‘She absolutely does,’ Marilyn huffed. ‘I’m one of the choir, aren’t I?’
‘Well, technically yes. But you don’t sing. What are you going to do? Click your fingers? Play the tambourine?’
‘I’m going to demonstrate the fine art of lip-synching, my friend. Which is in many ways more challenging than actual singing.’
‘Why are you going to do that?’ Uzma asked, turning around so Yasmin could zip her dress up over her green underwear decorated with glittery candy canes. ‘Isn’t it a bit deceitful? When people lip-synch, it’s usually to their own song.’
‘You’re like the Milli Vanilli of choirs!’ Yasmin said.
‘Or the four out of five members of most boybands,’ Kim added. ‘There to look good and add some charisma, but with the microphone not switched on. No offence, but I don’t think one extra person will make any difference. You aren’t that good-looking.’
Marilyn shifted about a bit, and fiddled with her hair in the mirror.
‘Your sister’s here, isn’t she?’ I asked. ‘The one who looks after Pete and Nancy every choir practice. Who believes being in a choir means you actually do some singing, rather than sit about knitting and tapping your feet.’
‘No comment.’ She pulled back her shoulders and smoothed down her dress. ‘But if any of you lot blab, that’s the last time you’ll taste my chocolate squares.’
‘Our lips are sealed,’ Leona called out across the room. ‘Right, girls?’
Hester burst in, wearing a black suit with a silver shirt underneath. ‘They’d better not be! No sealed lips here, thank you. Apart from you.’ She pointed at Marilyn.
We lined up ready to take our places downstairs, skirts rustling with anticipation. Hester stood at the head of the queue and raised her chin. ‘Sing as if this is the last time you ever will, not the first.’
‘I hope it is the last time we sing this carol!’ Janice said. ‘I’m right sick of it. Those glowing hearts and angel voices. In all our trials born to be our friend – this’ll be a trial if we sing it much longer.’
‘As I was saying,’ Hester rapped out. ‘Sing as if it’s the last time you will ever get to sing. And as if it is the first time you truly understand these words. A thrill of hope! O night divine! Think about how the best song you ever heard made you feel. How your heart sped up and your skin tingled and your ears strained to catch every glorious, beautiful note. Ladies, you have the chance to lift eighty spirits out of the mundane clamour and clatter of life. To make them forget their stress and their sorrow, their broken dreams and bad-tempered bosses. Give it everything you’ve got.’
She paused, looking around at the choir all spruced up like Christmas trees, then whipped one hand out from behind her back and stuck a silver tinsel wig on top of her helmet hair. ‘Rock it out, choir! You’re going to blow their novelty Christmas socks off.’
In the candlelit hall, featuring an eight-foot tree decorated with silver bows on one side, and a squished-together group of children in tea-towel headdresses and angel wings on the other, we did indeed rock it out.
The best four minutes and thirty-eight seconds of my life. I looked out at the crowd, on their feet, clapping and cheering, and I felt just about as full of personal power as it was possible to get.
There being no available chairs, we scooted round and leaned against the back wall for the last few minutes of the service.Dylan gave a short talk dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a jumper with a badly knitted snowman on the front. He was engaging and funny, warm and earnest. I felt a pinch of pride at my friend’s ability to capture the crowd and hold their attention while he spoke about the power of hope.
I absolutely did not think that the best thing about Dylan’s talk was having an excuse to stare at his scruffy hair, crinkly eyes and broad shoulders for twelve minutes. That never even crossed my mind, no sir.
I cornered Polly in the side hall afterwards. She was hunched over, her baby bump the only part of her that wasn’t skin and bones. A man I assumed to be her husband loomed at her side. He had slicked-back hair and a smart shirt on over skinny jeans. When I said hello, he held out one hand to shake mine.
‘Hi. I’m Tony. Polly’s husband.’
‘Faith.’ Pleased to meet you, scumbag. It’s good to remind myself that evil, violent women-haters come in all shapes and brands of denim.
‘Polly, Rosa is leaving in a few minutes and she needs the dress back. Are you able to come and get changed now?’
I caught her eyes darting to Tony, the flash of fear, the need for approval. ‘Um. Is that okay? I’ll only be a couple of minutes.’
Tony snickered. It sounded like a hissing cockroach. ‘Of course. Take your time. I’ll be right here, waiting.’
We excused our way through the clusters of people enjoying their mince pies and mulled wine, and went upstairs.
‘Where’s everybody else?’ Polly made a beeline for her bag, sitting on one of the chairs in the corner of the room.
‘Probably enjoying the refreshments. I lied about having to get changed. Rosa’s happy to pick up the dresses at rehearsal next week.’
‘What?’ Instantly, Polly’s shoulders pulled up tight around her chin as she crossed her arms over her bump.
I ignored her. ‘Can you unzip me, please?’
