By all means, ask a girl to be my bridesmaid that I haven’t yet met and you can’t even remember the name of. And yes, why not throw in a middle-aged chairwoman who treats me akin to a hair found in her dinner?
‘For flower girls, as well as Lilly and Felicity, we need Jasmine, seeing as she’s your goddaughter, Perry, but that makes an odd number so we’ll want an extra. The only person I could think of was Ted’s little girl, but she’s awfully young, so could very easily let us down on the day.’
Perry smiled, his hand still firmly pressed on my thigh. ‘Now, Mother. Don’t you think Faith might want to choose some of her bridesmaids, or a flower girl? I think that’s traditional.’
Ingenious countermove, Perry. The tradition trump card.
Larissa came dangerously close to a snort. Who knew what excessive pressure could do to such an extensive nose job? ‘Well. If you think she has anyone suitable. Do you have anyone, Faith?’
‘Yes. I’ve asked Marilyn to be matron of honour. And with Natasha, I think that’s plenty.’
Larissa rolled her eyes as if to say: of course you would have to be awkward about this as well as everything else.
‘We wouldn’t want to steal any more guests from your breakfast, after all.’ I smiled, sweet as cyanide.
‘If you’re having Marilyn as matron of honour, you need Catherine to balance Natasha out. Otherwise, who will she walk down the aisle with? Besides, I don’t want Catherine at my breakfast. Last time, she drank too much Pimm’s and made a dreadful fool of herself with the gardener. You can keep her under control at the church.’
‘Fine, Catherine too. But I’m going to ask her myself.’
Larissa sipped her wine. ‘Oh, I don’t think anyone holds to all that old-fashioned carry-on any more, do they? A bridesmaid is little more than a token gesture.’
As I suspected. My delightful mother-in-law had already asked. By the time we moved on to coffee, most things had been decided. Added extras like flowers and a cake, cars and invitations were details I happily let Larissa handle. Yes, there was a principle at stake, but every decision I allowed her to control was ammunition in case I managed to breathe in enough personal power to ditch the Ghost Web.
The following week at choir practice, Hester announced a new song. A buzz rippled down the rows of chairs as we passed along the sheet music. ‘O Holy Night’. A Christmas song. Lovely, for those who loved Christmas. Personally, I thought Christmas was blah. Or bleurgh. Or both.
Hester asked for silence while she played us a track of the carol ‘as it was meant to be sung’ by some other, famous choir. She then spent the rest of the rehearsal teaching us the fourparts for the first section. It sounded beautiful – we sounded beautiful. I nearly felt a tiny twinge of Christmassy joy as we sang. Towards the end of the rehearsal, we were feeling pretty good. That hadn’t taken long to get to grips with, had it?
Hester watched our merry chatter with a blank expression. She signalled to Dylan, who had taken up his usual spot leaning on the back wall, and he sauntered to the front.
‘Right, choir. We are going to do that one more time.’
She counted us in. On the third beat, Dylan held up a tablet and started to film. We finished the song, and dispersed for refreshments. Ten minutes later, we were marched into the main chapel. Here, in a freeze-frame on the big screen at the front, was the footage. Dylan pressed play.
Two minutes later, we sat quietly, and waited for Hester to speak.
Oh dear.
‘Somebody remind us of the sixth line of that song.’
We fidgeted about like children in school assembly.
Hester glowered. Melody called out the line. ‘A thrill of hope the weary world?—’
‘A thrill of hope! For yonder breaks a new and glorious morn! Rowan, did that sound hopeful to you?’
Rowan shook her head.
‘Ebony, was it thrilling? Glorious, Uzma? Kim, did that conjure stars shining brightly, or a sputtering, buzzing strip light in a grimy basement?’
Hester smacked the top of the lectern beside her with the flat of her hand. ‘I do not expect perfection after one rehearsal! I know you, like the greatest singers in the world, need time and guidance and practice, practice, practice. I know this. Why don’t you? What are you aiming for, choir? Adequate? Not bad for a bunch of women like us? Not a proper choir?’
Nobody so much as breathed aloud.
Hester’s hair seemed to be standing up a good inch higher than normal on her head.
‘What are you thinking? When are you going to aim for the very best you can do? When are you women going to believe you can achieve jaw-dropping greatness? Look at that choir.’
She jabbed one finger at the screen behind us. ‘Slumped! Lazy! Half-hearted! Pretty hopeless, wouldn’t you say?’
