Lola helped herself to more wine. One booky-type question, that was all she asked, a question that nobody else knew the answer to. And when she answered it correctly, everyone would break into wild applause and Dougie would give her one of his heart-melting smiles .. .
Finally it was the penultimate question of the quiz. Doug’s table and the Deadly Dunns were still neck and neck: It’s only a game, Lola told herself, it’s only a game. But she felt sick anyway; it felt more important than that.
‘Right, here we go,’ said the question master. ‘James Loveless, George Loveless, John Standfield,Thomas Standfield, James Brine and James Hammett are the names of ... ?’
Lola, busy knocking back wine, froze in mid-glug. She knew who they were. Bloody hell, she actually knew an answer!
Everyone else looked blank. Sally whispered, ‘Is it the Arctic Monkeys?’
‘Soldiers who won the VC?’ guessed Bob.
History was Tony’s specialist subject. He was shaking his head, gazing in turn at the others in search of enlightenment.
‘Are they footballers?’ hazarded Jerry the Egyptologist.
Tony looked at Isabel, then at Doug, before glancing briefly in Lola’s direction. Hastily swallowing her mouthful of wine and keen not to let anyone at nearby tables overhear, she mouthed the answer at him.
Tony frowned and mouthed back, ‘What?’
Tingling with excitement, Lola mouthed the words again, more slowly this time. ‘The Tolpuddle martyrs.’
Tony turned away as if he hadn’t seen her. Reaching for the answer card he scrawled a few words and, leaning across to Isabel, whispered in her ear.
Lola watched open-mouthed as she cried, ‘Oh Tony, you’re brilliant.’
‘Everyone raise your cards,’ called the question master. ‘And the correct answer ... is ... the Tolpuddle martyrs!’
‘Yayyyy!’ Everyone else on the table let out a huge cheer. Bob and Jerry clapped Tony on the back and Lola waited for him to announce that, in fact, she, Lola, was the one who’d known the answer.
But he didn’t. He just sat there looking smug and lapping up all the congratulations. Lola gazed around wildly; had none of them seen what had happened? Not even Doug?
‘Damn, the Deadly Dunns got it too,’ said Doug. ‘We’re still level. It’s right down to the wire.’
Bloody Tony, what a cheater! Lola was so busy being outraged and glaring at him that she barely listened to the final question.
‘... famous writer died in eighteen eighty. Her nom de plume was George Eliot. But what was her real name?’
This was it. Lola sat up as if she’d been electrocuted. Ha, and it was a trick question! Everyone else was going to think theanswer was Mary Ann Evans. More importantly, the Deadly Dunns were going to think that. But the clue was in the way the question had been phrased, and seven months before her death at the age of sixty-one, Mary Ann Evans had married a toyboy by the name of John Cross. So the question being asked was, in fact, what was her real name when she died .. .
‘Well?’ said Bob. ‘Do you know it?’
‘Of course I know it.’ Lola signalled for the answer card and a pen. With a flourish she wrote Mary Ann Cross. Oh yes, was that a flicker of respect in Doug’s eye? About time too! She was about to win his team the competition!
‘Raise your cards, ladies and gentlemen.’
Trembling with excitement, Lola held it above her head. Timm.’ Doug was looking at the other raised cards. Oh Dougie, have faith in me, would I let you down?
‘And the correct . .. answer ... is ...’ the question master strung it out X Factor style, ‘... Mary ...
Ann ... Evans!’
‘For fuck’s sake,’ groaned Bob.
‘No,’ Lola heard herself blurt the word out, shock prickling at the base of her skull. Shaking her head in disbelief, she said, ‘That’s wrong!’
Jerry’s tone was bitter. ‘You’re wrong.’
‘YEEEAAAHHH!’ Realising they’d won the competition, the Deadly Dunns were cheering their heads off.
‘But I’m not wrong. Mary Anne Evans married a man called John Cross ... she did ..: The words died in Lola’s throat as she realised it no longer mattered; the game was over and she’d lost it —
irony of ironies — by trying to be too clever.
Barn, went the cork as it flew out of the Deadly Dunns’ triumphantly shaken bottle of champagne. Everyone else in the room was applauding them. They rose to their feet and bowed, before breaking into a boisterous chorus of ‘We Are the Champions’.
Bob shook his head in disgust.
Tony said, ‘Shit, they’re never going to let us forget this.’
Lola was bursting for the loo. If she left the table now, they’d all talk about how rubbish she was.
Oh well, who cared? If she didn’t leave the table now she’d really give them something to talk about.
The ladies’ loo was blessedly cool, a calm ivory marble haven from the babbling crowds in the ballroom. Having
