‘No time! Prick it! Then whack it in the oven.’
I had often been in Marilyn’s kitchen while she baked – it was her therapy once the twins were asleep.
‘What’s going on? Did Hester tell you to do all this?’ I asked, as I started pricking.
‘No.’ She shook her head, causing a cloud of icing sugar to puff off the top of her brown bun. ‘I’m nervous. Hester here. The choir here. Why? What’s happening? Did I mention Hester will be here? In my house! Her eyebrows peering at my things.’
She waved her hands about at the dozens of bowls, pans, spatulas and food containers. ‘Peering at this!’
‘It’s fine. Calm down. You get on with the baking and I’ll start clearing up. I don’t think you need to let Hester in the kitchen.’ I took the tray of shortbread and slid it into the oven.
‘Looking at me!’
‘So what if she does? So your kitchen’s a mess and you’ve picked up a bit of flour. You’ve been baking. You’ve got twins. Your husband is away.’
The doorbell rang.
‘Help!’
I smothered my smile. ‘Go upstairs and get changed. I’ll let them in and direct them to the living room. Calm down, Marilyn. Do some choir breathing. People’ll think that chilled exterior is all a ruse.’
She took a deep breath, gave a firm nod and barrelled out of the room. I found Rowan and Hester on the doorstep, both wheeling suitcases.
I welcomed them in and sat them on one of the sofas. Marilyn had set out some glasses and a carafe of water on the coffee table, along with some cartons of fresh juice. They declined tea or coffee, but Rowan did help herself to the bowl of crisps.
Before I could check on Marilyn, the doorbell rang again and for the next ten minutes, I was letting people in, boiling the kettle, cutting up cake, and trying to keep an eye on the shortbread in the oven while deflecting everyone from the wreckage of the kitchen. To be fair, the rest of the house wasn’t much better. While James had been home, things had been fairly relaxed. Since he’d left, they’d tumbled into shambolic.
Marilyn appeared as the last arrivals scurried in, depositing shoes and jackets in the hallway. By half seven, fed and watered, fourteen choir members were squished onto seats, chair arms, beanbags and on cushions on the floor, all eyes on Hester.
‘Good evening. Welcome to Marilyn’s house. Thank you, Marilyn, for hosting us.’ Marilyn shrugged, unaware she had had any choice in the matter.
‘You women are old and wise enough to know that true beauty comes from within.’
‘Speak for yourself!’ said a couple of the younger women.
‘Old?’ exclaimed Janice. ‘That crossed a line, that did. I’m offended.’
Hester swivelled her laser-beam eyes to look at Janice, whose cheeks turned pink. She mouthed, ‘Sorry.’
‘Confidence, poise, grace. A woman at peace with herself. Size and wrinkles are irrelevant. This choir is going to create something beautiful. But it cannot do that if you don’t know you are beautiful. How can something ugly produce something beautiful, Leona?’
Leona, a fifty-something soprano, frowned. ‘Well, my kids are all gorgeous and I produced them.’
‘Are you ugly, Leona?’
She looked around at us, hoping someone would provide her with the right answer. ‘Well, I’m no Carol Vorderman.’
‘Rowan?’ Hester nodded at her. Rowan opened up her suitcase, took out a large, pink make-up bag, and opened it up. Removing a bottle and a wodge of cotton wool, she passed them to Leona. She then took out a couple more bottles, and more cotton wool, handing them to Rosa and the soprano called Mags.
‘Remove your make-up please, then pass the cleanser and cotton wool along.’
‘What?’ There were a few gasps and grumbles. Kim stood up. ‘Are you telling us we have to take our make-up off?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why?’ Kim asked, hands on her hips.
‘Because it’s part of this evening’s exercise.’
