Page 46 of The Next Chapter

I’m drunk.

Okay, I’m tipsy.

But in my defence, I am about to go to karaoke with my birth mum. Karaoke on its own is bad enough. But throw in the birth mum who left me to be a singer and being tipsy is almost essential.

‘I’ve never seen anyone get drunk off of two gin and tonics,’ Noah comments as I stumble through the hotel gardens.

‘I think stress amplifies its potency. Plus, I care about my liver. I want it to stay all pink and sponge-like.’

‘I’m sure it appreciates your concern.’

Noah puts his arm around my waist, and I wonder again why we’re going to karaoke when we could just stay in the cottage and get it on.

Super glad that that was in my head.

‘Why are we going to this again?’ I ask, looking up at him.

‘Because Lola asked and you said yes.’

‘Oh yeah, I did.’

‘Harper,’ he says.

‘Yeah, Lola said if I go, it’ll make her go too.’

‘No, look, she’s there.’

He’s right, Harper is sat in her usual spot by the picnic benches, scowling down at her phone.

‘Harper. HARPER!’ I’m not sure how I’m managing to whisper and shout all at the same time.

Harper looks up and narrows her eyes at us.

‘She looks angry,’ I tell Noah, possibly quite loudly because Harper is stalking towards us then. And instead of anger, she actually looks full of something I’d describe as sinister glee.

‘Is she pissed?’ she asks Noah. Yep, definitely sinister glee.

‘She’s on her way. She had two gin and tonics.’

I’m not sure I’ve ever seen Harper smile properly. It’s vaguely terrifying.

I make a sort of choking sound.

‘Sorry, I was just sick in my mouth a bit.’

Harper’s smile grows even wider.

‘We’re going to the karaoke, you should come along.’ Noah is so smooth. Smooth like silk.

‘Oh my god, she’s stroking you, this is brilliant.’

I hadn’t realized that I was rubbing Noah’s silky-smooth arm. I stop immediately. ‘It’s because he’s smooth like silk,’ I tell them.

‘Fuck yeah, I’m coming. She’ll be singing, right?’ Harper asks, walking with never-before-seen purpose towards the back door of the hotel.

I don’t seem to remember promising anyone that I’d sing. Quite the opposite, in fact. I can’t think properly.

It’s not just the gin. The evening is close and sticky, suffocating almost. That sort of weather where you think it needs a good thunderstorm to clear the air. It feels like an omen.

Still, as I set off to follow Harper, I can’t help but wonder what it’s an omen of.

‘Tell me more, tell me mo-o-oore!’

There’s scattered applause.

Unlike me, Harper’s foster parents have absolutely no qualms about singing. None at all. I think at this point, someone is going to have to take one for the team and rugby tackle the microphones from them. They’re doing the Grease medley. Again.

I wince as they get too close and the mics screech.

Karaoke at Lola’s hotel is… not like anything I ever thought I’d take part in. I think it’s fair to say that should any extraterrestrial life stumble upon us all gathered here in the breakfast room of the hotel, they’d think the human species were completely insane and flee to the nearest galaxy.

The breakfast tables have been pushed to the sides of the room and the chairs are scattered around the floor.

Someone has closed all the blinds, I presume so that no unsuspecting ramblers happen upon us and have to witness this, but it might also be because Lola has a small disco set up and there are multicoloured lights flashing across the wooden floor.

The ‘karaoke’ is just a single mic plugged into Lola’s laptop and she plays songs through YouTube, testing the hotel’s Wi-Fi to its absolute limit.

And if I’d thought I was a bit drunk before I got here, I quickly realize that I’m not drunk enough.

‘Fuck’s sake, why are they like this?’ Harper mutters as Blake runs over, smiling. Her foster parents start up a rendition of ‘Everything I Do’, the Bryan Adams version. From what I remember, it’s about eighteen hours long.

‘Shall we get a drink?’ I ask Noah, who is watching the whole scene with a sort of bemused smirk.

I guess it’s nothing he hasn’t seen before.

‘Yeah, come on, Lola has a bar over here.’

‘Can I have some booze too?’ Harper asks, her and Blake trailing behind us.

‘No.’ Me and Noah answer at the same time.

Lola seems to be both karaoke monitor and barwoman tonight. She’s standing behind a table in the corner, swaying a little to the music. James the silver fox vet is standing next to her. Also swaying. I wonder if there has been another Bertie-based emergency.

I think it’s possible that Lola’s dressed up for the occasion because she’s wearing a skirt, for the first time ever. It’s long and black and it has crescent moons stitched onto it. Her hair is down. Limp and obedient against her tanned shoulders.

‘I’m glad y’all decided to come. What can I get you to drink? We have wine, or there are some beers and soft drinks in the cool box.’

‘Wine please, any colour,’ I say as Noah laughs and gets himself a beer.

Blake and Harper get cokes.

We pay and Lola stores the money in one of those little money tins.

‘It’s busy,’ I say, looking around the room, which is now only vaguely spinning. There are groups of people dotted about, most with their backs to the karaoke, as if that might help to block it out. Half of them are wearing kilts. Locals, then.

‘There are folk from town here. We’re not often full, even in summer. By winter, it’s mostly the odd school group.’

‘School groups?’ I ask.

She nods again.

‘Lola does a reduced rate for kids on free school meals,’ Noah tells us. Course she does, bloody Saint Lola.

‘How lovely.’

‘It’s nothin’.’

‘This is nice and everything, but I thought you were going to sing. That’s what I was told,’ Harper butts in.

‘I don’t think I ever promised that I’d sing.’ I start downing my wine with a vengeance.

‘For what it’s worth, you’re a great singer. I heard her in the shower.’ Noah completely sells me out. Traitor.

The piano is still pushed against the wall and there’s no sign of Lola’s guitar. So at least I don’t have to confront the very particular trauma of watching her play.

‘What about Noah?’ I say, too loudly. ‘Why does he get out of this?’

‘Actually, it’s my song next.’ Noah has a drink.

Harper cackles.

I think I’m possibly the only person who realizes that this is a big deal for Noah, standing up and singing in front of all these people. He’d definitely rather be up a mountain somewhere; he has the blotchy neck of a man suppressing the urge to run to the nearest hill and climb it.

All thoughts of Noah fleeing the scene go out of the window as he takes up the mantle of the mic. Instead, I find myself rapt as I watch Noah self-consciously air guitar his way through a bit of Bon Jovi. He’s not even particularly good, it’s just… it’s the air guitar. It’s freaking hot.

‘I still can’t believe he’s going out with you,’ Harper says. I realize that most people have stopped what they’re doing and are bobbing up and down, cheering Noah. I’m edging ever closer to where he’s singing and when he smiles at me around the mic, I practically melt into a puddle on the floor.

I don’t even have it in me to be insulted by Harper. Because, honestly, same. ‘I know,’ I tell her.

‘I suppose you’re quite funny in your own, strange way.’

I take another big drink of wine as Noah’s song comes to an end. I’m so nervous that I don’t even register that Harper was moderately nice to me there.

Noah finishes and there’s a smattering of applause.

He takes a bow before walking quickly away from what is obviously the ‘performance space’. The fluttering in my stomach that’s always there around him becomes a persistent ache.

I have another (and another) drink. It doesn’t make it go away.

Noah says something to Lola who takes the mic, looks at me and says, ‘Sing for us, Lily Brown?’

I guess that Noah did tell her my surname after all. She doesn’t seem to have freaked about it, though, so maybe it didn’t ring any bells.

It’s not what I need to be thinking about now. Chatter has broken out around us. Hopefully this means that everyone has gone back to their drinks, and they’ll just ignore me.

I hand Noah the remnants of my wine. ‘You were really good,’ I tell him.

He laughs. ‘Not my first karaoke here. What are you going to sing?’

‘I don’t know, do you have a list?’ I ask Lola.

‘Just whatever’s on YouTube,’ she tells me.

‘Okay, how about “Love Story” by Taylor Swift? I’ve always liked that one.

’ I try to play down just how much of a committed Swiftie I really am (top one per cent on Spotify round-up).

But I could sing this song in my sleep. Lola searches and despite my knowing all the words, I still think it’ll be good going if I don’t just puke all over them.

Whether from booze or nerves, who knows.

The last time I properly sang for anyone was before Mum died. And that was in the school choir.

But the song starts up and the mic is in my hand. So, it looks like I am doing this. At least no one’s paying me any attention, aside from Noah, that is, and Lola and James. Oh and Blake, who’s smiling, and Harper, who is also smiling, but in a much more sinister way.

I miss the bit where I’m meant to start so I decide to glue my eyes to the screen of Lola’s laptop instead. It doesn’t matter that the words are a tiny bit blurry because come on, as if I need the actual words.

I’m a bit croaky at first and I’m gripping the mic so hard there’s a chance I’m going to snap it in half. But then I remember Harper’s foster dad going for all the high notes in the Grease medley that they did, and I think the bar isn’t particularly high here.

And actually, if everyone thinks I’m rubbish, it doesn’t matter. The world won’t come crashing to an end.

My slither of personal growth relaxes me a little bit, not that I take my eyes off the screen.

It’s not a song that allows you to breathe too often – Taylor must have really brilliant lung capacity – but I give it my best shot and when the song ends, I think it’s probably gone all right, if truth be told.

What I absolutely don’t expect to happen is to look up and see everyone sort of… gaping. Yeah, there’s no other word to describe it. They’re all gaping at me.

When I think back on this, or better yet, write it into my memoirs, I’ll definitely insert a sort of slow clap, starting with Noah for maximum drama. In reality, it’s everyone clapping together, but it’ll sound much more theatrical as a slow clap.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually good!’ Harper says as Noah whistles at me.

‘Do another one!’ he calls out. And even Harper’s foster parents shout in agreement, though they don’t have a problem with mic-hoggers, being ones themselves.

Only Lola is looking at me with her head tilted to the side. As if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out.

I can’t think about that now. Not when people are shouting out things like ‘Sing more Taylor’ and ‘Do you know any Shania Twain?’.

Maybe it’s the alcohol I have flowing through my system or the sheer relief that what I thought was going to be an out and out disaster has actually turned out pretty good, but after that, I get really into it.

It’s an excellent thing that as adults, we’re allowed to change our minds about stuff, because I do a complete U-turn when it comes to the humble karaoke.

I sing ‘This Charming Man’ with Harper, who shouts all the words and Noah and I give ‘Senorita’ by Camilla Cabello and Shawn Mendes such a good go, it’s practically pornographic. Just what I want in front of my birth mum and all these strangers from town.

And okay, my knee slide at the end of ‘Don’t Stop Believin” was very much ill-advised.

I’ll likely have knee problems for years now.

But other than that, people are dancing around me, and I can see it, then.

I can see why Lola loved this, loved people cheering and clapping at her, at least at first. Making people happy is what I am for, always.

Making them this happy is an addictive high.

This is what I always worried about. That I’d like it too much. That it would mean that I was like Lola. Singing with Mum was safe, singing because I liked the admiration, less so.

Which is strange, because the only person showing zero admiration is Lola. She’s not smiling or clapping. In fact, she’s retreated to the drinks table and from what I can tell, is hardly talking to anyone.

‘I need a break,’ I gasp at the end of a particularly energetic rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. I make my way over to Lola. I think I’ve sweated out most of the booze, but I’m parched.

‘Do you have any water, Lola?’ I ask her.

She rummages around in the cool box and hands me a bottle.

‘You have a lovely voice,’ she tells me. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t want to sing.’

I shrug, feeling the urge to squirm at the way she’s looking at me, as if she’s trying to see through me.

‘I haven’t really sung anything in a long time,’ I tell her.

‘Why is that?’

I’m not about to get into this.

I shrug. ‘No real reason.’

There’s a moment of silence and I think that somehow, I’ve given the game away. Though how could I have done? I’ve sung a load of generic karaoke songs. Lola takes a breath, and I think then that she’s going to tell me that she knows , she knows who I am.

And… I don’t mind. At first, I just wanted the space to get to know Lola without this thing hanging over us. Then not telling her became the default, because I didn’t want to admit I lied about knowing who she was. But now, I’m past that. I want her to recognize who I am to her.

I steel myself for hearing her say the words.

Except those aren’t the words she says. Instead, she says, ‘Lily, I don’t suppose you’d sing with me?’