I grimace.
Things must be bad at work.
Old-style musicals are Barb’s secret vice. Along with her crafting.
The fact she’s indulging in both at once must mean she’s really stressed.
Definitely a night for comfort food on trays in front of the TV.
Looking at Barb in her black garb and black eye make-up, you’d never think she was the world’s biggest fan of musicals. But she is. She adores all the oldies like West Side Story, Oklahoma! and, yes, The Sound of Music. (I’ve banned ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ because I think it stretches the boundaries of human endurance just a little too far. All that yodelling.)
When I take her chilli through, Gordon MacRae is belting out, ‘Oh, the cowmen and the cowgirls should be friends!’ accompanied by a great deal of yee-hah-ing and thigh-slapping.
Barb looks up sheepishly, puts down her knitting and takes the tray. ‘Sorry.’
‘Hey, no problem. Gordon’s fairly cute, as ancient film stars go.’
‘I shouldn’t let work and weasels get me down,’ she shouts, when I’m back in the kitchen.
‘No, you shouldn’t. Sod the lot of them,’ I call back, encouragingly. ‘Wine?’
Obligingly, she whines.
My mind is still processing the weasel part.
I sit down with my own tray and hand her a glass of Shiraz. ‘Weasels? Does that mean you heard from Frank today?’
She curls her lip. ‘He came in and asked for me at reception, the twat.’
Frank, her ex, is a razor-jawed accountant who does underwear modelling in his spare time and accepts women’s adoration as totally his due. He found his match in Barb, though, and they had a stormy year-long relationship, during which time Barb ditched the witchy look in favour of a more floaty, pastel-heavy palette. Then Frank announced he was fed up being ‘emasculated’ and left Barb for an air-head Marilyn Monroe look-alike who no doubt agrees with everything he says.
Whatever Barb might say, I know their split in January hit her badly.
But we never mention her pastel phase.
It’s strictly off-limits.
Which suits me fine, since I’m the last one to bring up my murky past.
‘What did Frank want?’ I ask carefully.
‘Lunch.’
‘So did you go?’
‘No!’ she scoffs. ‘I told him to take a hike. Preferably up a very steep mountain in slippery shoes.’
I grin at her admiringly. ‘Does he still use aftershave like it’s going out of fashion?’
‘Smells like a tart’s boudoir.’
‘You’re so much better off without him,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘Although…’
She whips round. ‘Although what?’
I shrug. ‘Maybe it’s time you started thinking – you know – about dating again?’
I’m taking my life in my hands here, but someone has to tell her. Since Frank, she’s had a real downer on men. And I worry she might retreat more and more into her world of deathly black and end up only going out at night when the moon is full or something.
Her Frontal Lobe Theory about relationships is just a stalling tactic, I reckon.
She sighs impatiently. ‘Tell you what, we’ll go out on the pull together, shall we? Fancy it?’
‘No.’ I laugh.
She purses her lips. ‘Well, then.’
We finish our chilli, as the unbearably cheesy and romantic, ‘People will say we’re in love’ swells to an emotional crescendo.
Sneaking a look at Barb, I catch her snuffling into a hanky. ‘It’s the chilli. It’s making my nose run,’ she mumbles.
I sigh. ‘Could you pass—?’
She hands over the box of paper tissues.
I whip one out and blow my own nose. ‘Think I’ve got a cold coming on.’
‘I’ve got just the remedy,’ she says with a watery smile.
The ‘remedy’ turns out to be a wondrous invention called Irish hot chocolate.
It’s basically hot chocolate with a measure or two of Irish cream liqueur and a little island of whipping cream floating on top. It’s incredibly sweet. (Barb’s hand obviously kept slipping when she was pouring the liqueur. I’d say it’s more half-and-half.) But it’s amazing how quickly your taste buds adjust.
We’ve moved on to The Sound of Music by this time and Barb is throwing her whole heart into ‘Climb Every Mountain’, using the floor as her stage and her hair straighteners as a microphone.
Her voice is amazing. I keep telling her she should audition for The X Factor but she says Simon Cowell would just dismiss her as a pub singer.
She’s getting towards the high bit at the end now.
‘Follow every rainbow. Till. You. Find. Your…’
I screw my face up. Is the last note heading for the rafters? Or will she crap out and go down an octave?
‘Drea-ea-ea-ea-ea-ea-m!’
Rafters it is, then.
I start clapping and whooping. I know I’ve had a skinful, so my judgement is possibly a little impaired. But that sounded bloomin’ awesome to me.
She does some little modest bows to her audience of one then sinks to the floor and lies flat, stretching her arms over her head and wiggling her fingers and toes. ‘Ooh, that feels better.’
I grin. ‘Maybe I should try it. I could do with some therapy.’
‘Don’t you bloody dare,’ she comes back instantly.
‘Oh, well, that’s nice.’ I fake a huff, heave myself off the sofa and put on the Scandinavian drama.
Barb scrambles to a sitting position, already glued.
‘I know who did it,’ I say smugly, to get my own back. (Although actually, I don’t know because I haven’t got that far.) ‘Shall I tell you?’
Not taking her eyes off the screen, Barb mutters darkly, ‘If you do, this room will become a crime scene.’
Next morning, I’m coming out of the flat on the way to an interview at the jobcentre, when I hear a key turning in a lock up above.
Jasper comes clattering down the stairs. He’s wearing jeans and a black leather bomber jacket.
‘Hi again.’ He offers his hand. ‘I’m Jas.’
‘Lola.’
His handshake feels dry and firm. Sort of trustworthy.
‘Lola. Nice name.’ His brown eyes twinkle at me.
‘Thanks.’
‘Some great singing coming from your place last night.’
I stare at him in horror. ‘It was that loud?’
‘Well, yes.’ He grins and runs a hand through his curly brown hair. ‘Apparently the people in Norway heard it, too.’
‘Oh, God, sorry!’
‘Hey, don’t worry. They enjoyed it. That top note.’ He shakes his head admiringly. ‘Stunning. It got me thinking, actually. How would you and your flatmate feel about joining my Christmas choir?’
‘Your choir? Are you a musician, then?’
He nods modestly. ‘I’d like to think so.’
‘Do you play an instrument?’
‘Quite a few. Piano, saxophone, trumpet.’
‘Violin?’
He looks surprised. ‘Yes, actually.’
‘And you have a choir as well?’
‘Just for the festive season. There’s only six of us so far but I’m trying to recruit more people. We’ll sing Christmas songs and visit old folks’ homes, kids in hospital, that kind of thing.’
‘How wonderful.’
He smiles and his eyes light up. ‘Just my way of giving something back to the community. Music is such great therapy. It can really lift the spirits, you know?’
I nod, thinking of Barb.
‘So can I count on you and Barbara, is it?’ He looks at me quizzically. ‘To be my new choir members?’
‘It’s Barb actually. I’ll ask her. It was her you heard, by the way, not me.’
He raises an eyebrow. ‘But you’ll come too?’
‘Oh, I don’t think so.’
‘Why not? It’ll be amazing. C
ome on. Give it a go.’
His energy and sense of fun are infectious.
I can’t help thinking it probably will be amazing if Jasper’s in charge. And possibly lots of fun, too.
Fun is a concept that has been seriously lacking in my life for some time now.
Even when I was with Nathan, fun was never terribly high up the agenda. We were always either having early nights in preparation for the big event at the weekend. Or early nights because we were knackered from the big event …
I smile at him.
‘So you’ll do it? Yay!’ He punches the air.
And then, of course, I can’t possibly refuse because he looks so ridiculously delighted.
‘Rehearsal on Thursday night at Pottersdale Community Centre. I’ll give you both a lift. Leaving seven-thirty?’
‘Okay,’ I say, laughing.
He raises his hand and disappears.
Marvelling at the whirlwind that was Jasper, I lock up and put the keys in my bag. I feel suddenly energised. Sort of lighter in spirit with renewed optimism about the future. Meeting some new people and getting to know Jasper might be just the tonic I need right now.
It’s only when I’m half-way along the high street that it suddenly dawns on me.
Bloody hell. I’ve just agreed to join a choir.
Just one minor glitch in my brilliant plan.
I’m a totally rubbish singer.
That’s what my brother, Rob, tells me, anyway.
When we were kids, he used to zap me with his Power Ranger and stuff his fingers in his ears whenever I so much as sang along to an advert on TV.
Jasper described Barb’s high note as ‘stunning’.
If I were to attempt it, I’d definitely stun the populace for miles around.
But not in a good way.
Still, it’s ages till Thursday. Plenty of time to think up an excuse not to go.
Or to practise miming …
Chapter Eight
Next day, I fall in with the doors at the jobcentre.
It’s the usual story. Not much happening in the run-up to Christmas except restaurant and bar work, of which I have zilch experience. On the way home, my heart sinks into my well-worn loafers at the thought of the money I don’t have and am unlikely to earn in the near future.
The fact that I’ve promised to ‘do’ Christmas this year is keeping me awake at night, worrying. I’ve got no money and no space for them. The logical solution is to tell everyone this.
But I keep remembering Dad’s reaction when I told him I’d do it. He was so unbelievably relieved, which means I can’t possibly turn around now and say, ‘Ooh, sorry, the offer is withdrawn because Nathan’s chucked me.’
I simply haven’t the heart to back out of it.
If I’d known I was going to be made redundant, I’d have started to save, then maybe I would actually be able to feed my family at Christmas. Because that would be a good start.
I let myself into the flat, thinking I’ve never noticed before quite how miniature the hallway is. The rest of it isn’t exactly what you’d call roomy, either. Even with Barb away for Christmas, we’ll still be stepping over each other and queuing for the bathroom.
With a heavy heart, I make myself some coffee and get out a job description for a wages clerk vacancy at a factory twenty miles away. I’d have to get the bus there and back which would really eat into my wages, but it would be fine as a temporary measure.
Application done, I wander down to the post box, thinking about Jasper and his Christmas choir.
I’ve never sung in public before.
Obviously.
But Jasper’s energy and sparkling enthusiasm when he was talking about the choir was so infectious, I suppose I got carried away with the idea of it. And even if I can’t sing very well, it would be a great chance to meet some new people and rejuvenate my social life.
With Nathan, I was always doing new things because he wanted me to do them. But none of it was really for me.
Back at the flat, I mooch around for a bit, tidying up.
It’s a shame Barb can’t join the choir with me. She’d have been brilliant. But she said being so busy at work in the run-up to Christmas would mean she couldn’t commit to regular rehearsals.
On reflection, though, Barb is more a steal-the-show solo singer. Stuck in a choir, she’d probably drown everyone else out. I, on the other hand, intend to melt unobtrusively into the back row and keep my voice down.
Of course, I’ve never actually heard myself sing. It could be that I’m not all that bad.
Come to think of it, even naturally good singers train their voices. So maybe I could do the same?
I mean, I’ve got until Thursday night.
Barb’s hair straighteners are still lying on the arm of the sofa.
Picking them up, I glance around at my illusory audience and take a deep breath.
Then slowly, I start humming.
Do-re-mi-fa-so-la-ti-do!
There. Not too shabby. Only went off-key the once.
I try it again, a little louder this time.
And one more time, with growing confidence.
I know we all think we sound great, singing in the shower, but that not all of us actually are great. I get that. I really do.
But then again, how bad can I actually be?
Those hilariously duff singers on The X Factor are clearly completely and utterly deluded, taking to the stage thinking they can actually sing. Definitely a treble clef short of a music score.
Obviously, that’s not me.
I move on to ‘Doe, a deer’, enunciating the words carefully and entertaining my invisible audience with a confident Julie Andrews smile.
And actually, it’s surprisingly satisfying.
With Barb and Jasper safely out of the building, I’m really going for it. Exercising my vocal cords, so to speak. Trying out all those fancy little riffs and those soaring high notes full of emotion. (Mariah Carey, eat your heart out.)
It’s really very therapeutic, just like Jasper was saying.
Just for fun, I try out ‘The Lonely Goatherd’.
I’ve never been able to yodel. Never really wanted to, if I’m honest. But if I’m going to be in a choir, I need to start stretching myself. Explore the limits of my voice box, as it were.
The yodelling is a bit chaotic, frankly.
In fact, I’m getting a bit of a sore throat.
So I abandon that and start on ‘Climb Every Mountain’.
Tentatively at first because obviously I’m not in Barb’s league and never will be, however hard I practise. But thinking of Maria running across those hills, I find myself carried away by the emotion of the song, and soon I’m belting it out, whirling around and singing to the rooftops like I’m Julie Andrews herself.
A vase on the mantelpiece goes flying. But I didn’t like it anyway.
The mega-high note is approaching.
I’m psyching myself up to tackle it.
‘Follow every by-waaaaaay.’ *Flings out arms in gesture of carefree abandonment* ‘Till. You. Find. Your…’
Up or down an octave? Hell, in for a penny …
Up, it is!
Huge intake of breath.
‘Drea-ea-ea-ea-ea-m!’
Honestly, I feel so uninhibited with no one listening, that last soaring note almost makes the rafters shake.
Phew! Fantastic!
I collapse onto the sofa, feeling well chuffed.
What if I’m an undiscovered talent? What if I’ve hidden my light under a bushel all these years, just because my brother was mean and said I had a rotten singing voice? What if—?
There’s a sharp rap at the flat door.
I sit up in fright.
We’ve got a security entrance. So why didn’t the main door buzzer go?
Oh, God, maybe Jasper came back while I was ‘practising’.
I creep towards the door on tiptoe like a cartoon burglar with black eye-mask and a bag marked ‘s
wag’ over my shoulder. The plan is to look through the peep-hole then stay perfectly still until whoever it is goes away.
Except I fail to notice the vase I broke, lying in my path.
There’s a sudden, heart-stopping din as bits of smashed pottery go crashing into each other across the slippery wooden floor.
I wince.
Plan B it is, then.
I pull the door open with a flourish, brazening it out, trying to look as if yodelling at high volume is a perfectly natural thing to be doing.
The view takes me by surprise.
I am eye-level with a muscular male torso in a well-fitting white T-shirt. Startled, I take in the rest of him, wondering where on earth he appeared from. He’s well over six foot, and his thighs in the jeans he’s wearing look as solid as tree trunks.
He holds out his hand. ‘I’m Seb. From upstairs.’
I slide my eyes to his face.
Seb From Upstairs has green eyes and ruffled, tawny hair and, when I shake his hand, mine disappears altogether, held in his firm, warm grasp.
Hang on.
Upstairs?
‘Have you moved into the flat, then?’ I ask, wafting the top of my T-shirt. I’m feeling hot and a little light-headed. Must be all that energetic singing.
‘I’m staying with my mate, Jas, while I house-hunt.’ He stuffs his hands in the pockets of his jeans. ‘I hope I’m not – um – interrupting anything?’
‘No, not at all.’ I fold my arms defensively. ‘I was just – er – watching TV. The X Factor, actually.’
‘Really?’ He shakes his head. ‘Some of those auditions are appalling.’
‘Oh, God, terrible,’ I murmur.
‘Enough to shatter glass.’ He looks at the hallway floor, his mouth curling suspiciously at one corner. ‘Or vases?’
He cocks his head as if he’s expecting me to explain.
I drop my eyes and glare at his chest. It bears the words: My other T-shirt has a really funny slogan on it. There’s something Popeye-esque about his muscular upper arms in those short white sleeves.
Plus I happen to loathe men in ‘funny slogan’ T-shirts.
‘And you are – Barbara?’ he enquires.
‘Barb. It’s Barb, not Barbara. I mean, no, I’m Lola,’ I mumble, confusing even myself. ‘Can I help you?’
Mistletoe and Mayhem Page 7
