Olivia's Luck

by Catherine Alliott

  I swallowed, and it was on the tip of my tongue to explain that I wasn’t the best person to ask since the last time I’d seen him I’d brandished a rake and cast aspersions on his moral character, so the chances of him being overly enchanting to me backstage were minimal, but instead I edged away, smiling nervously.

  ‘D’you know I’m – not sure, Ursula, because to be honest I don’t know him terribly well, and – and actually, what with the baby-sitter waiting I really must be getting –’

  ‘Nonsense,’ she insisted, seizing my wrist urgently, the possibility of a personal introduction gleaming in her eyes. ‘Imogen was telling me how wonderful your builders are, always stepping in to help you out. They won’t mind another hour. Come!’ She called me to heel, dragging me firmly by the arm. ‘How absolutely splendid to make an entrance with someone who’s actually acquainted with him,’ she squeaked. ‘I can’t wait to tell Hugo! How exactly do you know him, my dear?’ She swooped, hawklike, her sharp nose level with mine as she propelled me from the nave, through the crowds, bumping into people’s backs with no regard at all as she made for the back of the Abbey in a frenzy of excitement.

  ‘Um, he lives in my road,’ I muttered, glancing around desperately for a convenient side exit.

  She stopped, clapped her hand to her forehead. ‘Of course he does! In The Crescent! Which is precisely why he wanted the first rendition of this work to be performed here, giving something back to his city, rather than it going straight to the Festival Hall!’ She marched on again. ‘The powers that be were dead against it of course – wanted it in London – but he was absolutely adamant – and what a success! Tell me,’ she breathed, ‘right there at the end, throughout that final recapitulation, did you or did you not have goosebumps literally all over?’

  ‘Um, yes.’ Not a lie, but from fright rather than ecstasy, and actually they were beginning to reform.

  ‘Come along, my party!’ Ursula threw back imperiously over her shoulder as we marched on, glancing round to check that Imo, Rollo, Molly and Hugh were all trailing dutifully behind. Suddenly Ursula stopped.

  ‘Damn. Wait here,’ she hissed, parking me by a pillar, but never for a moment loosening the grip on my arm.

  She turned and beamed delightedly. ‘Charles! Sonia! So good of you to come! Did you enjoy it?’ This she addressed to a rather mousy, elderly couple who’d followed, a trifle bemused, in our wake. ‘I’m so pleased,’ she enthused without waiting for an answer. ‘Lovely to see you again,’ and with this she kissed them with a definite air of finality.

  But Charles and Sonia, camel-coated and seventy-odd, were slow to catch her drift. They were inclined to linger, chat a little, become expansive, come with us even, and Ursula was going to have her work cut out explaining that they were the last people on earth she wanted cluttering up her backstage salon; just the young, the vibrant, the chic and, of course, me, the sick at heart. I glanced about wildly for a handy escape route or even just a pew to hide behind, but I was comprehensively hemmed in on all sides now: Ursula to my right, her hand on my arm, a pillar behind me, and Rollo, quivering with excitement and hopping stupidly from foot to foot, to my left.

  ‘What fun, a party!’ he squealed as he pranced skittishly.

  Berk. I regarded him with complete disdain. Total, utter, berk. I’d really gone off him in a major way. He was the sort of intellectual giant who clutched his sides when the fool pranced on in a Shakespeare play, the sort who pooped a stupid horn at the last night of the Proms, wearing an oh-so-funny Union Jack hat. Hugh sidled up to me, elbowing Rollo out of the way, and found my ear.

  ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘Party, backstage,’ I muttered. ‘Ursula’s idea, but I’m out of here.’

  Hugh brightened. ‘You mean we get another drink? Splendid, I’m game.’

  ‘Why don’t you want to go?’ asked Molly as I slipped behind Hugh, past Rollo, and then behind another pillar.

  ‘Because,’ I hissed flattening myself against it, ‘that chap I told you about, the one who lives down my road and I thought had abducted Claudia – turns out to be bloody Faulkner! It’s bloody Sebastian Faulkner!’ I inched sideways, spotting, with relief, the Chapter door to my left.

  Hugh’s eyes widened. ‘Faulkner abducted Claudia? I didn’t hear about this.’ A Daily Mail exclusive lurked alarmingly in his eyes.

  ‘No! Of course not, but I thought he had! I made a mistake, but I can’t possibly go in there now, it’ll be excruciatingly embarrassing! Now for heaven’s sake go away and stop talking to me – I’m trying to be discreet, for God’s sake. Cover me or something useful.’

  I scurried off to the side door, with Molly and Hugh dutifully turning back and shielding me, helped by Molly’s huge bulk. Seizing with relief the high iron handle on the old oak door, I turned it. Rattled it dementedly, in fact. Damn, locked. As I swung around frantically, about to leg it to the main entrance, I saw Ursula bearing down on me, with Molly shrugging helplessly behind her. My deodorant was beginning to let me down.

  ‘Wrong way, Olivia!’ she called. ‘They’re using the refectory for the party!’

  She linked my arm and made to pull me away, but I dug my heels in hard.

  ‘Ursula, listen,’ I said desperately. ‘I’m – I’m awfully sorry but I can’t come. I feel terribly ill. In fact, I think I’m going to be sick.’

  ‘Oh, I know, it is frightfully stuffy in here, isn’t it? Terribly close. But once we’re out of this madding crowd you’ll feel heaps better, I promise!’ She yanked my arm.

  ‘But I –’

  ‘Listen, Olivia, I’ll be honest with you.’ She dropped her voice dramatically and lowered her head. ‘I didn’t get a note from Hugo, although I rather hoped I would, but then again he is terribly shy. All the same, I know he’ll just be dying to see Imogen, but it would help enormously if you came too. Just to sort of ease our path through the stage door, seeing as how you’re a personal friend of Mr Faulkner’s and all that.’

  I gaped. ‘N-no, but listen, Ursula, I’m not, I –’

  ‘Mum, what is going on?’ Imogen came up looking totally bewildered. ‘Are we supposed to be going backstage or not? Everyone’s waiting!’

  ‘Yes, of course we are, darling. We’re just coming, aren’t we, Olivia?’ She turned pleading eyes on me. I stared. Looked at Imo. Back to Ursula. Nodded dumbly. ‘Excellent!’ she breathed. ‘Come along now!’

  Her iron grip once more took up position under my elbow, and as she marched me, lamblike to the slaughter, along the ancient stone passages, beaten almost hollow with age, I realised where Imogen got it from – this desire to be first; to be top; to be the best. As long as I’d known her she’d striven for perfection, which of course was laudable, but it also meant she couldn’t settle for anything less. And Imo had yet to settle.

  ‘Here we are!’ Her mother stopped suddenly, raised her knuckles, and gave a sharp tap at the refectory door. It was instantly opened by a lackey.

  To my relief, the room was packed. Teeming, actually, full to the brim with the orchestra, presumably their friends and relatives, and various sundry hangers-on. Ursula looked momentarily disappointed since we clearly weren’t the chosen few – let alone the chosen multitude – but, happily, Hugo Simmonds was close to the door. He spotted her instantly and, raising his glass above the crush, came squeezing across to greet her.

  ‘Ursula!’

  ‘Hugo! My dear I hope you don’t mind us barging in, but Olivia here knows Sebastian terribly well and we just wanted to pop by and congratulate you both! Imo – say hello to Hugo!’

  ‘M-mind? Heavens, I’m d-delighted!’ he said, flicking his hair back nervously. He almost came out in a muck sweat as Imogen diligently obeyed orders and kissed him on the cheek. His glasses all but steamed up.

  ‘It’s l-lovely to see you, Imogen. D-did you enjoy it?’ he stammered. I was stunned. Was this the same commanding man of moments ago?

  ‘It was wonderful,’ Imo enthused warmly, ‘really
wonderful, Hugo.’

  ‘Thank you,’ he gasped. ‘I’m s-so glad you came. I w-wanted to ask you but w-wasn’t sure if you’d … I-I must say, Imogen,’ he gulped, ‘you look absolutely marvellous.’ His grey eyes roved admiringly over the Grecian curls, the tanned, smooth shoulders, the slim brown legs and for a moment, he forgot to stutter. ‘An absolute vision,’ he declared roundly.

  ‘He wants to give her one right now,’ muttered Hugh in my ear. ‘Behind the choir stalls. Can’t wait. And I’ll tell you something else, old Ursula Mitchell wouldn’t mind if he did.’

  I giggled, but I was simultaneously scanning the room nervously for Sebastian. Ah, there he was, right over the other side, thank God, with his back to me. His dark head protruded a couple of inches higher than the swarm of people he was talking to. If I stayed right here by the door, had a quick drink and slipped away in two minutes flat, I’d be fine. I’d done my duty, got old Ursula in; yes, I could be away. I kept my eyes firmly on that head lest it should suddenly turn, took a glass of champagne from a tray as it passed by, and sipped and stared. As I did, I grew more and more incredulous. I simply couldn’t believe it. Could not believe who he was. Christ, I mean, he’d never said, had he? Never mentioned it, and he’d had ample opportunity, surely? Had he, though? I racked my brains, trying to remember where I’d first met him. Of course, at Nanette’s. God, bloody Nanette, who knowing no better had billed him, first as a lunatic, and then as a teacher, for heaven’s sake. What planet was she on?

  ‘I think he’s rather cute,’ murmured Molly in my ear, crunching a pistachio nut. ‘Can’t think why you thought he was certifiable.’

  ‘Molly, you thought so too!’ I hissed. ‘When I told you about Claudia turning up in his house, you said I shouldn’t apologise in person because it all sounded very iffy! I distinctly remember!’

  ‘Yes, but that was before I knew who he was, before I’d seen him in the flesh. Anyone can see the man’s totally normal. In fact,’ she squinted, ‘he’s really rather handsome.’ She inched round to get a better view of the side of his face, pulling me with her. ‘You told me he was a long-haired loner who ran about in jim-jams.’

  ‘Yes, well, he’s wearing a dinner jacket now, isn’t he, and he’s had his hair cut.’

  I had to agree, though, that with a good couple of inches off his hair so that one could see those dark, slightly slanting eyes which ran parallel with high cheekbones, he looked a different person. Quite a presence.

  ‘He’s got such a sensitive face,’ she murmured.

  ‘Oh rubbish,’ I scoffed. ‘If anything he’s got an arrogant face. You’re only saying that because you know he’s a composer. If he was a doctor you’d say he had a caring face, and if he was an artist you’d say he had an artistic face, and for heaven’s sake stop staring, Mol. He’ll see us!’

  I realised in panic that we’d drifted away from the door, and that our exit was now blocked by a few more newcomers. I desperately tried to fight my way back, simultaneously scrabbling in my bag for my car keys. Time to go. Definitely time to go.

  ‘He can’t see us, Livvy,’ Molly said as I rooted about in my bag. ‘He’s far too swamped by all those luvvies. Just look at them fawning. They’re practically kissing the hem of his jacket.’

  Having at least found my programme in my bag, I used it to shield my face and peep over. She was right: people were literally queuing up to talk to him.

  ‘Was he nice when you went over?’ she whispered, eyes glued.

  ‘What?’

  ‘When you went round to apologise, what did he say?’

  ‘Oh, I didn’t go round in the end. I did as you said, I sent a –’ Christ. A note. Had I sent a note? My mind fled back. I’d written one, certainly, and failed to drop it in because of his mother, so then I’d gone home to write another, but … I went cold. ‘Oh God!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I forgot to write a letter!’ I clasped my mouth. ‘Oh, Molly, I forgot to do it! Forgot to apologise!’

  She looked at me in horror. ‘You mean … he still thinks – that you still think –’

  ‘I’ve got to get out of here, Mol,’ I said urgently. ‘Got to, before he sees me. Come on,’ I turned and lunged for the door.

  ‘Too late,’ she muttered in my ear.

  I swung my head to see – Sebastian Faulkner, pale-faced, stony-eyed, who had not only seen me, but was making determined strides in my direction, pushing fixedly through the madding throng, his dark eyes as hard as a couple of flints.

  ‘Help!’ I squealed, as I pushed for freedom, but we were three deep from the door now, and Molly’s heavily pregnant state made it nigh on impossible to shove through. I felt like a fox being hunted, the hounds right on my tail, but as I glanced back, panic-stricken, I suddenly saw Ursula Mitchell step out right in front of him, blocking his path.

  ‘Mr Faulkner, might I say how absolutely marvellous I thought that was!’ she gushed. ‘I honestly don’t think I’ve enjoyed a piece of music so much since I heard Pascalle conduct Beethoven’s Fifth with the Berlin Philharmonic in Rome, which I was privileged enough to go to last year with a great friend of mine Lady Farqurson, and I have to say, that even that occasion, momentous though it was, didn’t quite send shivers up my spine the way that your symphony did tonight! Truly magnificent, maestro!’

  He gave a small bow. ‘Thank you,’ he muttered, and made to sidestep her, his eyes still fixed and predatory, but dear old Ursula hadn’t finished. She blocked his way – bless her – and gave him another earful, just as I, managing to barge past Molly and make a desperate lunge for the door, arrived to find that the only obstacle between me and freedom was Rollo, leaning laconically against it, and holding forth about Faulkner to a couple of credulous college students.

  ‘… such powerful stanzas, yet such insight into the common lot. One feels almost humbled by his power, his presence, his – Ow!’ he yelped weedily as I barged up. ‘That was my foot!’

  ‘Move,’ I hissed shamelessly, elbowing him roughly.

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Move out of the way!’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake get out of my way and stop bloody spitting at me!’ I shrieked, wiping my face.

  He frowned. ‘Olivia, are you all right? You look a bit –’

  ‘Tra-la-la-la-la-diddly-dah!’ trilled a loud soprano behind us. I jerked my head back to see Ursula, who, much to Imo’s embarrassment, was now giving the composer her own cringe-making rendition of her favourite bits, still blocking his path. ‘That’s the phrase I just adored,’ she beamed, ‘at the beginning of the second movement. So bewitching with that lovely lilting melody, and such a contrast to the first movement. In fact, I was saying to someone …’ She tried desperately to catch Sebastian’s eyes, which were not on her at all. ‘Mr Faulkner, I was saying to –’ she gave up and followed his gaze. ‘Olivia! I was saying to Olivia, who, of course, you know!’

  In one bony swoop of her arm, like python snatching its prey, she lunged out, plucked my arm, and pulled hard, sweeping me into her inner circle. I felt like a child being hauled before the head. My knees began to knock, and my eyes, when I finally dared to raise them, found his: cold, dark and forbidding. He gave me a look that froze my spine.

  ‘You do know each other, don’t you, Olivia?’ insisted Ursula, in case I’d made it up.

  ‘Yes, we, um, do.’ I faltered.

  ‘Unhappily,’ he barked sharply, and I could see his hands clenching by his sides.

  Ursula’s social smile quivered. ‘I-I’m sorry, did you say –’

  ‘Oh, thank God!’ shrieked a shrill voice behind us. Suddenly Molly burst through, pushing people out of the way, clutching her huge stomach, eyes wild. ‘I’ve got the most frightful pains, Livvy, terrible stomach cramps, and Hugh’s too drunk to drive! I’ve been looking everywhere for you. Would you be an angel and take me home?’

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Ursula was all consternation. ‘Are they labour pains, d�
�you think? Are you about to have it? Do you need an ambulance?’

  Molly staggered about a bit, enjoying herself hugely. ‘Noo, noo,’ she gasped bravely, ‘I think I’ll be – AAARGHHH!’ She clutched my arm suddenly and sank to her knees. Ursula jumped back in horror. ‘No, I’ll be fine, really,’ she gasped, straightening up, face racked with simulated pain. ‘I’m sure it’s too soon, not due for days yet, it’s just that I must lie down, you see, put my feet up and – Hugh!’ She gasped with relief as her husband pushed his way through. ‘Oh, Hugh darling, so sorry, ghastly pains. Livvy’s going to drive us home! Bye, all, thank you so much Mrs Mitchell, lovely party, lovely concert!’

  She’d played her part perfectly, and we’d undoubtedly have made a seamless exit were it not for Hugh, who, loving a drama, and having not worked in one for a while, was delighted to stumble across this one. He threw himself into it shamelessly.

  ‘Darling!’ he cried. ‘Oh God, darling, are you all right? Shall I ring Mr Kenny?’

  ‘Mr Kenny?’ Ursula blinked. ‘Isn’t he the Queen’s gynaecologist?’

  Hugh straightened up. ‘He’s my wife’s gynaecologist,’ he informed her soberly. ‘What he does in his spare time is his own affair, we all have to make a living. Come, my dear.’ He supported Molly’s bulk as she collapsed, groaning, on to his shoulder. ‘Come, I’ll help you to the – Christ!’ Hugh leapt back theatrically as there was a sudden splash on the floor between Molly’s legs. Everyone gasped.

  ‘Oh God, it’s your waters!’ cried Hugh, a mysteriously empty glass in his hand, insanity in his eyes.

  Molly looked genuinely horror-struck. ‘Good God.’ She stared down at the puddle. Blinked. ‘I didn’t even feel it!’

  ‘Ah well, that’s mother nature for you,’ muttered Hugh, manoeuvring his wife expertly through the gaping throng, which was parting like the Red Sea now, and towards a hurriedly opened door. ‘It eases you into it gently, lulls you into a false sense of security but, mark my words, it’ll be the stirrups and the forceps for you before the night is out. You’ll be biting through my hand, kicking innocent bits of furniture and being sensationally abusive to the medical team. It’ll be just like Henry all over again! Come, Livvy, to the hospital, please, and don’t spare the horses! Mind your backs, good people, mind your backs. Bye all, wish us well!’