Catherine began to cry.
‘Wowzers,’ Marilyn said. ‘Are you one of those mentalists?’
‘Those what-ists?’ Rosa frowned.
‘She’s wondering how you knew.’ Was it my imagination, or did I sound more lovely and elegant in this dress?
‘Aha!’ Rosa smirked. ‘You think I’m brain reader? Tell what going to happen by looking at your hand?’ She laughed. ‘I call your house, your mothers answer. They very happy telling me why their pretty girls not got a man yet. You need to move out, get some privacy.’
I tried on the Ghost Web, standing on the other side of my living room from the mirror. Nobody said anything. It felt like a funeral. The dress fit, and the rips had vanished. Marilyn, back in her leggings and tunic, narrowed her eyes at me, the cup of coffee in her hand twitching.
‘Don’t even think about it.’ I pointed at the coffee.
‘Oh, I will. I will think about it. But I’m not going to slay the ghost until you give the order. It’s your decision, Faith. You have to make it. But, when you do, I’m going to enjoy ripping that ghoul to shreds.’
The first Saturday in March, the Grace Choir assembled in the chapel car park, boarding the minibus in a gaggle of breathless excitement and bad jokes. Our black choir dresses, this time accessorised with a rainbow of coloured belts and shoes from red to violet, lay in sheets of plastic across the back row.
We were ten minutes late. We were waiting for Polly.
Thirty-eight weeks pregnant, we had hoped that Polly’s baby would wait until after the competition. Increasingly pale, and worryingly thin except for her beach-ball bump, Polly had shrunk more inside herself as the weeks went by. She gave up trying to smile or pretending to be okay, making no more than the barest attempt at conversation. Despite us both being altos,and supposed to know each other’s ups and downs, dreams, secrets and knicker size, Polly had barely spoken to me since the Christmas carol service. And only then, I knew, because to ignore me completely would confirm I’d been right about her situation.
She insisted she was simply tired, worn down from backache, permanent indigestion and being kicked in the ribs.
I prayed the baby was the only one kicking Polly.
We were half an hour late. We had to go. Hester was vibrating like an overheated washing machine.
Where was Polly?
We rang the phone number she gave when joining the choir.I’m sorry, we were told,that line is not in service.
‘I’ll go and get her,’ said Marilyn, our non-essential choir member. ‘Does anyone know where she lives?’
After much discussion, it turned out that none of us had ever been to Polly’s house or even heard her talk about where she lived. Eventually, Janice reminded Millie that her daughter’s husband’s secretary had been at school with Polly, and they used to be friends once. A load more phone calls, including a five-minute heated discussion with a local plumber, the force of which threatened to blast Hester’s helmet into orbit, resulted in a village, a probable street, and a definite description of a red front door, an eight-foot-high leylandii hedge and gateposts with two lions sitting on the top.
‘Hokeycokey. I’m on it. You go, and we’ll catch you up.’
Marilyn sprinted over to her car and started the engine. Roaring out of the car park, she sped down the road, before screeching to a stop, reversing at about fifty miles an hour back to the chapel, and winding down her window.
‘Where’s the competition again? Is it Leicester, or Lincoln?’
I shook my head. ‘Hang on. I’m coming with you.’
There were roars of protest from the choir. Polly and I were both singing second alto. Without us, the whole sound would be off-kilter.
Hester looked at me, steadily, as everyone quietened down to see what she would say. I placed my hand on my stomach, across the hidden slash-scar and Hester’s head nodded, the tiniest fraction of an inch. ‘Well, what are you waiting for? You’re blocking the drive. Get! Get! Get!’
We got, got, got to Polly’s house.
Sort of. After about four wrong turns, three times up and down the high street, and having to stop and ask a man walking his dog for directions to the house with the lion gateposts.
With or without the lions, the eight-foot hedge and the red front door, I would have known we had the right place.
The house was immaculate. Every stalk of grass pointing straight up, not one piece of gravel out of place on the driveway. Regimental rows of early flowers – snowdrops, crocuses, purple anemones – lined up along the front wall of the house. Every window was shrouded in drapes. The house looked frozen. Lifeless. It looked like Polly.
We rang the bell, knocked, peered through the windows. No answer.
‘What do we do?’ Marilyn tried jumping to see over the side gate.
