Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  ‘I’d love to perhaps base myself in New York for a while,’ I said on the spur of the moment, then realised that I had overstepped the mark when I saw the panic in his eyes. I should, I realised, have been far cooler. ‘Perhaps for a couple of months,’ I added quickly. ‘My dad lives in Queens, and I haven’t been in touch with this side of my heritage for years. You know, I lived here for a while as a teenager?’ His relief was audible, in the guise of a contented sigh.

  I asked Alexis about himself. Thus, I now know that he is a bachelor who takes ‘dating’ profoundly seriously, who has nothing but disdain for The Rules but appreciates it when a woman lets him know in advance that she is following them. The way he spoke about single life in New York disheartened me. I am single in New York, and while I heard about The Rules when the book came out, I never imagined the day would come when I would find myself in a position where I might have to follow them. If I met someone I liked out here, I would want to go out with them, a course of action which is, apparently, fraught with issues of etiquette. By the time I staggered back to the hotel, I was heavy with exhaustion and wine, and grateful that I wasn’t expected to have a pudding because I knew that if I’d had to stay in the restaurant for thirty more seconds I would have collapsed, asleep, my head in the dregs of my organic mint infusion. But I knew I had risen to the occasion and done what was expected of me. It is almost more important for me to bond with Alexis than it is for me to play well today. It is vital that I do both; and so far, I am succeeding. I am getting through on terror and adrenalin.

  They are impressed by me. I perform better than usual because I know I look good. Playing is bliss. I am alone in the recording booth, while about twenty people watch from the edit suite. While I am playing, it’s just me and the music. This is a craft as much as it is an art. In my case, it’s also a trade. I am so lucky, I think, as I ascend the A string to the high B, and make the note louder as I play it, to be able to do this - to have something like this which makes everything I was worrying about yesterday irrelevant. Everything else vanishes for a moment. I use the optimum amount of vibrato, and pause on the high B before descending back down the string. I pass into my own world, and am shocked when, as my last note dies away, a voice comes through the loudspeaker.

  ‘Evie, sweetheart, that was great!’ says Roger. ‘As ever!’

  I switch on the charm. ‘Thanks,’ I tell him. ‘As ever!’

  ‘Again, not your fault. Ours. One more time, OK? When you’re ready.’

  On the next attempt, my intonation is off on the high notes, and I stop. Fourth time I am holding off a cough all the way through, but succumb to it slightly too soon after I finish. Fifth time round they have a hitch again. Sixth time, miraculously, everyone is happy. I am sad that it’s over. It’s only two p.m. I love it when it’s just me and the music. When I get home, I vow that practice won’t be a chore any more. It will be my escape. That’s the way it should be, and I’ve lost sight of that over the years.

  I have a fashionably sparse late lunch with Alexis, who announces that ‘Evie and I have to talk business, guys!’ Because he’s there, I remember to treat my body as a temple, and order grilled chicken and salad. I even send away the fries that come with it, although I promise myself that I will order some on room service this afternoon, and hope that Alexis won’t see the itemised bill.

  Alexis, who is a collage of shiny teeth and overstyled hair, nods knowingly.

  ‘Atkins?’ he asks. I realise, belatedly, what he means, and am about to shake my head when I realise that this man will be selling me to America, and instead I nod enthusiastically.

  ‘It really works, don’t you think?’ I ask him, knowing that this is what one says about the Atkins diet. ‘Refreshing to find one that does.’

  His teeth glint at me. ‘Oh, I should say so. If Jennifer Aniston wasn’t already a good enough advert, we now have Evie Silverman! Actually, you’ve hit on another of my favourite subjects here, because a lot of people think Atkins is bad for the cholesterol and kidneys and so on, but in fact it’s very healthy for your body to burn off the fat as you eat it. It’s called ketosis and it makes sense.’ He looks at me and laughs. ‘I’m preaching to the converted. May I show you any sights this afternoon, Evie?’

  I yawn. I can’t face sightseeing.

  ‘Alexis?’ I say meekly. ‘I’m sorry to be so boring. But I’m jet-lagged and also a bit knackered from this morning, and I know we’ve got an early start tomorrow. Would you mind if I went back to the hotel and slept for a while when we’re done here?’

  He pats my shoulder. ‘Professional to the last. Anything you want, get it on room service. We’ll pick it up for you. But, Evie? Knackered? I’m not familiar with knackered?’

  ‘It just means very tired. Thanks, Alexis. But first, I think we have to talk business?’

  ‘Right, Evie. Let’s talk about you.’ He takes a notebook and fountain pen out of his briefcase and lays them next to his plate. He consults a tightly hand-written list which I fail to read upside down. ‘Evie. I’m hoping this ad will take off. I’m thinking we’re going to make as much noise as we can about your album. Get you everywhere. Get you noticed. Marketing are doing a fabulous job already - you’ll be in carefully targeted magazines and on billboards. Elle want to talk to you, which is just great.’ I nod, trying hard to concentrate. He talks for a while.

  ‘Do you have any traumas in your past?’ he asks conversationally at one point, pen poised.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Anything that Oprah would go for? Courageous Evie? You know, abuse as a child, death of a loved one, that kind of thing?’

  He looks up expectantly. I hesitate. He would be ecstatic if I told him about my teenage pregnancy, and for a moment I almost do, because I am so eager to please him.

  ‘My parents split up when I was two,’ I offer, lamely, instead. ‘But it would be more unusual these days if they hadn’t.’

  ‘Mmm. Anything interesting? Gay dad in Queens, maybe?’

  ‘No. He’s married again now. So’s my mum. They’re both happy.’

  ‘Right. I’m so happy for them, but it’s hardly Oprah material, I’m afraid.’

  I look at the table. ‘Sorry.’

  He gets more and more ambitious in his proposals, which culminate in a daydream that the advert might get the whole country talking about this ethereal cellist all dressed in white, at which point Alexis will book me on to the Letterman show.

  ‘All from a TV advertisement for iced tea?’ I ask dubiously.

  ‘Stranger things have happened,’ he smiles. ‘Now, to this evening. We’re going to meet some people, you and me. The great thing with you, Evie, is I don’t need to coach you.’ He smiles appraisingly and goes on to do just that. ‘Be yourself,’ he says earnestly. ‘Be sparky. Look stunning - I know, hard for you to do otherwise! Wear great shoes. Everyone in this city adores girls in great shoes. Do you have a fabulous dress with you? You have to stand out in a room. Think SJP.’

  I nod, relieved that I do, at least, know who SJP is. ‘I did bring a couple of dresses, yes, just in case.’

  ‘The girl’s a professional!’

  My heart is sinking. This is the kind of stuff I love in London, and suddenly, in New York, I don’t want to do it. I don’t want to go to a party and meet these people, whoever they may be. Kate has just had her eggs extracted. She and Ian are coming to town tonight, to see me. I had planned to take them both to a diner where we could all have eaten large platefuls of unsophisticated food, drunk beer from the bottle, and saved some space for pudding. Now I’ll be forced to nibble on sashimi and drink half a glass of white wine and a litre of mineral water, and my face will ache from the insincere smiling.

  ‘Alexis, tonight will be wonderful,’ I tell him, meaning the exact opposite, ‘but could you tell me where we’re going? I have some friends from home who have been staying upstate, and they’re in town tonight. Is it a party - could they come with us? - or shall I postpone seeing them?’
I tilt my head to one side and look at him with a winsome quizzical look.

  ‘Hey,’ he says, all teeth and hair. ‘Any friend of yours, Evie, is more than welcome. This is your party - you call the shots!’

  It turns out that it really is my party. Alexis is the host and I am, essentially, the hostess. Kate, Ian and I have fortified ourselves at the hotel bar beforehand, and without two large vodka and tonics I would be lost. I nearly didn’t bring my red Versace dress, on the grounds that it was over the top, but I’m glad I did. I spent all my scheduled nap and chips time shopping for a pair of strappy heels to go with it. I did manage to clear a window for a huge, greasy pizza slice which I crammed into my mouth as I walked. I may as well make the most of being a nonentity here while it lasts.

  ‘How are you doing?’ Kate asks, when we’re in the cab.

  ‘Fuck,’ I tell her. ‘Fucking terrible. I want to be anywhere but here, anywhere but a party. I haven’t had a minute to myself. I wanted to slob out with you two tonight, not dress up like some high-class hooker. I’m still jet-lagged and that’s the least of it.’

  Ian looks at me, curious. ‘What’s the most of it?’

  ‘Oh, nothing. Nothing compared to all this life-changing stuff you two are going through. I’m so glad it’s going well so far.’ I’m sitting between them, so I squeeze both of their hands. ‘You must be more knackered than me.’

  Kate smiles. ‘I’m just glad that part of it’s over, to be honest. It wasn’t much fun, having a scanner up my fanny, and a needle taking out my eggs. And I’m going to be on tenterhooks waiting to hear what Ron reckons about the egg quality. But it wasn’t as painful this time as it has been before. And he got twelve, which is way more than last time. Did you know, Ron’s giving us a discount if we donate a couple of embryos for another couple to use, as long as the eggs and sperm are high enough quality? Which they might or might not be. But we’ve already talked about it so much, you must be bored stupid.’ She looks at me shrewdly. ‘Evie, you’re really down, aren’t you? I know you don’t have the choice, but you really shouldn’t be charging around like this. It worries me when you’re hyper. You are going to get the chance to slow down after the filming, aren’t you?’

  I shrug. ‘Yes? I hope so. God knows what new surprises Alexis has in store for me. They booked me into the hotel till the day after tomorrow, so I guess there’ll be nothing after that. Then I’m going to stay with Howard for a couple of days.’

  ‘Your dad!’ Kate laughs. ‘God, I’ve only met him once, Evie, and that was at your wedding.’

  Ian joins in. ‘Me too. Seemed like a nice bloke.’

  ‘He is. He’s great. And even though I haven’t seen him that much in the past fifteen years—’ I hurriedly correct myself. Kate and Ian have no idea that anything significant happened fifteen years ago. ‘Twenty-nine years, rather, he’s always been on the end of a phone or email. It’ll be great to see him. A bit strange, maybe. It’s been a long time since I last came to stay with him. He’s not exactly a father figure, but he is a mate. You know he’s an alcoholic?’

  Kate nods.

  ‘Reformed?’ checks Ian, a little nervously. I smile.

  ‘As reformed and presentable as can be.’

  As we pull up outside the venue, I sit in the back of the cab and take some deep breaths. Then I check my lipstick, repin part of my hair, and attach a smile to my face.

  ‘Ready for this?’ I ask them, wondering how much of my exhaustion is visible in my eyes.

  Kate rolls her eyes. She is wearing my spare evening dress, which is grey silk, and she looks lovely.

  ‘I don’t know how you do it,’ she says.

  ‘Neither do I,’ I tell her.

  My party is in the back room of a beautiful bar in the Village. The room has a remarkable glass ceiling, and a fountain in the centre. I spend three hours playing at being the next big thing. This is, in fact, what they are calling my album. Evie Silverman: The Next Big Thing. It makes me slightly uneasy that a recording of cello works is so blatantly about the artiste, and not the music.

  ‘We have to,’ Alexis explained, as if to an idiot, ‘because no one buys classical otherwise. You have to have a personality. Classical is a small department for this label - otherwise we’d have gone under many years ago - and when we need to make a splash, it has to be personality-based. Otherwise there’s no interest whatsoever. Zip. If we called your album Bach Solo Suites and Other Cello Classics we might as well melt the CDs down and remould them into earrings before they reach the shops.’ He grinned dazzlingly. This is the world I move in. I have always known it, but it has never been spelt out to me so blatantly before. ‘Your next release,’ he added, casually, ‘will be pop-classical hybrid, which will be much more marketable.’

  I meet lots of people from the label. From the way Alexis grips my shoulder and pushes me into the centre of a group of them, I gather that marketing are the most important. I also meet a few journalists, mainly from classical music magazines, and therefore, I gather from their and Alexis’s demeanour, they should consider themselves blessed to be at so glamorous a gathering. The president of the label, a terrifying woman in her early thirties called Mary O’Rourke, stands up and tells everyone in a New York tone that brooks no disagreement how wonderful I am - what a beautiful musician and how inspiring a human being. I exchanged a few insincere words with her, half an hour ago, and that is the sum of our interaction. She is wearing a cream suit with a skirt so short it barely exists, and her tiny, toned legs speak of many, many hours spent in the gym.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ she concludes, ‘the woman herself. Evie Silverman: The Next Big Thing!’

  Everyone applauds. I was half expecting this, so have rationed my champagne intake. I swap places with Mary, giving her a wide smile and wondering how she got so far, so young.

  ‘Hi!’ I say, looking round. I have done enough of these occasions, now, to know how to play it, so I go through the motions. ‘I just want to thank you all. I can’t get over this wonderful party, put on just for me. I feel so lucky, so blessed . . .’ I am the wide-eyed innocent. It’s the persona that people seem to like best at these occasions, when they are generally well disposed towards me anyway. I carefully name-check everyone from Alexis to Mary to Roger the sound engineer. ‘And now,’ I finish, ‘I’m going to have to go back to my hotel for some much-needed beauty sleep, in advance of tomorrow’s filming. I hope you will all excuse me. Thank you so much for coming, and good night.’

  Alexis told me to leave early. He said it would impress them and leave them wanting more. I collect Kate and Ian, and rush outside before anyone can offer me a limo. I step into the Manhattan street, which is full of groups of noisy, well-dressed people, and jump into a cab as it is vacated by three beautiful transvestites.

  chapter ten

  A week later

  I used to sleep well. It took me a while, after the Caesarean and its fall-out, to get back into my old pattern of eight hours’ oblivion, but once I did, I have barely deviated from it. A particularly heavy evening can see me awake and thirsty at four in the morning, but I always drop off again easily, and sleep later in the morning to compensate.

  After I’d faced the truth about my baby, I used to lie awake until I started to hear people going to work - the roars of car engines, the slamming of doors, the fast clicking of heels along the pavement. Then I would sleep for an hour or so. After the operation, I only slept under sedation for several months. Now I can feel the horrible insomnia returning.

  Howard’s study is not a bad place to be awake in the dark. The walls are lined with shelves of books. I can switch on a desk light and disturb nobody. My bed is a mattress on the floor, but it is a comfortable mattress, covered with a thick duvet and a multitude of pillows. I get out of bed, switch on the computer, and decide to see whether I can check my emails from here. Scrolling through spam mail offering Viagra and pornography has to be better than tossing, turning, and trying to think of anything other tha
n the baby. The computer lights up the room with a sickly glow.

  I never get emails. The last person I expected to hear from by this method was Megan. She doesn’t even have a computer. She must have gone to considerable trouble to send it. I didn’t even know that she knew my email address. Still, I am delighted to allow her to distract me from the night-time terrors.

  As I wait for the contents to arrive on the screen, I am suddenly afraid. I left her in the flat, with those letters arriving thick and fast, and I gave her no inkling that it was happening. She might be writing because the stalker broke in. Perhaps, in my absence, he attacked her. Raped her. She didn’t even know she had to double-lock the door and put the chain on every night. I am a terrible human being.

  Darling Evie, she writes. How are you getting on in the Big Apple? I can imagine you there, now, the Queen of New York. Entrancing everyone with your glorious music. It has rained constantly since you left, which has been good for the window boxes, but otherwise dreary.

  All is going well between Guy and me. He suggested I write you this email, because he has been asking many questions about you, Kate and Ian, and I have been unable to answer any of them. All answers gratefully received to spice up the pillow talk! Have you made the advert yet? Are you with Kate and Ian? How did they get on with their fertility doctor? Do you have any idea when you will be back? The flat feels strangely empty without you. I call it strange because I never felt like this after Andrea left.

  Apparently you should speak to your mother. Guy says you never tell her about the details of your glamorous career. Now, I have heard you on the phone to her and I know this isn’t true, but Guy seems to feel he needs all the information he can gather about you so he can ‘reassure Anna’. He is a law unto himself, my boyfriend.