Was he saying she was a bit of a pig? she wondered. Not that she cared because truth be told she did have a healthy appetite—just not this evening.
‘I think perhaps you’re suffering from a touch of karaokeitis.’ He popped a piece of schnitzel in his mouth.
He’d remembered tonight was the night then, and she wondered if he remembered what he’d said when he’d walked her home from the pub a fortnight ago too. She hadn’t wanted to bring it up in case he’d regretted opening his mouth. ‘I think you’re right.’ Her mobile bleeped from over on the bench, but she ignored it, feeling rude enough for not having touched her meal without getting up and messing about with that as well.
‘I meant what I said, you know, about singing a duet together.’ He shrugged. ‘It’s no skin off my nose, and if it makes things easier, I’ll get up and belt out a song with you. I’m bound to make you look marvellous by comparison, and if anything it’ll be a bit of a laugh.’
Isabel felt a flicker of hope flare, she could pretend he was Andre, and she was Celine and that they were on stage in Andre’s hometown not singing karaoke at the Rum Den. That way she might just be able to get her nerves under control and pull tonight off after all. ‘Are you sure?’ She sounded pathetically eager even to her ears.
‘Of course. I wouldn’t have mentioned it if I wasn’t. I’m no Andre Bocelli, but I reckon I could stretch to doing my best Tom Jones.’
That crushed her Tuscan fantasy. Perhaps she’d just have to pretend she was in the bath then, Isabel thought flushing as she recalled him overhearing her bathroom performance.
‘So how about we do that number he sung with the pretty blonde girl back in the late nineties?’
‘You’re showing your age Rhodri; I was still in the primmers then. What song?’
‘“Burning down the House.” I loved that one. I remember breaking out my moves at the school disco with Myfanwy Davies, my first love.’
Ha! Isabel had known a Myfanwy would pop up sometime. The song rang some vague bells, she thought. She’d Google it in a mo.
‘I can still swivel my hips with the best of them, and I’ve got a black polo neck in my drawers begging for an outing. We’ll be a hit!’
Isabel giggled. His enthusiasm was infectious. She was warming to the idea and to her amazement her appetite returned with a vengeance. She missed Rhodri’s grin as she sawed into her schnitzel with relish and demolished what was left on her plate in record time.
She pushed her chair back from the table. ‘That was delish, thank you. I’m going to have a listen to that song, “Burning Down the House”’
He nodded.
She carried the plates over to the sink before retrieving her mobile. The bleeping earlier had been courtesy of her mum. She and her dad had been over for a visit last weekend; Prince Charles thankfully had stayed at home. Mum said she’d left his favourite CD on for him in the hope he wouldn’t shred the furniture in protest at being excluded.
They’d met Rhodri, Constance, Delwyn, and Brenda, who’d all made a fuss of them. Constance had told them their daughter was a credit to them; Mum had forgiven her for being the instigator of the blue hair at those words of praise. Her dad was on the fence where Rhodri was concerned given he was a rugby man, but her mum had thought him a dreamboat; that had been her exact terminology. Isabel had primly replied that she didn’t look at him in that way, what with him being her landlord because it would be inappropriate. Her mum had raised an eyebrow but hadn’t said anything more on the subject. She was texting now to wish her luck and a request for a video link of her only child’s moment in the spotlight.
‘It was a band called the Cardigans he sang the duet with,’ Isabel said, a few ticks later clicking on the arrow. She had heard the song before, she realized, and it was catchy.
‘Ah yeah, that’s right.’ Rhodri said, peering over her shoulder at the images on the phone. ‘You know you look a little like her, except for the hair of course.’
Isabel felt herself stand a little taller; she was secretly pleased because the woman was gorgeous. As she watched Tom, the Welsh crooner she’d discovered thanks to Rhodri, do his thing she said, ‘Rhodri, do you promise there’ll be no hip–swivelling or thrusting on stage?’
He grinned and winked naughtily. ‘I can’t promise a thing.’
Chapter 35
It was standing room only in the Rum Den; it was the busiest Isabel had seen it in the month or so that she’d worked there. Brenda, she saw with a glance toward the bar was revelling in it. She was in her element prancing around and bantering with the punters. The people of Ryde were obviously partial to the sound of their own voices, she thought wryly. Her eyes swept over the pub from where she stood on the stage, partially hidden behind the karaoke machine—it was a full house.
Brenda had promised her a cash bonus for her efforts tonight a few minutes earlier. It was a moment of generosity brought on by the heaving tavern and the scowl on Isabel’s face at having to be the first act on stage. The thought of the extra spends didn’t quell the butterflies in her stomach though, despite knowing Rhodri would be right there next to her. She just wanted to get on with things now; it was the anticipation that was the worst of it. She checked her phone. Ten minutes until show time, which meant she’d better do a sound check.
‘Testing, testing,
