Wedding Night
Page 25
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“Anyway. One night there was a fire.” I force myself back to the present. “It was terrible. The guest house was packed with people. I mean, it was a death trap. Everyone came out onto the upstairs veranda, but no one could get down; everyone was screaming; there weren’t even any fire extinguishers.…”
Every time I remember that night, it’s the same flashback: the moment the roof fell in. I can hear the thunderous sound and the screams. I can smell the smoke.
The room is utterly silent as I carry on.
“I had a vantage point. I was up in the tree house. I could see where people should be heading. You could jump off the side of the veranda onto the top of a nearby goat shed, only no one had realized. Everyone was panicking. So I took charge. I started directing people. I had to yell to be heard, and wave my arms, and jump up and down like a mad thing, but finally someone noticed me, and then they all listened. They followed my instructions. They all jumped off the veranda onto the shed one by one, and they were all OK. It was the first time in my life that I realized I could be a leader. I could make a difference.”
The room is absolutely still.
“Oh my God.” Cindy exhales at last. “How many people?”
“Ten?” I shrug. “Twelve?”
“You saved twelve lives?” She sounds awestruck.
“Well, who knows?” I try to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m sure they would have been saved anyway. The point is, I realized something about myself.” I clasp my hands to my chest. “From that moment on, I had the confidence to go for what I wanted. I changed course, changed all my ideas. I can honestly say, it all dates from that point. That was my big defining moment. That was when I became the person I am. And you’ll all have your defining moments. I know you will.”
I always relive the moment and feel a little overcome when I tell that story. It was so terrifying. That’s the bit I never put in: how scared and panicky I was, shrieking through the breeze, desperate to be heard, knowing it was all down to me. I blow my nose and smile around at the silent faces. I made a difference. That mantra has stayed with me all these years. I made a difference. Whatever else I do that’s crap and stupid, I made a difference.
There’s silence in the room. Then the blond girl in the front row stands up.
“You’re the best careers adviser we’ve ever had. Isn’t she?” To my astonishment, she leads a round of applause. A couple of girls even cheer.
“I’m sure I’m not,” I say hastily.
“Yes, you are,” she insists. “You’re ace. Can we say thank you properly?”
“You’re absolutely welcome.” I smile politely. “It’s been a pleasure to be here, and good luck with your careers—”
“That’s not what I mean.” She approaches the platform, brandishing a massive black roll of brushes at me. “I’m Jo. Fancy a makeover?”
“Oh.” I hesitate and glance at my watch. “I couldn’t. I mean, that’s very kind of you—”
“Don’t take this personally,” says Jo kindly. “But you need it. Your eyes are dead puffy. Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“Oh.” I stiffen. “Yes. Yes, I did, thanks. Plenty of sleep. Loads.”
“Well, you need some different eye cream, then. Whatever you’re using really isn’t working.” She’s peering closely at my face now. “And your nose is red. You haven’t been … crying?”
“Crying?” I try not to sound too defensive. “Of course not!”
Jo has ushered me into a plastic chair and is gently patting the skin round my eyes. She sucks in breath, like a builder assessing someone else’s dodgy plastering job.
“I’m sorry, but your skin’s in a terrible state.” She beckons over a couple of friends, who pull equally dismayed faces at the sight of my eyes.
“Ooh, that’s painful.”
“Your eyes are all pink!”
“Well, I’ve no idea why that is.” I aim for an easy smile. “None. None at all.”
“You must have an allergy to something!” says Jo in sudden inspiration.
“Yes.” I seize on this idea. “That’ll be it. An allergy.”
“What makeup do you use? Can you show me?”
I reach for my bag and pull the zip open, but it’s stuck.
“Let me,” says Jo, and reaches for it before I can stop her. Shit. I don’t particularly want anyone seeing the massive Galaxy bar I bought in WHSmith this morning and half consumed while waiting for Steve (moment of weakness).
Every time I remember that night, it’s the same flashback: the moment the roof fell in. I can hear the thunderous sound and the screams. I can smell the smoke.
The room is utterly silent as I carry on.
“I had a vantage point. I was up in the tree house. I could see where people should be heading. You could jump off the side of the veranda onto the top of a nearby goat shed, only no one had realized. Everyone was panicking. So I took charge. I started directing people. I had to yell to be heard, and wave my arms, and jump up and down like a mad thing, but finally someone noticed me, and then they all listened. They followed my instructions. They all jumped off the veranda onto the shed one by one, and they were all OK. It was the first time in my life that I realized I could be a leader. I could make a difference.”
The room is absolutely still.
“Oh my God.” Cindy exhales at last. “How many people?”
“Ten?” I shrug. “Twelve?”
“You saved twelve lives?” She sounds awestruck.
“Well, who knows?” I try to lighten the atmosphere. “I’m sure they would have been saved anyway. The point is, I realized something about myself.” I clasp my hands to my chest. “From that moment on, I had the confidence to go for what I wanted. I changed course, changed all my ideas. I can honestly say, it all dates from that point. That was my big defining moment. That was when I became the person I am. And you’ll all have your defining moments. I know you will.”
I always relive the moment and feel a little overcome when I tell that story. It was so terrifying. That’s the bit I never put in: how scared and panicky I was, shrieking through the breeze, desperate to be heard, knowing it was all down to me. I blow my nose and smile around at the silent faces. I made a difference. That mantra has stayed with me all these years. I made a difference. Whatever else I do that’s crap and stupid, I made a difference.
There’s silence in the room. Then the blond girl in the front row stands up.
“You’re the best careers adviser we’ve ever had. Isn’t she?” To my astonishment, she leads a round of applause. A couple of girls even cheer.
“I’m sure I’m not,” I say hastily.
“Yes, you are,” she insists. “You’re ace. Can we say thank you properly?”
“You’re absolutely welcome.” I smile politely. “It’s been a pleasure to be here, and good luck with your careers—”
“That’s not what I mean.” She approaches the platform, brandishing a massive black roll of brushes at me. “I’m Jo. Fancy a makeover?”
“Oh.” I hesitate and glance at my watch. “I couldn’t. I mean, that’s very kind of you—”
“Don’t take this personally,” says Jo kindly. “But you need it. Your eyes are dead puffy. Did you get enough sleep last night?”
“Oh.” I stiffen. “Yes. Yes, I did, thanks. Plenty of sleep. Loads.”
“Well, you need some different eye cream, then. Whatever you’re using really isn’t working.” She’s peering closely at my face now. “And your nose is red. You haven’t been … crying?”
“Crying?” I try not to sound too defensive. “Of course not!”
Jo has ushered me into a plastic chair and is gently patting the skin round my eyes. She sucks in breath, like a builder assessing someone else’s dodgy plastering job.
“I’m sorry, but your skin’s in a terrible state.” She beckons over a couple of friends, who pull equally dismayed faces at the sight of my eyes.
“Ooh, that’s painful.”
“Your eyes are all pink!”
“Well, I’ve no idea why that is.” I aim for an easy smile. “None. None at all.”
“You must have an allergy to something!” says Jo in sudden inspiration.
“Yes.” I seize on this idea. “That’ll be it. An allergy.”
“What makeup do you use? Can you show me?”
I reach for my bag and pull the zip open, but it’s stuck.
“Let me,” says Jo, and reaches for it before I can stop her. Shit. I don’t particularly want anyone seeing the massive Galaxy bar I bought in WHSmith this morning and half consumed while waiting for Steve (moment of weakness).
