joined them on the dance floor to celebrate their special night. Soon, only me and a few other “spares” remained. Amira had dragged Max up at the first opportunity while Nate was getting very friendly with a bridesmaid.
‘Makes you sad, don’t it honey?’ A rich female voice lifted straight from the Deep South drifted across to me from a nearby table.
I turned to see who the mystery person was and found an old woman of around seventy sitting by herself. She was extremely beautiful; her crop of silver hair made her look full of life, as did the glint in her sparkly black eyes. Her skin was the colour of milky coffee and barely had any wrinkles, save for some lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. I recognised her as the jazz singer from earlier, the one who’d sung
At Last
while Giselle had walked down the aisle. She was wearing a long black maxi dress, accented with a teal shawl. When she saw me looking, she smiled and waved, beckoning me to go over to her.
‘Makes you sad, don’t it?’ she said again when I sat down opposite her.
‘What does?’ I followed her gaze to the dance floor, where all the couples were now swaying in time to
Careless Whisper
.
‘Seeing all them couples out there, happy as clams, when there’s people like you and me who just sit by and watch it all happen without us.’ It was impossible for the woman’s voice to sound truly sad but there was a definite melancholy tone to it. It struck a chord deep within me.
I chuckled awkwardly. ‘It’s just a first dance; it doesn’t bother me really.’
The woman eyed me with suspicion. Her eyes pierced through me, behind the layers of bravado I’d built up in preparation for this moment. I’d been dreading being alone for the first dance and my nightmare had come true.
‘Honey, a beautiful young thing like you should be out there with the most handsome young man in the room, spinning like a ballerina without a care in the world. Instead you’re sitting here with an old crone like me!’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Y-you’re not a crone! You look very good for your age actually. I heard you singing Etta James earlier and you were wonderful.’
She let out a wry laugh. ‘S’all I’m good for nowadays. Fifty years ago, I was Ivy St Clair, toast of the jazz scene. Now I’m Ivy St Clair, dried-up old has-been who’s wheeled out for the odd special occasion.’
‘You were a jazz singer?’ I shuffled my seat round, keen to know more about the mysterious Ivy St Clair.
‘Indeed I was!’ Her face beamed with pride and she straightened up in her chair. ‘Back in New Orleans, I sang at every jazz club on Bourbon Street. Oh I did all the classics: Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday. Rock and roll fever hadn’t hit New Orleans yet so jazz was still flavour of the month. I still remember the atmosphere in those jazz clubs; it was like our own version of Hollywood. You could step out on that stage and feel like a star in seconds because you knew everybody in that room was there to see you.’
She cast a wistful glance around the room before turning her attention back to me. I was completely enthralled by her; I could tell she had a thousand stories to tell but nobody had ever taken the time to ask.
‘Wow, that sounds amazing!’ I breathed. ‘I don’t think I’d ever be brave enough to get up in front of a room full of people.’
Sensing she had a captive audience, Ivy continued. ‘Nothing to do with being brave, sugar. I performed because I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else and loving it as much. It was like I was born to do it, you know? It was such a wonderful time. The men knew how to be men then too; they were always sharp as tacks with their suits and ties and their hair slicked back with Brylcreem. And talk about gentlemen! Back then if a man wanted to court you, he had to ask your daddy’s permission first. The ladies were always well turned out too, with their pin curls and finger waves
‘Makes you sad, don’t it honey?’ A rich female voice lifted straight from the Deep South drifted across to me from a nearby table.
I turned to see who the mystery person was and found an old woman of around seventy sitting by herself. She was extremely beautiful; her crop of silver hair made her look full of life, as did the glint in her sparkly black eyes. Her skin was the colour of milky coffee and barely had any wrinkles, save for some lines at the corners of her eyes when she smiled. I recognised her as the jazz singer from earlier, the one who’d sung
At Last
while Giselle had walked down the aisle. She was wearing a long black maxi dress, accented with a teal shawl. When she saw me looking, she smiled and waved, beckoning me to go over to her.
‘Makes you sad, don’t it?’ she said again when I sat down opposite her.
‘What does?’ I followed her gaze to the dance floor, where all the couples were now swaying in time to
Careless Whisper
.
‘Seeing all them couples out there, happy as clams, when there’s people like you and me who just sit by and watch it all happen without us.’ It was impossible for the woman’s voice to sound truly sad but there was a definite melancholy tone to it. It struck a chord deep within me.
I chuckled awkwardly. ‘It’s just a first dance; it doesn’t bother me really.’
The woman eyed me with suspicion. Her eyes pierced through me, behind the layers of bravado I’d built up in preparation for this moment. I’d been dreading being alone for the first dance and my nightmare had come true.
‘Honey, a beautiful young thing like you should be out there with the most handsome young man in the room, spinning like a ballerina without a care in the world. Instead you’re sitting here with an old crone like me!’
My mouth dropped open. ‘Y-you’re not a crone! You look very good for your age actually. I heard you singing Etta James earlier and you were wonderful.’
She let out a wry laugh. ‘S’all I’m good for nowadays. Fifty years ago, I was Ivy St Clair, toast of the jazz scene. Now I’m Ivy St Clair, dried-up old has-been who’s wheeled out for the odd special occasion.’
‘You were a jazz singer?’ I shuffled my seat round, keen to know more about the mysterious Ivy St Clair.
‘Indeed I was!’ Her face beamed with pride and she straightened up in her chair. ‘Back in New Orleans, I sang at every jazz club on Bourbon Street. Oh I did all the classics: Etta James, Ella Fitzgerald, Billie Holiday. Rock and roll fever hadn’t hit New Orleans yet so jazz was still flavour of the month. I still remember the atmosphere in those jazz clubs; it was like our own version of Hollywood. You could step out on that stage and feel like a star in seconds because you knew everybody in that room was there to see you.’
She cast a wistful glance around the room before turning her attention back to me. I was completely enthralled by her; I could tell she had a thousand stories to tell but nobody had ever taken the time to ask.
‘Wow, that sounds amazing!’ I breathed. ‘I don’t think I’d ever be brave enough to get up in front of a room full of people.’
Sensing she had a captive audience, Ivy continued. ‘Nothing to do with being brave, sugar. I performed because I couldn’t imagine myself doing anything else and loving it as much. It was like I was born to do it, you know? It was such a wonderful time. The men knew how to be men then too; they were always sharp as tacks with their suits and ties and their hair slicked back with Brylcreem. And talk about gentlemen! Back then if a man wanted to court you, he had to ask your daddy’s permission first. The ladies were always well turned out too, with their pin curls and finger waves
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