Tangled Emotions. CATHERINE GEORGE

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.

      ‘So get me a glass of something extravagant while I listen in peace to Fen’s second set,’ she said promptly.

      ‘Don’t expect too much, Grace,’ warned Fen as she renewed her lipstick. ‘Peggy Lee I’m not.’ She jumped to her feet, tugged the clinging dress into place, then braced herself as her cue came through the sound system. ‘That’s me. Wish me luck.’

      This time round Fen felt less nervous when she joined Martin at the piano. She smiled into the audience, which had grown considerably since the first set, then caught sight of a familiar face at the entrance, and instead of leaning against the grand piano perched herself on top of it as Martin began the introduction to a classic Cole Porter favourite. They followed it with Jerome Kern, then ended the set with Hoagy Carmichael’s ‘Skylark’, which taxed Fen’s untrained voice to the limit as she breathed, rather than sang, the last three ascending notes. Afterwards the applause was wildly enthusiastic, with loud demands for encores. But Fen shook her head, smiling, and kissed her hand to them as Martin, grinning from ear to ear, helped her down.

      She felt drained as he took her back to receive warm thanks from Tim and Grace, plus some teasing from the three of them about her perch on the piano for the second set.

      ‘I thought I’d give the punters value for money,’ Fen said airily. She refused offers of drinks, accepted her fee, confirmed that her car was parked right outside the door, said her goodnights, then went off to exchange a word with some of the other girls before leaving.

      When she reached the side door later Fen’s heart gave a thump. A tall man stood barring her way, as expected. She stared up defiantly into dark eyes which held such furious disapproval she felt a surge of triumph. ‘Hi,’ she said casually.