This feels like an obscure form of treachery that must be resisted. She is in her old stamping ground in a warm, inviting flat, with the resources of a friendship that has stood, triumphantly, the test of time. And to endure with such success, friendships need flexibility, involving at times not mere give-and-take but also a degree of selflessness. Viv decides to hold off on her own revelation while she tests the water.
Usually Jules watches her weight and rarely drinks at lunch, but today she dismisses this as too sensible and grown-up. She has a toothsome little rosé she wants her friend to try. No, not at all sweet. Dry and remarkably full-bodied. They settle on one glass. One at a time, to start with. Always a risk to be too grown-up at our age, they agree.
They will lunch under the window at a small card table spread with a cloth, circa 1950s, whose borders are hand-embroidered with sprigs of wattle. A bunch of dahlias is on the table in a vase with a kookaburra handle. Jules, who is not averse to a spot of kitsch, collects old ceramics featuring Australian flora and fauna. Mugs and plates are displayed on the dresser of Viv’s kitchen, along with other colourful items sourced from Julia’s visits home.
As they sit opposite each other, Viv sees at once that things are as she feared. Julia is convinced she’s facing down the spectre of redundancy.
The topic is not untrodden ground between them. Not by any means – Jules has incubated doomsday predictions ever since the curtain fell on her final, spine-tingling performance as the Marschallin in Der Rosenkavalier. She had made this bittersweet role her own, and she milked it for all it was worth, continuing to sing it around the world for more than twenty years.
The character is a woman in her early thirties, indulging in a doomed fling with a seventeen-year-old boy. Julia may have been legendary and one of the world’s best-loved sopranos, but audiences could only suspend their disbelief for so long. Six years ago she turned (officially, that is) sixty, and the door closed forever on what was perhaps her greatest role.
‘And now I’m on the scrap heap. It’s not even a voluntary heave-ho, Viv. Not like Geoff’s. Geoff retired at a moment of his choosing, when he’d had a gutful, didn’t he? He was fed up to the back teeth.’
She helps Viv to poached salmon from a platter, with steamed asparagus and homemade basil mayonnaise. Viv makes an appreciative noise, followed by a doubtful one. ‘But I encouraged him,’ she says.
‘Because you were thinking of what was best for him, after those colleagues fell off the twig. And what was best for your marriage. You wanted to have quality time together, before it was too late.’ Viv suppresses a negative reaction.
‘It’s not like that with me, Viv, as you well know. Performers get off on adrenaline, but Geoff’s not a show pony. People like him find stress oppressive. He always did, right?’ This is a reference to past incidents both can identify. She raises her eyebrows interrogatively.
Viv shrugs. ‘Yes, but I’m not so sure about that now, I think he actually—’ She pulls herself up. This is not the time. Julia’s slender, artistic fingers are curled round a long-stemmed glass. She holds the pale pink wine against the muted light from the window.
‘It’s not just the singing itself I’ll miss, it’s all the creative scaffolding. Costumes, fittings, make-up. The scurrilous gossip. The building blocks of every production.’
She replaces her glass so it covers a faded stain on the tablecloth, and leans forward, lowering her voice confidentially. ‘Do you know what I’ll miss most? It’s being part of an ensemble. Being an insider. And knowing that, from this time forward, I’ll be an outsider looking in. Just like everybody else.’
Viv tends to accept from Jules statements she might have trouble with if they came from other people. Usually they are seasoned with astringency. Not this time. She thinks, Jules is going through the motions of talking to me, but this is a painfully honest conversation she’s having with herself. And she’s entitled to say these words without irony; she has earned the right.
A gust of wind rattles the windows. Jules smooths her hair, an unconscious gesture. She looks at Viv through half-closed eyes. ‘To contribute to an art form that at its greatest is so life-enhancing. To be part of occasions that are so awesome, to use a much-abused word.’ The well-known voice drops. ‘That can be so goddam sublime.’
She falls silent, then remarks, ‘I’ve never, ever taken it lightly, you know. Not once. Any of it. It’s been a rare gift. I know that.’
This is what it must be like to be a priest in the confessional. ‘You’ve been blessed with a rare talent, Jules.’
‘No.’ A vehement shake of the head. ‘It’s a privilege I’ve been blessed with. But it spoils you. For the future.’
Viv watches her with a prickle of unease. Something else is coming. Julia is gazing at an enormous vase of full-blown yellow roses on the piano. Then to the right of it, a silver-framed, black-and-white photograph that always sits in the same prominent position. Jules and her brother Max when they were teenagers, posed with theatrical formality as in an old-fashioned studio shot. Jules with her dark hair in ringlets, demure in a long-sleeved dress, sitting up straight; Max in a dark suit and tie, similarly curly-haired, leaning against the armchair. His elbow bent, chin resting in his hand.
The likeness between the two serious, conspicuously beautiful children is strong, and Viv has always found the photo affecting. Jules has cupped her chin in her hand, echoing her brother’s pose. She seems to be staring at the view. A London expanse of leaden skies and wet grey roofs, glimpses of tall buildings, a church tower, the swaying tops of trees. The autumnal monochrome-inducing melancholy, Viv supposes, to someone raised in the sun. She says nothing and waits.
Jukes says conversationally, ‘Where was I? Oh yes, the sweet hereafter. The bloody afterlife. The life you have when you’re not having a life. And I’m shit-scared of it, Viv. The prospect of the afterlife scares me half to death.’
Viv can’t recall her ever making such an admission. Its weight is only imperfectly camouflaged by the throwaway manner of its delivery. Jules has rarely alluded, except in a coded, playful way, to her deepest fears or her solitary state. Viv had no notion this was coming, and she doesn’t question its significance.
Then, an abrupt change of tack. ‘I’ve been spoilt bloody rotten. You know that better than anyone. Which is why I’d do almost any damn thing rather than give up the perks of the job. I’d drone on into mewling senility, God knows.’
Viv, along with God, knows this very well. She also knows that Jules needs to go on saying it to get it off her chest, although she can’t see any possibility of that happening anytime soon. Right now she can see no solution to this predicament, which must eventually confront every great singer – and which all those on the outside have their own version of, and must face one day. Including Geoff and me, she thinks. Together, or apart.
But Jules faces specific professional issues, not to mention the personal ones. Acutely aware of the existence of these (whatever they may be) Viv murmurs, ‘Because it’s been your whole life.’
Jules looks up. ‘I can’t pretend I haven’t known the sky would fall in some day – well, you’d have to be a real dill not to know that, wouldn’t you? There’s probably not a night in the past ten years when the dread of it hasn’t crossed my mind. It’s occupied my bed like some kind of hideous incubus, Viv.’
Viv thinks it wiser not to take this too seriously. ‘There have been plenty of other less fiendish occupants. Admit it.’
A volcanic sigh. ‘I can’t let myself descend into a public embarrassment, screeching on into my dotage like some we could—’ She pauses, but chooses not to name names. ‘That really would be grotesque. No, my public has given me the order of the boot and I must grin and bear it, just like everyone else.’
Her friendship with Jules has given Viv a nodding acquaintance with the state of opera politics around the world. ‘It’s not your public’s decision, you know that very well. It’s those ageist apparatchiks, and bean-c
ounters.’
‘A bad excuse is better than none,’ Jules says lightly. ‘No, it’s the age and the voice, that’s the bugger of it. You can’t rewind either of them. Singers don’t last – unlike the fucking conductors and directors; they can go on forever. No, I’ve had a dream run and I can’t complain if oblivion’s formless ruin beckons.’
Her rich, infectious laugh rings out with apparent conviction. Vitality radiates from her, along with a certain feverishness. I know you’re sixty-nine, thinks Viv, but you don’t look it. Even without make-up and in a good light. Even in the spotlight.
She leans forward. ‘Jules, listen, you still have the voice. You know you do. There are roles. Be realistic. You can’t be sure it’s the—’
‘Vivi darling, shut up. You know the ending of the Purcell, don’t you? Dido and Aeneas. Dido’s lament?’
She gets up and goes to the piano, lifts the lid. ‘Here’s what they just heard me sing in Sydney.’
Jules rarely practises, but she keeps her piano tuned and is capable of accompanying herself in songs and arias at a basic level. She sings Dido’s brief but devastating farewell.
When I am laid, am laid in earth
may my wrongs create no trouble, no trouble in thy breast.
Remember me, remember me!
but ah, forget my fate.
Remember me! but ah – forget my fate.
The signature Julia Jefferies voice envelops the room. To Viv it is instantly recognisable, a mature soprano, lower now than in her prime. But it retains the poetic purity, the intelligence, the knockout capacity to transmit emotion that has entranced legions of fans.
When the piano lid is replaced they sit for a long, meditative moment. Viv finds she is shaken, she has tears in her eyes. She focuses, blinking, on the vase of yellow roses. There is a delicate perfume in the room. Julia’s flats are always filled with flowers, a badge of residence appearing magically the moment she flies in.
Her speaking voice, which Viv thinks has acquired more roseate notes itself over the years, breaks the silence. ‘Then Dido kicks the bucket. It’s very moving, isn’t it? Quite beautiful. A few high Gs there. Quite tricky. Remember me! I felt I was saying goodbye, Viv. And I felt the audience knew it. There was an outpouring, and then a standing O. Every night.’
Viv imagines the sold-out auditorium. The hush, followed by the ovation. The tears flowing from women and men alike. They must indeed have thought that this was Julia’s swansong. That, unannounced, she would choose the Sydney Opera House for her farewell appearances.
‘Jules. It must have been beyond draining.’
‘Too right. I was put through the wringer and hung out for all to behold.’ She leans back, using both hands to lift her hair above her ears then let it fall back, a characteristic gesture, and then in another lightning change of mood (also characteristic) she throws Viv a conspiratorial look.
‘My Aeneas was dear old Vince Farr from the olden days.’ A reminiscent laugh. ‘He proposed to me once.’
Encouraged by this less toxic topic Viv goes on to ask, ‘Did Max come? The family?’ She knows Julia is close to her brother, who is married unhappily, Jules has always said, to Patricia, a no-nonsense Englishwoman from Paignton. Jules is circumspect about family, on the whole, but she has never bothered to hide her dislike of her sister-in-law, dismissing her as prissy and suburban.
‘Yes, they came. Of course they did.’ She looks thoughtful.
Max and Patricia’s two children are married and in their thirties. The unmarried and childfree Jules is a devoted aunt and great-aunt. Viv has met them all, and most often Max, who owns art galleries in Sydney and Melbourne and who contrives to juggle his schedule in order to attend, unfailingly, Julia’s premières. Invariably on his own, as Viv recalls. She has often sat next to Max, and seen his face run with sweat from the tension of watching his sister sing. She has always thought him a strikingly attractive man, if somewhat distant.
‘He’s talking about getting divorced, at long last. He sent me those roses.’
‘Divorced? Max? But he must be, what – seventy?’
‘Mm. And it might be just talk. But you know what he’s like, overflowing with rude health. And joie de vivre, which Pat did her level best to nip in the bud.’
‘Isn’t it a bit late in the day? For something so – so dramatic?’ Viv considers the implications. ‘I mean, think about it.’ She thinks about it herself, in relation to her own situation. ‘All that shared history. The children. The companionship. All that stuff to sort out. All the spoils to divide. It would be so exhausting, apart from anything else.’
‘Oh, give me patience! Late in the day? Is that how you think of yourself – sitting in the departure lounge?’ Jules has jumped up and started to clear the table. ‘The companionship? They don’t have any companionship, they never have.’
Now she sounds positively irate, realises it, and says in an altered tone, ‘Sorry, but people can get divorced at any age. Give themselves a chance to rock before the rot really sets in.’ She has moved from irritation and impatience to lightheartedness in seconds. This is unusually mercurial, even for Jules.
‘Well, you may be right. Have they separated?’
‘I am right. No, they haven’t. Not as yet. But I think it might happen.’
‘And it would be a good thing, you think? On balance.’
‘On balance?’ Jules bristles again. ‘Of course it would be a good thing. On any reckoning.’
Viv had been thinking they might be moving towards an appropriate moment to bring up the trouble with Geoff, but decides it would be prudent to stay with her earlier decision. Jules, understandably, is in a febrile state. Another depressing topic of conversation about the consequences of ageing might be one too many.
And anyway, they will see each other again very soon. Jules is keen to see Geoff, they have taken out their diaries and made dinner and theatre plans. There are shows at the National Gallery and the Royal Academy that Viv has been saving for Julia’s arrival. Jules likes to keep up with everything when she hits town. The autumn opera season is up and running. Viv assumes she will want to keep up with that too, then wonders about it.
The light is fading fast as she leaves the flat and heads for the Tube. As she waits on the platform she goes over Geoff’s incendiary sentence once more. She will live with it for a day or two while she decides what is to be done. Something must be done, of this there is no doubt. Something radical. Preferably something that is also constructive.
She reflects on the other meaning of the word sentence: a punishment for an offence. In Geoff’s eyes I am guilty of the offence of being an older woman. But I’m a free agent. The rot has not set in, and Jules is quite right to react the way she did. I’m not parked in the departure lounge, or anywhere near it.
And as it turns out, Viv will not live with the sentence for a day or two before deciding what to do. The very next morning she will embark on a course of action that might be described as both radical and constructive. It might also be described as asking for trouble.
3
DISCRETION
Viv always did have an unpredictable streak. She would concede that in her youth this was teamed with a reckless tendency. As maturity kicked in, recklessness took a back seat. When her daughter was born it bowed out altogether and responsibility took over.
But, as she would be the first to acknowledge, the building blocks of personality never go away. They are always lurking in the background, awaiting some impetus, some provocation. And after two years of frustration, Geoff’s sentence has provoked her to the point of doing something her closest friends, even Jules, might think was outside the square. Might think was imprudent. This surprising action will happen in twenty minutes’ time, when she makes a telephone call.
Viv and Geoff are having two bathrooms renovated. While their Victorian house in West Hampstead couldn’t be called elegant, it’s a substantial four storeys and worth a great deal now. The improvements currently
underway will highlight the flaws, but Viv isn’t bothered by that. Anyway, she couldn’t see Geoff agreeing to the financial and psychological assault of anything further.
There’s been no progress today. Piotr, the young Polish plumber, is taking time off. Not that he’s unreliable; his son was born just before dawn this morning, three weeks early. When she heard this news Viv urged him stay home as long as he needed. She said this in the face of her husband’s opposition. Geoff can’t bear the mess, disruption and dust. He is fundamentally good-natured, but not as laid-back as he used to be. These days his low tolerance level often takes her by surprise.
Her face stares back from a mirror streaked with grime. She takes a flannel and scrubs at her reflection, then holds up a hand mirror to view the back of her hair, the roots, twisting under the light to get a good view. Geoff looms up behind her.
‘What on earth are you doing?’
‘I’m overdue for a hair appointment.’
I’ve let it go, it’s almost entirely grey now, she stops short of adding. Best not to bring it to his attention. He would probably say, why bother? Why not make a feminist statement and let it all grow out? Much cheaper and no hassle. He’s probably thinking: no point is there, at your age, let’s face it. Viv suspects that she is more concerned with what Geoff is probably thinking than what he’s actually saying, just now.
To embrace the grey or banish it is a long-standing topic. Viv is well acquainted with Julia’s views on the subject. Nuke the mothers, every last strand, is her advice. Jules has offered to call her personal colourist: I’m sure she’ll squeeze you in if I say the word. Just now Viv is more inclined than usual to be swayed by Julia’s views on matters of appearance, while making allowances for a degree of celebrity overkill.
Geoff says, ‘Another hair appointment? It looks perfectly all right to me.’
Viv can’t remember the date of her last visit. ‘Most women have their hair done every few weeks, Geoff. And that includes most older women.’ She doesn’t look at him as she drops this little barb, but thinks: you don’t see my hair because you don’t look at me anymore. Nor have you for two years.
The Age of Discretion Page 2
