Tangled Emotions

She explained about the near-mugging of the night before, and got bawled out by Tim Mathias for not asking someone for a lift home.

‘I didn’t think about it until it was too late. Anyway, I get the car back this afternoon, so no more transport problems.’

Once the lunchtime session was over Fen went to collect her car, then drove back to the Mitre to find Tim using the full battery of his charm on some of his female staff. When Fen asked what was going there was a ripple of laughter and one of them pointed a dramatic finger at her.

‘Fen’s your best bet, Tim,’ said Jilly, grinning. ‘She can do it, no problem.’

‘Do what?’ demanded Fen with suspicion.

Tim eyed his newest recruit speculatively. ‘You know that this is live music night in the piano bar?’

She nodded. ‘But if Martin’s off sick it’s no use asking me to fill in; I can’t play a note.’

‘Martin’s fine. The problem is Diane, our sexy songstress.’ Tim scowled. ‘She’s lost her voice. We’ll have her fans streaming in to spend good money on drinks, but when they find her missing they probably won’t stay to buy more. How the devil did the woman manage to lose her voice in the middle of a heat wave?’

‘I don’t suppose she did it on purpose—’ Fen broke off, staring at him as the penny dropped. ‘Wait a minute. Why are you looking at me?’

‘I’ve heard you singing when no one’s around—not bad at all, in a breathless kind of way.’ Tim grinned. ‘Come on, Fen. It’s only tonight. I’ll get Martin to come in for a quick run-through, now while it’s quiet, then tonight you just croon a few standards into a microphone for a couple of sets. Easy as pie.’

Laughing at the loud encouragement from her joshing colleagues, she shook her head. ‘Not a chance. I’m not good enough.’

‘Of course you are. We’re not talking grand opera. And,’ he added coaxingly, ‘I’ll pay you double your money.’

Fen’s eyebrows rose. ‘You mean that?’

Tim laid a hand on his heart. ‘Would I lie?’

She thought it over, reminding herself why she’d come here asking for a job at the Mitre in the first place. This would add fuel to the fire. And she could certainly do with the money. ‘All right, I’ll do it. But for one night only,’ she added, to cheers from the others.

‘Done,’ said Tim jubilantly. ‘Remember Michelle Pfeiffer in The Fabulous Baker Boys?’

‘Certainly not. I’m too young!’ Fen grinned. ‘Actually, I do remember. But I’m a lanky brunette, not a fragile blonde, and I don’t have a shiny red dress.’ She glanced down at her uniform white blouse and black skirt. ‘Talking of dresses, I suppose I won’t do as I am?’

‘Hell, no,’ said Tim bluntly. ‘Surely you can come up with something sexy, like the stuff Diane wears?’

‘A beanpole like me?’ she jeered. ‘I don’t do sexy. But if I can dash home after my session with Martin, I’ll find something.’

‘Take a couple of hours. You’re not due on until eight-thirty.’

The rehearsal went well enough to earn Fen a round of applause from everyone in earshot as the staff prepared for the evening. She got by largely because the songs were familiar, her memory for lyrics was good, and Martin was a skilful, sympathetic accompanist who gave useful tips on how to steal a breath in certain places. But, with her ears buzzing with Gershwin standards on the way to the car park later, doubts set in.

She had to be mad! The adventures of the night before had obviously addled her brain. Martin had assured her that her husky, breathless style was very easy on the ear, but it was sheer audacity, just the same, to perform for an audience used to an experienced performer like Diane. On the other hand, Fen thought philosophically, she could never resist a challenge.

Back at the house, she scribbled the lyrics on a sheet of paper small enough to hide on top of the piano, in case she dried, then took a critical look at a brief, clinging black dress with narrow straps holding up the low cowled top. Deciding it would have to do, Fen took a breather with a sandwich and a mug of coffee before her bath, then began transforming herself into a cabaret act.

She applied an extra layer of foundation and blusher, accentuated her eyes with smoky green shadow and two coats of mascara, then brushed her curling dark hair loose on her shoulders. She surveyed the result in the mirror. The dress clung to her boyishly narrow hips, added a touch of welcome emphasis to her breasts, and left a lot of suntanned leg bare. Fen shrugged. Not bad, though a lot different from voluptuous blonde Diane, who was given to plunging necklines and glittery dresses long enough to hide her thick ankles.

When Fen arrived back at the Mitre, Jilly followed her into the staffroom and let out a loud whistle of appreciation.

‘Gosh, Fen, you look terrific. I never noticed your eyes were green before. Diane would be mad as fire if she could see you.’

‘I’m more concerned with how I’ll sound than the way I look!’ said Fen, exchanging trainers for stilt-heeled black sandals.

‘Don’t worry.’ Jilly patted her on the shoulder. ‘The male punters will be too busy looking at those gorgeous tanned legs to care, dearie.’

Tim Mathias was equally enthusiastic when Fen reported for duty. ‘You look fantastic,’ he said jubilantly. ‘Thanks a lot. There’s a bigger crowd than usual in there tonight.’

‘You’ll be fine,’ Martin assured her, when Fen handed him her crib sheet of lyrics.

‘Can you hide them where I can take a look if I forget?’ she said urgently.

‘Will do.’ He patted her shoulder, glanced at his watch, and made for the door. ‘I’m on. See you in a few minutes.’

‘Want a drink, Fen?’ said Tim.

‘No, thanks.’ Fen took in a deep, unsteady breath as the sound of Martin’s piano came through the speakers. ‘I just hope I don’t make a hash of it.’

‘You’ll be fine.’ Tim smiled encouragingly as a skilled arpeggio from Martin finished his short selection from the shows. ‘There’s your cue. Break a leg.’

Fen waited, heart hammering, at the back of the small piano stage, while Martin apologised for Diane’s indisposition, then gave the audience the glad news that at the last minute another artiste had been persuaded to sing for them instead.

‘Let’s have a big hand for the lovely Fenella!’

Fen experienced a surge of unadulterated panic, survived it, heaved in a deep breath and stepped, smiling, onto the small, raised platform.

Martin gave her an encouraging wink as he began the familiar opening to a Gershwin melody. Fen smiled at him gratefully, checked that her crib sheet was in place, leaned into the curve of the grand piano, and began to sing.

At the end of the third song the applause was loud and enthusiastic, with shouts of ‘Encore’. Martin promised more later instead, and took Fen’s hand to bow.

Back in the office Fen sat down abruptly, her knees trembling now the first hurdle was over.

‘That was just brilliant, Fen,’ said Tim, elated. ‘You went over really well. Drink?’

‘Just water, please—I got rather hot in there.’

Martin grinned. ‘You weren’t the only one. When you pleaded for someone to watch over you quite a few blokes in there were panting to volunteer. One, in particular, couldn’t take his eyes off you.’

‘I was too busy concentrating to notice,’ said Fen, and drained the glass thirstily.

Tim looked worried as he told Martin about the mugging incident the night before. ‘You be extra careful tonight, Fen.’

‘One thing you can be sure of, boss dear. I’m in no danger from my mugger of last night,’ she assured him. ‘He’s probably tucked up in bed by now.’

When Martin left them to do his second stint at the piano Grace Mathias came in to add her congratulations.

‘You were a big hit, Fen. Quite a few of my diners went off to the piano bar afterwards.’ She smiled at her husband. ‘While they paid their bills I casually mentioned that we had a new attraction tonight.’

‘What a businesswoman you are,’ he said fondly.