Page 105 of The Next Chapter

He takes a bow before walking quickly away from what is obviously the ‘performance space’. The fluttering in my stomach that’s always there around him becomes a persistent ache.

I have another (and another) drink. It doesn’t make it go away.

Noah says something to Lola who takes the mic, looks at me and says, ‘Sing for us, Lily Brown?’

I guess that Noah did tell her my surname after all. She doesn’t seem to have freaked about it, though, so maybe it didn’t ring any bells.

It’s not what I need to be thinking about now. Chatter has broken out around us. Hopefully this means that everyone has gone back to their drinks, and they’ll just ignore me.

I hand Noah the remnants of my wine. ‘You were really good,’ I tell him.

He laughs. ‘Not my first karaoke here. What are you going to sing?’

‘I don’t know, do you have a list?’ I ask Lola.

‘Just whatever’s on YouTube,’ she tells me.

‘Okay, how about “Love Story” by Taylor Swift? I’ve always liked that one.’ I try to play down just how much of a committed Swiftie I really am (top one per cent on Spotify round-up). But I could sing this song in my sleep. Lola searches and despite my knowing all the words, I still think it’ll be good going if I don’t just puke all over them. Whether from booze or nerves, who knows. The last time I properly sang for anyone was before Mum died. And that was in the school choir.

But the song starts up and the mic is in my hand. So, it looks like I am doing this. At least no one’s paying me any attention, aside from Noah, that is, and Lola and James. Oh and Blake, who’s smiling, and Harper, who is also smiling, but in a much more sinister way.

I miss the bit where I’m meant to start so I decide to glue my eyes to the screen of Lola’s laptop instead. It doesn’t matter that the words are a tiny bit blurry because come on, as if I need the actual words.

I’m a bit croaky at first and I’m gripping the mic so hard there’s a chance I’m going to snap it in half. But then I remember Harper’s foster dad going for all the high notes in the Grease medley that they did, and I think the bar isn’t particularly high here.

And actually, if everyone thinks I’m rubbish, it doesn’t matter. The world won’t come crashing to an end.

My slither of personal growth relaxes me a little bit, not that I take my eyes off the screen. It’s not a song that allows you to breathe too often – Taylor must have really brilliant lung capacity – but I give it my best shot and when the song ends, I think it’s probably gone all right, if truth be told.

What I absolutely don’t expect to happen is to look up and see everyone sort of… gaping. Yeah, there’s no other word to describe it. They’re all gaping at me.

When I think back on this, or better yet, write it into my memoirs, I’ll definitely insert a sort of slow clap, starting with Noah for maximum drama. In reality, it’s everyone clapping together, but it’ll sound much more theatrical as a slow clap.

‘I can’t believe you’re actually good!’ Harper says as Noah whistles at me.

‘Do another one!’ he calls out. And even Harper’s foster parents shout in agreement, though they don’t have a problem with mic-hoggers, being ones themselves.

Only Lola is looking at me with her head tilted to the side. As if I’m a puzzle she’s trying to figure out.

I can’t think about that now. Not when people are shouting out things like ‘Sing more Taylor’ and ‘Do you know any Shania Twain?’.

Maybe it’s the alcohol I have flowing through my system or the sheer relief that what I thought was going to be an out and out disaster has actually turned out pretty good, but after that, I get really into it. It’s an excellent thing that as adults, we’re allowed to change our minds about stuff, because I do a complete U-turn when it comes to the humble karaoke.

I sing ‘This Charming Man’ with Harper, who shouts all the words and Noah and I give ‘Señorita’ by Camilla Cabello and Shawn Mendes such a good go, it’s practically pornographic. Just what I want in front of my birth mum and all these strangers from town.

And okay, my knee slide at the end of ‘Don’t Stop Believin” was very much ill-advised. I’ll likely have knee problems for years now. But other than that, people are dancing around me, and I can see it, then. I can see why Lola loved this, loved people cheering and clapping at her, at least at first. Making people happy is what I am for, always. Making them this happy is an addictive high.

This is what I always worried about. That I’d like it too much. That it would mean that I was like Lola. Singing with Mum was safe, singing because I liked the admiration, less so.

Which is strange, because the only person showing zero admiration is Lola. She’s not smiling or clapping. In fact, she’s retreated to the drinks table and from what I can tell, is hardly talking to anyone.

‘I need a break,’ I gasp at the end of a particularly energetic rendition of ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’. I make my way over to Lola. I think I’ve sweated out most of the booze, but I’m parched.

‘Do you have any water, Lola?’ I ask her.

She rummages around in the cool box and hands me a bottle.

‘You have a lovely voice,’ she tells me. ‘I’m surprised you didn’t want to sing.’