Page 1 of The Typo

ChapterOne

‘Still waiting for those two little ticks to turn blue?’ asked Malcolm as he stomped across the stage with his stepladder ready to check the lighting rig.

I hastily swiped from WhatsApp back into camera mode and tried to act as if I’d been taking pictures all along rather than spending the last ten minutes staring at my phone screen willing a response to appear.

‘I don’t know what you mean, Malc. Now, can you hold still for a second so I can get a picture of you in action for my behind-the-scenes blog post?’

Malcolm rolled his eyes, whether at my deliberate evasion or at being made to pose for marketing material, I couldn’t tell. I snapped a couple of shots of him setting up the ladder, and hoped he’d let the subject go. But as soon as I finished with the pictures, he fixed me with a sympathetic look.

‘Ah, Amy hen, I don’t understand it, a lovely young woman like yourself all alone and working late on a Friday night. It’s not right. I hear Colin from the box office is back on the market if you’re looking for a date.’

I tried not to shudder. Creepy Colin, as I privately thought of him, had a tendency to address my chest rather than my face, plus I’d never seen him do a jot of work, despite always claiming to be run off his feet.

‘Cheers for the thought, Malc, but no thanks. I’m perfectly content being the last woman standing in my friendship group.’

It was totally true, but while I valued the independence that came with being a single pringle, I couldn’t help but miss the fun that I used to have with my pals before they all coupled up and started forgetting to return my calls. I’d taken to filling the gaps in my social calendar by putting in some unpaid overtime at work, hoping my colleagues would admire my apparent dedication to the job. It was disappointing to discover that it had made them feel sorry for me instead.

‘Mankind’s loss is the Variety’s gain,’ said Malcolm in a tone which suggested that he still thought Creepy Colin was a better prospect for me, pervy layabout or not. ‘Well, as you’re here, could you hold on to the bottom of the ladder while I switch out the gels? We had a phone call from that comedian chappy’s agent blaming the lighting for half the audience walking out last night. Apparently the “unflattering blue tones” put them off him. Nothing to do with the fact that he’s criminally unfunny, of course.’

‘Naturally,’ I agreed. ‘At least none of the reviewers I invited bothered to turn up. We could do without yet another gig getting bad press. We’re beginning to get a reputation.’

My workplace, the Edinburgh Variety, had started life as a Victorian music hall with some of the biggest performers of the era treading its boards. Sadly, its days of being packed to the rafters with enthusiastic audience members applauding elite entertainers were long over. Now we lurched from one August to the next, praying that the proceeds from the Edinburgh Festival Fringe month would keep us going throughout the rest of the year. Hard as I tried to drum up business in my role as the marketing and communications manager, more often than not at least half the seats in the venue remained empty.

Malcom frowned as he leaned back to check that the light was still at the correct angle. I wished I wasn’t holding the ladder so I could get a few more pictures for the socials. The low pre-show lighting was very flattering, casting a gentle glow on the gilded plasterwork and rich velvet curtains which framed the stage, while allowing the tattier details of the auditorium to hide in the shadows. It was a shame there was never much of an audience to appreciate the theatre’s faded beauty.

‘Right, I think that’s all I can do for now,’ he said. ‘Let’s clear the stage and allow the audience to come in. I’m sure both of them will be wanting to sit down. I hope they aren’t too embarrassed that they’re going to be outnumbered by the performers.’

‘Shh,’ I said, smothering a laugh. ‘You know what the acoustics are like. Please try not to make tonight’s act feel too depressed before they’ve even taken to the stage.’

‘Hmm, from what I heard during their rehearsal this afternoon, they’re exactly the type to thrive on being miserable. Do you think the boss has ever considered that it’s the terrible choice of acts which is causing our issues, rather than anything else?’ Malcolm didn’t bother waiting for a response. ‘Right, I’d better get to the booth. And as for you, Ms Cameron, please tell me you’re not going to hang around for the rest of the night? You’re setting a dangerous precedent with your voluntary overtime. We don’t want to give management ideas. You’re not working this weekend, are you? Go and hit the town, come back with some stories to entertain us with on Monday.’

‘You know me, I’ll do my best,’ I said, trying to sound convincing. To my surprise and right on cue, my phone pinged, and my stomach lurched with a hopeful feeling I forced myself to ignore. ‘There we go, that’s my signal to depart. See you next week, hope the show goes well, Malc.’

I hurried to the admin office to get my coat and bag, waiting until I was by myself to check my phone screen.

Despite having already prepared myself for the eventuality, I couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment when I saw the message on the group chat from my best friend Cass saying she was too tired to meet up this weekend. But at least she’d replied, which was more than could be said for Meg and Jodie, who formed the rest of our gang of girls. They’d definitely read my WhatsApp suggesting a gathering, but as it often seemed nowadays, life must have got in the way of them replying. I sent Cass a thumbs up in acknowledgement and then decided to treat myself to a takeaway in compensation. It had been a long week.

I headed down the dimly lit alleyway which the Variety was hidden away on, then emerged into the bright bustle of Rose Street. The music was thudding in the bars, and the tang of alcohol was already starting to permeate the air. I pulled my coat tighter and wove my way through the groups of chattering friends and good-natured party people, trying to avoid getting jostled. It was a while since I’d been part of that fun-filled crowd and I was ashamed to find myself envying their easy high spirits. Maybe next weekend I’d be among their number, I told myself. The girls wouldn’t be busy forever. But in the meantime, I had an important date with Netflix and my sofa to look forward to.

I put my headphones on and selected my favourite podcast, ‘Join Us’, to keep me entertained on my walk back home, feeling the tension ease from my shoulders as I smiled at the happy banter filling my ears. The show had been started by three friends who chit-chatted about everything and nothing, darting between topics and teasing each other relentlessly, acting as if the listener was an extension of their friendship group. If truth be told, that sense of having company was the main reason I liked it so much. While my actual friends were otherwise engaged, at least the podcast gang could provide me with some virtual comrades.

The walk home took precisely an episode and a half, as usual, and I arrived at the front door of my block of flats at the same time as the pizza delivery guy. I chose to congratulate myself for my excellent sense of timing, rather than acknowledge the perfect coordination was a sign I’d grown far too accustomed to this lifestyle of the solo Friday night takeaway.

‘Cheers, you got a busy one tonight?’ I asked as he pulled the greasy box out of his insulated rucksack, the cheesy aroma instantly making my stomach grumble with anticipation.

The delivery guy checked his watch. ‘Not too bad. It’ll get busier later when folk arrive home from the boozer with the munchies. It’s fairly steady away at this time. Only a few regulars like you to tick off this list. Now you have yourself a good night.’

And with that he was gone, pedalling off into the darkness. Making a mental note to vary my takeaway provider for the next few weeks until I lost the moniker of ‘regular’, I started the haul to my top floor flat. When I’d first moved into this shoebox-sized place in one of the less salubrious areas of Leith, living by myself had seemed the ultimate luxury, despite the large dent it made in my very modest wage. But now, as I climbed the stairs towards my empty home, I experienced an impending sense of melancholy at the prospect of the whole weekend stretching out in front of me with absolutely nothing to fill it.

‘Stop with the pity party,’ I said out loud as I put my key in the lock.

‘Who’s that out there? Oh, it’s you, Amy,’ said my neighbour, Harold McTavish, sticking his head around his front door. His two cats took advantage of the small gap to dart out onto the landing and start winding their way around my legs, purring loudly.

‘Hello, Eliza. Good evening, Fraser.’ I leaned down so the pair could carefully examine the back of my hand. After a moment of indecision, the bolder of the two pushed her head into my palm, a clear indication that I was now allowed to stroke her.

‘They’re looking well, Mr McTavish,’ I said. While I was on first-name terms with the cats, I’d not quite summoned up the courage to try it with their owner, who I imagined might have been an army captain or the headteacher of an old-fashioned boarding school in his younger years.

Mr McTavish tutted. ‘So they should be. I spent a fortune buying them one of those fancy water fountains, but will they drink from it? Absolutely not. They mewl at me in the bathroom until I leave the tap dripping for them, as apparently that water is nectar from the gods.’

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