Chapter 31
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.’
A polite laugh. He ploughed gamely on. When the final pun limped home, the applause was generous.
Kieran appeared at Beth’s elbow, mouth tilted. ‘He shouldn’t quit the day job.’
‘He already did,’ Beth murmured, lips twitching.
Then timid Peggy took the stage and slid into a silken ‘My Baby Just Cares for Me’ that turned heads and raised eyebrows.
‘That wisnae on my bingo card,’ Wilma told Beth as Ed called a short break. ‘Gus, you can do Shirley Bassey next.’
Gus guffawed. ‘Come on, grub’s up.’
Kieran nudged Beth. ‘You’re not tempted? Chef by day, stand-up sensation by night?’
‘Cranley does not need a set about bin bags and bain-maries,’ Beth said. ‘Trust me.’
‘But you said you had material for days.’ He widened his eyes, his expression mock-pleading. ‘Let it out.’
‘Some things are better left unsaid,’ Beth replied, softening. ‘And I need to check on Rose.’
Ed introduced a ruddy-cheeked stranger in tartan trews. ‘This is Kenny, visiting from his usual hostelry, with some poetry.’
Kenny recited ‘Love Is a Loch Ness Monster’, which went downhill at Aberdeen and bottomed out at duvet.
Janette cupped her hands. ‘Kenny, that was crap, but at least it rhymed!’
The Texans whooped like he’d won a Grammy. Melinda announced, ‘We hope to see the Loch Ness monster!’
Wilma muttered, ‘You willnae find him in Aberdeen, hen.’
Beth escaped to the loo, splashed her face, reached for paper towels – and froze as a voice slid silkily through her thoughts.
It’s your turn, darling.
‘Go away,’ she hissed at the mirror. ‘I’m not getting on that stage.’
Party pooper. Ooh, look who’s up next.
Beth burst back into the bar. Kieran stood at the mic, dazed, as the intro to ‘Can’t Take My Eyes Off You’ swelled.
The house lights dipped, a soft spotlight bloomed, and Kieran caught Beth’s eye and gestured for her to join him.
Within seconds she was beside him, bathed in its glow, like a coin drawn to a magnet.
He sang – nervous, true, a shade off-key but with feeling – and the crowd melted. Beth felt a spark as their eyes met and lingered, making the world fade away for a moment.
When the last ‘I love you, baby’ died, the pub erupted. Wolf-whistles, whoops, someone bellowing, ‘Get a room!’
Kieran angled the mic away, looking at her. ‘Maybe the universe is trying to tell us something.’
‘Or maybe the universe needs to mind its own business,’ Beth said, but her mouth wouldn’t behave and kept trying to smile.
Kieran lifted the mic again. ‘OK, hear me out, folks. I think the chef should get up and do a turn. For me.’
Terror fizzed. So did something that wasn’t terror.
From somewhere near the back stairs, a whisper curled like smoke. Do it, darling. I’ll make sure you shine brighter than a fireworks display at Hogmanay.
Beth exhaled. ‘Fine. But if I die of embarrassment, you’re paying for the funeral buffet.’
Kieran spun to face the room. ‘Ladies and gents, the chef herself. Beth Calder!’
Foot-stamps. Cheers.
Beth wrapped her fingers round the mic like a weapon and cleared her throat. ‘Evening, I’m Beth. I cook for most of you, so if this goes badly, I can always spit in your soup later.’
A ripple of laughter. Real laughter. She pressed on.
‘People say cooking’s like love: it needs a lot of patience and a bit of heat. That’s a lie. Love burns quicker, costs more, and leaves a bigger mess. At least with a steak pie you know where you stand.’
A bigger laugh. Her shoulders relaxed a fraction.
She talked about deep-fried Mars Bars and defibrillators, then customers who say ‘I don’t really do gluten’ then ask for extra sticky toffee pudding.
How dishwashers sound like mournful cows and soufflés should only be attempted by the very brave or incredibly stupid.
It was glorious. For five pulse-racing minutes she forgot about Luke and his driftwood. And Gigi. She forgot to be afraid.
She looked across and saw Kieran, grinning from ear to ear, and it warmed her from the inside out.
And then, predictably, a certain genie couldn’t keep his hands in his pockets. A soft pfft sighed through the ceiling vents and a smattering of gold glitter drifted down, settling on hair and shoulders, beer and cheesecake, turning the pub into a snow globe of sparkle.
‘Oh, for heaven’s sake,’ Beth muttered, as Ed and Angela looked up, baffled.
Kieran reached out and brushed a flake of glitter from her fringe, his eyes locked on hers. ‘Best open mic ever.’
‘Glad you think so,’ she said, trying not to lean into the touch. Her pulse ricocheted like a silver ball in a maze.
Always trust your genie friend, purred the voice in her head. A touch of pizzazz never hurt anyone.
Beth rolled her eyes at no one. ‘Sure,’ she thought to herself. ‘But it might just turn my life upside down.’