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‘Ha! No.’
‘Ooh!’ Lulu responded in her thick American accent. She sat in front of them every week and turned around now that there appeared to be something interesting going on. Sophie liked that Lulu’s hair, habitually fashioned into a 60s beehive, ordinarily hid her out of view of the musical director.
‘Are you thinking of auditioning, Sophie, honey?’ she asked.
Lulu was probably a hundred years old. Her face was laced with the ghost of plastic surgery past, and she oozed a Hollywood glamour that you didn’t see in the sleepy Cotswold town of Cranswell. As always, her face was made up perfectly, with a bright red slick of lipstick not quite disguising her thin wrinkled lips. Her eyes were bright and sparkling, blue and full of life. She often talked about her vibrant youth as an MGM musical star and Sophie had whiled away many an afternoon since her move here just listening to Lulu’s stories.
Sophie shook her head. ‘No. It’s just something that Kate’ – she said her name through gritted teeth and shot her a sideways glance – ‘is determined to make me do. She won’t shut up about it!’
‘Well, you should. I know you’ve got a lovely voice.’
‘Well, thank you, Lulu.’ Her inner songstress locked away the compliment. It meant a lot coming from Lulu van Morris.
‘Are you really thinking of auditioning?’ Greg asked, turning around to face them. He slid his glasses up his thin nose. He was Lulu’s equally old, equally nosy comrade. But he was not, however, nearly as glamorous. He was wearing a faded navy and slightly holey cardigan, the sleeves baggy from where he’d pushed them up regularly throughout his day in the coffee shop.
‘God, no!’ Sophie cried, a little louder than she’d expected. A couple more singers from the row in front turned to listen.
‘You should, you know,’ John said.
‘Lovely voice,’ said Ethel.
Kate smiled, sat silently and watched on as the sopranos on the front row ambushed Sophie. Sophie pulled a face that told Kate she’d regret it later on. Kate shrugged and shot her a smug smile.
‘I think I’ll be a bit too busy organising the concert itself. I can’t be centre stage and make sure that everything runs smoothly, now, can I?’ Sophie said, hoping everyone would find something different to talk about – and soon.
Lulu and Greg genuinely seemed to consider her question.
‘No, I suppose not,’ Lulu said, her long red fingernails clutching her fur (faux, hoped Sophie) and pulling it up around her. ‘It’s a damned shame, though.’
Lulu offered round a paper bag of Werther’s Originals. It was hard to imagine Lulu in her youth when she went and did ‘old people’ things like that now and then. Sophie was relieved to see that everyone’s attention had moved elsewhere.
‘I hate you, Kate,’ Sophie said.
‘You love me really.’
Sophie rolled her eyes.
The piano sailed into the hall, unaccompanied, and didn’t stop when it arrived in its usual position. A gasp went around the room, and one soprano yelped. Nigel ran in after it and dived into its path, holding his arms out to stop it from crashing into the front row.
‘Sorry about that, ladies and gents.’
Hang on a minute. That wasn’t Nigel’s voice.
The man who had saved the lives of the front row singers smiled at the room, flushed from his altercation with the piano.
‘Whoops.’ He reached over and stopped his music stand (another casualty of the runaway piano) toppling over and taking out the altos sitting on the front row – all two of them.
‘Sorry, sorry,’ he said, holding a hand up.
This man was not Nigel, their musical director of goodness knows how many years. This man, possibly in his early forties, stood the music stand back up and brushed a hand through his dark curls. He was shorter than Nigel, now that he was standing, but broadly built like a rugby player. He rolled up the sleeves of his tan turtleneck and rested his music on the stand, which he’d retrieved from the front row with a handsome smile. In that split second, Sophie glanced at his eyes: the most beautiful hazel eyes she had ever seen. In fact, they reminded her of … surely not. Oh God. It couldn’t be, could it? It wasn’t the first time she’d seen those beautiful eyes.
In one smooth movement, Sophie lifted the music up to cover her face as she simultaneously slid lower in her seat. She played with her hair as an extra barrier against being noticed.
‘Where the hell is Nigel?’ Sophie whispered through gritted teeth.
‘Not sure.’ Kate shrugged. ‘Sophie, are you OK? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.’
‘I have. The ghost of dates past.’ She pointed a finger towards their apparently new musical director.
