June?” bald guy says. “Can’t you get her to emcee again?”
“June’s at the RU. Laura’s having the baby,” Owen replies.
A woman squeaks. “Already?! She’s only thirty-seven weeks. Oh, I’d better text our Ju.”
Owen takes another step towards me. His eyes sweep from the top of my head to the tips of my shoes and back up again. He places his hand on my arm, just above my elbow. Heat seeps through. “I’m sorry. We spent all that time last night figuring out the music round.”
“Aw, man, you finally sorted out a proper music round?” says Monopoly guy. Bald guy slaps his bicep with the back of his fist and raises an eyebrow in our direction in a“shut up, you’re spoiling the show”kind of way.
“It’s not a problem,” I say, acutely and painfully aware of every eye in the room trained on me. I take a step closer to him, so there’s less than ten centimetres of gap between our bodies, and lower my voice to a whisper. People are listening, but they’ll have to strain to hear. “I also had fun last night.” And then I turn on my heel and march towards the exit.
“Wait!” Owen calls out behind me. “Mathias, wait.”
I don’t stop until I’m outside, away from everyone else, and Owen is jogging out of his pub, his hand shielding his eyes against the evening sun.
“You could do it,” he says. “You could emcee the quiz.”
“Oh, no. No, no, no. No, thank you.” Never heard anything more ridiculous in my entire life.
I’m shaking my head, but Owen is still talking. “I can work the bar, fill in for Daisy, and you can announce the quiz.”
“No. Absolutely not. I can’t do that. No chance.”
“Come on, you’ll be great. You’ve got the perfect voice for compering. And we spent so long on the questions last night.”
I pretend I’m not preening at his words. He thinks I have a nice voice. “No, mate, I can’t do it. It’s not up for discussion. I simply can’t do it.”
“Did I mention that emcees get to eat and drink anything they like from the bar all night for free?”
That gives me pause, but not much, not even enough to halt my shaking head.
“And did I also tell you Tyler, the young chef who does Thursdays to Sundays here, has dauphinoise potatoes on the menu?”
“I—what?” My hand is cupping his shoulder, urging him to say more. I need him to repeat those words, make sure I didn’t imagine them.
“And if you don’t like dauphinoise, he has dirty fries or jackets . . .”
I’m silent for a good two minutes while I process. I want to object, want to scream“NO!”and run home, but . . . potatoes.
