Page 18 of One Last Try (Try for Love #1)
I want to tell him he has the exact qualities a person needs for emceeing.
That the timbre of his voice and the intonations and variations of his tone are at once exciting and delightful, and also soothing.
Like being lulled into a gentle stupor by a snake charmer or the Pied Piper of Hamelin.
That his volume and clarity of speech are perfect and he’s never once had to repeat himself because of people mishearing.
That his posture and the way he carries himself, and the funny little commentary he provides with each question, has everyone bug-eyed and entranced.
I don’t, though, because I don’t need him knowing how much I’ve been thinking about him, dissecting and analysing every move he makes.
Plus, what I’ve said is enough. Mathias pinches his mouth closed, stopping his smile from forming all the way.
But his eyes crinkle at the corners, and something weird and warm and bubbly happens inside me at the knowledge I’m responsible for that smile.
“Okay, question number six,” he says, turning back to the room. “In Disney’s Beauty and the Beast , how many dozens of eggs did Gaston eat every day as a child?”
“Oi! Jones. What kind of stupid question is that?” Roger yells out.
“Don’t blame me. Bosley wrote the bloody questions,” Mathias responds. “And besides, if you think about it, it’s actually a very easy question. You just have to sing the song.”
“What song?” Viv says.
“Ooh!” Bryn says, pulling his husband’s head close to his mouth and humming the tune to the “Gaston” song. They have kids, of course they know it .
“I thought I wasn’t supposed to be giving you any clues,” Mathias responds, laughter echoing in his features. It’s clear he’s taken a shine to Viv. I don’t blame him. She’s what can only be described as “a character.”
Vivian Hillier is in her late fifties with cropped salt-and-pepper hair, man clothes, and a carabiner clipped to her hip at all times.
She’s so stereotypically lesbian, I’m sure there’s a picture of her in the Ideal Lesbians catalogue.
She drives a red secondhand Porsche, which she bought about five years ago and refers to as her menoporsche, and she was a godsend when the girls and I were doing up Fernbank Cottage to rent.
Seriously, the woman has more power tools than I know of uses for them.
She attends every Thursday quiz night without fail, usually with her adult nieces and nephews, and sometimes her older sister Jackie.
This week she’s brought her youngest niece, Addie.
Addie cannot take her eyes off Mathias. We should probably start some sort of club.
“Ah, come on. Give us a little serenade,” Viv pleads. “Just so we know which song it is.”
Mathias shakes his head. “Sorry, the boss has strictly forbidden any serenading before eleven p.m. Ain’t that right, Boss?” He doesn’t turn to look at me, but I imagine him winking.
“Absolutely,” I confirm. “No singing whatsoever between the hours of eleven thirty p.m. and eleven p.m.” I pause . . . realise I’ve fucked up . . . “The following night. That’s right, I’m good at maths. You have a . . . half an hour window to sing on penalty of excommunication.”
Viv sucks in a dramatic breath.
“What about karaoke night?” Tom yells, like the shit-stirrer he is.
“Well, karaoke night is different. I gotta get a special license for that,” I say. Tom tilts his head to the side as though working out whether I’m taking the piss.
“You have a karaoke night?” Mathias’s face lights up.
Oh my god, oh my god.
I need to see him belting his little heart out to Celine Dion.
“Last Friday of the month. Affectionately known as Payday Karaoke,” I say .
His eyes flick up to the beams and I can see the cogs turning. “So that’s what the disco lighting was for last week. Damn, I missed it.”
“There’s always this month’s.” I know we’re at the beginning of the month, and I know Mathias plans to leave, but at this point I’ll clutch at any and every straw thrown my way if it’ll help convince him to stick around a little longer.
His smile drops, and there’s an itchy spot on the back of his neck that’s in need of his urgent attention it would seem.
“What’s your karaoke song, Mathias?” Bryn yells.
“Let me guess,” Tom says. “It’s Tom Jones.”
Mathias is smiling again, and the icky sensation that fizzled up in my gut fades. “Actually, I’m quite partial to a bit of Bruno Mars.”
“Can you sing?” Viv asks. “Karaoke is boring as shit with people who can sing.”
“I’m fucking awful,” Mathias replies, and the entire pub disintegrates into a bubbling cauldron of laughter followed by raucous debate on whether karaoke is more or less enjoyable with singers who can hold a tune. Then we learn of everyone’s signature song choice.
Bryn’s is “Blinding Lights” by The Weeknd
Tom’s is anything by Rihanna.
Roger’s is “Tainted Love” by Soft Cell.
Ange’s is “It’s All Coming Back To Me Now” by Celine Dion.
Daisy’s, even though she isn’t here, is “Silver Lining” by First Aid Kit. She has an incredible singing voice. No idea where she gets it from because Kirsty and I both sound like dying cats.
Lando’s is “Driver’s License” by Olivia Rodrigo.
Addie tentatively offers “Thrift Shop” by Macklemore—which I have seen her perform, and in all fairness, she nails.
“Mine’s that one that goes, ‘doo doo doo, something about my jelly,’” Viv says, wagging her fingers and wiggling her hips in her chair, causing her niece to scream with laughter and Will Shakespeare to take a momentary, fleeting interest by lifting his snout .
“Ah, ‘Bootylicious?’” Mathias says, his Welsh accent cutting through the mayhem.
“Oh, Jesus. I’m gonna need you to say that again.” Viv gets her phone out of her pocket. “I’ve never heard a more perfectly uttered word. I’m gonna record it for my new text message ringtone.”
“What, ‘Bootylicious?’” Mathias raises a curious eyebrow at me, but he’s still smiling.
“Wait, wait, wait, wait.” She poises her phone towards him, and the pub collectively sucks in a breath, stemming all noise.
He pauses . . . licks his lips. My eyes zero in on the movement and my stomach somersaults.
For a second, I think he’s going to tell her to “fuck off,” that getting him to record his voice is the last straw and he’s going to march out of Mudford-upon-Hooke and never return, but he leans closer to her phone’s mic.
Viv presses record. Gives him a thumbs up.
“‘Booooty-licious,’” Mathias says, and I swear he adds extra Welshness to every syllable. I wish the pub was empty. Just him and me.
“Bryn, why do you never talk dirty to me like that?” Tom says.
“Okay! That’s enough silliness!” Mathias yells. Everybody snaps into silence before descending into giggles once again. “We need to finish this round, or I’m never getting my potatoes.”
After the movie round, Mathias moves from beer to cider. Yet another localish—Somerset—family-run business. This time the beverages aren’t rugby themed, but for some hipster reason I don’t fully understand, they’re named after members of the Gunpowder Plot.
We’re now having a little break while each team ponders over pictures of piers and anagrams of flightless birds.
“Catesby is good.” Mathias sits at the bar and swigs his pint while spooning off chunks of dessert. “Dry and crisp.”
Mathias’s main course had to get plated up on one of those massive oblong dishes we usually reserve for Sunday roasts.
He polished off the lot and originally refused a pudding, but when I slid a hearty slice of white chocolate cheesecake in front of him, he shrugged and pulled it closer to himself, all whilst hiding his smile.
“Wintour was too sweet,” he continues. “And fizzy. This cheesecake is the fucking dog’s bollocks, by the way. Did you make it?”
I shake my head. “Tyler did.”
“He’s good. Next time I’m trying Fawkes.”
“No. No, you’re not.” I renew my head shaking, but for different reasons now.
Mathias is still taking his drinks two at a time, and he’s beginning to show signs of inebriation. His eyes are slightly unfocused, his coordination seems a little less than the razor sharpness it usually is, and he’s louder, more talkative than I’ve ever seen him. Fawkes would finish him off.
“We only sell Fawkes in half pints because it’s so lethal. It’s ten point five per cent ABV,” I explain. It’s essentially apple-flavoured wine.
“So I’ll have two half pints, then.” He pops another piece of cheesecake into his mouth, and I hover near his end of the bar even though Viv is waiting to order, because I’ve learned that sometimes when Mathias eats his food he makes these delicious, involuntary, and dick-achingly indecent moans.
He doesn’t this time, but his brow creases, and I swear he’s going to close his eyes, and—
Fuck, okay. Yep, I need to fix Viv’s drinks.
“You can try one half pint of Fawkes after the music round,” I tell him before turning to Viv. Hopefully all that grub will suck up some of the booze in his bloodstream.