Книга - The Singalong Society for Singletons

The Singalong Society for Singletons
Katey Lovell


‘A joyful, funny, feel-good story, packed with showtunes, romance and a wonderfully warm cast’ – Sunday Times Bestselling author, Miranda DickinsonA charming, feel good novel about the healing powers of friendship…and Frozen!Monique and Issy are teachers, housemates and lovers of musicals! Their Friday night routine consists of snacks, wine and the Frozen DVD. So when Monique’s boyfriend moves to America for a year and her sister Hope moves in because of her own relationship woes, Friday nights get a new name… ‘The Singalong Society for Singletons’!It’s a chance to get together, sing along to their favourite tracks from the best-loved West End shows, and forget the worries of work, relationships and love (or lack of it). But when Issy shares the details of their little group further afield, they get some unexpected new members who might just change their opinions on singledom for good….What readers are saying about The Singalong Society for Singletons:'A warm and charming novel full of heartfelt friendship, romance and humour…the perfect book to escape into with a huge mug of coffee and a comfy sofa’ – Kat French, author of ‘One Hot Summer’‘This year’s most charming romance…it will make your heart sing!’ Erin Lawless, bestselling author of ‘The Best Thing I Never Had’‘An irresistible feel-good read, that will have you singing and smiling with each joyful turn of the page’ Irish Times Bestseller, Carmel Harrington









PRAISE FOR KATEY LOVELL (#ubd45f949-6fe4-5042-a7a1-cdee83d2421d)


‘Magical and sparkly short stories, highly recommended’

Sky’s Book Corner

‘I’m so glad I picked this up, it’s gorgeous’

Rather Too Fond of Books

‘Swooning all the way through’

Reviewed the Book

‘An absolutely wonderful debut’

Little Northern Soul

‘Quirky, cute and utterly romantic’

Bestselling author Rebecca Raisin

‘Sweet, romantic, perfectly formed coffee break reads. I loved them’

Bestselling author Carmel Harrington




The Singalong Society for Singletons

KATEY LOVELL







A division of HarperCollinsPublishers

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)


HarperImpulse an imprint of

HarperCollinsPublishers

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)

First published in Great Britain by HarperImpulse 2016

Copyright © Katey Lovell 2016

Cover images © Shutterstock.com (http://www.Shutterstock.com)

Cover design by Books Covered

Katey Lovell asserts the moral right to

be identified as the author of this work

A catalogue record for this book

is available from the British Library

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International

and Pan-American Copyright Conventions.

By payment of the required fees, you have been granted

the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access

and read the text of this e-book on screen.

No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted,

downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or

stored in or introduced into any information storage and

retrieval system, in any form or by any means,

whether electronic or mechanical, now known or

hereinafter invented, without the express

written permission of HarperCollins.

Ebook Edition © October 2016 ISBN: 9780008195465

Version 2016-08-31


For my lovely Mum. Thank you for everything.


Table of Contents

Cover (#ua0012e8c-ba47-5b56-b597-ff65c5fbd4ed)

Praise for Katey Lovell (#u7bdd91b5-4680-55cc-8e03-b34c734224eb)

Title Page (#u1e87d3ee-24fb-541c-8c81-83a35c5118ad)

Copyright (#u74eb005e-349f-5b99-a691-9b4265cc6673)

Dedication (#ud17b9528-17f2-51bf-bc53-cfbf37464900)

The Cast List (#ua75680d6-3450-538f-b437-81b271046a09)

The Musicals (#uec757118-dd0d-5eab-8401-7b5ba793216d)

Prologue (#uff2c3ec6-2750-5728-801e-412f94c8c9e9)



Chapter One (#u6c7a4d72-8bcb-5741-a558-9745aa9893a0)



Chapter Two (#uc88a884b-f805-5de3-819d-24a83d1677e8)



Chapter Three (#ub36a3b8f-6215-5392-b17a-bbce2da00b74)



Chapter Four (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Five (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Six (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eight (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Nine (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Ten (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Eleven (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Twelve (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Thirteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fourteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Fifteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Sixteen (#litres_trial_promo)



Chapter Seventeen (#litres_trial_promo)



Epilogue (#litres_trial_promo)



Acknowledgements (#litres_trial_promo)



Also by Katey Lovell (#litres_trial_promo)



Katey Lovell (#litres_trial_promo)



About HarperImpulse (#litres_trial_promo)



About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)




The Cast List (#ubd45f949-6fe4-5042-a7a1-cdee83d2421d)


The Singalong Society for Singletons

Hope Brown

Monique Brown

Liam Holly

Isadora Jackson

Ray North

Connie Williams

Supporting Roles

Justin Crowson

Amara Lin




The Musicals (#ubd45f949-6fe4-5042-a7a1-cdee83d2421d)


Wicked

Frozen

The Lion King

The Sound of Music

Grease

Chicago

West Side Story

South Pacific

The Rocky Horror Picture Show

Les Misérables

Singing in the Rain

Fame

Rent

Oliver!

Walking On Sunshine

Mamma Mia

Mary Poppins

White Christmas

Shrek – The Musical

The Wizard of Oz




Prologue (#ubd45f949-6fe4-5042-a7a1-cdee83d2421d)


Last December – The Friday before Christmas

*Wicked – My choice*

I’ve always considered myself a modern woman. That’s why I’d planned to ask Justin to marry me that night.

It would have been a risk, me being the one to do the asking, because in many ways he’s an old-fashioned guy. A traditionalist – well-mannered, sweet, polite. But I’d been so sure that the time was right for our relationship to shift up a gear that I’d been willing to take the chance.

After all, we’d been together since our last year of secondary school. We must have passed each other in the corridors hundreds of times before that and we’d even been in the same maths class for a while, but we hadn’t exchanged so much as a word until that fateful April day in Year 11 as we waited to audition for the annual summer show. That year it had been Guys and Dolls and I’d had my heart set on the role of Sarah. Miss Adelaide might get the show-stopping numbers, but Sarah was quieter, calmer. Prim and proper, but determined beneath the façade. Truth be told, she was a lot like me.

I’d been nervously wringing my hands together as I waited to sing the audition piece of ‘I’ve Never Been in Love Before’. I can still recall the twisting sensation in my stomach, churning like one of those Slush Puppy machines at the seaside.

Justin had been sitting next to me and he’d seen how worried I was, how badly I’d wanted the role. Musicals were my ‘thing’ and if I was cast in a minor role or – heaven forbid – not at all, my confidence would be severely knocked. Justin had spoken to me in a tone that was immediately soothing, telling me I’d shine as Sarah. He’d been the perfect distraction, listening intently as I waffled on anxiously about how I thought I might throw up on my shoes. He didn’t recoil at that frank revelation, instead smiling reassuringly until it was my turn to perform on the makeshift stage in the sports hall that reeked of floor polish and sweaty feet.

Thanks to Justin I’d kept my cool, holding myself together to pull out a performance to be proud of – one that got me the very role I’d been coveting. I’d been over the moon.

In contrast, he hadn’t gone through with his audition in the end. Being as tone deaf as he was, it was probably a blessing. I’d never been a Brando fan, but even his version of ‘Luck Be a Lady’ was far superior to the adaptation Justin had mumbled under his breath as he sat next to me that day. At least Marlon got the words in the right order.

I later found out that the only reason Justin had planned to audition at all was to spend time with me. That was a relief on two counts – firstly that he’d considered getting up and making a twat of himself in front of half the school proved he was serious about our fledgling relationship; and secondly because it showed he wasn’t one of those deluded people who can’t hold a tune for toffee but secretly thinks they’re going to win the next series of the Saturday night talent show on TV.

Ever since that audition day we’d been together; through the stressful last term of school, into sixth-form college and sharing the first five years of our twenties. Things had become increasingly serious, the single drawer of ‘essentials’ that Justin had in my cosy bedroom at the house Issy and I shared on Cardigan Close had, over time, turned into a whole chest of drawers. Justin had practically been a fixture or fitting himself; as much a part of the furniture as the sofa that took up half the lounge, or the comfy armchair in the corner of my bedroom which I refuse to get rid of despite the threadbare material on the armrests (much to my housemate Issy’s chagrin).

He was my other half, the love of my life, and that’s why I’d steeled myself up to pop the vital question. I couldn’t envisage a future in which we weren’t together.

Justin and Monique.

Monique and Justin.

We were meant to be. I knew it.

As we’d left the house that evening, hurrying out onto the cobblestoned street and into the dome-roofed Hackney cab that took us to the city centre, I remember thinking it would be a night to remember for all the right reasons. But I was wrong. Boy, was I wrong.

We had tickets to see a show at City Hall, a touring production of Wicked. I knew nothing about it other than it was linked with The Wizard of Oz, but I’d fallen head over heels in love with the song ‘Defying Gravity’ and was desperate to see it performed live. Justin hadn’t been as keen, but then he only ever came to the theatre because he knew I loved it. Dramatic numbers weren’t really his bag, but that night, in particular, he seemed out of sorts, tetchy almost. I’d stupidly put it down to him being tired after a long week at work, that and the fact he’d rather be watching the darts on the telly with a pint in his hand. Just as I was nuts over musicals, he was obsessed with sport. It didn’t matter if it was the Golf Masters or the Cricket World Cup, if it was a major sporting event Justin would be glued to the screen, willing on his chosen team.

I’d convinced myself he’d come round as the night went on. After all, I’d got a plan to stick to. We’d walk through town, the Sheffield Christmas lights strung out along Barker’s Pool hanging underwhelmingly over our heads as we made our way towards the enormous (yet sparsely lit) Christmas tree in front of the imposing Victorian town hall. From there we’d stroll arm in arm to the Peace Gardens, a popular meeting point in the centre of town, where we’d giggle fondly as we reminisced about how far we’d come since sharing our first kiss there one balmy Saturday afternoon, back when we were fifteen and free from care.

In my mind it’d been wonderfully romantic, like something from a black-and-white film. The fountains and cascades would be on and the fairy lights wrapped around the spindly trees would make a stunning and dreamy backdrop for my proposal. In my mind it was going to be magical. In my mind it was going to be perfect.

In reality, the evening itself had been nice enough. Therein lay the warning, I suppose. Nice enough isn’t magical. Nice enough isn’t perfect.

We’d gone for drinks at one of the upmarket bars in town, Justin opting for his usual beer whilst I’d splashed out on a Manhattan. I’d used the excuse that it was to celebrate reaching the end of term without collapsing in a heap with the other teaching assistants amidst the rush of Christmas parties and visits from ‘Santa’ (who was actually Mr Thomas, the headmistress’s husband), when really the alcohol was Dutch courage, pure and simple. I’d been turning the question over in my mind; it had taken all my efforts not to blurt it out before heading to the show.

Wicked had been brilliant, a glorious spectacle of a musical, and the cast had us captivated as they belted out the amazing show tunes. The wannabe performer in me wished I wasn’t sitting in the plush gold velour seat – how I longed to be up on that stage, the glaring white spotlight shining on me just as it had on a much smaller scale in that school hall during Guys and Dolls! Musicals have the power to transport me to another world, whisking me away from my mundane life. But as soon as the house lights came up in the auditorium a nervous niggle had started gnawing away at me. No matter how hard I’d tried to push it to the back of my mind, I hadn’t been able to shake it off.

I felt cold to the core as we walked down the venue’s sweeping stone steps and it wasn’t just the December chill clawing away at my skin. It was something worse. Justin seemed as though he was holding back, his face hidden under the fur trim of his parka. His hand was loose around mine. He was distant. Barely there.

The rows of festive decorations strung out before us, a twinkling ladder across the sky. It was the only part of the image I correctly predicted, and we silently sauntered through the streets whilst revellers enjoying five-too-many ‘Mad Friday’ beers fist-pumped the air as they sang along to Slade’s Christmas classic ‘Merry Xmas Everybody’ at the top of their lungs. Looking back, we’d been the odd ones out, Justin and I, sober in both body and spirit.

We reached the fountain, although it wasn’t turned on because of the gusty weather, and sat near by. All the while Justin looked awkward. Fidgety. On edge. He took a deep breath, a visible cloud appearing from his mouth as he exhaled.

I swallowed uneasily. Something was up.

‘I wanted to speak to you,’ he’d said finally. He had this funny lop-sided grin plastered on his face, unfamiliar even though I’d been swooning at his smiles for a decade. He looked different, somehow, and for one brief moment I’d laughed, convinced he was building up to asking the same question I’d been preparing to ask him.

My stomach lurched with hopeful anticipation and I wondered if he might produce a ring. At the time, it had seemed entirely possible he might, but looking back everything about that night made me feel foolish.

I’d been dreaming. Only momentarily, but a lot can happen in a moment. I’d even wondered whether the hypothetical, mythical ring would be a square-cut solitaire like the one I’d saved in the favourites folder on my laptop, or an antique he’d picked up from one of the quirky antique shops on London Road or Sharrow Vale. Justin knew how I adored anything vintage.

Seconds later my world crashed down around me. I was dizzy, stunned, confused, and all it took was three little words.

‘I’m going away.’

Justin had looked excitedly out at me from beneath the safety of his hood, the weird enormous grin peering out as he waited for my response.

I’d not understood what he meant at first; not known that those three words said it all.

‘What do you mean?’ I’d stumbled finally. I genuinely didn’t understand the statement.

He was going away, he’d said brightly, heading to America for a year to work at the Chicago-based head office of the bank he was a slave to. He oozed gleeful delight, prattling on about how it was a wonderful opportunity and what an honour it was to be considered a suitable candidate. I could go with him, he’d said, his puppy-dog eyes full of expectation.

I was so shocked I couldn’t even formulate a simple sentence.

‘When?’ I managed eventually.

He’d proudly told me January 4th and that it was a year-long contract. He’d been specially selected by the Big Boss when the person they’d lined up for the role backed out due to ill health. That was why it was such short notice, he explained. Justin had been put forward as the best possible replacement, the opportunity a reward for the long hours he’d been putting in recently. It was too good an offer to pass up, he’d said, something he had to do now whilst he was young, before he was tied down by responsibilities and a family.

I’d wanted to scream at that bit. He had a family here who loved him, his younger brother Benji worshipped the ground he walked on and aspired to be just like him. He had parents who doted on him and bought him everything he wanted, from designer clothes to a brand new car.

And me. He had me.

But Justin was radiant with excitement, unleashing all the joy he’d obviously forced himself to suppress earlier in the evening. He hadn’t said a word about America as he’d slurped on the spag bol I’d thrown together as a quick tea to line our stomachs, nor as he’d tapped his fingers against the pint glass in the pub. He’d kept schtum in the theatre too, letting me believe everything was fine, when all the time he’d been holding a bomb.

He rabbited on about head office and career progression, his tunnel vision blinding him to everything else. I’d never felt more irrelevant. I wasn’t even a Christmas cracker-sized spanner in the works. His mind was made up and that was that.

‘I can’t just drop everything,’ I said, feeling a smidgeon of annoyance that he expected me to. I had my job at the school, for starters, I couldn’t let them down by buggering off to the other side of the world. And then there were my dance classes, the ones I attended every Thursday night without fail. The six of us in the class had been dancing together since we were tots. They were my extended family, my safety net. I didn’t want to leave them behind, but I didn’t want to be without Justin either.

‘It’s a great opportunity,’ he’d repeated, the light in his eyes not dimming despite my lack of enthusiasm. ‘For me and for you.’

His hand had rested on mine and I’d flinched. I didn’t pull away, even though the last thing I wanted right then was for him to touch me. I just didn’t have the energy to move.

‘Imagine it, Mon. Me and you in the big city, living the American dream.’ His eyes were alight with a passion he normally reserved for Saturdays when the Blades were playing at home. I knew, then, that he was going to go regardless. His mind was made up. Nothing I could say would change a thing.

‘I can’t go,’ I said. ‘And I don’t want to. It’s not my dream. Anyway, there’s no way I could get on a plane and go all that way. Have you forgotten the melt down I had on the way back from Corfu?’

I could tell by his expression that he had, but I hadn’t. We’d suffered terrible turbulence and the pilot’s attempts at keeping his updates humorous and light hadn’t reassured me in the slightest. I’d ended up bent double, hunched in the brace position ‘just in case’, despite Justin’s instructions to breathe in and out of the sick bag to regulate my panicked gasps. It’s safe to say me and aeroplanes don’t mix.

‘I’m sorry, Justin. But if you go to Chicago, you’ll be going alone.’

He’d looked guilty then. He was going to America with or without me.

As we sat on the cold stone borders that flanked the segments of grass in the gardens, I couldn’t believe I’d ever thought this would be the most romantic night of my life. A bitter, biting wind whipped through the open space, an invisible slap in the face to accompany the sucker punch my gut had just taken.

Worst of all, everyone around us had been full of festive spirit, carrying on as though nothing had changed, whilst for me everything was about to change irrevocably. I wanted to shout, to kick up a stink right there in the middle of town, but my body didn’t feel like my own. It was a terrible dream and I watched on helplessly as it played out around me.

‘I’d hoped you’d come with me. I thought it’d be an adventure for us both.’

I shook my head. ‘I just can’t.’

He’d looked crestfallen, the joy he’d had earlier evaporating out of him into the dark winter night. ‘It’s not the end for us though, is it? Loads of couples make long distance work. And the world’s a smaller place these days, that’s what they say…’ It was as though he was trying to convince himself.

‘I suppose there’s always Skype…’ I said half-heartedly.

I couldn’t imagine not being able to physically feel him. We’d always been one of those touchy-feely couples, the kind that makes everyone feel a bit uncomfortable. Our constant public displays of affection were legendary, but you can’t touch someone through a computer screen. You can’t hold them or kiss them or make wild, passionate love to them. There’d be no substitute for having Justin here with me.

‘We can make this work,’ he’d said, his voice full of a false yet hopeful confidence. ‘If anyone can, we can.’

But even then, I wasn’t sure.

*

He’d left, just as he’d planned to, on the day we’d started back at school after Christmas break. I’d been assisting the more able children, helping them write sentences about the gifts Santa had left under their tree while he was on a cross-country train over the Pennines to Manchester Airport, ready to start a whole new life on a whole other landmass.

That was the weirdest part of it all. I was still in Sheffield, with the same job and the same friends and the same bedroom in the same house; but with an empty chest of drawers sitting hollow in the corner instead of filled with a selection of Lynx aftershaves he’d been bought for his birthday by some well-meaning aunt and every Sheffield United kit from the last ten years.

I’m sure that outwardly I looked much the same as ever – a twenty-five-year-old woman of average height and naturally athletic build with a fluffy mass of unruly dark blonde curls – but inside I felt as empty as those drawers. I’d hoped that by forcing myself to raise a smile I’d fool people into believing I was fine. But I wasn’t fine, deep down. Deep down I was breaking.

*

I still have a photo of me and Justin together on my dressing table, in a heart-shaped wooden frame. It was taken at a charity ball the summer before he went away. In it I’m staring up at Justin, who’s stood almost a whole foot taller than me and my face looks like it might split right in two because I’m grinning that hard.

I can’t remember the last time I smiled like that. As much as I try to show the world I’m the same positive, smiley Mon I’ve always been, it’s not my face splitting in two any more. It’s my heart.




Chapter One (#ulink_f895f3a2-99b6-5ec6-92f2-9ce859a201de)


Friday 9


September

*Frozen – My choice*

‘I’ve been waiting for this all day.’ Issy sighs with audible relief as the ruby-red Merlot sloshes into the glass. ‘Honestly, I can’t tell you how ready I am. In fact, I’m more than ready. I’m a woman in need,’ she adds dramatically.

‘Only all day?’ I reply with a laugh. ‘Then you’re a stronger woman than I am, Isadora Jackson. I’ve been waiting all week.’

My blonde curls bounce wildly. People say they look like a halo, but although I’m a good girl, I’m certainly no angel.

‘Seriously,’ I continue, ‘the only thing that’s got me through the madness that is reception class during the first week in September is the thought of wine o’ clock. We’ve had so many children crying when their parents leave, the noise in that classroom is phenomenal. Phenomenal! Thank your lucky stars that the kids you teach are past that.’

Issy gulps her wine, raising her eyebrows in a challenge of disagreement. I know that look. It’s the one that says whenever anyone plays the ‘I work in the most difficult age group’ card, Issy’s going to take that card and trump it.

‘Teaching Year 6 isn’t a bundle of laughs, you know. All those raging hormones and that snarky pre-teen attitude…’ She visibly shudders. ‘Can you believe I had Ellie Watts in tears this lunchtime because Noah Cornall dumped her? They’re only ten! And the bitching and backbiting that goes on – I’ve not seen anything like it. It’s the Big Brother house, but worse. How many weeks to go until half term?’

‘Another seven.’ I pull a face, unable to believe I’m already counting down to the holidays. The six-week summer break had worked its usual miracle of helping me forget how exhausting it is working in a primary school and although I’d not exactly been jumping out of bed with delight when the alarm went off at 6.15 on Monday morning, I’d felt a quiet positivity about the year ahead. There’s something special about getting to know a new set of kids, and there had even been rumours of new furniture for the reception classroom. Heaven knows, the tables need replacing. Years of felt-tip pens being carelessly smudged over their surface meant their glory days were well in the past. But just one week in – four days, actually, if you discount the staff training day – and I’m already totally drained of energy, as I always am during term time. People at work say I’m bubbly and bouncy and full of beans, but that’s because I raise my game. How anyone who works with children finds the time for a social life, I’ll never know. When Friday finally rolls around, all I want to do is climb into my onesie and sleep for a week.

‘My class need to be the small fishes again,’ Issy says with a sage nod. ‘It’s always the same with the oldest in the school. They get ahead of themselves. Too big for their ‘let’s-get-one-size-larger-so-you-can-grow-into-them Doc Martens.’ Issy looks so serious, which naturally makes me want to giggle. ‘They’ll be the ones in tears when they start at secondary school next year, just like your little angels in reception have been this time. It’ll knock them down a peg or two.’

‘It’ll get easier, it always does.’

I know Issy thinks I’m being over-optimistic, but I can’t help it. What can I say? I’m one of those people who naturally looks on the bright side of life, except when it comes to Justin. But that’s no surprise, given that he’d gone from ‘we can make long distance work’ in December to ‘perhaps we should take a break – not split up, but accept long distance doesn’t work for us’ in January. I think I’ve every right to feel bitter. I’m living in this weird love-life limbo.

‘You’ll be fine when they get to trust you,’ I assure her. ‘You said exactly the same about your last lot. Remember Billy Rush? You were convinced he’d turn you grey, and look, your hair’s exactly the same murky shade it’s always been,’ I say with nothing but innocence.

‘Hey, watch it you! My hair’s not murky. It’s salted caramel,’ Issy replies, defensively stroking the thick, straight locks that tumble down past her shoulders. How she manages to look glamorous, even in her mint-green fleecy Primark pyjamas, I’ll never know. She’s one of those naturally well-groomed people whose skin always looks fresh and eyes bright, even when she’s tired or has a stinking hangover. It’s infuriating.

‘Yeah, right. Whatever you say. ‘Salted caramel.’ Is that what they call it at the hairdressers?’

I poke my tongue out at her, but she knows it’s all in jest. That’s the great thing about our friendship. We tease each other mercilessly, but we can switch to drying each other’s tears in a matter of seconds if needs be. And Issy, bless her, has done her fair share of being the shoulder to cry on this year, so it’s important to remember to laugh about things as much as possible.

‘They refer to it by number. But it’s the darkest blonde they do,’ Issy replies haughtily, running her hand over her locks once more. ‘You’d see for yourself if we were in the right light. This house has terrible natural light, and you know it. It’s the price we pay for living on the shady side of the street.’

She’s right about that. Even in the height of summer there’s a distinct chill in the lounge of the mid-terraced red-brick house we share. I swear we must’ve been the only people pulling down furry throws from the back of the sofa to keep warm during the one red-hot week that had passed as the British summer. Even long sunny days had done nothing to rid our lounge of its chilly gloom. And now, on an early-September evening, where it’s still light outside, both of us are in pyjamas, dressing gowns and super-thick socks, a necessity if we’re going to meet our annual challenge of making it to the half-term break without caving and putting the heating on.

‘So, are you going to pour me a glass or that Merlot or what? I’m dying of thirst over here.’

‘You’re not exactly encouraging me to share when you’re slagging off my hair and saying my job’s easy. Maybe I’ll keep the whole bottle to myself instead.’

There’s a cheeky glint in Issy’s eyes as she pulls the bottle to her mouth as though to swig from it. I know she’s only messing around, but it’s still enough to make me worry. It’s Friday night. I need that wine.

‘I never said it was easy,’ I correct quickly. ‘Just that you’ve not got the screamers and the over-anxious parents and the snotty noses and the pooey pants to deal with.’ When the negative aspects of the job were all strung out like that, working as a teaching assistant in a reception class sounded bad. Like a cacophony of noise and hassle and bodily fluids.

Issy shoots me a look. ‘You knew what you were getting into, you’ve got a degree in child development. It’s not exactly a state secret that four-year-olds have accidents and don’t know how to use a Kleenex.’

‘I know, I know.’

And I can’t imagine doing anything else. My oldest friend Connie’s stuck in a hell-hole of an office all day and she hates every miserable minute of it. She’s crying out to do something more worthwhile than filing and answering phones. School might be exhausting, but there are plenty of rewards too – some of the things the kids come out with are hilarious and it’s great watching them grow and progress day by day.

‘I do love the kids,’ I add, ‘especially the little ones. They’re continually evolving and that moment when they grasp how to do something new – there’s nothing like it. The pride in their faces…’

I place my hand over my heart, recalling the happiness on one child’s face today as he counted to ten by rote. It had been a touching moment, and one that reminded me how much I love my job.

‘You’re going to set me off crying at this rate.’

Issy rolls her eyes, but the grin that accompanies it is the real giveaway – it shows she understands. I might be more of a people person than Issy, but she cares about the kids much more than she outwardly shows. She just does a good job of hiding her love and loyalty. Issy plays her cards very close to her chest.

‘It’s great being with the little ones. I wish they’d have a bit more independence sometimes, though.’

‘Like you said to me, it’ll get easier. You’ll have them whipped into shape by the summer. They’re used to being mollycoddled at home, that’s all. Come on, you’ll feel better after a glass of wine,’ she chivvies. ‘And at least there’s no alarm going off at some ungodly hour in the morning, so let’s put a film on and forget about work. I’ve got a Toblerone in the cupboard, too, if you fancy a few little triangular pieces of heaven?’

‘Mmmmm.’ My mouth waters at the thought. Toblerone. My favourite. ‘That sounds amazing. What do you want to watch?’

It’s a ridiculous, pointless question. We’ve watched the same film every Friday night for the past three months.

‘Ooh, let me think,’ Issy replies sarcastically, putting the tip of her index finger to the corner of her lips, as though there’s actually a decision to be made here. Her nails are coated in black polish and there’s not a single chip to be seen. Typical: Immaculate Issy. After a brief, yet dramatic, pause, she announces ‘Frozen!’

I pull the shiny rectangular DVD case from the boxy Ikea bookcase as Issy snuggles into the corner of the settee, pulling the chocolate-brown throw over her knees in an attempt to get cosy, because when it comes to frostiness, 24 Cardigan Close can easily rival an icy Arendelle. Brr!

*

By the time Hans and Anna are capturing the brilliant white moon in their hands as they dance beneath the waterfall, Issy and I are both decidedly more relaxed. A second bottle of red wine’s been opened and all that remains of the chocolate is the iconic triangular prism box and a screwed-up ball of silver foil strewn on the table. The cares of the week are slowly slipping away; the weekend has truly arrived.

Until the doorbell rings, rudely interrupting the peace.

Issy groans. ‘Can’t we leave it?’ I know there’s no way on earth she’ll get up from that settee; she’s set up camp for the night. Begrudgingly, I inch myself into a standing position while she chunters on. ‘Who calls unannounced on a Friday night anyway?’

‘Exactly,’ I say. ‘It must be important.’

‘Or one of those door-to-door charity collectors.’

A ferocious banging follows, five loud knocks that it would be impossible to ignore.

‘That’d have to be one desperate charity collector.’

I pull my dressing gown more tightly around my waist as I reach for my key from the small hook on the back of the door. The knocking continues, louder and more frantic than before, followed by a voice.

‘Mon! Mon! It’s me!’

The desperation in the high-pitched cries urge me into action. The voice is instantly identifiable. I fling the door open and my sister stumbles over the threshold, a bulging black sports bag slung over her shoulder and a wheelie suitcase by her side. Her face is deathly pale in stark contrast to her chocolate-brown hair, and her cheeks are stained with the snail-trail tracks of tears.

‘Hope! What’s going on?’

I’m shocked at the state of her. Actually, I’m beyond shocked. I’m not used to seeing my older sister like this. Hope’s always been the stronger of the two of us, the one with the ‘don’t mess with me’ attitude and a permanent look of disdain waiting in the wings to throw at anything or anyone she considers beneath her. But right now she looks fragile and vulnerable, like a frightened kitten in a thunderstorm.

‘I didn’t know where else to go,’ Hope sobs. Her long, dark hair falls in front of her face as she hunches forwards, a protective veil to hide behind. I know the trick; I’ve used it myself.

‘Start at the beginning.’ I try to keep my voice calm, although inside I’m flailing. Placing my hand on my sister’s back, I gently guide her into the living room. Hans and Anna are no longer singing about love being an open door. Issy’s pressed the pause button at an inopportune moment; the close-up shot of the princess showing her eyes closed and her face contorted. ‘What’s going on?’

‘It’s Amara,’ Hope says finally, before looking up and locking her bleary, bloodshot eyes with mine. ‘She’s thrown me out. She said she’s had enough of me pressurising her into telling her parents the truth.’ She pauses for breath, gulping the air. ‘I’ve been patient, haven’t I, Mon? It’s been four years now, but she still won’t admit to her parents that we’re a couple. Four years! I’m sick of moving my stuff into the spare room every time they come over, pretending we’re just best friends sharing a flat.’ Her shoulders judder as the tears start to fall. ‘All I want is for her to be honest. I don’t want to have to hide any more.’

‘What exactly did she say?’ Issy interjects, moving to the edge of her seat. ‘Do you think she means it? Or is she just angry at the situation and taking it out on you?’

‘Oh, she means it alright,’ Hope answers with a bitter laugh. ‘She’s ashamed to be with me. Her parents are coming up from London tomorrow and when I told her I thought it was time to come clean, she said that’d be ‘impossible’.’ Hope raises her hands, wiggling her fingers to indicate quotation marks. It’s a move full of pain-drenched sarcasm. ‘When I said I was sick of her pulling all the strings in our relationship, fed up of it being fine to hold her hand when we’re clubbing on a Saturday night or walking around Endcliffe Park on a Sunday morning but having to outright lie when it comes to her family… she said she couldn’t lie any longer either. She handed me my bag, told me it was over and ordered I pack and leave.’

Issy raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow and when she speaks her tone is disbelieving. ‘And you did it without a fuss? I’m sorry, Hope, but that doesn’t sound like the feisty girl I know. She wouldn’t give up and walk out on the love of her life.’

‘Can’t you see? It’s because I love her! That’s why I’ve gone. If Amara can’t tell her family that we’ve been in a relationship, then what’s the point in being together anyway? I know I’m lucky. Mum was fine with me being gay, once she got her head around it. Amara’s parents aren’t like that. They’re always on at her to find a nice young man and provide them with grandchildren. If she tells them she’s gay, they’ll probably disown her.’

‘But even if she’s not with you, she’s still going to be gay,’ I reason. I hand her my glass, thinking a sip of alcohol might calm her down. ‘She’s not going to suddenly start lusting over Daniel Craig just because you’ve moved out. So she’ll still be lying to them either way.’

Hope winces as she sips the Merlot and it’s only then I remember she’s never been a fan of red wine, much preferring a crisp glass of refreshing Pinot Grigio. Ah well, beggars can’t be choosers.

‘I know,’ Hope answers resignedly. ‘But it’s easier for her to call an end to it than tell them the truth. If she’s on her own, she can make up excuses and fob off the questions. She’ll say she’s not found the right person yet or that she wants to travel or concentrate on her career. That’ll be more acceptable to her family than the reality.’

‘Concentrating on a career,’ I snort. ‘I’ve heard that one before.’

I grind my teeth, determined not to make this about me, but it’s touched a nerve. I feel brittle, fragile. It comes over me like this every so often, and it makes me mad. These involuntary reactions are all little reminders that however much I profess to have moved on, I still catch my breath at the thought of Justin Crowson. He upped and left and broke my heart, but in just over three months he’ll be back in Sheffield. The ‘break’ will be over; we can get back on track. I’m clutching tightly to that thought. It’s been painfully hard having so little contact with Justin since Christmas, and I hate this feeling of being so distant. Going from inseparable to short, sharp emails and five-minute phone conversations has been like losing a limb.

‘It’s time’s like this I’m actually glad to be eternally single,’ Issy replies. ‘You Brown girls sure know how to get shat on from a great height.’

Issy hasn’t had so much as a one-night fling in the last eighteen months, let alone anything more. Drunken snogs are her speciality, but nothing ever goes further. She’s adamant she’s holding out for Mr Right, the man she’ll marry and ride off into the sunset with.

‘Well,’ I say, cutting Issy off before she says anything that starts Hope off blubbering again, ‘you can stay here for as long as you need to. The futon in the spare room’s not all that comfy, but you’re very welcome to crash on it. And right now I’m going to get you a glass of your own. Have some more wine and watch the end of Frozen with us. That’ll make everything seem a bit brighter.’

That set Hope off crying again. She’s never been an especially girly girl and in her current state, the thought of princessy Disney films was probably enough to push her over the edge.

‘I’ll need more than one glass of wine to get through Frozen, no matter how big it is,’ Hope says.

‘You make it sound like an endurance test rather than an animated film.’ Issy laughs, but not unkindly, as I move into the kitchen to fetch a glass. ‘It’s hardly scaling Everest!’

‘It might as well be. You two are bloody obsessed with that film. Even the kids at school have had enough of it now.’

Hope works with Issy and me at Clarke Road Primary, teaching the Year 4s. She never planned to go into teaching – falling into it out of necessity rather than a vocational calling – but jobs related to her degree in visual arts are few and far between. At least this way she’s able to use her imagination in the classroom now and again, even if there isn’t as much freedom as she’d like. Creativity’s not exactly a priority in the curriculum these days but Hope’s eye-catching display boards are always spectacular, a talking point with staff and pupils alike.

I peep around the doorframe, mock horror on my face at Hope rejecting my favourite film of all time. ‘Frozen’s not a fad, it’s a way of life! It’s a story of sisterhood and love for all ages. And it’s one of the best films to sing along to. There’s nothing like belting out ‘Let It Go’at the top of your lungs to make everything better.’

‘Excuse me if I’ve not quite got your level of optimism,’ Hope mutters, just loud enough for me to hear.

I can see her shivering from here, and I’ve a sneaky suspicion that it’s not just her body responding to the chilly temperature in the house. Maybe the realisation that she no longer lives with her gorgeous girlfriend in a modern, city-centre apartment but is crashing out with her baby sister in what is little better than student digs is hitting home.

‘Anyway, I’m not sure the neighbours will thank us,’ Hope says wryly. ‘We’re hardly Little Mix, are we?’

‘Ah,’ I reply with a smile, ‘but that’s the best thing about living near the university. Everyone else on the street is a student. Most of them aren’t even back until the end of the month, and the ones that are will either be out in town or having a party involving something far more raucous than the three of us pretending to be Elsa.’

‘I think you secretly love it,’ Issy says breezily, attempting to stop Hope snuffling. She wafts a box of pastel-coloured tissues in Hope’s direction. ‘Even you’ve got to admit that despite being the bad guy, Hans is a hottie.’

Hope pulls a lemon-yellow tissue from the box, a rose-coloured fan appearing as if by magic to take its place.

‘I’m a lesbian,’ she states, in case anyone’s forgotten. ‘And even if I wasn’t, I don’t think I’d be resorting to animated characters.’

She blows her nose noisily into the tissue. It sounds like a steam train heading into a tunnel.

‘I’ve always had a thing for Flynn Rider,’ I admit, handing my sister the full-to-the-brim glass of wine I’d poured her. ‘I think it’s his chiselled jaw. Maybe if I grew my hair a bit longer and threw it out of my bedroom window I’d get someone like that to climb up it. Mind you, it’d take years to grow. It’s the one major downside of curly hair, every centimetre in visible growth is actually three.’ I finger a strand of hair ruefully.

‘I don’t think there are any Flynn Rider lookalikes wandering around South Yorkshire looking for plaits to climb up, so the slow growth of your hair is the least of your worries. Anyway, you’re not looking for a man, are you?’

‘I’m most certainly not,’ I reply brusquely.

Issy’s mentioned on more than one occasion that she thinks getting ‘under a man to get over a man’ might be a step forward, but it hasn’t occurred to me. I’ve not so much as looked at another male that way. I don’t want to, because no one else can possibly compare to Justin. How could they? We’ve got ten years of shared history. He’s my first love. My first everything, in fact. Anyway, we’re on a break, we’re not broken.

‘After what happened with you-know-who, I’m not putting myself out there,’ I say. I’m not sure of my status anyway, there’s no noun to describe someone who’s on a break. ‘I’m not ready to lay my soul bare to any man, not if all they want to do is trample over it.’

I’ve said these lines so many times that it’s a well-rehearsed speech, but the doubtful looks on both Issy and Hope’s faces make me wonder how convincing I actually am. Maybe I should say them with a bit more oomph.

‘Come on, let’s get this film back rolling,’ says Issy. ‘And is this wine mine?’ she asks, gesturing to the full glass sitting on the mantelpiece. ‘Because I can feel myself sobering up by the second, and tonight I plan to get very, very drunk.’

*

We’re all glued to the television screen as the tinkly piano starts up and Elsa sadly climbs the snow-covered mountain, her purple cape trailing through the snow behind her. Even Hope’s transfixed, although she’d never admit it.

‘I love this song,’ Issy says, pulling a cushion closer to her stomach. ‘Even though I must have heard it a million times, it still gets me right here.’ She points to the centre of her chest, pulling an over-exaggerated sad face.

‘That’s why Elsa’s so popular,’ I say. ‘She gives up everything to be true to herself and doesn’t give a damn what everyone else thinks. She’s a much better role model than the sappy princesses of old. She’s spunky.’

‘Did you seriously just use the word spunky?’ Hope shakes her head in disbelief. Her eyes already look hazy; the crying and the wine a lethal combination. ‘That’s cringe-worthy, no one uses that word any more. Plus, it’s one of those icky words that makes my skin crawl. That and ‘moist’.’ She grimaces.

‘But Elsa is spunky. It’s the perfect word to describe her.’

‘Whatever.’

The misfit princess runs through the snow-covered land singing about her new-found freedom and how she can finally be the person she truly is rather than who everyone else expects her to be, and before long all three of us feel every ounce of the ice queen’s angst as we sing along to ‘Let It Go’. Elsa removes her glove and conjures magical wisps of ice from her hands and we shout the rousing chorus at the top of our lungs, well past caring what the neighbours think. We’re out of tune and Hope isn’t entirely sure of the words, but we don’t give a damn. It’s fun.

‘It feels good to sing, doesn’t it?’ Hope says out of the blue. Her cheeks are flushed now, the pinkish hue making her appear much less frail than she’d looked when she arrived. ‘To let rip and shout. Kids do it all the time, but as adults we’re expected to have found other ways to express ourselves. But the truth is, nothing compares to getting everything out of your system by having a good old yell.’

‘Letting go,’ says Issy solemnly, before realising what she’s said and dissolving in a fit of drunken giggles.

‘I read something somewhere about singing being good for the soul,’ I recall. ‘Didn’t it say people who sing live longer? Or were happier? I can’t remember, but it was all positive.’ Funnily enough, I’m feeling better for singing too and my words are spilling out at an incredible pace. ‘We’ve all had a tough year. I’ve been low since Justin went to America, even though the sensible part of me knows that taking a break was the only option. That doesn’t make it any easier though, I’m still wondering if he’s on a date with some American beauty or out on the pull. And Hope, who knows? Maybe Amara will come round and realise you need to be together in time, but right now you need to put yourself first. Don’t look at me like that! I know you think I’m fussing, but I want my only sister to be happy.’

I reach over and squeeze Hope’s hand, one small pulse that carries an infinite amount of love.

‘And Is, I know you’re happy being single, but I saw your face when your sister told you about her latest scan.’

Issy swallows, and part of me wishes I’d kept quiet. This is a sensitive subject. But it’s too late now, it’s already out there, so I carry on regardless. ‘You’re going to be the most amazing mummy one of these days, when the time is right. The best.’ Issy’s lips form an O, and I think she might cry, so I quickly move on. ‘But for now, all three of us need to pick ourselves up and take control of our own happiness. It’s like Elsa says, we’re free! Who knows where we’ll be in a month, let alone a year. We need to increase our happiness, channel the good emotions.’ I’m on a roll, fire in my belly and well-lubricated by the wine. There’s no stopping me now.

‘And how do you suggest we do that, oh wise one?’ asks Hope, her voice acerbic.

‘A club, an informal choir. Make Friday nights a musical spectacular and sing ourselves silly! Think how good it feels to shout and laugh and forget about all the crappy stuff.’ I beam, convinced it’s a winning idea. ‘We should make it a weekly event, a celebration of the weekend and being happy on our own rather than out in the meat market that doubles as town on a Friday night. It’s got to be better than having your bum pinched by some drunken chancer out on the pull, and if it raises our spirits too then it’s a bonus, surely? What do you reckon? Isn’t it the best idea ever?’

I wait for their response, fully expecting them to throw back a string of reasons why it’s a terrible idea. The pause is excruciating.

‘Oh, go on then,’ says Issy finally, knocking back the last of her wine. ‘But no more people. The last thing I want is a house full of strangers on a Friday night.’

‘And no more Frozen,’ Hope adds emphatically.

‘Okay,’ I agree, knowing this is as much enthusiasm as my sister’s likely to muster. ‘But can I ask Connie if she fancies it too? Four people isn’t too many and she could do with a boost. She’s hating her job and she’s fed up with being hit on by sleazeballs every time she goes out. This could be exactly what she needs.’

I grin and a small squeak of excitement slips out despite myself. I’m so looking forward to this. I haven’t been part of a club since I left the Brownies.

‘The Singalong Society for Singletons,’ I say wistfully. ‘To moving on and letting go!’




Chapter Two (#ulink_51ddd49f-c3ab-5003-ba3e-dc09d7a37bd4)


Friday 16


September

*The Lion King – Connie’s choice*

‘Are you sure we’ll have enough food to go round?’ Hope asks. She looks doubtful, which is ridiculous seeing as the table is laden – correction, overloaded – with snacks.

Seriously, there’s all sorts of goodies spread out on it, from breadsticks to sausage rolls to the black forest gateau centrepiece (my idea – apparently they’re due a resurgence, according to the supermarket magazine I shoved in my trolley on a whim last weekend). There are also four blue-and-white-striped cereal bowls overflowing with a variety of crisps and savoury snacks, three bottles of wine, the remnants of a bottle of Jack Daniels, a six-pack of Diet Coke and the token punnet of raspberries Connie insisted made an appearance if she was going to come. She’s always been a health freak, although she goes wild on a Friday night and allows herself a small amount of carbs. How we’ve been friends for twenty years is beyond me. Junk food is too good to go without, in my opinion.

‘Are you joking? There’s tons. It’s only us three and Connie, we’re not feeding an army returning from battle,’ Issy replies. ‘And we’re only five minutes from the supermarket if we need anything else. It’s not like we live in the back of beyond.’

‘You don’t think I should just nip out and get…’

‘No,’ I answer. I ensure I’m using my school voice, firm and decisive. ‘We’ve got plenty. There’s pizza in the oven too, remember, and there’s that tub of chocolates from the end of term on top of the kitchen cabinet if we want anything sweet later on.’

‘Ooh, I forgot about those,’ Issy says, licking her lips with anticipation. ‘Bagsy me the coffee creams.’

‘I don’t think anyone’ll be fighting you for those,’ Hope replies, pushing forward onto her tiptoes to try and reach the metal container from on top of the kitchen cupboards. Issy had insisted they be put well out of the way to avoid temptation after the three of us had broken the seal and eaten a generous handful each during the culmination of Frozen last Friday. ‘But I’m taking the toffee fingers out and putting them to one side. They’re my favourites.’

She nudges the tin down from the ledge, her fingertips edging the container forwards until it tips and she has to quickly readjust her arms to stop it falling to the floor with a clatter. She looks puzzled as she shakes the tub. ‘I’m sure there were more left than this,’ she says, peeling back the lid to reveal a very sorry-looking layer of multi-coloured wrappers that barely cover the silvery bottom of the tin. ‘Own up, who’s been secretly raiding the choccies?’

Issy looks guilty and when she speaks her voice is unusually soft and meek.

‘It was me. I couldn’t help it. There wasn’t anything else sweet in the house and I had rotten period pains. So I took them upstairs, got back into bed and ate them. I only meant to have a few, but it was last Saturday when I had that phone call from Penny. It scared me to death when she said she’d been bleeding – I couldn’t get the thought that she might lose the baby out of my head. I needed something to cheer me up and a ridiculous amount of chocolate and the box set of Friends was my only hope.’

‘You should have told me you were struggling,’ I say. I’m trying to sound light, but it takes a whole lot of effort not to sound miffed. ‘We’re supposed to support each other. You could’ve come to me.’

‘I couldn’t,’ Issy explains, twisting her silver ring around her finger. ‘I wasn’t up for talking about it and I’d have only felt guilty if you’d seen me pigging out. All I needed was a wallow and a sugar kick – you know how it is sometimes. Look, I’ll go and get another box of chocolates now if you want. If we mix them in with what’s left it’ll be fine.’

‘It’s not about the chocolate!’ My nerve endings are tingling, and not in a good way. ‘If you’d told me what was the matter, I could have done something. I could have helped. There was no need for you to be cooped up alone in your room all day when I was here, willing to listen.’

Issy smiles sadly and it breaks my heart. ‘But what could you have done, Mon? Nothing. All I needed was a duvet day and to stuff my face. I had a sleep, had a cry and then pulled myself back together. It was no big deal.’

‘I could have listened,’ I insist. ‘Even if that’s all I could have done, I could have listened.’

‘But I didn’t want to talk,’ Issy answers patiently. She speaks slowly and deliberately, as though explaining something to a small child. Maybe the teacher in her is coming out too, it’s obviously a quirk of the trade. ‘It was too raw. It’s nothing personal against you, but it was easier for me to hide away and cry it out. I needed to get my own head around it, that’s all. Anyway, everything’s fine with Penny now. It was just a scare.’

A wave of sadness floods through my body, as though my blood’s running cold in my veins. There’s nothing Issy wants more than to find the love of her life and start a family, and the news that her little sister is having a baby had hit her hard. That Issy hasn’t got a partner at the moment is irrelevant, the maternal instincts are still chewing away at her. The constant pressure from the glossy magazines she greedily devours doesn’t help either, what with their never-ending reminders of ticking body clocks and staged photos of celebrities parading their precious new arrivals around the flawlessly landscaped garden of their luxury mansions. I can only imagine how hard Issy finds it having such a desperate longing within her but being unable to do anything about it. It seems terribly unfair.

When Penny announced she was pregnant it had come as a shock to everyone. She’s only seventeen, and a young seventeen at that. There had been no talk of a boyfriend, no late nights, no tell-tale signs of illicit secret liaisons. She’s doing well at college and keeping on top of her studies – everything had been pootling along the same as it always had.

Then one blazing hot day at the start of the summer holidays Issy had received a phone call from a terrified Penny crying that she didn’t know what to do, that her parents were going to kill her when they found out she was pregnant. She was already four months gone by that point, the hint of a bump just beginning to show on her tiny, child-like frame, and Issy had been torn between the need to support her sister and the all-encompassing desire to give in to the internal pain that demanded she shut down and hibernate.

But Issy’s too kind-hearted a person to hold a grudge and when that natural mothering instinct kicked in, it kicked in hard. She’d gone with Penny to break the news to their parents, who hadn’t managed to hide their initial distress and disappointment. She’d taken her to the GP, who confirmed the pregnancy and attended the first hospital appointment, where the trainee midwife had taken three vials of blood, and a scan which showed that, yes, Penny was eighteen weeks gone already. The radiographer had said he was ninety per cent sure the baby was a boy. And Issy had smiled along, excited about the prospect of becoming an aunt, even though every one of these steps served to remind her of what she didn’t have.

Then last weekend Penny had been passing clumps of dark-brown blood, convinced she was having a late miscarriage because she didn’t have what it took to be a good mother. This was the call that had pushed Issy to attempt to eat her way through a tin of chocolates designed to keep a family’s sweet tooth in check for a month.

‘You’ve been incredible. More than incredible. You’ve been the best sister Penny could have wished for,’ I assure her, although I’m scared I’m going to cry. I can feel those first tell-tale prickles. It reminds me of the time I had acupuncture for sciatica, the little needles making pinching sensations, but this time it’s in my eyes rather than my legs. I concentrate on breathing in through my nose, not wanting my sadness for Issy to show. I can’t break down. I’ve got to step up and be strong. ‘And you’re going to be the best aunt too. When that little lad arrives, he’s going to want for nothing.’

‘He deserves the best,’ Issy says vehemently, ‘and between us we’ll make sure he gets it. Penny’s going to go to special classes that prepare teenage mums for motherhood – how to change nappies and make up bottles and all that practical stuff – and Dad has put in a request to reduce his hours at work. He’s going to look after the baby two days a week so Pen can continue with her A levels. It’s not ideal, but we’re making the best of it.’ A glimmer of something that looks like sadness passes over her face, before Issy literally snaps herself out of it, closing her eyes tightly together and when they pop open again they are a fraction brighter than they’d been only moments before. ‘She’s not the first seventeen-year- old to get pregnant, and she won’t be the last. It is what it is.’

‘She’s lucky to have such a supportive family. My mum would have gone apeshit if I’d got pregnant at Penny’s age,’ I say, imagining how horrified mum would’ve been if Justin and I had announced an unplanned pregnancy at seventeen. ‘Who am I kidding? She’d go apeshit if I got pregnant now without a ring on my finger first.’

Issy sniggers. ‘Well, we all know how much your mum loves a wedding. Anyway, keep taking those little round pills every day and you’ll be fine. No babies for you anytime soon!’

‘I’d need to have sex to run the risk of pregnancy and there’s no fear of that,’ I say glumly. ‘I don’t think there’ll be anyone in the near future either. I’m just not ready to put myself out there again. The thought of getting naked in front of a stranger fills me with dread. I don’t want some random guy looking at my wobbly bits and judging me! I’m going to have to wait until Justin gets back and see if he wants to work things out.’

Issy wrinkles her forehead in disagreement. ‘You’ve not got any wobbly bits, except the bits that you want to wobble.’ She jiggles her ample bosom to clarify her point. ‘And you’re utterly gorgeous. Any bloke in his right mind would kill to be with you, but for some crazy reason I don’t understand, you don’t see what everyone else sees.’

‘You’re only saying that to be kind.’

‘It’s the truth. You’re right – I’d say it even if it wasn’t because I love you – but it is.’

‘I’ll pay you later.’ I laugh, embarrassed. It’s hard to take compliments, especially now when I’m feeling so dejected, but at least it shows Issy isn’t deliberately shutting me out. That’s a small blessing.

However, I’m glad when the timer buzzes to indicate the pizza needs rescuing from the oven. Grabbing the oven gloves, I quickly whip out the pizza stone, noticing the cheese topping starting to turn a burnished crispy brown rather than the stringy golden goo we love.

‘Phew, that was close,’ I add, nodding towards the pizza.

‘What time’s Connie coming?’ Hope calls through. She’s in the lounge watching Coronation Street, and I can see her through the open doors. She’s propping up an enormous stack of cushions behind her, trying to get comfortable.

‘She texted to say she was leaving work quarter of an hour ago, so she should be here any minute. Just in time to grab a slice of pizza,’ I answer as I rummage around the cutlery drawer for the elusive pizza cutter. ‘If she’s having a wild night of carbs and cheese,’ I add.

The doorbell rings as if on cue and I rush to greet my oldest friend. Not for the first time I’m blown away by her beauty. She looks radiant standing in the doorway with the peachy light reflecting off her long wavy hair, the early-evening sky a vivid orange wash behind her. Near the roots Connie’s hair is the same dark shade it’s always been, but the ends are dip-dyed a vibrant peacock blue. Last week they’d been scarlet. Colour suits her, but I wonder if this constant reinvention is a sign that Connie isn’t sure who she wants to be. She’s like a teenager playing around with her image to see what suits her best. I want to tell her that she doesn’t need to change, that she’s already incredible as she is, but know that even if I did she’d only play down my words as I did with Issy’s.

‘Hi!’ we exclaim in unison, embracing each other in a warm, squishy hug.

The weekend was about to begin, and it couldn’t start soon enough.

*

‘I do love The Lion King,’ Connie says with gusto as the disc whirrs to life in the DVD player. ‘It’s got so many catchy tunes. That’s why when you invited me to join the Singalong Society it was the perfect choice. I can’t believe how long it is since I last saw it.’ Her eyes sparkle with anticipation, full of a childlike fervour.

‘It’s for kids,’ Hope says derisively. ‘I doubt there are any other groups of twenty-somethings spending their Friday nights watching cartoons. I’m telling you now, next week we’re moving on to a real film. I’ve had enough saccharine Disney to last me a lifetime.’ Her eyes narrow as she chunters on, her grudge against Walt and his successors in full swing. ‘All that sappy ‘happily ever after’ piffle,’ she tuts. ‘It bears no resemblance to real life.’

‘Disney isn’t just for kids,’ I answer defensively. Hope dissing Disney feels almost like a personal insult. ‘It’s for all ages. There’s always a serious issue buried under the princesses and castles.’

Hope doesn’t look convinced.

‘This one was based on Hamlet, you know,’ I continue, gesturing towards the TV. ‘And no one would dare to call Shakespeare piffle. He’s the greatest playwright that ever lived.’ I pause, grabbing a fistful of salty peanuts from the small topaz-blue bowl on the coffee table that divides the room in two. Suddenly I’m starving. ‘There’s a reason he’s on every exam syllabus going, why his work will always be a key component of any literature course. He’s a storyteller, pure and simple. One of the best that’s ever lived.’

I pop a pinch of peanuts into my mouth, crushing them between my teeth with a satisfying crunch. The burst of flavour dances across my taste buds.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. We all know you’re a geek when it comes to this kind of thing.’

Her dismissive words are softened by the affection written on her face. Hope had never understood my love of literature. In fact, Hope probably couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a novel, whereas I constantly had at least one book on the go, usually more. It was another reminder of how different the two of us are, yet the bond between us has always been undeniably strong despite that. We’re tight. Unbreakable. Just as sisters should be.

‘Keep an open mind about this one, please?’ I beg.

I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel under pressure to ensure tonight works out as planned. It’s not just the four of us getting together to watch a film, it’s a chance for us to take control. Plus, as the inaugural meeting of The Singalong Society for Singletons, it has to go smoothly. The whole point of the thing is to inject some joy back into our lives.

‘Well, I’ve not seen it since I was about ten, so maybe I can be won over. But don’t hold your breath. I’m a tough nut to crack.’

A piracy warning flashes onto the screen, signalling the film’s about to start.

‘And don’t we know it,’ I reply boldly, poking out my tongue in retort.

Issy tries and fails to stifle a giggle as she pours the contents of a share-sized bag of cheese and chive crisps into a bowl, whilst Connie looks impassively at the floor to avoid getting involved. Typical.

‘It’s my choice of film next week,’ Issy says. ‘I’ll be sure to choose something that isn’t animated, if it means that much to you.’

‘Ssh,’ I hiss in a stage-whisper. ‘It’s starting.’

The rousing opening note of ‘The Circle of Life’ roars from the television causing each of us to sit straighter in our seats. Captivated by the power of the Zulu chanting and the sun rising over the desert, we settle down, prepared to be transported to Africa via a cute little lion cub and a soundtrack full of belting songs.

*

‘Aww, look at baby Simba! He’s petrified!’ Issy exclaims as the future king is held aloft in the showy presentation ceremony. ‘Bless his little cotton socks. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’

‘If we knew what was going to happen in life, we’d all look like that,’ Hope answers, wearing a grim expression. ‘It’s no wonder babies cry all the time. All that lies ahead of them is a lifetime of slogging their guts out at work, trying to please other people, and being shat on from a great height by people who said they’d love them forever.’ She frowns and I frown back at her. After everything Issy’s just said, she has to start talking about babies. Sometimes Hope’s mouth runs away without her brain.

Hope turns away, offended by the insinuation in my look, and I’m instantly ashamed of being so hard on her. She might be abrasive, but my sister wouldn’t purposefully hurt someone.

Poor Hope. She’s done her fair share of feeling sorry for herself during her first week at the house. It’s all been textbook behaviour for the broken-hearted – listening to sad love songs on repeat, pigging out on extra-large bars of Galaxy and moodily sulking around the place in her tartan flannel pyjamas. I know the drill, I’ve been living it myself for long enough.

‘Pause it a minute,’ Hope says quietly, opening the door to the square of carpet at the bottom of the stairs that we optimistically refer to as the hall. ‘My bladder’s about to burst and it’s better to stop the film now before it gets going.’

No one dares mention the tears that are brimming in her eyes – we’re all well aware that Hope hates to appear anything less than rock solid. She’s spent her whole life coming across as strong and dependable, so I can only imagine how hard it is for her now, trying to keep up that front when she’s so obviously crumbling.

‘And I’m going to get some more nibbles,’ Issy says, pushing herself up off the sofa. ‘That glass of wine has gone right to my head. I need something to soak it up.’

‘There’s some kale crisps in my bag,’ Connie offers. In Connie’s mind this is a generous proposition, in Issy’s less so. ‘If you want something a bit less fatty, I mean. They don’t taste the same as normal crisps, but they’re much better for you. Feel free to help yourself.’

She tries to hide it, but I spy Issy’s eye roll. She’s not the type to buy into these faddish foodie fashions. If she wants crisps, she wants actual crisps, made from glorious carbohydrate-riddled potatoes and full of saturated fat that’ll fuzz up her arteries. Like me, Issy believes junk food is one of life’s guilty pleasures. And Friday nights definitely call for junk food, no two ways about it. ‘We could always get take-away?’ she suggests hopefully. ‘I’m sure the Indian down the road put a flyer through the door just last week…’

I gawp in her general direction. Even I’m stuffed, and that’s saying something because I’ve got a massive appetite, but the waistband of my jeans is digging into my bloated stomach and it’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m tempted to undo the button, that’s how uncomfortable it is. ‘We’ve just had pizza!’ I exclaim.

‘And your point is?’ laughs Issy. ‘I could eat a horse right now. And I’m sorry, Connie, but your kale crisps aren’t going to cut it, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t fancy those either,’ I confide in a conspiratorial whisper, scrunching my face up in distaste. ‘I don’t know how anyone can eat them. They look like crispy bogies.’

‘We don’t need a take-away,’ Connie says resolutely. ‘Let’s eat what’s already out.’ She gingerly reaches for a Wotsit, the gaudy powdery orange flavouring smearing over her fingertips. She pulls a face as she nibbles it, as though it might bite her back. The cheesy puffs are a far cry from the kale crisps, that’s for sure. ‘If no one else is eating my crisps, then I will.’

‘You’re welcome to them,’ Issy mutters, resigning herself to the fact she’s been outvoted on the take-away. ‘But hang on a minute. I’m going to get my dressing gown, it’s bloody freezing in here tonight.’

A young Simba is frozen on the TV screen, surveying the vast pridelands with his father. He looks so small and insignificant against the sprawling savannah.

‘This film always did make me sad,’ Connie starts, nodding towards the screen. ‘But I’ve got such an empty feeling in my stomach right now. Not hunger,’ she adds quickly. ‘I always felt a bit like Simba. My family fell apart when Mum died. She’d been the lynchpin holding us together and once she was gone, it felt like there wasn’t any point any more. Dad tried his best, bless him, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with a pre-pubescent teenager. It was like he was waiting in fear for the moment he’d have to go to the chemist and buy me sanitary towels. And the rest of the family, my aunts and uncles, they were there at first, bringing lasagnes round for us to keep in the freezer and phoning on Sunday mornings to see if we wanted to join them for a pub lunch in the Peak District. But really, we were alone. Mum arranged all the family parties, the barbecues, the day trips to the seaside where we’d pile in the car with a cricket set and a cool box… Once she was gone, it all stopped.’

Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks with the slightest of blinks and I instinctively reach out to hug my friend. As I pull her in close her heartfelt sobs reverberate through the both of us.

‘I know it’s stupid to cry over a film, but it touched a nerve, you know? Simba’s so brave, setting out to face the world alone. Look at me! I can’t bring myself to leave Sheffield. I even stayed here for university when everyone else buggered off to Leeds and Manchester.’

‘Simba was running away,’ I correct, brushing a tear from Connie’s cheek with the pad of my thumb. ‘And so was everyone going to university too, really. It’s not the same thing.’

I think back to my own three years at university. I’d not wanted to go in the first place and I could have got a job in a school without the degree and the student loan that came with it. But I’d blindly applied to the same cities as Justin because I hadn’t been able to bear the thought of being away from him. Which would be laughable, considering our current situation, if it wasn’t so downright sad. As it happened we’d ended up staying in Sheffield too, so Connie certainly hadn’t been alone.

Connie wipes the end of her nose against the cuff of her chunky-knit lilac cardigan, and takes a deep breath as through preparing to swim underwater. ‘I needed to stay here for Dad, you know? He’s not good at looking after himself. I dread to think of him trying to keep on top of the washing pile, and I don’t think he knows how to turn on the hoover. He probably doesn’t even know where the hoover is!’

She laughs, and even though her cheeks are now covered in a blotchy red blemish and her pure black mascara has smudged, leaving her with panda eyes, she still looks so incredibly beautiful. There’s a serenity about Connie, even in the rare moments like this when she’s unravelling.

‘Sometimes I dream of running away,’ she admits. ‘Breaking free. Going to Africa and building a school with a community. Pipedreams, I know, but what’s the point of being alive if you’re barely living?’

I place my hands on my oldest friend’s shoulders and look her in the eye, hoping I can convey how wonderful she is. ‘You’re doing plenty of living. You dance. You’re passionate about food, even though none of us like those vegetable crisps you keep trying to foist on us. And you’re a wonderful daughter; staying in Sheffield because of your dad proves that. But you know, if you’ve got a dream, you should go for it. You’re young! You’re single! You’re free! Make the most of it. Go to Africa and build that school, if that’s what you want.’

‘But what about Dad? He’d end up living on mouldy toast and wearing dirty clothes. He’s never had to survive on his own. He lived with his parents until he married my mum, and then there’s been the two of us for the last fifteen years.’

‘There are cleaners and there’s internet shopping and all sorts of other services that make life easier. You can pay people to do pretty much anything these days.’

Connie looks wary. ‘I’m not sure he’d like having people coming into the house.’

‘What’d happen if you met someone? Or if you got a flat in town, a bachelorette pad? He’d have to manage then, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s not expecting you to stay at home forever.’

‘He’d have to find a way, I suppose.’

Although the words themselves border on positive there’s a dejected air to Connie’s tone that leaves me with a sneaky suspicion she’ll harbour her dream but do nothing about it. I hope she’ll surprise me by being proactive. Sometimes there’s justification for being a little bit selfish.

‘Just think about it, yeah? Don’t give up on your dream too easily. Neither your mum or your dad would want that. Nor me.’

Connie pulls at the soggy sleeve of her cardigan. It had swamped her frame to start with and now they’re damp, the cuffs hang down way past her knuckles. ‘I’ll think about it.’

I squeeze Connie’s hand, soft as playdough from the expensive hand creams she’s devoted to. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

Hope and Issy bundle back into the room, their booming voices breaking the serenity. I can’t help thinking that maybe it’s time we all took some chances. What’s that saying, ‘a life without risks is a life half lived’?

‘Hakuna Matata’ begins to play, the jaunty tune sweeping us along until all four of us are singing along at the tops of our voices.

‘Isn’t it amazing how a song about farts can be so singable?’ I giggle. ‘I always thought it was hilarious how they got away with it.’

‘That’s what makes it so funny, it feels naughty.’

‘You know you can’t sing for toffee, right?’ Hope says bluntly.

‘Hakuna Matata!’ Issy quips back good-naturedly, continuing to sing about Simba and the gangs’ problem-free philosophy as he grows before our eyes.

Connie trembles, her shoulders quivering, and somehow I know it’s a result of Simba’s maturation and independence presented through this song.

‘Okay?’ I mouth silently, hoping my earlier support is enough to stop her feeling alone.

Connie nods. ‘No worries,’ she mouths back.

We quietly watch on, moving only to help ourselves to the limited selection of snacks and drinks that remain. It’s as Mufasa’s spirit sends the message to Simba to ‘Remember who you are’ that Connie begins to speak.

‘I’m going to do it,’ she announces, ‘I’m going to find out about the volunteer programmes in Africa. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. If Mum could see me now she’d be devastated that I’m working in a stuffy office, typing endless numbers into meaningless spreadsheets. I want to make her proud. To remember who I really am.’

An excitable buzz fills the room as me, Hope and Issy fire question after question at an eager Connie.

‘Do you get to choose where?’

‘How much money do you have to raise? Do you need sponsorship?’

‘When will you go? And how long will you stay?’

‘I don’t know!’ Connie exclaims with a shrug and a laugh. ‘I’ve only this minute decided to go for it. But tomorrow morning I’m going to start Googling, find out the most reputable charities and how to apply.’

‘It’ll be amazing,’ Issy assures her. ‘A once in a lifetime opportunity that’ll make a real difference.’

‘There’s something else, too,’ Connie adds. She has a fire in her eyes full of feisty determination that I’ve not seen in her since our last ballet recital. Naturally she’d had the solo, executing perfect fouette turns and pirouettes that made the kids in the junior classes sigh dreamily. ‘I’m not putting off the teaching exams any more.’ She looks directly at me, waiting for my reaction.

‘No way.’ I’m agog. ‘You’re finally going to bite the bullet and become a dance teacher? At our dance school?’ I refer to it as ours, even though we’re only pupils. We’ve been going there so long it feels like we have the right to stake some claim over it.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to try and get a bank loan and start up on my own. It sounds ludicrous, I know. But there’s got to be a disused factory somewhere in Sheffield that I can buy, or at least rent. Line the walls with mirrors, put up a barre, get a sprung floor laid… after that it’ll just be upkeep and running costs. And if it doesn’t work, then hey ho. At least I’ll have tried.’

I can’t help it, I have to hug her. In my excitement I go in with a bit more force than I’d planned, almost knocking her right off her feet. It’s a good job all those years of ballet have worked on her core stability. She manages, just about, to stay centred and steady.

‘I’m thrilled for you, Con, honestly I am. After all those years of nagging at you to do it. Miss Gemma will be too.’

Connie laughs. ‘She’ll never believe it when I tell her she’ll need to get revising the exam syllabus. I think she’d given up hope of me ever putting in for them.’

‘We’d all given up hope,’ I say. Out of the six of us in our class, Connie’s the only one who has what it takes to teach dance. The rest of us can hold our own in the showcases, years of practice have ensured that. But there’s something in the way Connie moves – something elegant and strong and inspiring – that sets her apart from the rest of us. She was born to dance, no two ways about it.

‘Who’d have thought The Lion King would be so inspirational, eh?’ jokes Hope, a glimmer of a smile passing over her face. ‘Maybe you’re right, Mon. Maybe it’s not just for kids after all.’




Chapter Three (#ulink_304d77fa-2405-5bf6-b40b-3dc194219852)


Friday 23


September

*The Sound of Music – Issy’s choice*

‘So, what’s it to be?’

We all look on eagerly as Issy whips a DVD out from behind one of the tatty patchwork cushions that rest along the back of the sofa, straining our eyes to make out the title of the musical we’ll be watching.

‘The Sound of Music!’ Issy proclaims, a triumphant smile on her face. ‘I love this film. It makes me think of my Gran – she was a huge Julie Andrews fan.’

Connie didn’t seem to share Issy’s enthusiasm. ‘Oh no, it’s the one with the nuns, isn’t it?’ She clutches her head in her hands in a dramatic fashion. ‘I’ve never liked nuns. They scare me.’

‘Maybe I should become a nun,’ Hope muses. ‘My love life’s in tatters since Amara decided she didn’t want me any more. And at least I wouldn’t have to worry about bad-hair days if I had to wear one of those floppy sheet things on my head.’

I raise my eyebrows in despair. ‘Floppy sheet things’ indeed. ‘They’re called wimples. And you’d be a terrible nun. You’re far too cynical!’

‘And an atheist,’ Hope adds, deadpan. ‘That might be a bit of a problem.’

‘This is a real tear-jerker, too, from what I remember,’ Connie says, trying to rein us back in. ‘I’m going to need tissues, aren’t I? Again.’ She rifles through her patent red over-the-shoulder bag. Folders, notepads and something that looks suspiciously like a Filofax from the 1980s peeps out of the top, and as she pulls a small rectangular packet of tissues out she adds, ‘It always gets to me. I don’t know why, but it does.’

‘Because it’s depressing, that’s why.’ That was Hope.

‘It’s not depressing, it’s emotive,’ Issy insists. ‘And based on a true story too. That poor family… imagine how horrific it must have been.’

‘Yeah, imagine having to wear clothes made from floral curtains the colour of wee. It must have been dreadful.’ The withering look Issy throws Hope cuts her off before she can rant further about the Von Trapps, which is just as well. If she finds her stride, who knows what she’ll belittle next?

‘Let’s start,’ I interject, taking the disc from Issy and inserting it into the DVD player. ‘It’s not a short film and it’s already almost nine. And even if you don’t like the storyline, you must admit it’s got a classic score. ‘Edelweiss’? ‘Do Re Mi’? ‘My Favourite Things’? They’re exactly the kind of songs the Singalong Society was founded for. I think I’m going to get a glass of water to go along with my Riesling because I’m going to need it to hit those high notes.’ I hurry to the kitchen, fill a glass with cool tap water and pick up a packet of chocolate digestives for good measure. ‘Julie Andrews might make it sound easy, but it’s not. Not for us ordinary folk.’

‘Be quick, it’s starting,’ Issy yells, but I’m already back in the room in time to see the long-lens opening shots of the stunning Austrian landscape appear on the screen. Beautiful castles, rolling green hills, clear blue water – and Julie Andrews sporting helmet hair and a shapeless pocketed pinafore.

Before long we’re all drawn into the film, laughing at the gentle humour and singing the anthemic songs with all our might. Maria’s love song to her favourite things causes us to dissolve into fits of laughter; Hope declaring that anyone who claims doorbells as one of their favourite things deserves to remain in a convent for all eternity.

‘What would you sing about, then? What amazing things are there that help you when you feel bad?’ Issy asks, although she’s been as exposed to Hope’s doom and gloom almost as much as me. There doesn’t seem to have been much that’s raised Hope’s spirits since she moved in.

‘White wine, most likely,’ Hope replies, raising her fourth glass of the evening to the air in a toast.

‘Friends,’ I add, without missing a beat. ‘Friends who accept you as you are, warts and all.’

‘Good one,’ Issy says approvingly. ‘Mine would be weekends. How about you, Con? What fills your heart with gladness and makes your soul sing?’

‘My spiraliser.’ Connie nods seriously before clocking our disbelieving stares. ‘What?’ she adds naively.

‘We live in a world with marshmallows and blossom trees and mojitos and…’ I flounder for something that might be worthy of being Connie’s favourite thing, ‘Kiehl’s hand cream, and you say a spiraliser? How much have you had to drink?’ I tease, knowing full well she’s not yet touched a drop. Connie rarely drinks to excess. It’s all linked to her desire to be super-healthy and lean.

‘What can I say? I’ve been living off courgetti lately,’ Connie says with a shrug. ‘But the hand cream is a good shout. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be really grateful for it come November.’

At the mention of hands, I notice Hope look down and study hers, her knuckles bumpy and red where she’s scratched the eczema-inflamed skin. She’s not been able to leave it alone lately and when I’d questioned her about it she admitted to liking the uncomfortable sensation of her nails peeling the fine, flaky top layer of skin away. She claimed it felt cathartic, but the red, raw marks looked painful, with even the children in her class noticing the angry scarlet patches in contrast to her creamy skin tone. Hope had always suffered with eczema. It had a nasty habit of flaring up when she was stressed, and since she and Amara had finished, she was incredibly stressed. More than stressed, she was bereft. She wasn’t sleeping, was barely eating… she was a mess.

I snap myself out of my distracted thoughts, only just registering the glint of suggestion in Connie’s voice. ‘Why November?’

There’s a theatrical pause where Connie looks like she might physically burst. Her face is shining with unadulterated joy. ‘I’m in!’ she finally exclaims, clapping her hands together in miniature, yet excited, applause. ‘I wanted to tell you straight away, but by the time we’d set up the DVD and got ourselves ready to watch it…’ her voice trails off, but the animated glow remains.

‘Wait, what?’ I do a double-take. I’m at an actual loss for words. ‘You mean Africa? The volunteering?’

Connie nods. ‘Yes! I spent all of Saturday searching the websites of different charities, and one – well, as soon as I saw the page I knew I was meant to contact them. It was everything I hoped for. They’re renovating a school for a community in rural Uganda. I’m renovating a school in rural Uganda. Can you believe it?’

She’s full of glee, her eyes flaring with passion. She looks so utterly, completely alive, lost in a world of possibility. Not unlike Maria, actually, who’s gallivanting with the children on the screen, wielding the ugliest puppets in the history of cinema; although I make a mental note to rewind to this song at the end so we can all yodel along like the Lonely Goatherd. But this is Connie’s big moment and although I can’t stop my twitching foot from tapping against the lounge floor, I’m desperate to know more.

Hope obviously is too.

‘Can anyone offer to go? Or did you have to have an interview? And how much is this costing?’ she asks, firing questions at a rate of knots. I silently will my sister not to rain on Connie’s parade by making her overthink this decision. I can’t remember the last time I saw Connie looking as vibrant, as full of life, as she does right now. I love Hope dearly, I absolutely do, but I can’t help but wonder if Hopeless would have been a more appropriate name for her, given her constant state of negativity.

‘Anyone can apply, as long as they’re in good health and meet the criteria. And yes, I had an interview over the phone on Wednesday evening. The project leader rang and asked all sorts of questions about why I wanted to do it, if I felt I’d be able to cope with seeing the extreme poverty, any relevant experience I had…’ She looks shamefaced. ‘I must admit, I didn’t have much I could say to that one. Data input hasn’t really prepared me for manual labour in temperatures similar to a Yorkshire heatwave. And yes, I have to raise some of the money myself, because they’re a charity. The cost of flights and accommodation for a team of volunteers would obviously eat into their funds, when this way it can be put to much better use helping people in need. But that’s where the next surprise comes in, and this is even more incredible than me going to Africa in the first place. In fact, you’ll never believe me when I tell you.’

A small indent appears in her cheek, a cheeky dimple coming out to play.

‘Stop teasing!’ I squeal, unable to bear the tension a moment longer. ‘Get on with it!’

‘Well, I was dreading having to tell Dad. I didn’t want him to get upset at the thought of me going away. But I steeled myself up and broached it with him over tea last night, and he said I couldn’t have timed it better. Apparently my mum had a life-assurance policy that she’d taken out ‘just in case’. And in her will she left it all to me, with strict instructions not to touch it until my twenty-fifth birthday…’

‘And that’s next week!’ I’m aware of my voice squeaking, but my head’s whirring at how fast this is moving. Issy’s laughing at me, probably because my jaw is literally gaping open in wonderment. I must look so gormless right now. ‘I was always jealous of you being the oldest in your class. You’d get the best choice of sweets from the birthday tin in assembly at primary school. By the time it got to my birthday in July there were only ever those fruit lollies left, and they’d always be a bit sticky as they’d been there all year. The year I was six I couldn’t even peel the wrapper off.’ I remember the disappointment clearly. Inedible sweets as a birthday treat would be hard enough for me to comprehend now, let alone at that age.

‘Yes, the policy matures next week, and that’s how I’m paying to go. Actually, there’s enough there to pay what I need and still have some left over when I get back. Maybe even enough for a deposit on a small dance studio, if I can find a suitable space.’

I shake my head to try and take it all in. Africa? Dance teaching? Where has this newly geed-up Connie come from and what’s she done with my best friend?

Connie continues, her voice proud and brimming with positivity. ‘No more losing my cool when the spreadsheets don’t add up, no more days in a grey boxy office block with an air conditioning system that rattles like a haunted house at a funfair. I’ll be in Africa, doing something worthwhile. And then, hopefully, when I get back here I’ll be doing what I love.’

‘It sounds blissful,’ I smile, because it does. It absolutely does. Thanks to her mum’s foresight to plan ahead she was going to get the chance to live out her wildest dreams.

‘I’m over the moon for you, I really am,’ Issy adds, her words full of affection.

‘It’s going to be a real adventure. You’ll come back a woman of the world,’ I say with pride. ‘And it’s brilliant that your dad was so supportive. All that worry for nothing, and I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Don’t forget to tell him I’m only ten minutes’ drive away if he needs a hand with anything. Get him to ring me, promise? I can do a mean beef stew which’ll be perfect for those November evenings.’ My mouth waters at the thought of the stew, the solidity of the meat and the juicy, chunky winter vegetables an irresistible combination. ‘But I don’t want to iron,’ I say obstinately. ‘Anything but ironing!’

I catch Hope scrutinising my dress, a navy cotton number covered in pretty ditsy-print flowers in a variety of shades of pink. Now I look more closely it does have a decidedly crumpled air about it. I probably should have left it hanging on the shower rail a bit longer to ensure all the creases had dropped out.

‘Thanks, Mon,’ Connie says softly, ‘He’ll really appreciate that. Me too, of course. And although I can’t wait to go away, I know the minute I arrive I’ll be thinking of Sheffield, missing our catch-ups over coffee and cake on Ecclesall Road.’

I have to laugh. It’s only me that indulges in the creamy cappuccinos and doorstop wedges of Victoria sponge. Connie normally has a sparkling water and a banana.

‘But especially this,’ she says, gesturing around the room. ‘These past few weeks have been so much fun. And life-changing for me, too. Your encouragement was exactly what I needed to spur me on and I don’t think I’d have believed I could do it myself without you three believing in me first. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘You make it sound like you’re going forever,’ I say worriedly. ‘You won’t be gone too long, will you?’

I know I’ll miss her dreadfully when she’s out of the country, even if it is only for a matter of weeks. Although Issy has become my partner in crime, that’s mostly through circumstance. She’s a wonderful friend, but Connie and I have been a duo since childhood and there’s something incredibly special about a friendship that’s lasted twenty years. There’s no need for pretences between us and we’ve forged an open honesty that makes for an easy relationship.

The other beauty of a long-term friendship is how there’s no need to explain the difficult moments from our pasts. I already know how horrific it was when Connie’s mum died. I’d been there with her that September day when Connie had been called to the headmaster’s office to receive the news. And Connie had been there for me during my own challenging moments too, not just recently but also during my parents’ separation and the subsequent messy divorce, and through Mum’s transitions to Mrs King, then Mrs Peto, then Mrs Davies as she’d tried to find true love. What Connie and I have been through together transcends everything else. For all the friends I have, I don’t have another friend like her.

‘I leave at the end of October and it’ll only be for four weeks, so I’ll be back in plenty of time for Christmas. You’re not getting out of getting me that Kiehl’s hand cream that easily,’ she jests.

‘If you come back safe, sound and happy, it’ll be the one year I don’t begrudge paying crazy money for your luxury lotions and potions,’ I reply with a half-laugh. I’ve never succumbed to the high-end products Connie swears by, instead bulk buying whatever’s on offer when I go to the enormous chemist’s in town, but Connie is the epitome of brand loyal. When she finds something she likes, she’s with it for the long haul, which I suppose is the biggest personal vote of confidence I could have, considering how long she’s been part of my life. From pigtails and scraped knees to lip gloss to jagerbombs, ‘Mon and Con’, as our dance teacher Miss Gemma always calls us, have come a long, long way.

I grin as Connie blows me a kiss. With her dip-dyed hair and bright red lips she reminds me of a pin-up girl. Not to mention her new-found confidence and self-belief.

‘We’ve got a few more weeks yet before I go,’ she says. ‘Which is just as well as I have tons of stuff to sort out before then. There’s injections for yellow fever and hepatitis A and I need to buy mosquito nets and anti-malaria tablets…’ She’s counting things off on her fingers as she reels off her list.

‘Malaria?’ Hope asks with concern. ‘Don’t people die from that?’

‘I’ve been reading about it online. It spreads quickly out there, but it’s easy to protect yourself with a course of tablets. I’m going to make an appointment with the doctor next week and see what else I need to do.’ She grins at the thought. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually going to Africa!’

‘You’ll have the best time,’ Issy says. ‘And who knows? Maybe you’ll find the love of your life out there too.’ She waggles her eyebrows in a way that I presume is supposed to be suggestive but comes off as more pantomime baddie than sex siren. ‘I’ve never really believed that true soulmates would live just a few streets apart.’

A scowl unwittingly creeps up on me. I can feel my jaw tightening in annoyance at the remark. Issy knows that Justin and I lived just around the corner from each other until he left. What’s she implying? That he has a better chance of finding someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with now he’s on the other side of the world because it’d be too easy if true love was ready and waiting on the same street, or the same estate, or in the same city?

‘Stop looking at me like that, Mon,’ she says. I feel like a small child being summoned and chastised. I suppose I should be grateful she’s using actual words rather than a whistle à la Captain von Trapp. ‘You know what I mean. It’s a bit convenient to fall in love with someone who has the same background as you, lives in the same area, went to the same school… I’m not saying it can’t happen, I’m sure it does, but how many people settle for someone just because they’re right at hand? There are seven billion people in the world. It’s highly unlikely the one true love of your life is even in Britain, let alone Sheffield! If people stretched their wings and searched the world for their partner, maybe there’d be more happy endings. Maybe less divorce, too.’

‘And now you bring up divorce,’ Hope says drolly, smacking the heel of her hand into her forehead. ‘Nice one, Issy. Talk about double whammy.’

‘I’m not speculating about specific cases here,’ Issy insists, although it still feels as though this is aimed at me. ‘I’m making the point that there’s something to be said for looking further afield when it comes to romance, that’s all. Not every boy next door is worth pursuing.’

‘Hmm,’ I murmur noncommittally. Issy’s trying to dig her way out of this but she’s so damn defensive. Why not just come clean and make it blatantly clear that she’s referring to me and Justin? Although I come across as confident and perky and uber-positive, I’m a sensitive soul. My friends’ opinions matter to me more than they realise, and I hate any form of conflict. It unsettles me, propelling me right back to the loneliness of mine and Hope’s childhood bedroom where we’d lie awake as Mum and Dad argued downstairs, their raised voices seeping through the ceiling. They had been painful, lonely nights, and we hadn’t had a Frauline Maria to reassure us with chirpy tunes about raindrops on roses. Hope, as the older sister, had allowed me to snuggle into the top bunk with her when the rows got particularly loud and frightening, but the memory was still there, ingrained deep.

One of the things that appealed to me most about Justin was his coolness. He was always on a level, not hot-tempered like my dad. He hadn’t ever been the rash, impulsive type – at least, not until he went to live in Chicago with a fortnight’s notice.

I miss him. We hardly speak these days, more broken up than on a break. The distance is one issue, the time difference another. It’s all well and good having the technology to speak to each other, but we’re both working long hours in demanding jobs. With the best will in the world, I don’t have the energy to stay up until midnight to talk to him after working with the children all day, and when my alarm goes off in the morning he’s tucked up in bed ready to get some well-earned shut-eye. Our lives aren’t aligned any more, it’s unsettling.

Mother Superior belts out ‘Climb Ev’ry Mountain’ and I close my eyes, singing it like a hymn or a quiet prayer. I feel as though I have a hundred mountains to climb myself, because however much I try to kid myself that everything’s okay, I’m not over Justin Crowson. Not by a long stretch.

*

The audible snuffles of the four of us ring out through the room as the final credits roll. We sound like a herd of baby hedgehogs.

Issy’s the first to pull herself together. ‘I think we should be celebrating Connie’s bravery. She’s going to a whole other continent. We should drinking fizz. I’m going to head down to the corner shop and see if they’ve got a bottle of something nice. This calls for Prosecco.’ She slaps her hands against her thighs as though she means business.

Hope groans, clutching the flat plane of her stomach. ‘I’ve drunk far too much already, and I’m meant to be getting my hair done in the morning. The last thing I want when I’m hung over is someone pulling at my head.’

‘Just have a small glass, then, just to make a toast,’ Issy replies sensibly, grabbing her jacket from the small brass hook on the back of the door. It’s supposed to be specifically for my keys but Issy is forever using it to hang up her coats. She insists it’s easier than taking her jacket to her bedroom upstairs and I’ve given up complaining about it. At least it’s marginally tidier than her previous ‘coat rack’ – when we first moved in together I had to have words with her for constantly leaving her jackets draped over the back of the armchair in the lounge.

‘So long, farewell!’ Issy calls tunefully. She’s in a good mood, if her spritely voice is anything to go by. There’s no sign of remorse for her scathing comments.

‘Auf wiedersehen, goodnight,’ Con and Hope sing in response as the door slams behind Issy. The three of us remain slumped in our seats, even though the DVD has already returned to the menu. We’re emotionally exhausted after being squeezed through the musical mangle, but on the screen Julie Andrews has her arms flung apart in wild abandon. I could do with some of that wild abandon in my life right now.

‘She didn’t mean it, you know,’ Hope says, giving me a meaningful look. She’s obviously registered my mournful body language and thinks I’m still salty over Issy’s earlier comments, when I’m actually battling with my inner heartache. ‘Not in the way you thought she did, anyway.’

I look away, unwilling to talk about it and nervously twist a spiral of hair around my index finger. It’s a tell-tale sign I’m bothered about something and Hope knows it. I was forever twiddling my curls back in junior school when I was bullied for the gap between my front teeth and I couldn’t help but play with my locks when our parents had separated. It soothed me somehow, the texture of my hair against the length of my fingers. When Justin had upped and left, Hope had passed comment that she was surprised my hair hadn’t fallen out from being fiddled with so much.

‘She’s supposed to be my friend,’ I begin. ‘She’s supposed to support me no matter what, not undermine my feelings. Issy knows exactly how hard this year has been for me, how much it’s hurting being apart from Justin. To make out we were never meant to be because of geography…’ I shake my head in disbelief, the bulky curls dancing raucously. ‘It hurts.’

‘She wants to protect you, that’s all,’ Connie says kindly. Lovely Connie, always seeing the good in people, even when they’re being as bitchy as can be. Although maybe Connie was right about Issy wanting to stop me from being hurt by Justin for a moment longer. She’d made it clear that in her opinion it’d make more sense to cut all ties. ‘And you know it too, if you’re being honest with yourself. She wanted to rip Justin apart limb from limb when you told her he’d run off to America with just a few days’ warning. It was a good job he was already on another continent because I’d have had serious fears for his wellbeing otherwise.’

I chuckle despite myself and Connie and Hope do too. No one would choose to get on the wrong side of Isadora Jackson. She has no qualms about sticking up for what she believes in. And I’ll say this about Issy – she definitely believes in being loyal to her friends.

She’d been in Edinburgh last Christmas to visit her brother when everything had blown up with Justin, only returning to Cardigan Close on the morning of the first day of term to collect a tote bag of resources and a gorgeous old hardback copy of The Secret Garden that she planned to read to her class at home time. I hadn’t wanted to tell her what a mess I was in via text – I had Connie and the dance girls rallying around me, and what could Issy have done from Scotland? – so it had to wait until we got home from work that evening for me to fill her in on my new relationship status. Issy had gone through the roof.

‘Connie’s right,’ Hope said. ‘Issy’s different to you, that’s all. She says what she thinks and damn the consequences. But everyone’s fighting their own battles, Mon. You know how hard she’s finding it watching her sister’s bump get bigger each week when all Issy wants is to be a mum. Penny’s bump’s unavoidable now, I saw her in Tesco the other day. She’s bloody huge. Like one of those egg-shaped toys we used to have, the ones you flick and they wibble around a bit but always end up upright.’

‘A weeble,’ I say with a fond smile. ‘We begged Mum to buy them for us from a car boot sale at the leisure centre, remember?’

Hope nods, a nostalgic smile passing across her face. It gives her a softness that’s rarely seen. ‘We played with them all summer long. What I’m trying to say is don’t be too hard on Issy. She wants what’s best for you, and she thinks forgetting about Justin and finding someone new is the answer. Maybe she’s right. Even you don’t seem to know what’s going on.’ She shakes her head in despair and the corners of her lips curl up, full of pity. ‘It’s like you’re in purgatory, not sure if you’re coming or going. It’s not right.’

‘It’s not as easy as that, though, is it? Not when you really, truly love someone.’

I catch my sister’s eye. We’re both familiar with the ultimate pain of rejection, when what was supposed to be forever turns into a cutting and unrequited love. I’m not over Justin. Hope isn’t over Amara. And no matter how hard we try, it’s impossible to move forward when an overwhelming surge of longing is constantly pulling us back to them.

‘No,’ Hope replies, with a despondent sigh. ‘It’s not as easy as that.’

The instantly recognisable sound of Issy’s key in the lock snaps us out of our misery and into action; Connie gathering the wine glasses that litter the lounge and putting them on the kitchen worktop, Hope removing the disc from the DVD player and me lighting the floral-scented candle that sits in front of the wood burner. It wouldn’t be long until that’d be lit too, although we swore we wouldn’t cave until November hits. But there’s a definite nip in the air as Issy opens the door, a draught sweeping into the house that causes me to fold my arms over my chest in a self-made hug. Autumn’s already making its presence felt, what with the temperature dropping and the first burnished leaves already tumbling from the trees in Endcliffe Park.

‘I’m back!’ Issy calls cheerfully. ‘And I managed to get some fizz. There wasn’t much choice so it’s only cheapo Cava I’m afraid, but it’ll do the job.’

‘Thanks, Issy,’ Connie replies, obviously moved.

There have been times in the past where the pair of them haven’t seen eye to eye. Connie had been jealous of Issy for monopolising so much of my time. Plus, I know she feels that as my longest-standing friend it should have been her right to house-share with me, but she’d never felt able to leave her dad, until now. It’s taken time (not to mention an effort on both sides) but over the years Issy and Con have learnt to rub along together, and small acts like this go a long way towards turning their acquaintance into a proper friendship.

The cork pops with much merriment and as I raise a toast my earlier wobbles are forgotten. I’m unable to hold back the excitement any longer – things are about to change for my oldest friend.

‘To Connie, who’s taken the first step on a fantastic adventure!’ I bellow loudly.

‘To Connie,’ everyone echoes as we chink our glasses together.

Remembering my earlier promise to find ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ again, I scroll through the menu on the DVD. The buttons on the remote don’t want to behave and it takes a few minutes to get it set up, but once I do there’s a sarcastic cheer from the girls.

Hope moans. ‘Not those freaky marionettes again. Please, no.’

‘You love it really,’ I grin, turning it up. ‘And it doesn’t matter if you don’t know the words because anyone can warble a yodel. Come on, let’s sing!’

Despite Hope’s protest, she is soon yodelling along with the rest of us, Connie and I linking arms and whirling in a dance that’s more Cotton-Eye Joe than an Austrian reel. It’s liberating to be spinning, the room passing by in a blur while we make nonsensical noises that we pass off as singing. Most of all, it’s fun and we don’t stop twirling and yodelling until Julie Andrews herself flops at the end of the song.

‘Lay-ee-odl-ee-odl-oo!’ sings Connie, determined to get in one last hoorah. The booze has gone to her head, I can tell by the way her strong yet thin legs are wavering. She gives in to the wobble, landing on her bottom with a giggle and a bump. My own head is muzzy with the hazy rush of alcohol and a light-headedness from pushing my burdens to the back of my mind.





Конец ознакомительного фрагмента. Получить полную версию книги.


Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию (https://www.litres.ru/katey-lovell/the-singalong-society-for-singletons/) на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.