“Oh, comeon,” I say again, indignantly. “You can’t be serious? You didn’t actually think I was somehow going to become a professional singer in the course of a week-long package holiday to the Canaries?”
The Fairy-Godfolk stare back at me, unblinking. I’m actually starting to feel sorry for Cinderella, if the truth be told. I mean, did anyone even ask if shewantedto go to the ball? Maybe she’d rather have just stayed at home and read her book. Did her skincare. Lit a nice scented candle. Did anyone think ofthat?
On the stage, the opening bars ofFlowersstart up, and a young woman starts screeching into the mic, to polite applause from the assembled crowd.
I could do that.
The thought makes me sit up a little straighter in my seat as I turn to watch her. I’ve never been exactly confident about my singing ability, but I’m not wrong: I really do think I could sing at least as well as the woman on the stage; and, even if I couldn’t, would it really matter? Because she might not have the greatest voice in the world, but she’s having an absolute ball. Right in front of her, a man I’m assuming is her husband is roaring his encouragement, while holding up a camera phone, to record his wife’s big moment. All around him, people are clapping and cheering, almost as if they’re watching a professional singer, rather than someone who appears to have never heard this song in her life.
No one’s pointing or laughing. No one’s making fun of her. And, when she reaches the end of the song, and stops to take a bow, the whole place erupts with applause, everyone good-naturedly joining in, because they’re on holiday, and having fun, so who cares if there were a few wrong notes?
I want that too.
The second thought is even more surprising than the first one was; but now that I think of it, not really. As a teenager, I used to spend hours on end singing in the shower, and imagining what it wouldbe like to sing on stage. My 13-year-old self wouldliterally dieat the thought of actually getting to do it.
Don’t I owe it to her to give it a try?
“Ooh, look, she’s thinking about it,” says Rita in a stage whisper. “I think she’s going to do it.”
“Are you, Summer?” asks Alice hopefully. “Are you really thinking about it?”
“Oh, go on love,” says Rita. “Why not? You only live once, you know. And you’re on holiday — you’ll never have to see any of these folks again, even if you do end up making a right tit of yourself.”
‘You only live once’ is exactly the type of trite, motivational quote that someone like Alex would deride as a faux-profundity for the Instagram generation: the kind of thing you’d see written in a swirly script, and superimposed on a photo of a sunset.
It’s also absolutely true.
When else am I going to get the opportunity to sing live on stage, after all? It’s not like they tend to advertise jobs for wannabe celebrities in the local paper. (“Wanted: female singer. Must be comfortable with worldwide fame…”) But I’m here now, in a place where no one knows me, and know one’s likely to remember or care if I ‘make a right tit of myself’, as Rita so eloquently put it.
“I think I’m going to do it,” I announce boldly, surprising even myself.
Rita, Alice, and Julian burst into a spontaneous round of applause, which totally ruins the chorus of ‘You’re The One That I Want’, which is currently being sung by a young couple with strong Geordie accents.
No one’s laughing at them either, though. That makes me even more determined to see this through: to do it for my 13-year-old self. (And also for my new octogenarian friends, who appear to think I nowowe it to them to complete my list, and who all look like they might be tempted to ask for a refund if I don’t manage to do it.)
“What are you going to sing, Summer?” asks Julian. “Will you join Gerald inUnchained Melody? It’s always a big hit at these things.”
“No,” I reply, picking up the ring binder again and leafing through it. “I think I’m going to do ‘Cruel Summer’.”
“Oh, Bananarama?” exclaims Rita. “I love that, I do. I’ll maybe join you.”
“No, Taylor Swift,” I tell her, making up my mind. “It’s one of my favorites. And not just because it’s got my name in it.”
Okay, it ispartlythat it’s got my name in it. And, to be totally honest, I’m already doubting my ability to successfully rhyme the words, “it’s ooh-ooh-ah-ah” with the rest of the chorus. But, just like when I got on the plane, and when I climbed — was driven — up that mountain, I’m going to give it a go.
Right now.
Before I completely lose my nerve.
Which I think I maybe alreadyhave, actually?
“Right, then,” says Rita, sensing my hesitation. “Let’s get you up there, then. Julian?”
She raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Julian leaps obediently to his feet, coming to stand on one side of me, while Rita takes the other. Together they pull me out of my seat and practically frog-march me to the stage, just as the ‘kids from Grease’ double-act comes to an end.
“Fairy Godfolk coming through,” shouts Rita, giving me a sharp push which propels me rapidly up the three steps that lead to the low stage. “This is Summer,” she goes on, turning to address the hotel worker who’s manning the karaoke machine. “She’s going to be singing ‘Cool Summer’ by Taylor Swift.”
“Cruel,” I say, forgetting the microphone in front of me is switched on. “It’sCruelSummer.”
