Page 28 of The Fake Date Deal

“That’ll get me through till someone can cover.”

Waiting in the wings, a scary thought hit me: I’d never done this before for someone I knew, unless you counted my sister. Which, yeah, I didn’t. I’d always come to places like this, lowbrow, low-rent. Places you wouldn’t catch my social circle, and if you did, they wouldn’t admit it. I could come here and be someone else, be someone funny and silly and rude. But, what if Marco hated that person? What if he didn’t laugh? If he was embarrassed?

I was spiraling so hard I missed my intro, and the guy who went before me had to nudge me onstage. There, I stood frozen in the buzzing spotlight, clutching the mic like a life ring at sea. I looked for Marco and saw he’d found a table. He’d ordered a beer, and he raised his glass, half a toast. My heart did a somersault and my head emptied out, my act, my material, all up in smoke. I felt a shift in the atmosphere, a hint of impatience. If I couldn’t recover soon, I’d bomb and bomb hard. No one would laugh, least of all Marco. Or he’d give me a pity laugh. A dry little chuckle. I’d know it was fake, and?—

Pretend he’s not there.

I swallowed so loud the mic picked it up, shuffled my feet, and said the first thing I thought of.

“So, uh, I’ve been dating this race car driver.”

I hadn’t said anything funny yet, but the audience was warm. They snickered at that. I egged them on, grinning.

“Yeah, I know, right? A race car driver. His whole purpose in life is finishing fast. No, not just fast. Finishing first, before anyone else can.”

The laughter got louder. I didn’t dare look at Marco. Still, I plunged on, picking up steam.

“He took me to see one of his races. Cars going round and round that little track…” I waggled a finger in tight little circles. “Around and around, going for that fast finish. But just round and round, that’s not going to do it. You need some up-and-down action, some back and forth. Some quick little flutters, some—” I trailed off as the laughter rose, drowning me out.

After that, it was easy. I’d hit my groove. There’s this sweet spot on stage, a back-and-forth with the crowd, my timing, their laughter, one conversation. Some nights, I never hit that spot, but when I did, it was magic. I rode the tide of their mirth higher and higher, till I saw the lights dip and my set was done.

“Thank you,” I yelled, over their laughter. “I’ve been Eve Hansley, and you’ve all been great.”

Marco was there when I came offstage, and he caught me in his arms and spun me around.

“Where did that come from? When’d you get so funny?”

I giggled, delighted, still riding my high. “I heard you laughing.”

“Yeah. You were great. Even if your whole joke was, I’m bad in bed.” He leaned down and kissed me to show he wasn’t mad. “Seriously, how did I not know you’re… a stand-up comic?”

I sighed as I felt myself sink back to earth. “I’m not a real comic. I only— Hold on.” The bartender had come out from behind the bar. He passed me an envelope.

“Nice set. Any chance you could come back tomorrow?”

“Sadly, no. We’re headed to Barcelona — his next race is there.” I kissed Marco again. He took my envelope from me.

“What’s this, your pay?”

“Yeah, and my tips.”

“So, you are a real comic. Why would you say you aren’t?” He steered me back to his table near the back of the room. “You’ve obviously got talent. You make people laugh. So why would you act like that’s not a real thing?”

“Because I can only ever do it in places like this.” I stared down at the table, with its layers of beer rings. “It’s just, with my family, with their royal connections, what does it look like, me doing this?”

“They don’t approve?”

“It’s not that, exactly. It’s… Okay, imagine I hit the big time. If I was the next Seinfeld, if I got my own show. I’d love that, but what about my obligations? My family’s big on charity, on giving back. On using our name and money as a force for change. And I want to do what? Be on some sitcom?”

“Actors do charity,” said Marco. “Couldn’t you do both?”

“If I was successful, but what if I wasn’t? What if I tried, but I fell flat?”

Marco cocked his head, as though deep in thought. “So, let me see if I’ve got this straight: if you succeed, it’s not good enough, because it’s not what your folks raised you to do. If you fail, you’re a failure forever and ever?”

I flapped my hand at him. “That’s not what I meant.”

“But that’s what you said.”

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