The Singalong Society for Singletons

I place my hands on my oldest friend’s shoulders and look her in the eye, hoping I can convey how wonderful she is. ‘You’re doing plenty of living. You dance. You’re passionate about food, even though none of us like those vegetable crisps you keep trying to foist on us. And you’re a wonderful daughter; staying in Sheffield because of your dad proves that. But you know, if you’ve got a dream, you should go for it. You’re young! You’re single! You’re free! Make the most of it. Go to Africa and build that school, if that’s what you want.’

‘But what about Dad? He’d end up living on mouldy toast and wearing dirty clothes. He’s never had to survive on his own. He lived with his parents until he married my mum, and then there’s been the two of us for the last fifteen years.’

‘There are cleaners and there’s internet shopping and all sorts of other services that make life easier. You can pay people to do pretty much anything these days.’

Connie looks wary. ‘I’m not sure he’d like having people coming into the house.’

‘What’d happen if you met someone? Or if you got a flat in town, a bachelorette pad? He’d have to manage then, wouldn’t he? I’m sure he’s not expecting you to stay at home forever.’

‘He’d have to find a way, I suppose.’

Although the words themselves border on positive there’s a dejected air to Connie’s tone that leaves me with a sneaky suspicion she’ll harbour her dream but do nothing about it. I hope she’ll surprise me by being proactive. Sometimes there’s justification for being a little bit selfish.

‘Just think about it, yeah? Don’t give up on your dream too easily. Neither your mum or your dad would want that. Nor me.’

Connie pulls at the soggy sleeve of her cardigan. It had swamped her frame to start with and now they’re damp, the cuffs hang down way past her knuckles. ‘I’ll think about it.’

I squeeze Connie’s hand, soft as playdough from the expensive hand creams she’s devoted to. ‘That’s all I’m asking.’

Hope and Issy bundle back into the room, their booming voices breaking the serenity. I can’t help thinking that maybe it’s time we all took some chances. What’s that saying, ‘a life without risks is a life half lived’?

‘Hakuna Matata’ begins to play, the jaunty tune sweeping us along until all four of us are singing along at the tops of our voices.

‘Isn’t it amazing how a song about farts can be so singable?’ I giggle. ‘I always thought it was hilarious how they got away with it.’

‘That’s what makes it so funny, it feels naughty.’

‘You know you can’t sing for toffee, right?’ Hope says bluntly.

‘Hakuna Matata!’ Issy quips back good-naturedly, continuing to sing about Simba and the gangs’ problem-free philosophy as he grows before our eyes.

Connie trembles, her shoulders quivering, and somehow I know it’s a result of Simba’s maturation and independence presented through this song.

‘Okay?’ I mouth silently, hoping my earlier support is enough to stop her feeling alone.

Connie nods. ‘No worries,’ she mouths back.

We quietly watch on, moving only to help ourselves to the limited selection of snacks and drinks that remain. It’s as Mufasa’s spirit sends the message to Simba to ‘Remember who you are’ that Connie begins to speak.

‘I’m going to do it,’ she announces, ‘I’m going to find out about the volunteer programmes in Africa. It’s what I want to do. It’s what I’ve always wanted to do. If Mum could see me now she’d be devastated that I’m working in a stuffy office, typing endless numbers into meaningless spreadsheets. I want to make her proud. To remember who I really am.’

An excitable buzz fills the room as me, Hope and Issy fire question after question at an eager Connie.

‘Do you get to choose where?’

‘How much money do you have to raise? Do you need sponsorship?’

‘When will you go? And how long will you stay?’

‘I don’t know!’ Connie exclaims with a shrug and a laugh. ‘I’ve only this minute decided to go for it. But tomorrow morning I’m going to start Googling, find out the most reputable charities and how to apply.’

‘It’ll be amazing,’ Issy assures her. ‘A once in a lifetime opportunity that’ll make a real difference.’

‘There’s something else, too,’ Connie adds. She has a fire in her eyes full of feisty determination that I’ve not seen in her since our last ballet recital. Naturally she’d had the solo, executing perfect fouette turns and pirouettes that made the kids in the junior classes sigh dreamily. ‘I’m not putting off the teaching exams any more.’ She looks directly at me, waiting for my reaction.

‘No way.’ I’m agog. ‘You’re finally going to bite the bullet and become a dance teacher? At our dance school?’ I refer to it as ours, even though we’re only pupils. We’ve been going there so long it feels like we have the right to stake some claim over it.

She shakes her head. ‘I’m going to try and get a bank loan and start up on my own. It sounds ludicrous, I know. But there’s got to be a disused factory somewhere in Sheffield that I can buy, or at least rent. Line the walls with mirrors, put up a barre, get a sprung floor laid… after that it’ll just be upkeep and running costs. And if it doesn’t work, then hey ho. At least I’ll have tried.’

I can’t help it, I have to hug her. In my excitement I go in with a bit more force than I’d planned, almost knocking her right off her feet. It’s a good job all those years of ballet have worked on her core stability. She manages, just about, to stay centred and steady.

‘I’m thrilled for you, Con, honestly I am. After all those years of nagging at you to do it. Miss Gemma will be too.’

Connie laughs. ‘She’ll never believe it when I tell her she’ll need to get revising the exam syllabus. I think she’d given up hope of me ever putting in for them.’

‘We’d all given up hope,’ I say. Out of the six of us in our class, Connie’s the only one who has what it takes to teach dance. The rest of us can hold our own in the showcases, years of practice have ensured that. But there’s something in the way Connie moves – something elegant and strong and inspiring – that sets her apart from the rest of us. She was born to dance, no two ways about it.

‘Who’d have thought The Lion King would be so inspirational, eh?’ jokes Hope, a glimmer of a smile passing over her face. ‘Maybe you’re right, Mon. Maybe it’s not just for kids after all.’

Chapter Three

Friday 23rd September

*The Sound of Music – Issy’s choice*

‘So, what’s it to be?’

We all look on eagerly as Issy whips a DVD out from behind one of the tatty patchwork cushions that rest along the back of the sofa, straining our eyes to make out the title of the musical we’ll be watching.

‘The Sound of Music!’ Issy proclaims, a triumphant smile on her face. ‘I love this film. It makes me think of my Gran – she was a huge Julie Andrews fan.’

Connie didn’t seem to share Issy’s enthusiasm. ‘Oh no, it’s the one with the nuns, isn’t it?’ She clutches her head in her hands in a dramatic fashion. ‘I’ve never liked nuns. They scare me.’

‘Maybe I should become a nun,’ Hope muses. ‘My love life’s in tatters since Amara decided she didn’t want me any more. And at least I wouldn’t have to worry about bad-hair days if I had to wear one of those floppy sheet things on my head.’

I raise my eyebrows in despair. ‘Floppy sheet things’ indeed. ‘They’re called wimples. And you’d be a terrible nun. You’re far too cynical!’

‘And an atheist,’ Hope adds, deadpan. ‘That might be a bit of a problem.’

‘This is a real tear-jerker, too, from what I remember,’ Connie says, trying to rein us back in. ‘I’m going to need tissues, aren’t I? Again.’ She rifles through her patent red over-the-shoulder bag. Folders, notepads and something that looks suspiciously like a Filofax from the 1980s peeps out of the top, and as she pulls a small rectangular packet of tissues out she adds, ‘It always gets to me. I don’t know why, but it does.’

‘Because it’s depressing, that’s why.’ That was Hope.

‘It’s not depressing, it’s emotive,’ Issy insists. ‘And based on a true story too. That poor family… imagine how horrific it must have been.’

‘Yeah, imagine having to wear clothes made from floral curtains the colour of wee. It must have been dreadful.’ The withering look Issy throws Hope cuts her off before she can rant further about the Von Trapps, which is just as well. If she finds her stride, who knows what she’ll belittle next?

‘Let’s start,’ I interject, taking the disc from Issy and inserting it into the DVD player. ‘It’s not a short film and it’s already almost nine. And even if you don’t like the storyline, you must admit it’s got a classic score. ‘Edelweiss’? ‘Do Re Mi’? ‘My Favourite Things’? They’re exactly the kind of songs the Singalong Society was founded for. I think I’m going to get a glass of water to go along with my Riesling because I’m going to need it to hit those high notes.’ I hurry to the kitchen, fill a glass with cool tap water and pick up a packet of chocolate digestives for good measure. ‘Julie Andrews might make it sound easy, but it’s not. Not for us ordinary folk.’

‘Be quick, it’s starting,’ Issy yells, but I’m already back in the room in time to see the long-lens opening shots of the stunning Austrian landscape appear on the screen. Beautiful castles, rolling green hills, clear blue water – and Julie Andrews sporting helmet hair and a shapeless pocketed pinafore.

Before long we’re all drawn into the film, laughing at the gentle humour and singing the anthemic songs with all our might. Maria’s love song to her favourite things causes us to dissolve into fits of laughter; Hope declaring that anyone who claims doorbells as one of their favourite things deserves to remain in a convent for all eternity.

‘What would you sing about, then? What amazing things are there that help you when you feel bad?’ Issy asks, although she’s been as exposed to Hope’s doom and gloom almost as much as me. There doesn’t seem to have been much that’s raised Hope’s spirits since she moved in.

‘White wine, most likely,’ Hope replies, raising her fourth glass of the evening to the air in a toast.

‘Friends,’ I add, without missing a beat. ‘Friends who accept you as you are, warts and all.’

‘Good one,’ Issy says approvingly. ‘Mine would be weekends. How about you, Con? What fills your heart with gladness and makes your soul sing?’

‘My spiraliser.’ Connie nods seriously before clocking our disbelieving stares. ‘What?’ she adds naively.

‘We live in a world with marshmallows and blossom trees and mojitos and…’ I flounder for something that might be worthy of being Connie’s favourite thing, ‘Kiehl’s hand cream, and you say a spiraliser? How much have you had to drink?’ I tease, knowing full well she’s not yet touched a drop. Connie rarely drinks to excess. It’s all linked to her desire to be super-healthy and lean.

‘What can I say? I’ve been living off courgetti lately,’ Connie says with a shrug. ‘But the hand cream is a good shout. I’ve a feeling I’m going to be really grateful for it come November.’

At the mention of hands, I notice Hope look down and study hers, her knuckles bumpy and red where she’s scratched the eczema-inflamed skin. She’s not been able to leave it alone lately and when I’d questioned her about it she admitted to liking the uncomfortable sensation of her nails peeling the fine, flaky top layer of skin away. She claimed it felt cathartic, but the red, raw marks looked painful, with even the children in her class noticing the angry scarlet patches in contrast to her creamy skin tone. Hope had always suffered with eczema. It had a nasty habit of flaring up when she was stressed, and since she and Amara had finished, she was incredibly stressed. More than stressed, she was bereft. She wasn’t sleeping, was barely eating… she was a mess.

I snap myself out of my distracted thoughts, only just registering the glint of suggestion in Connie’s voice. ‘Why November?’

There’s a theatrical pause where Connie looks like she might physically burst. Her face is shining with unadulterated joy. ‘I’m in!’ she finally exclaims, clapping her hands together in miniature, yet excited, applause. ‘I wanted to tell you straight away, but by the time we’d set up the DVD and got ourselves ready to watch it…’ her voice trails off, but the animated glow remains.

‘Wait, what?’ I do a double-take. I’m at an actual loss for words. ‘You mean Africa? The volunteering?’

Connie nods. ‘Yes! I spent all of Saturday searching the websites of different charities, and one – well, as soon as I saw the page I knew I was meant to contact them. It was everything I hoped for. They’re renovating a school for a community in rural Uganda. I’m renovating a school in rural Uganda. Can you believe it?’

She’s full of glee, her eyes flaring with passion. She looks so utterly, completely alive, lost in a world of possibility. Not unlike Maria, actually, who’s gallivanting with the children on the screen, wielding the ugliest puppets in the history of cinema; although I make a mental note to rewind to this song at the end so we can all yodel along like the Lonely Goatherd. But this is Connie’s big moment and although I can’t stop my twitching foot from tapping against the lounge floor, I’m desperate to know more.

Hope obviously is too.

‘Can anyone offer to go? Or did you have to have an interview? And how much is this costing?’ she asks, firing questions at a rate of knots. I silently will my sister not to rain on Connie’s parade by making her overthink this decision. I can’t remember the last time I saw Connie looking as vibrant, as full of life, as she does right now. I love Hope dearly, I absolutely do, but I can’t help but wonder if Hopeless would have been a more appropriate name for her, given her constant state of negativity.

‘Anyone can apply, as long as they’re in good health and meet the criteria. And yes, I had an interview over the phone on Wednesday evening. The project leader rang and asked all sorts of questions about why I wanted to do it, if I felt I’d be able to cope with seeing the extreme poverty, any relevant experience I had…’ She looks shamefaced. ‘I must admit, I didn’t have much I could say to that one. Data input hasn’t really prepared me for manual labour in temperatures similar to a Yorkshire heatwave. And yes, I have to raise some of the money myself, because they’re a charity. The cost of flights and accommodation for a team of volunteers would obviously eat into their funds, when this way it can be put to much better use helping people in need. But that’s where the next surprise comes in, and this is even more incredible than me going to Africa in the first place. In fact, you’ll never believe me when I tell you.’

A small indent appears in her cheek, a cheeky dimple coming out to play.

‘Stop teasing!’ I squeal, unable to bear the tension a moment longer. ‘Get on with it!’

‘Well, I was dreading having to tell Dad. I didn’t want him to get upset at the thought of me going away. But I steeled myself up and broached it with him over tea last night, and he said I couldn’t have timed it better. Apparently my mum had a life-assurance policy that she’d taken out ‘just in case’. And in her will she left it all to me, with strict instructions not to touch it until my twenty-fifth birthday…’

‘And that’s next week!’ I’m aware of my voice squeaking, but my head’s whirring at how fast this is moving. Issy’s laughing at me, probably because my jaw is literally gaping open in wonderment. I must look so gormless right now. ‘I was always jealous of you being the oldest in your class. You’d get the best choice of sweets from the birthday tin in assembly at primary school. By the time it got to my birthday in July there were only ever those fruit lollies left, and they’d always be a bit sticky as they’d been there all year. The year I was six I couldn’t even peel the wrapper off.’ I remember the disappointment clearly. Inedible sweets as a birthday treat would be hard enough for me to comprehend now, let alone at that age.

‘Yes, the policy matures next week, and that’s how I’m paying to go. Actually, there’s enough there to pay what I need and still have some left over when I get back. Maybe even enough for a deposit on a small dance studio, if I can find a suitable space.’

I shake my head to try and take it all in. Africa? Dance teaching? Where has this newly geed-up Connie come from and what’s she done with my best friend?

Connie continues, her voice proud and brimming with positivity. ‘No more losing my cool when the spreadsheets don’t add up, no more days in a grey boxy office block with an air conditioning system that rattles like a haunted house at a funfair. I’ll be in Africa, doing something worthwhile. And then, hopefully, when I get back here I’ll be doing what I love.’

‘It sounds blissful,’ I smile, because it does. It absolutely does. Thanks to her mum’s foresight to plan ahead she was going to get the chance to live out her wildest dreams.

‘I’m over the moon for you, I really am,’ Issy adds, her words full of affection.

‘It’s going to be a real adventure. You’ll come back a woman of the world,’ I say with pride. ‘And it’s brilliant that your dad was so supportive. All that worry for nothing, and I’m sure he’ll be just fine. Don’t forget to tell him I’m only ten minutes’ drive away if he needs a hand with anything. Get him to ring me, promise? I can do a mean beef stew which’ll be perfect for those November evenings.’ My mouth waters at the thought of the stew, the solidity of the meat and the juicy, chunky winter vegetables an irresistible combination. ‘But I don’t want to iron,’ I say obstinately. ‘Anything but ironing!’

I catch Hope scrutinising my dress, a navy cotton number covered in pretty ditsy-print flowers in a variety of shades of pink. Now I look more closely it does have a decidedly crumpled air about it. I probably should have left it hanging on the shower rail a bit longer to ensure all the creases had dropped out.

‘Thanks, Mon,’ Connie says softly, ‘He’ll really appreciate that. Me too, of course. And although I can’t wait to go away, I know the minute I arrive I’ll be thinking of Sheffield, missing our catch-ups over coffee and cake on Ecclesall Road.’

I have to laugh. It’s only me that indulges in the creamy cappuccinos and doorstop wedges of Victoria sponge. Connie normally has a sparkling water and a banana.

‘But especially this,’ she says, gesturing around the room. ‘These past few weeks have been so much fun. And life-changing for me, too. Your encouragement was exactly what I needed to spur me on and I don’t think I’d have believed I could do it myself without you three believing in me first. So thank you. Thank you, thank you, thank you.’

‘You make it sound like you’re going forever,’ I say worriedly. ‘You won’t be gone too long, will you?’

I know I’ll miss her dreadfully when she’s out of the country, even if it is only for a matter of weeks. Although Issy has become my partner in crime, that’s mostly through circumstance. She’s a wonderful friend, but Connie and I have been a duo since childhood and there’s something incredibly special about a friendship that’s lasted twenty years. There’s no need for pretences between us and we’ve forged an open honesty that makes for an easy relationship.

The other beauty of a long-term friendship is how there’s no need to explain the difficult moments from our pasts. I already know how horrific it was when Connie’s mum died. I’d been there with her that September day when Connie had been called to the headmaster’s office to receive the news. And Connie had been there for me during my own challenging moments too, not just recently but also during my parents’ separation and the subsequent messy divorce, and through Mum’s transitions to Mrs King, then Mrs Peto, then Mrs Davies as she’d tried to find true love. What Connie and I have been through together transcends everything else. For all the friends I have, I don’t have another friend like her.

‘I leave at the end of October and it’ll only be for four weeks, so I’ll be back in plenty of time for Christmas. You’re not getting out of getting me that Kiehl’s hand cream that easily,’ she jests.

‘If you come back safe, sound and happy, it’ll be the one year I don’t begrudge paying crazy money for your luxury lotions and potions,’ I reply with a half-laugh. I’ve never succumbed to the high-end products Connie swears by, instead bulk buying whatever’s on offer when I go to the enormous chemist’s in town, but Connie is the epitome of brand loyal. When she finds something she likes, she’s with it for the long haul, which I suppose is the biggest personal vote of confidence I could have, considering how long she’s been part of my life. From pigtails and scraped knees to lip gloss to jagerbombs, ‘Mon and Con’, as our dance teacher Miss Gemma always calls us, have come a long, long way.

I grin as Connie blows me a kiss. With her dip-dyed hair and bright red lips she reminds me of a pin-up girl. Not to mention her new-found confidence and self-belief.

‘We’ve got a few more weeks yet before I go,’ she says. ‘Which is just as well as I have tons of stuff to sort out before then. There’s injections for yellow fever and hepatitis A and I need to buy mosquito nets and anti-malaria tablets…’ She’s counting things off on her fingers as she reels off her list.

‘Malaria?’ Hope asks with concern. ‘Don’t people die from that?’

‘I’ve been reading about it online. It spreads quickly out there, but it’s easy to protect yourself with a course of tablets. I’m going to make an appointment with the doctor next week and see what else I need to do.’ She grins at the thought. ‘I can’t believe I’m actually going to Africa!’

‘You’ll have the best time,’ Issy says. ‘And who knows? Maybe you’ll find the love of your life out there too.’ She waggles her eyebrows in a way that I presume is supposed to be suggestive but comes off as more pantomime baddie than sex siren. ‘I’ve never really believed that true soulmates would live just a few streets apart.’

A scowl unwittingly creeps up on me. I can feel my jaw tightening in annoyance at the remark. Issy knows that Justin and I lived just around the corner from each other until he left. What’s she implying? That he has a better chance of finding someone he wants to spend the rest of his life with now he’s on the other side of the world because it’d be too easy if true love was ready and waiting on the same street, or the same estate, or in the same city?

‘Stop looking at me like that, Mon,’ she says. I feel like a small child being summoned and chastised. I suppose I should be grateful she’s using actual words rather than a whistle à la Captain von Trapp. ‘You know what I mean. It’s a bit convenient to fall in love with someone who has the same background as you, lives in the same area, went to the same school… I’m not saying it can’t happen, I’m sure it does, but how many people settle for someone just because they’re right at hand? There are seven billion people in the world. It’s highly unlikely the one true love of your life is even in Britain, let alone Sheffield! If people stretched their wings and searched the world for their partner, maybe there’d be more happy endings. Maybe less divorce, too.’

‘And now you bring up divorce,’ Hope says drolly, smacking the heel of her hand into her forehead. ‘Nice one, Issy. Talk about double whammy.’

‘I’m not speculating about specific cases here,’ Issy insists, although it still feels as though this is aimed at me. ‘I’m making the point that there’s something to be said for looking further afield when it comes to romance, that’s all. Not every boy next door is worth pursuing.’

‘Hmm,’ I murmur noncommittally. Issy’s trying to dig her way out of this but she’s so damn defensive. Why not just come clean and make it blatantly clear that she’s referring to me and Justin? Although I come across as confident and perky and uber-positive, I’m a sensitive soul. My friends’ opinions matter to me more than they realise, and I hate any form of conflict. It unsettles me, propelling me right back to the loneliness of mine and Hope’s childhood bedroom where we’d lie awake as Mum and Dad argued downstairs, their raised voices seeping through the ceiling. They had been painful, lonely nights, and we hadn’t had a Frauline Maria to reassure us with chirpy tunes about raindrops on roses. Hope, as the older sister, had allowed me to snuggle into the top bunk with her when the rows got particularly loud and frightening, but the memory was still there, ingrained deep.