Читать книгу A Christmas Gift: The #1 Christmas bestseller returns with the most feel good romance of 2018 - Sue Moorcroft - Страница 12

A debt-collector-free doorstep for eight days! Yay! Blair’s boxes and bags lying everywhere in the house apart from Georgine’s bedroom? Not so yay.

Georgine made a big effort to focus on the relief of having no looming silhouettes at her front door this week and kept her thoughts on Blair’s encroaching possessions to herself. Blair, after all, was making the best of having barely enough space to stand up in.

‘If I get the loft ladder down this evening we could put some of your stuff up there.’ Georgine tried to make it more of a statement than a question.

Blair grimaced from in front of the bathroom mirror, where she was applying her third coat of mascara. ‘Not if there are spiders.’

‘I had it de-spidered only last week,’ Georgine coaxed.

‘Yeah, right.’ Blair laughed. ‘Gotta get to work. Sales executives have to look willing.’ Blair spent her days selling products to the hospitality industry. She threw her mascara down beside her make-up bag and whirled from the mirror, performing a little shuffle to pass Georgine in the bathroom doorway. ‘Laters, sis! Mwah!’

‘Laters,’ Georgine echoed, watching Blair trot downstairs, step elegantly into the navy metallic kitten-heeled shoes she’d left beside the front door and breeze from the house. In her wake, silence reigned.

Before doing her own eyeliner and mascara, Georgine moved the make-up Blair had left balanced behind the taps to one side of the shelf above. Her own stuff had already been shunted to the right to make room. I’m not a neat freak, she assured an imaginary Blair in her head. She grinned at her reflection. Much. Her eyes took about two minutes to Blair’s ten, then she hurried to grab her backpack, glad there was nothing to prevent her from jumping into her trusty old Ford Fiesta to drive to work.

She was soon absorbed in her day at Acting Instrumental. Joe didn’t make an appearance in her room so she worked through her inbox before tucking her laptop beneath her arm and rushing off to watch Errol’s music students rehearse for the Christmas show in one of the smaller practice rooms.

The second and third scenes in act one included one song each, rehearsed together because they were both sung by female lead Samantha, who played Kerry Christmas, with Band One backing her. ‘That Baddy is My Uncle!’ covered Kerry learning her beloved uncle had a Godfather-like role in local organised crime. In ‘Dilemma/Don’t Put it All on Me’ she agonised over the consequences of doing the ‘right’ thing. About disillusionment and the death of childhood dreams, it was a haunting song and Kerry would wring the hearts of the audience.

When she joined the rehearsal, the band and Kerry Christmas were in full swing. Georgine’s heart flipped the way it did whenever she saw the kids perform. Laptop deposited on a chair, she tiptoed to the back of the room to watch and listen.

The band was made up of two guitars, bass, piano, drums and saxophone. The student on saxophone was Isla, whose mum, Sian, had been at school with Georgine. Sian was already down as a volunteer to sell programmes or tear tickets on performance nights, along with several other parents.

Sections of Isla’s black hair were gathered into knobs, one either side of her head, the rest falling down around her shoulders. Her eyeliner was so lavish that her eyes almost disappeared when she grinned at Georgine. The rhythm guitarist/vocalist was also female, her hands looking far too small to span the strings. The rest of the band was male, all with hair in fairly uniform trendy cuts on heads that nodded to the beat – apart from Tomasz, on lead guitar, whose hair was scraped back in a man bun.

‘Dilemma’ drew to its end on a long, perfect C, and Georgine bounced to her feet to clap enthusiastically. The band members and Samantha smiled in acknowledgement then looked expectantly at Errol. He stood at the side of the rehearsal room, one elbow propped on his other arm so he could finger his chin, on which had lately sprouted a thin black beard. He gazed thoughtfully at the leading lady. ‘OK, Sam. Has Hannalee talked to you about posture at all?’

Samantha, face falling, coloured violently. She was a pretty but fey girl, given to hiding behind her hair. Until she sang. Then she shook back her dark auburn locks and straightened her spine, joy and talent shining out of her. In Georgine’s view she was a star student. To question a singer of her calibre about something so fundamental as posture was a typical undermining tactic on Errol’s part. Samantha came under the singing tutelage of Hannalee rather than being directly his student and, evidently, he didn’t want her to twinkle too brightly.

Restraining herself from asking when demoralising outstanding students had ever been an effective teaching technique, Georgine cut in: ‘That number’s really coming on! Samantha, you’ll have half the audience in tears. Band One: playing really tightly – well done.’ Her voice full of warmth and enthusiasm, she flicked a look Errol’s way.

Errol gave a wintry smile. ‘Oh, yes, it was very good.’ He made it sound as if he’d had a but to add, then thought better of it.

‘It was awesome,’ Tomasz muttered, slapping Samantha on her shoulder and sending Errol a black look.

Abandoning her laptop, Georgine tried to move swiftly on from Errol’s lukewarm reaction, striding further into the room to beam round. ‘You’re doing so well! I’m working on the transitions between scenes and we’re well on schedule to include them in rehearsals.’

Errol broke in. ‘Just to let you know, we’ve only got Sam for another couple of minutes. Hannalee’s expecting her back.’

‘Thanks,’ said Georgine without looking his way. Errol was full of stupid power plays like interrupting because she’d made a small announcement with no accounting for the accepted hierarchy of first apprising him. Whoever had coined the term ‘passive-aggressive’ must have been thinking of Errol.

‘Georgine could sing with us if Sam’s got to go,’ Tomasz broke in, resting his arms on the top of the guitar around his neck.

‘Thanks Tomasz, but not this time.’ Georgine scotched the idea before Errol had a chance to object. He wasn’t a fan of Georgine joining in with the students.

Errol sent her a flinty, unsmiling look as he resumed control. He was one of the members of the teaching staff who saw interaction with support staff as an opportunity to establish who was more important. ‘Thank you, Band One,’ he called. ‘Samantha, thank you. You’d better go and rejoin your own group. Band Two, you’re up.’ Three girls and four lads, all significantly grungier than the members of Band One, rose with alacrity, grabbing instruments and heading for the performance space. Trent, the singing student who played the male lead, Uncle Jones, ran in, throwing his bag under a chair and taking position at a mic for a song from act two, scene four: ‘Uninvited guests’.

Down the line, Maddie’s Troupe One would be performing a street dance front and centre, which Troupe Two would join in the guise of police officers and gangsters. It was the one scene costume decisions had already been made on because both dancers and band would dress in combinations of black and white to allow for the gradual infiltration of police uniforms and detectives in suits into the party.

Georgine planned to get hold of plenty of sports whitener for shoes. Many of the dance students wore Converse or Vans for street dance, taking pride in their grubbiness.

She backed up to lean on a wall while Band Two finished setting up. A murmured conversation took her attention and she glanced around to see Joe Blackthorn crouching beside the chair of the bass player from Band One. A little shock darted through her. It shouldn’t have, because she’d sent him a copy of the rehearsal schedules spreadsheet marked with those she intended to attend and the comment that he might like to sit in on a few as time and his DBS status allowed.

The bass player – Nolan, she thought he was called – was poring over whatever Joe was showing him on his phone.

She hovered casually closer.

‘Don’t just keep your metronome for when your music teacher’s listening,’ Joe was suggesting. ‘Download a free metronome app for your phone. The bassist and the drummer are the backbone of the band. Practise with a click track at home and it’ll pay off in spades. Tell your drummer, too.’

Georgine was fascinated. She’d heard it said that ‘techs’ had to be as competent as the players they supported but Joe hadn’t until now displayed his experience. Professional skill was gold dust to students.

Her attention was drawn to Band Two, who made a couple of false starts because lead guitarist Sammy was clearly flustered, probably by the presence of Georgine and Joe. Band One didn’t help the situation by catcalling gleefully.

Errol, to give him his due, made time for his own students. ‘Freestyle for a bit, Sammy,’ he suggested. Sammy nodded and, head down over his instrument in embarrassment, began to improvise. The drummer and bassist soon picked up his tempo and the rhythm guitarist positioned himself where he could see Sammy’s fingers and select the right chords to back him.

After a couple of minutes Errol said casually, ‘OK, let’s go again.’ Sammy proved to have settled. The band kept it tight for the whole number. Errol gave them a wide smile and raised his hands above his head to applaud. ‘Great stuff!’

‘Really great! Thanks,’ Georgine called, moving back towards the door and swooping up her laptop en route. Out in the corridor she made a note to make sure that Sammy was kept calm and comfortable, especially for live shows. Hopefully Errol would be on top of it. But, if not, Georgine would be.

The rest of the morning went by on wings. First she telephoned Ian, box office manager at the Raised Curtain. He gave her the news that they’d already sold more than a hundred seats over the six performances. She pulled a face because they had over a thousand to sell, but said, ‘That’s a great start!’ Declaring it a so-so start wasn’t going to do anything for her business relationship with the box office.

‘And I was about to ring you,’ Ian continued, with the air of pulling a rabbit from a hat, ‘because I’ve just heard from Girlguiding Cambridgeshire West. They want to select the Saturday matinee for their Christmas outing and I’ve been asked to hold a provisional hundred and thirty seats.’

This time Georgine didn’t have to struggle to sound happy. ‘Wow! That’s brilliant!’

They spent a few minutes discussing the discount, Georgine refusing to be drawn into being overgenerous. The more each show made, the more Acting Instrumental could pour into other productions or resources. They were a comparatively rich college, thanks to Oggie being a whizz at securing funding from all the relevant bodies, but couldn’t run at a loss.

Girl Guides dealt with, she turned to a fresh subject. ‘By the way, a new member of staff, Joe’ – she had to grope for Joe’s surname – ‘Blackthorn will be handling the tech crew so he’ll probably want to check out your space. Will that be OK? Great, thanks very much.’ She ended the call, glad Joe hadn’t been here to witness her almost forgetting his name, but just for an instant something had got in the way of her memory function. Joe just didn’t seem like a Blackthorn somehow.

At lunchtime, she went to the cafeteria, selected lamb ragu with rice, then looked around for somewhere to sit. At a table in the corner she spotted Joe with some of this morning’s music students and dance tutor Avril and headed their way. ‘Hi, everyone,’ she said as she deposited her plate and drink on the table.

Avril beamed, ‘Hiya!’ Her blonde hair was coiled at the back, the fringe left to frame her face.

Joe said, ‘Hi.’ His plate was empty and he was lounging back in his chair, coffee mug cradled in his hands.

With only a minuscule pause to acknowledge her arrival, the students continued with their own conversation. Georgine savoured her first mouthful of lamb with an appreciative murmur. Acting Instrumental was the only education establishment she’d worked in with catering of this standard.

Avril finished her meal and put aside her knife and fork. ‘How’s your stressometer?’ she demanded of Georgine. ‘Climbing nicely as you pull everything together for the show?’

‘I thrive on it.’ Georgine grinned. ‘The buzz and thrill of seeing progress at rehearsals.’

Lowering her voice, Avril enquired, ‘Nothing new on the Aidan front? No resolution?’

Conscious that the students could be listening, Georgine was circumspect. ‘One to put down to experience.’

‘Awwwww.’ Avril pulled a sympathetic face. ‘So you’ll be living alone at Christmas?’

Georgine laughed. ‘Except my sister’s moved in for a bit.’ And had come through with the first month’s rent, which had allowed Georgine to pay extra to the water authority’s outstanding bill.

Joe joined the conversation. ‘Is your sister moving in a good thing?’ A smile lurked in his eyes.

She made a face. ‘Time will tell. I love her to bits but we’re very different. Do you have siblings?’ She took another mouthful.

The smile in Joe’s eyes changed to something more wistful. ‘I had a stepsister or, at least, my mother and her father lived together for a while. I lost track of her.’

‘That’s a shame, you must have been close if you were brought up in the same house.’ Then, seeing Joe’s gaze drop as if he were becoming uncomfortable with the subject, she tried to change it to Ian at the Raised Curtain.

‘What’s your sister’s name?’ Avril asked Joe at the same time as Georgine opened her mouth.

Joe glanced at her. ‘Chrissy.’

Avril, who could out-talk an auctioneer, opened her mouth with, no doubt, yet another question, but a student paused at the table. ‘Oggie’s looking for you, Rich.’

Joe looked up at the student and opened his mouth as if to reply. Then a student called Richard jumped up from his place further along the table. ‘I asked him to sign my passport form. Thanks. I’ll go to his room.’

Joe closed his mouth again, his gaze flicking towards Georgine.

Avril asked Joe something else.

Georgine couldn’t make herself listen. Her senses were locked on the man across the table, the room around them receding to hiss and blur, almost obscured by the sudden acceleration of her heartbeat. Now she knew why the name Blackthorn hadn’t seemed quite right, and, probably, why ‘Joe’ seemed to watch Georgine a lot.

Maybe because she’d just heard his sister Chrissy’s name again, and when he’d almost answered to the name of Rich a moment ago it had spun the tumblers of her memory. His face and voice clicked into place, like one of those optical illusions where you thought you were looking at one thing but suddenly realised there was another picture there all along.

Rich Garrit.

Joe Blackthorn was Rich Garrit. How the hell had she missed it till now? It was so obvious! The face shape had matured, he was tall instead of small and spindly, the hair was completely different, but the eyes were the same, and the shape of his mouth.

Rich Garrit had been the most underprivileged kid in their school with horribly outdated or unsuitable clothes in a mishmash of sizes. The wrong shoes. A PE bag that was a supermarket carrier bag with his name written on it in marker pen. The kind of parents that no kid would choose.

Dumb with shock, vaguely she registered Avril checking her watch and making ‘back to work’ noises, the students moving off in a body to whatever awaited them next.

And Joe gazing ruefully back at her.

Through the soulful brown eyes of Rich Garrit.