and we shout the rousing chorus at the top of our lungs, well past caring what the neighbours think. We’re out of tune and Hope isn’t entirely sure of the words, but we don’t give a damn. It’s fun.
‘It feels good to sing, doesn’t it?’ Hope says out of the blue. Her cheeks are flushed now, the pinkish hue making her appear much less frail than she’d looked when she arrived. ‘To let rip and shout. Kids do it all the time, but as adults we’re expected to have found other ways to express ourselves. But the truth is, nothing compares to getting everything out of your system by having a good old yell.’
‘Letting go,’ says Issy solemnly, before realising what she’s said and dissolving in a fit of drunken giggles.
‘I read something somewhere about singing being good for the soul,’ I recall. ‘Didn’t it say people who sing live longer? Or were happier? I can’t remember, but it was all positive.’ Funnily enough, I’m feeling better for singing too and my words are spilling out at an incredible pace. ‘We’ve all had a tough year. I’ve been low since Justin went to America, even though the sensible part of me knows that taking a break was the only option. That doesn’t make it any easier though, I’m still wondering if he’s on a date with some American beauty or out on the pull. And Hope, who knows? Maybe Amara will come round and realise you need to be together in time, but right now you need to put yourself first. Don’t look at me like that! I know you think I’m fussing, but I want my only sister to be happy.’
I reach over and squeeze Hope’s hand, one small pulse that carries an infinite amount of love.
‘And Is, I know you’re happy being single, but I saw your face when your sister told you about her latest scan.’
Issy swallows, and part of me wishes I’d kept quiet. This is a sensitive subject. But it’s too late now, it’s already out there, so I carry on regardless. ‘You’re going to be the most amazing mummy one of these days, when the time is right. The best.’ Issy’s lips form an O, and I think she might cry, so I quickly move on. ‘But for now, all three of us need to pick ourselves up and take control of our own happiness. It’s like Elsa says, we’re free! Who knows where we’ll be in a month, let alone a year. We need to increase our happiness, channel the good emotions.’ I’m on a roll, fire in my belly and well-lubricated by the wine. There’s no stopping me now.
‘And how do you suggest we do that, oh wise one?’ asks Hope, her voice acerbic.
‘A club, an informal choir. Make Friday nights a musical spectacular and sing ourselves silly! Think how good it feels to shout and laugh and forget about all the crappy stuff.’ I beam, convinced it’s a winning idea. ‘We should make it a weekly event, a celebration of the weekend and being happy on our own rather than out in the meat market that doubles as town on a Friday night. It’s got to be better than having your bum pinched by some drunken chancer out on the pull, and if it raises our spirits too then it’s a bonus, surely? What do you reckon? Isn’t it the best idea ever?’
I wait for their response, fully expecting them to throw back a string of reasons why it’s a terrible idea. The pause is excruciating.
‘Oh, go on then,’ says Issy finally, knocking back the last of her wine. ‘But no more people. The last thing I want is a house full of strangers on a Friday night.’
‘And no more Frozen,’ Hope adds emphatically.
‘Okay,’ I agree, knowing this is as much enthusiasm as my sister’s likely to muster. ‘But can I ask Connie if she fancies it too? Four people isn’t too many and she could do with a boost. She’s hating her job and she’s fed up with being hit on by sleazeballs every time she goes out. This could be exactly what she needs.’
I grin and a small squeak of excitement slips out despite myself. I’m so looking forward to this. I haven’t been part of a club since I left the Brownies.
‘The Singalong Society for Singletons,’ I say wistfully. ‘To moving on and letting go!’
Friday 16th September
*The Lion King – Connie’s choice*
‘Are you sure we’ll have enough food to go round?’ Hope asks. She looks doubtful, which is ridiculous seeing as the table is laden – correction, overloaded – with snacks.
Seriously, there’s all sorts of goodies spread out on it, from breadsticks to sausage rolls to the black forest gateau centrepiece (my idea – apparently they’re due a resurgence, according to the supermarket magazine I shoved in my trolley on a whim last weekend). There are also four blue-and-white-striped cereal bowls overflowing with a variety of crisps and savoury snacks, three bottles of wine, the remnants of a bottle of Jack Daniels, a six-pack of Diet Coke and the token punnet of raspberries Connie insisted made an appearance if she was going to come. She’s always been a health freak, although she goes wild on a Friday night and allows herself a small amount of carbs. How we’ve been friends for twenty years is beyond me. Junk food is too good to go without, in my opinion.
‘Are you joking? There’s tons. It’s only us three and Connie, we’re not feeding an army returning from battle,’ Issy replies. ‘And we’re only five minutes from the supermarket if we need anything else. It’s not like we live in the back of beyond.’
‘You don’t think I should just nip out and get…’
‘No,’ I answer. I ensure I’m using my school voice, firm and decisive. ‘We’ve got plenty. There’s pizza in the oven too, remember, and there’s that tub of chocolates from the end of term on top of the kitchen cabinet if we want anything sweet later on.’
‘Ooh, I forgot about those,’ Issy says, licking her lips with anticipation. ‘Bagsy me the coffee creams.’
‘I don’t think anyone’ll be fighting you for those,’ Hope replies, pushing forward onto her tiptoes to try and reach the metal container from on top of the kitchen cupboards. Issy had insisted they be put well out of the way to avoid temptation after the three of us had broken the seal and eaten a generous handful each during the culmination of Frozen last Friday. ‘But I’m taking the toffee fingers out and putting them to one side. They’re my favourites.’
She nudges the tin down from the ledge, her fingertips edging the container forwards until it tips and she has to quickly readjust her arms to stop it falling to the floor with a clatter. She looks puzzled as she shakes the tub. ‘I’m sure there were more left than this,’ she says, peeling back the lid to reveal a very sorry-looking layer of multi-coloured wrappers that barely cover the silvery bottom of the tin. ‘Own up, who’s been secretly raiding the choccies?’
Issy looks guilty and when she speaks her voice is unusually soft and meek.
‘It was me. I couldn’t help it. There wasn’t anything else sweet in the house and I had rotten period pains. So I took them upstairs, got back into bed and ate them. I only meant to have a few, but it was last Saturday when I had that phone call from Penny. It scared me to death when she said she’d been bleeding – I couldn’t get the thought that she might lose the baby out of my head. I needed something to cheer me up and a ridiculous amount of chocolate and the box set of Friends was my only hope.’
‘You should have
