by Rosie Green
Then I remember Rob telling me I look good in slim-fitting jeans and tops. That will have to do, then. I can’t wear the red dress to an am dram meeting!
I pick out my skinniest jeans and pair them with a white camisole top and a soft cotton shirt with big bold checks in pink and dark blue that I’ve never worn because usually I prefer muted colours. (Mum describes these colours ‘jokingly’ as ‘shades of sludge’ and is always trying to encourage me to dress more colourfully.)
But Rob’s kind comments of yesterday have made me feel a little more adventurous this morning. Slipping my feet into low-heeled cowboy boots, I turn this way and that in the mirror. I’d say it was a definite improvement on my Christmas pudding outfit of last Friday night . . . although remembering Ethan’s favourable reaction to the plunging neckline and short skirt, perhaps he wouldn’t agree.
A little shiver runs through me, remembering our bar stool kiss.
I’ve got plans for you that I think you’re going to love, he said yesterday – and I’ve spent way too much time since then wondering what those plans could possibly be.
I keep thinking of Olivia Good in Decent Proposal when she was whisked off to Vienna by her lover, the enigmatic and very sexy Lukas, for lunch at an exclusive restaurant - followed by a surprise proposal in the snow and later, a diamond solitaire, glinting beneath the soft lights of a coffee house, in the saucer of a cup of hot chocolate.
Of course Ethan’s plans for me won’t be anywhere near that exotic . . .
Dad knocks on my door to tell me about the snow machine he’s thinking of hiring for the Snow Ball and he stops when he sees my outfit. ‘You look really nice, love. Are you going out?’
‘Just to a meeting of the am dram group.’ I smile at him. ‘Mum will have a purple fit when she sees me out of ‘sludge’ and wearing pink.’
‘It does look good on you.’
‘Not you as well, Dad!’ I flash him a fake warning look and he laughs.
‘You know, your mum doesn’t mean to criticise you. She only wants the best for you. She’s just one of those people who says what she thinks and sometimes it comes out wrong.’
I give a brittle smile. ‘Funny how it never seems to come out wrong with Rich. Everything he does is perfect.’ I hate the bitter way I sound at times like this. It’s just I can’t remember the last time I pleased Mum the way Rich always seems to. It was probably when I got a gold star for reading in Primary Three!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I walk into the village hall later, I catch Ethan’s eye and he walks straight over to me.
He pulls me into the kitchen and I wonder for one breathtaking moment if he’s going to actually kiss me, right there and then. He certainly seems keen to tell me of his plans for me.
‘Fen.’ His expression changes to surprise. ‘Hey, you look nice.’
‘Thanks.’ No kiss, then.
‘So anyway, as I was about to tell you yesterday before the phone rudely interrupted me . . .’
‘Yes?’ I smile up at him, my heart beating fast, knowing I’ll say yes to him whatever it is he’s about to suggest . . .
‘We need a Fairy Godmother for the dress rehearsal next Friday and I think you’d be brilliant!’ He smiles at me expectantly.
‘Oh. Right.’ Bemused, I wait for him to carry on. He still hasn’t told me what his special plans for me are.
‘So will you do it?’
‘Play the Fairy Godmother?’ I gaze at him uncertainly. ‘But what about Rosalind? That’s her part.’
He shrugs. ‘She’s at her nephew’s graduation the day of the dress rehearsal.’
‘Oh.’ Panic is beginning to creep through me at the very thought of stepping on stage with a magic wand. He really must be joking . . .
Seeing my obvious doubt, Ethan changes tack, murmuring encouragingly, ‘You’ve read through the part with Rosalind. I’ve seen you helping her with her lines on many an occasion. You must know it off by heart by now.’ His eyes crinkle up in a broad smile. ‘I thought you’d jump at the chance.’
Suddenly, the penny drops.
These are his special plans for me!
But if he really thought I’d be leaping up and down with joy at the prospect of acting in the panto, he clearly doesn’t know me very well.
I swallow down my crushing disappointment.
What an idiot I’ve been, imagining all sorts of fairytale scenarios that Ethan might have dreamed up for me. My fertile imagination has run away with me again, just like it always does.
Then he says, ‘By the way, I’ve just been invited to a wine-tasting at an art gallery on the Friday night, after the dress rehearsal in the afternoon. How about you come along with me? What sort of art do you like, Fen?’
The change of subject throws me for a second. ‘Well, I’m not so keen on all the poker-faced ancestors hanging on the walls of Brambleberry Manor. But I – erm - do like those colourful pictures of larger-than-life women enjoying themselves on nights out.’ I’m desperately trying to think of the artist’s name – I know it’s a woman.
‘Beryl Cook?’ says Ethan. ‘Yes, her paintings are incredibly popular. Although I’m not sure you’ll find anything in that style at this gallery.’ He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a leaflet and hands it to me.
I glance at the strange painting of a black square with a few green squiggles in the corner. The exhibition is apparently entitled: The Bureaucracies of Dilettantes: Media Art and Complacency.
‘Gosh, that sounds . . . erm . . . fascinating.’ I beam at him and hand the leaflet back, wondering what the hell it even means.
‘Probably a lot of pretentious crap.’ He grins. ‘But at least there’ll be free champagne. And samples of wine, of course.’
It flashes across my mind that Ethan loves a freebie. He still hasn’t paid me back yet for footing the bill in the café for him. Although he has asked me to remind him about it, so he obviously does intend to reimburse me eventually.
‘Excellent.’ I nod, thinking I don’t really care what the exhibition is called or whether the drinks are free. As long as I’m with Ethan, I’m sure to have a wonderful evening. I’m about to ask him what the dress code is. But Ethan gazes at me urgently and murmurs, ‘So what do you say, Fen? Would you like to make your acting debut on dress rehearsal night?’
I’d far rather have talked some more about our night out. But it’s clear Ethan is more concerned right now about filling Rosalind’s shoes.
‘You know what? I think you’ll be absolutely marvellous,’ Ethan is murmuring. He glances at the door then pulls me against him and suddenly I’m feeling just how marvellous he thinks I am, which is hugely flattering, I must say.
His handsome face, as he stares down at me, is full of pleading persuasion and impossible to resist. My panic forgotten, I gaze into his gorgeous chocolate brown eyes, which suddenly seem to me to have a bewitching hypnotic quality to them.
Almost against my will, my mouth opens . . . and I’m smiling up at him and saying . . .
‘I’d love to be your Fairy Godmother.’
*****
‘I can’t be the Fairy Godmother! Why ever did I say I would? Oh, Dad, I’m going to be rubbish at the dress rehearsal!’
I’m over at the zip wire with Dad, checking everything is in order for Christmas Day. Mum will be cooking a big Christmas lunch with quite a few invited guests, including Ellie and Zak, and Jaz and Harry, and Dad had the idea of everyone having a go on the zip wire in the morning, before the grand feast.
Actually, ‘checking everything is in order’ is mostly an excuse so Dad and I can have a few turns right now ourselves!
‘You’ll be great, Fen,’ says Dad as we climb up to the platform. ‘I have every confidence in you.’ He smiles fondly. ‘As long as you make sure you’re word perfect, you’ll have nothing to worry about.’
‘Except totally freezing and being unable to say a word,’ I groan.
We lean on the rail at the top and gaze out over the
parkland.
‘I think the trick is to sound as though you feel confident, even though you aren’t. I do it all the time.’ He quirks his mouth up at the corner. ‘People are more easily fooled than you might think.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He chuckles. ‘Most people are far too busy wondering if they’re about to fall on their butt and make a spectacle of themselves to bother judging how other people are faring in the confidence stakes.’
‘I never thought of that,’ I muse, leaning against him and staring up into the treetops.
‘It’s true, love.’ He kisses the top of my head and says, ‘You’re going to surprise everyone with how great you are. Now, who’s going first?’
‘You.’ I nudge him.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to oblige. But I think I’ll have to work up a bit of energy first, after that climb.’
I grin at him, thinking he’s joking. But he looks serious. ‘That’s not like you. I usually have to elbow you out of the way to get a go.’
‘I’m getting older, love.’ He does an exaggerated pout and I laugh.
‘Rubbish. You’ll never be old.’
Dad’s one of those eternally youthful people who seems to defy nature. He’s in his early fifties but he could easily pass for a man five, even ten years younger.
I glance at his profile. He does look tired today, though, and a cold hand grips my heart the way it always does when I think that there’ll come a day when my dad will no longer be around.
I worry about Mum, too. But for some reason, the thought of Dad growing old seems more poignant and scary. I suppose I’m a Daddy’s girl and always have been.
‘Okay, I’ll go.’
I love our zip wire. Mum had it installed in the summer just before we opened to the public for the first time and it’s been a great hit with guests – both kids and grown-ups alike. It’s lovely having it all to ourselves when the place is closed to visitors.
Mum’s never even been on it. She considers it pointless, like fairground rides, but for Dad and me, it’s our guilty pleasure and we quite often come over here to let off some steam. Rich joins us when he’s around.
I grip the pole and swing onto the rubber seat. Then I’m off, enjoying the stomach-flipping sensation of flying though the air and feeling the breeze ruffle my hair. At the bottom, I send the pole sliding back along the wire to reach Dad at the top and wait for him to join me.
He comes flying down and lands beside me.
‘Excellent. Another go?’ I send the seat contraption flying back along the wire and start walking back to the starting point, expecting Dad to catch up and overtake me. But when I turn, he’s still leaning against a tree at the bottom.
‘Dad? You okay?’ I walk back down.
‘Yeah, just a bit out of breath for a minute.’ He grins. ‘I’m fine now, though.’
I peer at him anxiously. ‘You look a bit pale. Maybe you’re sickening for something.’
He groans. ‘It’s probably the stew your mum made last night.’
Mum’s not a great cook. Even she admits that. And we all dread her ‘stews’ as they tend to be a mix of whatever happens to be in the bottom of the fridge and needing to be used up.
‘Ooh, I’ll tell her you said that.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ He pulls a comical frown.
I laugh, relieved to see colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Your secret is safe with me.’
CHAPTER TWELVE
It’s Saturday afternoon and we’re on our way to Brighton, Rob behind the wheel of his red Audi.
‘So have you rehearsed it yet?’ Rob asks.
‘Yes, I did two read-throughs with the cast using the script, even though in my bedroom, I’m always word perfect without it. But it’s the thought of performing to actual people that’s completely freaking me out.’
‘You’ll be fine,’ replies Rob with a calmness I wish I felt. ‘In fact, I’ll bet you a mulled wine and a hot mice pie that you could rehearse your lines on the beach, with me as your audience, and you’d be so good, I’d applaud at the end.’
I smile at the thought. Then I shake my head. ‘I doubt it. I’ll probably just – what’s that expression when you panic and forget your lines?’
‘Corpse?’
‘That’s it. I’ll be corpsing all over the place!’
‘We’d better keep that Midsomer Murders inspector on speed dial, then.’
‘I’d prefer Miss Marple.’
‘Miss Marple it is,’ he says, changing into a higher gear to overtake.
I glance at his profile. When Rob is relaxed and smiling, he’s really handsome. And he’s smiling right now. We’re travelling a touch too fast in my opinion (I’m not the most relaxed passenger) but I can tell already that he’s a good driver, so I feel perfectly safe.
‘I could always show you my special tricks,’ he says, glancing across and giving me a meaningful wink.
‘And what special tricks are those, Rob?’ I grin, playing the game.
‘Tricks to con people into believing I’m confident. When really I just want to leg it home and hide under the sofa.’
I laugh. ‘But you don’t need tricks like that.’
‘Ah, well, that’s where you’re wrong.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh yes, my nickname was Mouse at school. I’m incredibly, painfully shy. I just hide it really well.’
Spotting the twinkle in his eye, I start to laugh. ‘Stop it. Shyness isn’t funny. And you shouldn’t poke fun at people who are,’ I tell him.
‘Actually, I think shyness can be a really attractive quality,’ he says seriously. ‘Give me shy and modest over brash and cocky any day of the week.’
I fall silent, mulling this over.
I’ve always hated my shyness with a passion, feeling it was my biggest character flaw. It’s never occurred to me that other people – nice, well-balanced people like Rob – might actually consider my shyness attractive!
‘You’re right, though, I wouldn’t class myself as shy,’ he’s saying. ‘But that doesn’t mean I don’t have moments when I wish I had more confidence. So when I’m pitching for an important business contract and I know I’ll be nervous, I do my ‘Superman pose’ before I go to the meeting.’
I laugh. ‘Your what?’
‘You heard me.’ He grins. ‘It’s a little known fact that you can con your brain into believing you’re confident, which then makes you feel more confident. And one way to do that is to adopt what they call a “power pose” to make you feel more powerful. In private, of course. They might carry you off if you were to do it on public transport.’
I stare at him as if he’s nuts. ‘And you actually do that?’
He nods. ‘Sometimes. Because it works. Try it and see, although maybe you could be Wonder Woman instead of Superman.’
‘I suppose it’s worth a go,’ I say doubtfully.
‘I think the thing to remember is that no one feels confident all of the time. Some people are better at hiding it than others. Even the people who seem really confident in your am dram group are probably nervous as hell up on stage. Remembering that could make you feel a whole lot better about your own performance.’ He points. ‘A signpost.’
‘To help me have more confidence?’
He laughs. ‘No, to get us to this Christmas fayre.’
The fayre turns out to be really enjoyable. Rob is drawn to the woodcraft displays and I spend ages at a stall that’s selling festive gingerbread houses. I’m so impressed, I bring Rob over to see them.
‘They’re amazing,’ he agrees.
I nod. ‘Trouble is, you wouldn’t want to eat it, would you?’
He looks at me as if I’m mad. ‘I would.’
‘I’d love to buy one but I’m not sure what I’d do with it.’
‘Excuse me, Mrs Baker Extraordinaire. Why would you buy one when you could easily make one yourself?’
I snort. ‘No, I couldn’t. Something t
hat intricate? Mine would fall apart as soon as anyone looked at it!’
He shakes his head. ‘Honestly, Fenella Redpath. Have more confidence in yourself.’
‘I’d better do a Wonder Woman pose. And don’t call me Fenella. It reminds me of when I was a kid and in trouble with Mum.’
‘Fair enough. I think the Wonder Woman idea’s a good one, though.’
‘What, right here?’
He grins. ‘You could. But just so you know, I wouldn’t be hanging around.’
‘So where, then?’
‘The beach. Come on.’
We’d planned to go for fish and chips but we both agree we’ve sampled so many edible Christmas goodies, we don’t have room for any more food. The streets are packed with Christmas shoppers we finally wind up eating ice creams on a freezing cold beach.
After we’ve finished them, Rob strikes a pose as Superman, which has me in fits of laughter. And then, with encouragement from Rob who’s under strict instructions to warn me of approaching strangers, I find myself doing a Wonder Woman, striking a confident pose and thrusting my arms in the air with a triumphant shout. To my surprise, it does feel quite empowering.
‘Right. Now do your acting thing, Fairy Godmother,’ says Rob. He folds his arms and lounges against the wall of a beach shack that’s closed for winter, smiling expectantly.
I shrug. ‘Okay.’ Taking a deep breath, I start on the speech made by the Fairy Godmother when she first appears to an astonished Cinderella. After faltering a bit at the beginning, I start shouting my lines up at some shrieking seagulls overhead, making Rob laugh, and after that, my confidence soars even more.
With only Rob as my audience, I don’t feel at all self-conscious. And just as he said he would, he claps me at the end.
I smile, feeling suddenly shy. ‘You don’t have to be nice.’
‘I’m not being nice,’ he says seriously, walking towards me. ‘That was good, Fen. You were word perfect as far as I could tell.’
‘Thanks to Wonder Woman.’ I smile happily at him. ‘Maybe I’ll smash it after all.’