She bowed her head and mimed handing her flowers to an imaginary assistant, curtsying as she acted out receiving a gleaming gold statuette. ‘Thank so you much,’ she gushed. ‘This means the world to me . . .’
For a moment, she stood there, eyes closed, soaking in the fantasy adoration. The warmth and admiration felt almost real.
There was silence in the ballroom for a few beats. Then a hesitant clap or two started up, gathering momentum. Someone even called out, ‘Bravo.’
Greta opened her eyes. For a second or two, it truly felt like she’d been back in the spotlight.
Her smile gradually faded as she took in the mostly empty room, where the cluster of women shared strained glances.
Millie clapped enthusiastically. ‘Fabulous. Such fun. You’re a true star, Greta. Who’s next to try, ladies?’
The women shifted in their seats, fixing their glances on the table, or finding their coffee cups suddenly fascinating.
Millie’s smile grew tighter. ‘Come along, now.’ She gazed around. ‘Anyone at all?’
Greta stretched her neck. Perhaps her exercise had been too abstract for the women, too far removed from the comfortable routine of Mapleville life.
Eventually, Desdemona stood up, clinking her teaspoon against her coffee cup to draw attention. ‘Thank you for the, ah, entertainment, Greta. But there’s no need to fantasize about things that don’t matter.’ She turned to address the group. ‘Now that’s over, perhaps you’d like to hear my recipe for tiramisu, made with a strong shot of coffee?’
‘Yes, please,’ the lady in lemon said.
A relieved murmur echoed through the group.
Desdemona smiled smugly.
‘Thanks for giving the exercise a try, everyone,’ Greta said as she took her seat again. ‘Maybe we’ll try something different next time. In the meantime, just let your minds wander and see where your imagination takes you.’
A few women nodded politely before turning their attention to Desdemona and her recipe. Soon, the chatter slipped to school fairs, pet competitions, and baking.
Millie reached over and gave Greta’s wrist a gentle squeeze. ‘You did really well.’
Greta wasn’t so sure. Even her tiny audience at Brewtique had been more receptive. ‘Thanks,’ she said anyway.
Millie gave her a look that was hard to read. ‘Do you have a moment?’ she asked, gesturing toward the door.
They both slipped out of the room, into the quiet of the corridor.
‘Your exercise was most enjoyable. Rather . . . unconventional,’ Millie said.
Greta appreciated the encouragement. ‘I’m not sureeveryonefelt that way.’
‘Oh, don’t mind Desdemona. She’s a creature of habit, and your session wasn’t quite what the ladies are accustomed to.’ Millie pursed her lips, as if searching for the right words. ‘It’s just that, during your exercise, I had the strangest feeling. As though I’d actually been to Paris. I could picture it so clearly . . .’ She shook her head, still processing her thoughts. ‘But I can’t ever recall leaving Mapleville.’
Greta smiled. ‘It’s easy to get caught up in your imagination. Sometimes things can feel real, even if they’re just pretend.’
Millie fiddled with a button on her sleeve. ‘Yes, that must be it,’ she said, nodding as if to convince herself. With a shake of her hair, she added, ‘Well, thank you again, Greta. For delivering something so . . . freeing.’
Chapter 17
GRETA RETURNED TOher house, feeling both uplifted and perplexed by the coffee morning. Other than Millie, the women of Mapleville seemed unwilling to see a bigger picture, or even acknowledge that one existed. Their sweetness had been a little cloying, leaving her with a feeling of eating one too many sugary doughnuts.
Still, the brief applause, both from her imaginary audience and the actual one, had reignited a spark within her. It offered a glimpse of the performer she once was, and a taste of the adulation that came with it, leaving her craving more. She didn’t particularly want to think about life beyond Mapleville. But, strangely, Millie seemed open to the idea.
Greta stood by her living room window, humming the Maple Gold jingle to herself while waiting for Jim to arrive home for their date. She’d forgotten how going out with him could make her feel light and breathless, like helium balloons were lifting her off the ground.
Mapleville Jim probably wouldn’t know anything about their struggles and trial separation in real life, and she wanted to make the most of that.
‘Hurry up, I’m ready,’ Greta whispered, unsure how long the effects of Iris’s coffee were going to last. She might only have minutes left here, or it could be hours. There was no way to know for sure, and she felt entirely at the mercy of Iris and her strange brew.
