Page 36 of One Last Try

At the beginning of the night, Mathias decided he needed Dutch courage to get on the mic. He then decided that he wanted to try all the hipster beers we have on tap at The Little Thatch. But of course he’s a big lad, so he’s been Noah’s arking his drinks—two by two. Currently, four rounds into the quiz he’s sampled the lager, Old Boy’s Tackle, the stout, Ball Smasher, and the IPA, Hooker’s Dribble, which he dismissed immediately saying, “It tastes like it’s been filtered through a cum sock.” But he still downed both pints regardless.

Ruckin’ ’Ell is a golden ale, and one of my favourites of the rugby-themed indie brews, but I have no idea if it’ll live up to Mathias’s standards. I’mcoming to realise the fly-half regards every aspect of his life with the same astronomically high benchmarks.

I pour him two pints. He starts on the first before I’ve finished the second, bringing the glass to his lips and tilting his head back. Half the pint is gone in one swig. He’s on his seventh drink and still not showing any signs of inebriation. Not slurring his words or swaying or unfocusing his eyes.

He does seem to be opening up a little, though, and offering smiles to a few other people besides myself. With the exception of one patron.

“Who’s the twat in the corner that’s been heckling me all night?” Mathias asks, his voice hushed, but not hushed enough for half the pub not to hear.

“That’s Rodge. Just . . . ignore him, he’s a . . .” I puff out a breath, trying to think of the most applicable term for Roger. The word menace feels as though it’s making light of him. Pain in the ass, maybe? Sometimes he can be a little loutish, or like that one uncle everyone dreads seeing at family gatherings.

“I’m the village cunt,” Roger supplies from his corner post. The entire pub laughs, with the exception of Ange, Roger’s wife, and Mathias.

I shrug. “Very succinctly summarised there, Rodge.” I turn to Mathias but don’t bother to lower my voice. In fact, I raise it so Roger and Ange—the only person who ever seems to have any influence on the guy—can hear. “If his comments are bothering you, Mathias, I’ll throw the bastard out. Not the first time I’ve evicted him, and definitely won’t be the last either.”

“Message received, loud and clear,” Roger says, turning away to his sheet of paper nestled on the table between him and his wife.

Mathias downs the rest of his pint. “This tastes like those verruca foot baths you have to walk through before you get to the main swimming pool, by the way.”

I snort my laughter out, and I swear Mathias’s eyes twinkle. “Ah, a step up from cum sock at least,” I reply.

I catch his forearm in my fist as he grabs the second pint of golden ale, and even though there’s a sleeve of fabric between us, heat licks up my skin, and I almost forget what I’d planned to say. I don’t, though, because if I’ve learnedanything in the few hours I’ve spent in Mathias’s company, it’s that the man thrives on affirmation, and I really, really want to give him that little boost.

“You’re doing great, by the way. You’re a natural at this.” This time I whisper so the words are only for him, not the gaggle of patrons who seem to be watching the Mathias soap opera instead of participating in tonight’s quiz.

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’sBeauty 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 theIdeal Lesbianscatalogue. 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.

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