The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (33 page)

‘Ahem. A-huh. Arggh. We need to talk,’ Jan said. He was sitting on my living-room floor, poring over one of Barry’s ballet shoes. Barry had given Jan Borsos a ballet lesson earlier, much to my amusement. I had watched them both, the two most ridiculous men I’d ever known – both so very precious to me – and welled up a little, knowing that these silly evenings would soon come to an end.

The last week since Dima had arrived had been odd, to say the least. Jan kept cornering me to tell me that everything was OK between us. That Dima’s appearance had been nothing more than a huge coincidence, rather than the carefully planned and expertly staged campaign that everyone else at college knew it to have been. Dima, it had been revealed, had split up with her wealthy Belarussian husband because she had realized she was still in love with her ex, one Jan Borsos. She had gone to Budapest to find him – rather than simply sending him a message on Facebook – and had been told he’d come to London. She had flown to the UK, wangled a visa, somewhat surprisingly, and had been applying for
répétiteur
jobs at the Royal College of Music since September.

‘SALLY!’ Jan hissed. He was kneeling in front of the sofa. ‘We must talk!’

‘Oh, Jan,’ I said sadly. ‘There’s nothing to say.’

‘What are you meaning? I love you!’ he said furiously. ‘It is true! I am loving you!’ He knelt in front of me and I realized this poor man – this poor
boy
, because that was what he looked like at that moment – was utterly shattered. His face was grey and his skin almost translucent.

‘Sssh,’ I said, interrupting him.

Jan blinked, confused. ‘Do not stop me in anger,’ he whispered. ‘I am telling you things between us are OK, Sally.’

I put my finger on his lips. ‘Jan.’ I smiled. ‘My lovely, funny, gorgeous Jan. I have loved every minute of our time together.’

Jan sat back on his heels, listening for once in silence.

‘But, my darling Jan Borsos, you love Dima, and while I know how fond you are of me, it’s nothing compared to what you have with her.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. Jan, look at yourself in the mirror. You look terrible. I know a lovesick puppy when I see one.’

Jan tried to fight me for a few seconds, then hung his head, defeated. ‘Maybe this is true.’

‘Definitely, Jan. I’ve been there in the room too. I can see the feelings between the two of you.’

‘I think you are right, Sally. I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I am so sorry.’

‘Don’t be! Seeing you and Dima reminds me of what love is,’ I said.

‘You have felt strong love before? Love that could melt a mountain?’

I tried not to giggle at the metaphor. ‘Yes. I’ve had love that could melt a mountain.’

Jan looked at me shrewdly, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am thinking you have had this love with Julian Jefferson,’ he said.

‘
What?
’

Jan smiled, and took both of my hands. ‘Do you think I am stupid?’ he asked gently. ‘You see the love with Dima and Jan. I see the love with Sally and Julian.’

I stared at him.

‘Our time in Stourbridge was … how do you say? … very
fruity
,’ Jan said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But I was having fun with my sexy Sally, I did not mind.’ He put his head to one side. ‘Why did you not tell me about Julian?’ he asked.

I shut my eyes. ‘He was part of a chapter in my life I was trying to forget. He – he was there the night Fiona died. In fact, for a long time I thought it was his fault.’

Jan nodded. ‘This has sense,’ he said.

I opened my eyes to find him smiling. ‘I
am
mad,’ he said. ‘But, as I tell you, I am not stupid. You must go and find Julian Jefferson!’

‘I can’t.’ I looked down at my hands, trying not to sound too sad. ‘He said we need to call it a day. Too much water under the bridge and all that.’

‘No!’

‘Yes. His wife died, my cousin died, we both somehow ended up at the Royal College of Music and it was a disaster. He wants me to be happy here. He’s going to get on with being a singer again. It makes sense. But it’s shit.’

Jan looked sad. ‘I want you to have a big great love,’ he said childishly. ‘I do not like that it is finished.’

I shrugged. ‘I guess my big love affair is going to be with
La Bohème
instead.’

Jan sighed, deflated. ‘Pah.’

I leaned forward and cupped his cheeks. ‘You are the most precious man I know,’ I told him. He smiled, a lovely, furious, silly Jan smile. I kissed him on the lips and he stroked my hair and then we hugged each other for what felt like hours. It was the loveliest goodbye I could have imagined.

‘Grow some testicles,’ he whispered, as we hugged. ‘Fight for him. Or send him an electronic message. I know you have enough testicles to be doing this.’

After he’d gone, I had another cry, then sat down at my desk. I thought about writing to Julian, of course. I’d thought about writing to him often, but I knew I wouldn’t. Julian was no longer a part of my life.

I wrote instead to my family. I knew the chances of them coming to London to watch an opera were slim, but I was game to try.

‘Baby,
baaaaby
.’ Dima panted like a beautifully naff pop star. She had Jan rammed up against a wall and was kissing him vigorously, as she had been doing every day since he had given in.

‘Yes, yes,’ Jan muttered hungrily. He was her slave and very happy about it too.

I walked on. Bloody everyone was in wild love. Helen and Phil had got married at Easter, Jan and Dima were performing live sex shows – or close approximations of live sex shows – in the corridors with gay abandon, and Barry had gone completely batty over a Canadian photographer called Teddy. He was literally manic all day long, and during the few moments when they weren’t together, he would sit in my room with a fake Elizabethan lute that he’d bought in Camden Passage, screaming Tudor love songs. He was in a ballet about the Tudors, although that did not excuse anything.

I was not in love with anyone. No one I could have, anyway. And that was lucky because I was flat out rehearsing
for
La Bohème
while trying to keep up with college work, plus handling my suddenly crazed housemate and trying grimly to build my relationship with my family.

We’d continued our stunted weekly phone calls but our progress, if any, was slow, and they didn’t mention my forthcoming performance in
La Bohème
.

I was doing my best with them, but it hurt. Maybe I had been wrong, again.

‘It’s probably for the best,’ Helen said, on our opening night. It was an hour before the beginners’ call and we were in the middle of warming up. ‘I mean, you’re so nervous you’re actually see-through, Sally. You don’t want your folks to have to watch you weeing yourself again. Oh. Sorry. Too close to the bone?’

‘HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA,’ I shouted hysterically. ‘HILARIOUS! YOU’VE MADE ME LAUGH. I FEEL LESS NERVOUS NOW. THANKS, MY LOVE!’

Helen stared at me, nodding thoughtfully. She obviously hadn’t noticed until now quite how petrified I was.

‘Sally,’ she said slowly, ‘should we get you some drugs? Legal ones, I mean. I think you might be on the verge of a psychotic outburst.’

‘YesNoYesNoYesNo – ARGGGGH!’

‘Right.’

She had a think and realized she had no idea what to do. ‘Um, we need to sort you out, Sally, my darling. Any thoughts?’

I froze, trying to think. She was right: there was no way I could sing in this state. Everything I’d learned about courage had evaporated and I was left with insides like
white-water rapids. ‘Jesus,’ Helen cried, catching the end of a terrified trump. ‘SALLY! We have to do something! You’ll kill Jan if you do one of those onstage!’

Come on, think!
I implored my pounding head.

‘I’ll be back,’ I muttered, after a short pause.

Three minutes later, I started to breathe again. It was pitch black and I had four wooden walls close by. Everything was still.

Once my pulse had slowed down, I closed my eyes. ‘Fiona?’ I asked into the darkness. ‘Freckle? Can you help me, darling? I’ve gone mad and I’m shaking and guffing and mostly frozen to the spot.’

I didn’t talk to Fiona any more, not since Julian had helped me let her go. But right now, sweat turning cold on my back, I needed a sense of her presence and, what’s more, I felt it. Stronger than ever. It was as if her pale little hand was holding mine, down here in a wardrobe of umbrellas in the prop store.

‘Freckle?’ I said, into the small oblong of air. (How had I ever sung in a wardrobe?) ‘Freckle? You’re here, aren’t you?’

Silence. A warm silence; something gentle and soothing.

‘Well, any advice welcome.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Feeling slightly alone at the moment. What with you mincing around in Heaven or somewhere, and our family as usual ignoring me.’

I held on to my ankles as if they might run away. ‘Yeah, and there’s the matter of Julian,’ I admitted. ‘That’s all a bit shit too. The whole new-life thing.’

I imagined Fiona frowning.

‘But I’m trying, Freckle, my God, I’m trying! Look
how bloody brave I’ve been, rehearsing this thing! And trying not to care about Mum and Dad. I’m doing all right, aren’t I?’

The silence swayed as if in agreement.

‘I did it, Fi, I became a singer!’

I smiled into the silence.

‘I’m quite good,’ I added proudly.

I could feel Fiona nodding agreement. Punching the air, maybe, with some customary swearing.

‘Um, but I’m still asking for your help,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you could make me brave again. I’ve kind of lost it today.’

For a short while, there was nothing. And then there was a feeling so strong it seemed almost to have a voice.

You are brave
.

You are so very, very brave
.

Look at you. Look where you came from and what you’ve been through. Look what you did! Look who you touched, who you helped. Look how humble you stayed through it all. You are remarkable, Sally Howlett. You are truly, wonderfully precious
.

It doesn’t matter who loves you. You love yourself now, and that’s enough
.

You can do it!

For a moment I stayed absolutely still, absorbing her words. An image of Julian sprang to mind, helping me step out of my wardrobe. His insistence that I could do it on my own, that I didn’t need to carry on hiding, talking to Fiona.

What came next was one of the most extraordinary thoughts I’d had in my life.

That hadn’t been Fiona talking. It had been me
.

And it had always been me.

That small voice of courage, of self-belief:
it was mine!

I leaned back against the wardrobe wall, giddy with astonishment.

My voice! My strength! I’d just made it sound like Fiona’s voice because I’d never believed I was big or strong enough!

But I was strong enough. Somewhere, deep within me, there was a little pocket of trust. Of courage, dignity and determination. It didn’t come from Fiona or Julian or Carrot or my wardrobe.
It came from me!

You can sing Mimi bloody brilliantly
, the voice said.
Get out there and do it!

I climbed out of the wardrobe. I was going to bloody well nail this performance.

And nail it I did. My voice wobbled fearfully on my very first line, which didn’t matter anyway because I was pretending to be freezing cold and candle-less in a pitch-black building. But I dipped back into that pocket of strength and my voice came back stronger than ever. Jan, transformed as Rodolfo, smiled with absolute pride as he opened his front door to me, the Mimi who might never have happened.

The performance was a blur. Before I knew it, I was bowing and people were cheering and my heart was in my throat and I could barely breathe for joy and relief and pride and exhilaration. ‘You fucking did it! WE fucking did it!’ Helen screamed, in my ear. ‘RAAAAAH!’

Just as we stepped back for the curtains to close for a final time, Hugo, the head of the faculty, walked onstage.
Amid the euphoria I registered a mild sense of irritation: I was looking forward to the curtains closing properly so we could all jump up and down and scream and hug and hump each other.

Hugo had been rambling on for a couple of minutes when I realized that the audience had started cheering again and the cast had started gasping and hugging each other. ‘SHIIIIIIIT!’ Helen was crying. ‘SHIIIIIIT!’

‘Eh?’

‘For God’s sake!’ she said, as the curtains closed for the final time. ‘Didn’t you hear any of that?’

‘No.’

‘We’re going to do a summer exchange with the Juilliard!’ she hissed. I looked blank but Jan’s face was exploding. ‘We perform in NEW YORK!’ he yelled.

‘AT THE FUCKING METROPOLITAN OPERA!’ Helen screamed. ‘OH, MY GOD! WE’RE DOING A PERFORMANCE AT THE MET! THE METROPOLITAN FRIGGING OPERA!’

I stared at them. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hector the ginger bouffant having some sort of a faint, then Noon grabbing Summer and snogging her hard.

‘WHAT?’

‘The Juilliard is one of the world’s most prestigious performing arts schools, Sally, you IDIOT, and they’re based at the Lincoln Center WHERE THE FUCKING MET IS. WE ARE DOING AN EXCHANGE WITH THEM. THEY PERFORM THEIR OPERA AT THE ALBERT HALL AND WE PERFORM OURS AT THE MET. AT THE FUCKING MET.’

She paused, wild-eyed, staring at me.

I stared, wild-eyed, right back at her.

‘You mean, I –’

‘YES! I MEAN YOU ARE GOING TO PLAY MIMI IN
LA BOHÈME
AT THE FUCKING METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE!’

‘Oh, my God,’ I croaked.

Helen laughed, then started to cry. ‘We are performing at the Met. We are performing at the Met. We are – oh, my God …’

After a lot of screaming and more champagne than was advisable in the middle of a run of performances, I slid out of college, strangely deflated. It had probably been the best day of my life, yet there was still something missing. Specifically, my family. I hadn’t expected them to come, or even to acknowledge my letter, but the certainty that everyone was now off to the pub to meet their proud families stung just a little too much.

Barry and Teddy were coming to watch the next performance in a couple of days; I’d go out then.

I smiled politely at a family huddled by the doorway, waiting for their clever offspring to appear. The father was wearing an Aston Villa scarf, which made me feel even sadder. Dad. Why wasn’t my dad here?

‘There she is!’ said the father. He was pointing at me.

‘All right, sis!’ yelled an overweight man, who also had a Villa scarf on. ‘Surprise!’

I stared at them, uncertain as to what was happening here. Who were these weirdos? Noon’s family, probably. You couldn’t trust a family who called their son Noon.

‘Surprise, Sally, ha-ha!’ echoed the woman. Then she
clapped her hand over her mouth in case she’d been too loud.

I stared at them, goggle-eyed, and they stared at me. My family. My family were here, for the first time in my life. Mum was clutching Dad as if she were a sapling and he an oak. Dad was trying to go along with the oak role but he was far too excited. ‘You were FANTASTIC, you were!’ he cried. ‘Great!’

Tears filled my eyes. ‘Bet you didn’t expect us, eh?’ crowed Dennis’s wife, Lisa. In all the years I’d known Lisa she’d only ever worn jeans and fake Ugg boots. Tonight she was wearing some sort of a dress. With a heel! A medium heel!

‘Great legs,’ I said, staring at them in wonder. My family were here!

‘You were great,’ Mum said nervously. She moved over and patted my arm self-consciously. ‘We were ever so proud, and the story was actually quite easy to follow … Although I was gutted that you didn’t sing that “Nessun dorma” song. Do you remember when Paul Potts sang it on
Britain’s Got Talent
? It was still great, though, and now you’re off to New York to do it!’

It was the most Mum had said to me in one go for as long as I could remember. I smiled tearfully at her, feeling no compulsion whatsoever to explain that ‘Nessun dorma’ was from a different opera and written for a male tenor. Mum and Dad had got into a car and driven to London. Not for Dennis and Lisa, but for me. For me!

I didn’t hug them, because I knew it would be a bit too much. But I touched Mum’s hand as it rested on my arm
and I half punched Dad on his anorak and I saw it in their eyes: love.
Real love
. Love way out of its comfort zone, but indisputable love all the same, suffused with pride and respect.

‘I can’t believe you’re here.’ I snuffled. ‘Thank you so much!’

‘Weren’t going to miss this, were we?’ Dad said shyly. ‘Our Sal up there with the big knobs! Next stop, New York!’

‘Do you … Do you fancy getting a bite to eat? Or a drink?’ I asked tentatively. ‘I’m starving?’ I trailed off, allowing them ample opportunity to say no.

‘What do you think, Pat?’ Mum turned to Dad. She looked keen, albeit anxious.

Lisa spoke: ‘We’ve got to get back for the babysitter,’ she said. ‘But the trains run till midnight. You’ll be fine. You know where you’re going, right?’

‘Right,’ Dad said.

‘Right,’ Mum echoed dazedly. ‘I reckon we could have a quick bite,’ she said. ‘But, Sally, it’s after ten – won’t everywhere be shut?’

I smiled. ‘London never shuts.’

‘We surprised her good and proper.’ Dennis chuckled as he and Lisa walked off towards the tube. I still couldn’t believe it.

We went to Byron Burger and Mum asked if they did ham, egg and chips. Every now and then she stared at the young, rich Kensingtonites around her in their quilted jackets and ruby trousers, bewildered beyond any
imagining. ‘These girls look like they should be in a TV advert,’ she muttered at one point. ‘Why are they so dressed up, Sally? It’s a Tuesday night.’

I said I had yet to understand the people in these parts and we all laughed. It didn’t last long, the communal Howlett laugh, but that it had happened at all was a miracle.

‘So, how’s it going with Jan?’ Dad asked bravely. ‘He was an energetic young thing!’

I smiled. ‘We split up. He got back together with his ex-wife. Which is fine,’ I added hastily, when they looked panicky. ‘I think we were just very good friends, really.’ Mum and Dad nodded. While they both had exceptionally conservative values, they watched enough soaps and TV dramas to accept that young people
did
do mad things, like getting divorced and changing their minds in the space of four years.

‘And what about the other one? The one with the funny accent?’ Mum asked. She blushed slightly. ‘He was ever so nice, he was.’

‘They are both very nice,’ I said firmly. I still wasn’t OK about how they’d behaved towards Jan that night.

‘Oh, yes, yes! Jan was nice too. I hope he didn’t think badly of … I hope he didn’t …’ Mum looked anxiously at Dad, asking him to take over. For once he did. The trip to London had evidently emboldened him.

‘What your mum’s trying to say is that we hope he didn’t take offence when we were talking about the Chinese. Or, um, the Eastern Europeans,’ he mumbled. ‘We didn’t mean anything bad, Sal, honest, it was just one of those things.’

I took a deep breath. Here was another fork in the path. I could turn left, accept what they were saying and move on, or I could turn right and continue to wallow in resentment. ‘It’s OK,’ I said, choosing the left-hand path and feeling rather proud of myself for it. ‘Jan wasn’t offended. It was me who was, on his behalf. And I clearly didn’t need to be.’