Kieran wasn’t about to admit he’d been in both the church and school choir as a child. ‘I can hold a note, but that’s about it. Maybe you can channel your inner comedian, then. Draw on your life experience to have them rolling in the aisles.’
To his dismay, Beth got up to leave. ‘Oh, Kieran.’ Her face was a mix of sadness and amusement. ‘You have no idea how much comic material there is inside me.’
Chapter Thirty-One
‘Testing, testing.’ Ed tapped the microphone – a new one since quiz night – and the karaoke machine crackled obligingly. He nudged the big telly on the makeshift stage; lyrics scrolled in chunky white type.
‘Sing something!’ called Rose, replenishing crisps and peanuts.
‘Go on, Ed,’ Angela chimed in, bouncing a fractious Ruairi on her knee. ‘Give us your Lewis Capaldi.’
Beth hovered at the edge of the room. She’d nipped to the basement earlier out of habit, but there’d been no shimmer of butterfly, no glimmer of Gigi. Just the low hum of refrigeration and her own heartbeat in her ears.
The Jekyll and Hyde was rammed. Fairy lights looped round the beams lent a soft glow that made July look like Christmas in denial. Instead of table service, Beth had set out a buffet: salads and cold cuts, herby quiches, then a two-way dessert duel – black-cherry cheesecake versus tiramisu. Rose and Angela stood guard with tongs, stopping the greedy from going full piglet.
‘Nice to see y’all again,’ Ed said to the returning Americans – Trey, Melinda, Brett and Dana – as they breezed in, sunburnt and delighted with themselves.
‘Wouldn’t miss it for the world,’ Trey declared. ‘Found a last-minute Airbnb. We’re yours till Thursday.’
‘Right then.’ Ed cleared his throat. The opening bars of ‘Forget Me’ pulsed from the speakers, and to everyone’s mild astonishment, he nailed it.
‘You’re a dark horse, laddie,’ Wilma told Ed, helping herself to couscous. ‘Able to hold a tune, unlike you know who.’
‘Sadly true,’ Gus admitted. ‘Might give it a go later.’
‘Pass the earplugs,’ Wilma muttered.
Beth ferried platters back and forth. When her phone buzzed, she glanced down. A photo from Luke, showing him whittling on some sun-struck shore, grinning like a man who’d married driftwood. Her thumb hovered over a heart, then retreated to a thumbs-up. Neutral. Harmless.
She clocked Kieran weaving through the crowd – hair damp, wearing shorts and a T-shirt and annoyingly … present. She lifted a hand, but he didn’t see.
Ed peered at the sign-up sheet. ‘First up, it’s Janette and … Alison!’
Thunderous applause. Janette hauled Alison stage-wards like a cheerful kidnapper.
‘Poor Alison looks like she’d rather have an enema,’ Ed muttered, close to the mic. The room snorted as the intro hit. Janette went full Elton; Alison did her best Kiki Dee. The harmonies were optimistic, the enthusiasm irresistible. Everyone sang along, badly and joyfully.
Elton jolted Beth’s memory back to quiz night, to genies, pinball and meddling. She scanned the room, spotted Kieran deep in conversation with Jinnie and ducked towards the rear door, pulse speeding.
‘Gigi?’ she whispered, as she entered the basement. ‘Are you there?’
Zip. Nada. Silence.
She fished a pound coin from her pocket and pressed it uselessly against the Wish Master’s coin slot. No click. No glow. She thumped the cabinet, winced, then?—
‘Beth?’ Angela stood in the doorway, brow furrowed. ‘Everything OK?’
Beth pasted on a soothing smile. ‘Just catching my breath. It’s … therapeutic down here.’
‘If this is your safe space, I’m all for it,’ Angela said. Somewhere above, ‘Achy Breaky Heart’ started up with a twang. ‘The Americans have gone full Billy Ray Cyrus. Sorry, maybe that song’s too close to the bone.’
‘It’s fine,’ Beth said evenly. ‘Honestly, my heart is healing. Come on, let’s add some comedy to the mix before Gus murders “My Way”.’
Back in the glow and clamour, Ed tapped the mic. ‘Next up, it’s the one, the only, Mr Sam Addin. Wizard of words and former purveyor of antiques.’
Sam shuffled up, pushed his glasses up his nose, glanced at notes. Jinnie whooped. Sam cleared his throat.
‘Good evening. I’m Sam. I used to run an antiques shop. Now I write thrillers. Same job, really – fewer sideboards, more bodies. For the record, I’ve never killed a customer, though I’ve been tempted.’
