‘Hello?’ called a man’s voice.
I froze. ‘Oh, sorry,’ I replied. ‘I was just stealing your –’
The door opened.
‘– candle,’ I finished guiltily, holding it out in front of me. I started to babble: ‘I mean, I wasn’t stealing it, I was borrowing it because my hair smells and I’m trying to go and meet the others in the café, and – Hang on, why aren’t you with them?’
The man at the door was almost certainly an artist. There were no fisherman’s pants or bandannas or anything, but his T-shirt was on inside out and back to front and his flies were undone. Plus his hair was only just the right side of monster. In spite of all those things he was very nice-looking.
‘Um, what?’ he said, after a pause. ‘What was all of that you just said?’
He had the strangest accent I’d ever heard. He was also amused.
I put the candle back on the floor. My face and neck were scalding with embarrassment.
I straightened up and faced him. Always own up when you’ve done something wrong, Mum used to say. Don’t you wait one minute longer, Sally! Do you understand?
I cleared my throat. ‘What I said was, I was borrowing your candle and I apologize.’ I paused. ‘Except I wasn’t borrowing it, I was stealing it, really, because knocking on the door was an afterthought.’
The man leaned against the doorframe, trying not to smile. ‘Go on,’ he said.
I gulped. ‘So, I’m very sorry about that. I’m not a thief. I’ve never stolen anything in my life. Except my brother Dennis’s He-Man, and I only stole that because it needed mending and Dennis wouldn’t let it go …’ I trailed off as the man raised an eyebrow. What in the name of God was I saying?
He put his hands into his pockets, waiting for me to continue. He’s trying not to laugh at me, I thought miserably.
‘Then I explained that the reason I needed a candle was that I wanted to wash and change because, well, I need to.’
‘Is that exactly what you said? I thought there was something about smelly hair.’
Something inside me began to die. ‘Oh. Um, yes. I said I have smelly hair. And then I asked why you weren’t at the café with the others.’ I hung my head. ‘It wasn’t my best greeting. I’m sorry. I’ll leave you alone now. Apologies for everything.’
For a minute, the man said nothing. Then he started to shake. And then it exploded out of him, a great tidal wave of laughter. He laughed and laughed, eventually bending double. ‘Please,’ he howled, ‘please don’t go! Come in! Come in this minute! I want to talk to you some more!’
Where was he from? He sounded as if his mother was an upper-class Manhattanite and his father was a shaggy old pony from Devon. Actually, that fitted the bill looks-wise, too.
‘Oh, no, I won’t come in, I’ve already bothered you enough …’ I shifted from one foot to the other.
The man began to recover, although he was still getting giggly shockwaves. ‘OK. But what are you going to do about your smelly hair? You’re still going out, aren’t you?’
I was keenly aware of not wanting him to know about my smelly hair. He watched me, all the time trying to do up the strap of his watch, which was partly held together with gaffer tape.
‘I wish I hadn’t said about the smelly hair,’ I blurted. ‘I don’t normally have smelly hair … We were sitting outside last night and everyone was smoking, that’s why.’
‘It was the most charming opening line I’ve ever heard.’
‘I’ve got better ones.’
‘Really? Tell me some. I can’t imagine a better opener than “I’m stealing your candle, my hair smells, and WHY AREN’T YOU OUT WITH EVERYONE ELSE?” ’
‘If you heard me the first time, why did you make me repeat it?’ I asked.
I had a dim awareness that this was called banter. It was not something I knew well but it was actually quite fun. And now the initial embarrassment had worn off I didn’t feel at all scared, like I normally did with gorgeous men.
Hmm. Yes. Gorgeous. He was really gorgeous. Even more so than I’d thought ten seconds ago, in spite of the hair (which, I noticed, was not just mad but also very fluffy). I should probably leave soon. Handsome men were not my area of expertise.
‘I asked you to repeat it because it was quite brilliant,’ he said. ‘Oh, crap.’ His watch fell to the floor.
‘Would you like a hand?’ I asked. ‘You’re not having much luck with that.’ I was keen to distract attention from myself. The man held his wrist out. It was a nice wrist. A warm, smooth wrist. I did up the watch and realized I had to go: I was beginning to fancy him. ‘Sorry about everything and goodbye,’ I said firmly. ‘I’ll maybe see you at the poetry café.’
The man’s brow was furrowed. He folded his arms across his chest, ignoring my farewell. ‘I’m sorry.’ He tried not to smile but failed. ‘I’m sorry … But where the fuck are you from? Your accent is crazy!’
‘Pot and kettle! You sound like one of those American chat-show hostesses mated with a shaggy old farmhand and gave birth to you!’
At this the man folded himself in half again and roared. I tried not to join in but it was hopeless. My accent was ridiculous. And his was even worse. We both roared, him with his fluffy hair, me with my smelly hair, a candle flickering between us. I had no idea what was going on but I felt radiantly, bubblingly good.
Eventually, we recovered and he asked me where I was from. ‘Oh. Stourbridge in England. It’s in the Black Country-ish, southernmost corner, sort of near Birmingham but –’
‘I know where Stourbridge is,’ he said.
‘Wow! Nobody knows where Stourbridge is. Especially not Americans!’
‘I grew up in Devon,’ he said, to my great surprise. ‘My mom’s American and I spent years here in Brooklyn. But my dad’s a … what did you say? A shaggy old farmhand? He has a farm in the Teign valley. Where I grew up. That’s why I sound so crazy.’
‘Oh! Well, I was only joking about your accent … But it was a good guess …’ I really did have to leave now. The man and I shared unusual accents but probably nothing else.
‘Julian,’ he said, shoving out his hand as I turned to go.
I took it. ‘Julian what? I’m Sally.’ I held his hand for a fraction of a second longer than necessary, looking him in the eye. What was wrong with me? I was as bold as a badger tonight!
He paused before answering. I wasn’t entirely surprised: he absolutely looked like the sort who’d forget his surname. ‘Um, Julian Bell,’ he replied eventually. ‘Do you want to come in? Please come in.’
I squinted at him through the gloom, wondering if he was one of those types who looked normal but was in fact preparing to bundle me into a sink and pickle me in vinegar.
‘Sure,’ I heard myself say. I moved past him and strode inside, wondering what on earth I was up to. My body had done this without any prior consultation with my brain.
The room was full of candles. The man, Julian Bell, shut the door behind me.
ACT FOUR
Scene Six
London, September 2012
From: Sally Howlett [mailto [email protected])
To: Fiona Lane [mailto [email protected])
Sent: Wednesday, 12 September 2012, 20.06.30 GMT
Fi, I found out today that Julian is my vocal coach at college.
I can’t do this, darling. I’m so sorry.
I’ve tried, because I love you, but I can’t go back there to study. It’s not my world, I hate being there and, most of all, I can’t cope with seeing Julian every day. He ruined my life, Fi. If anyone understands that, it’s you.
I’m going to talk to Brian tomorrow and explain that I can’t carry on.
I love you so much and I’m so sorry.
Sally XXXXXX
Scene Seven
The next day, London
Brian looked at me over his glasses. In spite of my overwhelming shame and sadness I still felt a great warmth for this man: a renowned opera s
inger who wore the same crappy three-pound reading glasses as my parents. On an old shoelace round his neck.
He didn’t say anything for a little while. I stared out of the open window to the Royal Albert Hall and felt the warm, heavy air moving sluggishly around me. We were having a minor September heatwave, which made my decision to leave college all the more difficult. Grey skies and a cold, dank building would have made it easy, I thought darkly. I could forgive myself for leaving this place if it was sensually depressing.
It was not. I could hear someone practising one of the Bach cello suites nearby and the sound was so beautiful I could have wept. The trees outside were rustling gently and sunlight slid slowly through their leaves.
I was bitterly disappointed in myself, standing there in Room 304: a room in which so many brilliant and dedicated singers had fought to train.
But I didn’t belong there. I didn’t deserve this daily view of the Royal Albert Hall and I wasn’t worthy of a moment of Brian’s tutelage. I was not special or brave enough to be there. More importantly still, I couldn’t breathe. Not with Julian Bell in the building. Or Julian bloody Jefferson.
After the workshop yesterday I’d fled, crying, and had holed myself up in the wardrobe with Carrot until Barry came back. I’d called Fiona but she’d sounded so distant I could barely hear her, which made it all the worse.
For once Barry had been utterly serious and for a good half-hour he’d sat in the wardrobe with me in grim and respectful silence. ‘Fucking Julian. The fucker, the fucker,’ he repeated quietly. ‘Fucker. He doesn’t deserve a job. Let alone one in a place like that.’
Later he’d ordered me a pizza (he even, quite valiantly, ate a slice of it) and together we had sat down to google Julian.
Julian Jefferson is a renowned American tenor, Wikipedia began. Julian – the smart, weird version – smiled out of the page in black and white, dappled sunlight on his face and soft-focus brickwork in the background. He was wearing a crisp, perfectly pressed white shirt (no sign of his faded, holey T-shirts) and his hair was in the same minging, smarmy long wavy style that I’d seen at my door and then at college. He looked confident and talented and masterful. Like his name should be Horatio. Clearly, he was still Julian, yet he was a million miles away from the man I’d once loved so madly.
Barry stared at the photo for a while, muttered something about him looking like a twat who ran hedge funds, then burst out laughing.
Distracted almost to insanity, I just watched him.
‘I’m sorry, Chicken,’ he cried. ‘But what the flamin’ hell is he playin’ at? Julian’s as fit as bugger, so why’d he want to ruin it all by gettin’ himself up like a long-haired Michael Ball? That hair! Oh, my days …’ Met by my anguished silence, he eventually stopped laughing and resumed looking sombre.
Who are you, even? I thought sadly, staring at the screen. Watching Julian teaching Violet Elphinstone yesterday had been like I imagined a bad acid trip to feel. Hearing all of those Italian terms and opera in-jokes – and watching him genuinely improve Violet’s aria in a mere hour – was both awful and surreal. Nothing I’d previously heard him say, nothing I’d seen him do, had given even the faintest suggestion that he was … this person. Julian Jefferson, the world-famous tenor with a substantial entry on Wikipedia. Someone who owned a Rolex and smart leather shoes.
Julian Jefferson YouTube, Barry typed.
I wanted to stop him because I knew I shouldn’t listen to Julian singing, but my voice stuck in my throat. I sat there, mute, watching several hundred Julian Jefferson videos load. Sighing, Barry plugged his speakers into my iPad, and we braced ourselves.
Julian’s voice travelled into my heart like an intravenous drug. It was incredible. As it began to spill out of the speakers, rich and warm and oddly familiar, I felt myself tense, shiver and give in. Helpless, I went to a place I’d not been to for more than a year, allowing that intense, perfect love to build up again.
It was as chemical, as visceral, now as it had been then.
The music continued. Barry and I were spellbound.
‘Um, Chicken,’ Barry muttered, after a minute or so. ‘Have you got a wide on? Because I think I’ve got a chub.’
I was speechless. Julian’s voice was otherworldly.
‘Motherfucker,’ Barry remarked, stopping the video. ‘He could at least be awful at singin’, hey, Chicken?’ He put his arm round my shoulders and squeezed hard.
‘He’s phenomenal,’ I breathed.
Barry pulled away from me and looked me straight in the eye. ‘Chicken,’ he said quietly. ‘Chicken, promise me you won’t go fallin’ in love with him again. Promise me. He’s bad news, know what I’m sayin’?’
Reluctantly – for this sensation of old remembered love was so pleasurable I wanted it to go on for ever – I shut down that portal in my head and drove myself back to Barry and to the facts.
Because the facts were simple: Julian had destroyed everything. Not just for me but for everyone. Our lives had changed irrevocably because of him, and for that reason it was essential that I leave college.
As suddenly as I’d been invaded by love, I was heavy with anger. His name wasn’t even Julian Bell. What other lies had he told me? And what other lies was he telling the college? Did they know they’d employed a criminal?
‘Oh, Sally,’ Brian said, taking off his glasses and polishing them absently with the corner of his shirt. He stared down at the piano keyboard, thinking hard. Then his steely grey eyes met mine again. There was a kind smile somewhere in them. ‘I just can’t accept this. I’m sorry, Sally, but you’re too good to lose.’
‘I’m sorry too,’ I said mulishly. I’d gone over this several times that morning; anticipated his responses and rehearsed my own counter-arguments. ‘I really am, Brian. But the simple fact of the matter is that I don’t want to be an opera singer.’
It might not have been the sole reason for my departure but it was true enough. Watching my coursemates over the last few days, I’d felt none of their determination or self-belief. None of their sense of destiny. They wanted to be opera singers and would move mountains to make that happen. I did not and would not.
Brian looked thoughtful. ‘The problem is, you are an opera singer.’
‘I’m not.’
‘No, really, you are. If I’m sure of anything, young lady, it’s that. Every single person who auditioned you reported that you had the purest, rawest talent they ever remember having heard. You can’t waste it.’
I shifted on to my other foot. I knew my script. ‘That’s really nice of you to say, but I’m happy to waste it. Sorry.’ I picked up my bag off the floor. ‘I’ll contact my scholarship people today. Organize paying them back. Brian, I can’t spend my life doing something I hate, especially at other people’s expense. They’re shelling out thousands for me! And think of all the other people who want to study here. Give them a chance.’
Brian slammed his fist on the piano keyboard. An angry, discordant sound filled the room and my heart quickened. I had never seen him lose his temper. Even when he was being angry onstage I always felt it to be of the Paddington Bear variety.
‘No,’ he said forcefully. ‘I said this to you on Monday. It was you we chose. Don’t you feel any sort of responsibility to yourself, Sally? What about your parents? What would they say about you wasting an opportunity like this? This is the Royal College of Music! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity!’
A deep sadness entered me. ‘My family don’t want me here either,’ I replied. ‘Trust me, they’ll be delighted.’
‘Why?’ Brian was truly angry. ‘Why in God’s name would they want you to leave?’
I felt my defences slam down. I didn’t need to stay here and have someone try to unpick my family. God knew I’d tried hard enough to do that myself. ‘Because they want me to do a proper job,’ I said simply. ‘They think this is ridiculous. Making a spectacle of myself.’
Brian looked astonished. ‘I don’t believe you.’<
br />
‘Well, believe me. I’m going, Brian. I am truly sorry.’
Brian sighed long and hard and I put my satchel on my shoulder. He looked out of the window, as if for inspiration. A large crowd of people were standing outside the Albert Hall, staring up and photographing. Their tour guide pointed and babbled.
‘Just have one lesson before you go,’ he said, turning back to me. ‘Let’s just do one lesson. You and me. It’ll be safe, nobody will hear you. Because that’s the problem, isn’t it? You don’t like singing in front of other people.’
I squirmed.
‘Sally, it was obvious from the word go,’ Brian said gently. ‘The only time I’ve ever heard you sing without fear was last year before you went to America. I caught you singing in the wardrobe department at seven a.m. when you thought everyone was hours away, and it was beautiful. But as soon as you had people watching you, you fell to pieces.’
I said nothing. I was too afraid of crying, which would not fit with the dignified departure I’d planned.
Brian looked thoughtful. ‘What is this fear?’ he asked. ‘Do you think it’s something we could work on?’
I shook my head.
‘Lots of people get stage fright,’ he continued. ‘There are things you can do. Exercises, techniques, therapy … Some people even use medication. But they deal with their stage fright because they’re worth it. And so are you, Sally.’
How could I tell him? How could I possibly explain why it was so important to me that nobody ever heard me sing? I barely understood it myself. But it had been with me since I was tiny and it was as instinctive as breathing. ‘I don’t want to perform,’ I said wearily. ‘I could maybe cope if I could just stand there and sing but you’ve got to … act. Do all of those stupid facial expressions and emotions. I can’t do that stuff.’ I remembered a phrase I’d heard at the Royal Opera House. ‘I’m more of the park and bark school,’ I added.
The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me Page 10
