‘So? How was it?’ she asks, hopping from foot to foot.
‘It was … good, I think.’
‘That’s amazing!’ Tanvi shrieks, grabbing my hands and bouncing up and down. ‘I knew you’d smash it, I just knew it.’
‘I’m not sure I smashed it,’ I say, gently wriggling free from Tanvi’s grasp.
‘Hush now! Actually, don’t! Tell me everything. “Good” is waaaaaaaay too vague. I need details! Description! Dialogue! In fact, you might as well just start at the very beginning,’ Tanvi says, feeding her arm through mine as we walk. ‘That way you won’t leave anything out.’
Apart from the bit about almost not being able to audition, I tell Tanvi pretty much everything – from my exchange with the boy in the tuxedo, to the wink the pianist gave me as I left.
I’ve been replaying the day in my head on loop pretty much all weekend but there’s something extra thrilling about reporting it out loud to a captive audience.
‘Oh my God, it sounds like they loved you!’ Tanvi gasps, when I admit the panel’s final words to me were ‘see you soon’.
‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘They might say that to everyone.’
‘Don’t be mad! Hey, we should celebrate!’ Tanvi says. ‘Shake It Off after school? My treat.’
‘You don’t have to do that.’
‘I know that, silly! Did it not cross your mind that I might want to?’
That’s the thing though – I’m still struggling to understand what Tanvi sees in me.
‘What are you doing a week on Thursday by the way?’ she continues, as per usual hurtling from one subject to the next.
‘Um, I don’t know. Why?’
‘Would you like to come to a party?’
‘A party?’ I repeat. I haven’t been invited to a party since I was at primary school.
‘Yeah. My family always throw a massive do for Diwali and this year it’s my mum and dad’s turn to host. Anyway, I was talking to them about it yesterday and I asked them if I could invite a friend along and they said yes, and well, spoiler alert, that friend is you.’
‘But isn’t it a family thing?’ I ask.
‘Nah! We always have loads of random extras. Not that you’re a random extra, but you know what I mean; there are always tons of neighbours and friends and people like that kicking around. It’s really fun, I promise. There’s fireworks, and music, and dancing, and more food than you’ll ever see in your life.’
There’s a pause.
‘So?’ Tanvi says, sitting on her hands and looking hopeful. ‘Fancy it?’
And the weird thing is, I actually think I do.
‘Go on then,’ I say.
Tanvi blinks. ‘Seriously?’ she repeats.
‘Yeah, why not.’
‘Oh my God, really?’ Tanvi squeaks, her face lighting up with delight.
‘I just said so, didn’t I? What do you want me to do? Give you a vial of my blood?’
‘Yay!’ Tanvi cries, chucking her arms round my neck. ‘Oh my God, Ro, we are going to have so much fun.’
I’m sitting outside the staffroom eating my sandwich when I hear knocking on the glass above my head. I look up. Mr Milford is cranking open the window, a huge grin on his face.
‘So, how’d it go?’ he asks, perching on the windowsill. ‘I’ve been dying to know.’
I stand up to face him. ‘I think it went well,’ I admit, before delivering an edited version of the account I gave Tanvi.
‘That sounds fantastic,’ Mr Milford says, grinning. ‘No matter what happens from here, you should be really proud of yourself, Ro.’
As I nod, I realize I am.
‘On a slightly different subject, I wanted to run something by you,’ Mr Milford continues. ‘The Christmas concert. I usually mix things up a bit with a couple of big solos, and I was wondering if you fancied having a stab at “O Holy Night”?’
‘But I don’t sing solo,’ I say automatically.
Mr Milford tilts his head to one side. ‘What about at the audition?’
‘That was different,’ I say.
That was a means to an end.
‘Look, I’ll level with you here,’ Mr Milford says, leaning in as if about to impart a juicy secret. ‘This song is hard. Really hard. I would only ask you to do it if I was confident you’ll ace it.’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ I say.
Just the thought of stepping out onto the centre of the stage in front of so many people creates a full-on butterfly farm in my belly. I’m safe as part of a choir. On stage, all alone, I’m exposed and vulnerable.
‘Tell you what, why don’t we try it out after choir sometime. Just to see how it feels. No pressure, I promise.’
I know I should just say no, shut it down immediately, but the chance to try out a new song with the piano is just too appealing to turn down. At least not straightaway.
‘OK,’ I say.
Mr Milford beams. ‘Great stuff! I’ll see you in choir on Friday. And well done, again. I’m proud of you, Ro.’
He shuts the window and I plop back down on the grass. As I lift my sandwich to my lips, I realize I’m smiling. And not just a small smile either – a massive grin, the sort that makes your cheeks hurt if you hold it for too long.
People believe in me. Really believe in me.
I never guessed it would feel quite so nice.
The letter arrives three days later. I get home from school to find it lying on the doormat, the National Youth Choir of Great Britain’s distinctive logo beaming up at me.
My heartbeat starts to quicken. I’ve spent the last few days trying to convince myself that the result doesn’t matter, that the positive experience of auditioning is enough, and if it’s bad news I’ll just forget it and move on, but as I take the envelope in my hands, I know I’m kidding myself.
I want this.
I want it badly.
I open the letter slowly, taking care not to rip the envelope. My vision blurs as I skim the first page, words like ‘pleased’, ‘successful’, ‘recall’ and ‘London’ leaping out at me.
Happiness surges through my body.
I passed the audition.
I didn’t imagine the panel’s reaction.
I, Ro Snow, might just be good enough for a place with the National Youth Choir of Great Britain.
I’m reading the letter for the third time when Bonnie struggles through the back door, two bulging plastic bags in each hand.
‘What have you got there?’ she asked, dumping her bags at her feet and flexing her fingers.
‘Nothing,’ I say, hiding it behind my back.
In that second, I decide against telling Bonnie about the audition. The novelty of having a nice secret for once, one that makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside instead of sick and nervous, makes it far too precious to risk sharing with her.
I’ve been getting on pretty well with the audition process up to now. Why ruin it all by getting her involved? I’ll tell her if I get in. Until then, there’s no need to say anything. In the meantime, I need to identify an adult willing to come to London with me.
‘Jodie, can I ask you a humungous favour?’ I ask on Saturday morning.
‘Course you can, babe,’ Jodie replies.
‘What are you doing on Thursday the thirtieth of October?’
‘Hmmmm, I don’t usually have any lectures on a Thursday so lying in bed eating biscuits probably. Why?’
‘Do you fancy a trip to London? All expenses paid.’
I’ve done the calculations and I’ve got just enough money left in my bank account to pay for two return train tickets to London, plus tube fares and a bite to eat somewhere.
‘Colour me intrigued. What for?’ Jodie asks.
I tell her about the audition and the small print on the letter – all under-sixteens must be accompanied to the audition by an adult. I thought about chancing it and relying on another kindly parent to fill in on the day, but it seems like a risky approach considering what’s at stake.
&
nbsp; ‘I didn’t know you were a singer,’ Jodie says, a grin spreading across her face.
‘I’m not really,’ I say. ‘I don’t sing solos or anything – it’s just being part of a choir I’m interested in.’
‘But you must be good to get called back.’
‘I don’t know. Maybe …’
‘You sure you don’t want to take your mum or someone instead? Someone a bit more, you know, responsible?’
‘My mum’s got something on that day.’
There’s a pause.
‘So, do you think you can come?’ I ask, biting down hard on my lip.
Jodie puts her hand on her heart. ‘Ro, it would be my absolute honour.’
24
Tanvi’s house is glowing.
Dozens of candles in tiny clay pots line the driveway and windowsills. A cluster of candles on the front doorstep illuminates stencilled patterns chalked onto the concrete in vibrant shades of pink and blue and red. A foil banner with the words ‘Happy Diwali’ is stuck to the door. The party sounds like it’s already in full swing, belly laughter and traditional Bollywood music leaking through the open living-room window.
A wave of anxiety ripples through my body. I agreed to come so easily, but now I’m here I’m not so sure. Ever since I told Tanvi about Bonnie’s unnamed illness, she’s been remarkably restrained on the subject, occasionally asking how she is but not pushing me for any further details. What if her extended family is a little more probing? That’s not the thing that’s worrying me most though. Tanvi’s dad has insisted on driving me home after the party, and every time I think about us pulling up outside number 56, my stomach turns somersaults.
I check my phone: 6.35 p.m. No one has seen me yet. I could leave now, send Tanvi an apologetic text message complaining of period pains or a migraine. Before I can change my mind, I turn on my heel and head back down the driveway. I’ve almost reached the pavement when the volume from the house increases and a voice calls out my name.
Tanvi.
She’s standing in the open doorway wearing a shimmering turquoise sari.
‘Where do you think you’re going?’ she calls in a teasing voice.
‘I, er, dropped something,’ I improvise. I bend down and pick up a pebble, slipping it into my pocket before Tanvi can see what it is.
‘You coming in or what?’ she asks.
‘Course,’ I say, hurrying up the driveway.
‘Happy Diwali!’ she says, ushering me through the front door.
It’s only once I’m inside I’m able to take a proper look at her. In her glittering sari, gleaming black hair styled in glossy ringlets and eyes ringed with black kohl, making them look even bigger than usual, she looks like a glamorous stranger.
‘You look totally different,’ I say, slipping off my shoes.
‘I know!’ Tanvi says, fingering one of her curls. ‘My sister-in-law, Prisha, helped me get ready. She’s so ace. I can’t wait for you to meet her, for you to meet everyone actually! Come in, come in.
‘Mum! Ro’s here!’ she yells.
Tanvi’s mum emerges from the kitchen wearing an apron with ‘World’s Best Mum’ on it, over the top of a pink and gold sari. Her cheeks are flushed and she’s smiling broadly.
‘So good to see you again, Ro,’ she says, taking my hands in hers.
‘You too,’ I say. ‘Er, Happy Diwali.’
She beams. ‘Thank you, Ro. Now, let me take your coat.’
‘Yeah, before you boil to death,’ Tanvi adds. ‘Just to warn you, my grandparents are always cold, so when they come round we have to whack the heating up to sub-tropical temperatures to stop them from moaning. Honestly, prepare to sweat.’
‘Tanvi,’ her mum scolds. She’s smiling though.
I feel seriously underdressed in comparison to Tanvi and her mum in their beautiful saris and dramatic make-up – like a pigeon sandwiched between a pair of exotic birds. I kick myself for not asking about the dress code.
‘I’m sorry I’m not wearing something nicer,’ I whisper as Tanvi’s mum hangs my jacket on a peg in the downstairs toilet. I’m wearing my nicest pair of jeans and a black jumper. ‘I didn’t realize it was going to be so fancy.’
‘Don’t be dumb,’ Tanvi says. ‘I don’t care what you wear. I’m just happy you’re here. Unless …’ A mischievous grin spreads across her face.
‘Unless what?’ I ask.
Tanvi doesn’t answer, grabbing my hand and pulling me up the stairs, the gold bangles on her wrists jangling.
‘Unless what, Tanvi?’ I yelp.
‘Prisha? Prisha, you still up here?’ Tanvi calls, pushing open her bedroom door.
A woman with the shiniest hair I have ever seen in real life is kneeling in front of Tanvi’s full-length mirror, applying mascara to her already ridiculously long lashes.
‘Well, hello,’ she says, lowering the mascara wand and sitting back on her heels. ‘You must be the famous Ro. I’m Prisha, Tanvi’s unofficial big sister.’ She twists round and extends an elegant hand for me to shake.
‘Hi,’ I say, trying not to feel intimidated.
Prisha turns her attention to Tanvi. ‘So, what’s up, monkey?’
‘I just wanted to ask you a teensy weensy favour,’ Tanvi says.
‘Here we go,’ Prisha says, laughing. ‘Come on then, what are you after?’
‘I was wondering if you had the time to do Ro’s hair and make-up too?’
My eyes widen with panic. ‘Don’t be mental,’ I say quickly. ‘I’m fine like this, really.’
‘Oh, I don’t mind,’ Prisha says, reaching for a bulging make-up bag. ‘I’m pretty sure I’ve got some colours that would work on you. Plus it means another half an hour without the kids in my face.’
‘Prisha’s studying to be a make-up artist,’ Tanvi says, flopping on the bed. ‘Her make-up collection is epic.’
‘Special effects make-up is what I’m really interested in though,’ Prisha says, removing the lid from a tube of lipstick and peering at it, then at me, one eye closed, then back at the lipstick again. ‘The gory stuff especially. Wounds and burns and lacerated flesh and all that. I might have gone a bit overboard in the realism stakes with the kids at Halloween last year though. No one would go near them, poor sods.’ She stands up. ‘Right, let’s get started.’ She twizzles a make-up brush between her fingers.
I hesitate. Apart from concealer on my spots and a bit of lip balm, I don’t wear make-up. The one time Melanie made me wear some, I looked like a clown.
‘I promise I don’t bite,’ Prisha says. ‘Grab me that headband, would you, Tanvi?’
Tanvi tosses Prisha a black elastic headband. Prisha slips it over my head to hold the hair off my face, by which time it feels too late to protest.
Prisha works quickly, calling out brisk instructions like ‘eyes closed’ and ‘look up’ as she applies various creams and powders and liquids to my face.
It all feels very strange, from the unexpectedly tickly texture of the make-up brushes against my skin, to the alien sensation of my eyebrows being tamed with some sort of gel.
‘They’re great, by the way,’ Prisha says.
‘Sorry?’
‘Your eyebrows. They’re fab. Cara Delevingne, eat your heart out.’
‘Um, thank you,’ I say. Until this moment I’m not sure I’ve ever given my eyebrows a second thought.
‘Just promise me you won’t pluck them,’ Prisha adds. ‘I plucked mine to obscurity when I was a teenager and I still regret it to this day. You OK with eyelash curlers?’
I have no idea but say yes anyway, hiding my alarm as best I can as Prisha clamps my lashes with what looks like a miniature medieval torture device.
From my position on the bed, I can’t see my reflection in the mirror so I have no idea what Prisha is actually doing, only that my face feels strange and almost heavy, like I’m wearing some sort of mask.
The whole time, Tanvi bounces about the room delivering enthusiastic updates on how I’m looki
ng. All I can do is smile weakly.
‘I’m thinking we work with the natural wave in your hair,’ Prisha says, removing my hair from its plait and plugging in a pair of hair straighteners.
She sections up my hair, winding pieces around the barrel of the hair straighteners in turn. The waves feel warm against my neck. Once she’s done my entire head, Prisha sprays them for ages. The smell of hairspray reminds me of Bonnie. Quickly, I push the thought from my mind. I don’t want to think about home. Not tonight.
I hear Prisha set the can back down on Tanvi’s desk and open my eyes.
‘Can I look now?’ I ask, eyeing the mirror.
Prisha and Tanvi stand side by side in front of me, their arms folded, heads cocked to the left. Prisha glances at Tanvi.
‘Are you thinking what I’m thinking?’ she asks.
A grin spreads across Tanvi’s face. ‘Yes!’ she says.
Prisha dashes out of the room.
‘What? Where has she gone?’ I ask Tanvi, but she just grins and tells me to ‘wait and see’.
Prisha returns about thirty seconds later with a heap of purple material embroidered with gold thread draped over her forearms.
‘Eeeeeeeeee!’ Tanvi cries, clasping her hands together in excitement. ‘It’s perfect! Ro, take your jeans off.’
‘What?’
‘Take your jeans off,’ she repeats. ‘Unless you’re planning to wear this over the top of them, which kind of might ruin the effect.’
The penny finally drops. ‘No way. I’ll look completely silly,’ I say, backing up against Tanvi’s wardrobe.
‘You’ll look amazing,’ Tanvi assures me.
‘But won’t people mind?’ I stammer. ‘What about your grandparents and stuff? I don’t want to offend them? I mean, I’m not a Hindu.’
Tanvi wrinkles her nose. ‘They won’t give a monkey’s. And if Kate Middleton can wear a sari, so can you.’
‘You’ve had your hair and make-up done,’ Prisha adds. ‘You may as well go the whole hog and dress the part too.’ She holds out the sari.
‘Do it, do it!’ Tanvi chants.
Prisha joins in and even though I’m terrified, I can’t help but laugh at their animated faces.
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