Our guide stops by a huge wooden door.
‘Many years ago these vaults were sealed...to hide a terrible crime...Mary Argyll, a young woman betrothed to the Old Laird but in love with another, was imprisoned here until she denounced that love. Locked up in her long white wedding gown she refused to name her true love and so the Laird threw away the key.’
We’re on tenterhooks.
‘Sometimes you can still hear her calling, “Let me out, please let me out”, and rapping on the door of her prison cell. But here she died. Many years later, her body was taken and given a Christian burial, still wearing that fateful white gown. Let’s go and pay our respects to her now.’
We turn away from the door and start moving forward – but then it begins: a slow hammering on the door, louder and louder, then a cry, ‘Let me out, please let me out.’ We scream and I dodge behind Caroline, coward that I am. Our guide raises his lantern.
‘Mary is that you?’
At this point there is a pulse-raising scream and the door bursts open – a bloodied woman in a tattered white wedding dress. We scatter then eventually turn to check out our ghost.
‘Charlie!’
Top marks for effort; he arranged this with the manager when he heard we were touring the vaults. I wouldn’t have hidden in that room all night. The club members loved it and over dinner as everyone discusses the book, the castle and the ‘definite eerie atmosphere in the vaults’, I relax a little. Our first venture has gone well, even if it does feel as if I’m in an episode of Scooby-Doo. I wonder which character I am.
On Sunday morning we’re free to relax and enjoy the grounds; the rain has mercifully stopped and the lawns are luminous green as they always are after a spring downpour. Daffodils are starting to bloom and I feel as if the heavens have conspired to make things as perfect as they could be for me. I say a little ‘thank you’ under my breath. I bump into Charlie on the way to the spa and arrange to meet in the car park before we go our separate ways. The massage is a little strange. I hadn’t known what to expect (maybe the stones were used to warm up the room like in a sauna?), but it turns out that in a hot stone massage they actually heat up some pebbles and rub them over your back. I ask myself, who was the first person that thought this might be something people would pay to have done?
Anyway, it’s time to leave this wonderful place so I head to our rendezvous where Charlie is already waiting.
‘Has Patty surfaced yet?’ I ask.
Charlie nods to the hotel entrance where Patty is giggling and leaning into Peter. He’s jotting something down.
‘Blimey – he’s giving her his number.’
‘Hardly likely, sweetie,’ he assures me.
At that point Patty storms towards us and thrusts the note into Charlie’s hand.
‘First her and now you; apparently I’m a gay pimp-too.’
I clasp my mouth to hide the laughter. Charlie gets out his mobile phone and starts scanning Patty’s body up and down making beeping noises as he does it; she bats him away.
‘Yes,’ he says, ‘I can confirm that there is no gaydar fitted to this vintage model; I repeat, no gaydar.’
Charlie gets pelted with a mint humbug from Patty’s pocket.
‘Didn’t fancy him anyway,’ says Patty.
Necker Island, Here I Come
I’m lying in bed reminiscing about the weekend and feeling just a bit chuffed; maybe this is my thing? Perhaps I could have been a hot-shot entrepreneur if I hadn’t got married or poured all of my now obvious talent into Alan’s business. As I savour my coffee and toast, I imagine my ascension to Richard Branson’s inner circle and the fame it brings. I’m profiled in all the top business magazines, the former stewardess who turns around high street travel. I’d be photographed in my old uniform – or maybe the title of the article would be ‘From Stewardess to Captain of Industry’ and I’d be in a pilot’s uniform. I’d look assertive and serious – no maybe not, maybe the exact opposite of that – I’d be relaxing on Necker Island, cocktail in hand, enjoying the fruits of my success. Perhaps both; after all, it’d run to more than one page. In the interview, I’d make very pertinent points:
Society forgets that over fifties were the wild childs of the 1980s. We applaud the vigour of Mick Jagger and Madonna but somehow we forget the ordinary man and woman. My business keeps the adventure of youth going.
I like that last line and say it over and over again in my head, just to get the perfect tone. Of course they’ll profile me, say I have a daughter and that I’m divorced. Now, shall I tell them Alan dumped me for a younger model or should I stay magnanimous? Definitely magnanimous; in fact I won’t mention him at all.
Ooh, now there’s an idea. I grab my phone and search for the local business awards; I remember Zoe saying Alan was entering them this year. What if I entered too and beat him? They say that the best revenge is a life well lived, but sometimes it’s also nice to take a swipe at your ex along the way. I find the Entrepreneur of the Year awards and see that Amanda has been a runner-up three years running. I feel vindicated for some reason (cruelly thinking that she always seems to end up with seconds) and know that I have to enter and I have to win. The A-team with their black-tie dinners; I’ll show them. I can see myself floating between the tables, getting to the stage to rounds of applause. It’s just like the Oscars and I look fabulous in a full-length gown, the type Julia Roberts would wear. I look intelligent and classy. My nemesis will have to grin and bear it as Richard Branson congratulates me on my achievements and wishes every community had someone as dynamic as me. I raise a toast to thank those who’ve helped me along the way:
‘To Caroline for believing in me and to Charlie – for helping me take those first steps...’
As I thrust my imaginary champagne glass up for a toast, I forget that I’m holding a rather full mug and so manage to throw tepid coffee all over myself and my favourite jammies.
‘Aargh.’
Naturally, I leap up causing the plate to overturn and buttered toast to smear all over the duvet – it couldn’t fall dry-side down, could it?
Award ceremony over I guess as I extract myself from the mess. My spirit is not dampened, though.
I’m going to win this.
I don’t have to persuade Charlie as last week’s success has given him a new lease of life, too. When I walk into the shop today, I can see he’s been dying for us to get there. He has transformed himself into the host with the most with a new blazer, buttonhole and if that isn’t a dab of fake tan, he must be extremely flushed with excitement.
‘My Angels,’ he declares, ‘we know we can just make it up and make it happen; we can give people a good time.’
All of a sudden we’re his Angels and he’s a visionary leader but nothing wrong with that.
‘We’ve seen that if we have an idea, we can get people booking those holidays, soooo...’
Quiet anticipation from Josie and me.
‘I hereby announce the very first Big Ideas Night. We’ll get together after work, I’ll supply snacks and brain juice, then we’ll come up with loads of great ideas for trips.’
I don’t like to point out that his brainstorming acronym is BIN as I’m quite happy to have something to do in the evening and who knows, it might get me closer to Richard.
For the rest of the day, Charlie and I manage to talk about everything but Peter and then just as we shut up the shop he breaks.
‘Come on, ask me.’
‘Ask you what?’ I say innocently.
‘You know full well and the answer is yes – I called him.’
Josie’s ears prick up and she joins us. ‘Called who?’
Josie baulked at the idea of spending a weekend talking about books, but if she’d thought there could be romance on offer she might have taken up the invitation to join us.
‘Charlie picked up a hot date at the weekend,’ I tell her, ‘a twinkly-eyed Irishman.’
‘Good one, boss,’ she high-fives him in appreciati
on.
‘He’s invited me round for dinner next week.’
Josie squeals, ‘A dinner party? Charlie, he’s your magic wand man, he must be.’
‘What will you wear?’ she adds in a serious tone.
This is the most important question of the day and with the gravity of debate that now ensues, I’m surprised Radio 2 haven’t debated it on the Jeremy Vine show: ‘Call in and tell us what you think. It’s a first date scenario, do you go casual or smart?’
I leave them to it and decide it might be useful to invite Patty and Caroline to the BIN. I’m just about to do so when Patty must have read my mind. My mobile starts singing ‘Material Girl’ (I’ve surprised myself by learning how to change ringtones and this is especially for Ms P).
‘Patty, I was just about to call you. Do you fancy coming to a brainstorming we’re having for work?’
‘Never mind that; we won’t have time for such trivial matters soon. You’ll never guess what’s happened,’ she gushes.
‘George Clooney has declared that his human rights lawyer wife is too intense for him and he’d rather spend his life with a karaoke singer?’ I suggest.
‘He might just say that in a few months’ time. Go on – guess,’ she urges.
‘I can’t – just tell me.’
‘You and I are going to be famous,’ she gushes. ‘We’re re-forming the Granny-Okes.’
After our drunken performance, the karaoke club had lots of people asking when we’d be back. They got hold of Sheila and Kath through their Facebook pages and have asked us to do a few sessions to get the crowd singing.
‘They’re going to put a banner up to advertise us, too.’
I’m truly horrified at the very idea.
My first thought is, ‘What will Richard Branson think of that?’
I don’t want to see myself plastered across a banner. A few hours ago I was an award-winning entrepreneur and now I’m a karaoke attraction?
Zoe will definitely disown me this time.
‘Why don’t I just stay backstage and manage you instead?’ I proffer. ‘After all, the highly successful Bananarama were a trio.’
There are howls of protest from Ms P.
‘Noooo...I have big plans for you. Don’t worry, it’ll be fabulous.’
My heart and soul plummet.
BIN
To distract myself from the inevitable humiliation of the first practice session this weekend, I get back to my goal of becoming an award-winning entrepreneur with the inaugural BIN session.
I’ve been to Charlie’s before but the place never ceases to enthral me; I could get lost here for days. Books, books and more books, and not the tasteful classic literature that you find on many a middle-aged bookshelf but ream upon ream of general knowledge. Travel books of course, piles of them, but ‘how to’ guides too. How to Hypnotise, Bluff Your Way in Wine, Decorate Like a Pro, Train Dogs, Escape an Avalanche, Speak Portuguese; you name it, he has a book for it. I’m sure I could take a holiday in Charlie’s house and come out a fortnight later a qualified surgeon. I love it.
Caroline has brought along Ed, although from our very brief meeting, I wouldn’t have thought this was his type of thing. She volunteers to lead the session and kicks off by giving us each a book and a random object. We have to think of a trip inspired by these objects. I’m given The Goldfinch and a pencil sharpener, and pulling a face, I start.
‘Goldfinch, golden triangle, Bermuda Triangle, Bermuda,’ I start, ‘sharp, harp, carp – deep-sea fishing in Bermuda.’
Ed has The Dice Man and a teabag; Caroline obviously spent an absolute fortune on these props. He goes for it, too.
‘Dice, black-jack, casinos; tea, cups, win the cup,’ he says, ‘winning weekends – Ascot then the World Cup with a casino in the evening.’
He might be quiet but he has something there.
‘And we could also draw one of the customers out of a hat at the end and they get a bottle of champagne. It could be our thing, when you book with us you might win something,’ adds Charlie.
We all like this concept – you book up for a few trips with us and it becomes a sort of a social group with surprises thrown in. Customers would get to know each other and eventually start to book up together.
‘Charlie,’ I think out loud, ‘we could call it the Mercury Travel Club. Customers sign up for a year and every quarter we take a week away. We could add wine themes to the book weekends and then the prize would be a case; for example, we might go to France for the Bordeaux and Bovary.’
‘It’s not only wine, but cocktails are making a comeback too. They’re being served in jam jars now.’ Josie knows these things.
‘Ooh, that might be a bit different – where did cocktails originate?’ I ask.
‘London,’ Ed tells us in a dour but factual voice, ‘but most people would associate them with New York, manhattans and all that.’
‘Now we’re talking, manhattans in Manhattan; I’d go for that,’ declares Patty.
‘Reading Breakfast at Tiffany’s; that has to be your Christmas trip,’ adds Caroline.
By now the room is buzzing and Charlie looks rather gob-smacked. We all stop talking and he starts asking lots of questions like, ‘Won’t that be expensive?’ and ‘Will people sign up for a full year?’ None of us knows the answers but it would be an amazing club to join.
We have to give it a go.
Testing, Testing
The day of reckoning has arrived: the Granny-Okes have their first practice session tonight. I haven’t been able to concentrate all day and now, in precisely one hour, I will be humiliated beyond recovery. Let’s look on the bright side – there’s a good chance I might be dropped from the group when they hear me sing sober.
Nevertheless, I don’t want to be told that I’m awful; it’s one thing knowing but quite another to be informed of the fact. It would be like netball team selections during PE lessons all over again. A girl of my height had to be spectacularly dreadful not to get picked until they were dividing up the last resorts.
I’m not sure how to prepare, whether to take a lozenge or something. Maybe do some scales? I put on some music to get me in the mood; a little ‘Like a Virgin’ I think.
Now, I have never thought this a challenging track to sing; in fact in either the shower or the car, I manage a spectacular rendition. However, when I have to stay in tune for the duration, well let’s just say that even the X Factor singing coaches would have their work cut out for them. I will have that lozenge.
I arrive first, so get my excuses in early.
‘Patty,’ I whimper, ‘I do know that I can’t sing. You don’t have to protect me. I’ll go now.’
‘That’s utter rubbish, Bo,’ she replies.
She is incredibly officious tonight. There is no wine in sight; instead glasses of water and lyric sheets are neatly arranged on the table. Sheila and Kath arrive and the room is filled with an excited buzz – I feel such a fraud. Patty takes charge.
‘I think we need to start with a set list so that we’re only practising numbers that we’ll do.’
We all nod at the sensible suggestion; as long as Patty keeps talking, I delay the moment of humiliation.
‘I thought that we should have songs from throughout the decade so I’ve compiled this list of top 10 hits from every year.’
She hands out the lists and instantly we start reminiscing over each track.
‘Ah, “When Doves Cry”, I went camping with Peter Matthews to that one,’ says Sheila.
‘ “Ebony and Ivory”, the dullest song ever made,’ adds Kath.
‘ “Mull of Kintyre” is probably joint dullest; McCartney had a knack for them,’ I say.
‘There are some tracks we wouldn’t have thought of that might be good,’ suggests Patty.
We wait to hear...
‘Like The Clash.’
Our raised eyebrows prompt her on.
‘ “Should I Stay or Should I Go” would be a brilliant Granny-Oke so
ng. We have to think about the whole performance and that could be our finale.’
Patty has been working on this quite seriously. When I have my day with Richard Branson, I imagine she’ll be having a similar session with Simon Cowell.
She then gives us her suggested shortlist:
1. ‘Like a Virgin’ (Madonna – 1985)
2. ‘Push It’ (Salt-N-Pepa – 1987)
3. ‘Livin’ On A Prayer’ (Bon Jovi – 1986)
4. ‘Karma Chameleon’ (Culture Club – 1983)
5. ‘Girls Just Wanna Have Fun’ (Cyndi Lauper – 1984)
6. ‘Should I Stay or Should I Go’ (The Clash – 1982)
7. ‘9 to 5’ (Dolly Parton – 1981)
8. ‘I’m In The Mood For Dancing’ (The Nolans – 1980)
9. ‘Pink Cadillac’ (Natalie Cole – 1988)
10. ‘Love Shack’ (B-52’s – 1989)
My first thought was ‘I wonder how Joe Strummer feels being sandwiched between Cyndi and Dolly’, and the second was, ‘Yep, I’d listen to this set.’
‘No one wants to hear a pitch-perfect bore belting out power ballads time after time,’ Patty continues. ‘Anyone can do that. We’ve got to entertain, have some character, make people laugh without showing ourselves up. So I’ve got a few more ideas...’
Patty used to be in charge of the cabin crew and it shows now. She’s conducting her orchestra again and as I take a sideways glance at Sheila and Kath, I can see they’re enthralled.
‘I mean, if you were going to see the Granny-Okes, what would you expect?’ she asks.
‘Blue rinses and cardigans,’ suggests Kath.
I don’t counter that cardigans are perfectly stylish knitwear for any age group. I seem to be defending them too often.
‘They’d forget the words or be doing some knitting,’ adds Sheila
‘Precisely.’ Patty is triumphant. ‘We need a look, we need characters and we need to ham it up a bit. It’s not just about the singing.’
The Mercury Travel Club: Getting your life back on track has never been more funny! Page 6
