Page 37 of Benidorm Again

I’m not even going to make eye contact with the Maestro as I dash off stage. Dolly is there waiting. She scurries beside me as we run down the corridors.

‘Never in all my years,’ she says, shaking her head at me. ‘But I’m not really sure what else you could have done.’

I give her a grateful smile as we burst into my dressing room.

‘Good Lord,’ she exclaims when she sees me diving head-first into the elaborately ruffled, peacock blue, feathery creation. ‘Why does it have a life-size peacock stuck to the bustle at the back? Were Disney Studios having athrow-out? I’m not even sure you’ll fit through the door in that.’

She’s right. I get immediately stuck in the dressing room doorway, and she has to push me out using her foot on my backside. Good job she’s built like a Navy SEAL. We race back to the stage area, her helping me with the dress as it is ridiculously heavy, just as the Maestro is finishing a soothing Mozart’s Clarinet Concerto. It has calmed the audience right down.

I chew my lip, nervous as to how he will react to my over-the-top, zoo-like, Cinderella-style outfit. It’s as though I am deliberately bringing the shame.

He takes one horrified look at me, rolls his eyes dramatically before closing them. He pinches the bridge of his nose and gently shakes his head in defeat. The audience falls silent, and we wait.

I get the sense that the audience knows that if one tiny chuckle escapes into the atmosphere, the whole show will be cancelled.

Maestro taps his nose four times with his baton while I refrain from yelling any spells at him. He opens his eyes slowly as though hoping this is all some hideous hallucinatory nightmare. The disappointed look that falls across his face when he sees me tells him this is not a dream. I dreadto think what he’ll do when I twirl around and he spots a whole stuffed bird poking out the back.

My heart begins to thump loudly in my chest. I could do with some encouragement right about now. I see Luke staring at me. He looks me up and down from the far side of the stage, a huge grin spreading across his face.

‘I preferred the other dress,’ he mouths to me.

Suddenly, I’m ready to steal the show. I walk confidently on to the stage and thank the Maestro, the chorus and the ensemble for their kindness and patience. They all look shocked as I praise them profusely before turning to butter up the audience.

‘How do you like my gown? I was going for Bridgerton meets endangered peafowl.’ I twirl around to show off the peacock. ‘Just doing my bit to raise awareness.’

They return a deafening response, cheering, stomping, clapping. I am going to give them the best performance they have ever seen.

‘You’ve done it again,’ Luke says, making his way to me at breakfast the following day. He sits down at my table and places a copy of The York Press down in front of me.

I glance at the picture of me on stage and try not to react. I’m so disappointed with myself. The champagne mist gown is nowhere to be seen. Like actual mist, it appears to have evaporated. All you can see is the outline of my figure and a shocked Maestro with his mouth hanging open. Words are dancing around, leaping out at me. Controversial. Attention-seeking. Stunning. Jaw-dropping. And every girl’s dream, they’ve gone with the headline, “Barely Heir! – Just how far will one woman go to bag an heir to the throne?” and an article entirely dedicated to linking my desperate naked singing stunt to the non-existent love triangle with a Royal cousin and a Norwegian Count.

Luke’s lips are twitching. ‘You certainly know how to make a splash, don’t you?’

‘Whatever do you mean?’ I will not be drawn into any more dramas.

‘You’ve been with us for three days, and we’ve had more publicity than we’ve had in a decade.’

‘Hardly deliberate,’ I say between mouthfuls of delicious avocado prawn mousse with beads of smoked salmon foam on toasted, almost see-through sourdough wafers. ‘If it wasn’t for you being famous, they wouldn’t be interested in me in the first place, would they?’ My voice cracks unintentionally.

‘I feel guilty,’ Luke says, sighing. ‘I feel guilty at dragging you into the tabloids. You’re right. It’s my fault. After a while you get used to the papers printing whatever lies they want. I should have warned you.’

I stop picking at my avocado-flavoured mousse and put my cutlery down. ‘Or the Sinfonia could have warned me. It’s kind of their responsibility. You were just doing your job, I suppose. And I’m just not used to this sort of attention. Besides, I’d like to know who’s encouraging the press to come along. Where are they getting their information from? How would they even know about you and Hermione in the first place?’

Luke shrugs. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. I’ll ask my father to pull some strings.’

I give him a grateful half-smile. ‘Thanks.’ I wish he didn’t look so handsome and sorry-for-himself.

‘Maybe this will cheer you up,’ he says, handing me a small package. It’s a small velvet-covered box neatly tied with a bow. It is the perfect size for a ring.

An uncomfortable silence swirls between us as I remember us joking about him getting wed to avoid marrying his lesbian.

Alarmed, I quip, ‘Bit early for a proposal, isn’t it?’

His eyesimmediately brighten. ‘No,’ he says drily. ‘Why? Would you wait until at least the second or third date?’

Ah.

‘This isn’t a date,’ I say.

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