Chapter Thirty-two

NEARLY EVERY SEAT in the church hall is filled. There is a low buzz in the room. Peeping through the side of the velvet curtain, I can see people chatting, reading the programme, unwrapping sweets. Nicole and Dominic walk down the aisle. They’ve spotted some friends and have stopped to talk. Nicole absently strokes her gently swelling stomach; Dominic is looking around for somewhere to sit. Matt, sitting next to Audrey, raises an arm and waves, to indicate the seats he’s been keeping for them. In the third row I see Vasant, whispering to a lady in a sari, presumably his wife. I am relieved to see the audience looking relaxed, but this doesn’t stop me feeling faintly sick. I glance at my watch.

I turn and cast a quick eye over the table of props in the wings: a black shoe and a tin of polish, a box of brownies, a cocktail glass. All perfect. But the cake! Where is Amy’s cake for the first scene? Panic swoops into my stomach.

I squeeze myself round the table and sprint past the flaps to the back of the stage. Sixth-formers from the school where Dylan is a governor are repositioning a sofa in the middle of the stage. In the corridor, above the sound of Jenny warming up her voice, I hear footsteps and heavy breathing. Serena appears, half hidden by two tiers of wooden cake complete with a circle of fake candles on top.

‘Sorry,’ she says, handing me the cake, and bending over with a stitch. The cake is as heavy and as awkward to hold as it looks. ‘Harry left it at school. The woodwork teacher says if it’s not right he’ll make a smaller one for tomorrow.’

‘And where’s Harry?’ I say.

‘In the loo, gargling with TCP. He’s picked up a bug from the girls – they’ve all got colds.’

‘I can’t do up my cuffs,’ yells Dylan, rushing up to us and holding out his arms. ‘Can one of you do up my cuffs?’

Serena obliges, and murmurs words of calm.

‘Beginners, please. Three minutes,’ says Julian walking past, followed by the ten members of the church orchestra. He’s made them all wear black tie. I want to kiss him.

‘Oh, God,’ groans Dylan, ‘that’s all of us. And my mother’s not even here yet.’

My jaw clenches. ‘Your mother’s not here?’ I say. I drag my hands through my hair, forgetting that part of my costume includes a short bridal veil. Hairgrips clatter to the floor.

‘Joke!’ trills Dylan. ‘I’ll go and get everyone on stage.’

I close my eyes and take a deep breath. Some people have dreams that they are about to sit a maths exam; others, that they’re in an interview, naked. My one recurring dream is that I am on stage and haven’t learned my lines, and must keep slipping into the wings to re-read the script.

Jenny is first up from the parish hall kitchen, which is doubling as the female changing room. For the first time in months she has a sparkle in her eyes. She helps me re-pin my veil, and I give her a quick hug; her floral perfume is warm and soothing. Clive leads out the men – variously, they are tugging at jacket sleeves or massaging throats. The orchestra is tuning up.

Finally Dylan reappears, his mother on his arm. His curls are slicked down with gel, his freckles evened out under make-up. Pamela is dressed in a 1960s maxi dress in orange and brown. She looks terrific, and she knows it.

We shuffle along the corridor and take our places in the wings. There are lots of winks, and thumbs-up signs, and instructions to break a leg.

‘God, I’m nervous,’ whispers Serena.

None of us are able to keep still.

Standing in the opposite wings, Dylan’s churchwarden waves at me. In return, I give him the nod to raise the curtain. Harry brings out a pocket flute and plays one long, soft note. We all try to hold it in our heads. As the velvet rises, the noises from the audience subside as they offer up to us their collective goodwill.

Dylan, as the lead character, Bobby, walks to the middle of the stage. He goes to his answer machine, hits ‘play’, and listens as our pre-recorded voices ring out with messages of friendship. Julian brings in the bass player, two violins, and plays some chords of his own on the piano. Then silence. Off stage, a cappella – using Harry’s note – we start intoning Bobby’s name in harmony, building to a crescendo of multi-part harmonies. Then, one by one, we join Dylan on stage. In my hands I carry the enormous cake. I feel alive. We are ready.