Katey Lovell - The Singalong Society for Singletons

I pop a pinch of peanuts into my mouth, crushing them between my teeth with a satisfying crunch. The burst of flavour dances across my taste buds.

‘Yeah, yeah, yeah. Whatever. We all know you’re a geek when it comes to this kind of thing.’

Her dismissive words are softened by the affection written on her face. Hope had never understood my love of literature. In fact, Hope probably couldn’t remember the last time she’d read a novel, whereas I constantly had at least one book on the go, usually more. It was another reminder of how different the two of us are, yet the bond between us has always been undeniably strong despite that. We’re tight. Unbreakable. Just as sisters should be.

‘Keep an open mind about this one, please?’ I beg.

I know it’s ridiculous, but I feel under pressure to ensure tonight works out as planned. It’s not just the four of us getting together to watch a film, it’s a chance for us to take control. Plus, as the inaugural meeting of The Singalong Society for Singletons, it has to go smoothly. The whole point of the thing is to inject some joy back into our lives.

‘Well, I’ve not seen it since I was about ten, so maybe I can be won over. But don’t hold your breath. I’m a tough nut to crack.’

A piracy warning flashes onto the screen, signalling the film’s about to start.

‘And don’t we know it,’ I reply boldly, poking out my tongue in retort.

Issy tries and fails to stifle a giggle as she pours the contents of a share-sized bag of cheese and chive crisps into a bowl, whilst Connie looks impassively at the floor to avoid getting involved. Typical.

‘It’s my choice of film next week,’ Issy says. ‘I’ll be sure to choose something that isn’t animated, if it means that much to you.’

‘Ssh,’ I hiss in a stage-whisper. ‘It’s starting.’

The rousing opening note of ‘The Circle of Life ’ roars from the television causing each of us to sit straighter in our seats. Captivated by the power of the Zulu chanting and the sun rising over the desert, we settle down, prepared to be transported to Africa via a cute little lion cub and a soundtrack full of belting songs.

*

‘Aww, look at baby Simba! He’s petrified!’ Issy exclaims as the future king is held aloft in the showy presentation ceremony. ‘Bless his little cotton socks. He looks like he’s got the weight of the world on his shoulders.’

‘If we knew what was going to happen in life, we’d all look like that,’ Hope answers, wearing a grim expression. ‘It’s no wonder babies cry all the time. All that lies ahead of them is a lifetime of slogging their guts out at work, trying to please other people, and being shat on from a great height by people who said they’d love them forever.’ She frowns and I frown back at her. After everything Issy’s just said, she has to start talking about babies. Sometimes Hope’s mouth runs away without her brain.

Hope turns away, offended by the insinuation in my look, and I’m instantly ashamed of being so hard on her. She might be abrasive, but my sister wouldn’t purposefully hurt someone.

Poor Hope. She’s done her fair share of feeling sorry for herself during her first week at the house. It’s all been textbook behaviour for the broken-hearted – listening to sad love songs on repeat, pigging out on extra-large bars of Galaxy and moodily sulking around the place in her tartan flannel pyjamas. I know the drill, I’ve been living it myself for long enough.

‘Pause it a minute,’ Hope says quietly, opening the door to the square of carpet at the bottom of the stairs that we optimistically refer to as the hall. ‘My bladder’s about to burst and it’s better to stop the film now before it gets going.’

No one dares mention the tears that are brimming in her eyes – we’re all well aware that Hope hates to appear anything less than rock solid. She’s spent her whole life coming across as strong and dependable, so I can only imagine how hard it is for her now, trying to keep up that front when she’s so obviously crumbling.

‘And I’m going to get some more nibbles,’ Issy says, pushing herself up off the sofa. ‘That glass of wine has gone right to my head. I need something to soak it up.’

‘There’s some kale crisps in my bag,’ Connie offers. In Connie’s mind this is a generous proposition, in Issy’s less so. ‘If you want something a bit less fatty, I mean. They don’t taste the same as normal crisps, but they’re much better for you. Feel free to help yourself.’

She tries to hide it, but I spy Issy’s eye roll. She’s not the type to buy into these faddish foodie fashions. If she wants crisps, she wants actual crisps, made from glorious carbohydrate-riddled potatoes and full of saturated fat that’ll fuzz up her arteries. Like me, Issy believes junk food is one of life’s guilty pleasures. And Friday nights definitely call for junk food, no two ways about it. ‘We could always get take-away?’ she suggests hopefully. ‘I’m sure the Indian down the road put a flyer through the door just last week…’

I gawp in her general direction. Even I’m stuffed, and that’s saying something because I’ve got a massive appetite, but the waistband of my jeans is digging into my bloated stomach and it’s not a pleasant sensation. I’m tempted to undo the button, that’s how uncomfortable it is. ‘We’ve just had pizza!’ I exclaim.

‘And your point is?’ laughs Issy. ‘I could eat a horse right now. And I’m sorry, Connie, but your kale crisps aren’t going to cut it, I’m afraid.’

‘I don’t fancy those either,’ I confide in a conspiratorial whisper, scrunching my face up in distaste. ‘I don’t know how anyone can eat them. They look like crispy bogies.’

‘We don’t need a take-away,’ Connie says resolutely. ‘Let’s eat what’s already out.’ She gingerly reaches for a Wotsit, the gaudy powdery orange flavouring smearing over her fingertips. She pulls a face as she nibbles it, as though it might bite her back. The cheesy puffs are a far cry from the kale crisps, that’s for sure. ‘If no one else is eating my crisps, then I will.’

‘You’re welcome to them,’ Issy mutters, resigning herself to the fact she’s been outvoted on the take-away. ‘But hang on a minute. I’m going to get my dressing gown, it’s bloody freezing in here tonight.’

A young Simba is frozen on the TV screen, surveying the vast pridelands with his father. He looks so small and insignificant against the sprawling savannah.

‘This film always did make me sad,’ Connie starts, nodding towards the screen. ‘But I’ve got such an empty feeling in my stomach right now. Not hunger,’ she adds quickly. ‘I always felt a bit like Simba. My family fell apart when Mum died. She’d been the lynchpin holding us together and once she was gone, it felt like there wasn’t any point any more. Dad tried his best, bless him, but he didn’t have a clue how to deal with a pre-pubescent teenager. It was like he was waiting in fear for the moment he’d have to go to the chemist and buy me sanitary towels. And the rest of the family, my aunts and uncles, they were there at first, bringing lasagnes round for us to keep in the freezer and phoning on Sunday mornings to see if we wanted to join them for a pub lunch in the Peak District. But really, we were alone. Mum arranged all the family parties, the barbecues, the day trips to the seaside where we’d pile in the car with a cricket set and a cool box… Once she was gone, it all stopped.’

Tears pooled in her eyes, threatening to spill down her cheeks with the slightest of blinks and I instinctively reach out to hug my friend. As I pull her in close her heartfelt sobs reverberate through the both of us.

‘I know it’s stupid to cry over a film, but it touched a nerve, you know? Simba’s so brave, setting out to face the world alone. Look at me! I can’t bring myself to leave Sheffield. I even stayed here for university when everyone else buggered off to Leeds and Manchester.’