18. Going Back

We’re still quite a hike from the village and we seem to have come down the hill the wrong way, since we’re in a car park. ‘Excuse me – is there a café or anything open around here?’ I yell to a woman who’s bundling two dogs into the back of a jeep.

‘Try Fitzpatrick’s Hotel,’ she calls back over the wind. ‘It’s two minutes up the road that way.’

‘Two minutes,’ I pant. ‘We can make it. Oh, God, why did we ever think this was a good day for a walk?’

It’s so windy that I can barely make out the outside of the hotel except that it looks like some kind of miniature castle, with grey battlements and turrets. The relief of coming inside and feeling the swing door close behind us is indescribable. Through my squinting eyes I see red carpets and cosy alcoves, and a fire burning in the hallway, but it also seems unusually busy, with some kind of function or reception.

‘I’m afraid we’re closed for a wedding,’ says a man in uniform, coming up to us. I’m so cold I can barely get the words ‘Oh no’ out, but Joe says, ‘It’s blowing a gale outside – could we just have a cup of tea, somewhere out of the way? We won’t stay long. We’re tourists,’ he adds.

‘Well – all right. Come in,’ says our saviour, and we exchange relieved glances. Soon we’re seated at a table in the hall, beside the fire, facing the front window and tucked away so we can’t be seen by the rest of the room. Dusk is descending over the bay, and miles below I imagine all the Christmas trees being switched on, candles lit, fires being kindled, while the wind rages outside. At our table, there’s a little tealight candle, and a waiter who I’m guessing is a sixth-former or the equivalent, strikes a match and lights it for us, after taking our order for two cups of tea. Joe edges the candle towards me, and our hands touch briefly before I draw mine away. I get busy stirring my drink and start playing with a sugar packet before ripping it awkwardly and spilling sugar everywhere.

‘Since when do you take sugar?’ Joe asks me, sweeping it off the table into his hand. I’m trying to think of a plausible excuse when he says, ‘Look at that.’

I look up. The light in the room has changed; it’s suddenly dark outside though it’s only three-thirty, and a sighing, gusting noise is rising steadily over the background chatter. There are big arrangements of poinsettias against the windows, now looking even richer and redder as the windowpanes grow whiter and whiter at an incredible pace. It’s snowing properly now – not just a few flakes but an absolute whiteout, sent from nowhere to remind us that the elements are in charge.

‘A freak snowstorm,’ says an older man standing nearby, looking awestruck but also rather thrilled, as well he might; I’ve heard of these but never seen one. We made it not a moment too soon.

‘The Micra won’t be able for that. I’ll have to get Dermot to put chains on the Subaru,’ says a woman beside him.

The hotel manager from earlier – Gareth, according to his name badge – comes over to ask if we want anything else. ‘Also to let you know the situation outside … They’re closing the roads everywhere – even the Dart’s stopped running. Will you be able to get back to where you’re staying?’

‘Not by the sounds of it. Do you have any rooms?’ Joe asks, obviously thinking the same as me: they will be booked solid with wedding guests.

‘I’m not sure. The storm hit earlier up in the mountains, so there’s people booked in who are stuck in Wicklow. But some other guests who weren’t staying are booking in now, because they don’t want to travel, so I’d go and check with my colleague at reception soon, if you are interested.’

‘I’ll go now,’ Joe says to me, and he races off to the desk almost before the guy has left us. I sip my tea and watch him talk to the woman at reception, feeling bewildered by this rapid turn of events. I can see Joe talking away and gesturing towards me, and I try and look extra forlorn and shivery, which isn’t hard. This seems a very long conversation for what should just take five minutes, and I’m getting increasingly worried – until I see him take out his credit card: phew. But then, long after they should be finished, there’s even more chat. Is he … flirting with her? Yes, he is. God, he’s impossible. But I’m actually relieved to see it. Maybe I have been feeling something towards him, but it doesn’t mean anything: it’s just because we’ve been spending all this time together. Hormones, no doubt. I’m sure the same thing happens in prisons.

‘Do you want the good news or the bad news?’ Joe says, returning to the table.

‘Bad news, please,’ I say, without even having to think about it.

‘The bad news is, they only had one room left. Is that OK? I do realize it means we’re now in a 1940s farce.’

‘Fine,’ I say, relieved that he’s making a joke of it. ‘You’ll probably have to hide under the bed when my husband comes in, but that’s OK. What’s the good news?’

‘The good news is that we got a room. You’re welcome!’

‘Thank you.’ Looking at the blizzard outside, I can see that this is a good thing. As for the whole sharing a room thing: it would be too ridiculous to start worrying about it. We’re grown-ups after all; and I can sleep in all my clothes.

‘It was meant to be the wedding singer’s room, apparently,’ Joe says. ‘She is snowed in, up in Roundwood – she’s broken-hearted not to make it, by all accounts.’ He grins, obviously repeating verbatim what he’s just heard, and then waits expectantly for my answer.

I gaze at him silently. ‘And you’re telling me all this because …’

‘No reason,’ he says. ‘I just thought it was interesting. The bride is going to be very disappointed. They haven’t told the couple yet. They’re still serving the meal.’

‘Joe,’ I say. ‘Just come out with it. Do you think I should spring out of a cake and volunteer to sing? I don’t even know what kind of thing they’re doing.’ I bet the first dance will be something by Ed Sheeran or John Legend, which is not something I can really carry off.

‘Well, Orla – on reception – says they’re a rock’n’roll band,’ says Joe. ‘They’re called the Blue Notes. That sounds more like jazz, though, doesn’t it?’

I start to laugh – this is just too ridiculous. And then I can’t stop; the laughter keeps bubbling up and out of me. I’m also hopeful now that he wasn’t flirting: he was sounding out the situation for me.

‘Did you set this up?’ I ask.

‘Nope,’ he says. ‘You’re right. It would be a crazy idea. You’re probably a bit rusty, anyway, aren’t you? And you don’t do well with no rehearsal.’ He’s looking straight at me, daring me to react.

‘I actually do fine with no rehearsal,’ I say, aware that I’m walking right into his trap. ‘I did it at Finnegan’s, didn’t I? Remember that?’

‘Was that you?’ he says. ‘I thought it was Kiran who got up and sang.’

‘Shut up! OK, fine.’ I shake my head at him, laughing again despite myself. ‘Fine! If it makes you happy. I’ll tell them I’m available, and they can decide.’ I’m sure the band will have no intention of letting some unknown, who they’ve never played with before or even heard, get up and sing with them.

Half an hour later, I’m in a back room with piles of crockery and folded uniforms, meeting the band. There is Ronan on lead guitar, Sinead on keyboard, Kevin on drums, Paul on saxophone and Johnno on bass guitar. I’ve had my mini-audition, and now we’re running through the set list with a backing track on Ronan’s phone, making sure I know all the songs, which it turns out I do. I almost laughed out loud when I saw what the first song was. I can’t wait to tell Joe about it; that is a sign if ever there was. Not to mention that there’s been heavy moral pressure applied to me by all the band, plus Gareth and the two bridesmaids, once they got wind that I was here. No one has said that if I don’t sing we don’t get the room after all, but I feel there’s definitely some kind of karmic bargain in play.

I don’t need any pressure, though. I don’t know if it’s being in a new place, or having Joe with me, or the general unreality of being here in this castle in the storm, but I know that I can do it. I want to do it. I’ve been wasting time for far too long, and tonight I’m going to sing. For one thing, there are no sad songs; it’s a wedding, after all.

‘But what will you do?’ I ask Joe, when I go to get the room key from him so I can change. ‘I mean, I don’t want to leave you down here while I’m up there singing – all lonely and bored.’

‘Oh, I won’t be bored,’ says Joe, with a glint in his eye. ‘And if I do get bored, I’ll just go upstairs and wait for you in our room. Don’t worry – you’ll be great.’

I shiver at the phrase ‘our room’ but I dismiss the thought for now. I have more pressing worries. Like the fact that I’m about to get onstage to sing, for the first time in six years, with a group I’ve never even met before, let alone performed with. And it’s for a wedding! This isn’t some lounge bar full of drunken businessmen, where I can fudge and muddle through something even if I forget the words or miss my cues. The stakes couldn’t be higher.

‘Oh, God, Joe, I’m really not sure about that,’ I say suddenly. ‘I think I was being a bit arrogant, thinking I could hop up and just sing like this. I am completely unprepared. What if I balls it up? I could ruin this wedding!’

‘No you won’t. You will be great,’ he says again. ‘You’ve done it before and you can do it again.’

‘You really think so?’

‘I know so.’ He smiles down at me. ‘What do you tell your students, when they’re nervous about doing their choir solos and whatnot?’

‘Oh, I tell them to focus on one person in the audience and sing to them …’ My pearl of wisdom now seems like the lamest advice ever. I’m sorry, Ashanti, I tell her silently. I didn’t get it.

‘Great – do that.’ He cups my face with one hand – something he’s never done before – but I don’t even have time to worry about how right it feels. ‘This is long overdue. Just get up there and enjoy it. What are you wearing, by the way?’ He looks doubtfully at my jumper and jeans. ‘Can you perform like that?’

‘No – I have to go and get changed right now! We’re on at five.’ It’s 4.35 already, though it feels like midnight. ‘Aisling, one of the bridesmaids, is basically a genius and brought a spare black dress complete with tights and pumps. They’re a size too big for me but I won’t be walking much.’

‘You fill those shoes,’ Joe says, squeezing my shoulder.

I’m still gripped by the worst pre-stage nerves I’ve ever felt as I get ready. My knees are trembling, I feel nauseous, and my hands are ice-cold. But the minutes march on, until it’s time to get onstage with the other performers. When five o’clock comes, I step out in my borrowed dress and beam at the crowd, while Ronan takes the mike.

‘Good evening, folks – we’re the Blue Notes and we’re very happy to be with you this evening for this very special occasion, the wedding of Astrid and Stephen!’ There’s mad applause, and I relax a little as I remember two great things about weddings. Yes, the stakes are high, but there’s also a lot of goodwill, and above all, the focus is really not on you. Ronan introduces the band and then adds, ‘We’re also very happy to have a special guest singer for you tonight … all the way from London town, the very lovely Norah Baker!’ More applause. Tapping my mike, I say, ‘Good evening, and a big congratulations to Astrid and Stephen: I hope every Christmas is as special for you as this one.’ I smile at the couple, who are coming up to the floor for their first dance, and then nod to Sinead, who plays the opening chords while I sing that wonderful intro, Motown-style, just like I did on the sticky stage at Finnegan’s. And then a whoop goes up in the crowd as they watch Astrid and Stephen start their first dance: a jive to ‘All I Want for Christmas Is You’. Everyone is clapping, lots of phones are being held aloft for filming. As I discovered on that Christmas Eve all those years ago, a bit of adrenaline is sometimes no harm at all. I find one person in the room and think of him while I’m singing. And as I sing the final ‘You, baby,’ I point in his direction. He doesn’t move or react in any way but I see him smile.

There are more huge cheers as the couple finish their jive, and then we go straight into ‘Rocking around the Christmas Tree,’ which is the signal for more people to join them on the dance floor, with the older relatives showing everyone how it’s done. Then it’s ‘Frosty the Snowman’, then a rock’n’roll version of ‘Santa Claus Is Coming to Town’, which gets all the under-tens up, and they all stay on for ‘Jingle Bell Rock’. I have a few hairy moments with the lyrics of ‘The Man with the Bag’ but I manage to get through it OK. I’ve never been so grateful for the weekly vocal exercises with all my choral students, which means my voice is still in a condition to sing at all. It’s so high-energy I would be exhausted if it wasn’t for the buzz in the room, which keeps me flying through the next forty-five minutes, when we then take a five-minute break.

‘That was fantastic! Thank you so much!’ To my amazement, it’s the bride herself, Astrid, who’s come over to thank and hug me and bring me a glass of water – completely unprecedented in my limited wedding experience.

‘Oh, no, thank you,’ I reply. ‘It’s been brilliant – this is such a lovely wedding, such a perfect time of year for it. And that first dance! It was fantastic.’

Astrid, who’s the most relaxed bride I’ve ever met, seems thrilled to hear it and starts telling me about their search for the right summer wedding date, and then realizing that Christmas would be ideal because all their friends living abroad would be back in town, so nobody would have to travel.

‘I mean, a Monday wedding is ordinarily something you wouldn’t do to your worst enemy, let alone your friends and family – but everyone has tomorrow off anyway, so it worked out perfectly. These things always do! Anyway, lovely to meet you – thanks again!’ And she’s off in a cloud of bridal glamour, leaving me even more determined to do a good job for the remainder of this gig. I want to go and find Joe and make sure he’s OK, but Ronan is waving at me from the band stage, and I see that Joe’s already in conversation with a pretty wedding guest in a pink dress. Averting my eyes, I jump back onstage and focus on the music.

The second half of our set goes by even quicker; it’s only thirty minutes – as Aisling the bridesmaid said disarmingly, we’re only on for a short while to give the old people something. Everyone is still happily dancing, and I manage to keep up to the unaccustomed pace, though I get a bit tangled up in the words of our finale, ‘Must Be Santa’. There’s wild cheering and applause as we finish and take our bow, and I’m pouring with sweat and wishing I’d brought a tissue onstage – I really hope Aisling won’t mind if the dress comes back looking as if it’s been in a sauna. We’re taking what I think is our final bow, when I notice a woman coming up and asking Ronan for a request.

‘What does she want?’ asks Sinead, when she’s gone.

‘I told her you might not know it, Norah. Do you? “Going Back” by Dusty Springfield. I ordinarily wouldn’t do requests, but that’s the bride’s mother.’

What are the chances? I smile and shake my head, reassuring Ronan that, yes, against all the odds, I do know it.

‘Isn’t it a bit downbeat though?’

‘It’s only an encore – it’ll be grand. We’ll give it socks. OK, folks!’ he says to the others. “Going Back”.’

Sinead starts on keyboards, and I come in softly, thanking my lucky stars I can remember all the words. I didn’t really understand the song when Andrew first played it for me in Italy. But now I do, or I understand what it means to me at least. It’s about going back to the confidence of youth but also having the wisdom of age. And knowing that heartbreak might lie ahead, but also that I’m stronger than I thought I was, and braver too. I’ve lost illusions but I’ve gained in other ways. I was right that it wouldn’t have sounded much good with just me and Andrew’s guitar. It needed a fuller sound, the resonance and the richness you only get with many musicians, all bringing something to it, building a crescendo together. And I can hear the same resonance in my voice – it hasn’t degraded as I feared, it’s got richer. The song wouldn’t have been right for me then; it’s right now. By the time I get to the lines about living your days instead of counting your years, the tears are gathering, but they’re happy tears. I find Joe’s face in the crowd, and the pride in his eyes pushes me over the edge, until the tears are sliding down past my smile. I’m crying and singing in public and I don’t even care.

But I’m not the only one who’s been overcome with emotion. Everyone is clapping; there are tears in a few eyes, and a few people are on their feet. I know for sure that it’s the song they’re responding to, rather than our performance, but I have no idea why it’s struck such a chord.

‘How does everyone know that song?’ I ask Ronan, mystified.

‘It was on an old ad here, a Christmas ad. Years ago,’ he says, beaming at me as we all take our final bows. ‘About a young man going home for Christmas – and his mammy switches on the immersion – oh God, I’m going to cry myself. Thank you, Norah, that was great.’

‘Hah.’ I start to laugh at the absurdity of it all, wiping away my last tears. ‘Please don’t thank me, honestly. I should be thanking you. And Mairead.’ Poor Mairead, snowed up in Roundwood. She missed a great night.

‘Do you take cash, or would you like a bank transfer?’ Ronan asks me, on the money like a true musician. I don’t even consider it; I know that taking money would be against the spirit of this particular night. They’ve given me much more than money.

‘Oh, honestly, I don’t want it. Please give it to Mairead, and she can give it to charity if she doesn’t want it. Thanks again, everyone. You were brilliant.’

After a final quick goodbye to my new friends, I jump off the stage and run straight into Joe’s arms. He tightens them around me, smiling at me without saying a word. I hold him even tighter, so glad that he was there to persuade me – and share it with me.

‘You were fantastic, Norah. Were you happy with how it went?’ he asks, and I nod, beaming wordlessly.

The DJ has set up now and starts playing an Ed Sheeran song. I knew Ed would make an appearance at some point, and I’m only too happy to let him take over. Joe and I start dancing together, my arms hooked behind his head. It doesn’t matter that I’m in borrowed shoes two sizes too big, or that he’s incongruously in his jeans and shirt among all the dinner jackets – I can’t stop smiling, or leaning my cheek against him.

‘We’ve never actually danced together before, have we?’ I murmur into his shoulder, my voice hoarse from singing. ‘Not even at Kiran’s wedding … or Paul and Javier’s.’

‘Yes, we have – Gangnam style,’ Joe says. I snort with laughter, and he dips me, Hollywood style. Then – just as I’m wondering if I have the nerve to kiss him – he pulls my face towards his and he kisses me. It’s a completely magical kiss, and I’m powerless to do anything but kiss him back, regardless of the part of me that’s screaming: Joe! You’re kissing Joe! We resume dancing, his chin resting on top of my head. He clears his throat to speak, and I expect he’ll be saying something about how this isn’t a good idea. But instead he says, ‘So are you back? Is the Fabulous Norah Baker back?’

‘I hope so.’ I feel fabulous – and fearless. So I reach up and kiss him again, soaking up the feel of his lips, his hair under my fingers, the scent of him. It feels so right. Even that part of me that was sounding an alarm a few minutes earlier is getting into it.

‘So …’ he starts to say and trails off. ‘Wow.’

There’s nothing to say, so we smile at each other, wordlessly and awkwardly, and just resume dancing.

‘So did you make a new friend? The one in the pink dress?’ I ask, trying to aim for normal joshing.

‘Who? Oh yeah. Just chit-chat.’ He grins. ‘I told her I did animation, and she said, “Manga?”’

‘What? Oh.’ Obviously, seeing his face, she decided any animation he did had to be Japanese. ‘Sorry about that.’

‘I’ve had worse.’ His arm tightens around me. ‘I wasn’t paying much attention anyway.’

Suddenly Ed gives way to Lady Gaga, and Astrid storms the floor, flanked with her bridesmaids and all her female friends. This would normally be right up my street, but not tonight. We both stop dancing, lean back and look at each other.

‘What do you want to do next?’ Joe says. ‘Do you want to get a drink, or …?’

Another fork in the road. I know that the answer is go to bed – as in, make him sleep on the floor or me go to bed in all my clothes, after improvising some earplugs and eye mask (my retainer, alas, is back in the other hotel). But I don’t want to do that. I want to go to bed and do everything to him that I’ve been longing to do ever since we climbed that hill together – ever since this morning, even. Things we shouldn’t do if we want to stay friends, but who cares about friends when a man looks at you the way Joe’s looking at me?

So I take his hand and lead him off the dance floor. It’s probably not a sensible decision, but I’m tired of being sensible. I am tired of overthinking everything and being pessimistic as a default; I want to feel carefree and take risks again, the way I used to. Outside the ballroom, a quick glance at the window tells us the storm is still blowing, but we don’t stop to look; we walk up the stairs without a thought of what might happen tomorrow, which, in case I’ve forgotten, will be Christmas Eve.