The Singer
Ever had the feeling you’re having a conversation with someone you suspect is putting on a fake accent? I fully suspected that the man on reception at the hotel, the day Anthony left me speechless in my room, wasn’t for real. The receptionist, who I’d never encountered before, had a French accent, and though I know Guadeloupe is a French Caribbean island, I wasn’t falling for it. His accent was as false as Nicholas Cage’s in Captain Corelli’s Mandolin or Brad Pitt’s in Seven Years in Tibet. I sat through both films, so I know fake.
I stood looking at the closed door when Anthony walked out of my hotel room. It took several drawn-out seconds to snap out of my trance. I assumed Anthony had checked into the same hotel as me so I ran down to reception to ask which room he was in.
‘It is not customary to give out room numbers of our guests,’ the snotty receptionist said in his false voice. Not only was he snotty, he was also extremely camp and wore a flamboyant tie and suit when all the other receptionists wore open-necked shirts with a name badge.
I looked at his name badge, pinned to the top pocket of his jacket.
‘It’s kind of an emergency, Pascal,’ I said. ‘My family and I have been here most of the week. We had a wedding here. I’m not some mad stalker or anything.’
The receptionist, maybe in his late forties, with a pinched face, peered at me for several seconds as if assessing whether I was in fact a mad stalker. He even put on horn-rimmed glasses to stare over the desk at my footwear.
‘Look, he was just here,’ I insisted. ‘Anthony Shearman. Up in my room.’
‘In your room?’ he repeated. ‘A non guest?’
‘Ah, so you admit he’s not booked in here.’
‘No.’ He looked me up and down. ‘I don’t admit to anything.’
‘Did you see the person I was talking about? Tall guy, longish dark hair, glasses.’
‘Fabulous cheekbones and out-of-date trousers?’
‘Yes,’ I gasped.
‘He just left the hotel. I have never seen him before in my life.’
‘You’ve been so helpful,’ I shouted over my shoulder as I ran for the exit.
‘That is my job,’ he shouted back.
I was wasting time. I had to find Anthony. Running out onto the road beyond the manicured hedges of the hotel I thought I saw him jump on a bus heading into town. I spotted a taxi and waved it down. Thankfully, there were no other passengers aboard so I was able to tell the driver the line I’d longed to say for most of my adult life.
‘Follow that bus.’
He nodded and proceeded to oblige, well until he spotted his next fare.
‘No, no, please don’t stop,’ I begged him. ‘I’ll pay you double.’
The driver looked at me as if I was from space. It was obviously unheard of to have just the one fare on board your taxi when you could have two. Or three, as it turned out. The man who had flagged down the taxi walked over to a bench at the side of the road and began to help a very pregnant woman into the car.
‘This can’t be happening,’ I said to myself.
As the man helped the woman into the back seat next to me I demanded to know where they thought they were going.
All three people looked at me, puzzled.
‘The hospital,’ the woman said, digging her fingernails into my thigh. The bus I’d wanted to follow was well and truly out of sight.
‘Wait,’ I said. ‘I’ve changed my mind. I’ll get out here. Good luck,’ I said to the couple.
‘You sure?’ the driver asked me. ‘If I drive fast I can get to the hospital and still catch the bus up.’
All three looked at me as if it were a viable option. I peered back at the woman whose face had just contorted in agony and then along the coastal road that wound out of sight taking Anthony further away from me. The woman in the back seat let out a growl, like a bear, and gripped the driver’s headrest in front of her.
‘I think you should go the hospital. Now,’ I said.
It was useless. I’d never catch Anthony up, if indeed that was him I saw. I decided to walk back to reception and try again. I was pretty sure Anthony would have booked into my hotel. That being so, he’d have to come back and collect his case. His flight was in the morning so he was somewhere on the island. Somewhere thinking I was spoilt, that I was unreasonable, and probably regretting coming to Guadeloupe in the first place.
‘Back so soon?’ the snotty receptionist said to me as I entered the foyer.
‘No thanks to you, I just missed him.’
He said nothing.
‘Please,’ I continued. ‘Could you tell me if Anthony Shearman has booked a room here and if so, which one?’ I’d sit and wait for Anthony until he returned and then we could finally work things out – without tears, without tantrums. I wouldn’t mess up this time.
The receptionist heaved his shoulders up to his ears, letting them drop with an almighty sigh.
‘Anthony Shearman, Anthony Shearman,’ he said looking at the computer screen. ‘Yes,’ he said and walked off before I could get a room number or to thank him for letting me know.
I think I mentioned the fact that I hadn’t eaten all day so going to hang out in the bar while I waited for Anthony to return was probably not a good idea.
‘Rum punch?’ asked the barman, who obviously knew my tipple by now. I nodded.
‘Just the one,’ I said.
Three rum punches later there was no sign of Anthony and I was feeling light-headed. I noticed that the band who played at the wedding were setting up in one corner of the bar. I went over to offer to buy them a drink.
One of them looked at his watch.
‘It’s not seven, yet,’ he said. ‘The management get funny with us if we have any alcohol before we at least play the first set.’
‘Oh what a shame,’ I slurred, putting my arm around the bass player’s neck. ‘Oh, I know. Play your first set now then we can all have a nice drink. Come on,’ I went on. ‘Let’s get this party started.’
The band members looked around the bar. There was only one other customer there – an elderly gentleman whose head would tip backwards when he snored, making him jump into semi-consciousness every time. And then there was me, a tipsy twit in bright blue shorts and wedged espadrilles, swaying from side to side and definitely being propped up by the sturdy bass player.
The bassist led me to a table and sat me down.
‘You can listen to our sound check,’ he said. ‘Be our sound engineer. What about that?’
‘Yeah, man,’ I said, trying to speak with their accent. The last time I tried to get in touch with my Caribbean heritage was when Father took us, for the first time, to Jamaica, to meet our relatives. I listened to Bob Marley on the flight over, allowed a couple of girls on the beach to braid my hair, and walked around saying, “yeah mahn,” to everyone whether they were talking to me or not. Indigo had taken me to one side and told me that people thought I was either being deliberately offensive or that I was retarded. I immediately unbraided my hair and ditched the Jamaica Irie T-shirt I’d worn to death.
But my excuse for trying out the accent was down to the drink. Why not? I thought. If the receptionist can pretend to be French then why couldn’t I be a Guadeloupean sound engineer? Right?
Sadly, my foray into fakeness didn’t end there. As soon as the band played the first few bars of the sound check, I started dancing, pretending I was Beyoncé, throwing down moves that not even she had attempted, at least not in public. I even grabbed the microphone and started singing with the band. I hadn’t inherited my father’s soulfulness. My voice was a mixture between a choirboy and a hungry cat doing karaoke. From there the evening became hazy. I seem to remember bar food and a jug of rum punch being added into the equation and laughter, lots of it. Hopefully the laughter was with me and not at me.
I don’t remember much after that. I only know that when I woke up in my room, the balcony windows were open and it was dark outside.
I rolled onto my back and threw my hand to the side table to put on the light. It almost blinded me so I grabbed my Dior sunglasses and put them on. My head was thumping. I felt as if I was on a rough sea while lying on a rotating water bed. Next I tried to find my phone so I could see what time it was. For all I knew I could have been in a coma for days. However long it had been someone had seen fit to put me in recovery position on the bed and had removed my espadrilles.
The time on my phone said eleven forty-five. I must have been out for about four or five hours. Shit. I must have missed Anthony coming back. Maybe he came in when I was entertaining the snoring man and the bar staff. He could have been the one who put me to bed. I looked around the room, hoping to see him sitting there, but he wasn’t.
I sat up, rather gingerly. My head was throbbing and my stomach was feeling the strain of all the rum. I managed to drop my legs to the side of the bed and ease myself up. I staggered to the bathroom, put on the light, and dared to face myself in the mirror. A woman with Dior sunglasses and hair spread around her head like a mix between a dandelion and a crazy Afro made me jump, until I realized it was just my reflection. I thought I could use the look if I ever wanted to go to a fancy dress party as Jimi Hendrix.
I peeled the glasses off to assess the damage.
The whites of my eyes were surprisingly clear but my mascara, having abandoned my eyelashes, was smudged under my eyes. I ran the tap and started to wash my face, splashing it several times with cold water just to bring myself back to life. Then I gargled lots and lots of water. My tongue had been sticking to the roof of my mouth and felt like cardboard.
From the fridge I grabbed a small bottle of water. I began drinking like there was no tomorrow, head back, fridge door still open until I finally felt hydrated. I closed the fridge door and screwed the top back onto the bottle. From outside the window I thought I heard voices and movement. Late-night carousers, probably as drunk as me, I thought.
All of a sudden music started playing from below: a very familiar piece of music with a telltale string section and brass riff. Then someone began to sing. I went out onto the balcony and couldn’t believe who the singer was.
Anthony and the band had set up on the patio below and he was singing Father’s song to Mother from the wedding ceremony. Let’s Stay Together. The two things I didn’t know about Anthony before that night were: 1. He could sing and 2. He was a brilliant singer.
I was open-mouthed, looking down from the balcony as he looked up at me, microphone in one hand, the other hand extended up to me as the lyrics of the song rang out. There was a bit of a gathering on the patio and the people, none of whom I recognized, were joining in with the chorus. It was a minute into the song when I realized that the view of Anthony singing his heart out was being obscured by my tears.
I ran downstairs. I had to be down there. At reception the fake French receptionist raised his head.
‘Still here?’ I said as I whisked past him.
‘We don’t all have the luxury of passing out in bars; some of us have to work.’
I flew out to the patio and stood directly opposite Anthony as he sang. The words of the song told me he would love me whether times were good, bad, happy, or sad. Those lyrics had meant so much to Mother and Father and now they meant the world to me.
The singer of the band took the microphone from Anthony and pushed him towards me. The band replayed the song and Anthony and I danced. The third thing I hadn’t known about Anthony before that night was that he could dance. Fourth thing: he could really dance.
‘Were you the one who rescued me from the bar?’ I asked Anthony, on my tiptoes to reach his ear because I’d come down without shoes.
‘No.’ He smiled. ‘That was Anya and some French guy from the hotel.’
‘He’s not really French,’ I said.
‘Sorry?’ asked Anthony.
‘Nothing,’ I said. ‘Just hold me.’