.” Sue giggles.
“. . . planning our television debut.” With this, Nora lifts her arms toward the chapel ceiling, then takes a deep bow, dipping her head toward her toes, as far as her girth will allow. “Oh, dear,” she splutters, “I’m stuck.” Nora waves a chubby hand toward Sue. “Help me.”
“Come here, you silly diva.” Sue steps forward and lifts Nora so she’s upright again.
Carmen drops her bag onto the nearest pew. “Television?”
“Yes.” With a flourish, Nora hands Carmen a piece of paper. “There’s a televised talent contest coming to Cambridge . . .”
“. . . we’re seizing the opportunity for fame, fortune,” Sue declares, “and, in Nora’s case, public humiliation—”
“If you remember rightly,” Nora says a little frostily, “my Queen of the Night went down a storm last year.”
“Yes, a thunderstorm that sank your ship.” Sue giggles. “If only you hadn’t insisted on wearing that helmet with the horns, I think you might not have been laughed off the stage—”
“Yes, well, that’s not quite how I remember it,” Nora huffs. “Anyway, I’m sure she gets the idea.”
“No, not really.” Carmen stares at the press release. The show is on July 21, ten days before she has to leave the house. And that’s assuming she’s allowed to stay all of her ninety-nine nights, which is only if she digs up the midnight glory tonight. The thought sends a shot of panic through Carmen. “We are really doing this? But, it is only three weeks away. This is a bit crazy, nao?”
“Not entirely,” Nora replies. “It’s an opportunity. A very remote one, yes . . .”
“. . . but this year you’ve inspired us to try again.”
“Me?” Carmen looks at the two women, wide-eyed.
“But of course,” Sue says. “Without you we’re just two fat ladies on a stage.”
“Speak for yourself. I lost two pounds last week,” Nora declares. “And I’ve got a fabulous idea for a costume this year, lots of silk and taffeta—”
“I predict a fiasco,” Sue sighs, “but it’s bound to be fun. You will join us, won’t you?”
Carmen is about to shake her head when the last shafts of sunset shine through the stained glass. Squares of colored light fall on her face, lighting her up like a Christmas tree, and something inside her stirs. Despite everything that happened with Tiago, despite her memories and her fears, she wants to feel that excitement again, the pure, unadulterated joy of standing onstage and singing to an audience.
“Sim.” Carmen nods. “Okay, I will.”
—
Blake Walker has a sixth sense about women. He knows when they’re still madly in love and when they’re on the verge of giving up. Halfway across town he feels Greer’s decision to finally dump him. And he can’t let her. No, if he has to swim all the way to Savannah, he’ll be the one to leave first.
Blake lifts the female arm draped across his torso and places it back on the bed. He glances at her face, the long dark hair spread out like a fan on the pillow, but can’t remember her name. Barbara? Bridget? Something beginning with B. Or possibly G. It doesn’t matter. He went home with her only to get Greer and the Spanish singer out of his head.
Looking at the alarm clock on the girl’s bedside table, he curses. He’s an hour late. He slips out from under the duvet and, quickly pulling on his jeans and T-shirt, ducks out of her bedroom and into the street. He runs to The Archer, pausing only to nip into a newsagent’s and buy Greer the best bunch of flowers they have.
—
Peggy sits at her kitchen table sipping Earl Grey and listening to the radio: a dramatization of the abdication of Edward VIII. She remembers hearing his speech when it first aired in 1936. She was six years old, watching her mother washing dishes. She can’t recall now where her sisters were but remembers the house was silent, except for the radio.
Today her tarot card is the Six of Cups: the card of simple blessings, family and innocence. Peggy closes her eyes to listen, but instead she’s back in her mother’s kitchen, splaying her tiny hands into starfish on the shiny plastic tablecloth.
“You all know the reasons which have impelled me to renounce the throne . . . but I want you to know that, in making up my mind, I did not forget the country or the Empire . . “
“What does ‘impelled’ mean, Mummy?” Peggy kicked her legs under the table.
Milly