Free The Awakening of Poppy Edwards by Marguerite Kaye Page A

men all sorts of wrong ideas. And some women. In the early days, when I first started singing here, when I first realised that I had to sing somewhere, even if walking on stage alone brought back such painful memories, back then I used to—sometimes. I tried both, men and women. Neither worked as well as I hoped. Maybe because I thought they wouldn’t.
    But this man. I’d never seen him before, that much I was sure of. He wasn’t good-looking enough to be in films. His hair was cut short, no floppy bit at the front to slick back, but really short, as though he didn’t want to be bothered with it. There were lines on his high forehead. He was clean-cut, no fashionable moustache. A strong jaw that a camera would love. Deep-set eyes. I couldn’t see the colour in the fug of the club, but I could feel them on me. Boring through me. Watching.
    I sang two songs. Songs that would have surprised Daisy, shocked her, even, but I can’t sing the old stuff, and this new jazz, it suits me. I don’t just mean my voice, but the lyrics, the mood. So sad. As if they were written for me. When the dancers came out at the end of my slot, I could have edged backstage as I always did, but I didn’t. Even though he made no sign, I went over to his table and sat down opposite him. His eyes were blue. He was younger than I’d thought, maybe thirty. And he had that indefinable air about him, of wealth or power or both.
    ‘You were staring,’ I said, by way of introduction.
    ‘You were extraordinary.’
    ‘I can hold a tune.’ I shrugged, but I was pleased, and that surprised me, because my singing, it’s very personal. You’ll say that’s a contradiction, because if it was so personal then I wouldn’t do it onstage. But no one knows me here—or if they do, it’s the kind of place where they choose not to say. And Bunty’s, it’s like no place I’ve ever performed before—there’s nothing to remind me of those times. When I sing here, the songs are for me. Just for me. So like I said, I was kind of surprised to be pleased, because usually I don’t give a damn.
    ‘Is there somewhere we can talk?’ he asked me.
    Did he mean
talk?
I was pretty shocked to discover I hoped not, though he made me nervous. Or I made myself nervous. The way I’d noticed him. The way my body noticed his, such a contrast between us, in the way he filled his dinner suit. There was a kind of ruggedness in him that I liked. He wasn’t smooth or debonair or any of those movie-star qualities I saw day in, day out on-set. His appeal was much more basic—and I don’t mean like that phoney,
Tarzan of the Apes
kind of basic, either.
    I led him to the bar. It was empty because the show was in full swing, and anyway, it had a class that the floor space didn’t. They had real booze on the glass shelves, not hooch, and the ceiling was beaten copper, a strange, wavy design that was echoed on the bar top. Like a stormy sea. I liked it. We sat on the high stools and ordered highballs. He had long legs. Not scrawny, either. And he didn’t smoke.
    ‘Do you have a name?’ I asked.
    ‘Do you?’
    The way he said it made me wary. No one from the studio knew I sang here. Ridiculous to think—I reminded myself that he couldn’t really see inside my head, even though he gave that impression. I took a swig of my drink. ‘You heard them announcing me,’ I said. ‘I’m Very Simply Vera.’
    ‘Vera. Right,’ he said, and I told myself it was just my imagination, the doubt I heard. ‘Well, I’m Lewis. Pleased to meet you, Vera.’
    ‘Lewis.’ We clinked glasses and stared at each other. I was feeling decidedly edgy now. Part of me wanted to run. I just about managed to stop myself from checking that my wig was in place. It wouldn’t move—I’d fixed it painfully thoroughly. My breath was coming in short little huffs, as if I’d been running, and I couldn’t get it under control. My heart was racing, as if I’d drunk way too much of the stuff the studio