Green French Dress

And so we emerged, blinking into the Spring daylight.  Slightly fatter, having caught up with everything that was on our watchlists.  Outside our collective front door, there was death and people sunbathing in it’s shadows.  When I went back to work, there was a three month back log.  Thursday was spent sorting through a mountain of emails.  Friday was spent phoning customers back. 

I held off making a call as I tried to get a ticket for my favourite singer, Guy Rassignol.  Straight on at 10am.  Name and address autofilled.  Credit card (balance paid off, during isolation) entered.  I’m about to press confirm, when Shaun, my boss asks me to ring a customer back.  

By the time I’ve apologised for twenty minutes and logged back on, it’s sold out. On my break, I’m texting Cheesy Carl.  Within five minutes, I’ve got a ticket that is slightly more expensive.

And so, on a winter’s Saturday night I’m inappropriately dressed in a Green Dress French Dress and ballet pumps.  As you’ll know, Green French is Guy’s most famous song.  Real fans (like me) are called to the front of the stage when he sings it.  As far as I can tell, I’m not the only one dressed for the gig.  

I hand the ticket to the Scouse bouncer. ‘It’s jarg dat, love.’

‘What do you mean?’ I say, literally.

‘It’s fake, yer not coming in.  Out the way, let de others get in’.

And so, I headed down a cold back street. I lean against an iron door and I cried.  Not the tears of sorrow and fear that some people have cried this year, but the hot, useless tears of frustration that don’t solve anything.  I’ll have words with Cheesy Carl when I see him.  

I’m contemplating booting the door. Rational thought kicks in, advising me that doing so in ballet pumps isn’t a good idea. 

I’m aiming a kick when the door opens.  And Guy Rossignol steps out.  Tall, lean, tanned.  Gray hair slicked back, sunglasses on.  A white suit.  A recent profile described him as ‘an aging French full-back, who played for a mid-table Premier League club’.

He removes the sunglasses.  ‘Pretty Laydee’ He says.  ‘Whay do you cray?’

I look up at a pair of blue eyes, I have swum in at least once.  ‘Someone sold me a fake ticket’. 

He produces a laminated triple AAA from his inside pocket.  ‘Take zeez.  Enjoy mah performance’ He winks at me ‘Mah ah see yuh after the show?’

I nod.  The door shuts and I go back round to the entrance.  The bouncer peers at the triple AAA.  A quick bag search and I’m in.  I head to the left hand side of the stage.  This has always been my spot.  

The gig is fantastic.  Not that I’m fangirling, you understand.  But he played all his best-known songs.  Not that you could call them hits.  Two hours pass and he says: ‘It ees tame for me to go.  But before we say bon soir…’ He raises a finger in the air.  ‘And it is always bon soir…’

‘NEVER ADIEU!’ we all cry.

‘Ah would like to invaht the ladeez in the Green French Dresses to the front of the stage…’

My head is spinning as I’m ushered backstage.  I’m seated opposite Guy, sharing a bottle of red wine.  His bow tie is untied and my mind is just as loose.  I’m wondering what the night might hold.  He reaches out and touches my hand, gently.  It’s on.  Whatever, eet; sorry ‘it’ is.  

Just then, a bloke wearing the t-shirt of a minor death metal band bursts in.  ‘Ee-ah Guy, your usual Split’ he says.  ‘Fish, chips and mushy peas.  No joy on your acky.  City let you down’.  

At this point.  He looks at me and I look at him.  He says a word that is not French, but is definitely Mancunian.  As I point the door, The Metalhead says ‘Did I disturb summaht?’

Within moments of getting home, the Green French Dress is binbagged.  Guy’s five albums are deleted from my phone.  The next morning, I’m tracing the pattern for a new one that matches my skin tone.  

All those days, we spent.  Terrified to leave the house.  Picking a song to wash our hands to.  And the first thing I have looked forward to; was a lie.  A man, pretending to be the answer to my prayers was an absolute fraud.  Surely we have all learnt that life is too precious to believe one person has all the answers?

Speaking of which, Cheesy Carl is not answering my calls. He’s always asking me for a date.  Wait till he sees me in my new dress…