‘Ah, I would’ve said the same thing. You are so good, Sienna Martin.’ She pinches my cheeks, and I feel the colour burn. ‘You’re on Table One?’
‘I am.’
‘Great, me too. See you in a bit.’ She gestures her head to the queue of people who haven’t moved even when she did. ‘I better get to the rest.’
‘I’d love to hear more about the charity when we all sitdown,’ Luc tells her. Ada smiles and pats Luc’s arm before disappearing to the rest of the queue.
Luc moves so he’s facing me, the silk of my dress mingling with the fabric on his trousers. His hand is still resting on the bottom of my back, a light touch, so light that it doesn’t touch my body.
Luc and I decide to take our seats. The table at the front of the room, near the stage not yet in use, gives me a good vantage point over the room. Not many people are sitting down yet. Most are hovering around the room in small groups of people. They’re talking. Laughing and drinking. I take a sip of my wine. Ada has gone back to her queue, a smile painted on her face as she holds people’s hands. A few people cry when they speak to her, but Ada remains stoic. Sure of herself. She comforts them as though she knows them. I wonder whether she truly does know everyone in the room.
‘How are you feeling about the song?’ Luc asks.
I shrug. ‘My new vocal coach said thatSweethearts Inside at Nightwould be the easiest to sing on my voice, but I’ve had to change a few of the notes that I can’t currently sing.’
‘What’s wrong?’ Luc frowns, his thumb tracing soothing circles on my back.
‘We’re not sure. Need to go for tests. I had a cold a few months ago and my voice never recovered.’
‘That must be really hard for you.’
‘I’m scared,’ I whisper and try not to let the emotion overcome me. ‘I’m sure it will be fine. I’ve got some of the best doctors in the world.’
‘I’m sure it will be okay,’ Luc smiles because, really, what else can he say?
There’s a man with blonde hair and a bright red face, the apples of his cheeks redder than the rest. He reminds me of what Santa Claus would have looked like as a middle-aged man, before he gave up taming his beard. He laughs a huge guffaw whenever the woman next to him speaks. I wish Iknew what they were saying, but surely it isn’t funny enough to make that kind of sound?
Rory’s index and middle fingers straddle the stem of a wine glass, the flute balancing on top of them while he nods along to whatever he’s listening to. ‘My brother’s bored,’ I whisper to Luc, who follows my gaze to find Rory. ‘It emanates from him like a bad smell.’
A man taps on the microphone in the centre of the stage. ‘Good evening, everyone,’ he calls to a raging round of applause while people scramble to find their seats. ‘Thank you all so much for being with us today, at this special auction to raise money to help Gabrielle’s, a charity specialising in helping children with cancer and their families.’ The applause continues.
‘We will have food, while the auction goes on, but for now, we’re going to open up the evening with a performance from Sienna Martin.’ The man steps to the side and claps, giving me my cue to join the stage.
On stage, I pick up my guitar which is about to be auctioned and hook the strap around my neck. I prefer to play sitting down, but I have no choice up here. There’s no stool, just a double microphone: one at the height for my voice, the other for the guitar.
‘Don’t worry, I’ll only subject you to one song.’
A laugh.
‘This is one of my favourites. It’s from, erm… it’s from 2016,’ I continue.
I play the opening few notes ofSweethearts Inside at Nightand close my eyes so I don’t have to look at the reluctant crowd. But, as I get into the verse, it makes me feel off-balance, the unfamiliar stage and the quiet resounding around me. My voice doesn’t sound like mine. It’s scratchy, hard on the edges.
I open one eye slowly, and the other quickly follows. My eyes find Luc as he gazes up to me, his hands folded neatlyinto a fist in his lap. He smiles softly. I let my voice come out of me rather than trying to reach notes out of my natural range, and sing softly, letting the microphone carry it instead of trying to project.
The song I wrote about how I felt about Luc, sang so clearly in his ears, on a stage without in-ears blocking everything out. I don’t look away. It feels like I’m finally telling him to his face ten years too late even though we can never go back.
It’s like we’re the only two people in the room. Like we’re back in my songwriting room. The one in the house I lived in in 2015 when I was writing the album. It’s like I’m hearing the song for the first time. I may as well have just opened my own chest and handed him my heart on one of the champagne platters.
I’d disappeared by the time the song was released. And it was clear that our relationship was over. One of Luc’s texts has always stuck in my mind. ‘I thought you really felt what you wrote. Maybe you were just pretending what it would be like to be in love with me so you could write the song.’
That was it. It hurt so much. I never replied.
When I finish the song and put the guitar back on its stand, the crowd all stand up and clap politely while I give a half bow.
Back at my seat, Luc pulls me in and kisses my forehead again, tattooing the imprint of his lips on my skin. I can’t read too much into it. I disappeared for a reason, and I would like nothing less than to experience the hurt I had back then. And to hurt Luc again. If he ‘doesn’t know how I can live like this’ as he said at the restaurant, he wouldn’t want that life for himself. We don’t fit together.
The food starts coming out and a tiny puff pastry tart arrives for me, smoked salmon blinis for Luc.
