Page 26 of Always the Bridesmaid

‘Just running through my set in my head,’ I lie.

‘Want me to leave you to it?’

‘Nah, I’m done.’ I have sufficiently decompressed and I’m ready to resume civility.

Bill pulls out a cloth from the back pocket of his ripped jeans and picks up a bottle of spray from a nearby table. He squirts the cleaning product onto the tabletop and I oblige by lifting my bottle to allow him to wipe the surface.

‘I didn’t like to say but it was a bit sticky,’ I say.

‘I’m sure when you’re a permanent fixture at the O2 Arena you’ll have sparkling clean tables,’ Bill teases.

I scoff my amusement into my bottle. I doubt I’ll ever be on the same level as the likes of comedic superstars Peter Kay and John Bishop, but I can dream.

Bill and I make small talk and share our usual banter until a slow but steady trickle of punters have come into the club and Bill excuses himself to help behind the bar.

I am watching the door, mindlessly observing the comings and goings, when a tall, rather beautiful woman I recognize, still wearing her jean shorts and fitted T-shirt from earlier, beams at me, entirely unexpectedly, and makes a beeline for my table. Sarah walks in with bags and boxes, flushed in the cheeks in a naturally pretty sort of way. In her hands she is holding what looks like three food cartons.

‘Hey,’ she says in that casual way that Americans seem to do. She seems much brighter and perkier than when I last saw her. ‘How did the sound check go?’

I don’t want to lie. There is nothing I hate more than liars. So I avoid the question altogether.

‘What have you got there?’

Sarah looks first across her right shoulder then across her left, sheepish. ‘Contraband?’

I laugh when she opens the top of one carton and inside are two custard tarts, one simple with cinnamon on top and the other with three raspberries pressed gently into the baked custard. There are also two wooden forks, one of which she hands to me.

‘Do we dare?’ she asks. ‘I took your advice and saw the statue, then had a look around Camden Market but got distracted by sweet treats.’

She opens the lid on the second container and inside is a crêpe, grains of sugar sparkling atop the dessert. I laugh as she, once again, glances across her shoulder to the bartender. Then she opens the third container and I see the churros I would give life itself for.

‘Phwoar! Now we’re talking!’

‘Do you think we’ll get kicked out?’ she asks.

I raise my fork to Bill and use it to point to the food cartons, then smile as he shakes his head and taps on his imaginary watch as if to say, eat them quickly but go ahead.

‘We’re good,’ I tell Sarah. ‘I’m the talent, remember.’

‘Clearly your modesty knows no bounds.’

I’m laughing again, now around a mouthful of churro dipped in hazelnut chocolate sauce. The sugary, cinnamon fried dough makes me groan with delight.

‘Calm down, Sally!’ Sarah says.

My light laughter moves south from my chest until it becomes a deep belly guffaw. Perhaps if Meg Ryan had been eating churros, the infamous scene Sarah is referencing from When Harry Met Sally would have made more sense.

Sobering, I thank Sarah for bringing the desserts. It was thoughtful and kind but mostly it has been a nice distraction from my building stage anxiety. Despite her cantankerousness, I can admit that Sarah does seem to be a genuinely nice person.

It’s not that I have trouble warming to nice people. I have trouble warming to all people. In my experience, 99 per cent of people on the planet are a let-down.

‘How was The King?’ I ask, as Sarah straightens her back and presses her hands to her stomach in an expression of fullness.

‘Very seventies Elvis rather than fifties.’

‘Ouch. Will the suit fit Jake?’

‘I hope so. His height will hopefully counterbalance Joe Elvis’s waistline.’

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