Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Books by Irene Vartanoff
Plus-sized soprano Abbie Fisher has a great opera career and a lousy love life. Sexy baritone Sean Grant friendzones her—dashing her hopes for a romance—as they intimately rehearse the opera Tosca in Baltimore.
But then Sean snatches kisses and flirts with her, anyway. What does he want from her? Confused by Sean’s sexy overtures, Abbie consults her trusted Tarot cards before taking a bold step that could resolve her romantic dilemma—or break her heart.
Books by Irene Vartanoff
Singers in Love Series
Haunted Tenor
Friendzoned Soprano
Defiant Diva
Selkirk Family Ranch Series
Captive of the Cattle Baron
Saving the Soldier
Cowgirl Rescue
Gothic Romance
Second Chance Reunion
Women’s Fiction
A Daughter’s a Daughter
Summer in the City
Chick Lit Superhero Action Series
Temporary Superheroine
Crisis at Comicon
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Friendzoned Soprano
Irene Vartanoff
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, organizations, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental. The opera house in which the major events of this story take place is fictitious, as is the opera company.
The uploading, scanning, and distribution of this book in any form or by any means—including but not limited to electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise—without the permission of the copyright holder is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized editions of this work, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated.
Formatting by Polgarus Studio
Copyright © 2017 Irene Vartanoff All rights reserved.
Published by Irene Vartanoff
www.irenevartanoff.com
P.O. Box 27
Gerrardstown, WV 25420
ISBN 978-0-9985269-0-4 ebook
ISBN 978-0-9985269-1-1 print
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Epilogue
A Note from the Author
Books by Irene Vartanoff
Chapter 1
“I can’t believe this!” I shrieked.
“What’s wrong?” the designer asked. We were backstage at the Baltimore Civic Opera, where she was fitting me for my costume for the production of Tosca.
“Look!” I turned my cell phone so she could see. I couldn’t stand still for an instant longer on the modeling platform. I stepped down and began pacing around the design room, fighting the itch to throw something. “How could they do this to me?”
“What’s the matter?” Sean Grant, the rising young baritone who played my nemesis in the opera we were soon to open, peered at me from around the corner on the men’s side. He wore half a Napoleonic costume with pins sticking out. With his dark red hair and green eyes, not to mention a muscular body, he looked good enough to eat.
I wanted to know Sean better, much better, but I wasn’t a pretty picture at this moment. I was a mess. Tears were already pooling in my eyes over the insulting coverage in the country’s most influential newspaper. I should rein it in if I hoped to make a decent impression on Sean. Opera singers weren’t supposed to emote over what the critics said.
“The New York Times hates me.” My tone of voice was sullen with the effort to hold back my desire to sob. “I won the Merrill Prize. Opera’s biggest award. Do I even get a mention in the lead paragraph? No.” I glared at the phone.
“Let me see,” Sean said. He spoke briefly to whoever was pinning him, and moved fully into the women’s side of the design studio. He wore the tight white pants and high shiny black boots that went with his costume. And a tight gray t-shirt that showed off some impressive muscles in his arms and chest.
I was in a muslin design foundation, basically a floor-length slip, with half a velvet bodice pinned to it. In the theater, nobody paid attention to our state of dress unless we were in a performance. I hoped. There was more to me than I wanted an attractive man like Sean to see—unless we were in a darkened room with a bed nearby.
Sean held out his hand and I reluctantly gave him the phone. Now he’d see how the music critic had shamed me. It was so unfair.
“Photo of Elena. Nice shot,” he said, scrolling down. “Juan and Bryn, looking good.” He slowed down to read the text. When he raised his eyes to me, there was sympathy in his expression. “You are listed as the winner, Ms. Fisher. They didn’t forget you.”
“Call me Abbie.” I held out my hand for the phone, wanting to throw it against something and smash it, but old habits die hard. The years of being a starving artist weren’t very far in my past. I merely locked the phone so I wouldn’t have to look at the obnoxious Times article anymore.
I said, “It’s so disappointing. Winning this award was like getting an Olympic gold, but the Times ignored me.” I tried to be a good sport in front of Sean, but I couldn’t hide my intense disappointment. My pain must have shown in my expression. My jaw ached from the pressure I exerted not to shriek again. “One stinking sentence at the very end of the article. I know why there’s no photo of me, either. It’s because the world is biased against big women—even in opera!” I wailed. I started sobbing. Omigod. Did I just say that?
Sean put his arms around me. Big, strong arms. Enveloped in his embrace, for once I felt almost petite. I rested my head against his chest and bawled.
“Aw, Ms. Fish—Abbie,” he corrected himself. “Take it easy.” Through the wetness in my eyes, I saw him cast a helpless glance at the designer. Even sensitive, artistic men hated it when women broke down. I shouldn’t have shown my insecurities in front of Sean Grant. We hardly knew each other. In barely more than two weeks, we’d have to act and sing together. I should have demonstrated professionalism. I should have been calm and cool. But I couldn’t help myself.
He patted my back awkwardly as I tried to gain control of my tears. I wiped my eyes with my forefinger, trying not to disturb my mascara. The designer motioned for Sean to go back around the divider to the men�
�s side.
Maybe I could regain my dignity. I sniffled. “Thanks. I’m okay now. It was just the shock. The disappointment.” I caught another sob before it left my throat.
“If you’re really okay…” He dropped his arms and stepped back.
I felt bereft. He was too attractive in my vulnerable state. I made a brave face and waved him back to his side of the divider, although not without regret. “Sure. Thanks.”
Once he was gone, I continued to sob, but quietly. I kept my thoughts to myself. They weren’t pretty. I had achieved a career laurel with the Merrill Prize and I knew I didn’t deserve to be slighted this way. But inside, my belittling voices kept saying that fat girls didn’t deserve to be treated well.
Wait. I wasn’t dangerously big anymore. I’d been very carefully losing weight over the past year, at an excruciatingly slow pace so I wouldn’t hurt my voice. But when things went wrong in my life, my extreme hunger rose up all over again, like right now. At this exact moment, I passionately wanted something high calorie.
I mopped my eyes with a tissue the designer handed me. The world preferred thin women. Even opera had changed to be that way. “Skinny women who can’t sing get major parts anyway and photos in the Times, and I get ignored,” I muttered. I fumed and carried on and had my tantrum, but quietly to myself.
The designer put up with me for a minute or two more. Then she said, “Now Mademoiselle Fisher, you must compose yourself. We have very little time to get you fitted.”
I heaved a big sigh. “Okay. Sorry, Madeline.” I crossed the room and climbed onto the wooden platform again so she could measure me for the hemline. While she did, I texted Ruth, the assistant the opera house had assigned to me part-time, asking her to bring me a fancy coffee. I hadn’t had one in months. This was a moment when I wanted to drown my misery in calories, not think about food addiction.
I couldn’t resist reading the New York Times article again, still hardly able to believe my eyes. The Richard Merrill Gala was the biggest opera-related event in New York City in the spring, and winning was proof that my career had more than blossomed. It wasn’t quite a lifetime achievement award, like a Kennedy Center Honor, but it was close.
Yesterday afternoon, I had been the star of the Carnegie Hall event, singing two pieces. One from Esclarmonde, which almost nobody tried to sing anymore. Joan Sutherland brought it into fashion in the 1960s, but since then there hadn’t been many sopranos with the right kind of voice for it. The other piece I sang was a tortuously difficult aria from Il Pirata, an even rarer yet famous piece the great Maria Callas was known for. I nailed them both and had the audience in ecstasies. They cheered and whistled. They yelled “Brava!” They threw me flowers and gave me a standing ovation. What more could a diva want?
Recognition by the New York Times, the most influential newspaper in the country and maybe the world. Until a year ago I was also known for being very fat. I was big and getting bigger every day. Then I had an—an incident. Scared me straight. I’d had the occasional relapse, but for an entire year now I’d been very, very careful. Today was beginning to feel like a relapse day.
Madeline held the tape measure around my waist. I actually had a waistline now. I should have been happy. But now, at this moment, I was upset and very, very hungry.
Ruth must have ESP. She brought me a heavily chocolate-laced concoction that only barely resembled coffee. I was deeply grateful. Thanks to the combination of chocolate, caffeine, and sugar, I quickly began to recover from the emotional attack. Calories were a shortcut to feeling better. Which was why they were an addiction.
I made it through the costume fitting without breaking down and crying again. I didn’t see Sean when I was done. I’d missed an opportunity to get to know him better. He’d probably left as soon as possible to avoid more of my hysterics.
I could be over the top, overly dramatic. It came with being in a highly emotional creative field. I accessed strong emotions to do my art, but that meant my emotions weren’t buttoned up and hidden away. I often was not cool and laid back. Other singers were the same, living on their emotions during a role.
All that sugar calmed me down. Although I was still upset over the professional insult, the deep hurt was fading. I was able to fake it on the way back to my dressing room. I kept a pleasant expression on my face as I encountered workers and fellow cast members.
Maybe I would have gotten over my upset completely, but I bumped into the veteran bass playing the sacristan, Yusif Chayka.
“Saw the Times article.” He shook his head, Mr. Gloom and Doom himself. “They’re never going to give you the respect you deserve.”
“Uh, thanks.”
He patted my shoulder. “Those are the breaks, kid.”
Kid?
I was thirty-four years old, in the prime of a hugely successful international opera career, not a kid. I fled to the safety of my dressing room. Once inside with the door closed, I took a deep breath. What was done was done, but I couldn’t let this happen to me without fighting back somehow.
I called my agent and started ranting the instant he answered. “Did you see how the New York Times insulted me? Even sweet, oblivious old guys like Yusif Chayka noticed how I was slighted.”
Claudio made soothing noises, but I was having none of it. “Who do I have to kiss up to at the Times so they’ll feature me in an article? They owe me. I’m the Merrill winner, not an also ran.” The tears were back, running moistly down my cheeks.
“I’ll call his boss and suggest politely that it’s time they did a feature article on you, since your career has hit this pinnacle.” He named the article’s author. “Don’t worry. He’s not their only arts writer.”
I was slightly mollified. “That’s true. Will they go for it?”
“Maybe.”
“And maybe there’s a bridge to Brooklyn you can sell me,” I replied, glum at the prospect that my honor was unlikely to be avenged anytime soon.
“I’ll come up with something. Meanwhile, you’ve got plenty of good things happening.” He listed a couple of great upcoming gigs he’d lined up for me. “Anyway, thanks to winning the Merrill, you can laugh all the way to the bank.”
“That’s true. I should look on the bright side. Now I can pay for voice lessons until I’m eighty.” I was feeling better. Maybe because of the chocolate. Maybe because somebody was attempting to bolster my always-fragile ego. “Have you heard anything about Salzburg?”
“Nothing so far.”
The prestigious Salzburg festival was the next mountain I wanted to conquer, but they were very picky. They did such modern productions that it was questionable whether someone of my girth could handle the acting demands. I might have to climb on a sink to sing. Anna Netrebko famously did, even when she was over forty. I wasn’t as daring or agile as she. I’d been fat all my life and had never chosen to humiliate myself in phys ed class by trying to do gymnastics.
Since Claudio had no good news for me regarding Salzburg, he clicked off after again promising that he’d think of a way to impress the New York Times.
I wouldn’t hold my breath waiting for the day. In the full-length mirror that took up most of one narrow wall in the dressing room, I saw a lot less of me than there was a year ago, but I was still a big girl. Very big for my average five-foot five-inch height. Perhaps I should have gastric bypass surgery. Then I’d lose weight really fast because I wouldn’t be able to eat large meals. But it was so dangerous. Not for me.
I’d been a hefty gal forever, always too fat for my own good. Ample breasts, ample hips, ample vocal cords, ample everything. Although I was proud of having lost ninety-five pounds, I still weighed in at just over two hundred pounds on a good day. On a bad day, higher. Each pound came off with aching slowness.
I wanted to throw my empty coffee cup at the mirror. But I wouldn’t, because then I’d have to clean it up. I was a diva, but not the kind who made messes and expected other people to sweep up after them. Although mopping the dregs of
a latte would be better than picking up the pieces of a broken mirror and having seven years of bad luck.
Seven more years, if I considered my personal life instead of my career. Seven years ago was when I started putting on the pounds in a big way, as my love life went to the dogs. Each time a relationship soured and ended, I gained weight. My method of coping was to eat too much and dim the pain of being in a bad relationship. Or leaving it. The guilt from gaining more weight made me feel bad about myself, which made me more of a doormat with men than ever. Now that I was on the road to recovery, I wanted to meet a man who didn’t see me as an easy way to the top, or worse, an ATM machine.
I pulled a velvet bag from my satchel. Out came my Tarot cards.
Chapter 2
Tarot cards. Did I believe in them? I was raised in a watered-down version of Christianity, but it never stuck. I didn’t know what I believed, so I used the Tarot as a proxy to spirituality and the unknown. Music called to me. So did fate. The Tarot was about fate, and chances, and opportunities. Did I take the Tarot’s predictions seriously? The Tarot was unpredictable and interesting. I felt comfortable around a questionable spiritual system that was easy to take or leave.
I cleared my deck by shuffling the cards for several minutes. I wanted a good reading. I held the deck in my hands, letting it warm up while I tried to clear my mind of the ugliness of this morning. I thought happy thoughts. Sunshine. Puppies. Fields of daisies. All things I had no interest in, but that were supposed to make people feel happy. I used to like dim bars, but I gave them up in my twenties. I have always loved brightly lit stages.
Friendzoned Soprano (Singers in Love Book 2) Page 1
