And this time I definitely won’t be letting any out-of-control kitchen volunteer throw my mixture where he shouldn’t.
26
The beachside Mamma Mia! singalong night
Meatballs, music and misunderstandings
Saturday, a week later
‘We’ve got so many punters hitting the Greek brandy and lining up the ouzo shots, I reckon the second half singing will be even better than the first.’
This is Nell, a week later, chortling to Plum and me as we stand behind a trestle table on the beach below the swinging lights at the end of the Surf Shack deck where the large screen has been erected for tonight’s event. True to St Aidan’s principle of ‘Why wait until tomorrow when today will do?’, theMamma Mia!evening is happening as we speak. Earlier we were dishing out moussaka and Mythos beer, and now we’ve moved onto the desserts. As I hand out baklava and spiced walnut cake, honeyed Greek donuts and rice pudding dusted with cinnamon, my mouth is watering.
Plum pops a mini filo pastry into her mouth. ‘We’ll still be singing louder than any of them.’
Nell laughs. ‘Who’d have thought a fancy-dress themed singalong would fill the beach?’
It’s true, this whole area is heaving. There are groups sitting on rugs on the sand in the centre in front of the screen, while others have set up their deck chairs around the side, and more still are standing in clusters beyond them. Wherever I look it’s like being transported back to a Greek summer, circa 2008.
Plum’s rolled up the legs of her navy dungarees, unhooked a strap and added a floaty white muslin blouse, Nell and George are in shorts and almost-matching cheesecloth shirts, Nate’s gone all Piers Brosnan in chinos and a striped open-neck shirt, and I’m wafting around in a voile dress with ruffles in unexpected places that I grabbed from the Cats’ Protection ‘everything for a pound’ basket. The only downside to my outfit is the thigh-high slits in the skirt I only noticed when a freak gust of wind blew the wrong way off the sea earlier and showed everyone my pants. But as we’re all female behind the table I got compliments about the pretty lilac colour rather than the over-exposure.
As Sophie comes over she’s wafting too, in a dark turquoise dress she whipped from Nate’s mum’s cruise-wear wardrobe. She scans the crowd then turns to me. ‘Where’s Ross got to?’
I wrinkle my nose. ‘Still not back from the emergency he rushed off to.’ Elise called for his help again, but our musical clashes might be more to blame than her. ‘I don’t think Abba’s his thing. When I was playing my warm-up mix, he wasn’t really embracing the heart-pumping joy of the songs.’ Me knowingeveryword toeverysong by Abba and Blondie goes all the way back to my mum playing her pop nostalgia playlist non-stop when we were kids. It can be too much.
Sophie shoots me a sideways glance. ‘You and Ross are practically joined at the hip these days.’
I’m aiming to laugh this off. ‘Notwhen I’m belting out “Waterloo” at the top of my voice.’ I’d never admit that I keep scanning the crowd for him this evening or that it feels a bit flat without him.
Nell gets her phone out. ‘I can’t stop watching the clips of you two battling it out over cupcakes-on-strings, they’re hilarious.’
Plum hitches up her dungarees. ‘People are going crazy for them. Have you seen how many views they’ve had?’ She gives me a nudge with her elbow. ‘You always looksodetermined to beat him.’
She’s right about both things. I mean, a lot of the singles club people who go head-to-head over the buns end up in a full-frontal snog, and there was no way I was going there. In any case, growing up with five older siblings I learned how to fight my corner.
The first night I decided the only way to cope with being literally face to face to Ross with only a bun case between us was to take control, and I ended up ramming the cake and the icing all over his cheek with the side of my head. And after that it’s somehow felt as if I’ve finally had the chance to channel my anger for the way he let me down. Which is why there has been so much icing crushed against various parts of his head and shoulders, and quite probably why there have been so many views too. We’ve just uploaded ‘Cressy and Ross’s Battle of the Buns Clip 5’, and I’m proud to say, I’ve squished buns on him in all of them.
I laugh. ‘I just call him Icing-head.’ The only downside is that after my onslaught he’s often ended up so sticky he needs a shower at the end of the night, and I can hardly make him go to the surgery so late. So I have to be extra careful not to collide with the guy in a towel in the hallway.
In fact all the clips I’ve put up are attracting attention of the right kind. There’s a hysterical one with Walter telling everyone about cows giving birth while I make flapjacks in the background. People seem to love the ones of me looking for eggs up at Walter’s place, and feeding time for the calves. I’ve even dared to put a couple up on the blog.
Sophie turns to Nell. ‘The grand total for Kittiwake will be mounting up if we’re getting this much support for all the events.’
I smile at her. ‘Are you all set for next weekend?’
As she pushes back a strand of blonde hair her face lights up. ‘The chromic yoga person put her back out, but we’ve got someone from the holistic exercise centre instead.’ She drops her voice. ‘It’s quite a coup, their waiting lists stretch across the bay.’
Plum nudges me again. ‘Watch out, it looks like they’re settling down for the second half of the film. What’s your favourite song from this part?’
I let out a groan. ‘That’s like asking Sophie which of her children she likes best.’
Sophie’s handing bottles up out of the ice bucket. ‘Beers all round? My treat! Anyone need their wraps from under the table while I’m down here?’
As I sip my bitter and pull my cardigan round me I’m looking out at the wind ruffling the sea, the white horses streaking the surface as the sun slides down towards the horizon. As the first bars ring out across the sand, Diesel’s nose is on my leg, and if I’m looking up and down the beach it’s definitelynotto see if there’s a familiar figure making his way along the shoreline. For the next hour I don’t give another thought to where Ross has got to because I’m singing my heart out, only pausing when customers come for second helpings of puddings.
In fact he’s so far from my thoughts that as the light fades and the final credits roll and the whole crowd is swaying as one, arms in the air, to ‘Thank You for the Music’, when there’s a tap on my shoulder, I jump back and bang into him.
‘Hey, Bertie, how’s it going?’
