Lyrebird

by Cecelia Ahern

  She sensed him before she smelled him, she smelled him before she saw him. She saw him before he saw her. She knew him before he knew her. He loved her before he kissed her.

  41

  The tension, adrenaline and excitement that emanates from the Slaughter House is visceral as Laura and Solomon draw closer in the SUV. There are hundreds of fans gathering outside behind barricades, waving posters, cameras in hand, singing songs of their favourite bands that have nothing to do with the talent show but everything to do with uniting these people in mutual fandom. They cheer as the SUV approaches, the sound of so many voices making Laura’s stomach flip. Solomon feels it too, and he’s not even going anywhere near the stage. He wouldn’t blame her if she took flight now. She doesn’t owe anybody this much.

  Security men in black combat gear and high-visibility vests, with walkie-talkies, line the barricades and the entrance to the Slaughter House. The media have gathered, more photographers and journalists than ever, now that it’s a global show, and they are anxiously trying to get a glimpse of who is arriving. It has become less of who will win and more will Lyrebird perform? StarrGaze aren’t stupid, they know what the public and media want and they’re not about to protect Laura now, not when she’s kept them in the dark all week about whether she would perform or not, so despite Michael’s newfound loyalty to Lyrebird, he warns them that he will open the car door that faces the media.

  When Michael gets out of the car, Laura and Solomon know they have less than a minute before everything goes insane. Solomon takes her hand and squeezes it. They are far from their bed of safety where in silence, in peace, in absolute beautiful serenity they could explore each other. An entire afternoon of touching each other in ways they had both been fantasising about for so long.

  Now they are exposed. The door slides open and their hands fall apart. Some things must be kept sacred. Laura looks out and she’s faced with flashes, a sea of cameras, faces, calls, cheers. Some boos from those who are still resentful of her night out.

  Michael nods at her supportively, he reaches his hand into the car, and she takes it. It’s large, firm, warm, strong, it has knocked the lights out of more people than she’d care to know but his touch is gentle as he guides her out. She slides across the leather seat, protecting her modesty from the cameras that aim low as she steps out of the car. She’s learned. She wears another of Solomon’s shirts, a green checked one, wrapped with a tan leather belt, tan boots with suede fringing around the ankles. She layered his shirt with her own smaller denim shirt and her arms are filled with bangles. Lyrebird-chic, as Grazia magazine has dubbed the look. The crowd yell, the media shout at her for interviews. Unsure what to do, Laura waves, smiles apologetically to the boo-ers and allows Mickey to usher her to the doors. As soon as she’s inside she’s greeted by Bianca, who’s grinning.

  ‘Welcome back,’ she says happily, without an ounce of sarcasm. ‘We’re going straight to hair and make-up. We don’t have much time – everybody has done their sound checks, they’re all dressed and made up, doing their pre-interviews and ready to go. You’re not doing a sound check, you’re on last at seven forty-five.’ She lowers her voice to an excited whisper, ‘You are going to love what they’ve done. Let’s go.’

  She starts walking and Lyrebird and Solomon follow.

  ‘Have you been on the happy pills, Bianca?’ Solomon asks, and Laura smiles.

  ‘Fuck off, Solomon,’ Bianca says.

  ‘There she is. Our girl is back.’

  Bianca struggles to keep the smile from her face. She leads them to wardrobe and when they step inside they see Bo, with a man that Laura has never met before.

  ‘Laura, Solomon,’ Bo says, a little nervously, looking from one to the other. Laura feels her face burn at the thought of what she and Solomon have done that day. Her cheeks betray her and Bo must notice, but she doesn’t say anything. ‘This is Benoît. He’s the artistic director for tonight’s final. He worked with Jack on his previous tours and Jack asked him to come back for you. He’s an absolute magician in his field,’ Bo says, barely able to contain her excitement.

  Benoît is bald, wears head-to-toe black, but the most stylish black silks and velvet that Laura has ever seen. He wears gold round glasses and is elegant in his stance and posture. When he speaks, his voice is relaxing, hypnotic, lyrical.

  ‘It is an honour to meet you, dear Lyrebird,’ Benoît says, taking Laura’s hand warmly. ‘I’m a great fan of your work. I hope you will like what we have done for you this evening.’

  ‘No trips to the woods?’ Solomon asks.

  Benoît looks insulted and also offended by the idea of repeating the semi-final disaster. ‘No, dear, this show is in the hands of the professionals. We do not have much time,’ he says eagerly.

  ‘I’m so glad you’re here!’ Caroline welcomes Laura. ‘My goodness, have we saved the best for last.’

  Laura grins, feeling so loved, so surrounded by warmth and joy. Benoît sits in the chair beside her.

  ‘Lyrebird – do you mind if I call you Lyrebird? I have known so many Lauras in my life, never a Lyrebird.’

  Laura grins. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He dips his head. ‘We have a spectacular display for you this evening. What Bo has done is mesmerising.’

  ‘What do I have to do?’

  ‘You just need to be you. No script, no horrific topless dancers dressed as bears, nothing but you and whatever you want to do.’

  Laura’s eyes widen in terror and he chuckles warmly. ‘I know, my dear, to be your true self is often the most terrifying. Tonight’ – he picks up a drawing from a sketchbook – ‘I have created a life-size birdcage. Only it is not for a bird, it is for you, dear Lyrebird. It’s polished bronze – my dear friend made it for me especially. An expensive but necessary commission, I think the producers of StarrQuest will agree. It will suspend from the stage ceiling. I had to get special reinforcements soldered to the ceiling to make sure it would hold. It will, we have tested it.’ He closes his eyes, splays his fingers. ‘Perfect. Inside it, is a swing. You will sit on the swing. There will be a screen on stage for you to look at. Do look at it. Take in the images, absorb it, observe it, do whatever you wish. On that screen will be images and you will make whatever sounds you like. It is your story, your moment. We have taken you from you over the past few weeks …’ How honourable of him to include himself in this accusation, even though he had nothing to do with the show prior to this moment. ‘And now we are giving you back to you. Express yourself as you so wish.’

  Laura looks at the simple sketch and smiles. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘On your body will be a thin bodystocking. Gold. The finest silk upon which Caroline has hand-sewn three hundred delicate crystals. Of course your modesty will be protected by this flesh-coloured shape-wear. It is beautiful, yes?’

  ‘Wow.’

  ‘See how the crystals catch the light? Caroline did that.’

  Caroline smiles excitedly and blushes.

  Laura runs her hands over the fine silk, the jewels sparkling as they move. The stocking seems so tiny, too small to fit her body. She looks at Solomon, who raises his eyebrows suggestively.

  ‘Oui, all the men will be hungry for you in this.’ Benoît smiles.

  Laura looks at Bo nervously, Solomon dips his head. Bo stands back, she looks away at the walls, at the rails of clothes, everywhere but at the two of them.

  Benoît returns to the subject of her wardrobe, his excitement evident. ‘Caroline, please reveal the final piece.’

  His eyes don’t move from Laura for one second. He drinks in her reaction, eyes gauging whether Laura likes what she’s about to see or not. She plans to pretend that she does. It’s evident that a lot of work has gone into all this, she can sense the importance of the moment for him, and she is grateful. But there is no need to act, what Caroline reveals takes her breath away. Tears immediately fill her eyes, the beauty is so great.

  Benoît is enchanted by her react
ion and gleefully claps his hands together. ‘A thing of beauty, for a thing of beauty.’

  ‘Wow,’ Solomon says.

  It’s a pair of wings, a beautiful great big pair of wings, which will be attached to Laura’s back. They shimmer with the same crystal embellishments as the bodystocking, but multiplied by thousands.

  ‘Ten thousand in total,’ Caroline whispers, as if anybody speaking at a normal level will break the fragile wings. But they don’t look fragile. They are big, and strong. The wingspan is six feet in total. They are grand, majestic, so beautiful as they sparkle in the tiny wardrobe room, Laura can only imagine how they’ll appear on stage.

  ‘Can I …?’

  ‘Of course, of course, they’re yours,’ Benoît says.

  Laura stands to touch them.

  ‘You did all this?’ she asks Caroline.

  ‘We did it together. From Benoît’s designs. It was …’ Her eyes fill. ‘Well it was exhilarating to create something so beautiful. It took me back to my college days and … well, you deserve them.’

  ‘Thank you,’ she whispers.

  As Laura takes the wings in her hands, the room is filled with the sound of a great flapping of wings, a bald eagle’s, though most there don’t know it, moving in slow motion. The sound fills the room and everybody freezes, eyes wide open. Laura thinks perhaps they’ve added the sound effects to the wings until she realises the sound is coming from herself.

  Caroline’s hand flies to her chest. ‘I told you, Benoît,’ she whispers.

  ‘My word,’ Benoît says, looking at her as though enchanted. Standing tall, back straight, he dips his head and bows as if meeting Laura for the first time. ‘Let’s get to work, Lyrebird. We have much to do.’

  ‘I got the idea for the cage from one of my favourite films, Zouzou. Do you know it?’ Benoît asks as they dress her.

  Laura shakes her head.

  He inhales through his teeth. ‘Sacrilege. But you will. Tomorrow, everyone will. In it, Josephine Baker, the first black woman to star in a major motion picture, sings for her life, sings like a bird in a cage, twittering and swinging. It is an important scene, an important film.’

  As Benoît talks, in the background Laura keeps abreast of what’s going on in the show. It has begun already. Six acts in the final. The VTs recorded earlier this week, or during the course of today by her six housemates show how important tonight is in their lives.

  ‘Now or never.’

  ‘Do or die.’

  ‘Sing for my life.’

  ‘Performance of a lifetime.’

  ‘Doing this for my children. So they will be proud of their mum.’

  Benoît tuts. ‘They will be proud anyway, but you and I know that, don’t we, Lyrebird.’

  Laura nods. He has a calming effect, an all-seeing, all-knowing soothsayer who has been here a thousand times. Nothing but his creations are a big deal. Everything will be fine. Laura feels calm.

  Alice and Brendan’s performance is flawless, heart-stopping. They’ve raised all the bars, taken major risks using fire, water, swords – everything is flying in the air. Alice looks strong and powerful, Brendan lean and mean. They work perfectly together.

  Serena the soprano receives the longest standing ovation ever in the history of the show.

  Sparks controls his shaking hands.

  The twelve-year-old gymnast tumbles, leaps and cartwheels through hoops of fire.

  Nobody puts a foot wrong. Rachel and her wife Susie arrive with their new bundle, Brennan. And Laura holds that little body in her hands and gets lost in his cries. And then, as Alan takes to the stage, walkie-talkies in the hallway followed by a knock on the door send Laura’s stomach churning. They’ve come for her, it’s time to move. She looks at Solomon and he glances awkwardly at Bo.

  ‘Oh, kiss her, for fuck’s sake!’ she snaps, deliberately turning away and looking at the wall.

  Rachel’s eyes widen, unsure of what’s happening as Solomon gives Laura a long lingering kiss. ‘Just be you,’ he whispers in her ear. ‘As much as you can be in a gold bodystocking and six-foot wings.’

  Laura snorts, then laughs and they break apart.

  ‘Charming,’ Benoît says, pretending to be unimpressed, but his twinkling mischievous eyes betraying him.

  Laura’s brought to the stage, her wings are closed down now, Benoît has told her to extend them only when she gets inside the cage, because otherwise she won’t fit through the cage door. She stands by the stage and watches Alan bring the house down. His act has been perfectly honed, appears completely effortless despite the hours she knows he has put in. It consists of Mabel telling him that she’s breaking up with him. She’s leaving him. She’s found another man. A man who makes her feel different, sound different. That man is Jack Starr. To applause, Jack takes to the stage and puts his hand inside Mabel, which is odd for Mabel as only one man has ever been inside her. As soon as she opens her mouth she sounds completely different, a deeper, ridiculous voice. It’s the second puppet that Alan was working on, the one whose facial movements he could control with a remote control. Alan fights with Mabel. She wants him back. He won’t take her back. He stands by the wings, arms folded, and they shout at each other while Jack, in the middle of them, laughs until he cries. Finally Alan agrees to take Mabel back and they’re reunited.

  The crowd loves it.

  He nails it.

  And then Alan is finished and they’re going to Laura’s VT. She hears her own voice, the real her this time, talking about a journey, how her life has changed. It’s nothing ground-breaking, but it’s her and it’s the truth. As she listens to the sound of her voice playing out to the country live, she passes Alan, who squeezes her hand and kisses her quickly on the cheek.

  ‘You can do it.’

  The cage lowers from the ceiling and though the crowd are supposed to be quiet, they can’t help but go ooh. The cage door opens and Laura steps inside. Benoît was modest. It is not a simple cage as his sketch showed, but a beautiful, elaborate piece of art, with not just bars, but bars that appear to be twisted like vines, polished bronze leaves growing from them. She sits on the swing, somebody behind her clips her into a safety harness and the cage door closes. The cage is slowly suspended in the air. Her legs and body sparkle as it is raised, all eyes are on her. She feels beautiful, she feels like she is glowing, she feels magical and vulnerable trapped in this cage, high in the air. She sits up straight, perfect posture on the swing, not knowing what’s going to happen but knowing that she must focus on the screen.

  ‘I’ve come a long way,’ she says on the screen. ‘But I’ve a distance to go. My dream? My dream is to soar happily into my future.’

  Then the lights are up, not all of them, a spotlight just on her. She turns to the screen and watches. She recognises scenes from Bo’s Toolin Twins documentary. Sweeping views from the sky over the mountains of Gougane Barra, wind farms, sheep farms. Her mountain, her home. The tips of trees. She closes her eyes briefly and breathes in. She almost feels like she’s at home. She imagines her morning walks, foraging, stretching her legs, exercising, exploring. The sounds of her feet on the soft earth, the rain on the leaves, the four seasons of living with nature. The birds, angry, content, fighting, building, hungry chicks. The distant sounds of tractors, of chainsaws, of vehicles.

  Her cottage. Home. She thinks of the water boiling over the fire, the fire crackling on winter evenings when it gets dark so fast she can’t go anywhere after three p.m. Onions frying, the smell that fills the room, onions from her own garden. The cockerel that wakes her up, her two chickens who provide her eggs every morning, the crack of eggs against the frying pan, the sound of them oozing on to the heat, her goat who gave her milk. The sound of a stormy night, the wind howling through the shed. Mossie’s snoring, the owls, the bats.

  Then an image of her home with Gaga and Mam. The studio. Jazz, a record player, the sewing machine, the hot iron, the sudden sound of the steam, scissors cutting through fabric, scissor
s landing on the other tools as they’re thrown down.

  A photograph of Mam and Gaga. The clink of glasses, the giggles and laughter of two women who adored one another, lived for one another, only had each other, only wanted each other and then opened their hearts for another.

  The Slaughter House. Laura’s first performance. Jack, chewing his gum, lights, camera, action, the applause of a crowd. The countdown, the security walkie-talkies. Laura’s infamous night out. Photos in the press. Flashes, name-calling, heckling, the girl in the toilet who wouldn’t help, who wanted the selfie, the high heels on the floor, the bang of the toilet doors, the lock, the flush, the roar of the hand-driers. Glass smashing, flashes, press yelling, everyone calling her name, blurred faces and blurred sounds. The confusion, head down a toilet, echoing, vomiting. Are you okay? The embarrassment, help help, nobody will help.

  All the noise of Dublin city. Too many sounds, she can barely keep up with everything she hears in her ears. Ambulances, sirens, cappuccino machines, ATM cards, phones ringing, messages beeping, cash registers, video games, the hiss of buses breaking, all the new sounds.

  The police station. A photo of Laura leaving, trying to cover her face.

  ‘Are you okay?’ She hears the sound of the kind garda.

  Then suddenly the video ends and she sees herself. She is watching herself on the screen, a birdlike woman, sparkling under the lights. The journey brings her to now.

  What sound does she make for now? For the end of her journey. She is silent.

  After all of Benoît’s work she has forgotten the wings, she was supposed to extend the wings. Panicking she pulls the string and they extend. They fan open and they are so strong they almost lift her off the swing.

  The audience gasp. She looks at them, as they examine her.