I also adored high-end grocery stores, the kind that charged a fortune but only sold really good food. Oh, don’t go there. I was far too passionate about food.
I asked the Tarot my question.
Then I laid out the deck and cut it in half using my left hand. That was easy since I was left-handed. Was I supposed to use my right hand, then? My Tarot knowledge was totally self-taught. Learned it all online, and I probably did it wrong.
I turned over the top card on the right. Truth was, as far as I could tell, the reading would work just as well if I’d made it entirely for a left-hander, and turned over the card on the left pile instead. I duly noted my first impression when looking at the card, and said the name out loud. “The Empress.”
The meaning? I laughed cynically. Today I was meant to be the ruler of the universe, an all-powerful woman who could shape my own destiny. Right. The color of my card was blue. My eyes were blue. Not a big deal, although blue eyes were favored in the U.S., and so was blond hair. I had blond hair, too. The Empress wasn’t a blonde, but then, it was hard to tell because she wore a big crown.
Obviously, I was the Empress, and I was in control. The Empress had a lot of stars around her head. I was a genuine opera star, a diva. The real deal.
Deal. Deal with it.
The Tarot was telling me to suck it up. I was a star. I was in control of a great career and headed up, up, up. I should brush away the annoying gnat at the Times. His little piece of the media was nothing compared to my position as a world-famous soprano.
I stared at the card for a while, trying to convince myself it was proof of my ascendance over the triviality of the press coverage for the Merrill Gala. I could make myself believe that if I concentrated.
It wasn’t a very well drawn card. There was something wrong with the Empress’s foot. The illustration was awkward. Weird. I’d never noticed that before.
I put the Tarot cards back in their box, sighing. I’d had a diva breakdown earlier, and now I was ashamed of myself and hungry all over again. I so wanted Sean to like me, and now I’d spoiled it all by showing him my true colors. I was insecure and at the same time had a big ego. Diva.
Sean was getting big roles now. His career was on the rise. As a baritone, he was frequently cast as a villain. He was a lot younger than me. Six years, maybe. I met him a year ago when I went to a party he was holding to celebrate his big break of signing a contract with the National Opera of New York. When I arrived with my escort, Sean had treated me like a visiting goddess who had deigned to come to Earth. It was very flattering, but I also felt there was a spark between us.
I wanted Sean to admire me now as he’d palpably admired me then. I took this gig here in Baltimore in part because Sean was slated to be my co-star. So why had I exploded today where he could see me having a tantrum? How could I be so stupid?
I was starting to feel like eating again, despite all the calories I’d recently ingested.
When we first met, he had a girlfriend, and I was just getting over another relationship rift. Now was our chance. He was fresh and young as the opera world went. He also seemed to have it all together.
Someone tapped on my dressing room door. I called out in answer.
Sean Grant stuck his head around the door he’d only opened partway. “Want to get lunch? We’ve got an hour before the rehearsal.”
Did I? Absolutely. I stood and flashed him a big smile. “You’re on.” I grabbed my purse.
We decided to walk a few blocks to a commercial street where we found a typical city eatery, unpretentious but with good food. As I checked out the menu, I didn’t have to remind myself to eat sparingly in front of Sean. I never ate like a crazy woman in front of other people. I did my major overeating at home in private. Out in public, maybe I’d have a dessert I shouldn’t, but many people indulged in those when eating out.
My fancy latte had probably already fortified my body with enough calories to make it through rehearsal, but I ordered a burger, anyway. No fries. I ate the burger with a fork and let the bun sit there. Sean of course had a bacon cheeseburger and fries, plus a large soda and dessert. He had all those muscles to feed.
We talked about general things, like who was singing what and where. “What do you do with all the energy after a show?” he asked. “I get wired.”
“My latest thing is to go back to the hotel and use the gym. Sometimes I take walks with a group of people from the opera house.”
“I do that, too,” he said. “Plenty of times, I walk alone, but you probably aren’t comfortable doing that many places.”
I grimaced. Fact of life for a woman. “Some limited areas in European capitals. Also, Cuba, back in the day.”
“You’ve been to Cuba? I’m envious.”
“It’s easier now. I went ten years ago as part of a special cultural trip, and the place was locked down tight. Completely safe for tourists at any hour on any street.”
We talked about all the places we’d been. Sean had spent a lot of time in Prague.
“Somehow I never got to Prague,” I said. “I wonder why you’ve been there so much?”
“Worldwide shortage of baritones?” he suggested, with a twinkle in his eye.
“That might account for it.” I smiled. He was a charming fellow and he knew it. With a good voice, too. He could go far. Prague had him on the European stage as a regular and other major venues would soon offer. Tenors might be the big heroes, but baritones, with their deeper voices, were equally necessary in every opera.
Sean asked, “What have you heard about opera house accidents?”
I cocked my head at him, surprised. “Do you worry about them?”
Sean looked a little abashed. “Not exactly, although since I’m usually the villain, I’m on the receiving end of whatever pretend violence unfolds. Sometimes, a sword slips or a fist connects. I deal with it.” He shifted in his seat. “What I’m talking about is more general. For instance, a while back, the Royal Opera House at Covent Garden reported a series of disturbances. They were never solved.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Publicly. The sotto voce word was a disaffected union member was throwing things at the workers.”
“I never heard that.”
I shrugged. “Maybe you weren’t as connected then. As you get to know more and more people, you’ll hear things.”
“I look forward to the day.” His face briefly took on a serious expression.
Yeah, he was ambitious, just like the rest of us.
“Why are you concerned about accidents?” I asked.
“You have a big jump to do in Act III. Isn’t this your first Tosca? Make sure they give you good coaching and actual practice. Otherwise, you could get hurt.”
At the end of the opera, Tosca hurled herself off the parapet of the Castel Sant’Angelo to her death. I’d jump onto a trampoline-like mattress.
“I’ve been trying not to think about it.” I took a sip of water. “Actually, this opera house being so small was one reason I was willing to try out the role here. They can’t make me jump all that far down, the way they could at one of the huge barns like the Met or the Arena di Verona. Not that I plan to sing at the Arena again anytime soon. I sang there once about ten years ago, a very minor role. It was horrible. The acoustics are terrible. The crowd was terrible. The whole thing was a nightmare.”
Sean frowned a little. “They offered for two years from now. I was thinking of accepting.”
“If your agent thinks it’s a good move, sure.” I put my water glass down. “To each his own.”
“What does yours think of you doing this Tosca? Baltimore is a big step down from Covent Garden or La Scala.”
I played with the condensation on my water glass. The restaurant was wood-paneled and dark, lending intimacy to our table in a corner. “Singing Tosca here wasn’t contracted years in advance, but when it came up, I grabbed at the opportunity. A tryout in a smaller venue is easier. Starting a new role at a major worldwide opera house, with a
ll eyes on me, that’s a lot of pressure.”
Sean’s handsome face creased in a self-deprecating grin. “I have a ways to go before too much attention becomes an issue.”
He told me where he was singing next and where he hoped to sing. We usually scheduled our major commitments up to five years in advance, which was crazy since no one knew what a voice would be like in five years. Voices changed over time.
We compared notes on which fabled opera stars we’d seen perform or performed with. “Luciano Pavarotti,” I said. I took a sip of my ice water. “I actually got to be on the same stage as him once. Even at the end, when he was old and sick, he was a master of phrasing.”
“Wow,” Sean said. “That’s something. I never even saw him on live TV.”
“Not even the Three Tenors? He got super famous when he did that.”
Sean shook his head. “I wasn’t even born then. I’ve seen the videos, of course.”
Of course. Sean was a lot younger than me. I’d be thirty-five in a month. He was maybe twenty-nine. Early days for him. “You’re doing great. Debut at the Nat, and now this gig.”
“Thanks. But to get back to the danger involved in your role…”
“Do we have to?” Injuries were always a risk in the theater. Raked stages, uneven steps, bizarre prop mountains we had to climb, and more. No point freaking out over the possibility until faced with it.
He leaned forward earnestly. “I want you to take care of yourself. Make sure they put down the mattresses or the trampoline or whatever in the right place.”
A tingle went up my spine at his words. Not because I worried about my jump, but because he seemed to care that I could be injured on stage. That meant something, surely?
“Thanks for worrying about me, but I’ll be fine.” I put my hand out and touched his on the table. Wow. Sparks. I raised my eyes to his in wonder. “Maybe more than fine?” I’m not one for beating around the bush.
His eyes briefly echoed what I’d just felt, but just as quickly, he shuttered that expression. “I have a girlfriend,” he said, shrugging, “Several, in fact.” He didn’t pretend to misunderstand what I’d asked. “What I need is a friend. Will you be my friend, Abbie?”
Chapter 3
My heart sank. The friendzone speech.
I withdrew my hand. I should have known better. He might have some genuine interest in friendship, or he might be the kind of guy who denies he could ever be hot for a curvy girl. I’d met both kinds.
I’d seduced my share, too, but today I didn’t have the heart for the struggle. I didn’t want to start myself down the same old path of wanting more than a man wanted to give me. It was another aspect of my past failures that my therapist and I were working hard on.
He was waiting for my answer, looking concerned. He said, “I try to keep things light. Relationships are tough to sustain in this business.”
That gorgeous dark red hair. Those green eyes. Lips I’d like to kiss, but he wanted me to stay in the friendzone.
“Yes,” I said, on a sigh. “Friends are important in this business. Without them, we’d all die of loneliness.”
“Thanks.” His expression showed his relief. If I thought I saw a hint of regret in his eyes, I was likely fooling myself. I suppose I should have felt flattered because he’d been worried I’d get mad at him. Proof of the eminence of my career, perhaps. Or, less flattering, merely a man’s typical desire to avoid provoking an emotional scene with a woman. Suddenly I was hungry for a very sweet, large piece of cake. With frosting.
When people talked of “swallowing” their disappointment, they were talking about me. Somehow, I had to learn not to knee jerk think about food to console myself for every setback. I tried to put aside the gnawing desire to eat and lighten the conversation.
“Since we’re being candid, I need to be more of a friend to myself. I should push back when directors want me to do ridiculous things, or managers tell me there’s no dressing room available. Things like that.”
“Do you have a problem speaking up?” He seemed surprised.
“I do.” I took another boring sip of my water. “I’m by nature a people pleaser. I don’t want to make waves or start fights.”
He frowned in concentration. “I’m trying to remember a situation I’ve encountered that devolved into a fight.”
“A typical scenario is when the director doesn’t exercise a firm hand to keep another singer you have to work closely with in line.”
“Still trying to think of an incident.”
“Probably more likely for a soprano than a baritone, anyway, because we do so many duets. Haven’t you ever sung one where you and a tenor were supposed to end at the same moment, but he decided to hold his last note three seconds longer?”
Sean nodded. “Yeah, actually, it did happen in Pearl Fishers. Makes you look like you’ve run out of breath.”
“Exactly.” I rearranged my folded napkin and my fork, trying not to openly admire his regular features and green eyes. Sitting this close to him, I was very aware of his well-built body. Down, girl. It’s the friendzone for you.
I asked, “How did you keep the tenor from doing it again in the next performance, and the next?”
Sean smiled reminiscently. “First, I told the guy if he ever pulled that trick again, I’d break his jaw. Then I challenged him to arm wrestle. I beat him, three for three.”
I laughed. “That’s not quite how a girl usually handles things. But I understand how it could work beautifully. You made sure he knew you had the muscle to sock him good.”
“Yup.”
“Plus, you terrified him by threatening his face. That’s genius. We’re all sissies when anything comes close to our singing apparatus.”
Sean accepted my accolades with a slight bow. “How about you? What do you do if it’s another woman?” He seemed genuinely interested.
I grimaced. “Not enough. I’ve opened my mouth again and added to my last note sometimes. Or, the next night, I’ve held my note longer than my duet partner. I have a ton of stamina and lots and lots of breath. I can usually beat anyone at that game.”
“You do have amazing power. I’ve watched you sing. You make it seem effortless, too.”
Was that the light of professional admiration in his eyes, or something more? I beat back my hopes.
“Thanks. That’s the big trick, to make our hard work come across as if it’s sheer instinctive talent. Pavarotti had that. He was a serious artist but he made it seem as if he was just some guy off the streets of Modena who liked to belt out a tune. There’s art to that kind of performance.”
“I wish I’d seen him live. Do you think it’s all in the breath support?”
This kind of discussion could be endless. Everybody in the opera had a different opinion as to why someone had a lot of voice or not. I fiddled with my water glass, trying to resist saying that I believed my voice was exceptionally powerful because I was fat. It was tacky to bring up fat with a guy you’d like to hook up with. I shrugged.
Sean said, “Back to holding your notes longer. Does it work? Or do you have to do it again the next night?”
“It’s not ideal, but since I can hold a note far longer than most, the ones who try it usually give up. I might remonstrate with the director, though, or the maestro.”
Sean said, “Not that they care.”
“They can’t allow chaos, though. The maestro has to keep an entire orchestra moving along at the same pace, so he’s definitely not a fan of a singer holding a note longer than the score calls for.”
“Voice coaches don’t teach us how to handle personality issues. And agents are thinking bigger picture.”
I nodded my agreement. “Directors supposedly care, but they often play favorites. Maybe the director likes the tenor more than he likes me. Then every issue I bring up to the director gets resolved in the tenor’s favor. In that case, I don’t even bother, because I’d rather not have to work under an official edict to let someone screw me over
in a scene.”
He frowned. “It sounds as if you see rivalry as a serious problem.”
I grimaced. “Because it bothers me so much to speak up. My therapist says the things that irk us the most are the ones we perceive we have no power to control.”
I deliberately mentioned my therapist. A lot more people could benefit from the support of getting therapy, so I did my part to make it seem like a normal part of living to have one. Sean didn’t react with unease, which was a good sign.
Thoughtfully, he said, “I was raised in a house where plain speaking was the order of the day.” He grinned. “Threatening people works wonders. If an issue comes up in rehearsal, I’ll threaten the person then and there, making it sound like a joke, of course.”
“But meaning it?”
“Whether I mean it or not, the threat is there.” He smirked. “I’ve transferred the fear to the other person.”
I stared at him. “That is genius. I’ll have to try it. We’re always talking about breath control in rehearsal. I could easily slip in an implied threat by mentioning how long I can sustain a note. You’re very smart.”
He shrugged. “I like to keep things pleasant and low key. Save my dramatics for the role. But I’m not afraid to go one-on-one with anybody.”
Whereas I was raised to be a goody-two-shoes. Open confrontation scared me. “Girls are told to be nice at every turn. Yet I’ve met lots of girls and women who are the exact opposite of nice.”
“You don’t have to worry about that in Tosca, since you’re the only female character,” he said with a smile.
“And I’ve worked with Franco several times. We’re buddies.”
“Now you can add me to your buddy list. I want to be a good, supportive colleague.”
“That’s nice of you to say. Thank you.”
“I’m the one who is honored to be a friend, Ms. Fisher.”
“It’s Abbie. Please.” He did seem happy to be in my company, but I wanted admiration of a different sort from handsome, toothsome Sean.
I picked up the menu in a nervous gesture and then put it down on the table with a firm snap. Time to get back to the opera house and forget about personal stuff. I made motions to rise, trying to seem graceful rather than like a large beach ball. “I guess it’s back to work,” I said brightly. I reached for my check but he put a hand out to cover the piece of paper.
Friendzoned Soprano (Singers in Love Book 2) Page 2
