Chapter 30 #2
As coffee was served, Sue made her way to the dance floor and tapped the microphone. ‘Everyone,’ she began, and waited for the room to settle. ‘We asked earlier if any of you would like to join in with the entertainment, and I’m delighted to say some of our guests were very enthusiastic.’
She paused to consult her notes.
‘And first up, we have Bill and Bev from Swansea, who are going to “Walk Like an Egyptian”.’
The song, made popular by the Bangles, began to play, and an elderly couple took to the floor. They struck a pose with knees bent and elbows rigid, Bev facing forward.
Bill wore a white sheet, toga-style, with sandals and sports socks, and without moving his lips, hissed, ‘Sideways,’ at Bev.
Bev, layered in beads, a floaty skirt and ballet pumps, had a hand-painted cardboard collar, made from empty toilet rolls, restricting her neck, as she slowly rotated ninety degrees, her face fixed, eyes unblinking.
They began to move together in a series of hieroglyphic lunges, and by the second chorus, the audience was clapping along.
The routine concluded with the couple freezing dramatically.
Hattie, her hands hovering in mid-air, looked on with concern as Bev began to bow, but Bill remained rigid. Hattie wondered if he’d suffered a stroke and was relieved when Sue returned to usher him off stage.
‘Wonderful authenticity.’ Sue beamed, as Sam stepped up to gently move Bill on and assist him back to his seat.
‘And now . . .’ Sue continued, glancing back at her notes. ‘We have friends Fred and Eric who, tonight, will be whirling dervishes!’
Two middle-aged men stepped onto the dance floor. They wore tall felt hats and flowing white gowns with full skirts and a wide sash.
Gerald leaned in and whispered to Hattie, ‘The hat represents a tombstone.’
‘I hope neither of them dies,’ she replied, stealing a glance at Anouska.
‘It means the death of one’s ego,’ Gerald explained.
‘Ah.’ Hattie nodded, thinking that the hats looked more like traffic cones.
Drums rolled, and the two men held their palms upward.
Very slowly, they began to turn as fast pan-pipe music played. Eric had a set of battery-operated fairy lights attached to his outfit, and as he built up speed, they started to flash. Several guests leaned forward, clearly impressed.
As their robes ballooned and Fred’s trainers and knobbly knees became visible, the spinning quickened. Eric’s eyes closed as though he was being spiritually guided, while Fred was fixed on the middle distance and completed his fastest revolution.
Suddenly, the music dramatically stopped. As did Eric, mid-spin. But Fred had over-corrected and toppled sideways, hitting the floor with a thump.
‘Good Lord.’ Hattie sat up, her face full of concern.
‘I think it’s part of the act,’ Gerald whispered as Fred nimbly leapt to his feet for a final spin.
There was more applause from the enthusiastic audience as Sue returned to the microphone. ‘What commitment!’ she declared. ‘Let’s hear it for these boys, who’ve been practising all week.’
Sylvie elbowed Hattie and began to shuffle in her seat as she slowly removed her wrap. ‘Are you ready?’
Hattie nodded. She turned to Gerald and whispered, ‘I apologise in advance.’ Reaching for her glass, she took a fortifying gulp and drained it, then, pushing her chair back, she slipped off her robe.
‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ Sue announced, ‘please put your hands together for this dynamic duo who are about to shimmy their way into your hearts. I give you, Sylvie and Hattie!’
Where the entertainment so far had erred on the side of modesty, Hattie and Sylvie had not.
To Sylvie’s delight, her globe-trotting belly-dancing costumes had survived their week without her, and she insisted that Hattie wear the vibrant red sequined crop top and flowing skirt that matched Sylvie’s own blaze of orange.
Reluctant at first to master the moves required to put on a show, Hattie soon discovered she was a natural. She could wriggle and roll her tummy and shimmy the gold coins stitched to her low-slung belt, almost as fast as Sylvie.
Their hip work was as fluid as it could be for women in later life.
As they circled each other, lifting their veils with theatrical flair, Hattie executed a hip-twisting turn that would later require painkilling medication.
The audience began to clap in time, and Gerald and Ezra leapt to their feet, whooping and cheering.
For their final crescendo, Sylvie and Hattie struck a triumphant pose, with chins lifted and arms aloft, the coins still trembling at their hips. There was a heartbeat of silence before cheers broke out, and from several tables, many called, ‘Encore!’
‘Is there a chiropractor in the house?’ Sue joked. ‘Weren’t they magnificent?’
‘Disgusting!’ Anouska sniffed as the pair returned to the table. Not bothering to lower her voice, she continued. ‘Like watching an overfilled trifle wobble across the floor. Stomachs should never be shaken at their age.’
‘Well, I thought it was rather splendid,’ Peter declared, still applauding as Hattie and Sylvie sat down, flushed and breathless.
Hattie felt Gerald’s hand reach for her own beneath the table. ‘A belly dancer wearing pearls. You were amazing,’ he whispered.
The two Christie-like couples murmured their agreement with Peter, eager to know where the costumes had come from and how long it had taken the girls to perfect the routine.
‘Oh gee, it was only a bit of fun,’ Sylvie said, fanning herself with one hand. ‘I found the get-ups in the consignment shop in Larksville,’ Sylvie explained.
‘And the dancing?’ asked one of the wives.
‘YouTube.’ Sylvie gave a shrug. ‘Hattie is a quick learner,’ she added, turning to Hattie with a sideways smile.
Sue clapped her hands for attention and introduced the final act of the evening. Chairs scraped back as the two Christie-like couples rose and made their way over to Sue.
‘Ladies and gentlemen, please put your hands together for the Art Deco Divas . . .’
By now, residents from the hotel had drifted into the function room, drawn by the music and applause. Many stood along the walls, drinks in hand, to enjoy the impromptu entertainment.
The dancers began an elegant waltz, with purposeful gliding and grave expressions, in perfectly timed steps, as they rotated around the floor. This was followed by a fluid foxtrot and finished with a lively Charleston that had everyone’s feet tapping.
Once more, the room erupted as Sue thanked the Art Deco Divas for their show-stopping performance. She concluded by adding that everyone was welcome to stay on and enjoy the rest of the evening before making their own way back to the boat.
‘But, before I leave you—’ Sue held up her hand ‘—we have a very special occasion to celebrate tonight.’
She nodded to Sam, who stood to one side, lighting candles on a very large cake.
‘A fellow guest has his sixtieth birthday today.’ She held a hand to her forehead to look out at the crowd. ‘Where are you, Peter Bully?’
Anouska stroked Peter’s arm and encouraged him to his feet as everyone began to sing ‘Happy birthday to you!’
Sam and a steward brought the cake to the table, and Peter made a valiant attempt to blow out all the candles. He nodded his thanks with an effusive bow and was about to sit down when Sue called out, ‘SPEECH!’
Anouska, enjoying being part of Peter’s limelight, urged him to respond.
‘Well.’ Peter gave a nervous cough. ‘As you all are aware, I am indeed celebrating sixty years on this fascinating planet and,’ he continued, ‘I have spent a considerable portion of those years in the service of my country.’
Anouska stroked his arm. She was positively glowing beneath the gold.
Peter smiled down at her and smoothed his lapel.
‘There are matters I can’t discuss,’ he said gravely, ‘certain operations and assignments . . .’ He paused and adjusted his cuff as though it concealed a miniature transmitter rather than a cufflink won on eBay.
‘One doesn’t reach sixty without a steady nerve, and, as James Bond might say—’ he raised his glass with a flourish ‘—a well-shaken Martini.’
‘JAMES BOND?’ a voice boomed from the back of the room. ‘Give over, Peter Bully, you’re a sausage maker from Clitheroe!’
The words cracked through the room like pistol fire, and Hattie closed her eyes. She winced as everyone remained silent.
Alf’s information had been spot on.
When she dared to look again, she recognised the speaker. It was the man on the plane who’d greeted Peter as they were disembarking. He’d been holidaying in Luxor with his wife.
‘Yes!’ the man continued cheerfully, delighted to big-up a fellow Lancastrian. ‘This is Peter Bully. He and his brother Bob make the finest sausages in the north of England. Award-winning. Right good too!’ He lifted his glass. ‘If you’re ever in Clitheroe, you won’t find better.’
A smatter of laughter rippled around the room. But Peter had dropped to his seat, his complexion faded from Bond-bronze to butcher-pale.
Anouska appeared frozen, her expression one of shock as she processed this new information. She slowly turned to face Peter.
‘Sausage maker?’ she hissed.
Peter swallowed.
‘Did I hear correctly . . . Sausage maker?’ Anouska repeated.
‘No, no, you misunderstand,’ Peter stumbled, ‘every operative requires a . . . a cover.’
Gerald leaned forward, helpfully. ‘Pork and paprika?’ he offered.
The last thing heard from Anouska was a low, almost silent scream. The sound that a gold-digging, husband-hunting woman makes when she realises she has been completely duped.
Flinging back her chair, Anouska swept from the room, slamming the door behind her.
A long pause followed, and Peter remained seated, staring straight ahead.
Sylvie shuffled and reached for her wrap while Ezra studied his phone. The Art Deco Divas politely poured everyone more wine, while Gerald turned to Hattie with a shrug.
Hattie sat up and drew the birthday cake towards her.
‘Now then,’ she said brightly, reaching for the knife, ‘who’s going to have the first slice?’