Page 29 of Always the Bridesmaid

I am grateful for the interruption of my manager, which makes Sarah leave.

The presence of my Geordie mate, who has backed me since the start of my career, reminds me that this is my life, my bread and butter, and I’ve got this. I know this gig and I know I can rock that stage.

12

SARAH

The apprehension I have been feeling over watching Charlie tonight has made me nauseous. He is little more than a stranger to me but the anticipation of him not being funny and me being forced to fake a laugh – the way I have done a few times already listening to the preceding acts – has been oddly anxiety inducing. And to see him crouched on the ground behind the scenes and looking so incredibly nervous did nothing to alleviate my concerns.

I was surprised to find out he makes a living as a comedian, since I hadn’t found him funny at all yesterday. Today, I feel like I’m getting him a bit more, though I still often wonder whether he is trying to make a joke or if he is just downright rude.

What surprises me even more, however, is that I am sitting in the club with a super-strong pint of beer in my hand, next to the empty stool where Charlie was sitting an hour ago, with tears streaming down my face. I can’t remember the last time I laughed so hard that my entire abdomen ached.

Either beer has made Charlie funny or beer has made me think Charlie is funny. Whichever, it is working. I catch all of his punchlines and at one point, he has me squealing so loudly, I am drawing the attention of people sitting close by.

Any nerves Charlie had displayed before his set are gone now. He owns the stage. Fits it naturally. He oozes confidence and self-assurance but in a completely likeable way. I notice that his accent – ‘melting-pot southern England,’ he tells me – is stronger on stage and I guess this is intentional.

‘Has anyone ever been told they could be the milk man’s kid?’ Charlie asks through his hand-held microphone.

While the audience respond with confirmations, shouted and mumbled, Charlie takes a drink of beer and nods.

‘Well, I could have been,’ he says. ‘My mother genuinely had no idea who my father was. In the box on the birth certificate that says “Father”, mine says, “Could have been Dave, Jonny, Simon or Pete”.’

When the laughter subsides, he continues. ‘I grew up in the system.’ He raises an arm, as if to say Louder, and receives a chorus of ‘awwwwwww’ in response.

‘Yeah, tough gig, especially for an overweight kid who has a sort of penguin waddle walk. My nose has been reset a few times, I can tell you. To make matters worse, I had to change my name to Charlie by deed poll because my mother had originally named me after her best friend… cocaine.’

I am still laughing along with the rest of the audience, mostly at the delivery of Charlie’s words, but I am also wondering how much of this is true. Charlie doesn’t at all seem like the kind of guy who grew up in the system.

‘I know what you’re thinking. Where are his tattoos? Where are the tear drops down his face and the scars from knife crime from his days incarcerated? It’s called fake tan. Lather enough of that stuff on and you look more like a contestant on Strictly Come Dancing than a tough lad from the wrong side of the tracks.’

Charlie sets his microphone down on the floor and in the manner of a prima ballerina, he begins rising to his toes – naturally, not reaching the tips – and raises his arms above his head before prancing, completely uncoordinated, around the stage.

Laughing at himself, along with his fans, Charlie resumes his hold on his microphone and, a little breathlessly, says, ‘My first foster family put me through ballet classes. See, my mother had never cut my hair. It wasn’t until my foster mother saw me taking a stand-up piss months into our stint together that she realized I was a boy.’ He holds up a hand. ‘Wait, before anyone passes comment, I agree, boys can do ballet, too. Unfortunately for me, I’m not well equipped enough downstairs to pull off Lycra.’

He reaches for his pint and takes a drink.

‘Seriously, though, do they stuff socks down there? What is it about male ballet dancers? It’s like the criteria for entry to The Royal Ballet School are good feet, strong quads and a big, fat cock.’ He waits for the crowd to settle and adds, ‘I bet those lads don’t get swiped left on Tinder.’

For another fifteen minutes, I hoot and snort, cry and squeal with zero grace, until I am completely exhausted. I haven’t felt so light and fluffy since… Since before Danny died.

Without realizing it, I have needed that.

Charlie’s show has been a release. Cathartic. He had me completely immersed in his words, his jokes, his transformation on stage to this incredibly honest, funny, charming man. Those are not words I would have expected to put in the same thought bucket as Charlie just hours ago.

It is more than half an hour since his performance and Charlie hasn’t yet reappeared. The bar has started to empty as people have finished their last drinks and I am beginning to wonder if he’s abandoned me for the second time in one day. I stifle a yawn and check my watch, calculating that it’s going to be the early hours of the morning before we are back at the house in Surrey.

I’m expecting – and hoping for – the chirpy, charismatic Charlie from stage but as I watch him finally appear, limply shaking some hands and blatantly forcing weak smiles at a few of the audience members who have stuck around to compliment him, I know that Charlie has gone.

He looks tired. Not in a sleepy, need-to-go-to-bed kind of way, but in an exhausted, drained, depleted-of-all-energy kind of way.

Despite my annoyance at the wait, I slip down from my stool and hug him. ‘You were amazing up there.’

He pats my back in a way that tells me to take my hug and flush it down the toilet.

‘Cheers,’ he says.

He picks up his satchel from underneath the table, with me still a bemused onlooker.

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