The Name I Call Myself (10 page)

The following week at choir practice, after warm-up, 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 four parts 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? Next verse, please!

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? That'll do? 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 hope-
less
, wouldn't you say?”

We would. We looked like women with very little hope.

“You are never going to look or sound any different until you become different! No! Change that! You are never going to look or sound different until you believe that you are not those women. Dylan has offered us the chance to sing at the Christmas carol service. I will not let you stand up in front of people and sing like that. You need to start believing in yourselves! To be able to stand, unashamed, and show the world that you are women of triumph! Everyone expects this choir to fail – to be a rubbishy mess.”

Do they? Who does?

“And they will be right, until you learn to believe. Until you learn to love yourselves, choir! Like I do. Like I believe in you.”

She coughed, and blinked a couple of times. “I want everybody at Marilyn's house: The Old Rectory, Houghton. Seven o'clock, Friday. I will take your non-attendance as your resignation from Grace Choir. And none of you had better dare quit now.”

She marched out of the room. We all collectively released our breath.

“Well, wouldn't you know it!” Janice said. “That was a proper racket.”

“Terrible,” Millie agreed. “Like a herd of elephants being attacked by killer bees.”

“Or a pig stuck in a drainpipe.”

“Fancy another flapjack?” Millie tugged on her bobble hat.

“Ooh, go on then. They say sugar's good after a trauma.”

“We'd best have two then.”

I stood alone in the kitchen drying up cups when Dylan came in, bringing the rest of the empties.

“Hi, Faith. How's it going?”

“Yeah, good thanks.” I concentrated hard on wiping every single drop of moisture from the cup in my hand.

“No post-traumatic stress symptoms after your near-fatal cliff plunge?”

I smiled, despite myself. “No. Thanks. I've had worse brushes with death and survived.”

He turned from where he'd begun washing up the cups and looked at me. “When?”

Pah. I should have known he wouldn't let a casual remark like that slip past.

“A long time ago. How about you? Suffering any lingering back problems from your heroic catch?”

“No, but I have started having this recurrent nightmare about being suffocated under a crushing weight…”

“Very funny.”

“Good. You should smile more.”

My smile disappeared. Dylan, ever tactful, turned away again and asked, “So how did you meet Perry? I can't imagine you mixing in the same social circles.”

“You mean because he's rich and I'm not?” I bristled slightly.

“I've met enough children of privilege to know you're not one of them, and he is.”

I didn't know if that was a compliment or not. I didn't know if I wanted it to be one. Part of me felt riled, but he only stated the obvious. I glanced at his easy-going face, hair drooping as he bent over the sink.

“I met Perry when I worked at HCC. His family are wealthy, but he's worked really hard to build up his business. And still does. He isn't a snob, despite sometimes acting like one.” I grimaced. “After all, he's marrying me.”

“I don't think he's a snob. I'm sure you'll be very happy together.”

Really? You might be the only one who is.

I first met Perry properly at a function he had organized for his business. His family were well known in the club, and during the six months or so I had been waiting tables and serving behind the bar I had observed them many times – grumpy father, domineering mother, son who nearly always left with a woman on his arm on the rare occasions he arrived without one.

Izzy, the events organizer and all-round incompetent whose dad happened to be club treasurer, found me in the smaller of the two private dining rooms, setting out the table for an evening event.

She rushed in, eyes wild, swearing repeatedly under her breath. I heaved a mental sigh.

“What?”

“A mistake's been made with tonight's booking.”

“The party of six for that finance company?”

“Sort of.”

“What do you mean, sort of?” I carried on laying knives and forks just so.

“That's the mistake. It isn't a party of six.”

“Izzy, if you're expecting me to sort out another one of your cock-ups, you'd better tell me what it is.”

“A number was somehow missed off the booking form.”

“Izzy.”

“Sixty guests are arriving in just over an hour.” She sank into a chair, lowered her head into her hands, and began swearing again.

At that point, Perry Upperton strode into the dining room wearing a tuxedo.

“Ah. Sorry. My mistake. I'm looking for the Churchill Room.”

“Yes. This is it.”

Perry looked around. “No. I'm looking for the room where my party is tonight. For PSU Finance?”

I placed the tray of cutlery on the table, and took a deep breath. Izzy had ceased muttering, but now crouched in the chair like a frightened mole.

“Mr Upperton, on behalf of HCC please accept my sincerest apologies. There has been a mistake with your booking which has only just been discovered. Our records made a rather grave error regarding the number of guests.”

Perry's eyes flicked around the room, with the one central banqueting table elegantly laid out for six.

“You are kidding me.”

“No. Look, I'm going to do my absolute best to sort this. And I'm pretty sure we're only going to charge you for six guests. Did you send through a seating plan?” I took a step towards him.

“I did.”

“And talk about the room arrangements, music, centrepieces, stuff like that?”

“Yes. I spoke about all these things with the events manager. Izzy Black. I would like to speak to her. Please.”

I tipped my head in the direction of Izzy.

“Ah.”

“Right. Here's what I'm going to do. First, I need to speak to the chef. What menu had you ordered?”

He looked back at me. “I can't remember. And at this point I don't really care.”

I pulled out my pad and made a couple of random notes. “Okay, we'll see what he says. I'll make sure we bring in the extra staff, and Izzy will print out your function list and get started on sorting the room. The ballroom is empty, but it will need dressing.”

“What can I do?” he asked.

“Can you shift some tables?”

“Just point me in the right direction.”

Two hours later, only half an hour late, we had a hot buffet for sixty guests, a room decorated with a box of leftovers from a wedding a month before, a free glass of bubbly for anyone who wanted it, and a party saved by the skin of its teeth.

The next day I turned up at work to find a generous bonus, no Izzy, and a promotion. Later on that afternoon I also received a ridiculously flamboyant bouquet from Perry Upperton. The card read, “You blew my mind last night. I'd like to take you out to show my appreciation. Call me.” And a business card.

I called using the bar phone and left a brief message of thanks and you're welcome, just doing my job.

At twenty-three, I had never dated. Not since
him.
And that could hardly be described as dating. For multiple reasons, I felt terrified of any commitment other than the one made to myself to never trust anybody, ever. It made for a lonely life, but I was more than used to being alone. Lonely was safe. Safe from shame, rejection, and abuse. I knew that the type of man I might want, if I wanted one, did not want women like me.

I certainly had no interest in going for dinner with the club lothario.

Although I had been pleasantly surprised by his willingness to arrange furniture and flowers rather than yell at other people to do it.

Perry showed up later that week. He had booked a table for two in the restaurant. There you go, I thought; he's moved on to the next poor girl.

The two included me.

I politely declined, due to working.

He had checked. My shift finished at eight.

I declined again. I was tired, and had some things to do. At eight-fifteen, Perry's car pulled up alongside me at the bottom of the sweeping HCC driveway as I made my way home. He crawled along for a couple of hundred metres, using all his charm to try and persuade me to accept a lift. He seemed pretty charming. Funny,
and self-deprecating. No mention of the fact I was walking two miles home from work because I couldn't afford a car, whereas his racing green convertible probably cost more than my house.