Page 37 of One Last Try

Oh my god, oh my god.

Ineedto 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.

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