The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (15 page)

And I knew I should care, that this was my cue to fade and disappear and die, that I should pretend it hadn’t happened and fudge over it as if it were some silly mistake, but I couldn’t and didn’t.

As if we were the only people in the room, Julian leaned over and took my hand. ‘Well, you certainly kept that one up your sleeve. You dark horse, Sally Howlett. Let’s go. I’m fed up of sharing you. Can I have you to myself now?’

It is a fact universally acknowledged that no sane person can really fall in love in one night. At best, it is an obsession. A compelling feeling that
this
person,
this one
, out of all the millions of others, is the answer to all of your problems. At worst, it is misplaced horn.

I must just be in lust
, I told myself drunkenly.
Simple old lust. And loneliness
.

Julian was saying goodbye to the owner, Jorge, at the door. Jorge had the air of a man who seriously worshipped Julian. As we wobbled off down the street, he called after us, ‘Take good care of my friend Jules! This guy saved my ass, not to mention this café!’

‘What did he mean?’ I asked.

Julian put the beanie back on my head, in case I got cold, and pinched my nose. ‘Ah, nothing. He just means I spend a lot of money in there. We go back a long way. Such a lovely, lovely man, Jorge.’

You’re a lovely, lovely man
, I thought.
A really lovely man
. I’d been brought up in a house where kind words were seldom spoken about other people. Julian was different. He was generous.

‘Now,’ he said, refusing to move off, ‘tell me right now about that voice of yours.’ His eyes sparkled with curiosity and amusement. ‘You just sang the
shit
out of Mimi! I’m not sure I believe you’re just a wardrobe mistress.’

Panic slashed my insides briefly but I managed to pull myself together. ‘I am honestly a wardrobe mistress,’ I told him.

‘But you must have had singing lessons. Years of them. Wardrobe mistress or not …’

‘I’ve never had a singing lesson in my life,’ I said truthfully.

Julian folded his arms across his chest, smiling. ‘Why are you lying, Beanie Girl?’ he asked. ‘It’s not possible to sing like that without training.’

I folded my arms across my own chest. ‘And how do you know that? You weren’t so bad yourself.’

There was a minor face-off, which I ended by glancing upwards at his hair.

‘What?’ he said, hands flying to his head. ‘Is it fluffy again? ARGGH.’

I grinned. ‘No. And I’m not a singer. Not now, not ever.’

Julian watched me for a minute, then chuckled. ‘Ah, you make me laugh. You just make me laugh, a lot. Come on, mad little hamster.’

He walked me to Avenue B where he hailed us a cab. He looked like a scruffy film star and he held my hand as if it were the most natural thing in the world. It was ridiculous and completely normal all in one.

Neither of us said anything as we sped over Williamsburg Bridge. The previous inhabitants of the taxi had left
the windows wide open and I let the air, now cool and fresh, fly through my still-dirty hair. As we hit Brooklyn and turned north, I looked sideways at Julian. His eyes were closed but I could tell he wasn’t asleep. He smiled. ‘Stop staring at my fluffy hair.’

‘I wasn’t!’

He just smiled sleepily and pinched my leg.

I looked out of my window at the still-busy streets. Williamsburg was alive and kicking. Trendies –
hipsters
, I had to start calling them – were standing smoking outside the Union Pool and two girls in vintage shoes were trying to navigate the flyover slip-roads with great bravery.

‘You sing like an angel,’ he said, after a pause. I could feel him looking at me. Most strangely, it didn’t feel threatening, the attention. He’d just complimented a part of me that nobody ever saw and I was fine with it.

‘You sang nicely yourself. How do you know the words to that duet?’ I asked idly. I was still turned away from him, watching the edges of Williamsburg flash past my window.

‘Oh, I learned it once. I liked it.’

‘It’s utterly, utterly beautiful, isn’t it?’ I said happily. I didn’t feel even the slightest bit twattish.

As we levelled 10th Street, Julian leaned forward and tapped on the cab driver’s window. ‘Can you make a left and leave us at 11th and Wythe?’ The man didn’t acknowledge him but duly turned left.

‘Where are we going?’

Julian ignored me; he just smiled.

‘Will there be toasted cheese sandwiches? I want a toasted cheese sandwich.’ I sounded comically drunk and resolved to keep my mouth shut.

But Julian roared with laughter. ‘I would
love
a cheese toastie,’ he said. ‘And a cup of proper English tea. I’ll see what I can do.’

A couple of minutes later we pulled up outside a brick building with huge red-lit letters, saying ‘Hotel’, up its side. I was puzzled but not particularly alarmed. Julian Bell didn’t seem to be the sort who’d just check us into a hotel for a night of hot love. I hoped not, anyway. This thing was far too magical to end up ruined by a fumbly-rump.

He tried to pay the driver but I insisted: he’d been buying me drinks all night and if my parents had taught me anything it was that I must not let anyone else spend too much money on me. (
Why?
I wondered momentarily.
Am I not worth spending money on?
)

A little fissure of sadness began to make its way through the fabric of tonight but I stopped it in its tracks. I wasn’t having it. Tonight had made me feel good about myself. My parents did not.

‘Thanks for the cab, little lady.’ Julian beamed, beckoning me over to the lift, which a fashionably dressed porter had called. Then: ‘Oh …
SHIT
!’

He went to run out of the hotel but stopped by the door. ‘My cell,’ he said. ‘I left my stupid cell in the stupid taxi … Ah, balls.’

The porter shook Julian’s hand warmly. ‘Dude, you lose your phone every month. It’s great to see you, buddy.’

They laughed. ‘But I’d had this one five months!’ Julian complained, running his hand exasperatedly through his hair. It settled down into something reasonably respectable.

The porter grinned. ‘You’re learning, my friend.’

Julian shrugged helplessly. ‘Meh. Now, how’s your wife?’ he asked. ‘Is she doing OK?’

The porter smiled. ‘She’s going great. Better every day. I’ll tell her I saw you.’

‘Send her my love. She’s a trouper, that one!’

The porter nodded proudly. ‘She is. Now, go get a drink,’ he said, waving us through. ‘And thanks for asking, man.’

We got into the lift and I poked him. ‘Um, excuse me. Why does everyone love you so much?’

‘Because I’m phenomenal,’ he said, scratching the side of his face. ‘Even though I’m always late and I lose everything.’

I smiled. ‘Well, I’m highly organized. It’s quite boring. Your way’s probably better.’

‘Hmm. I was highly organized for a while, back in the day.’ He yawned, screwing his eyes shut, and I thought that he looked like a sleepy bear cub. ‘Sorry, I’m not bored, I’m tired. Aren’t you?’

‘No.’ I wasn’t tired. The light bulb he’d turned on in me earlier had become twenty. More were pinging on every minute.

‘Good. Because I’d hate you to miss out on this.’

‘What? Are you taking me to the matrimonial suite for rumpy-pumpy? Because if you are, you can –’

Julian snorted with laughter. ‘Rumpy-pumpy?’ he repeated incredulously. ‘Did you actually just say that?’

‘Absolutely. Get over it.’

‘Roompay-poompay,’ he repeated, in a surprisingly good Brummie accent.

The lift stopped and, to my disappointment, we walked
out into what looked like a poncy cocktail bar. No tea and toasties here.

‘Oh, we’re closed,’ the girl behind the bar began. She was cashing up. Then her face lit up. ‘
Jules!
Hi, baby!’

She bounded round to greet him and I marvelled. How was the owner of a small and – according to him – pretty crap local magazine called the
Brooklyn Beaver
so well known in these parts? Clearly I was not the only person round here who thought that Julian Bell was a little bit amazing. The girl hung off him as if Brad Pitt had just walked into her bar and only really let him go when he introduced her to me.

‘Oooh!’ she said, staring at me. And that was it. She waved us past. ‘I’ll bring you a tray, Jules.’

‘Thanks, Tasha. You’re the best.’

And then I saw it.

The view. The heart-stopping view of Manhattan that made me actually gasp. I’d been so busy perving at Julian that I’d somehow failed to notice that we were in a glass-walled bar with a view of New York that put to shame any other I’d ever seen. It was
breathtaking
.

Julian, laughing at my awed paralysis, pushed me gently towards a door that led to an outside patio. ‘It’s pretty good, isn’t it?’ was all he said.

We stood at the edge and stared at New York. A thousand thousand lights twinkled across the river at me, each one a portal into a life, a story, a soul. I stood and stared, and felt Julian’s smile burning into me somewhere off to the left, and couldn’t deny it. Something special wasn’t just
happening
to me, it had
happened
.

‘This is the best view ever,’ I breathed. Julian came and
stood next to me, sliding his hand under my hair to hold the back of my neck. His hand was warm.

‘It is,’ he agreed. ‘But sometimes I stand here and think,
I miss the Teign valley. I miss Dartmoor
.
I miss scrubby grass and spiky gorse bushes and cow shit
. Sometimes I wonder why I’m standing here in this expensive bar when I could be sitting under a tree in the rain, all the sheep staring at me with their mad little faces, and nothing but the sound of rain dripping off the leaves. Perhaps the distant noise of Dad crashing around on his tractor. I dunno.’

I saw it. Julian sitting under a tree in the rain, somewhere rugged and beautiful. ‘It sounds lovely. But I … I don’t feel the same about my council estate. If I’m honest.’

Julian laughed. ‘I love that you just say that. You just chat about coming from a council estate.’

‘Why wouldn’t I? Do you think I should pretend to be posher or something?’

‘Jesus, no! But other girls would. That’s why I feel … That’s why, I, um, seem to like you so much.’

I believed him. We smiled at each other.

‘Bugger. What have you done to me?’ Julian asked. He stared out at Manhattan and stroked my neck. I tried to crane round for a snog but as I did the girl from the bar came out with a tray. ‘Two cheese toasties and a pot of tea,’ she announced, in a bad approximation of an English accent. ‘Oh, and I managed to salvage some of those repellent oblong cookies from last time you were here. And the awful jam ones. Yuk.’

Julian’s hand dropped from my neck. ‘Custard creams and Jammie Dodgers?’ he said hoarsely. ‘You got me custard creams and Jammie Dodgers?’

She grinned and put the tray down on the table nearest to us, a beautiful, delicious, trans-fatty square of Britishness. ‘You English.’ She sighed. ‘You’re so cute.’

As she sashayed off back into the closed bar I smelt melted cheese and toast and watched, laughing, as Julian scrambled at high speed to pour the tea and dunk a custard cream. ‘Oh, my God,’ he muttered happily. ‘This is the best night of my life.’

He whipped out his glasses to look at me, to check that I was as happy as he was, and grinned slowly, beautifully, when he saw I was completely ecstatic.

Then his glasses fell off his nose and, even though it felt impossible – ludicrous, even – I knew I was in love.

Later, I lay alone in my bed, tingling with excitement. I imagined Julian asleep three floors above me, surrounded by candles and his oldest, dearest friends, and felt like my chest would burst. I’d lived so cautiously for so long, hidden so much of myself, just like tonight’s poet with his double life. But maybe it was time for a change.

Anything felt possible. I hugged my duvet and smiled and smiled until eventually I slipped into a deep, exhausted and blissful sleep.

My second week at opera school began with a piece of good news and a piece of bad.

The good news was that I was given a chorus part in the November production,
Manon
, meaning I wouldn’t have to sing a single word on my own.

Violet Elphinstone got the lead role. ‘Oh, it was such a fluke,’ she confided happily in me. ‘I did a
dreadful
audition – they probably got me mixed up with you! After all, you’re the one everyone’s talking about.’

‘I don’t think they are,’ I said anxiously, twiddling my horrid ring. I hoped not. My non-part in the November production would hopefully put paid to all the nonsense about me being special and different, and shine the spotlight on those who deserved it.

‘Come off it, you’re the star attraction,’ Violet said, with a resentful smile. ‘You’re
so
going to get the main part next term. Once they’ve loosened you up!’

‘Um, what?’

‘Julian’s my vocal coach,’ she said casually. ‘He said you
were scared of singing but that you could sing in a wardrobe or something. I was like, er, no, that can’t be right!’

Rage came and went. Julian was out of order, discussing me with anyone. Especially Violet. But I wouldn’t let him get to me. ‘I do quite like singing in wardrobes.’ I smiled. ‘Yeah.’

Violet’s eyes widened, in a patronizing way. ‘Wow! You’re so funny! My crazy little friend! Still love that ring of yours, by the way, it’s like, whoa!’

It was strange, talking to Violet. She was so obviously stunning and so obviously talented, and it was so painfully evident that every man in the college wanted to have amazing sex with her (or any sort of sex, probably) that it seemed odd she was so determined to squash me.

I was not a threat to her. I was getting on with everyone but had only really connected with Jan and Helen – who were self-confessed marginal figures – so it wasn’t as if Violet’s popularity was threatened. Quite the opposite. I created barely a social ripple while everyone hung off her like fleas from a show dog.

And looks-wise, I was dog poo next to her gleaming pedigree fur.
Whatever
your taste in women, you’d fancy Violet Elphinstone.

And, to top it off, I was having singing lessons in a wardrobe because I couldn’t face singing in front of anyone.

Quite simply, I was not and never would be on the same page as her. Why did she care so much?

The bad news was that Brian persuaded me to audition for the TV advert with a taped recording rather than a live audition, and I got the job. He had made up some
nonsense to the advertising executives about me being busy with high-profile private gigs and convinced them I was so good they’d be mad not to hear me. Somehow they agreed. I was dispatched to a different type of wardrobe – a recording studio – and Brian hid below the sound desk so that I wouldn’t feel watched. Every now and then his hand reached up and turned a knob; otherwise I was alone in the padded cell. Which was bearable.

And they bloody well gave me the job. I was appalled. But Fiona, whom I called immediately, was over the moon and put me right back on track. So I said yes to the ad. I was seizing the day for Fi.

‘It’ll be fine.’ Brian smiled benignly. We were standing in a corridor, next to a display case full of funny old trumpets and horns. I had crammed myself into the corner and was probably wild-eyed with terror at the thought of recording an audio track for an advert. ‘You’ll be in a studio,’ he said. ‘Like the one you and I recorded in.’

‘But nobody’s going to hide under the sound desk to fiddle with knobs!’ I took a deep breath, realizing that I sounded both mad and ungrateful. ‘Sorry, Brian. Ignore me. I
do
want to do it. I do want to get through these nerves.’

I felt him smile. ‘Good,’ he said quietly. ‘We might even get out of that wardrobe soon, eh?’

‘Hmm.’

Brian cocked his head to one side. ‘I had a request from Julian Jefferson,’ he said. ‘He’s meant to be your vocal coach, as you know, but he asked if I could take over his classes with you. Meaning you’d only be singing with me, for now. He felt that would be much better for you, given that you’re so nervous still.’

My initial relief was overshadowed almost immediately by prickly suspicion. What was Julian up to?

Brian was still watching me curiously. ‘Julian seems to be very good at knowing what will help you sing,’ he said. ‘Are you a friend of his?’

I blushed. ‘Definitely not.’

Brian’s eyebrow shot up and I cursed myself.

‘Julian
Jefferson
is not someone I knew before coming to college,’ I said truthfully. ‘He’s a total stranger.’

Brian nodded. ‘Well, the man is even more gifted than I thought. I completely agree with him that it’s best if you stay with me for now. I’ll have the office modify your schedule accordingly.’

Thank God. Me, Brian and a wardrobe might just be OK.

‘Anyway,’ Brian said, ‘here’s the information pack from the TV people. Everything you need to know is in there. Have a read, tell me what it’s all about and then we can prepare together, OK? And I’ll come with you to the recording.’

I wandered down to the dressing room, which was mercifully empty, and opened the envelope.

And my heart stopped.

What?

I read the first sentence again. No, there was no mistaking it. I stared at myself in the mirror, watching shame stain my face. I couldn’t do this! What would Mum and Dad say? They’d die! I had to –

‘Hello?’

Someone male had popped his head round the door
without asking. That was not cool. Even less cool was that it was Julian.

I was actually so shocked by what I’d just read that I didn’t run in the opposite direction, or ask him to leave, or stare in wonder at his weird long, shiny hair and smart attire. I just gaped at him.

‘All right,’ he said, in that crazy Devon-Manhattan accent. He closed the door behind him and pulled a packet of Frazzles out of his annoying posh satchel. ‘That’s a nice face you’ve got on. Look what I got! Our favourite crisps!’

I turned away angrily.

‘I just wanted to say congrats. On the advert,’ he added, when I didn’t reply.

He must surely be mocking me. Nobody in their right mind would congratulate me for getting a gig like that.

‘Um, go, you!’ he added uncomfortably.

‘Don’t take the piss out of me,’ I said coldly. He was beyond belief.

‘I wasn’t! Sal, it’s –’

‘And STOP CALLING ME SAL.’

Julian put the Frazzles down on the side and sighed. ‘OK. Sally it is, then. I understand. But whatever I’m calling you, I just wanted to say well done. A brilliant start to your career.’

The door burst open and Violet, Ismene, Sophie and Summer came in, Violet holding forth on how horribly embarrassing some recent experience had been and how she was ‘so glad I turned them down!’ Then her mouth formed a little ‘Oh’ as she saw me, and a bigger, happier ‘OH!’ as she saw Julian.

‘Hi, guys!’ she said casually. She shrugged off a little cashmere wrap so that her shoulders were bare, save for the straps of her yoga vest. Violet had just had movement class.

‘Hello, Violet,’ Julian said neutrally. Violet shook out her hair and pretended to massage her delicate collar bones. Julian raised his eyebrow a fraction, a tiny ironic movement designed only for me.

Not today. He could forget it if he thought I was going to join his club.

Suddenly Violet had moved across the floor and had gathered me up in a hug. ‘Congratulations!’ she said. ‘I heard about the ad! You are
soooooo
brave!’

I felt part of me die.

‘I did seriously consider it when they offered it to me … But I couldn’t quite make myself do it. You’re made of tougher stuff,’ she added kindly, pulling up her own chair and shooting a conspiratorial look at Julian in her mirror.

‘I’m not brave or tough,’ I said dully. ‘I didn’t know what the ad’s for because I didn’t read the information properly.’ Of course I hadn’t read the bloody job description. It had been all I could do to get myself into the recording studio with Brian.

Julian was watching me. His face wasn’t moving but I could see his amusement as clear as day. ‘You didn’t know?’ he asked. ‘What the advert was?’

‘No,’ I said briefly.

‘What is it?’ Helen had arrived in the room too. She hadn’t auditioned, telling me she wasn’t ready for that kind of stuff yet. ‘Would rather stick my head in a
blacksmith’s stove,’ she’d said cheerfully.
After
I’d gone and recorded my audition.

Violet giggled. ‘Sally’s going to be advertising something very special,’ she said. ‘Bless her!’

Helen looked at me, realized I was unlikely to reply, so turned to Julian.

He coloured slightly. ‘It’s an ad for, um, a sanitary napkin brand,’ he said. And then he smirked.

Helen’s gaze swivelled back towards me. ‘You’re advertising sanitary towels?’

I was frozen. I couldn’t answer. Especially with Julian there, trying to look all sympathetic when in reality he was having serious trouble preventing himself bellowing with laughter. I couldn’t tell him to get lost while the others were there so I stood up and slid out of the fire escape, mumbling about needing a packet of crisps.

I started crying as soon as the door banged behind me. Why had I been so confoundedly
stupid
? What on earth had possessed me to go for a singing job I knew nothing about? What had possessed me to go for a singing job of any sort, come to think of it? And to know that Violet had turned it down … I decided to head for the canteen for a packet of emergency Frazzles. I had no idea what to do.

A tissue was forced into my face.

‘Cry,’ Jan Borsos ordered. ‘Cry, cry, cry.’ Then he looked a bit confused. ‘The imperative conjugation is
cry
or
crying
?’

‘Can I answer that another time?’ I sobbed.

‘No. You are crying now. I must know the answer, please.’

‘ “Crying” is the present continuous tense.’ I sniffed wearily. ‘Like,
I am crying
. But “Cry!” is the imperative. The command. For example, “
Cry! Cry right now
!” But generally people don’t command each other to cry.’ The tears had already stopped falling and I was smiling weakly at the absurdity of the conversation.

‘This is good information,’ Jan muttered, scribbling something in a notebook. ‘I did knew this but I think it is strange that you English do not have a conjugation separate for the imperative tense.’

I smiled briefly. Jan was ridiculous.

You used to think Julian was ridiculous
, my head reminded me.

Perhaps out of desperation to avoid any thoughts of Julian, I found myself telling Jan Borsos everything. About how I was so terrified of singing that I was taking lessons in a wardrobe, about the recorded audition, and about discovering from Violet that I was going to be advertising menstrual products.

I kept the Julian story to myself for now. Jan Borsos was taking me out for dinner, albeit at my expense, and even though it was not and never could be a date I thought it best not to offend him.

Jan listened to me, scowling kindly. ‘I think this situation is very funny,’ he said. ‘And I think you will find it funny also, when you are stopping the embarrassment about the sanatorium towels.’

And with the same speed that I’d stopped crying, I started laughing. Jan Borsos, I was coming to realize, was very good at snapping me out of spiralling negativity. The fact of the matter was that I was going to be paid three thousand pounds to advertise sanitary towels. Nobody
would see my face: I just had to record an aria I loved in a wardrobe-like environment and then I’d be done. Really, it was me who was having the last laugh. I wiped my eyes and smiled. ‘Thank you, Jan Borsos,’ I said gratefully, drying my eyes. We started walking up towards the canteen. ‘I’d lost my sense of humour there.’

‘I am seeing this. Tell me, Sally, why are you so afraid of singing?’

I shrugged. ‘Not sure. Bad childhood experience? I tried to sing at a school concert and got stage fright and … well, it went a bit wrong.’

‘But why? Why were you having the stage fright?’

I paused. ‘I honestly don’t know,’ I said thoughtfully. ‘But if I work it out, Jan Borsos, I’ll be sure to tell you.’

Jan Borsos offered me his elbow. I had to bend down slightly to link my arm through it. ‘I am liking you call me Jan Borsos,’ he said. ‘Jan is not enough. Jan gives me the feeling that I am a short man. Jan Borsos gives me the feeling that I am a big man from Hungary with the voice of a large bear.’

I laughed and laughed. I was looking forward to our dinner very much.