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“Do you trust me?”
“No.” CC’s poker face was unmatched.
“Then that sounds like a ‘you’ problem.” Niles said, grabbing her hand and leading her up the hill through the crowds.
“Niles, we’re here to see one guy perform his show in this festival and to scope out how he’d feel about going on Broadway. What we are not here to do is get trampled by the great Scottish public.” She was a New Yorker, born and bred, but she hadn't expected to find the same level of crowds in Edinburgh as they did back home. The heat also hit differently here. America was a country used to higher temperatures, and built to accommodate them. Scotland was built for rain and cold, and everywhere was designed to keep the heat in. Between that and the streets being so ridiculously cramped together she was sure there had to be some kind of building code violation, the heat was trapped between the buildings and the city was a furnace.
“This is Fringe, Babs. A good 90% of these folks are tourists.” He weaved expertly in and out of the crowds. “His show isn’t on until almost midnight anyway; we have plenty of time to kill.” He side-stepped a Chinese tour group that had stopped to take pictures of the surrounding architecture with the grace and ease of a seasoned professional. She dragged behind him, just barely managing not to run into anyone.
She sighed. He would not be persuaded when in one of these moods. Better to just go along with it and make him pay later. Although she had to admit, as much as she hated these crowds on the too-thin sidewalks, she also hadn’t relished the thought of sitting in the hotel until showtime. She wasn’t stupid - she’d taken a little look into what was on at the festival, but there were well over three and a half thousand shows playing over the course of the month, which even by her standards was intimidating. The only show she’d truly shown interest in seeing was not so much a show but a concert, and tickets for that had been sold out since the moment she checked. Had she sulked about it and refused to look at anything else? Yes. Did she regret it slightly looking round at all the colourful posters? Also yes.
Niles continued to lead her by the hand up the seemingly never ending hill. They passed an old building which was clearly set up as one of the festival venues. A number of people were standing outside with flyers and placards to promote their shows. Niles took a flyer from a depressed looking man in the saddest bee costume she’d ever seen - skin tight lycra with both his nipples peeking over the top. A sudden panic went through her.
“We’re not watching an hour of that.”
“Of course not. But flyering is a horrendous job so you just take it.” He said over his shoulder, stuffing the bit of paper into his pocket. “We’re up just a little bit further.”
She breathed a sigh of relief at his confirmation. The hill finally evened out and he turned them down a narrow side street. Eventually he stopped outside a theatre door. “This is it.” He grinned at her expectantly.
She looked at the door, then back at him. It was definitely a performance venue - the banners on either side announcing it as THE SPACE confirmed that - but it was nothing to shout home about. “Okay, so the Scottish are terrible at naming venues. And…?”
He sighed exasperatedly at her. “Look at the poster, woman. What show is playing here in ten minutes?”
She squinted at the sign, then gasped, reaching out to grab his arm. “You better not be lying to me, Butler Boy.” She was practically vibrating with excitement.
“I would never joke about something this serious.” He said, one hand over his heart while the other pulled two tickets for the Burt Bacharach Songbook out of his jacket pocket.
She looked at him in wonder. “How did you even get these? They’ve been sold out every time I looked!”
“I happen to have a friend who’s performing in the venue down the road where Bee Man is - whom you’ll be pleased to hear I’m not acquainted with - and he pulled some strings.” He offered her the tickets. “I should warn you this is a Fringe show, so don’t expect Broadway production values.” He laughed nervously. “But you looked so sad when you couldn’t get tickets. And being the wonderful loving husband I am, I fixed it.”
“No, this is perfect, I love it. Thank you.” She threw her arms around him, and he hugged her back.
“Wait,” She pulled back and narrowed her eyes at him, “we’re not stuck owing a favour to a random friend of yours for this are we?”
“Not at all; his dad and uncle are professional performers and have had a run on Broadway so he’s got no issues there. He’s just a good lad.”
“And you’re taking me to dinner too?” She asked hopefully, lowering her head and looking up at him through her eyelashes.
“You, my love, are a slave driver.” He said, kissing the back of her hand.
“Ah, but you’re so eager and willing to be my slave!” She teased.
“You know it, Babs.” He grinned.