Stage Mum Read Online Free Page B

followed by short snatches of singing (audible and uplifting), more muffled talking and then laughter. Once or twice I thought I spotted Dora’s Scooby-Doo trainers. But strain as I might, I couldn’t identify her voice. This made me feel slightly inadequate: surely as a concerned parent, I ought to be able to distinguish my own daughter’s singing, even when it was parsed through a double-glazed window and a mostly closed blind.
    I wandered back to the table. Someone else had taken my seat, so I picked up my book, found a spare bit of floor to sit on and leaned against the wall. Judging from the laughter – it sounded genuine – the children seemed to be having lots of fun. I wasn’t, but for some reason I was less nervy this time. I knew we wouldn’t find out whether she’d got through that day, so there’d be no immediate consequences to cope with. And we weren’t far enough into the process for a part to feel like it might be a nail-bitingly real possibility. I felt that having got through the first round, Dora had, in some small way, proved herself. Neither of us would be remotely disappointed if this was as far as it went. We would, on the other hand, be quite excited if she got further, even though I was starting to realise exactly how ferrying my little darling to auditions might gobble up large chunks of time and money.
    Two things made it feel doable. Having only one child meant I wouldn’t have to factor in any additional school pick-ups, swimming lessons, packed lunches and screaming tantrums. And I work freelance. All I really need to get on with whatever I’m working on is my laptop, a book or two and a small square of reasonably clean floor. Table and chair optional, wireless internet access desirable. But I could, in theory at least, beetle away at whatever I was being paid to do and still become a stage mother. Not that I expected to become one. But I could. If I had to.
    About twenty-five minutes after she’d gone in, Dora resurfaced.
    ‘How was it?’ I asked.
    ‘Great,’ she said. ‘I’m hungry.’
    ‘Was it fun?’
    ‘Yes. Can I have a packet of crisps
and
a muffin
and
a drink?’
    ‘What did you do?’
    ‘Singing. Can we get some food now?’
    ‘Did you have to sing all the different parts? Did you have to sing by yourself? Were the other children nice? Were the grown-ups nice?’
    ‘
Please
can I have some crisps and a muffin and a drink?’
    Further grilling (over a muffin and a bottle of that disgusting with-a-hint-of-fruit-and-a-ton-of-aspartame water that Dora loves and that I feel guilty about allowing her to drink sometimes – I drew the line at crisps as well) revealed that everyone, children and adults, was nice, but she didn’t know anybody’s name, except that there were two people in there called Jo, one of whom had long curly hair and played the piano, that they’d all had to sing parts of ‘The Lonely Goatherd’ solo, although they’d yodelled in chorus, and that the youngest children had been asked which parts of the harmony in ‘The Sound of Music’ they wanted to sing.
    ‘You’ve done very well to get this far,’ I said
    ‘I know,’ she said. ‘I’m still hungry.
Please
can I have a packet of crisps?’
    There was no news for another week. Fortunately, we were all very busy. Dora had plenty of play-dates to keep her occupied over half-term and Laurie and I were hectic with work and wedding planning. As we were having a Jewish do (hence the rabbi and the bagels), I needed a veil – so that Laurie could do the traditional thing and, before the main ceremony, peek underneath it to check that he was getting hitched to the right woman. Or, at least, the one he expected to be marrying. Because of all the friends Dora had invited to be bridesmaids, it had to be a long one. Thank heavens for eBay. Then Dora and I popped down to Bournemouth for a couple of days to visit Lilli. She helped sew tiny gold beads on to my BEAUTIFUL VEIL PERFECT FOR YOUR WEDDING