Page 34 of Girls Just Want to Have Sun

Everyone in the entire bar looks at me expectantly while I stave off a catatonic seizure. I feel my organs ready to shut down one by one. There’s no time to think so I smile weakly as he thrusts the microphone in my hand and leads me up on to stage. Feeling sick to my stomach, I quickly bring up my backing track playlist with trembling fingers and give him my broken phone to plug in to the enormous PA system behind a curtain just off to the side of the stage.

‘Erm, hello,’ I say gingerly into the mic.

The crowd erupts into cheers as though I’ve just announced the drinks are on me. There’s much whooping. It’s quite intimidating, made worse by my heart beating three times its normal speed.

‘I think maybe there’s been a slight mix-up.’

The thunderous roar immediately subsides. The mood in the room has deflated like a balloon. Who would have thought one could pop an atmosphere so quickly? The manager is wearing an understandably perplexed expression.

‘I mean, I’m not one of the top acts… near the top maybe… top thirty perhaps but definitely not better than Ted Sheeran. I know how much you like him,’ I say in a high, strangulated voice, trying to lighten the hostile vibes I’m getting. ‘But I’m more of a, how should I put it? I’m more an avant-garde fusion between, let’s say, soul and the great classics.’

The crowd seems disappointed, which makes me even more nervous. I yank my dress down and signal to the manager to play the first track. It takes forever to load up as my phone goes into constant buffering mode.

Gaaaah!

‘I hope you enjoy the show.’

I walk over to the phone and twiddle the knobs on the loudspeaker, stalling for time, only for it to emit a high-pitched screech which has the audience wincing.

‘I’ll start with one of my, erm, favourite, erm, hits from way back in the eighties.’

Now I just can’t seem to get the tuning back where it was. I should never have touched it and, judging by the lack of response, the crowd don’t seem to give a shit about hearing any hits from the eighties anyway.

‘Just get on with it,’ someone shouts in a bored voice.

Now there’s an atmosphere. An awkward atmosphere. I feel the sweat running down my face. I swipe at it with the back of my hand, causing a smear of glitter, some black eyeliner and a smattering of rhinestones to come away. At the side of the stage area, the Dollz are looking at me with horrified confusion.

Luckily, the twinkling notes of my first song float lightly out of the speaker. Had I known that the Dollz were ending on such a banger, I would have rethought my choice and now I severely regret choosing such a slow pop ballad to open with. I sing along to the haunting melody of ‘You Are the Reason’ and luckily the tremble in my voice is barely noticeable. I manage to get to the end and, while it does show off my vocal range, there’s an almost collective sigh of frustration from the audience as what’s left of the energy is immediately sucked from the room.

I wipe my face again to stop the sweat pouring into my eyes. It’s bad enough having to force a whole bar full of punters to listen to music they hate, without looking like a Picasso. There’s a smattering of polite applause afterwards. If they didn’t like that, then they definitely won’t like the next one. I signal wildly at the manager to skip the next track but he’s busy serving at the bar, too far away to help. I reluctantly start singing and sidle over to the PA system to change it myself. I wouldn’t normally change songs halfway through but literally the whole bar has gone back to talking and drinking and no one seems to be listening to me anyway. I can barely bring myself to look atMatteo, or Nacho or his friends, or Jorge and definitely not the Dollz. This is beyond humiliating.

Fumbling with the microphone, I stop the track mid-flow and search for something else. The crowd is growing restless, and the bar manager is giving me a warning look. He has been joined by a dark-haired beauty who is frowning at me under her thick fringe.

‘Siri! Siri, search previous playlist!’ I yell in panic while I try to make sense of why my fingers have become as much use as cocktail sausages.

My phone blares into the handheld mic in a robotic tone, ‘Previous search: hot guys in Benidorm.’

Fuck!

The whole place suddenly goes quiet as everyone turns in my direction. ‘Searching: hot guys in Benidorm called Matteo.’

Fuckety fuck!

The crowd bursts out laughing. Like lightning, I flick to my music library. I hit select on the first track to appear and suddenly the opening notes to ‘Somebody to Love’ immediately blare out.

Of all the tracks! Shitting, shitting hell.He’ll definitely think I’m desperate for him now. It’s as though I’ve been possessed by an evil spirit hell-bent on ruining my life.

‘I can be your Matteo if you want, love!’ a red-nosed man in socks and sandals jeers. The Dollz, oblivious to the heckling, are chatting to the nuns who have turned up just in time to witness how diabolical I am being. Nothing short of an exorcism will get me out of this mess.

It’s no use, I’ll just have to brazen it out. I blink slowly and start singing. I just won’t make eye contact with Matteo. It’s a big tune but I carry it comfortably and by the time I reach the chorus, I’ve surprised myself by moving around on stage, encouraging everyone to sing along. It’s completely outof character for me, but the bar manager seems relieved and says something to Matteo that he doesn’t quite find funny. He’s standing rigidly at the back of the bar, staring at me. He must think I’m a crackpot. The only upside being he’ll think I’m a crackpot interested in him, rather than Nacho.

I try to ignore that my dress is sliding up my backside as my make-up and jewels are sliding off my face, and I belt out the tune to get the crowd back on side. It was a shaky start, but I think we’ll all be able to get past it and salvage the show. Thankfully, I get significantly more applause for that song and babble at the crowd while I fiddle with the phone to find a suitable song to play next. The pressure is excruciating.

‘How about a bit of Ed Sheeran?’ I say hopefully, desperation permeating from my skin. Once again, I flick my eyes over to Matteo, who is speaking on his phone while the dark-haired beauty is talking rapidly at him, in between firing me evil looks.

It’s like the last five years of failed auditions for the Sinfonia all rolled into one. I click on the only track I know all the words to: ‘Perfect’. Like a lullaby soothing an angry baby, the opening notes float out across the sea of bald heads. Adrenalin is pumping through my veins, so when it comes to singing the gentle harmony, I sing in Italian. I totally fucking forgot that I knew how to do this. Italian! It was one of my final year projects at university.

For a moment, I manage to block out the nightmare of Benidorm and lose myself in the lyrics. The Dollz are beaming as they slosh their cocktails in time with me. Matteo’s face is unreadable. His eyes are darker than ever. I put everything I have into this performance. In fact, the song is hurling out of me as if my life depends on it. I end up turning away from the crowd to sing the rest of the song directly to Matteo.

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