13. Thirteen

Ispend the taxi ride back to the hotel meticulously over-thinking every moment of my meeting with Jamie, but when we finally pull up outside the huge revolving glass doors, I’m still no closer to understanding what just happened, and whether or not I can cross “kiss Jamie Reynolds” off my list of resolutions.

He did kiss me, though.

But… only just.

Then he ran off in a hurry, without asking me for my number, or arranging a time to meet up again.

So… does that mean it was a kiss kiss, or was it maybe just a friendly kiss? A nice-to-see-you-but-let’s-never-do-it-again kiss?

For the briefest of seconds, I consider messaging Chloe and asking what she thinks. Then I remember the time I asked Chloe what I should wear to the Year 10 disco, and she suggested I get my hair permed, so maybe not.

My route back to my room takes me through the hotel foyer and past the door of the huge entertainment area, where tables are grouped around a small stage, on which a very orange looking gentleman in a suit is singing My Way in a style that would probably be described as ‘crooning’. Just in front of the stage is a dance-floor, upon which a group of under 5s are skidding around in their socks, and off to one side is a long bar surrounded by holidaymakers, all in various states of inebriation.

As my eyes adjust to the dark, I notice a series of low, squashy sofas near the back of the room, on which Alice and Julian are currently reclining, like the Lord and Lady of the Manor, with Rita on a seat opposite them, wearing so many bracelets it’s a wonder she can raise her arms.

“Coo-eee, Summer! Over ‘ere!” she shouts, catching sight of me hovering uncertainly by the entrance. “The waiter’s just taken our drinks order,” she adds as I go over to join them. “If you hurry, you can still catch him.”

“I’m fine, thanks, Rita,” I reply, sinking into the seat next to her. “I had a bit too much sangria with dinner, so nothing for me.”

“At dinner, did you say?” says Alice, leaning forward so she can hear me over the music. “But we didn’t see you at dinner, did we, Julian? That young Alex was there all on his own, poor thing, wasn’t he?”

Julian nods obediently.

“So, if you weren’t at dinner with him,” Alice finishes, an excited glint in her eye, “Does that mean—?”

I can’t help but smile at her enthusiasm.

“I was with Jamie,” I confirm, wincing in pain as Rita squeals with delight right next to me. “We had tapas.”

“Tell us everything,” says Julian, shuffling forward in his seat. “Actually, no, better wait for Gerald. He’s going to want to hear this, too.”

“Gerald’s gone to put his name down for the karaoke,” Rita replies impatiently. “We’re not waitin’ for him.”

“I’m not listening to him, either,” agrees Alice. “I had enough of that at dinner. And who invited him to sit with us, in any case?”

“It wasn’t me,” Julian protests. “He just turned up, like a bad penny.”

“Well, I wasn’t sitting with him,” says Rita. “I had to put up with him all day on that bus tour. Like a limpet, he was. I don’t want to have to listen to him singing Unchained Melody, either.”

Over by the stage, Gerald — resplendent in another Hawaiian shirt — looks over and gives a cheery wave. A sudden wave of sadness washes over me as I watch him standing there on his own, while we all sit here like mean girls, talking about how he can’t sit with us.

“I think he’s just a bit lonely,” I begin, but Alice is reaching over to grip my arm tightly.

“Summer, you could sing it with him!” she exclaims. “You said you wanted to be a famous singer, didn’t you? Well, here’s your chance.”

I stare at her, horrified.

“Oh no, I couldn’t possibly,” I tell her hurriedly, looking around the cavernous room, which is larger than some theaters I’ve been to. Up on the stage, the orange singer has finished his set, and a giant screen has been pulled down, with the lyrics of the first song projected onto it. It looks like the karaoke is about to begin.

“I definitely couldn’t,” I repeat, sinking a little lower in my seat. “Absolutely no way.”

“Of course you could, love,” says Rita. “If Gerald can do it, you can. You could be just like that Taylor Swift. Here, they’ve even got some of her songs for you.”

She points at a navy ring-binder that’s sitting on the table in front of us, its laminated pages filled with song titles.

“Here you go,” says Alice, picking it up and flipping through it until she finds the right page. “We Are Never Ever Getting Back Together; Shake It Off; You Belong With —”

“No,” I tell her firmly, thinking about Jamie, and how he’d laughed at my teenage vocals. “I’m not singing anything. It’s been years since I did any singing. And I’m… I’m no Mariah Carey.”

“But then how are you going to become a famous singer if you won’t actually sing?” asks Alice, her eyes wide with confusion. “How’s that going to work, then?”

I cringe all the way to my toes, wishing I’d never told any of them about my diary and that stupid list of resolutions.

“Well, it’s not, obviously,” I admit, shrugging. “Look, I was 13 when I wrote that list. I was young and stupid, and I thought I could do anything I wanted. But I can’t. I know that. And I know I told you all I came out here to work my way through the list and do some of the things on it, but I didn’t mean all of them. Some of them are just totally unachievable; like the one about seeing Taylor Swift, for instance. Come on, guys; none of you thought I was seriously expecting to do that in Tenerife, did you?”

“I did,” says Julian earnestly. “I’m still not 100% sure who Taylor Swift is, though, so…”

“You said you were going to do all of those things, young lady,” says Alice stubbornly. “All of them. You never said you were going to just miss some of them out.”

“That’s right,” nods Rita. “I feel misled now, Summer. You said you would do it. And as your stand-in Fairy Godcrone, I think I owe it to you to make sure you follow through with it.”

“Oh, come on,” I say again, indignantly. “You can’t be serious? You didn’t actually think I was somehow going to become a professional singer in the course of a week-long package holiday to the Canaries?”

The Fairy-Godfolk stare back at me, unblinking. I’m actually starting to feel sorry for Cinderella, if the truth be told. I mean, did anyone even ask if she wanted to go to the ball? Maybe she’d rather have just stayed at home and read her book. Did her skincare. Lit a nice scented candle. Did anyone think of that?

On the stage, the opening bars of Flowers start up, and a young woman starts screeching into the mic, to polite applause from the assembled crowd.

I could do that.

The thought makes me sit up a little straighter in my seat as I turn to watch her. I’ve never been exactly confident about my singing ability, but I’m not wrong: I really do think I could sing at least as well as the woman on the stage; and, even if I couldn’t, would it really matter? Because she might not have the greatest voice in the world, but she’s having an absolute ball. Right in front of her, a man I’m assuming is her husband is roaring his encouragement, while holding up a camera phone, to record his wife’s big moment. All around him, people are clapping and cheering, almost as if they’re watching a professional singer, rather than someone who appears to have never heard this song in her life.

No one’s pointing or laughing. No one’s making fun of her. And, when she reaches the end of the song, and stops to take a bow, the whole place erupts with applause, everyone good-naturedly joining in, because they’re on holiday, and having fun, so who cares if there were a few wrong notes?

I want that too.

The second thought is even more surprising than the first one was; but now that I think of it, not really. As a teenager, I used to spend hours on end singing in the shower, and imagining what it would be like to sing on stage. My 13-year-old self would literally die at the thought of actually getting to do it.

Don’t I owe it to her to give it a try?

“Ooh, look, she’s thinking about it,” says Rita in a stage whisper. “I think she’s going to do it.”

“Are you, Summer?” asks Alice hopefully. “Are you really thinking about it?”

“Oh, go on love,” says Rita. “Why not? You only live once, you know. And you’re on holiday — you’ll never have to see any of these folks again, even if you do end up making a right tit of yourself.”

‘You only live once’ is exactly the type of trite, motivational quote that someone like Alex would deride as a faux-profundity for the Instagram generation: the kind of thing you’d see written in a swirly script, and superimposed on a photo of a sunset.

It’s also absolutely true.

When else am I going to get the opportunity to sing live on stage, after all? It’s not like they tend to advertise jobs for wannabe celebrities in the local paper. (“Wanted: female singer. Must be comfortable with worldwide fame…”) But I’m here now, in a place where no one knows me, and know one’s likely to remember or care if I ‘make a right tit of myself’, as Rita so eloquently put it.

“I think I’m going to do it,” I announce boldly, surprising even myself.

Rita, Alice, and Julian burst into a spontaneous round of applause, which totally ruins the chorus of ‘You’re The One That I Want’, which is currently being sung by a young couple with strong Geordie accents.

No one’s laughing at them either, though. That makes me even more determined to see this through: to do it for my 13-year-old self. (And also for my new octogenarian friends, who appear to think I now owe it to them to complete my list, and who all look like they might be tempted to ask for a refund if I don’t manage to do it.)

“What are you going to sing, Summer?” asks Julian. “Will you join Gerald in Unchained Melody? It’s always a big hit at these things.”

“No,” I reply, picking up the ring binder again and leafing through it. “I think I’m going to do ‘Cruel Summer’.”

“Oh, Bananarama?” exclaims Rita. “I love that, I do. I’ll maybe join you.”

“No, Taylor Swift,” I tell her, making up my mind. “It’s one of my favorites. And not just because it’s got my name in it.”

Okay, it is partly that it’s got my name in it. And, to be totally honest, I’m already doubting my ability to successfully rhyme the words, “it’s ooh-ooh-ah-ah” with the rest of the chorus. But, just like when I got on the plane, and when I climbed — was driven — up that mountain, I’m going to give it a go.

Right now.

Before I completely lose my nerve.

Which I think I maybe already have, actually?

“Right, then,” says Rita, sensing my hesitation. “Let’s get you up there, then. Julian?”

She raises an eyebrow in his direction, and Julian leaps obediently to his feet, coming to stand on one side of me, while Rita takes the other. Together they pull me out of my seat and practically frog-march me to the stage, just as the ‘kids from Grease’ double-act comes to an end.

“Fairy Godfolk coming through,” shouts Rita, giving me a sharp push which propels me rapidly up the three steps that lead to the low stage. “This is Summer,” she goes on, turning to address the hotel worker who’s manning the karaoke machine. “She’s going to be singing ‘Cool Summer’ by Taylor Swift.”

“Cruel,” I say, forgetting the microphone in front of me is switched on. “It’s Cruel Summer.”

The words echo loudly around the room.

“Don’t be hard on yourself, love,” Gerald calls out from the side of the stage. “I don’t think you’re cruel at all. Just a bit ditsy, maybe.”

There’s a muted round of applause from the audience, who are clearly much less comfortable with this latest turn of events than they were with the drunken bravado of the previous performers. I feel a small part of myself shrivel up and quietly die. There’s a pause while the man on the karaoke machine searches for the right track, and I stand there, blinking slightly in the lights from the stage as I look out at what feels like hundreds of expectant faces.

This is it.

This is how I’m going to die.

A small bead of sweat forms at the nape of my neck and trickles uncomfortably down my back. My throat is so dry I can’t imagine even speaking, let alone singing. But then the music starts up, comfortingly familiar from all the times I’ve listened to those iconic opening bars on the commute to work, or during my breaks. As if in a dream, I see my own hand reach out and pick up the microphone in front of me, as if that’s a perfectly normal thing for a hand of mine to be doing. I raise it to my mouth, determined to see this through, and squint out at the audience, scanning the crowd for the familiar faces of my new friends, to give me some confidence.

And there is, indeed, a familiar face in that crowd.

He’s standing right at the back of the room, his arms crossed in front of his chest, and an amused smirk on his face as he watches me trembling in the spotlight.

The literal spotlight.

Oh my God, what on earth was I thinking?

Across the room, Alex Fox raises his eyebrows, as if he’s asking himself the same question.

From just in front of the stage I see Rita looking up at me, her face creased with concern as the music goes on, long past the point where I should have come in to join it.

“Come on, Summer,” she mouths encouragingly at me. “You can do it.”

But I can’t.

I can’t do this.

Because, when I finally open my mouth to sing about fever dreams and quiet nights in some fictional summer setting, all that comes out is a strangled croak: a sound that will surely be haunting all of my nightmares from now until the day I die.

It really is a cruel summer, is the last thing I think as I stumble my way off the stage and run for the door, leaving a trail of surprised expressions and amused chuckles in my wake. And now I really have made a right tit of myself.