Olivia's Luck

by Catherine Alliott

  ‘Howard, this is my daughter, Olivia.’

  ‘Oh!’ I gazed, shook his extended hand, but couldn’t speak.

  ‘At last,’ he grinned. ‘I’ve heard so much about you but, I must say, I was keen to meet the real thing. You get a great press from your mum. Talk about proud mother and all that!’

  ‘Oh!’ I said it again, gormlessly too, aware that my mouth was still open.

  ‘Howard’s a doctor,’ offered Mum, helpfully. ‘We met when I took my usual stack of old magazines into the hospital.’

  He grinned. ‘The nurses kept telling me about this glamorous lady who was keeping them, not only in English Vogues, but in French and Italian ones too. I’m ashamed to say they plotted our meeting in an orthopaedic waiting room and I was an entirely willing participant!’

  I gazed. Don’t say ‘Oh’ again, you moron, just don’t. ‘S-so you’re a doctor then?’ I stammered.

  ‘Well actually, I’m a urologist.’

  I racked my brains. ‘Ears?’

  He laughed. ‘Not even close. If I said that renal canals were a speciality, would that help?’

  ‘Oh! Yes, it would!’

  We laughed. Mum laughed. Mum, who couldn’t even mention a front bottom without pinched lips, was laughing at renal canals? I gaped at her. And the peach number! I just couldn’t help it.

  ‘Mum – the clothes!’ I blurted out. ‘I mean – I’ve never seen you in anything remotely like that, ever!’

  She laughed. ‘I know, isn’t it strange? But Howard said he couldn’t be doing with all that navy blue. He bullied me out of it, said it reminded him of one of the sisters on his ward.’

  ‘A particularly repressed one,’ put in Howard, with a sly grin. ‘Rumour has it she keeps a cane in the dispensary cupboard, to whip the other nurses into shape.’

  I giggled. I loved him. Oh God, I loved him already.

  ‘So what d’you think?’ Mum glanced at me shyly and for a moment I thought she was asking about Howard. She smoothed down her coat.

  ‘Gorgeous!’ I enthused. ‘I love it, Mum. You look fab! I just can’t wait to tell Claudia. She won’t believe it!’

  She laughed, blushed a little too. ‘Go on, darling, catch up with your party. I saw Imogen go past ages ago.’

  I turned, realising that the rest had gone on, but that Rollo was still hovering, not exactly beside me, but quite close, studying a programme. I hesitated. No, I couldn’t introduce him, not after Howard. It would be such an anticlimax.

  ‘See you later, Mum.’ I kissed her warmly and beamed at Howard. ‘Goodbye, so good to meet you.’

  ‘You too,’ he smiled, and I’d swear he winked too.

  ‘Sorry, Rollo,’ I muttered, as I fell in beside him, ‘got – caught up.’

  ‘That’s OK,’ he smiled, tucking the programme away.

  We walked on in silence. Maybe I should have explained. Explained that that was my mother, only I hadn’t recognised her because she’d changed beyond all recognition and I’d been too astonished to introduce him. I realised, with a pang, that I hadn’t seen her for ages. Oh, I’d spoken to her, sure, but hadn’t seen her for – what, golly, weeks now, probably. I’d been so preoccupied lately, I hadn’t even stopped to think how she was. But then, she was always … the same. I turned back and caught a glimpse of them finding their seats, Howard ushering her along a row, his hand gently guiding her peach linen elbow, handing her a programme as she straightened her skirt beneath her to sit down, both chattering away the while, smiling. I turned back, shook my head in wonder. My God. For years now my mother had been pained, irritable and bitter. Could it be that one man was changing all that? Could it be that one, single, beating heart had caused her to transform herself, to come alive again? What power! Just as one had snuffed her out, all those years ago, another, years later, was lighting the blue touchpaper again. I didn’t know if that depressed or elated me, because whilst it was wonderful to see her like this, all those wasted years hurt. So many years! And wherein lay the moral for me? Was it that I’d better move fast? Turn those years into months, at the very least? Seize the disastrous dental arrangement beside me, or maybe the blond Adonis back in the caravan, or even the slick salesman lurking in the BMW showroom – pick one of them up and run with it? Make the best of it? God Almighty! I shuddered. And what about a career, a child, both of which my mother had had – shouldn’t all that have been enough? Shouldn’t that have filled the need? Or was it simply that, in the words of The Beatles, love is all you need?

  I wandered on, lost in thought, and almost walked past her, I was so distracted, until I realised she was actually plucking my sleeve.

  ‘Olivia!’

  It was Angie.

  ‘Oh – hi!’ I peeled off from Rollo once again.

  She was looking stunning in a pale, silver-grey suit, and as I went to greet her I realised two of her daughters, plus husbands, were with her as well. I glanced around fearfully. Surely not Johnny too? I couldn’t help it being the first thing I said as I kissed them all.

  ‘Johnny isn’t here, is he?’ I murmured anxiously to Angie.

  ‘I’m afraid he is, my dear.’

  ‘But not with us,’ put in Serena quickly. She squeezed my arm. ‘We couldn’t stomach him being in our party, told him to sod off on his own. I’m sure you won’t see him. They’re way down at the front.’

  ‘They?’ My mouth dried.

  She nodded, tight-lipped. Hugged me hard. ‘Bastard,’ she muttered in my ear.

  Lovely Serena, quite the prettiest of all, with her husband, Angus, who laid a sympathetic hand on my arm. Gosh, it was almost as if he’d died, wasn’t it? And for a moment, I wished he had. It would be so much easier to bear, somehow, so much more clear cut, and I could have had some dignity as a widow. Instead of which, half the county was crammed into this church – many of whom I’d grown up with, many of whom were bound to know us – and he’d seen fit to bring her along, to what – to torture me? To humiliate me? I lived two seconds away, for Christ’s sake; there was an odds on chance I’d be here, surely? In an instant Imogen was beside me. I held her arm, felt genuinely giddy.

  ‘He’s here,’ I whispered.

  ‘I know, I’ve just seen him. Came to find you.’

  ‘Imo, I’m not sure I can do this. I’m going to slip out.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ she hissed. ‘He might have already seen you and you can’t just disappear, it looks wet. Stick that head up high and walk with me. I’ve seen her, and she looks like a dog’s dinner and you, my darling, have never looked better. Come on.’

  I took a deep breath and walked down the aisle with her. When we got to about four rows from the front, she bundled me in, sandwiching me between her and Rollo, who’d already taken his seat.

  ‘Where is he?’ I gasped, as I sat down.

  ‘Other side of aisle, about two rows ahead of us to the left. I’ll tell you when to look.’ She paused. ‘Now.’

  I shot my eyes across and saw Johnny, in a dark suit, blue shirt, spotty tie, tanned and very handsome, of course, his blond head bent with hers over a programme. She, Nina, had her hair pushed back in a velvet hairband, very average blue shirt, grey skirt too short for her legs, twenty denier tights. All of this I took in in a nanosecond, then looked away. Their heads. Touching like that. I had to breathe very deeply. Felt sick, physically sick.

  ‘OK?’ Imo squeezed my hand.

  I shook my head. ‘No.’

  ‘You’re fine. You’re doing fine.’

  I watched in a daze as the orchestra, high up on a specially constructed platform in the nave, tuned up. Tears threatened. I raised my eyes to the heavens and concentrated hard on the intricate painted panels of the choir ceiling. I’d read in a guidebook somewhere that years ago, they’d been restoring this particular area of ceiling, and whilst they were up there on ladders and scaffolding, carefully cleaning away, they’d discovered this, an older, much more beautiful ceiling with a medieval painting on it, underneath
. I tried to imagine the excitement that must have caused, the shouts of joy from way up there as the restorers unearthed the vision I gazed at today, and gradually I felt the bile go down. I swallowed hard, slowly lowered my head. Happily, Rollo was engrossed in his programme.

  ‘But this is very exciting,’ he was muttering as he read avidly. ‘It says here that this is the first time this piece of Faulkner’s has ever been performed.’

  I nodded politely, couldn’t speak. He leant across to Imo.

  ‘Imogen, is that right? That this is the first time this symphony’s been performed in this country?’

  I spread my programme across my lap to catch the drips. Imo leant in eagerly for a meeting of minds.

  ‘Yes, apparently he wrote it some time ago but recently changed it, and has only now allowed it to be performed.’

  ‘But that’s amazing, because he hasn’t written anything of any note since that marvellous overture, has he?’

  Despite my turmoil I was dimly fascinated to observe that Imo wiped her wet face without even appearing to notice. They were on a higher intellectual plain, of course, where things like personal hygiene were too trivial to worry about.

  ‘No, nothing at all,’ she said excitedly, ‘and of course that was premiered at the Festival Hall with Simon Rattle conducting, remember? We all went in our final year. Gosh, this is such a treat!’

  A treat? Really? They sat back, on tenterhooks, and I reached resignedly in my handbag for a tissue. I wiped my programme with deliberate ostentation, but he didn’t appear to notice. Oh yes, I thought bitterly, tucking the hanky away, such a treat. Particularly for me, of course, to be closeted here with my husband and his floozie, for all the world to see – maybe even my mother, I thought with a sudden pang – and with my consolation prize of Spitty Dicky beside me. I caught Molly’s eye further down the row and she grimaced sympathetically in Johnny’s direction. I nodded and raised my eyebrows indicating that yes, I too had clocked them.

  Suddenly there was a hush, and then a roar, as Hugo Simmonds took the podium to tremendous applause. He greeted his orchestra, then turned to the audience and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ursula Mitchell straighten her back as she clapped madly. Actually I could see her point. He had quite a presence, if you liked narrow, pale faces with high foreheads, swept-back fair hair, and slightly hollow cheeks. There was something very English, very clever, and extremely intense about him. His sharp grey eyes darted about the audience, quickly searching the rows until he’d found what he was looking for. His gaze fell on Imo, beside me. I could almost feel the residual heat. Cool as a cat, Imo acknowledged him with a slight inclination of her blonde head and a Grace Kelly smile. She didn’t blush or squirm as I would have done; she wasn’t embarrassed to be singled out before hundreds of people; she was gracious, she was relaxed. I marvelled, briefly, but then again, I reasoned, she was used to it. If every time you batted an eyelid it started a stampede, you would get used to it. If every time you stood up, a queue formed, you’d get to take it in your stride.

  Satisfied, if not satiated, Hugo turned his back on us, and faced his orchestra. His raised arms paused briefly in mid-air, then came down with a flourish, and the music began. I sank back in my chair and let it wash over me. Modern, explosive occasionally, but at the same time strangely melodic, whatever it was, it was a relief, and I was thankful for it. Thankful for its blanketing effect, for being able to shut my eyes and hide behind it.

  So many thoughts churned through my head. I thought of my mother and Howard, meeting in that hospital waiting room, and of Howard, with his twinkly, northern charm, somehow asking her out. How on earth had he managed it without getting the cold shoulder? I thought of Angie too, alone, yet never lonely, surrounded as she was by her huge, loving, extended family. But most of all, I thought of Johnny. I remembered his head touching Nina’s, and then, all of a sudden, I had one of those awful, monstrous flashes that I’m subject to occasionally, of the two of them entwined in bed together. An obscene vision, it lurked like some dreadful, leering Caliban at the back of my mind, awaiting its chance, always keen to spot a gap and roar in. I held my breath and stared furiously at the stained-glass windows on my right until it passed, until I was breathing normally again. The urge to look to my left, though, across the aisle, was becoming more overpowering, and as the music went on I found I did – continually, compulsively, couldn’t help it – until eventually the inevitable happened. She looked too. I caught her eye, looked away, and realised she’d tell Johnny I was here. In that split second, knowing he’d glance across, I dived my head playfully into Rollo’s shoulder, gazing up at his face. He glanced down, surprised but pleased, and as I turned back, I was just in time to see Johnny turn away, a slight flush on his cheek. Good, I thought viciously. I hope that hurt.

  Rollo, on the other hand, was far from hurt. Hugely encouraged, he nestled in close, and every so often he’d peer round at me with a questioning little smile and an alarming look in his eye. I groaned inwardly. Oh hell, I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. I hesitated, then armpit dived him again, only this time made damn sure my face was upturned to the glorious ceiling.

  ‘It’s lovely,’ I breathed by way of explanation – unfortunately, just as the trumpets sounded.

  He looked surprised, then smiled. ‘Thank you,’ he whispered.

  I froze. Thank you? Christ, did he think I’d said ‘You’re lovely’?

  I cleared my throat. ‘The Abbey,’ I muttered quite loudly. ‘The lovely ceiling, the way they’ve lit –’

  ‘Shhh …’ He silenced me gently, as one or two people turned and frowned. He smiled, put his finger to his lips. ‘Later,’ he whispered excitedly, squeezing my arm.

  I sank back in horror. Later? God, did he think I was rampant or something? Couldn’t wait? Was sitting here twitching away in an agony of erotic anticipation? I shook my head in disbelief and listened on in silence.

  On and on. Interminably. No interval, of course, I discovered gloomily from my programme, so held in thrall were we all supposed to be by this sodding symphony. Oh no, an interval would no doubt be deemed to break the mood, spoil the atmosphere. Just the two hours of purgatory then, looking rapt and cultured with an aching heart and an aching bottom, waiting for the agony to end.

  Finally, of course, it did, and to my astonishment, the applause was deafening. There was a sudden roar of approval, tremendous clapping, and then the audience got to its feet as one. Dropping my handbag and programme I hastily followed suit, catching Molly’s eye as she nudged Hugh awake and he too got up, rolling his eyes at me in mock horror at the ordeal. All around, people were calling out in rapture, and some, like Imo and Rollo beside me, even stamped their feet which I thought was a bit childish, but by all accounts, judging by the flushed, enthusiastic faces of those in the know, it had been a towering success.

  Hugo Simmonds, flushed, elated and dripping with sweat, raised his hands and gave us his orchestra. They stood and bowed, as Hugo, with elaborate gestures, singled out the stars: his leader, his flautist, his brass section, his percussion, before finally, turning himself to bow to thunderous applause. He soaked it up for a moment, stood, waved, then turned and disappeared off stage, only to reappear a moment later and receive the same treatment. But still the applause went on. Louder now, and more insistent, as if something was missing, some need waiting to be gratified. Hugo Simmonds smiled, nodded knowingly, and flicked back his damp fair hair. Then he simply gestured to someone near the front of the audience to come up. For an awful moment I thought he might be looking at Imo, but then a few rows ahead of us, a tall, dark man in a dinner jacket stood up with his back to us. As people craned their necks to see, murmuring, ‘There he is!’ I realised it must be Faulkner himself. He brushed back his hair, and slid along the row to the end, where he went to the front to mount the stage. As he got to the top step and turned to the audience, there was a deafening roar of approval, and for the first time I saw his face. My hand shot to my
mouth.

  ‘Bloody hell!’

  I gaped in horror, unable to take in what I was seeing. Unable to quite believe my eyes. For up there on the podium, smiling shyly but delightedly, bowing, and waving occasionally to acknowledge the tremendous applause, was Sebastian.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I gaped, wide-eyed and frozen with horror. The vaulted ceiling, the medieval panels, and all the ancient Roman tiles above it, seemed to fall in on my head. Sebastian. Sebastian was … Faulkner? How on earth could that be? Despite the pressure of several tons of masonry on my shattered skull, what was left of my brain strung the names together. Sebastian … Faulkner. God, yes, of course, even I, with my modicum of classical music knowledge, had just about heard of him. I flushed to my roots, jaw hanging, boggling at him up there on the podium, bowing and smiling.

  ‘Christ,’ I murmured.

  ‘What’s up?’ yelled Imo into my ear, above the applause.

  ‘I know him,’ I muttered.

  ‘What?’

  ‘I said I know him!’

  ‘No!’ she squeaked, swinging excitedly around to face me. ‘How come?’

  I opened my mouth to speak, but happily, didn’t have time to elucidate, as in a matter of moments, Ursula was upon us, bustling importantly along the row, knocking into people’s knees, sending programmes flying, eyes shining.

  ‘My dears, such a thrill,’ she breathed ecstatically. ‘Hugo Simmonds has conveyed to us by means of a sweet note, that he’d be delighted to have us all join him backstage for a small celebration. Imagine, Imo, we’ll meet Faulkner too!’

  ‘Oh, but Olivia already knows him,’ said Imo excitedly, ‘don’t you, Livvy?’

  ‘Er, well,’ I gulped, ‘sort of … ish.’

  ‘No!’ Ursula gasped. ‘My dear, why didn’t you say?’ Her eyes shone alarmingly. ‘Is he totally enchanting?’