by Daisy James
‘Wow, put me down for one of those,’ said Jennie, picking up a stick of cinnamon and inhaling. ‘Delicious. And is this sheet music? What’s this for, Izzie?’
‘Oh, yes, I thought you would like that. It can be used to make decorations, too. I usually brush cold coffee over the paper to give it a sepia look, then I either roll it into scrolls and tie with red ribbon, or fold it into fans, or make it into cones to put sweets inside. So, let’s get started. If you’d all like to pop on your Villa Limoncello aprons, select a square of red felt fabric and, using the template, cut out a semi-circle like this.’
For the next twenty minutes, all that could be heard between Izzie’s instructions were the dulcet tones of Bing Crosby as he sang songs from White Christmas, keeping everyone calm as they got to grips with using a glue gun to produce a conical shape from the soft material. Sofia and Dylan had chosen to make Santa hats, topped with a white pom-pom and finished off with a cotton wool fringe around the rim. Nick, Jennie and Phoebe, on the other hand, stuffed their decorated cornucopias with the gold foil-wrapped chocolates Izzie had bought from Oriana’s pasticceria the day before. They each added a loop of red-and-white ribbon and presented their masterpieces to one other with a huge amount of pride and enthusiasm.
‘Great start!’ Izzie smiled, gently removing the staple gun from Sofia’s hands because she had just managed to staple an off-cut of her square of felt to the red gingham tablecloth that protected Gianni’s wine-tasting benches.
‘Sorry!’ she giggled.
‘How have you not been fired yet?’ laughed Phoebe, dangling her cornucopia from her index finger and considering it as though it was a work of Renaissance art. ‘Or do the actors not mind about having sewn-up sleeves or non-working zips?’
‘You know, when I’m in the theatre workshop, I seem to be able to channel my inner sewing bee with no problems at all. It’s like I’m performing a role in a play, that it’s not real life, it’s a fantasy where I’m confident and proficient and dexterous!’
‘Who taught you to sew?’ asked Dylan, finishing off his Santa hat with a generous spray of fake snow.
‘Oh, my mum and my aunt always seemed to have a pair of scissors in their hands when I was growing up and they let me have all the off-cuts to make clothes for my dolls, who, I would add, were the best-dressed Barbies in the playground! By the time I was twelve, I was making things for myself, and then for my friends. I was thrilled when my drama teacher asked if I would like to help with the costumes for our end-of-term play – it was a dream come true! Mum was so proud when she came to see it.’
‘You’re so lucky that your family were supportive of your dreams,’ said Phoebe, her face clouding. ‘All my parents wanted me to do was read law reports and the Financial Times!’
‘Okay, I think it’s time to take a coffee break before we make a start on the glass painting. You can either paint the outside of these gorgeous glass baubles, or you can fill them up with paper confetti, or hundreds and thousands, or maybe some of these sequins or beads. If you choose the polystyrene balls, or one of these perfumed wooden balls, they can be decorated with absolutely anything that takes your fancy – let your creativity fly!’
‘I’m definitely investing in one of these glue guns when I get back home!’ said Jennie, selecting a series of white styrofoam balls in descending sizes. ‘In fact, I think I should get together a basic sewing kit – pins, needles, scissors, thread, buttons, maybe some knicker elastic – just in case.’
‘I think that’s an excellent idea, Jen. You never know when there’s going to be a stitching emergency!’ commented Dylan, his tone completely serious.
Izzie suppressed a giggle as she imagined Jennie taking up a James Bondesque stance with her glue gun, ready to fight a rampaging troop of mannequins intent upon unravelling her hand-knit jumpers, then blowing on the tip before storing it back in her hip holster – made out of Liberty-print fabric.
‘Does anyone need anything from the villa?’ asked Nick, wriggling out of his apron and back into his flamboyant waistcoat for the three-hundred-yard trip back to the house. He removed his beloved baton from his back pocket and stuck it behind his ear – all he needed now was a black beret and he could give Picasso a run for his money.
‘I’ll come with you,’ said Dylan, setting aside his stash of Christmas decorations, each one perfectly executed with not a stray dollop of glue or errant stitch in sight. ‘I’m sick of these cheesy Christmas songs. I’ve got a CD in my rucksack that I helped my brother and his band to produce a couple of months ago which I think you’ll like. Ciao!’
‘Ciao,’ chorused the women as the door swung shut on their conversation.
‘Ah, he’s such a caring person, as well as an accomplished and versatile musician,’ sighed Jennie as she attached a brigade of reindeers, all with enormous red pom-pom noses, to a length of crimson and green ribbon to create a very attractive Christmas garland.
‘Who? Nick?’ laughed Phoebe.
‘No, Dylan! It’s lovely to see him take some time for himself now that Jack and Martha are both at university. It doesn’t surprise me at all that he’s the most accomplished of all of us at the craft stuff. You have to be practical and adaptable when you’re bringing up children.’
‘Bringing up children?’ asked Izzie, pausing in her depiction of a gift-laden sleigh in glass paint to glance across at Jennie. Dylan couldn’t be more than early thirties – thirty-five at the most – much too young to have a child at university, let alone two.
‘Yes, it’s a sad story, I’m afraid, Izzie. Dylan’s mother and father died in a hot-air balloon accident whilst on holiday in Egypt celebrating their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. He had just turned eighteen, his sister was twelve, and Jack was only eight. Absolutely tragic. But Dylan, bless him, stepped up and became their carer, with a little help from his grandparents. Poor lad, gave up his place on a music degree course and got a job at a local high school in their IT department, but he never gave up on his dream to become a professional musician.’
‘Dylan encouraged both Jack and Martha to continue with their musical studies, even helping them to start a band so they could have an outlet to express their emotions,’ said Phoebe, taking up the heartbreaking story as the women continued to stick sequins and bows and feathers on their Christmas baubles, the pile in the middle of the table becoming ever taller. ‘And, instead of playing gigs at uni, he uploaded his music to his YouTube channel and he’s got thousands, no, hundreds of thousands, of followers.’
Phoebe paused, holding a finished bauble aloft, the colours sending a rainbow of light onto the whitewashed walls of the studio.
‘But the thing I think he’s most proud of is the digital media company he built up whilst staying in night after night to look after his brother, which showcases the talents of all those kids who don’t have the luxury of private music lessons, those who are self-taught – naturals, Dylan calls them. He helps them to produce their tracks and then uploads them to his website. I don’t think he earns much from it, but it does okay. He’s an amazing musician, Izzie, and just wait until you hear him sing!’
‘I told him that he should audition for X Factor or BGT last year,’ added Sofia, sitting back in her chair to survey her decorations, her nose wrinkling in disappointment. ‘But he just laughed, told me he had no intention of doing something as old-fashioned as TV. Of course, Nick was scathing about people who enter talent contests, but that’s easy to say for someone who’s had every possible advantage going to progress his musical career.’
‘Does Nick have children?’ asked Izzie, handing round coffees from the percolator and a plate of mince pies which, along with the plates and mugs, she had trundled down to the studio in Gianni’s wheelbarrow earlier that morning.
‘No. I think that’s why he pushes the Somersby Singers so hard – all his hopes and dreams are wrapped up in the choir instead of his offspring.’
‘Don’t he and Sarah want kids?’ asked Phoebe, taking
a tentative sip from her coffee. ‘Oh, sorry, that was a bit of a personal question.’
‘Oops!’ cried Sofia, as the plate of mince pies clattered to the floor, cracking on impact and sending the pies scooting under the table. Her hands flew to her mouth, her fingers trembling at her lower lip, and her face drained of all colour. She pushed back her chair, ready to drop down to start tidying up the mess when Izzie intervened.
‘It’s okay, Sofia, just leave it. I’ll sort it!’
She retrieved the dustpan and brush from a cupboard in the corner and within moments the shards of crockery and crumbs of pastry were cleared away. Izzie smiled ruefully – the lengths people went to avoid eating her mince pies!
‘I don’t think it’s a secret, Phoebe,’ Jennie continued, flicking a worried glance at Sofia, who was still as pale as overworked pastry, ‘but Nick would be mortified if he knew we were gossiping about his private life, especially as I work at the surgery where Sarah’s a patient. However, I can tell you that Sarah loves children, but it just hasn’t happened for them. It doesn’t for some people, you know.’
‘Nick really is focused on the choir, isn’t he?’ said Izzie, keen to move the conversation onto more neutral ground.
‘Too much!’ declared Phoebe, reaching into Izzie’s Tupperware box for a mince pie and stuffing it into her mouth whole, her cheeks bulging like an overfed hamster, a gesture which filed Izzie’s heart with happiness.
‘Nightmare,’ added Sofia, some of the colour returning to her face as she finished off her cappuccino and set down her mug with infinitesimal care. ‘He’s like a musical slave driver except he cracks his baton instead of a whip!’
Phoebe burst into laughter at Sofia’s joke, sending flaky pastry crumbs across the table. Jennie rolled her eyes at all three of them, extracted a packet of wet wipes from her bag, handed one to Phoebe and wiped the debris away from the table with another.
‘Nick just wants everyone to have the opportunity to shine!’ she said, defensively. ‘You know, his father was a world-renowned cellist – that’s very big shoes to fill. Personally, I think he’s brave even poking his nose above the parapet in the same field. He’s forty-three and it’s only in the last five years that he’s found the confidence to do what he’s been wanting to do his whole life.’
‘Which is?’
‘Conduct. And he’s so keen to do it himself, without people saying he’s riding on his father’s coat-tails, that he adopted his wife’s surname for professional purposes.’
‘What does Nick do for a living?’ asked Izzie, her heart giving a nip of sympathy for Nick – someone else who had avoided following his dreams for fear of falling short of familial expectations.
‘He’s a drama teacher at the local high school where Dylan teaches, and at the weekends he helps Sarah to run her children’s theatre school – you know, ballet, tap, jazz, musical theatre, acting classes, that sort of thing. I think they also do cheerleading!’
‘I totally get that he can’t help being a perfectionist,’ mused Phoebe, holding up a bauble only for every one of the buttons she’d stuck on with the aid of the glue gun to slide off and scatter onto the table. ‘But we’re performing in front of the residents of the local care home, or the congregation of the local church, not the Royal Albert Hall. They won’t care whether we’re note-perfect or not – and, if we don’t tell them, half the audience probably won’t notice if our outfits don’t match, and the other half won’t be able to hear us!’
Sofia giggled, but Jennie looked scandalised.
‘No matter who our audience is, Phoebe, it’s our responsibility to deliver as flawless a performance as we can – we should take pride in our choir! We want people to say that the Somersby Singers are sensational!’
‘Yes, miss!’ replied Sofia, and gave her a mock salute.
Jennie rolled her eyes.
‘Where do you think Nick and Dylan have got to?’ said Phoebe. ‘I’ve got a bit of a headache coming on so I wouldn’t mind a short siesta before this afternoon’s rehearsal.’
‘I’ll go and see if…’ began Jennie, putting down her knitting needles.
‘No, you stay and finish your decorations,’ said Izzie. ‘I’ll go, I need to collect the baked orange and lemon slices from the kitchen – they should be cold by now.’
She made her way outside and strolled towards the villa along the avenues between the grape vines, their conversation causing her head to spin. Her thoughts filled with her sister, but also with the timely reminder that she was far from alone in having lost someone she loved. Sofia had lost her mother, Dylan his parents in a dreadful accident, Jennie was divorced, even Nick had suffered a loss by omission.
In some weird way, their stories gave her a modicum of solace, that life could and did continue – not in the same way as before, in a different way, but not without happiness.
Chapter Ten
The gazebo, Villa Limoncello
Colour: Christmas-tree green
Izzie checked inside the villa, but she couldn’t find Nick and Dylan and assumed she must have missed them. Maybe they’d taken a different route back to the studio. She filled a dish with the wonderfully fragrant orange and lemon slices, grabbed an extra bag of cinnamon sticks and a reel of thick brown parcel string, and made her way back through the garden, pausing when she heard voices coming from behind the Christmas tree in the gazebo.
‘That’s blackmail!’
‘Don’t be so melodramatic! All I’m asking is that you ditch the so-laid-back-you’re-almost-horizontal attitude and put a bit more effort into your performance.’
‘Otherwise you’ll blabber about my personal life?’
‘I don’t know why you want to keep it quiet. What’s there to be ashamed of? If it were me, I’d be singing about it from the rooftops!’
‘I’m not ashamed! I just don’t want my private business splashed all over the local press or buzzing its way through the village grapevine, or circulating the school corridors or the staff room, either, that’s all.’
‘How you think it won’t eventually filter out is—’
‘Look, Nick, this is none of your business. And if you had any secrets, I wouldn’t dream of threatening their exposure just to secure your attendance at my choir practice!’
‘Sober attendance.’
‘You had just as much to drink last night as I did, if not more.’
Izzie could hear the snap of anger in Dylan’s voice as she stood like a participant in a game of musical statues, eavesdropping on their argument. She knew she should move on and leave them to it, but some invisible force kept her glued to the spot, or it could have been what her sister used to call ‘nosiness’ and she used to call ‘a healthy interest in other people’s lives’.
‘The difference is I can get up the next morning, on time, and with a clear head and a spring in my step, whereas you could hardly string two words together until Jennie came to the rescue with one of her miracle hangover potions!’
There was a pause and Izzie wondered whether Dylan was sizing up Nick for a well-directed punch on the nose for the sarcastic tone he had used. However, when he did eventually speak his voice was surprisingly conciliatory, if not apologetic.
‘Okay, okay, I admit I might have overindulged. I’m sorry, I’ll be more restrained on the alcohol front from now on.’
‘And you’ll speak to Phoebe?’
‘I’m not her keeper, Nick. Anyway, why are you so stressed out about this? We’ve done lots of concerts over the last five years, why does this one mean so much to you? We’ll all sing our hearts out, you know that, and every one of us will perform to the best of our abilities. Is there something I’m missing?’
‘Only that I want us to blow the competition out of the water!’
‘What competition? The Salvation Amy band? The choir from the WI? The local primary school children?’
‘All of those…’
‘Oh, God, Nick, I give up. I promise to reign in my alcohol consump
tion and to engage my very best voice, but I want a promise from you in return.’
Silence.
‘Nick?’
‘Okay, okay, your secret’s safe with me! Now, let’s get these Christmas craft shenanigans finished, so we can have lunch and start our choir practice on time this afternoon!’
Izzie didn’t want Dylan and Nick to discover she had been listening in on their conversation so she dashed off towards the vineyard, the scattered seashells that Gianni swore helped the vines to grow crunching beneath her feet like crumbled biscuits. When she arrived at the studio, she was a little out of breath.
‘Oh, there you all are! We were wondering whether we should send out a search party,’ said Jennie, her bejewelled glasses bouncing against her chest as she reached out to grab the packet of cinnamon sticks from Izzie before it tumbled to the floor.
‘Just had a couple of calls to make,’ muttered Dylan, sending a narrowed glance in Nick’s direction. ‘We’re here now – what’s next, Izzie?’
‘Okay, so I’ve got these baked orange slices for anyone who wants to attempt a more aromatic decoration. I’ve also found these beautiful wooden discs, which you can decorate and then personalise with a loved one’s name and hang on the tree as a memory, or you could paint these miniature picture frames, then when you get home you could add a photograph or a picture that brings a smile to your face.’