CHAPTER ELEVEN
When I walk into the village hall later, I catch Ethan’s eye and he walks straight over to me.
He pulls me into the kitchen and I wonder for one breathtaking moment if he’s going to actually kiss me, right there and then. He certainly seems keen to tell me of his plans for me.
‘Fen.’ His expression changes to surprise. ‘Hey, you look nice.’
‘Thanks.’ No kiss, then.
‘So anyway, as I was about to tell you yesterday before the phone rudely interrupted me . . .’
‘Yes?’ I smile up at him, my heart beating fast, knowing I’ll say yes to him whatever it is he’s about to suggest . . .
‘We need a Fairy Godmother for the dress rehearsal next Friday and I think you’d be brilliant!’ He smiles at me expectantly.
‘Oh. Right.’ Bemused, I wait for him to carry on. He still hasn’t told me what his special plans for me are.
‘So will you do it?’
‘Play the Fairy Godmother?’ I gaze at him uncertainly. ‘But what about Rosalind? That’s her part.’
He shrugs. ‘She’s at her nephew’s graduation the day of the dress rehearsal.’
‘Oh.’ Panic is beginning to creep through me at the very thought of stepping on stage with a magic wand. He really must be joking . . .
Seeing my obvious doubt, Ethan changes tack, murmuring encouragingly, ‘You’ve read through the part with Rosalind. I’ve seen you helping her with her lines on many an occasion. You must know it off by heart by now.’ His eyes crinkle up in a broad smile. ‘I thought you’d jump at the chance.’
Suddenly, the penny drops.
These are his special plans for me!
But if he really thought I’d be leaping up and down with joy at the prospect of acting in the panto, he clearly doesn’t know me very well.
I swallow down my crushing disappointment.
What an idiot I’ve been, imagining all sorts of fairytale scenarios that Ethan might have dreamed up for me. My fertile imagination has run away with me again, just like it always does.
Then he says, ‘By the way, I’ve just been invited to a wine-tasting at an art gallery on the Friday night, after the dress rehearsal in the afternoon. How about you come along with me? What sort of art do you like, Fen?’
The change of subject throws me for a second. ‘Well, I’m not so keen on all the poker-faced ancestors hanging on the walls of Brambleberry Manor. But I – erm - do like those colourful pictures of larger-than-life women enjoying themselves on nights out.’ I’m desperately trying to think of the artist’s name – I know it’s a woman.
‘Beryl Cook?’ says Ethan. ‘Yes, her paintings are incredibly popular. Although I’m not sure you’ll find anything in that style at this gallery.’ He fishes in his pocket, pulls out a leaflet and hands it to me.
I glance at the strange painting of a black square with a few green squiggles in the corner. The exhibition is apparently entitled: The Bureaucracies of Dilettantes: Media Art and Complacency.
‘Gosh, that sounds . . . erm . . . fascinating.’ I beam at him and hand the leaflet back, wondering what the hell it even means.
‘Probably a lot of pretentious crap.’ He grins. ‘But at least there’ll be free champagne. And samples of wine, of course.’
It flashes across my mind that Ethan loves a freebie. He still hasn’t paid me back yet for footing the bill in the café for him. Although he has asked me to remind him about it, so he obviously does intend to reimburse me eventually.
‘Excellent.’ I nod, thinking I don’t really care what the exhibition is called or whether the drinks are free. As long as I’m with Ethan, I’m sure to have a wonderful evening. I’m about to ask him what the dress code is. But Ethan gazes at me urgently and murmurs, ‘So what do you say, Fen? Would you like to make your acting debut on dress rehearsal night?’
I’d far rather have talked some more about our night out. But it’s clear Ethan is more concerned right now about filling Rosalind’s shoes.
‘You know what? I think you’ll be absolutely marvellous,’ Ethan is murmuring. He glances at the door then pulls me against him and suddenly I’m feeling just how marvellous he thinks I am, which is hugely flattering, I must say.
His handsome face, as he stares down at me, is full of pleading persuasion and impossible to resist. My panic forgotten, I gaze into his gorgeous chocolate brown eyes, which suddenly seem to me to have a bewitching hypnotic quality to them.
Almost against my will, my mouth opens . . . and I’m smiling up at him and saying . . .
‘I’d love to be your Fairy Godmother.’
*****
‘I can’t be the Fairy Godmother! Why ever did I say I would? Oh, Dad, I’m going to be rubbish at the dress rehearsal!’
I’m over at the zip wire with Dad, checking everything is in order for Christmas Day. Mum will be cooking a big Christmas lunch with quite a few invited guests, including Ellie and Zak, and Jaz and Harry, and Dad had the idea of everyone having a go on the zip wire in the morning, before the grand feast.
Actually, ‘checking everything is in order’ is mostly an excuse so Dad and I can have a few turns right now ourselves!
‘You’ll be great, Fen,’ says Dad as we climb up to the platform. ‘I have every confidence in you.’ He smiles fondly. ‘As long as you make sure you’re word perfect, you’ll have nothing to worry about.’
‘Except totally freezing and being unable to say a word,’ I groan.
We lean on the rail at the top and gaze out over the parkland.
‘I think the trick is to sound as though you feel confident, even though you aren’t. I do it all the time.’ He quirks his mouth up at the corner. ‘People are more easily fooled than you might think.’
‘Really?’
‘Oh, yes.’ He chuckles. ‘Most people are far too busy wondering if they’re about to fall on their butt and make a spectacle of themselves to bother judging how other people are faring in the confidence stakes.’
‘I never thought of that,’ I muse, leaning against him and staring up into the treetops.
‘It’s true, love.’ He kisses the top of my head and says, ‘You’re going to surprise everyone with how great you are. Now, who’s going first?’
‘You.’ I nudge him.
He sighs. ‘I’d like to oblige. But I think I’ll have to work up a bit of energy first, after that climb.’
I grin at him, thinking he’s joking. But he looks serious. ‘That’s not like you. I usually have to elbow you out of the way to get a go.’
‘I’m getting older, love.’ He does an exaggerated pout and I laugh.
‘Rubbish. You’ll never be old.’
Dad’s one of those eternally youthful people who seems to defy nature. He’s in his early fifties but he could easily pass for a man five, even ten years younger.
I glance at his profile. He does look tired today, though, and a cold hand grips my heart the way it always does when I think that there’ll come a day when my dad will no longer be around.
I worry about Mum, too. But for some reason, the thought of Dad growing old seems more poignant and scary. I suppose I’m a Daddy’s girl and always have been.
‘Okay, I’ll go.’
I love our zip wire. Mum had it installed in the summer just before we opened to the public for the first time and it’s been a great hit with guests – both kids and grown-ups alike. It’s lovely having it all to ourselves when the place is closed to visitors.
Mum’s never even been on it. She considers it pointless, like fairground rides, but for Dad and me, it’s our guilty pleasure and we quite often come over here to let off some steam. Rich joins us when he’s around.
I grip the pole and swing onto the rubber seat. Then I’m off, enjoying the stomach-flipping sensation of flying though the air and feeling the breeze ruffle my hair. At the bottom, I send the pole sliding back along the wire to reach Dad at the top and wait for him to join me.
He comes flying down and lands beside me.
‘Excellent. Another go?’ I send the seat contraption flying back along the wire and start walking back to the starting point, expecting Dad to catch up and overtake me. But when I turn, he’s still leaning against a tree at the bottom.
‘Dad? You okay?’ I walk back down.
‘Yeah, just a bit out of breath for a minute.’ He grins. ‘I’m fine now, though.’
I peer at him anxiously. ‘You look a bit pale. Maybe you’re sickening for something.’
He groans. ‘It’s probably the stew your mum made last night.’
Mum’s not a great cook. Even she admits that. And we all dread her ‘stews’ as they tend to be a mix of whatever happens to be in the bottom of the fridge and needing to be used up.
‘Ooh, I’ll tell her you said that.’
‘Don’t you dare.’ He pulls a comical frown.
I laugh, relieved to see colour returning to his cheeks. ‘Don’t worry, Dad. Your secret is safe with me.’