The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (35 page)

It was meant to be day one of our rehearsals but everyone had been summoned to an emergency meeting in the stalls. Once upon a time I might have felt pleasure to be sitting inside that vast jewellery box of an auditorium but today I alternated between fury and despair. Jetlag and disappointment threatened to suffocate me. Just for once, I hated Jan.

We should have started rehearsing Hector straight away that morning but Hector, to his utter devastation, had caught a cold on the plane and was no more able to sing Rodolfo’s part than Helen was.

He sat alone in the auditorium, trying not to cry. ‘My one chance,’ he croaked. ‘My one bloody chance.’ Everyone sent him sympathetic glances but kept well away from him.

The second understudy, Noon, had not come to New York because he had a huge audition and, besides, second covers never got the chance to go on. Zachary, the director, and Colin, the conductor, looking quite ill themselves, had called in the Met’s bigwigs.

‘So who do we get in?’ Carol was a creative executive at
the Met, a woman whose face (and large, powerful backside) inspired respect and awe. She stared at her group of minions.

‘Luigi Donato’s in town,’ one offered. ‘And so’s Claude-Pierre Pascale. Does anyone know what their schedule is?’

I gaped. They were two of the finest opera singers in the world. Literally, the
world
.

‘No,’ Carol snapped. ‘Claude’s on as Faust on Friday. He can’t sing
La Bohème
on top of that. And Luigi’s a dramatic tenor.’

A short argument ensued, during which it was argued that Luigi Donato was a perfectly viable lyric tenor and not a dramatic tenor at all.

I let it all fly over my head; I was still only getting to grips with these terms. And, really, I didn’t care. I could feel my chance slipping away from me and I couldn’t stand it.

‘Julian Jefferson’s singing again,’ someone was saying. ‘He brought the house down singing Lensky at the Civic Chicago last month.’

I felt Helen’s eyes burning a hole in my side.

Carol sat back, folding her arms. ‘Now there’s an idea,’ she said thoughtfully. ‘We’ve been talking to him about next season … It’d be a great little teaser for his fans …’

‘I agree. He’d be perfect if we could get him,’ Zachary chipped in. ‘Plus he trained at the Royal College of Music back in the nineties. Having him as Rodolfo would make a nice little story. Star alumnus comes back to save the day.’

No
, I mouthed weakly at Helen, who had gone puce with excitement.
No no no
.

Yes yes yes!
she mouthed back.

‘Sally?’ Zachary was looking at me. ‘Did you get on with Julian Jefferson when he was coaching at the Royal College? Do you think you could sing opposite him?’

‘Mergh,’ I said weakly.

‘
Excuse me?
’ Carol was not in the mood for indecision.

‘I suppose so,’ I tried. My voice was barely a whisper.

Carol whipped out her phone and stood up to leave the room. ‘I’m getting on to him right away,’ she barked.

Although it was pointless, I prayed that Julian would suddenly have flown to the Antarctic to live in a penguin colony. Or that he’d just say no. After all, it was he who’d been so emphatic that we should move on.

He did neither. Two hours later I found myself rolled up into a terrified ball in my plush, red-carpeted dressing room trying to ignore the tannoy, over which was being transmitted something both awful and wonderful: ‘Mr Jefferson to the stage, please, for warm-up, that’s Mr Jefferson to the stage, please, for warm-up. Thank you.’

Terror tore through me. What would I say to him?

‘Miss Howlett to the stage for warm-up, please. That’s Miss Howlett for warm-up, please.’

When I walked on to the stage, as if in a strange dream, Julian was stretching, lost in thought.

He was
there
. Metres away. All six foot of him, wearing his monkey T-shirt and jeans, looking much younger than the tired, anxious man I’d last seen in London. His face was lined with concentration but there was a lightness to him that I hadn’t seen in two years. I couldn’t put my
finger on what it was, exactly, just … a freedom. A happiness that I’d long forgotten.

He’s met someone!
I decided immediately. Apart from anything else, there was product in his hair. An absence of fluff. And his glasses were new.
Telltale signs
, I muttered madly to myself.
Telltale bloody signs
.

I tried to stay in the wings but Helen grabbed my hand and marched me on to the stage. ‘HI, JULIAN!’ she shouted. He straightened up.

When he saw me his face broke into that beautiful smile and I knew I was done for.

I began to understand what people meant when they talked about being weak at the knees. He walked over to us, grinning and saying things like ‘Hey, lovely girls!’ and ‘Isn’t this funny?’ and I had to hold so hard on to Helen’s hand that I nearly pulled it off.

I loved him more than ever. A huge ball in my chest, pressing on everything.

Julian hugged Helen first. ‘Great to see you, Helen,’ he said easily. ‘And onstage at the Met too! I’m so happy you guys got a chance like this.’

Helen gazed up at him. ‘God, you’re so fit I can’t stand it,’ she said. ‘Do you mind if I go and warm up over there?’

Julian roared with laughter, then turned back to me. There were no butterflies in my stomach but there were at least twenty giant birds.

‘Hello,’ I bleated.

‘Hello,’ Julian said. He renewed his huge, dazzling megastar of a smile, then gave me a brief, perfunctory hug. ‘Great to see you, my old buddy,’ he said cheerfully.

My old buddy?
MY OLD
BUDDY
?

Worried that I might start howling – or that I might just slide to the floor – I stepped back from him. It was all too much. The feel of him around me, the smell of his laundry powder, the smell of his
skin
. ‘You smell the same,’ some goon mumbled.

I did a double-take. Had I said that?

Oh, hellfire and damnation. I had said that.

‘I hate myself. Ignore me,’ I told him.

Julian grinned. ‘We should all go for a drink later,’ he said comfortably.
We should all
, I noted.

He must have met someone. I mean, they said he was back singing again. Which had to mean he’d nailed the whole ‘sorting my life out’ thing. And if he’d sorted his life out, he must, of course, be
dating
. Bloody Americans. Why did they have to DATE? Why couldn’t they just spend their time ignoring each other, like the English? If he’d stayed in London he would never have met anyone. He’d be alone and unhappy, like me, but at least he wouldn’t be DATING.

His new girlfriend was lean of bum, I knew instantly. And as relaxed and lovely and amazing as him. She probably wore vintage clothes and had a pretty little pixie face and a –

‘Hello?’ Julian was watching me with that bloody smile. ‘Are you OK? You look fucking mental, Sal.’

‘Ah, just nerves,’ I stammered. ‘Bit of a shocker, this Jan business.’

Julian laughed, leaning over to stretch his hamstrings. ‘Jan Borsos? Hightailing it off to Belarus without warning?
Come on!’ he said, from somewhere down by his knees. ‘Glad he’s found true love again.’

I shifted nervously from one foot to the other. ‘Yeah. Good to find true love,’ I said.

Then I walked away. It was clear that I should not be talking to Julian. I was being a moron and he had probably met someone else. And
EVEN IF HE HASN’T
, my head pointed out hysterically,
HE TOLD YOU IT WAS OVER AND HE IS TRYING TO MOVE ON WITH HIS LIFE AND SO SHOULD YOU AND – ARGGGGH!

I tried to focus on the emergency rehearsal ahead. We had our tech at six this evening, a mere three hours away, and by then Julian and I needed to know
exactly
where on the stage we were meant to be.

As each minute passed my conviction grew that Julian was probably the best man on earth. Quite apart from being appallingly handsome and kind and funny, he just got
La Bohème
. It had taken Jan and me weeks to get it right, yet Julian had it seemingly before he’d even begun.

‘Shit, he’s good,’ Helen whispered, as we sipped from water bottles in the wings. Julian was onstage, laughing with Hussein as if they were best friends. The banter between them as Marcello and Rodolfo was like watching
Friends
for the first time in the 1990s. You laughed and laughed and laughed and felt happy.

I stared morosely at a patch of Julian’s hair that had broken free of product and was looking soft and yummy.

‘You have to jump on him,’ Helen told me. ‘He’s like
God. If you won’t, Sally, I will. I’m sure Phil would allow me a one-off.’

‘I’d like you to stop talking,’ I said weakly. ‘Do you think you could manage that?’

Helen cackled. ‘No bloody chance! Roll on the snogging practice!’

Three days later I was pacing a corridor deep below the stage, warming up my voice for my first – and, no doubt, last – performance at the Metropolitan Opera House.

There were few indications that tonight was going to be the stunning success that the music press – tipped off that Julian Jefferson was back at the Met – predicted it would be.

Everyone’s singing, even mine, was faultless, but the acting was diabolical. Mimi and Rodolfo had about as much chemistry as a limp condom and the fault was all mine. Zachary, our exasperated and now desperate director, had given me hours of notes that afternoon but in the end had just clasped my arm and begged me not to be so shit.

Astonishingly, it wasn’t the pressure of performing in such an iconic building. Nor was it the fact that my parents had FLOWN TO NEW YORK TO WATCH ME.

It was a broken heart. It was a girl who felt like her chest had been cloven open, who could hardly bear to be near Julian and his rich, golden voice and lovely Julian smell and silly hair and infectious laugh and notes written
on his hand and delightful silliness and quiet intelligence and wonderful humour and …

And everything. I couldn’t stand it.

It had not helped that Julian was being lavishly amorous onstage and militantly neutral off. As Rodolfo he stared into my eyes with deep, French bohemian love … and when the scene was over he wandered off to play shithead in the wings with one of the assistant stage managers, barely giving me a second glance.

Last night had been the final straw. We’d all gone to the Film Center café across from the Met where for some reason I had ordered chilli octopus, even though I didn’t like chilli or octopus, and Julian had been on fire. He and Hussein had called Hector to wish him better and had ended up singing ‘Eye Of The Tiger’ into his voicemail. That was our bloody song. He didn’t even look at me.

Later on, he’d come and sat next to me. ‘It’s really nice to see you,’ he said, in a friendly manner. I tried to unknot myself and go with the flow.

‘You too. I’ve missed you.’ I cringed.
What?

‘Ah, I’ve missed you too,’ he said cheerfully. ‘But it was the right thing to do, wasn’t it?’

‘Yes, of course,’ I lied.
No breaking hearts here! Everything’s JUST FINE!

‘Good,’ he said. He ruffled my hair, as if I were his teenage daughter. ‘And I hear your parents have come!’

‘Yeah.’ I calmed down a little. ‘Mum’s not coping very well with the cheerfulness over here. And Dad’s just like this wide-eyed alien.’

‘How’s Barry?’ he asked pleasantly. ‘Still having trouble with those dance belts?’

‘Barry’s met someone! Teddy. Barry and Teddy. You couldn’t make it up. They’re like two puppies, except they mate all the time.’

Julian was delighted. ‘Excellent! I loved Barry. And he did need a good mating. And college, how’s it all going?’

Why did he find this so easy? ‘Good, I think,’ I said tentatively. ‘We’re doing
Rusalka
this summer, although I’ve not got a big role. Oh, my God, and I’ve been offered Tatyana in
Eugene Onegin
for the British Youth Opera this summer! Me in the main bloody part! Can you believe it?!’

‘Yes,’ Julian said. ‘Of course. You’re the best lyric soprano of your age that I’ve ever heard.’

‘Stop it.’ I could feel the blush spreading up from underneath my dress.

‘Oh, for God’s sake.’ Julian smiled. ‘When are you going to learn to say thank you?’

‘When I start to believe compliments like that,’ I mumbled.

‘Believe it, you fool,’ he said.

I went even redder. ‘Hmm.’

‘You’re the best,’ he said. ‘The very best. And that’s why you got this part. Shit, I’ve got to be somewhere. See you!’

And he was gone, leaving some banknotes on the table, before I had time even to say goodbye. Helen, never having stopped watching us all night, came over immediately to console me.

I was inconsolable.

‘You just need a good sleep,’ she tried.

‘What I need, Helen, is to believe that Julian loves me. Even the tiniest bit. Because with all of our history I’m
not sure I can play Mimi alongside his Rodolfo otherwise.’

Helen squeezed my arm. ‘I’m
sure
he still does a little bit.’

‘No, you’re not.’

‘Well … It’s not looking amazingly promising, but … maybe he’s playing a game.’

‘Julian? He wears his heart on his sleeve! He kissed me forty-five minutes after meeting me! It’s OVER! Oh, God, I want to cut my head off.’

Helen searched for inspiration. ‘Ballbags,’ she muttered eventually, defeated. ‘I wish I could get you drunk.’

Now, in the below-stage corridor, I tried to sing. ‘Bababababa,’ I croaked. My voice sounded like a wilted salad.

I checked my watch. Eighty minutes until curtain up. It was all hopeless.

‘You have lovely deep eye sockets,’ murmured the makeup artist, Kendra.

‘Er, thanks.’

I concentrated on breathing deeply.

‘So, are your family here?’ she asked. ‘Look down, please.’

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘Which is more surprising than it sounds.’

Kendra straightened up to check her work. ‘Uh-huh? What about your boyfriend? Friends?’

‘No boyfriend,’ I said weakly. ‘And it’d be a bit much to ask my friends to come over here to watch me, I think!’

‘I guess! But maybe your
best
friend …’

‘My best friend died nearly two years ago.’

Kendra stopped applying eye makeup and stood back, anguished. ‘Oh, I am so sorry to hear that,’ she whispered.

‘And my other best friend is here, but it’s a bit cack because I’m in love with him and he’s not in love with me.’

‘I’m sorry, what was that word? “Cack”, did you say?’

Kendra sounded like she’d just been plucked from a Texan ranch and parachuted into the Met.

‘Cack, yes. Meaning, um, a bummer.’

‘Sweetie, that there is the biggest bummer I ever heard! Well, save for your friend dying,’ she added, blushing. ‘Oh, I sure am sorry, Sally.’

‘Thanks. They’re both bummers. And I feel so guilty saying this but right at this moment the fact that I’m in love with Julian and he’s not in love with me is probably the worst of the two. Oh, God, Kendra, am I going to Hell?’

Kendra, who looked like the kind of lady to whom you didn’t say either ‘God’ or ‘Hell’ (especially in the same sentence), gasped.

‘Sorry,’ I muttered uselessly. ‘Bad language.’

‘You’re never in love with Julian Jefferson?’ she cried.

I cringed. ‘Oh, erm, no, another Julian …’

Kendra, who was obviously sassier than I’d realized, arched one of her very precise eyebrows. ‘Honey,
everyone
loves Julian Jefferson!’

‘Really?’

‘Bless my
soul
, yes! I swear I’d leave my Joe tomorrow if Julian came a-knocking!’

I grinned at Kendra. She was like an oasis of rural charm in this mad city.

Then I stopped grinning because she’d reminded me that I was no better off than any other woman in this building.

The world felt hopeless again.

A few minutes after Kendra had finished with me (‘I’ll be back!’ she tinkled), my phone beeped with an incoming message. From …
Dad
! This was a turn-up.

Toi toi our Sal!
was all he had written. Dad, who had never sent a text message in his life, had somehow found out how to say ‘good luck’ to an opera singer and had managed to send it to me.
Toi toi our Sal
. I imagined him saying it in his Stourbridge accent.
Toi toi
. Suddenly tearful, I stared at my phone, at the message and all it symbolized.

In spite of how painful and hopeless it felt to go onstage and be Mimi to Julian’s Rodolfo, there was absolutely no denying it:
my life had changed beyond all recognition
. Here was I, a trained opera singer, about to perform in front of more than a thousand people. In New York! With my family watching!

I thought about all that had happened since the day that Bea had marched into the laundry room at the opera house, telling me that I was going on tour with the Royal Ballet and that she was buying me proper luggage because mine was made of nylon. All that I’d made it through: so much love and loss; growth and pain. I was a truly strong woman, it had turned out. A talented, strong, brave woman. Who knew?

You’re amazing, you are
, I acknowledged silently, to the girl in the mirror.
You are ruddy amazing, Sally Howlett!

And that was it. Without pausing to explain or
apologize to Kendra, I was off and running. Down the hallway, past a pacing, nervous Hussein and a tearful Hector, past Helen, who, of course, being Helen was somehow outside her dressing room just at the moment that I should sprint past, directly towards a room marked ‘Julian Jefferson’.

‘Get in, my son!’ she yelled, like a football fan. ‘GET IN!’