Читать книгу The One: A moving and unforgettable love story - the most emotional read of 2018 - Maria Realf - Страница 7

Without warning, the bedroom door flew open and Megan flounced in, forcing Lizzie to look up from her well-thumbed copy of Wuthering Heights. ‘Here’s a thought,’ Lizzie suggested affectionately. ‘Perhaps you could learn to knock. I could have been naked or anything.’

‘Like I haven’t seen that before.’

‘Yeah, well, you should probably knock before entering the bathroom as well.’

‘Whatever …’ Megan tossed her hair, making her sparkly top shimmer like something out of a pop video. ‘I just wanted to tell you that I’ve had a great idea for this evening! Dominic’s asked me to this karaoke night at Ignition and he’s bringing his housemate, so I thought you could join us. Cab’s coming in 45 minutes.’ She beamed as though she’d just extended an invite to an all-expenses-paid cruise around the Caribbean.

Lizzie’s heart plummeted. Karaoke? You’ve got to be kidding. She stretched out on the blue and white striped bedspread and faked a large yawn. ‘I’m not really in the mood for another double date, Meg. No offence, but you know they never work out.’

‘They haven’t been that bad,’ said Megan, looking insulted. ‘Nathan seemed nice.’

‘He’s about 5ft 7.’

‘And? So’s Tom Cruise.’

‘Which is fine for you. But I’m 5ft 10, in case you hadn’t noticed. Without heels!’

‘Well, Eric was tall,’ she huffed.

‘True, but I’m pretty sure Eric’s gay.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He gave his phone number to our waiter!’

‘Really? I don’t remember.’ Megan could conveniently forget anything if it didn’t further her current plans. ‘Anyway, this one will be different. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t know …’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘I was kind of looking forward to just chilling out tonight.’

‘Why? There’ll be loads of time for that when you’re old!’ Megan strutted over to the beech Argos wardrobe and started rummaging around inside. ‘You’ve got some gorgeous stuff in here, Lizzie,’ she said, rifling her way along the rail. ‘What’s the point of buying dresses unless you bother to show them off? You can stay in and read tomorrow – it’s not like Heathcliff’s going anywhere.’

Just then there was a noise from upstairs, and the sound of Tom Jones singing Sex Bomb began to echo around the landing. Lizzie immediately knew what that track meant: their other housemate, a cheeky Welshman called Gareth, had a hot date in his room, and any hope of a quiet night had now gone out of the window. A triumphant smile flickered across Megan’s face.

‘Fine, I’ll get ready,’ Lizzie grumbled, rolling off the bed and plugging in her hair straighteners. ‘But you’re going to owe me big time.’

Facing the wonky mirror in the bar’s dimly lit loos, Lizzie applied a slick of lip balm and frowned at her reflection. Two tired brown eyes glared back at her in annoyance. She could have bet a month’s rent before leaving the house that she wouldn’t fancy Dominic’s flatmate, and her instincts had been spot on. Though admittedly he wasn’t the worst-looking guy Megan had ever tried to set her up with, he was clearly a complete sexist, and when he’d started on the subject of women’s sport she’d had to make her excuses and escape to the ladies.

Give it one more hour out there and then you can leave, she promised herself. Hopefully by then Gareth will have stopped his Sexbombathon, and you’ll be able to go to bed in peace.

She slipped the balm into the pocket of her vintage red tea dress, a total bargain she’d snapped up at Oxfam, then smoothed her hair and strode out of the door – smack bang into a barman carrying a tray full of drinks. Lizzie watched in horror as glasses came crashing down around them, spilling their contents everywhere in torturously slow motion. A lone Bacardi Breezer just managed to stay on the tray, wobbling defiantly from side to side like a skittle.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she winced, wondering why she’d ever agreed to leave her cosy bedroom. Her left arm felt cold and sticky. ‘I … I didn’t see you there.’

‘Evidently,’ he growled, surveying the front of his soaked black T-shirt.

‘Are you alright? I’ll pay for the drinks.’ A surreptitious check of her dress revealed that he had borne the brunt of the spillage, which was both unfair and a big relief.

He set down the tray, glanced straight at her for a second, then surprised her with a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, his voice low and smoky. ‘There’s no point crying over … well, two pints, a Hooch and what I think might have been a Malibu and Coke.’ He sniffed the top of his T-shirt. ‘Yep … coconut.’

Despite her mortification, Lizzie found herself laughing. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve always liked coconut. But I still feel terrible.’

‘Don’t. It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘What, spilled drinks or clumsy girls?’

‘Both, I guess. Are you OK?’

‘Yes – well, apart from my rubbish eyesight, obviously. I swear I’m not as drunk as you must think.’

He smiled again, and Lizzie noticed that he was quietly attractive, with unruly dark hair that flopped into striking blue-grey eyes, and a jawline scattered with stubble; not the pretentious, landscaped kind, but the sort that suggested he had better things to do than shave every morning. He was tall – she guessed around 6ft – with broad shoulders, and his damp T-shirt clung just tightly enough that she could tell he was in good shape. She was beginning to stare now, she knew, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

In the end, he moved first, gesturing to the broken glass on the floor: ‘Well, I suppose I’d better sort this lot out before someone loses a toe.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘You said that already,’ he teased. ‘Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.’ And with that he disappeared into a room behind the bar.

Realising that she hadn’t even caught his name, Lizzie was surprised by the sudden surge of disappointment inside – but not half as surprised as when the karaoke compere made his next announcement: ‘Alright, now I’m looking for Lizzie Sparkes … Lizzie Sparkes, please come up.’ Lizzie looked round frantically, hoping by freak coincidence that someone else might share the same moniker, but then she spotted Megan and the boys howling with laughter.

‘Oh, there you are, Lizzie,’ shouted Megan, singling her out with an exaggerated pointing gesture. ‘You’re on.’

Lizzie tried frantically to get the attention of the chubby compere, wanting to let him know that it was all a stupid joke, but he interpreted her frenzied waving as a sign that she was coming and began to queue up the mysterious backing track. Blind panic set in. What have they picked? The contents of her CD collection flashed before her eyes. Britney Spears? Sugababes? S Club 7? There was only one thing for it: she would have to go up there and put a stop to this confusion.

Taking a deep breath, she jostled her way up to the makeshift stage, a blush creeping across both cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake …’ she said to the host, but her voice was lost over the opening bars of the music as he thrust a microphone into her hand. Lizzie froze as she recognised the intro. It was Tragedy, a guilty pleasure she enjoyed playing on her Steps Gold CD – maybe a little too loudly if Megan had noticed – but would never dream of performing in the shower, let alone in public. The three cocktails she’d consumed earlier churned uneasily in her stomach.

Shit, shit, shit. I’m actually going to have to go through with this. The opening lines popped up on the ancient monitor in a garish shade of neon green, as if to further highlight her public humiliation.

Megan’s going to meet with some kind of tragedy when we get home, that’s for sure.

Mumbling along to the first verse, Lizzie tried to keep in time with the loud audio, her voice quivering almost as much as her legs. In desperation, she held out the microphone to the audience, encouraging her fellow students to sing along for the catchy chorus.

To her amazement, they did.

Seconds later Megan jumped up on stage beside her, tucking a straw behind one ear like a headset mic and belting out the rest of the lyrics. A group of girls near the front stood to perform the Steps dance routine in perfect unison, as though they’d been rehearsing for precisely such an occasion.

Just when Lizzie was starting to think that this karaoke business wasn’t all bad, the song came to an end and the audience went wild. ‘Good work, ladies,’ said the compere. ‘Well, who’s brave enough to come up and follow that? Looks like it’s going to be Tony, taking us back to the 80s …’

‘That was amazing!’ said Megan, sauntering off stage with rock-star swagger. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

‘I didn’t exactly have much choice,’ replied Lizzie, not sure whether to hug her or slug her.

‘Don’t be mad. It was meant to be a joke. I never thought for a minute you’d actually get up there! I’d have stuck you in for two songs if I’d known you were going to bring the bloody house down.’

Lizzie smiled in spite of herself, still buzzing from the adrenaline. ‘I guess it was kind of fun, wasn’t it?’

‘Steady on, Kylie.’ Megan stopped and sniffed. ‘Can you smell coconut?’

‘I think that might be me. I knocked a tray of drinks everywhere just before you put me in for Pop Idol.’

‘Oh, so you’ve really outdone yourself tonight, then?’ They both cracked up and Lizzie realised she’d already forgiven her friend, though she wasn’t exactly sure when.

‘Yes, I have. So the next round’s definitely on you.’

Suddenly Lizzie felt a tap on her shoulder, and spun around to face the enigmatic barman from earlier. Damn, please say he didn’t just see me making a fool of myself … She could feel the hot blush seeping back, hoping the redness wouldn’t be visible beneath the bar’s crappy lighting.

He began to clap. ‘I’m impressed. You didn’t say you were going to sing.’

‘I didn’t know I was going to sing. My housemate stitched me up.’ She motioned to Megan, who raised a quizzical eyebrow as she backed away, no doubt already planning a full interrogation as to the identity of this mystery man. ‘I’ve never done anything like that before.’

‘Well, the crowd certainly seemed to enjoy it.’

‘Yeah, I suspect the alcohol might have had a lot to do with that.’ She wished she were better at accepting compliments from attractive guys.

‘So what do you do when you’re not pursuing your pop career?’ He leaned in to make himself heard as the karaoke kicked off again, and Lizzie could detect the subtle scent of leather, still imbued with a splash of coconut. The rest of the room blurred into the background.

‘I’m at uni, studying English. Second year,’ she shouted over the tinny backing track. Trying to chat in noisy bars was always tricky, but she wasn’t ready to give up on this conversation just yet.

‘How are you finding it?’

‘Good,’ she replied. ‘Most of the time, anyway. How long have you worked here?’

‘Only about six months.’ He moved closer, his lips almost touching her ear. His breath felt warm against her cheek. ‘I’m a student, too.’

‘Doing what?’

‘Scientology. With contemporary dance.’

‘Very funny.’

‘Oh, alright.’ He gave an exaggerated sigh. ‘Hospitality.’

‘So you work here for experience?’

He laughed. ‘Not really, more to pay the bills.’ Lizzie immediately wished she hadn’t sounded quite so naive.

Just then a bloke with a hairy beer belly protruding from his shirt interrupted their conversation. ‘Hey, mate, could we get the same again over here?’

‘Be right with you.’ He smiled apologetically. ‘Guess I’ve got to go. Maybe I’ll see you around sometime?’

‘Maybe you could see me at the weekend,’ said Lizzie, surprised by the confident words spilling from her mouth. Did I just ask him out?

‘Sounds great. I’m free Sunday. I’ll give you my number.’ He pulled a pen from his jeans and jotted the digits down on the back of a peeling coaster. ‘I’m Alex, by the way. Alex Jackson.’ He held out his right hand.

‘I’m Lizzie,’ she whispered, a faint current coursing through her fingers as she pressed her palm to his. ‘Sparkes.’