Fiona had been singularly unhelpful when we’d spoken last night. No matter how I’d pleaded with her she’d just reminded me, five times, ten times, a thousand times, that I’d promised her I’d go to opera school. I’d given her my word. ‘Seize the day, remember?’ she’d said. ‘You promised me in New York, Sal!’
‘Seize the day,’ I’d repeated hollowly.
And now here I was, my heart in my mouth, a chasm of terror cleaving down my middle.
There were signs everywhere for the Royal College of Music, the Royal Albert Hall, the Skempton Building, the Science Library. I ignored all of them and stared fixedly at the map on my phone, perhaps in the hope that it would direct me to a different Royal College of Music. Ideally the one situated in my wardrobe in Bevan Street, Islington. Although I didn’t particularly want to go home either. I was terrified that last night’s visitor might come back. And if that happened I didn’t know what I’d –
‘STOP IT,’ I snapped at myself. Today was bad enough as it was; I had no mental space for him. I just had to trust that he’d taken note of the high-speed pork belly and would not come back. Ever. The scumbag. The bullshit-peddling, weak, spineless scumbag.
‘WILL YOU JUST STOP IT!’ I told myself, louder. I meant it this time. The college was drawing closer and I needed to start pretending to be calm. Seize the day. Seize the day. Seize the day.
And there, resplendent opposite the Albert Hall, it was. The Royal College of Music. A terrifyingly grand, turreted red-brick Gothic affair with a Union flag flying above its fussy glass portico. Grand steps leading up to heavy ornate doors through which I had not been bred to pass.
This building had been designed with great people in mind. ‘For more than 125 years our students have gone on to international stardom,’ the brochure had said. I swallowed. I didn’t want any stardom, let alone that of the international variety. Any more than I wanted to study at a place that was so posh it needed a French name. For this, I had been told by a worryingly trendy undergrad who was helping at the auditions, was a conservatoire. I hadn’t looked up the word but I knew that its definition would have something to do with exceptional and talented people who did not speak with Black Country accents. In fact, it was probably designed for people who hadn’t even heard of the Black Country.
I felt fat as I cowered at the foot of the steps, painfully aware of the stone I’d put on since New York. Although I was by no means enormous, I felt grossly unsuitable for something that called itself a conservatoire. Barry had done nothing to assuage this fear. ‘Maybe I’ll blend in,’ I’d gabbled earlier. ‘Opera singers have always been on the chunky side.’
‘But not your kind of chunky,’ he’d countered, squidging my stomach fondly. ‘They’re aristocrats and stuff. They eat goose fat and fine imported meats. You mark my words, Chicken, those opera singers don’t buy four-packs of steak and kidney pie.’
Sodding Barry. Sometimes I found myself thinking that living with Fiona had actually been easier. She had been madder than a mushroom but she’d at least pretended I wasn’t fat.
I glanced furtively along Prince Consort Road, which was surprisingly quiet. There was a madman hobbling around vaguely at the far end of the street but there were certainly no music students in view. I could, if I did it now, still run. Tell them I’d been attacked and my vocal cords stolen, and explain that I hadn’t yet touched the scholarship money and could pay both of my scholarships back without delay. (How had I got two? It made things so much worse. I was accountable not just to the Associated Board of Something but also to some bloke called Lord Peter Ingle, who probably wore a cape and a monocle.)
The hobbling man had decided to hobble in my direction now.
And I knew it was time to go.
I turned and ran, away from the hobbling man, back towards the tube and freedom. Engaged in an activity that actually made sense, my body responded with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
As my muscles pumped, my head cleared. Of course I couldn’t do it. Of course I couldn’t go and study for a performance diploma in opera or whatever the stupid course was called. It didn’t matter a monkey’s bollock that I could sing: I was not a performer. Standing in front of panel after panel of poshos for my auditions – including bloody Brian from the opera house – had been the hardest thing I’d done in my entire life: I’d had diarrhoea constantly and had been anguished ever since. I’d been fighting with Barry, whom I never fought with, I’d been fighting with my brother Dennis and his wife Lisa, whom I always fought with, and I’d even been trying to pick long-distance fights with Fiona, an activity made all the more infuriating by her uncharacteristic refusal to engage.
It was settled. I would pay back the scholarships, I’d apologize to Brian and the other folk at the college, I’d beg the opera house for my job back and I’d return to a life in which I felt very comfortable and perfectly happy. Fiona and her seizing of days would have to lump it.
‘MUHHH!’
‘Paaaaah!’
Two bodies colliding hard.
Obviously it was Brian. Of all the people who might have been turning off Exhibition Road. And obviously, being Brian, he looked extremely jolly, rather than extremely furious.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, as if I had just dropped a pencil, rather than galloped into his chest, like a charging rhino. ‘Forgotten something?’
‘Only my mind,’ I muttered. ‘Brian, I’m very sorry, but there’s been a mistake. This is not for me, it’s –’
‘No,’ he said lightly, and without the faintest hint of surprise. ‘You don’t get away that easily, Sally. Do you have any idea what the competition is like for places here? More than thirty people were turned down for your place alone.’
I wondered if he was serious. How was that an argument?
He was serious, by the look of things. ‘Well, then, you’ll have twenty-nine brilliant singers to choose from,’ I told him, picking up my bag.
‘No. You are the brilliant singer we picked,’ Brian said firmly, taking me by the elbow and turning me back towards the college. He started walking; I didn’t. So he pulled my elbow until it came with me behind it.
‘You’ll be OK, kid,’ he said, more gently, and I heard his soft Huddersfield accent. ‘Just come and register, OK? Get to know the place. You won’t have to sing today.’
‘I won’t?’ A slender ray of hope.
‘Nope, no singing,’ he confirmed. We were nearing the entrance again and I noticed that the hobbling man was walking directly towards us. ‘Jan!’ Brian cried merrily. ‘My fine fellow! You made it!’
Jan was a short, angry-looking man with hair swept forward from the crown of his head into a dramatic curtain around his face. He looked like something from my VHS recording of La Bohème actually; one of the smelly art students in Café Momus during Act Two. He was wearing a long torn coat and what looked suspiciously like nineteenth-century trousers. His collar was cravated (no! No no no!) and a grubby handkerchief poked out of his front pocket alongside a fat old Nokia. Oh, and he was wearing only one shoe. In fact, as he bounced forward to shake Brian’s hand, I realized that he wasn’t hobbling. He was simply wearing one shoe and so was completely unbalanced.
For real? my head thought. ‘For real?’ my mouth said, before I knew what was happening. Fortunately my rudeness was lost in Brian’s effusive greeting.
‘Welcome!’ he enthused. ‘Welcome to the Royal College! To London! To England! Excellent work getting here, Jan!’
‘Thank you, thank you,’ said Jan, in a strong Eastern European accent. ‘It take me many days. Now I am here! I am student!’
‘And so you are!’ Brian cried. They shook hands again. Jan’s face still looked furious, even though he was clearly very happy. I learned quickly that his ‘furious’ look covered a wide range of emotions.
I stood like a fat moron on the edges of Brian and Jan’s greeting ceremony and wondered if I could sneak off.
Brian was having none of it. ‘Sally Howlett, meet
your classmate Jan Borsos,’ he said, stepping back to allow us to shake hands.
I decided on the spot that I liked him. Jan Borsos was even more out of place than I was, standing lopsidedly outside that vast, Hogwarts-like building. I held my hand out to him but he rejected it, choosing instead to bow deeply towards his shoeless foot.
‘Mrs Sally,’ he said respectfully. ‘Jan Borsos. I am from Pzjhkjhkjbjbjkbhjb in Hungary.’
‘Hi, er, Mr Borsos,’ I replied, with what I hoped was the right amount of respect. ‘Call me Sally. I’m … I’m, er, from Stourbridge. In the West Midlands. Where did you say you were from?’
Brian ushered us through the door, the cunning bastard, while Jan repeated himself. ‘I am from Pusztaszabolcs,’ he said very slowly, ‘south of Budapest. I studied at the Budapest Opera School until the age of sixteen when I married with beautiful Russian répétiteur. I was young and stupid and I pause my studies for love, but we divorced ourselves one years later and I did study opera at the St Petersburg Conservatory. I wrote letter to the great master László Polgár and he said, “Yes, Jan, I will teach you in Switzerland, you come to me soon.” I did study him for two years before he was dying.’
Jan stopped talking and his face clouded with sadness. I stared at him in amazement. I hadn’t been expecting a life story but I was impressed by it: it sounded like an opera in itself. ‘Wow,’ I said brightly. ‘So what have you been doing since then?’
‘It was a small two years ago,’ Jan whispered. ‘László did die and then I travelled to Budapest to grief. I sing for two years in church for no money but I knew I must continue my study. So I come here to London. I hope not to fall in love with any more beautiful répétiteur. For me they are dangerous. Today is my twenty-three birthday.’
Before I had time to wonder what a répétiteur was, or to panic about being on a course with a twenty-three-year-old, I realized I was now standing in the reception area of the Royal College of Music. Auditions had been so terrifying that I’d barely looked beyond my own feet last time. Now I gulped, scanning around me with fresh eyes, while Brian loped off to talk to a tall, beautiful woman in a leather jacket.
Two kids, who seemed no more than fifteen, were strolling past with big cello cases strapped to their backs. They both wore cool duffel coats, short skirts with thick tights and hi-top trainers. They were carrying lattes. I didn’t understand. In these lofty environs, with busts of Mozart on the walls and glass cases containing priceless old manuscripts, would the musicians not have pointed beards and cassocks? ‘Did you know that Adrian’s been banging Chen all summer?’ one reported to the other.
‘Fuck off!’ was the reply.
I nodded respectfully. No cassocks here, then.
On either side of an old wooden staircase were doors to the college’s famous concert hall. I thought about what this hall meant and tried not to throw up. I’d been told that we would be ‘lucky’ enough to get to perform concerts and take masterclasses in this ‘unparalleled’ performance venue throughout the course. Catching a glimpse of a high ceiling and a long, large balcony, I thought that performing in there would be among the most unlucky experiences I could possibly imagine.
‘Wow,’ Jan Borsos said, peering in the same direction. ‘I cannot believe we are here! It is miracle! We have much luck!’
‘Yusss,’ I croaked.
‘Sally, Jan,’ Brian called merrily. ‘Come and meet Violet Elphinstone. Another coursemate. How fantastic that you all arrived at the same time!’
I tried to give him a look that warned of impending homicide if he didn’t tone down all of this unnecessary jollity but my face was frozen. Which was probably a good thing because he was no longer a colleague but a tutor. My tutor. Oh, God.
Violet Elphinstone’s face was also frozen, although hers was frozen into a smile she almost certainly didn’t mean. She was probably five foot ten but a pair of caramel-coloured ankle boots took her to well over six feet. There was nothing stooped or awkward about her. She just looked like she got a lot of sex with film stars. She had one of those shiny graduated bobs that never greases over and her face was perfect. As in, mathematically, golden-ratio-proportioned, da Vinci-certified perfect.
‘Hi, nice to meet you both,’ she said, meaning, ‘What the fuck are these two moronic freaks doing on MY OPERA COURSE?’
I shuffled over, feeling intensely fat and linen-covered, and shook her hand. ‘Likewise,’ I said. ‘I’m Sally.’
‘Um, yes, Brian just introduced you,’ she pointed out sweetly, then giggled, putting an insincere hand on my arm so that I couldn’t take offence.
For a few awkward moments we tried to find something to say to each other. I came in first with ‘Amazing boot!’
Violet Elphinstone started to reply, a standard ‘Thanks, they’re Gina, I like yours, where are they from –’
But I interrupted her, booming, in my broadest Midlands accent, ‘BOOTS.’
‘What?’
‘Sorry. Boots. I said nice boot but I meant nice boots … Oh, sorry, Office,’ I added, remembering she had asked me where mine were from. ‘Five years ago, I think …’ I stared down at my soft brown boots, worn and grooved like walnuts, and felt embarrassed. I should have bought better shoes. And I should have just shut the hell up.
‘Oh, I love a bit of Office sometimes,’ Violet said conspiratorially. ‘BARGAINOUS! But don’t you find you have to dress down a bit when you’re wearing cheap footwear? Erm, like, balancing act, right?’ She fiddled with her Chloé satchel, pointedly ignoring my unstructured grey dress. Which was not made of silk or expensive Japanese crêpe. ‘Oooh, and I love your ring too,’ she whispered, bursting with insincerity. Nobody, not even me, loved my ring. ‘Nothing like a big statement piece!’
I was used to this sort of passive-aggressive behaviour. A few of the younger and more wanky opera singers at work had used it; it was an outward display of egalitarianism – I’m still your friend, even though people pay £350 a night to watch me sing and you’re just a twat with a sewing-machine – but the subtext was always clear. We are not equal. We never will be.
I need to go shopping, I thought glumly. Everyone around me, especially this shimmering column of a woman, was cool and youthful. No nice middle-class bohemian fashion, like I was used to at work. Just lots of … trendiness. But it’s a bloody music college! my mind wailed. Shouldn’t everyone here be a posh geek?
Fortunately, Jan Borsos stepped in. ‘Violet Elphinstone, good day,’ he said grandly, stooping into another deep bow. ‘Please you forgive me for my shoe. I did lose one in France on my pilgrimage to London. It is a pleasure to meet with you today.’
I watched Violet decide what to do about this strange man flourishing theatrically at her feet. I waited for her lip to curl, but it didn’t. Instead, she began to smile. ‘What a fab greeting,’ she said. ‘Like, wow, Jan Borsos, what a name!’ Jan kissed her hand and she giggled, pulling the Chloé bag up her arm so it wouldn’t thump him in the face.
‘I don’t think I’m going to like her very much,’ said a girl who’d appeared at my elbow. She had a messy brown ponytail and perky pink lipstick, and was clutching a big home-made folder saying, ‘OPERA SCHOOL YEAR 1’. She glared at Violet, who was prancing around Jan Borsos. ‘Thoughts?’ she asked. Then: ‘Oh, Jesus, she’s not your sister, is she?’
I was appalled. ‘What do you think?’
The girl chuckled. ‘It didn’t seem likely.’
‘Correct. But for the record, no, I don’t think I’m going to like Violet very much.’ I paused, looking fearfully at the throng of students moving around me. ‘Although I’m not sure I’m going to like anyone very much. No offence or anything.’
The girl sniggered. ‘You’re right up my street, then,’ she told me. ‘Helen. Helen Quinn. I’m not just nervous, I’m fucking terrified. I haven’t eaten in three days and I’m thinking about running away.’
I nearly cried with relief. ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you,
Helen Quinn, for your honesty. You might just have saved me.’
Helen grinned and wandered off towards the opera school.
Brian, I noticed, was watching the whole pitiful scene like a proud dad. Right at that moment I hated him. I hated everyone, really. Brian for hearing me sing in the first place and Fiona for blackmailing me into auditioning. I hated the Royal College of Music for taking me on with cries of ‘What a wonderful story! Wasting away in the wardrobe department!’ and other such balls. And I supremely DETESTED everyone I worked with for being so lovely and encouraging about it, once word got out that I could sing and was trying to get into opera school.
‘This is just so exciting!’ they’d all yelled.
Bunch of tossers, I thought fiercely. I’d like to punch them all, one by one.
Please, please stop it, I begged myself.
It felt sad that I was so mental these days. Since New York, the landscape of my life had changed dramatically and nothing was certain any more, especially my feelings. I missed being controlled and predictable. I missed the pleasant sense of calm I’d had when I woke up in the mornings, the knowledge that even if Fiona went bonkers or I lost a costume everything would be OK. These days I seemed to spend all of my time firefighting feelings. It was exhausting and distressing. I didn’t want to start college in this way.
Although, really, I didn’t want to start college at all.
Scene Three
Later the same day
From: Sally Howlett [mailto [email protected])
To: Fiona Lane [mailto [email protected])
Sent: Monday, 10 September 2012, 22.59.55 GMT
Fiona Freckle. Hello darling. Now, I know I say this all the time but I miss you. More than ever. Is there any chance of you coming back to London? Please?
Bah. I hadn’t cried today but now I’m bawling. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I suppose it’s still New York. Grief, anger, that sort of stuff. Having J turn up at my house last night didn’t help matters. Or maybe I’m just mental because of this stupid course. I HATED it, Fi. It was triple crap and I felt like such a big fat biffer.
The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me Page 6
