Wonder Women Read Free Page A

said impatiently. ‘I know you’re not a music student, but do you sing?’ She opened her mouth to answer him but then she felt a claw-like grip on her arm.
    â€˜I can’t
believe
you know him and you didn’t say,’ hissed Amelia venomously, her breath hot on Jo’s ear.
    â€˜I don’t!’ she said involuntarily.
    â€˜Oh,’ said Renaissance Man. ‘Pity.’ He began to turn away.
    â€˜No!’ said Jo sharply. ‘I mean, I do sing. But I don’t know you. Him.’ She turned to Amelia to offer clarification, but Amelia had turned away, her jaw set and her arms folded. Well, there was nothing Jo could do to rescue that particular situation. She turned back to Renaissance Man and smiled. ‘I sing, insofar as I was in a choir and can read music and sing in tune. I’m not trained or anything.’
    â€˜Perfect,’ he said.
    â€˜Why?’
    â€˜I’m doing a performance art project. You look right. If you could sing, it would be perfect. Can we meet at the Union for lunch on Monday to talk about it? Say … one?’
    â€˜Um, okay,’ said Jo uncertainly. He gave her a big grin and walked off.
    She turned to Amelia. ‘See? I don’t know him. I’ve never spoken to him in my life before. And I don’t fancy him. It’s a work thing, okay?’
    â€˜Oh, you don’t fancy him?’ said Amelia, her eyes filled with tears. ‘What are you? Blind? Or gay?’
    â€˜Neither! He’s just not my type. Honest.’
    But Amelia was not to be appeased. Any possibility of a friendship between her and Jo died right there, in a grubby kitchen in New Cross. Luckily Amelia soon got over her entirely unrequited passion for Renaissance Man, when she met and fell in love with a conducting student called Henry, who enthusiastically reciprocated her feelings. She performed outstandingly in her studies and went on to win loads of prestigious music competitions and have a highly successful international career. Jo never spoke to her again after that night, but whenever she caught a glimpse on television of Amelia’s long white hands stroking the strings of her harp, she was reminded of the awfulness of their one encounter.
    On the Monday, she got to the Union early as she had no class just before lunch. She sat at a table organising her lecture notes and wondering whether Renaissance Man would show up at all. She felt ridiculous sitting there, and she was increasingly certain that he wasn’t coming, when he flopped down in the chair opposite her and handed her a sticky bun in a paper bag. It was in that moment that she realised she didn’t know his name.
    He seemed to sense her discomfort, and held out his hand formally. ‘Lee Hockley,’ he said.
    â€˜Jo. Jo Morris. So what’s this performance-art project?’
    â€˜Well, I saw you dancing at the party on Saturday, and I thought you looked American.’
    â€˜American? I’m from Stevenage.’
    â€˜Yeah, well, you look like one of those corn-fed American girls who roam the prairies.’
    â€˜Roam the prairies! What? And corn-fed? Do you mean I’m fat? Or yellow?’
    Jo’s sole experience of anything corn-fed was the suspiciously saffron-coloured and overpriced chickens in the supermarket.
    â€˜It’s a figure of speech,’ Lee said impatiently. ‘Anyway, you’re a drama student, right? You can do an American accent.’
    â€˜Sure can!’ said Jo, in her best peppy, ponytail-swinging
Grease
imitation. Lee looked dubious.
    â€˜We can work on that. The point is, I’ve worked out that you can sing pretty much any Emily Dickinson poem to “The Yellow Rose of Texas”.’ Helpfully he hummed a few bars. Jo continued to stare at him, flabbergasted into silence. In a raspy tenor voice with a Southern twang, he sang:
    â€˜A door just opened on a street –
    I, lost, was passing