I went over to my bolognese, avoiding his eye, saying nothing. It made me sad that everyone else had abandoned Fiona. What had happened in New York was dreadful, of course it was, but it angered me that nobody, not even Barry, was willing to keep lines of communication open. God knew Fiona had had a lonely enough life, especially now that she was out there in New York, miles away from her friends. Didn’t he care that she had nobody else?
Before I knew it I was crying into the bolognese, and Barry was holding a tissue in front of me.
‘It needed a bit of salt anyway,’ he reassured me, stirring the contents of the pan. ‘Sorry, Chicken, I don’t mean to upset you. If you want to stay in touch with Fiona, that’s your business.’
‘I miss the stoic old me.’ I sniffed. ‘I hate being so bloody emotional, Baz.’
We stood at the stove for a while in companionable silence, Barry stirring and me dabbing bits of damp tissue under my eyes.
‘Have you heard anything from your parents?’ Barry asked eventually.
I shook my head. ‘Course not. They hate me.’
‘What about Dennis and his wife?’
‘Meh. They’re still talking to me, but only when they absolutely have to. Mum and Dad are still acting like I don’t exist.’
Barry sighed. ‘Oh, Chicken,’ he said. ‘This Fiona business is going to tear your family apart if you’re not careful.’
I stirred the contents of the pan determinedly.
‘Perhaps you could try to take a little break from Fiona – just to patch things up with them,’ he added. His delicate features were colouring nervously.
‘Barry,’ I said sharply, ‘I shouldn’t have to patch things up with anyone. I didn’t do anything wrong.’
Barry got some plates out and put them next to the stove, ready for serving. ‘I know,’ he said quietly. ‘It was all that fuckin’ Julian’s fault. But your folks don’t see it that way.’
‘Indeed. They think it was all my doing.’ Anger glowed hotly in me. Nobody in my family was remotely interested in how I felt, or how hard this last year had been for me.
‘They don’t even care about Fi,’ I said angrily. ‘She’s out there, all on her own, and none of them give a rat’s. It’s as if she was just struck from the record. What’s wrong with them?’
Barry whistled bravely. ‘Bit of anger there, Chicken. That’s a turn-up, eh?’
I blinked, surprised. Barry was right: I was angry. Furious, in fact. Perhaps I’d grown tired of appeasement. Perhaps I’d had enough of taking the blame for everything. ‘Fuck them, Barry. They treated Fiona like rubbish. And now they’re treating me like rubbish. All they care about is who to blame!’
Barry was agog. ‘Did you just use the word “fuck”?’
‘Yes. And I’m not afraid to use it again.’
‘Steady on, Chicken,’ Barry said soothingly. ‘Here, let me plate up. You go and sit down an’ pour yourself a nice glass of wine. I don’t want you causin’ no damage.
‘Oh, my days,’ he muttered, as I took my seat on the sofa. ‘Chicken is fighting back.’
Scene Fifteen
The next morning, I arrived in the canteen, ready for my morning coffee and my chat with Norah at the tills, only to find Julian engaged in a jovial chat with her himself. He’d forgotten his hair product. His hair was still long and horrible but there was a distinct fluffiness to it. A distinctly familiar fluffiness that created an explosion of confusing thoughts as I watched him.
It was as if I was in the presence of Julian Bell for the first time since New York. There was still an air of Savile Row about him that I found absurd, but the Julian I knew felt somehow closer. The Julian I’d loved.
He bade Norah farewell, then wandered off to the hot drinks area, where I knew he would make a cup of Yorkshire Tea. I knew also that he’d smile as he made it, delighted by the abundance of proper tea in the UK.
He made a cup of Yorkshire Tea. A smile broke out across his face. I swallowed hard and glanced away. He looked about ten years old. He looked lovable.
Memories like this could not be indulged. Julian Bell was as good as dead to me. Clearly he wasn’t about to quit his job to make life easier for me; my best hope was to think of and call this person Julian Jefferson and disassociate him from my past.
‘For someone who’s meant to be enjoying shagging Hungarian tenors, you spend an awful lot of time staring at your ex,’ Helen observed, sliding through the canteen door. Me and my bottom had almost blocked the entrance.
‘Yeah,’ I said awkwardly. I felt I should defend myself but wasn’t sure how.
‘You don’t still fancy him?’
‘No.’
I really didn’t. At least I was certain of that.
‘Right.’
‘Right.’
Helen raised an eyebrow. ‘Well, Sally, I’ve really enjoyed our chat but I think I’m going to get some toast, if it’s all the same to you …’
I stopped staring at Julian. ‘Sorry, Helen. I really truly don’t like him any more but it’s still weird. Oh! You’ve had your hair done!’
Helen had had a fringe cut and it looked blinding. Her deep blue, slightly slanted eyes were now visible in all their delicate, feline glory. ‘See? You were so busy staring at him you didn’t even notice my hair,’ she crowed, triumphant.
‘Oh, go away.’
Helen made off for the breakfast counter. I hung back, wishing to avoid Julian’s eye and maybe shrink out of the door. But it was too late. He looked sideways at Helen as she appeared next to him, exclaimed, ‘Nice bangs!’ then spotted me lurking. He waved, in an awkwardly jovial way.
I nodded politely in his direction and was drowned by a tidal wave of Violet Elphinstone, all cute baker-boy hat and cosy unstructured cashmere jumper. As usual, she gave me an insincere sideways hug. ‘Morning, lovely,’ she said warmly.
‘Oh, hi, Violet. How are you?’
‘Fab!’ she replied, squeezing my shoulder and sliding over to Julian. ‘Hey,’ she said in a special lower, huskier voice. A voice that distinguished her from the other students.
I winced. As if any English person said ‘hey’.
‘Hey,’ he replied easily, failing to spot the flaw. He’d always seen the best in people, Julian.
Violet paused as he started loading a full English on to his plate, working out how to play him. If I’d learned anything over the last few weeks it was that Violet fancied Julian even more than the other girls did.
‘Oh, I love a good fry-up,’ she enthused, commencing the shovelling of sausages and beans on to a plate of her own. I nodded, impressed. Violet clearly didn’t enjoy a good fry-up at all, but she knew a good opportunity when she saw one.
‘Go, girl!’ Julian said, predictably impressed.
‘I’ll probably get really fat soon!’ She added two hash browns to show just how cool she was about that. No silly weight control here!
Julian tutted and fussed without using any actual words. He obviously wanted to say, ‘You will clearly never get fat because you are a total goddess,’ but of course couldn’t say that because he was her vocal coach. Violet looked totally unaffected but I could feel pleasure radiating from her like a noxious gas.
She threw on a pile of fried potatoes to seal the deal, then turned back to Julian, who was helping himself to toast. ‘Thanks so much for offering some one-on-one rehearsals, Julian. I’d love to take you up on that offer. At the moment I’m just barking that part like a dog!’ She was talking about her lead role in Manon, and reports were that she was sounding fantastic.
I sighed as Julian began his inevitable rebuttal. ‘Oh, come on! Barking it like a dog? You’re doing great!’
‘Oh, I’m really not … Perhaps we could do a one-on-one at the end of the day after rehearsals. I’ll buy you a drink after to say thank you. I need to hear more of that lovely little accent of yours, ha-ha!’
Julian spooned a hash brown on to his plate but missed and it splatted on the floor. He picked it up
, laughing amiably, but I could tell he was embarrassed. And anguished. He knew I’d heard Violet’s invitation.
‘Well?’ Violet asked, serving Julian a hash brown.
Julian baulked, his eyes flickering to me. I could almost hear his brain at work. ‘That’d be great,’ he said weakly, and I hated him.
I hated myself, too. It shouldn’t matter. He and Violet deserved each other.
Scene Sixteen
At lunchtime we had been called in for a special recital in the theatre. Nobody was entirely sure what it was about, but we had all been strongly encouraged to attend, in a life-or-death sort of a way.
As we queued outside the Britten Theatre clutching our sandwiches I found myself, rather unfortunately, next to Julian. But before my body started to tense I reminded myself I was in the presence of Julian Jefferson, a famous and very talented opera singer from whom I could learn a great deal. Not some turd from the past.
‘Hello,’ he said. He was smiling down at me.
‘Hi.’
‘I hear you’re making great progress with Brian.’
I squirmed. ‘Yeah. I suppose so.’
Julian watched me with those twinkly, mischievous eyes I’d encountered the night I’d met him. I wished he could turn them off and use normal, crappy eyes on me.
‘So, how are things with your parents?’ he asked. Just like that.
My heart missed a beat and my eyes swivelled down to my feet. I was stunned.
‘Oh, um, bad question?’ he faltered. ‘Erm …’
‘Bad question,’ I mumbled. How do you think things are with my parents, you twat?
Violet, who was in front of us, swung round. ‘You two know each other?’
‘No,’ I said.
‘Yes,’ Julian said.
I stared at him. Why? Why was he doing this? ‘Sally worked wardrobe at the Met last year,’ Julian said. ‘I met her then.’
Violet looked almost as angry as I felt.
‘Oh, fabbo,’ she said, with an icy smile. ‘Julian and I have had a few sessions in the pub recently and he’s never once mentioned you! Funny!’
A few seconds later she swung round again. ‘So how did you actually meet?’ she asked, unable to help herself. ‘I mean, surely you’re too important to hang out in the wardrobe department, Julian? And I thought you’d had a long break from singing?’
‘We met because Sally was trying to steal a candle from me,’ Julian explained comfortably. In spite of the situation, he dared to smile. ‘I decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. I offered her a Scotch and she said yes. Then she said she was lying and she actually wanted a glass of wine.’ He started chuckling. ‘It was very funny. Although you had to be there, I guess.’
The man had no shame! None! How dare he go all affectionate and start reminiscing?
‘Well,’ Violet was looking even more fed-up, ‘that sounds a bit weird!’
‘No, it was cool.’ Julian grinned. ‘Until Sally made me go to a poetry café. Ha-ha! She looks like a normal girl, Violet, but underneath she’s a really smelly old hippie.’ He laughed so much that he did a pig snort, then laughed even harder. He was helpless with laughter. For another terrible moment I felt as if I was looking right at Julian Bell again, love of my life. Stop it, I begged. Be a poncy coach. A singer. Anything. Just not Julian Bell.
‘HA-HA-HA!’ Violet roared unconvincingly. ‘God, that sounds dreadful!’ she added. ‘A poetry café!’
Before I knew it, I spoke: ‘It was awesome, actually,’ I told her. ‘We had an incredible time. One of the best nights of my life, in fact.’
I could have slapped myself. Why? Why did I have to compete with her? And using Julian as a weapon too.
Violet’s face, frozen temporarily with shock, was coming back to life. I didn’t like the look of it. ‘Talking of good times,’ she began, ‘I’ve heard a little rumour about you!’
Julian folded his arms across his chest. ‘Oh, yes?’ He grinned. ‘Has Sally set up shop offering spiritual poetry readings and massage oils?’
Violet tinkled with laughter. ‘No,’ she said sweetly. ‘What I heard is that our mutual friend here’ – I shuddered – ‘is having a bit of a thing with Jan Borsos!’
There was a terrible silence. Violet was triumphant, I was aghast and Julian was patently amused.
‘Really?’ he asked. His smile was cheeky and mischievous, and I hated myself for noticing that he was non-jealous.
As I worked out what to say I heard a jolly-sounding tenor singing arpeggios somewhere behind me.
It was Jan Borsos, fighting his way through the queue for the theatre. ‘Ah-ah-ah-AH-ah-ah-aaaaah, ah-ah ah, SALLY! BUON GIORNO! I am HERE!’
I turned as he got down on one knee to take my hand, which he kissed extravagantly.
‘I’ll take that as a yes, then.’ Julian sniggered. I shot him an icy glare, but my head was exploding. What should I do? What should I say? I didn’t want the whole college to know! (Why?)
‘Yes,’ I said, after a pause. I drew myself up to my full stunted height. ‘Jan and I are dating.’
‘FANTASTIC!’ Violet bellowed. It was the first thing she’d actually meant.
Julian watched me for a few seconds longer than was necessary, then shook Jan’s hand. ‘You’re a lucky man,’ he said, to a slightly confused Jan.
‘I know.’ Jan swelled to twice his size. ‘Sally is like a delicious sponge cake.’
Julian cried with laughter. ‘I’m sure she is, Jan. I’m sure she is …’
Violet butted in: ‘So does anyone know what this lunchtime thing is about?’
Jan was holding my hand proudly.
Everyone said, ‘No,’ apart from Julian, whose eyes were still watching me.
‘It’s just some fat old singer doing a recital,’ he said dismissively. ‘Nothing worth writing home about.’
At that moment the doors opened and we filed in. The Britten Theatre filled quickly; it seemed that not just the opera school but the entire vocal faculty had come. The theatre was buzzing with anticipation. I concentrated on eating my sandwich and quelling the nervous rumblings in my stomach. It was fine, it was fine. Of course I was shy about making Jan and me public. It had only been a few weeks! And of course it was weird to tell someone I’d once been in love with!
But it was out there now, and it would hopefully encourage Julian to back off and let me get on with my singing. Helen was on my right-hand side. ‘Any idea what this is about?’ she asked, scanning the theatre. ‘It’s rammed!’
‘Julian said it’s a “fat old singer”,’ I reported. ‘Nothing worth writing home about, according to him.’
Two seconds later, Hugo, the head of the opera school, walked on stage. ‘I had to keep the details of this event secret,’ he grinned, ‘because if word got out that this was happening we’d have been mobbed! I’ve been begging this man to sing for us for weeks and he has consistently refused, but I wore him down in the end. Ladies and gentlemen, it is my great honour and pleasure to welcome to the stage one of the best tenors in the world for his first recital in several years. Julian Jefferson!’
By the time the thunderous applause had subsided, and Julian, looking infuriatingly relaxed, had thanked us all for coming, my heart had begun to slow down. I concentrated on his chest because I knew that his hair was fluffy and I couldn’t look at that.
But then he started singing and everything went wrong. Because the sound coming out of Julian’s mouth was heart-stopping.
‘Oh, my God,’ Helen said weakly, when it was over. ‘Are you sure you don’t want him? Because, if not, I do. I’m prepared to call off my wedding, I’m sure Phil’d understand.’
I was still speechless. I shook my head. Only to hear Violet, over my shoulder, telling Ismene that enough was enough. ‘He’s been flirting with me for weeks,’ she said, in a stage whisper. ‘I’m going to bloody well get him tonight.’
Scene Seventeen
As the weeks passed, I did my best to forget about J
ulian’s extraordinary singing. I allowed myself to think of him only as Julian Jefferson, an exceptional opera singer we were all very lucky to have. Julian Bell was finally, thankfully, becoming an unpleasant memory. Which was lucky, because rumours started circulating not long after Julian’s recital that he and Violet had been seen arriving at college together in the morning.
It was hardly a surprise, yet it troubled me. I was having a very nice time with my mad boyfriend but the knowledge that they were seeing each other did, at times, seem to diminish what I had with Jan Borsos. (In my head, anyway.) Suddenly our wild (and very regular) sex, involving yodelling (from Jan) and sexual positions I’d never even heard of (possibly no one had ever heard of), felt juvenile and inferior. I imagined Julian Jefferson and Violet Elphinstone to have very grown-up, sleek, shiny sex. They’d dine in dimly lit Kensington restaurants rather than my kitchen where Barry would often interrupt our badly prepared meals by storming through in a thong doing split leaps.
I imagined them to have highbrow conversations about opera and music, whereas it was hard to get Jan Borsos to talk about anything for longer than a few minutes. One of the things I both loved and despaired of in him was his non-existent attention span: it was entertaining being around someone who wanted to discuss the British postal service one minute and his mad-sounding ex-wife the next – but sometimes, when I saw Violet and Julian walking down a corridor rapt in conversation I felt anxious about what I had. Was it enough?
I didn’t entertain these thoughts for long. Jan made me laugh until I cried and that, quite frankly, was an indispensable quality. He never made me feel anything less than good, while Julian had comprehensively ruined my life. Julian, however attractive and appealing he might seem, was dangerous and dishonest. Jan was mad and lovely. The End.
Shortly before Manon opened, Jan Borsos and I were booked in on our first outreach session for Lord Peter Ingle at Stourbridge Grange. Our workshop was to last two days, and if it went well, a further two would be offered. ‘And then we can look at rolling this out to other schools in the area,’ he said.
The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me Page 22
