Tickled Pink

by Christina Jones

  Posy was relieved to notice that Lola was almost smiling as they climbed the steps at the side of the stage.

  ‘Good God!’ the vicar blinked as they struggled through the musty curtain. ‘I mean, oh my goodness me. You two have pulled out all the stops, I must say.’

  Lola and Posy grinned at one another in sisterly triumph.

  There were thirty-three contestants backstage. Most of them, including Nikki and Amanda who greeted Posy with shrieks of welcome, were dressed for clubbing with a lot of lycra and body glitter and looked, Posy thought, a bit tarty. There was very little class on offer. Vanessa, of course, was in one of her own. And then there was Sonia . . .

  Posy simply couldn’t believe that the svelte, groomed, flat-stomached Sonia could have metamorphosed from the bloated, swearing, screaming lump she’d been on their last meeting. They pointedly ignored one another.

  ‘No competition there,’ Lola whispered. ‘She looks like Jean Shrimpton.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘She was a very famous model. Before your time. But she used to wear dead simple shift dresses and have her hair all flicked up like that.’

  ‘Did she look all pouty and slender and glossy and doe-eyed, then, this Jean Shrimpton?’

  ‘Mmm, yes, I suppose she did, now you come to mention it. Damn.’

  ‘Right now, ladies,’ the vicar clapped his hands. ‘We’re just about to start, so let’s just run through our routine. I’ll announce you by name, you’ll walk out on to the stage, straight down the catwalk, turn and smile at the judges, then return to me where we’ll chat for thirty seconds. Understood?’

  Everyone nodded dutifully. There was a lot of giggling and applying of last-minute lip gloss and hair spray. Posy was beginning to think maybe this was not such a good idea after all.

  ‘It’s a cattle market,’ Lola muttered. ‘I campaigned against this sort of thing in the seventies.’

  ‘It’s for the carnival and the village, and it’s fun,’ Posy knew her voice lacked conviction. ‘You’ll love it once you get started.’

  The vicar pranced out from behind the curtains, silenced Ray Conniff, and made his introductions. As Ritchie and Flynn and Ellis had been more than generous with the champagne cocktails, his reception was pretty wild. Several people, including Neddy Pink, wolf-whistled him.

  One by one, sadly to the tune of ‘The Lady Is A Tramp’, the contestants shimmied down the catwalk, bared their teeth at the judges, and shimmied back again, to be asked banal questions by the vicar.

  Lola and Posy, still waiting in the wings, were stunned at the number of Fritton girls who wanted to travel to Third World countries and work with underprivileged children.

  Tatty said dreamily that she just wanted love and peace, Sonia was keen to start a crèche in Steeple Fritton to help young mothers back to work, and Vanessa thought she might like to marry and settle down in a quaint English village.

  ‘Over my dead body,’ Posy growled.

  ‘And contestant number thirty-two,’ shouted the vicar. ‘Lola Wentworth!’

  As Lola seemed to be rooted to the spot, Posy gave her a little shove and she teetered forward on the sloppy Jimmy Choos. The audience roared their approval. Ray Conniff was on his umpteenth rendering of ‘The Lady Is A Tramp’, and whoever was in charge of the Dansette thought they’d be very clever and switched the track to ‘Whatever Lola Wants (Lola Gets)’.

  Unfortunately, Neddy Pink took the opportunity to whip out his accordion for the accompaniment. He was at least two bars behind Ray.

  Peeping out from behind the curtains, Posy watched. Lola, wincing at the music and the audience participation, stared straight ahead at the bar. Ellis stared straight back. It was electric. The emotion was tangible. Lola smiled, but not for the judges; she posed and smiled some more, just for Ellis, then turned and glided back to the vicar.

  Amid massive applause, the vicar shoved his microphone under his nose. ‘Now, Lola, tell everyone what it is you hope for in your future.’

  Posy held her breath.

  Lola stared at Ellis again. ‘I’ve enjoyed every minute of my time in Steeple Fritton and made some wonderful friends and had more fun than I’ve ever had in my life – Running The Crooked Sixpence has been a fascinating and rewarding experience. I intend to take both my new-found skills and the memories of my friendships with me when I move on to start my new life.’

  Everyone clapped and cheered and whistled again. They were long past listening to the words. Posy watched Ellis’s face whiten and crumple. She watched him duck out from behind the bar, and Flynn grab his shoulder to stop him. She watched Ellis cry.

  ‘And the final contestant, last but by no means least,’ the vicar was getting hoarse. ‘Posy Nightingale!’

  Still trying to see if Ellis was okay, Posy skipped out on to the catwalk. It was highly embarrassing that Dilys and Norrie and Mr D and Mr B were all standing on their chairs and whistling through their fingers. The Pinks were chanting ‘Po-sy! Po-sy!’ the way the less restrained members of the Jerry Springer audience did.

  The trip along the catwalk was one of the longest of her life; her feet hurt and in consequence she grimaced unpleasantly at the judges. Morton Titterton winked at her. She assumed he’d winked at all the contestants. She hoped he’d get stuck like it and have to explain it to his wife. The return journey to the stage was taken at almost a run. The Jimmy Choos were making her eyes water.

  Once the applause had died down – and Posy had to admit, it was very heady stuff just strolling through the village hall and having everyone cheering – the vicar did his final microphone thrust.

  ‘Oh, er, I’ve got two ambitions in life. I want to carry on with what we’ve been doing over the last few months, setting up small enterprises, expanding the potential of the village, enjoying it, and really putting Steeple Fritton on the map. I’d also like to get married and have loads of children. Well, not as many as Tatty, obviously, but some. Thank you.’

  The cheering and foot-stamping was deafening. Posy didn’t look at Ritchie, and certainly not at Flynn. What was the point?

  ‘Right, ladies and gentlemen,’ the vicar barked. ‘You’ve seen all our lovely contestants, now the judges will need about fifteen minutes to confer. Clearly, their decision is going to be an extremely difficult one to make. The winner and her two runners-up will grace the main float on carnival day in two weeks’ time. A huge honour. So, I suggest you refill your glasses and –’

  Steeple Fritton needed no more encouragement than that. The lemming-like dash for the bar was awesome.

  Backstage, the contestants huddled together, all tension gone for the time being. There were shrieks of laughter, and sneaky cigarettes being passed round, and a lot of reciprocal grooming. Keeping as far away from Tatty, Sonia and Vanessa as possible, Posy and Lola perched beside the Dansette in case anyone decided to resurrect Ray Conniff.

  ‘You’re not really leaving? You didn’t mean it?’

  Lola nodded. ‘Yes. I thought I’d try applying for pub manager’s jobs. I’ll get accommodation that way. too.’

  ‘You’ll break Ellis’s heart.’

  ‘He’s broken mine, so it seems a fair deal. And you’re not really wanting to get married and have babies, are you?’

  ‘’Fraid so. Is marriage and motherhood very non-PC at the moment? Do you have to be running a global company and be at least forty-five before it becomes an option?’

  ‘Well, it does seem the trendy thing to do. What does Flynn have to say about it?’

  Why would Flynn have anything to say about it at all, honey?’ Vanessa towered over them. ‘Flynn’s coming back to the States with me.’

  “Is he?’ Posy tried to keep her smile from wobbling. He didn’t mention anything to me. I thought he was going to keep Steeple Fritton as his base and chuck in his lot with The Memory Lane Fair on a part-time basis.’

  ‘That was before I came along again.’ Vanessa squatted beside them in a chummy way, displaying most of her under
wear. ‘We’re going to take over his parents’ house in Boston and he’s going to help me as a bartender in Opal Joe’s.’

  Posy’s mouth was definitely quivering. ‘And Queen Mab?’

  “Oh, he’ll have her shipped over. It’ll cost, of course, but then Flynn’s okay for money. He’ll see the carnie out, and then we’re leaving.’

  Nice for you,’ Posy shrugged. She didn’t believe one word of it. Flynn would have told her if he’d changed his plans, she knew he would.

  Ladies, ladies!’ the vicar reappeared. ‘The judges have reached their decision. If you’d all like to line up on the stage . . . ’

  Every one, it seemed, wanted to stand at the back. It took several minutes of frankly un-vicarish shoving and pulling to get them into line.

  The curtains swept back to the strains of ‘Dancing Queen’, this clearly being the best Ray Conmff had to offer in his vinyl repertoire for such an auspicious occasion. The vicar stepped forward and Posy thought she was probably going to be sick. She very much hoped it would be over Vanessa.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen! The judges have reached their final decision! It was a very close run thing and I’m going to ask Florian Pickavance to present the lucky winners with their crowns. In time-honoured tradition, I’ll announce the results in reverse order.’

  There was a pause for the ritual hand-clapping and foot-stamping.

  ‘The second Steeple Fritton Letting Off Steam Princess is – Posy Nightingale!!!!’

  Posy now knew she was going to be sick. Several of the line-up swore nastily. Inching forward on the Jimmy Choos with the screams roaring in her ears, she allowed herself to be grabbed by a rather sweaty Florian. He kissed her damply on both cheeks and rammed a plastic tiara in amongst her Marc Bolan curls.

  Stunned, she staggered back into place. Sonia and Vanessa glared at her. Amanda and Nikki kissed her. Lola just laughed.

  The vicar revved up again. ‘And now, first Steeple Fritton Letting Off Steam Princess, and runner-up to Miss Letting Off Steam is, Lola Wentworth!’

  There was a great deal more swearing and several rather bitchy ageist comments as Lola tottered forward to be manhandled by Florian. Her tiara was lopsided. The village hall was in paroxysms of delight. Posy laughed, then saw Ellis’s face and stopped.

  Lola returned to the welcoming throng looking acutely embarrassed and stared at the floor.

  ‘And finally, the moment you’ve all been waiting for. The winner and Miss Letting Off Steam Carnival Queen is

  The vicar paused for dramatic effect. Neddy Pink used the silence for an accordion fanfare.

  ‘Sonia Dalgetty!!!’

  ‘Noooo!’

  Posy wasn’t sure if the cry came from her or Sonia or Vanessa or all three.

  Sonia, her hands clapped to her cheeks and making little moues with her pale, glossy lips, simpered forward. Florian, obviously a big Jean Shrimpton fan, groped as well as slobbered as he placed the crown on Sonia’s head and spent an unnecessarily long time adjusting the sash across her chest.

  Ritchie, Posy was pleased to notice, looked furious. Flynn and Ellis were nowhere to be seen. Sonia adjusted her full-blown crown, beamed at her subjects, and swaggered back into the line-up.

  Congratulations were in short supply as everyone glared malevolently at Sonia. Then someone hiked up the volume on ‘Dancing Queen’ and the local paper took photographs, and they all smiled with hatred in their eyes.

  ‘Ladies, ladies!’ the vicar clapped his hands. ‘Very well done. A wonderful turnout, and you’re all winners in my eyes. Our very lovely queen and her equally lovely attendants will all look, er, lovely on the float and are a great credit to the village. And as soon as the band is ready, I’d like to ask our lovely Miss Letting Off Steam, Sonia Dalgetty, to take to the floor with the chairman of the judges, Florian Pickavance!’

  There was a mad scramble as the catwalk was dragged away and a bevy of paunchy men in tuxedos humped various musical instruments and amplifiers and reels of cable on to the stage.

  ‘Shit,’ Posy muttered. ‘Florian’s brought his Down and Outs.’

  ‘Sadly not,’ the vicar said. ‘We couldn’t afford them. We’ve got Ezra Samuels and his Caribbean Combo from Upton Poges.’

  ‘Oh, goody.’

  ‘And by the way, just in case either you or Ms Wentworth were disappointed at not having won, I did tip the wink, so to speak, to the judges. I felt that as you’re to be our fortune teller, and Lola will be very much needed at The Crooked Sixpence for the Stars In Their Eyes karaoke, we couldn’t afford to have either of you crowned as carnival queen and be therefore otherwise engaged for the entire day.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ Posy nodded. ‘Not that either of us expected to win anyway. And did you also tip the judges the wink, so to speak, that Sonia would be the perfect choice?’

  Indeed not!’ The vicar looked horrified. ‘That would have been cheating. No, the final decision was the judges alone. She certainly wouldn’t have been my selection. Between you and me, my money was on that gorgeous American girl.’

  Posy snorted, straightened her tiara, kicked off her mules and marched down the steps.

  After extricating herself from her parents and Mr D and Mr B, all of whom were moist-eyed with pride and insisted on a group hug, Posy searched the hall for Lola. She seemed to have vanished into thin air. So had Ellis. Vanessa and Flynn were also missing, and Sonia and Ritchie were having a row. Tatty and her brood had joined the coven, and the younger Sprys were all tucking into heaped plates of nibbles that no one else would eat.

  Warily, because of her bare feet, Posy headed for the bar.

  Ritchie and Sonia didn’t interrupt their row for a second. The gist, it seemed, was Ritchie being miffed at his beloved being the object of Florian’s attention. Sonia didn’t share his concern and was currently pointing out that it was the Carnival Queen’s role to dance with all the judges, but she’d pass on Valerie Smith, and Ritchie would have to excuse her as her first official duty beckoned.

  ‘Daft tart,’ Ritchie muttered as Florian oozed through the crowd and clutched Sonia against his spindly leather and lurex body.

  ‘Seconded,’ Posy said cheerfully. ‘Can I have a drink, please?’

  ‘You should have won that. You look gorgeous.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Just pour me a drink.’

  ‘No, I want to dance with you. Now.’ Ritchie nipped out from the bar, and nodded towards Norrie who had arrived with a clutch of empty glasses. ‘Would you mind taking over here for a moment, please? Ellis and Flynn have done a bunk and I really want to dance with Posy.’

  Norrie looked perplexed. ‘And does Posy really want to dance with you?’

  ‘Course not,’ Posy grinned at her father, ‘but it’s probably the best offer I’ll get all night. You can make champagne cocktails for five minutes, Dad, can’t you?’

  ‘I’m a quick learner.’ Norrie squeezed in behind the bar. The customers were already three-deep. He still looked worried, ‘If you hurt her again, I’ll have your guts for garters, Ritchie. I mean it.’

  ‘Don’t worry. Apart from treading on my toes he can’t hurt me at all. I’m now totally immune to the Dalgetty charm.’ She wrinkled her nose at Ritchie. ‘Come on, then. Let’s see if you’ve lost your touch.’

  Ezra Samuels and his boys struck up a rousing Glenn Miller medley and Steeple Fritton took to the floor. The mirror ball revolved on the ceiling, scattering rainbow prisms across the dancers, as Posy, leading Ritchie by the hand, picked her way between the jitter bugging couples. They’d danced together here all their lives: at youth club parties, their own subsequent 18ths and 21sts, and many and various celebrations before, after and in between. It seemed scarily normal to be back in his arms.

  He laughed as her head fitted under his chin. ‘Spooky. We always slow-danced to everything didn’t we? It just seems so right.’

  ‘No, it doesn’t,’ Posy muttered into his T-shirt, it’s instinctive, that’s all. And please be careful no
t to dislodge my tiara, I’m very proud of it. Oh, and I do know why you’re doing this.’

  ‘Do you?’

  ‘Of course. To upset Sonia. A notion with which I wholeheartedly concur.’

  They shuffled around a bit more. As everyone else was twirling and spinning, the shuffling occasionally had to stop altogether.

  ‘There’s more to it than that,’ Ritchie muttered. ‘I wanted to dance with you because it was the only way I could touch you again. I want to be with you, Pose. I still love you and, and I want you back.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody stupid!’

  Posy jerked her head up so quickly that her tiara slid round her neck. She wriggled out of his arms and replaced her crown. Honestly! Men!

  ‘I thought you’d want me, too.’ Ritchie’s voice was almost a whine. ‘I thought –’

  ‘Oh, God! Listen to yourself!’ Posy had to howl above one of Ezra Samuels’ boys who was giving a trumpet solo. ‘Yes, maybe I would have done. Once. Ages ago. Not any more. Everything’s changed. Everyone’s changed. You can’t just walk away from your marriage and your child after a few weeks, Ritchie, and even if you did, I wouldn’t take you back.’

  The nearest couples eyed them with interest, but sadly Sonia and the wrinkly Florian were entwined like two melted candles and took no notice at all. It would probably take a crowbar to prise them apart at the end of the evening.

  ‘So it’s over?’ Ritchie looked like a sad puppy. ‘Really?’

  ‘Of course it’s over. It’s been over for months. Good God –’

  Ezra Samuels and his boys stopped playing at that moment. Sonia and Florian kept dancing. The band immediately struck up a sort of rumba, a signal for Steeple Fritton mayhem.

  Posy shook her head. ‘Go and get Sonia and carry her off to your Bunny Burrow love nest if you feel that chest-thumping is called for here. Just don’t try to score points by involving me.’