‘The East Midlands heat of the International Community Choir Sing-Off. This is it, choir! A chance to convince yourselves you are a real choir. That you can create something magnificent. That when you put some effort in, believe in yourselves and embrace the togetherness of the team, you can do it.’
‘How many teams are in the competition?’ Rowan asked.
‘Irrelevant!’ Hester retorted. ‘You be the best you can be. Don’t think about who you’re up against.’
‘Are they, like, proper choirs that have been together for ages, with, like, people who are musicians and sing in theatres and stuff? How would we stand a chance against choirs like that?’
Hester picked up the folder of music and bashed herself over the head with it a few times. ‘You. Are. A. Proper. Choir. You are musicians! And none of the choirs in the competition are allowed to hold auditions.’
‘And none of them have Hester,’ Mags pointed out. ‘I bet other choirs don’t strip off and climb mountains together.’
‘Would I enter you into this competition if you weren’t ready?’
‘No, Hester,’ we droned in unison, like schoolchildren.
‘Incorrect! None of you are ready! You still don’t believe in this choir, because you still don’t believe in yourselves. Or each other. But you will! We’ve got six weeks. Both the choir that gets first place and the runners-up go through to the national final. Those of you who talk to God, please start praying. Those of you who don’t, now would be an excellent time to start.’
The first song we learned was ‘Stand by Me’ by Ben E. King, mashed together with the chorus of ‘All Together Now’ by The Farm. No prizes for guessing what Hester’s point was.
She announced that she wanted us to choose our second song. We had two weeks to offer suggestions, after which she would decide the winner.
‘No meaningless slush, sentimental claptrap or sexualisation of women! No whoop-de-do now I’ve found a man, my life finally has meaning.’
Millie scratched her bobble hat. ‘I don’t think I’ve heard that one. Who’s it by?’
Hester scowled. ‘A man wrote it. A stupid one whose wife only married him to stop feeling like a worm. It didn’t work. She became a worm with an idiot husband.’
‘Are you talking about somebody in particular, Hester?’ Melody asked.
‘Time to stop blethering on and learn some notes! How on earth are we going to be ready for this competition if we keep falling behind schedule? Now, on a count of four…’
The fourteenth of February fell on a Saturday this year. The previous Valentine’s Day had been one of the times Perry proposed: a trip to a planetarium, where he’d bribed some soppy intern to re-programme the stars so they spelled ‘Marry me Faith’. That had been a test of my mettle, saying no while two members of staff hovered hopefully in the corner with a bottle of champagne and some glasses.
This time around, he surprised me with two tickets to Rome the week before. We were eating the second of his Christmas voucher slap-up dinners. The plane left in six days.
‘You want me to take the whole weekend off?’
‘And all day Friday and Monday. If I can spare the time, running a business, you can manage it.’
‘I think you get better tips than me.’
‘Four days, Faith.’
‘This is really short notice. I think I’ve got something booked already.’
He put down his fork, leaning forwards slightly across his half-finished gnocchi. ‘Then cancel it.’
‘I hate cancelling. It makes them less willing to call on me again.’ And it lets the poverty wolf snap closer at my heels.
‘You’re the best waitress they’ve got. They’ll always call on you. Come on, Faith. You need a break. You look exhausted.’
‘Thanks.’
‘I’m worried about you. Please take the weekend off and come and have a lovely time with me.’
I said nothing, trying to sort the reasons I felt such resistance to the idea into a rational order.
‘I’ve booked us separate bedrooms if that’s what’s bothering you.’
