The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (30 page)

I drifted into Kensington Gardens, deep in thought. It had been a beautiful morning, sunny and sharp, but now London was compressed under the weight of a thick, cold fog. It fitted quite well with the state of my head.

I sat on a damp bench, not particularly caring if I got a wet bum. I needed to think.

Since Mum and Dad’s house I’d found myself in an impossible quandary. Nothing had changed about my childhood, or even my adult relationship with them: the facts were immutable. Yet it had dismayed me to see them so stunted and old. They’d seemed fragile, somehow, rather than cold and indifferent. Why? Had they actually changed? Or had I just seen them through a different lens, having come to the house with company for the first time since I was tiny?

Whatever it was, it had blunted my sharp defences. I was worried about them. I seemed somehow to have harmed them by telling them what I thought to be the truth.

I watched a squirrel ferreting around in a dustbin. ‘What’s going on?’ I asked him. He stared defensively at
me, a crisp in his paws. ‘It’s OK,’ I told him. ‘I really, really don’t want your crisp. I just want some clarity.’

The squirrel gave me a look as if to say,
You are a moron of epic proportions. Piss off
. He plunged back into the dustbin.

I smiled. And, before I knew it, I’d dialled home.

I jammed my bottom into the back of the cold, slimy bench, my chest and abdomen engaging in a complex dance routine. I didn’t know what I was calling to say. The squirrel was right. I was a moron of epic proportions.
Abort! Abort!

But before I could Mum answered. ‘Hello?’ she said. A tiny voice shot through fibre-optic cables and blasted into the sky, only to be funnelled down into my phone. My mother. Creator of Sally Howlett.

Nemesis? Friend?

‘BARP.’

‘Hello?’ She sounded worried now, which was understandable.

I cleared my throat. ‘Sorry, Mum, it’s me. Got a bit of a frog in my throat there …’

A shocked silence whizzed down the fibre-optics. Then, ‘
Sally?
’

‘Yes.’ My voice was almost lost in the dank air.
I
was almost lost in the dank air. It was just me and the squirrel, the only two people in the world.

‘Oh,’ Mum said unwelcomingly. My hackles rose, and then – to my surprise – flattened down again.
That’s just how she is
, said a rather unexpected voice in my head.
It’s the best she can do
.

‘Um, I was calling to … to apologize,’ I said.

Was I? Apparently so.

A tremulous silence. ‘I shouldn’t have said that you blame me for Fi,’ I mumbled.

Still more silence.

‘Hello?’

‘Oh, sorry, Sally, I was just …’ She trailed off uselessly. Then she cleared her throat. ‘You shouldn’t have
thought
that we blame you for Fiona,’ she said, all of a sudden. I could tell she’d surprised herself. ‘Of course we don’t. Where did you get that idea?’

‘Oh, you know. Just you warning me in quite a threatening way that I
had
to look after her out there, then not talking to me since I got back.’

It was as if someone else was talking. The squirrel, beady eyes fixed on me, was munching a piece of chocolate now. He was probably wondering, quite reasonably, if I’d lost it. Was I calling to apologize or to start a fight? I wasn’t really sure.

‘I see,’ Mum said. There was some rustling, and then she came back. ‘I think you should talk to your father,’ she said.

I sighed. This was a waste of time. She still didn’t want to talk to me. Or couldn’t talk to me. Or whatever. I wasn’t sure I cared.

I could tell Dad was appalled at having the phone shoved at him.

‘All right, our Sal,’ he said uncertainly.

‘All right, Dad.’ I sounded weary. ‘I was calling to say sorry for making a scene. I don’t want to disturb you both. I’ll go.’

‘Oh,’ Dad said. ‘Oh.’

I sighed.

Then Dad said something extraordinary. ‘I’m glad you called, Sal. We both are. Thank you.’

And that was pretty much that. After some disjointed farewells, the call was ended.

The squirrel watched me keenly. ‘I haven’t got a bloody clue,’ I said. ‘No idea what just happened.’

He cocked his head to one side, and I smiled. Something in me was lighter. ‘But I’m glad I did it, Squirrel.’

Just before we broke for Christmas, I found myself staring at my reflection in the mirror in deep horror. I had no idea whether to laugh or cry. Some MA students were practising carols for a charity concert down the corridor, and our dressing room had been decked out in illegal fairy lights and holly stolen from Hyde Park. I had every reason to be jolly.

I was not jolly. I looked absolutely preposterous. Like a big shiny golden banana, but with extra wide squashy bits that bananas didn’t have, and a whole lot of wrinkling where my generous hips pulled tight this humdinger of a satin dress.

‘Lovely,’ Violet said, wrapping a long cashmere scarf around her neck. She was still wearing the leather jacket she’d been wearing in September. What was it about posh skinny girls that meant they never felt the cold?

For once, Violet’s smile was sincere, albeit for all the wrong reasons. I looked like a fat blob shoved into a
horrible dress and she knew it. ‘You look a million dollars, darling. You’ll knock their socks off at this concert!’

She slid out of the door, waggling her fingers at me. ‘Night!’

‘Night,’ I said to the empty room. I looked in the mirror again and despaired. Why was it that I could now sing in a room full of people, navigate my way through a new friendship with my half-American ex-lover while maintaining a dizzyingly sexual relationship with my current Hungarian lover – all with commendable aplomb – and yet found myself incapable of saying no to a shopping trip with Violet Elphinstone? A trip that I had
known
would turn out like this.

I sighed, trying to squash down the stretched bits across my hips but succeeded only in creating a camel toe.

Lord Peter Ingle’s concert was tomorrow. Jan and I had been rehearsing for the last few days and – save for the dress – we were ready to go. My first proper public performance. Ever. For more than an hour I would have to stand on a stage, like a proper opera singer, hair in billowing waves, makeup fit for a cruise liner and a dress that could stand up on its own without me in it.

And this was it. This fat golden banana dress. Violet, overhearing me telling Helen that I was going to buy a dress today, had dragged me off to Knightsbridge at lunch. She was still high from her tremendous success in
Manon
last week, and from being the girlfriend of world-famous tenor Julian Jefferson, and could not sit still. We walked along the Old Brompton Road, Violet’s arm linked through mine, while she chatted non-stop about Julian.

Strangely – even though we were talking about her relationship with my ex-lover – I found myself hating her less: the more time I spent with Violet the more I realized that she was quite possibly more insecure even than I was.

‘He’s so mysterious,’ she babbled, as she selected various awful dresses for the shop assistant to prepare. We were in a small boutique on Beauchamp Place. A boutique where you actually had to ring a doorbell to enter. If I was to nurture the tiny seed of a relationship with my family that had grown over the last few weeks (Mum had sent me Tesco vouchers, Dad had sent me a newspaper article about a Birmingham opera company, and I had made myself call them for another awkward chat), it would be important to make sure they never found out that I’d shopped in an entry-by-doorbell shop.

‘I just love working out what’s going on behind those lovely big blue eyes of his. I think he’s actually quite sensitive, like on Tuesday he came round to mine after college and he just said, “Actually, can you just hold me? I need a hug.” ’

Something sharp poked at my heart.

Things between Julian and me had been a lot more cordial over the past few weeks. We now smiled and talked when we passed each other in the corridor, and once or twice – like the time I’d found him choking on a Cadbury Creme Egg and performed an emergency Heimlich on him – we’d even found our old banter. But the whole thing was beset with weirdness and sadness.

Helen, whom I’d since told everything, had not been
helpful. ‘If you wrote down the perfect romantic lead for a film script, it would be Julian,’ she had stated forcefully. ‘If you aren’t still in love with him then you’re completely mental.’

I had reassured her spiritedly that I was not still in love with him.

But that didn’t stop me feeling as if someone was applying a cheese grater to my heart as I listened to Violet talking about him.

‘I mean, when do you ever hear men saying things like that? “Can you hold me?” God, Sally, I just
totally
melted.’

It’s fine
, I told myself.
I used to love him. It was never going to be easy when he met someone else
.

I started trying dresses on, Violet sipping a dry cappuccino – ‘Just coffee and some skimmed milk foam,’ she instructed. ‘Fewer calories!’ – and continuing to yabber on about their relationship. Thankfully, I was too absorbed in the horror of the dresses to focus on what she was saying.

After trying on a few I settled – reluctantly – on a royal-blue affair with cap sleeves and less sparkly than the others.

‘No,’ Violet said, screwing up her face. ‘It makes your arms look fat. How come you can’t see that for yourself, sweetie? I thought you were a wardrobe mistress?’

Violet was not the first to flag this up, and she would probably not be the last. The answer was as pathetic as it was true: I simply did not like looking at my reflection and went a bit barmy and useless when I had to buy clothes. Everything I knew went out of the window, and if I bought anything at all it was generally the wrong thing. That was part of the reason I’d so loved my swishy
bohemian linens from my opera house days. God, I missed them.

I tried to unzip the blue dress, too embarrassed to ask for help, but the shop assistant almost rugby-tackled me to stop me doing it myself. ‘No no,’ she cried shrilly. ‘Clients do NOT unzip themselves!’ Pink spots had appeared on her cheeks.

Between her and Violet they decided that I should buy the gold dress, which I’d tried on first, and I gave in because I couldn’t take another second of listening to Violet talk about Julian.

‘YAY!’ Violet squealed, as we left the shop with a huge cardboard bag. ‘Happy days!’

‘Happy days,’ I echoed weakly.

‘Enough about me and Jules,’ she said brightly. ‘How are things with Jan?’

‘Um, good, I think.’

They were good. Jan still seemed to want to have sex at least three times a day, and he was still noisy, chaotic and at times insane, but he was funny, charming and sparky, and when my head wasn’t running off on worrying tangents, I was pretty sure we were actually very happy indeed.

‘Are you sure?’ Violet was watching me with forced concern.

‘Yes, sorry. I was miles away.’

‘If you and Jan are having problems you can always tell me.’ She simpered. ‘It’s important to talk about these things. I mean, if anything went wrong with Jules I’d be totally devastated. I’m falling for him big-time.’

She smiled, embarrassed, and blushed into her Hermès scarf. I realized she was serious.

‘Violet, you’re beautiful,’ I said sincerely. ‘Julian would be totally insane to leave you.’

‘I hope you’re right.’ She bit her lip, and I felt a wave of genuine sympathy for her.

I resolved to respect her and her relationship. She had not treated me very well but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t keep my side of the street clean.

Nonetheless, I thought now, standing in the girls’ dressing room at college, Violet was a total fucker who deserved to be stabbed with a sharp stiletto. The fat golden banana dress was appalling.

The door opened and someone’s head popped round. ‘Oh,’ said Julian.

‘Oh,’ I said, relieved I’d not yet unzipped myself.

Julian gaped at me. ‘What the fuck is that?’

‘What the fuck is what?’

‘Sal! What is that dress? Who did this to you?’ He was dangerously close to laughing.

I found myself struggling to keep a straight face. It
was
funny, really. ‘Your girlfriend did this to me, as it goes.’

Julian’s eyes widened. ‘
Violet
lent you this dress?’

‘No. Violet made me
buy
this dress.’

Julian’s hand went to his mouth but not in time. Laughter spilled through his fingers like water. ‘It’s
dreadful
!’ he howled.

I shrugged, grinning ruefully. ‘She doesn’t like me much, Violet.’

‘I think you may be right. Is this for Lord Ingle’s concert?’

‘Sure is.’

‘Here, let me help,’ Julian said, moving forward to unzip me.

I caught my breath as his hand touched my neck. ‘No, I can do it, thanks, Julian.’

‘Sorry, yes.’ Julian moved away from me. He was still laughing. ‘Oh, Sally.’

‘Hmm,’ I said, wriggling my top over my head so I could slide the dress off without exposing myself.

‘Right,’ Julian said decisively. ‘Let’s go shopping. I am going to sort this mess out.’

I looked at him in the mirror, weighing up his proposition, which felt both appealing and dangerous. Julian had a great eye for clothes – I still owned the lovely blue dress he’d bought for our final-night party in New York – so I
knew
I’d find something nice with him in charge.

I also knew that my heart was hammering at the thought of going shopping with him. Which meant that it was a bad idea. Briefly, I hated myself. What was wrong with me?

‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK,’ I said firmly. It took every ounce of strength I had.

‘Oh, Sal, come on.’ His face softened and I saw a flash of need. ‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about.’

‘LET HIM HELP YOU,’ Helen shouted, bursting suddenly from the toilet.

‘Er, Helen?’

‘Sorry. I was stuck in there with constipation,’ she explained. Julian laughed. ‘He’s right, Sally. That dress is disgusting beyond words. Let him take you shopping.’

Julian’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

‘Well?’ Helen was looking ominously at me.

‘Let me help you,’ Julian repeated.

I had no more fight in me. ‘OK.’

He left while I got changed.

‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at Helen, who was unzipping me with a triumphant grin.

‘I’m looking after your best interests.’

‘You’re doing nothing of the sort. And you just told Julian you’re constipated.’

‘I took one for the team.
Do this
,’ Helen ordered. ‘Just do it. Jan will probably be grateful. He won’t want to sing next to you tomorrow night if you’re looking like a twat.’