Maria Realf - The One

‘Well, Eric was tall,’ she huffed.

‘True, but I’m pretty sure Eric’s gay.’

‘What makes you think that?’

‘He gave his phone number to our waiter!’

‘Really? I don’t remember.’ Megan could conveniently forget anything if it didn’t further her current plans. ‘Anyway, this one will be different. You’ll see.’

‘I don’t know …’ Lizzie hesitated. ‘I was kind of looking forward to just chilling out tonight.’

‘Why? There’ll be loads of time for that when you’re old!’ Megan strutted over to the beech Argos wardrobe and started rummaging around inside. ‘You’ve got some gorgeous stuff in here, Lizzie,’ she said, rifling her way along the rail. ‘What’s the point of buying dresses unless you bother to show them off? You can stay in and read tomorrow – it’s not like Heathcliff’s going anywhere.’

Just then there was a noise from upstairs, and the sound of Tom Jones singing Sex Bomb began to echo around the landing. Lizzie immediately knew what that track meant: their other housemate, a cheeky Welshman called Gareth, had a hot date in his room, and any hope of a quiet night had now gone out of the window. A triumphant smile flickered across Megan’s face.

‘Fine, I’ll get ready,’ Lizzie grumbled, rolling off the bed and plugging in her hair straighteners. ‘But you’re going to owe me big time.’

Facing the wonky mirror in the bar’s dimly lit loos, Lizzie applied a slick of lip balm and frowned at her reflection. Two tired brown eyes glared back at her in annoyance. She could have bet a month’s rent before leaving the house that she wouldn’t fancy Dominic’s flatmate, and her instincts had been spot on. Though admittedly he wasn’t the worst-looking guy Megan had ever tried to set her up with, he was clearly a complete sexist, and when he’d started on the subject of women’s sport she’d had to make her excuses and escape to the ladies.

Give it one more hour out there and then you can leave , she promised herself. Hopefully by then Gareth will have stopped his Sexbombathon, and you’ll be able to go to bed in peace.

She slipped the balm into the pocket of her vintage red tea dress, a total bargain she’d snapped up at Oxfam, then smoothed her hair and strode out of the door – smack bang into a barman carrying a tray full of drinks. Lizzie watched in horror as glasses came crashing down around them, spilling their contents everywhere in torturously slow motion. A lone Bacardi Breezer just managed to stay on the tray, wobbling defiantly from side to side like a skittle.

‘I’m so sorry,’ she winced, wondering why she’d ever agreed to leave her cosy bedroom. Her left arm felt cold and sticky. ‘I … I didn’t see you there.’

‘Evidently,’ he growled, surveying the front of his soaked black T-shirt.

‘Are you alright? I’ll pay for the drinks.’ A surreptitious check of her dress revealed that he had borne the brunt of the spillage, which was both unfair and a big relief.

He set down the tray, glanced straight at her for a second, then surprised her with a wry smile. ‘Don’t worry about it,’ he said, his voice low and smoky. ‘There’s no point crying over … well, two pints, a Hooch and what I think might have been a Malibu and Coke.’ He sniffed the top of his T-shirt. ‘Yep … coconut.’

Despite her mortification, Lizzie found herself laughing. ‘If it’s any consolation, I’ve always liked coconut. But I still feel terrible.’

‘Don’t. It’s an occupational hazard.’

‘What, spilled drinks or clumsy girls?’

‘Both, I guess. Are you OK?’

‘Yes – well, apart from my rubbish eyesight, obviously. I swear I’m not as drunk as you must think.’

He smiled again, and Lizzie noticed that he was quietly attractive, with unruly dark hair that flopped into striking blue-grey eyes, and a jawline scattered with stubble; not the pretentious, landscaped kind, but the sort that suggested he had better things to do than shave every morning. He was tall – she guessed around 6ft – with broad shoulders, and his damp T-shirt clung just tightly enough that she could tell he was in good shape. She was beginning to stare now, she knew, but she couldn’t quite bring herself to look away.

In the end, he moved first, gesturing to the broken glass on the floor: ‘Well, I suppose I’d better sort this lot out before someone loses a toe.’

‘Yes, of course.’ She paused. ‘I really am sorry.’

‘You said that already,’ he teased. ‘Maybe we’ll bump into each other again sometime.’ And with that he disappeared into a room behind the bar.

Realising that she hadn’t even caught his name, Lizzie was surprised by the sudden surge of disappointment inside – but not half as surprised as when the karaoke compere made his next announcement: ‘Alright, now I’m looking for Lizzie Sparkes … Lizzie Sparkes, please come up.’ Lizzie looked round frantically, hoping by freak coincidence that someone else might share the same moniker, but then she spotted Megan and the boys howling with laughter.

‘Oh, there you are, Lizzie,’ shouted Megan, singling her out with an exaggerated pointing gesture. ‘You’re on.’

Lizzie tried frantically to get the attention of the chubby compere, wanting to let him know that it was all a stupid joke, but he interpreted her frenzied waving as a sign that she was coming and began to queue up the mysterious backing track. Blind panic set in. What have they picked? The contents of her CD collection flashed before her eyes. Britney Spears? Sugababes? S Club 7? There was only one thing for it: she would have to go up there and put a stop to this confusion.

Taking a deep breath, she jostled her way up to the makeshift stage, a blush creeping across both cheeks. ‘Look, I’m sorry, I think there’s been a mistake …’ she said to the host, but her voice was lost over the opening bars of the music as he thrust a microphone into her hand. Lizzie froze as she recognised the intro. It was Tragedy , a guilty pleasure she enjoyed playing on her Steps Gold CD – maybe a little too loudly if Megan had noticed – but would never dream of performing in the shower, let alone in public. The three cocktails she’d consumed earlier churned uneasily in her stomach.

Shit, shit, shit. I’m actually going to have to go through with this. The opening lines popped up on the ancient monitor in a garish shade of neon green, as if to further highlight her public humiliation.

Megan’s going to meet with some kind of tragedy when we get home, that’s for sure.

Mumbling along to the first verse, Lizzie tried to keep in time with the loud audio, her voice quivering almost as much as her legs. In desperation, she held out the microphone to the audience, encouraging her fellow students to sing along for the catchy chorus.

To her amazement, they did.

Seconds later Megan jumped up on stage beside her, tucking a straw behind one ear like a headset mic and belting out the rest of the lyrics. A group of girls near the front stood to perform the Steps dance routine in perfect unison, as though they’d been rehearsing for precisely such an occasion.

Just when Lizzie was starting to think that this karaoke business wasn’t all bad, the song came to an end and the audience went wild. ‘Good work, ladies,’ said the compere. ‘Well, who’s brave enough to come up and follow that? Looks like it’s going to be Tony, taking us back to the 80s …’

‘That was amazing!’ said Megan, sauntering off stage with rock-star swagger. ‘I didn’t know you had it in you.’

‘I didn’t exactly have much choice,’ replied Lizzie, not sure whether to hug her or slug her.