The Curtain Rises

by Mary Burchell

  'Most certainly.' Dermot Deane, who wore the satisfied air of a man responsible for a near-miracle, came forward immediately.

  'There will be eight or ten of us, I suppose. Nicola, you had better go on ahead and see that everything is in order. You can take the car—No, you can't, of course. I shall need that. Let me see—'

  'Suppose I take Nicola,' suggested the conductor coolly. 'I have my car here.'

  'It's not very kind to tear you away from your fans,' Torelli said doubtfully.

  'My dear Madame! The fans are waiting for one person only tonight,' Julian assured her with a smile.

  'Nonsense. London doesn't discover a new conductor of quality every night,' retorted Torelli graciously. 'Well, take Nicola with you, then. We shan't be long.'

  'I could have a taxi,' Nicola began mutinously.

  'There is no need,' said the quiet, authoritative voice beside her. 'This way—' and once more he shepherded her through the crowd and along the passage to the stage door.

  Here the unprivileged general public were waiting, and it seemed Torelli had been right, for there was actually a cheer raised as Julian appeared in the doorway, and a forest of fluttering programmes waved in mute request for autographs.

  'Do you mind?' he said to Nicola, and stood there smiling a little and good-humouredly signing pro­grammes.

  'Please—' an eager admirer leaned over and thrust a programme at Nicola—'would you ask your husband to sign mine? I can't reach.'

  'I'm not her husband,' observed Julian Evett without looking up, 'but I'll certainly sign your programme for the kind thought.'

  There was a little burst of laughter, for a joke at the stage door is always acceptable, and Nicola silently handed the programme to him. As she passed it back again, she saw he had written on it, 'Thanks—Julian Evett.' And only with the greatest difficulty did she contain her indignation.

  'Was that necessary?' she asked coldly when at last they got free of the crowd and he was unlocking the door of his car.

  'Was what necessary? The pause for the autographs?'

  'No, of course not. That was routine. I meant—what you put on that woman's programme.'

  'Oh—' he laughed slightly as he leant over to open the door for her—'it pleased her, I suppose.' Then as Nicola remained silent, he added musingly, 'It pleased me too, come to that.'

  'Why?'

  'Oh, I don't know, Nicola. One feels gay and silly after an evening like this. It's natural to exchange a little non­sense with one's admirers at the stage door.'

  She choked and could say nothing. For suddenly she remembered with terrible poignancy how Brian and she used to be 'gay and silly' after a concert, and because they would never, never, never do it again the ache in her heart was almost unbearable.

  'What is it?' he asked at last as the silence lengthened.

  'I was thinking of Brian.'

  'God in heaven, do you have to throw that up at me every time?' he exclaimed violently, and started the car.

  She had not really meant it as a reproach to him. She had just said exactly what was in her unhappy thoughts. And now, to her dismay, she found she could not hold back the tears. They silently overflowed and trickled down her cheeks.

  It was some minutes before he glanced at her in the passing lamplight and saw what was happening. And, with a curiously helpless note in his voice, he said,

  'Oh, lord, I'm sorry! I shouldn't have shouted at you.'

  'And I shouldn't have spoiled your evening of triumph,' she replied before she could stop herself.

  But then she hardened her heart. For since he had insisted on driving her to the hotel against her wishes, he should not have it all his own way.

  'And now,' she said levelly, 'perhaps you will tell me why you are carrying my photograph around in your wallet.'

  CHAPTER THREE

  For almost half a minute there was silence in the car.

  Then Julian Evett said coldly, 'I told you, you were mistaken about that photograph.'

  'And I tell you that I don't believe you,' Nicola re­torted. 'No one can be mistaken about a familiar photo­graph of herself. Is that the copy I gave Brian?'

  Again the silence. And then he said, 'Yes.'

  'Then why have you, of all people, got it?' The scorn­ful emphasis of that would have made the most insensitive person flinch, and she saw his hands tighten on the steering wheel.

  Brian asked me to take charge of his more personal things and bring them home to England,' he said in an expressionless tone. 'There were few enough of them. I took them to his married brother in Shropshire. You probably know of him.'

  'Brian told me about him—yes. But that doesn't explain—the photograph.'

  'The photograph,' he said calmly, 'I kept myself.'

  'But why?' She controlled her flaming anger with the greatest difficulty. 'We're back at the beginning. Why should you have it?'

  'I suppose, Nicola, because I was the person to whom Brian had talked most about you. I don't think the brother even knew of your existence, certainly not of your significance in Brian's life. I think my first instinct was to find you. I wanted to—talk to you about him—and what happened.'

  'Well, you found me,' she said stonily, 'and you talked to me about Brian. And it didn't work out quite as you intended, did it?' He was silent. 'So now you can give me back my photograph.'

  'No,' he said, coolly and distinctly.

  'What did you say?' She was incredulous.

  'You heard me.'

  'But it's preposterous!' She was shaken to the core by this extraordinary reaction of his. 'You're the last person I would wish to have a photograph of mine. You must give it back. It belongs to me.'

  'No. It belonged to Brian. He, if you like, consigned it to my care. The only person with a claim to his personal belongings was his brother and—I've told you—the photograph has neither value nor significance to him.'

  'Nor to you either, I imagine?' she laughed furiously. And then, as he made no reply, bewilderment added an edge to her already angry tone. 'Will you answer me, please? That was a question.'

  'I am not forced to answer any question of yours,' he told her coolly. 'And here we are.' He drew the car to a standstill in the great forecourt of the Gloria Hotel.

  'I insist!'

  'You can't, my dear. Short of making a scene in a very public place, which would be unseemly in Madame Torelli's secretary.'

  Then, as the doorman opened the door with a flourish, he added pleasantly, 'If you'll go on in, Nicola, I'll drive on a few yards and park the car. I'll be with you in two or three minutes.'

  Silent and furious, Nicola got out of the car and went into the hotel. She was so shaken that she hardly remem­bered why she was here or what she had to do next, and he rejoined her before she had more than partially recovered herself.

  He looked completely calm. But Nicola, who was begin­ning to know him by now, guessed that the air of nervous tension about him had nothing to do with the strain of the performance. He had been completely relaxed in Torelli's dressing-room once the concert was over. It was the conversation in the car which had started that slight pulse beating in his cheek.

  But before she could even think of re-opening the subject, a lovely, fair-haired girl in a pastel mink jacket rushed up to Nicola's companion and embraced him.

  'Julian, you were wonderful! Oh, I wish Oscar could have heard you. He would have been proud of you.'

  'Why, Anthea!' To Nicola's astonishment, he returned the girl's kiss with uninhibited pleasure. 'Were you there tonight?'

  'Of course! I couldn't be with Oscar in Buenos Aires because of my own performances at the Garden. So naturally I came instead to hear my second favourite conductor.'

  'Why didn't you come round to see me, then?'

  'And court a snub from La Torelli? Oh, no, my dear. She doesn't detest me as Perini does. But I'm still a bit afraid of any established prima donna. They can none of them forgive me for being Oscar's wife.'

  He l
aughed and said, 'I think Torelli might. And here is her secretary to confirm that.'

  'Oh, I'm so sorry! How rude of me.' With a dazzling smile, the girl turned to take Nicola's hand. 'Forgive my rushing in like this. But Julian is a family friend and my husband thinks the world of him. I'm Anthea Warrender, the wife of the conductor.'

  'You're also a very fine singer in your own right, aren't you?' replied Nicola, unable to resist the warmth and radiance which flowed from this smiling girl.

  'There are times when I dare to hope so.' Anthea Warrender laughed. 'But, as I said, I'm a little afraid of the really great singers still. I adored Torelli tonight! And I mean that. I'm a star-gazer by temperament and, though I love being a performer, I'm dedicated audience too.'

  'That's what makes you unique.' Julian Evett's smile was indulgent. 'You have star-quality and yet you're a star-gazer.'

  'Oh, Julian, what a nice way to put it!'

  'Not original, I'm afraid. It was Oscar who said it of you first.'

  'Was it really? How darling of him.—I have the nicest husband in the world,' she explained to Nicola in parenthesis.

  'I'm glad,' said Nicola, and laughed. But she looked with interest at the girl who could naïvely apply this description to Oscar Warrender, usually regarded as the most tyrannical creature in the musical world. Then she recalled her social duties and said, 'Please excuse me. I have to see that Madame Torelli's table is ready for her party.'

  'Shall I come too?' Julian offered.

  'It isn't necessary,' Nicola said coldly. And she went away, unaware how strange the inexpressible chill in her tone must sound to anyone as perceptive as Anthea Warrender.

  'Doesn't she like you?' asked Anthea, looking after Nicola. And when he shook his head she added, in a rather shocked tone, 'But, Julian, why not?'

  'Not everybody does, you know,' he replied lightly. 'No successful conductor can expect to be universally loved. Hasn't Warrender told you that?'

  'Yes, of course. But she's not an aspiring singer, is she?'

  Again he shook his head. And Anthea looked at him curiously and said, 'You—mind, don't you?'

  'That some people don't like me?'

  'No. That she doesn't like you.' Then as there was no reply, 'Sorry! It wasn't my business, was it?'

  'Not really.' He smiled at her in a way that took the sting out of that. 'Now tell me how things are going at the Garden. I couldn't get to your first performance because of my own rehearsals.' And she allowed him to change the subject.

  Nicola, still shaken by the varied emotions of the even­ing, went in search of the head waiter who, at the name of Torelli, immediately proceeded to spread a golden haze of attentive respect over all the arrangements.

  It seemed also that the grapevine had already received news of the evening's success, for he murmured, as though Nicola and he were fellow-conspirators, 'A triumph to­night, I understand.'

  'Yes, it was,' Nicola smiled. 'How did you know?'

  'One learns these things. I hope Madame will like the table. It is her usual one.'

  It was, Nicola could not help thinking, a typical Torelli placing. Sufficiently screened for semi-privacy if desired, but with a few seats in full view of the rest of the restaurant should the star of the evening so wish to gratify her public. The floral decorations consisted entirely of roses, of the most sumptuous and triumphant crimson. The atmosphere of festivity and conquest was inescap­able and rather heady.

  'It looks lovely,' Nicola said sincerely. And at that moment Torelli and her party swept into the restaurant, to the sound of discreet but heartfelt applause from several tables.

  She had caught up Julian Evett again in her trium­phal progress and, rather to Nicola's surprise, Anthea Warrender too. No hint of weariness or strain clouded the splendid impression of strength and energy which glowed from her. The evening was hers and she was, Nicola saw, enjoying every moment of it. She took the head waiter in her stride, giving him her hand as though she expected it to be kissed—which it was—and addressing him in French with the good-humoured familiarity of an old friend.

  'How many years, Alphonse, since you first arranged a supper party for me?—and still you remember my red roses!'

  Alphonse said gallantly that it was easy to see that years meant nothing where Madame was concerned.

  'Nonsense!' retorted Torelli, who was a realist in these matters. But then she smiled upon him and permitted him to usher her to the head of her table, after which he skil­fully helped to install the guests in the places and order indicated by her.

  Julian Evett was put next to her and, to Nicola's secret chagrin, she was firmly placed on the other side of him.

  'Anthea dear, sit where I can see you! That's right—the fourth seat down.' And Torelli, smiling graciously, indicated a seat within speaking distance but not quite within the magic circle. She would not have attempted to do that if Anthea's husband had been present. But since he was not, it was a chance to indicate to the gifted but youthful soprano that she had not entirely 'arrived'.

  'And when you write to Oscar,' she went on, still graciously, 'tell him he is forgiven for deserting me at my first concert since in his absence I discovered the excellence of Julian here.'

  'I will.' Anthea smiled a little shyly in return. 'Though he was truly sorry not to be conducting for you himself tonight, Madame. If it had not been the opening of the season in Buenos Aires—'

  'Yes, I know.' Torelli brushed that aside. Then she added indulgently, 'Well, I daresay Perini needed him more. There comes an age, alas, when one is rather cruelly dependent on one's conductor.'

  And having thus reduced her greatest rival to the status of an ageing has-been, she attacked her supper with immense gusto.

  To Nicola the scene would, in the ordinary way, have been both amusing and fascinating. Like Anthea, she was an unashamed star-gazer, and to be included in the Torelli supper-party was the height of distinction on this occasion. But with Julian Evett at her side she could not banish the earlier encounter entirely from her mind.

  She was bewildered and disturbed by his extraordinary determination not to give up her photograph, and she asked herself if he had some obscure idea of punishing her for the way she had snubbed him. Was this his idea of preserving some link between them however much she might resent it? The explanation was far-fetched enough—and yet she could think of no other.

  Nicola stole a surreptitious glance at him. He was talk­ing to her aunt now and his eyes were alight with that keen intelligence which was perhaps his outstanding characteristic. Yet there were slight crinkles of weariness round those eyes, and most of his colour had drained away by now. She thought he looked curiously exhausted. And it seemed that the same idea struck Torelli just then, for she exclaimed,

  'You look tired, Julian. You should be stimulated—excited after such an evening. Look at me!'

  'I'm looking at you.' His smile had a touch of indul­gence in it. 'And I'm amazed and impressed. I under­estimated you, Madame Torelli. I see now why people speak of you with bated breath. No one could have given a more utterly beautiful or inspiring performance tonight. It was the last word on three great masterpieces. And yet now you're as relaxed as a child. I'm not only amazed and impressed. I'm a trifle envious too.'

  To Nicola's surprise, she saw her aunt's fine eyes widen and darken. There was even a suspicion of tears in them for a moment which made them singularly beautiful. Then she put her hand over Julian's and said,

  'You're a good boy. Generous, too. But you drive your­self too hard. At your age you shouldn't be envying me my vitality. You should be too much aware of your own.'

  'I am most of the time,' he told her. 'No conductor can afford to let that get depleted. But,' he sighed restlessly and looked at her curiously—'does nothing ever get on top of you emotionally?'

  'Nothing,' was the emphatic reply. 'Controlled emotion is the artist's prime treasure. Uncontrolled emotion spells ruin.'

  'I suppose you're right.'


  'Most certainly I am,' agreed Torelli, who was seldom in any doubt about that. 'But I should have thought you also had your emotions well under control. You don't strike me as the kind to lie awake at night and worry.'

  If he intended to answer that there was no opportunity, for someone else claimed the diva's attention then. It was Nicola, on the other side of him, who said before she could stop herself, 'Do you lie awake at nights and worry?'

  He looked surprised, as though he had not realized that she was following the conversation. Then he said curtly, 'Sometimes.' And Nicola, annoyed at having been even so far betrayed into making a personal query, turned her attention then to Dermot Deane, and managed to ignore Julian Evett for the rest of the evening.

  It was Anthea Warrender who rose first, apologetically explaining that she had a ten o'clock rehearsal in the morning. And as her hostess accepted her excuses and bestowed a gracious kiss upon her, Julian glanced at his watch and said, 'I too must go.'

  'Can I give you a lift?' Anthea asked.

  'No, thank you. I have my car.'

  'Then you had better take Nicola,' said Madame Torelli. 'We shall be going quite soon. And I shan't need you any more tonight, Nicola dear.'

  'I can take a taxi,' protested Nicola, as she had earlier in the evening. But again the protest was set aside.

  'There's no need. I practically pass your door,' Julian told her. And so, however little she liked it, as the party began to break up, Nicola found herself once more com­mitted to being escorted by Julian Evett.

  'If I'm not careful this is going to become a habit,' she thought angrily, as she watched her aunt bid him good­night. For it was obvious that by now he had found his way into Torelli's favour. So far as she was concerned, any part he might have had in Brian's untimely death was completely forgotten, in favour of the discovery that he was a brilliant conductor who fully understood her own amazing artistry.

  'We shall be seeing a lot of you, Julian,' she said. 'Of course, Oscar is conducting most of my Covent Garden performances, but I think we must see what you can do in the operatic field.'

  'I hate to remind you—' that half-indulgent smile was there again—'but it won't rest entirely with you, I'm afraid. The Management—'