The Age of Discretion

by Virginia Duigan

  She pulls herself up, belatedly. ‘Sorry, I think I’m a bit out of sorts. It’s visiting Mum that does it, every time.’

  ‘You said she wasn’t any different from usual.’

  ‘No, she wasn’t. But how much longer can she go on like this?’

  ‘Well, let’s wait until she can’t, shall we, and then deal with it?’

  ‘Here’s another thing, Geoff. It’s well known that women raise a problem in order to talk about it. To talk it over. Whereas men just want to grab an instant solution, usually a one-size-fits-all, and then forget about it.’

  ‘So, you don’t want to find a solution to your problems, is that it?’

  ‘Not necessarily. I might just want to air the subject. Get it off my chest.’

  ‘Does it ever strike you that endlessly churning over the same thing to no useful end might be pointless? Might be just a fraction neurotic?’

  Viv jumps up from the table. ‘No it does not,’ she says hotly. ‘But your compulsion to find easy solutions to things that may not be resolvable – at least not right now in the kitchen at this very minute – does, actually, seem borderline pathological to me, if you really want to know. Sometimes that’s how it seems. As well as being pointless. And unempathetic.’

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Geoff expostulates. ‘Who was the one who just said we should wait until your mother couldn’t go on living in her damn house and then deal with the problem? Who was the one who said that?’ He scans the room with an exaggerated expression of bafflement.

  Normally this might have gone some way towards defusing the situation. But it’s not a novel ploy by any means, and sometimes – not infrequently, perhaps – it makes things worse. Viv is not disposed to laugh. She’s too worked up.

  ‘I just flounced out of the kitchen,’ she says in a rush, moments later, ‘after picking a particularly childish quarrel with Geoff.’ Then realises she’s speaking over Julia’s answering machine.

  She texts Martin Glover. Husband driving me round bend. Urgent remedy required. Please produce rabbit with utmost dispatch.

  18

  THE LAUNCH

  Julia leaves her apartment carrying a more capacious bag than usual. The designer, Marion Luce, plans a big, commanding portrait of the youthful Countess, from her days as the Venus of Moscow. The portrait will dominate the bedchamber set, and Marion asked Julia to look through old photographs for ideas. Pictures of herself as a young woman. An innocuous task on the face of it, but one that proved not quite so easy or harmless in practice.

  Last night she looked through a pile of photo albums she hadn’t touched for some years. She hesitated over them for nearly three hours, picking up, choosing, discarding. The exercise was something of an emotional battery and brought on a persistent, low-grade headache.

  This morning she went over to the piano and took down the formal portrait of herself and her brother as teenagers. One of her treasures, the idea of it going astray is anathema. On the other hand, it is unquestionably striking. Flattering too, and the art department at the Royal Opera House is meticulous in its record-keeping. In the end she decides to have it copied, and takes it in along with several others. Yesterday the ensemble gathered for a preliminary run-through with the conductor, Raymond Bayliss, and a répétiteur at the piano. No costumes, just a range of street attire in which Julia’s studiedly casual (but very well cut) black slacks and cherry silk tunic stood out. The principals were brought forward with appropriate fanfare. Gratifying fanfare in her case: a kiss from Ray and sustained applause from the ensemble.

  There were frequent stops, as Ray called a halt to adjust an inflection, emphasis or timing, but it went well. This was no surprise; no one gets to sing at one of the world’s top opera houses unless they’re already exceptional.

  Julia was surprised to see Emils slip in and sit at the back. Directors are not normally present at the conductor’s first ensemble call. She guessed that the very experienced Ray had shown unusual indulgence, as long as his young director promised to keep his mouth shut. Sure enough, Emils was silent until the very end. At which point, with Herman playing dead from his own gunshot, he was unable to contain himself.

  He thanked Ray for allowing him to gatecrash his party. Even without the orchestra, without any contribution from the director, with no costumes or special effects, choreography or lighting, the singers were – he pulled up here, and Julia for one could tell he’d loved to have used an expletive – awesome.

  Today is the director’s standalone turn, where Emils presents his concept for the production. All the principals have regrouped, together with the top brass. Show and tell for the big cheeses, Julia calls these occasions.

  Emils has shaved. He may even have washed his hair, although she wouldn’t bet on it. Unlike her, though (floaty red chiffon scarf, black forties suit) he has not dressed for the occasion. It’s the same shapeless sports coat, T-shirt and jeans. They don’t detract from his confidence or his contagious fervour. With the exception of Bridie Waterstreet, the outstanding young lyric soprano from Dublin, Julia reckons he’s the youngest person present, and one of the least experienced.

  Where grand opera is concerned, he announces, he is no minimalist. Meaning no chairs on empty stages, no modern dress, no gratuitous rapes. People have paid out top dollar to see an opera at Covent Garden and they’ll get a blockbuster.

  He strides up and down. ‘Since this is a Russian take on life, it’s all about love and other catastrophes. First performed in 1890, it covers the whole gamut – jealousy, greed, despair, suicide and murder – with multiple delusional behaviours on the side. So it couldn’t be more contemporary.’ Some laughs from the stalls.

  He shows them the designer’s models. They’re on a large scale and complete to the last detail, with stills of filmed backgrounds: moody skies and grand mansions, fireworks, the dark heaving sea. The sets are peopled with little cut-out figures. Emils moves them about as he speaks. In her mind’s eye, Julia sees a boy playing with his sister’s doll’s house.

  ‘We get Tchaikovsky’s trademark big scenes: high society taking the air before an April storm, a grand ball, the canal where the heartbroken Lisa throws herself.’ The Lisa figurine is tipped into the water.

  Lisa, granddaughter of the Countess, is the object of Herman’s desire. Bridie Waterstreet, a poised and aesthetically pleasing twenty-seven, has been gazing at Emils. Whose own eyes, Julia notes when his hair is flicked aside, are now resting on Bridie.

  Also watching Lisa is her betrothed, Prince Yeletsky, sung by a baritone representing Eton in the eclectic cast. His good looks (and receding chin) make him a credible aristocrat in Julia’s eyes. He and Bridie have already sung together once before, in Cardiff.

  Yeletsky may be an entitled nobleman, Emils says, but he’s an enlightened, new-age guy. He wants to be Lisa’s best friend. He’s everything the impoverished, wrong-side-of-the-tracks Herman is not – and he’s spurned. Looking at Bridie, Julia fears the baritone’s hopes are destined to be as unrequited as those of the Prince he plays.

  Emils surveys the company. ‘The belief in someone, or something. Know the feeling? If only we can just get our hands on that person, or that thing, everything in life will be perfect. Until fate proves otherwise, right?’ A bell sounds in Julia’s mind. High, insistent, youthful.

  He extends his arms. ‘But we’re not Russian. We don’t need to factor in fate. We can go on believing in happily ever after.’ And a second bell. Deeper, more resonant. Julia shifts in her seat. Around her, the words receive a responsive ripple.

  The onlookers have been transitioning from an initial polite detachment. By the end of the rehearsal period, Julia predicts, they will be eating out of his hand. The solid masculine hand, perhaps, that is now resting on her shoulder.

  ‘Which brings us to the foundation stone of the drama: our Countess. Whose misspent youth is wholly responsible for the darkness of the piece.’ Julia inclines her head graciously.

  ‘She is in her late
eighties.’ The note of incredulity does not go unappreciated. ‘We can best imagine her as a faded movie star. Think Sunset Boulevard with tainted glamour.’

  It is the Countess whose youthful greed set up the fate now hanging over the players. Who was told she would die when a man, driven by passion, came to demand the names of the winning cards. Who will come back from the dead as a ghost to exact her revenge.

  This is the opportunity for Emils to introduce his trump card. ‘Ghosts. They’ve always been a logistical headache in the theatre. How the hell do you deal with them? Conjuring tricks, white robes, dry ice?’ He checks out the room, to reassure himself of their attention. A redundant measure, on Julia’s reckoning.

  ‘Forget that, and bring on cutting-edge technology.’ Julia had been so intent that she hadn’t noticed some comings and goings. Technicians have contrived to beam images from one of the sets in the rehearsal room. Before their eyes, a three-dimensional church interior materialises, dressed for the Countess’s funeral. Her coffin (unoccupied today) floats on a richly decorated bier against a high wall of gothic arches, flickering candles and the shadows of choristers.

  Emils looks like the cat that got the cream, and no wonder. The effect is miraculous; there’s an audible intake of breath. And afterwards a real buzz in the room among these people who have been there and seen everything. The general feeling is that this innovation is a master stroke. The critics will go bananas. That’s if there’s any justice – which is never a given.

  Julia watches as Emils is surrounded. The PR chief has buttonholed him, the hierarchy are in tow. He looks unlikely to be surrendered anytime soon, so she goes off with other cast members. Including Bridie, whom she wishes to get to know. Lunch, in Julia’s case, will be an unappetising salad minus dressing. But the ends, as she doesn’t need to tell herself, will more than justify the means.

  Julia has recognised a quality in Emils. He is adventurous, much as she is herself. Most people, she believes, lead restricted lives, held back and intimidated by their doubts and fears. She can identify with a driven young man like him because he too is programmed to regard doubts, fears and prohibitions as invitations. As challenges to surmount. Even – perhaps – as temptations. And ultimately to find them, as she herself has in her own life, a source of fulfilment and freedom.

  An ultimate liberation hovers like a hologram in her subconscious. She avoids putting it into words, even in the privacy of her own mind.

  19

  FEELERS

  Viv and Geoff are having breakfast at the kitchen table. Viv, picking her moment, demands in a strenuously neutral voice, ‘Are you having an affair with Elizabeth? Eliza, I should say.’ Can you demand neutrally? Doubtful, just as she has doubts about her own attitude to the answer, whatever it might be.

  Geoff, who was about to eat some sugar-free muesli with fresh berries, halts the progress of the spoon in the air. ‘An affair with Eliza? Are you off your rocker? She’s younger than Daisy.’

  Keep this light and humorous. ‘So? I wouldn’t have imagined that was an impediment. More of a massive advantage, I’d have thought.’ Wrong tone. Inadvisable sarcasm.

  ‘Oh, for crying out loud.’ Geoff adds to a small heap of raisins on the edge of his bowl. ‘Do you want these?’ He can’t understand why it’s so difficult to find muesli without raisins in the supermarket.

  ‘Well, you have been seeing rather a lot of her lately. No, I don’t want them, I’m having toast. I don’t like them either, if you recall. But thanks anyway.’

  Viv reaches across him to the radio and switches on the news. They have tended to forgo the news lately, it’s too depressing with breakfast. But a spot of depressing background commentary, she thinks, can be of assistance when one wishes to maintain a cool head.

  Geoff has been helping Eliza find a new flat. An upmarket bed-sitter, or studio as they are now described. Eliza would rather not embark on another flat-sharing arrangement at her age, he has explained, and she can’t afford the rent on a one-bedroom. He’s been ferrying her around at odd times, after work and at the weekend. Some of these odd times have included evenings. So far the search has been unsuccessful.

  ‘I’m curious,’ Viv persists. ‘What is your relationship with her, exactly, if it’s not an affair? How would you describe it?’ She thinks she has been reasonably successful in achieving the desired laid-back tone. She pours water that is just off the boil over freshly ground coffee. Coffee boiled is coffee spoiled, her mother has always maintained.

  ‘How would I describe it,’ Geoff muses, hands behind his head. ‘Hmm. Is it incumbent upon me so to do?’ He has put on a pedantic, donnish air with which she has a long familiarity. He also affects it when he is parodying her mother. ‘Is this a compulsory question, or is it optional? Could it be multi-choice?’

  ‘Well, for instance, is it an inter-generational friendship? Or more of a mentoring kind of thing? Is that how you see it?’ Viv thinks she is showing admirable forbearance. She knows she has only a small window of opportunity here.

  ‘Am I allowed to have both, or would that be too greedy?’ He picks up the newspaper. They get the Telegraph and the Guardian, to do their bit in keeping print editions alive and in the interests of balance. Viv thinks balance is overrated and responsible for nothing ever being done, but Geoff is a great believer in it.

  ‘Have both by all means, I’m feeling generous. So, on the mentoring front, what about the job search? Have you had any joy finding her something at MOP?’ This is Mason Opie Pharmaceuticals, Geoff’s old firm. He gives a noncommittal grunt. ‘Or will you have to wait until somebody retires or expires?’

  He looks up from the paper. ‘No need to wait for that. They’re all young in web and IT, it’s a revolving door. Just like the job market of the sixties and seventies. Déjà vu all over again.’

  ‘How convenient. There shouldn’t be any further delay shepherding her through it, should there? If she’s as bright as you say.’

  ‘She’s bright, all right. A very smart cookie.’

  ‘Why didn’t she get that sort of job in the first place, then?’

  Insufficiently throwaway, she thinks, as this gets a no-response eyes to the ceiling. ‘I guess the door’s more locked than revolving when you don’t have access to the old boys’ network – or until you do.’ In case this sounds too pointed, she adds, ‘Or old girls’, if they have any traction.’

  He shrugs and opens the Telegraph. The window seems to have closed for the time being. Viv doesn’t know where to position her feelings at present, just as she couldn’t work out her attitude to the subject to begin with. There are too many imponderables.

  On the mantelpiece in the kitchen is a flyer for a small group show opening in a few days. Three up-and-coming young artists in a Shoreditch gallery. One is Daisy Mayberry. Is up-and-coming the same as emerging? Does Daisy qualify as a young artist anymore? Her thirty-ninth birthday is just around the corner.

  Her parents haven’t seen Daisy since the dislocating dinner. Texts between her and Viv have yielded meagre grains of information: Ade’s parnts visitng. Ok but barking! Lol xx; all fine here x; houswrmng prty 2moro; workng like crazy 4 show x. But nothing approximating the heart-to-heart her mother longs for.

  A tentative query on the houswrmng prty, which Viv immediately regretted sending, generated a longer response (small so no parents invitd sorry love you mum xoxox), which she left on her phone instead of deleting.

  I must ring her, Viv thinks, at Adrian’s house. Not at his house, their house. The number goes, predictably, to message. Daisy changes her message nearly every week; today it’s an upbeat ‘Hey it’s Daisy, can’t answer as I’m covered in wet paint, preparing for new show at Triple G.’

  Triple G is how the gallery, the Galerie Galleria Gallery, is generally known. Viv hasn’t seen much of Daisy’s most recent work. She has always thought her daughter’s meticulous oils, small portraits in jewel-like colours, are rather at odds with her personality. Her personality, li
ke her hair, being anything but miniature.

  Her hyper-realist work has been rather out on a limb, with popular taste running more to minimalist squiggles and scrawls. But it’s slowly attracting attention from the small cohort who think outside the square. Such people as Julia, who owns several pictures by her goddaughter. And in positions where they can be seen by visitors, which has led to an occasional commission and purchase.

  Viv leaves a voice message. Any chance of a chat, darling? She could meet her anytime – our hectic schedules permitting. Talk over how everything’s going. Work–life balance and the whole damn thing, and so forth. And say hi to Adrian, won’t you?

  Afterwards she wonders if this was a fraction too much. Not that Daisy would be under any misapprehensions about where she was coming from. Perhaps she should have sent love to Adrian instead of a throwaway hi. Would this be construed as a snub?

  Martin Glover has contributed a new rabbit to the stew of imponderables. He has managed to expedite things, he says, in a white-knight response to her piteous cry for help. Laurence Simon Davidson is the name in full. She might like to give him the once-over. He goes by the name of Larry. No, hang on – goes by Leary.

  ‘Why Leary and not Larry?’ Viv is feeling pettish after her scrap with Geoff.

  ‘Laurence Simon Davidson. LSD, Timothy Leary. Geddit?’ Viv nods into the phone. ‘TV director, American, fifty-four. Open as regards age, so nothing to concern you on that score. Lively, busy, interested in the arts.’ With her literary leanings they might have things in common. He’s an enthusiastic communicator. A not atypical American, in that way they have sometimes.

  ‘Which way is that?’

  ‘In that he’s not overly anal.’ Leary had told Martin he was putting everything out there. ‘He declared full disclosure. In the spirit of which, I’ll give him your pen name, shall I?’