The Kiss (21 page)

‘It is because you are human and stupid,’ says Fatima. ‘You want to believe that someone in the universe know what they are doing because for sure you don’t. Maybe Aphrodite, maybe God. This explain a
lot
of religion.’

I rub at my tears. I am a truly ridiculous example of an idiotic human.

‘You need to rest,’ I say, and wave at the door. ‘I should go.’

‘Don’t go home and cry on your pillow.’ Fatima’s head sinks back. ‘Go and see Tabby’s show, if there is still some show to see. She will want you to be there. Love will come when it is ready,
chérie
. Not when Aphrodite is horny.’

T
he lobby and bar are half full, but the main action is coming from the auditorium where I can hear whoops and whistles and the jolly thrum of band music. No Jem. Nowhere I can see, at least.

‘I hear Fatima’s going to be OK,’ says Kev on the auditorium doors. He clasps my arm in comradeship. ‘There’s some bad gear about at the moment. She was lucky. How about you?’

‘I’m not the one who’s had a load of fertilizer rinsed out of my guts,’ I say, touched by his concern. ‘I’ll live. How long until the interval?’

‘Ten minutes. Five, maybe. Wanna go in?’

The auditorium is packed. Plastic glasses of beer line the steps, and devil horns flash, and the crinkle of crisp packets cheerfully battles with the band as the chorus thumps through that old Shakespeare hit, ‘Sigh No More, Ladies’, with Tabby’s signature twist.

‘
Die no more, ladies, die no more
,’ carols Gladys.

‘
Zombies deceive us ever
,’ Dorcas carols back.

‘Whoever savaged that granny did a sweet job,’ says a transfixed Grim Reaper perched near the doors.

The cast are dancing around Warren, Rich and Henry on stage. Sam and Maria are nowhere to be seen. Lurking in the background, Patricia and Eunice seem to be on red alert.

I check my ticket. Someone is sitting in my seat. As I dither over what to do next, Oz grabs me and pulls me on to the armrest at the end of the nearest row.

‘What have I missed?’ I whisper. ‘Any assassination attempts?’

There is a sudden commotion in the wings. The audience sits up with interest as Studs ploughs through a gaggle of green-tinged chorus members and pegs it across the stage, ducking the scenery, his skinny legs and white trainers a blur.

‘It was insurance!’ he squeals over his shoulder. ‘You’d have done the same . . . You know how it is . . . We’re still mates, yeah? We’re still . . .’

Jem powers after him, hurdling over a bench and a tub of paper flowers. ‘I’ll wring your bloody neck! I would’ve stuck by you
whatever
. And don’t get me started on what you sold Fatima . . .’

The rest is lost in the wings on the far side of the stage. The audience erupts, whooping and drumming their feet on the ground, and the curtain comes crashing down on Act One.

‘Delilah, thank God.’ Val is pulling my arm, heaving me through the auditorium doors on the crest of the flood. ‘Despite promising to help on the bar, Oz has vanished and Kev’s on crowd control and Jem’s somewhere else and I am on my knees and the serious drinking hasn’t even started yet and I’ll pay you six quid an hour— no, seven, plus tips, just
do it
.’

The bar is already fat with people waving tenners in the air. What else can I do but serve, and serve, and serve again, picking my way through the queue bargers and the big spenders and the banter merchants like I haven’t already had the most frantic evening of my life?

‘It’s a miracle the show’s made it this far,’ says Oz, unaware of the death glares from Val as he squeezes in between two girls at the bar to order beer. ‘The tension on the stage has been sensational. It could have been scripted.’

I wipe my forehead with one hand and siphon soda with the other. ‘You seen Jem anywhere?’

‘Strangling that skinny guy, I imagine. Enjoying the show, ladies?’

‘It’s amazing,’ gushes a girl with Morticia Addams hair on his left.

‘AMAZING,’ agrees the smaller witchy one on Oz’s right.

‘And you lovelies are pretty amazing too,’ Oz beams, putting his arms round them both.

We sell an unbelievable amount of alcohol in twenty minutes flat. And then the bell goes and most of the
hellish Hallowe’en army returns to their evening’s unpredictable entertainment.

‘These kids will be the death of me,’ Val wheezes, banging her chest with a fist as the auditorium doors swing shut. ‘Shortly after they have funded my retirement. Get this lot in the dishwasher, will you?’

I carry armfuls of dead glasses into the kitchen, stack them in the machine and wonder what on earth I’m doing. The money will be handy and everything, but I am
supposed
to be watching Tab. And yet here I am, in the heart of Jem’s lair. I sneak a glance at his locker. It hangs slightly ajar, his jacket on view. He is still around then, somewhere.

At about ten-fifteen, I wipe a table beneath the elbows of a pair of singing werewolves and throw my cloth on
the counter.

‘Going somewhere?’ Val says beadily.

‘I thought I’d catch the end of the show,’ I say, edging towards the auditorium doors. ‘We’re quieter now, and I thought—’

Val points at a small crowd hanging around the bar who have decided to quit the show in favour of getting extremely drunk. ‘They need serving.’

She dives into the cellar. I serve a few more rounds of drinks, wondering if I’ll get to see any of the show at all.

The door which leads straight to the wings on the right-hand side of the stage suddenly opens into the lobby.

‘I need a drink,’ Maria announces, marching towards the bar.

The singing werewolves point at her, study their crumpled programmes and break into a cheery rendition of ‘How Do You Solve a Problem Like Maria?’.

‘Is it over?’ I ask. I haven’t heard any final-sounding applause.

‘It’s Patricia and Eunice’s big “comedy” number,’ says Maria with a sniff. ‘
Big
being the word, where Patricia is concerned. Hasn’t she heard of the Dukan diet? I deserve a nice cold drink for everything I’ve been through tonight. It turns out Sam has been lying to me about agents too. I heard Rich talking to Henry in the wings. The agent Sam said was here is at the show in
Woking
.’

I can hear Patricia and Eunice’s duet through the open door. They are getting plenty of laughs. But if the leading lady is at the bar on her next cue, the laughing is going to stop pretty fast.

I come out from behind the counter. ‘I’ll bring something backstage if you want,’ I say, flapping my cleaning cloth at her like I’m trying to usher a chicken back into its pen. ‘But I really think you should go back—’

‘Give me something now.’ Maria pulls off her long dark wig and ruffles her blond hair. ‘That lot can wait.’ She gave her make-up guy so much grief that her zombie look is more pale and interesting than outright dead.

‘Aren’t you on next?’ I say helplessly.

‘I don’t know if I can be bothered,’ Maria says with supreme indifference. ‘Anyway, this song takes ages. They’ll probably do an encore too. Fanta, with ice.’

‘Maria, what are you doing?’ hisses Sam in terror, putting his head round the stage door. ‘We’ve got the finale in five minutes.’

‘Don’t you start with me,’ Maria spits.

‘I’m sorry about the agent thing – I’m sorry about a lot of things – but you can’t let us down now!’

Tabby peeps round nervously next to Sam. Maria curls her lip.

‘And as for
you
,’ she begins malevolently.

The main double doors clang open, bringing with them a gust of cold evening air. Jem’s hair is sticking straight up and his cheeks have a glow that brings me out in a rash of purest longing.

‘Is it over?’ he asks breathlessly, resting his hands on his knees.

‘No,’ say Sam, Tab and me together. Well, I make an odd snorting noise.

Jem looks at Maria. ‘Then what—’

‘I’m having a DRINK,’ Maria says.

‘Where’s Studs?’ I manage to ask.

‘Halfway to Dorking, if he knows what’s good for him,’ Jem says darkly.

A burst of applause rocks the lobby. Patricia shoots through the stage door to join the fun at the bar, along with Rich, Henry, Gladys – pretty much everyone, really.

‘Get back on stage,’ Patricia shouts at Maria. ‘It’s the finale! Hero and Claudio, Beatrice and Benedick –
the
wedding
!’

‘Encore!’ roars the crowd. ‘Bring back the dead coppers!’

Eunice grabs Patricia’s uniformed arm. ‘We need to go again, Patricia. They’ll have to sort this out themselves.’

‘Thank God for encores,’ says Sam as the orchestra starts Patricia and Eunice’s song again. He looks ill with nerves. ‘Maria, you have to come back.’

‘You have no right to tell me what to do,’ Maria says mulishly. ‘Not after the way you’ve treated me.’

‘Sam,’ says Jem, ‘there’s something I should tell you round about now.’

Maria goes very still as Sam scrubs at his eyes like a tired child.

‘Hit me,’ he says.

Jem looks abashed. ‘Maria and I kind of . . . hooked up a few weeks ago.’

There is an astonished silence, not least from me. The assembled cast goggle at each other.

‘Don’t believe him, Sammy,’ Maria says, in a voice that instantly tells me that every word is true. Not that I need Maria to tell me that, of course. Jem being Jem.

‘You’re kidding me,’ Sam says to Jem.

‘I wish I was, mate. Kissing
one
of your girlfriends is bad enough, I know. Kissing two is—’

Sam’s fist flashes out – WHAM – and Jem hits the ground, holding his jaw.

‘Punchable,’ he agrees, through a mouthful of blood.

‘It was only once,’ Maria says quickly. ‘And he kissed
me
, Sammy. I swear.’

I’m trying to keep up, but I’m struggling
.
So’s the cast. In the background, Patricia and Eunice are on their second verse again.

‘When did you kiss her?’ Sam demands, standing over Jem’s sprawled body on the floor.

‘Night of your first rehearsal,’ Jem confesses. ‘And for the record, she’s lying about who kissed who.’

Sam shakes his fist out and glares down at Jem. Laughs, suddenly. ‘Guess
I
hit
you
,’ he says. And laughs again.

The singing werewolves and assorted other drinkers watch, enthralled, as Sam extends a hand to help Jem back on to his feet. They exchange manly nods.

‘Don’t ever bloody kiss Tab again,’ says Sam.

He takes Tabby’s hand and squeezes it. Tabby goes bright pink with excitement.

‘What about me?’ Maria bleats. ‘Don’t you care that he kissed me?’

‘Nope,’ says Sam.

Taking Tabby’s face in both hands, he kisses her gently. The kiss becomes extremely ungentle, extremely fast. Over their heads, the theatre lights sputter and fizz and glow again in a flash of pure comic timing.

Ella rockets through the stage door next, armed with a murderous glare and a fistful of brushes and powder puffs. ‘STOP SNOGGING. You’re wrecking those masterpieces on your faces BEFORE THE SHOW’S EVEN FLAMING FINISHED!’

Maria storms for the glass doors and the outside world. Abandoned on the bar, her wig looks like a deboned Persian cat.

There is a fresh explosion of applause. Patricia and Eunice’s second encore is over, and the leading lady has left the building.

‘W
e’ll have to go on without her,’ says Sam, his arm tightly wrapped around Tab’s shoulders.

There is a look on Tabby’s face that I’ve never seen before. I know that if Sam takes his arm away, she will keel on to the carpet face-first without even putting her hands out to save herself.

‘I’ll think of something,’ Sam says heroically. ‘I will.’

There’s no point having a run of genius ideas if, when the chips are down, you don’t have the final genius idea that brings everything together.

‘Tab, put Maria’s wig on,’ I say. I grab the Persian cat-a-like and thrust it into her hands. ‘Warren, you’re marrying Rich.’

‘Goodee,’ says Rich. ‘Don’t worry Tabby poppet, I know your words. If I keep the veil on, no one will know the difference. Everyone always watches Beatrice and Benedick in this scene anyway. Give us your wig, there’s a darling.’

‘Tab, do you know the words to Maria’s last song?’ I say.

Tabby tears her eyes from Sam’s face and manages a nod. She starts slowly putting Maria’s wig on while Ella attempts to repair the kiss damage to her face, stabbing in and out of range like a furious hornet.

Patricia flies through the stage door with Eunice as the audience roars its appreciation. She hunts wildly through the assembled cast. ‘Where’s that bloody girl? Rich, why are you wearing Hero’s wig?’

I feel Jem slide his hand into mine. I will allow it just for now. Just until we get through this crisis.

‘Delilah has everything under control,’ Jem tells Patricia, rubbing his jaw with his free hand. ‘Tab’s taking Maria’s part. The rest of you are fudging it.’

‘We can do that,’ says Gladys.

‘You always do that,’ Dorcas observes.

Judging from the sound of chatter and throat-clearing in the auditorium, the audience is starting to get bored. The band plays on brightly,
à la
Titanic
.

Patricia squares her suited shoulders. ‘Time to kill this, zombie style. On we go, my little chickens. Quick quick.’

The lobby feels strangely empty without the cast. The werewolves aren’t singing any more, and the barflies are having a silent moment of contemplation over their beers.

‘Guess we’re the only ones left in need of a happy ending,’ Jem says.

‘Two Magners and some pork scratchings please,’ pipes up one of the werewolves.

I prise my eyes from Jem’s molten gaze and my hand from his hand and I walk to the bar. ‘There’s no happy ending,’ I tell him as I find the Magners and the scratchings. ‘You’ve got a girlfriend.’

‘Funnily enough,’ he says, following me to the bar, ‘all I can think of right now is you.’

I push the ciders and scratchings at the werewolves and face him.

‘You kissed Maria?’ I demand. ‘You kissed Maria AND you kissed Tabby?’

‘Sam’s women apparently find me irresistible,’ Jem says. ‘Tabby kissed
me
. Maria kissed me too, as you may have gathered. She was pretty insistent. Caught me in the kitchen, out of the way. It would have been rude to refuse. Oh, and my jaw hurts like hell, thanks for asking.’

‘When did you kiss Maria?’

‘First rehearsal. I just told Sam that.’ He frowns at me. ‘What? This was before you – after you – OK, I guess in
the middle of you. You’re not thinking of hitting me too, are you?’

I am thinking about the fizzing lights above Sam and Tabby’s kiss. The scent of pine woods and oregano seems to waft through my nostrils, and I try and fail to put it down to Val’s brand of toilet cleaner.

Jem attempts to catch me around the waist. ‘Now, all that kissing has got me in the mood and you are looking gloriously gorgeous tonight. Kiss me.’

I strike at him with my fists. ‘Tell me about your girlfriend first.’

‘I don’t have a girlfriend,’ he says patiently. ‘Read my lips. Scratch that, kiss my lips.’

I wriggle away from him and rush into the sanctum of the kitchen. My mind is a wreck.

‘Fatima
saw
her,’ I insist as he follows me in like a really,
really
annoying dog. ‘Right here in this kitchen.’ I’m not being the other woman again. I’m NOT.

‘What does my girlfriend look like?’

‘She’s
tall
,’ I shout.

I am up against the lockers now, my back flat to the metal doors like I am somehow hoping to melt my way through and escape. Jem leans his arms on the lockers either side of my head and does his stripping look at me.

‘I don’t go for tall women,’ he says. ‘I prefer them dinky.’

‘Dinky?’ I say, offended.

A locker door creaks open just beside my ear and Jem’s jacket flops out on to the floor. Stuck to the inside of the locker door is a long, naked back, painted with a silver zipper on a black ribbon. An unfeasibly long neck with just a few dark blond curls on show. The body curves in and out again like a violin.

‘Why have you got that picture in your locker?’ I say, shocked.

‘Because it’s the most beautiful thing I own. Kev gave me a copy, but only after I begged. Did I cause the chip in your heart or was it the guy in the car?’

There is a long, long pause.

‘Bit of both,’ I whisper.

‘I have been having sleepless nights about you for weeks,’ he says, running a finger down my cheek. ‘I haven’t felt this strongly about anyone since I crushed on a
Blue Peter
presenter.’

I gaze at the picture. My picture. Me.

‘Fatima said she’d seen a tall girl in the kitchen,’ I mumble.

‘Did she now.’

‘I thought—’

His lips come down on mine, sweet and soft, cutting me off. My whole body goes whoosh like a firework and I finally – properly – kiss him back.

He pulls away after five minutes, ten minutes, forever. ‘I’m going to the police about the hit and run in the morning. You’ve given me back my life, Delilah Jones, and I love you for it. I hope you won’t mind having a boyfriend with a criminal record.’

‘I’m looking for an accomplice for my next heist anyway,’ I say, utterly breathless. ‘You, me, the Bank of England and a trusty getaway Ford Fiesta.’

‘I’m in,’ he says and kisses me again so passionately that I think I might burst into flames on the spot.

‘I’d better call Studs,’ he says, coming up for air once more. ‘Just to check the idiot’s OK. And also to let him know he’s coming to the cops too.’

A roar of thirsty party-seekers floods into the bar on a wave of tumultuous applause from the auditorium. The show is over. All I need to complete the moment is a fly-by. Maybe a couple of cannons.

‘Tomorrow,’ I say as I curl my fingers wonderingly through his thick dark hair. ‘Do it tomorrow. Now shut up and kiss me again.’

There’s no moon filling me this time.

Just the most blazing of sunbeams.