‘April came. I wanted it to be a surprise.’
I rested my head in my hands, tried to keep my voice positive. ‘Well, you managed it. I’m surprised.’
I left Perry’s as soon as I could without seeming rude. I knew the story about my family remained half told. If anything, I’d left the most important bits out. But trying to keep up the pretence of happiness at Sam’s return exhausted me. A hurricane raged through my aching brain. All I could do was hope and pray the police found Kane before he found us.
I spent the following week on red alert, scurrying round to visit Sam, quaking my way through a few work shifts, and overseeing the final preparations for the weekend’s Grand Grace Gala. I didn’t tell Sam that Kane had been to the chapel to look for me. Or that he’d phoned the office there. I didn’t tell him that when I left choir practice, a bashed-up green car had been parked across the street, the shadowy figure inside making me beyond grateful for my new hairstyle.
I marvelled at his latest painting, listened to his future plans, politely declined his invitations to go walking with him and April, and kept on hoping that somehow this would all end without destroying us both.
I pestered Gwynne almost daily. Kane had been at work all week, she reassured me. It would have been nearly impossible for him to have been in Nottinghamshire on Wednesday afternoon to follow me home.
‘What about Saturday?’ I asked. ‘Does he work weekends?’
‘Lock your doors, keep your phone charged, don’t do anything stupid and try not to worry. We’re keeping an eye on him.’
I spent Saturday at HCC, supervising the layout of the ballroom, hanging up fairy lights, decorating tables with tiny black musical notes, and filling glass centrepieces with flowers wrapped in cones of sheet music, only pausing for one last brutal rehearsal with Hester.
The tight coil of tension in my guts never quite left, but the Grand Grace Gala, those lively, hilarious, excited choir members and a whole day doing what I did best went some way towards providing a distraction.
At seven, the first guests began to arrive. All spruced up in our choir dresses, we welcomed them in, trying not to feel too daunted by the flash of diamonds, the glint of gold watches, and the swish of dresses that cost more than we were trying to raise for the whole trip. Perry and Marilyn had come up trumps in working their HCC connections. Each choir member had been allowed to bring one guest at a discount price, while the other eighty tickets had been sold for a preposterous amount. We had better make it worth their while.
Thirty minutes in, Mags took the microphone to welcome everybody and invite us to take our seats.
‘Who’s your guest, Marilyn?’ Leona asked, as we all sat down.
‘I haven’t got one.’ Marilyn shrugged. ‘My sister’s babysitting and most of the other people I know have paid full price to come here.’
‘Poor you,’ said Kim, half sitting in Scotty’s lap. ‘It’s rubbish James couldn’t be here.’
Marilyn shrugged. ‘He’ll be back in a week. I’m expecting Faith to dance with me instead, seeing as Perry is busy persuading the rich boys to get their wallets out. I’m more interested in Hester. Did anyone manage to find out who her plus one is?’
We all looked at Hester, still deep in conversation with the Mayoress on the other side of the room. There had been much speculation about Hester’s guest. Rowan had even tried to start a sweepstake before someone pointed out that might not be an appropriate way for a church choir to treat its director.
Suddenly Rowan, sat with her grandad, gasped. She looked around at us, eyes glittering and mouth hanging open. ‘Get. A load. Of this, girls. I can take credit for the hair. But the rest? Like, wow.’
We swivelled our heads around to see.
Kim let out a long whistle. ‘Check him out!’ She pulled a wide grin before suddenly remembering Scotty. ‘Not that I’d want to, of course.’ She leaned in and nuzzled his neck. ‘You know I’ve only got eyes for you, babe.’
‘That is one fine figure of a man,’ Melody murmured to her sister.
Millie started flapping her hands in front of her face. ‘Whewie, Janice. If I was ten years younger…’
‘Try forty years,’ her son said, turning crimson.
He wasn’t the only one feeling disconcerted. Dylan, who had waited to escort Hester to our table, sauntered up, breaking into a grin as he approached.
Like every woman on the planet, I think all men scrub up well in a tux.
Some men have a lot more scrubbing up to do than others. For example, those who usually wear faded T-shirts and paint-splattered jeans, forget to shave and walk about in work boots with sawdust in their unkempt mop of hair.
It was universally accepted that Dylan was a hunk.
With his hair cropped, clean shaven and a slick suit on?
Well, hooten tooten as Marilyn would say.
Which she did, several times, as she kicked me under the table.
