The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me

by Lucy Robinson

  I tried to unzip the blue dress, too embarrassed to ask for help, but the shop assistant almost rugby-tackled me to stop me doing it myself. ‘No no,’ she cried shrilly. ‘Clients do NOT unzip themselves!’ Pink spots had appeared on her cheeks.

  Between her and Violet they decided that I should buy the gold dress, which I’d tried on first, and I gave in because I couldn’t take another second of listening to Violet talk about Julian.

  ‘YAY!’ Violet squealed, as we left the shop with a huge cardboard bag. ‘Happy days!’

  ‘Happy days,’ I echoed weakly.

  ‘Enough about me and Jules,’ she said brightly. ‘How are things with Jan?’

  ‘Um, good, I think.’

  They were good. Jan still seemed to want to have sex at least three times a day, and he was still noisy, chaotic and at times insane, but he was funny, charming and sparky, and when my head wasn’t running off on worrying tangents, I was pretty sure we were actually very happy indeed.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Violet was watching me with forced concern.

  ‘Yes, sorry. I was miles away.’

  ‘If you and Jan are having problems you can always tell me.’ She simpered. ‘It’s important to talk about these things. I mean, if anything went wrong with Jules I’d be totally devastated. I’m falling for him big-time.’

  She smiled, embarrassed, and blushed into her Hermès scarf. I realized she was serious.

  ‘Violet, you’re beautiful,’ I said sincerely. ‘Julian would be totally insane to leave you.’

  ‘I hope you’re right.’ She bit her lip, and I felt a wave of genuine sympathy for her.

  I resolved to respect her and her relationship. She had not treated me very well but that didn’t mean I shouldn’t keep my side of the street clean.

  Nonetheless, I thought now, standing in the girls’ dressing room at college, Violet was a total fucker who deserved to be stabbed with a sharp stiletto. The fat golden banana dress was appalling.

  The door opened and someone’s head popped round. ‘Oh,’ said Julian.

  ‘Oh,’ I said, relieved I’d not yet unzipped myself.

  Julian gaped at me. ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘What the fuck is what?’

  ‘Sal! What is that dress? Who did this to you?’ He was dangerously close to laughing.

  I found myself struggling to keep a straight face. It was funny, really. ‘Your girlfriend did this to me, as it goes.’

  Julian’s eyes widened. ‘Violet lent you this dress?’

  ‘No. Violet made me buy this dress.’

  Julian’s hand went to his mouth but not in time. Laughter spilled through his fingers like water. ‘It’s dreadful!’ he howled.

  I shrugged, grinning ruefully. ‘She doesn’t like me much, Violet.’

  ‘I think you may be right. Is this for Lord Ingle’s concert?’

  ‘Sure is.’

  ‘Here, let me help,’ Julian said, moving forward to unzip me.

  I caught my breath as his hand touched my neck. ‘No, I can do it, thanks, Julian.’

  ‘Sorry, yes.’ Julian moved away from me. He was still laughing. ‘Oh, Sally.’

  ‘Hmm,’ I said, wriggling my top over my head so I could slide the dress off without exposing myself.

  ‘Right,’ Julian said decisively. ‘Let’s go shopping. I am going to sort this mess out.’

  I looked at him in the mirror, weighing up his proposition, which felt both appealing and dangerous. Julian had a great eye for clothes – I still owned the lovely blue dress he’d bought for our final-night party in New York – so I knew I’d find something nice with him in charge.

  I also knew that my heart was hammering at the thought of going shopping with him. Which meant that it was a bad idea. Briefly, I hated myself. What was wrong with me?

  ‘Thanks, but I’ll be OK,’ I said firmly. It took every ounce of strength I had.

  ‘Oh, Sal, come on.’ His face softened and I saw a flash of need. ‘There was something I wanted to talk to you about.’

  ‘LET HIM HELP YOU,’ Helen shouted, bursting suddenly from the toilet.

  ‘Er, Helen?’

  ‘Sorry. I was stuck in there with constipation,’ she explained. Julian laughed. ‘He’s right, Sally. That dress is disgusting beyond words. Let him take you shopping.’

  Julian’s eyes sparkled with amusement.

  ‘Well?’ Helen was looking ominously at me.

  ‘Let me help you,’ Julian repeated.

  I had no more fight in me. ‘OK.’

  He left while I got changed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ I hissed at Helen, who was unzipping me with a triumphant grin.

  ‘I’m looking after your best interests.’

  ‘You’re doing nothing of the sort. And you just told Julian you’re constipated.’

  ‘I took one for the team. Do this,’ Helen ordered. ‘Just do it. Jan will probably be grateful. He won’t want to sing next to you tomorrow night if you’re looking like a twat.’

  Scene Twenty-six

  There are some people with whom your body works. With whom you fall into stride without trying; with whom you’re warm when it’s cold; with whom you always feel the right size even if you feel the wrong size everywhere else.

  As I walked along Old Brompton Road with Julian, the bitter wind biting at my face, I remembered that my body worked perfectly with his. We talked as we walked – mostly about safe topics like next term’s La Bohème – and it was only when I heard a woman with a rock-hard bouffant complain that the streets were too packed that I realized we’d been manoeuvring expertly through dense crowds of people without even knowing it.

  Light bled on to the pavements from Knightsbridge’s shops and restaurants, accentuating the laughter lines around Julian’s face. I felt an alarming urge to touch the soft, delicate skin by his eyes. My stomach twisted itself in knots just thinking about it.

  He can’t make you happy, I reminded myself desperately. Too much has happened now. But it wouldn’t go away.

  This could not be repeated, I thought. Ever. We’d go shopping, I’d take myself home for a serious word. Even if I didn’t care enough about myself I owed Jan some bloody respect. Not to mention Violet. Julian’s laughter lines belonged to her.

  A few minutes later, we were standing outside Harrods.

  ‘Harrods?’

  Julian smiled, holding a door open for me. ‘Harrods.’

  ‘But I can’t afford a dress from Harrods! I’ve already spent a fortune on the banana!’

  ‘Trust me, Sal.’

  ‘But –’

  ‘I said, trust me.’

  I followed him in.

  Some of the sparkle of this secret mission faded, which was probably a good thing. What was I going to find in Harrods, other than another round of expensive, middle-aged dresses? Perhaps Julian was not the clever sartorial expert I’d imagined.

  We arrived on the third floor and Julian started weaving expertly through the concessions, chatting easily about nothing in particular. He clearly knew where he was going. I clearly did not. I did feel certain, though, that we were on the wrong floor. This stuff looked wildly expensive.

  ‘Aha! Here we go.’

  I looked up at the sign above us. Hannah Coffin.

  ‘I read about her in a magazine Mom had,’ he explained. ‘I thought she was an amazing designer and I thought you’d look lovely in one of her dresses. You’re not meant to wear a stupid ballgown, Sally, but you have every right to wear something fit for a red carpet. Such as, I dunno, this.’

  He pointed at a total knockout of a dress: floor length, chalk-coloured and embellished from head to toe with the most exquisite delicate beading. I drank it in, every tiny little detail, and felt slightly delirious. It was beautiful – stunning, in fact – and, to my astonishment, I could actually see myself wearing it. ‘Oh my God! That’s a fantasy dress! I could never afford it!’

  ‘At least try it on. And, Sally, you of all p
eople should know that this sort of thing is called a gown. This goes way beyond dresses.’

  I stared longingly at the ‘gown’. Maybe I could look fabulous on stage tomorrow night. Maybe I didn’t have to look like a fat banana. ‘But hang on.’ I dragged myself back to reality. ‘Surely I should wear a satin shocker? Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?’

  Julian stopped browsing. ‘Sally. You’re supposed to start singing lessons when you’re six and get Mom to drive you to all the singing competitions. You’re supposed to march into opera school and tell everyone how great you are, and who you’ve sung with, and what you’re in next. Did you do any of that?’

  I shrugged.

  ‘No, you didn’t. You sidled in looking terrified, not even knowing what a semiquaver was. You had no names to drop, no dresses to wear and you fell apart if anyone so much as looked at you. Why would you want to start doing the same thing as everyone else now?’

  I chewed my little finger anxiously. Wasn’t the whole point of opera school just that, though – to learn how to fit in? From day one they’d hammered into us that we were being trained not just to be the best singers in the world but to know our highly competitive industry inside out. We were meant to be developing the most impeccable CVs, the most professional audition techniques, the most rounded repertoires. Surely we were meant to get our wardrobes in line, too.

  ‘Stop eating your pinkie,’ Julian said gently. ‘There’s no rulebook. You can only do what feels comfortable. Otherwise, what’s the point? Your singing might be great, but you’ll just be a dick.’

  And so, for the second time that day, I gave in. It was seven thirty p.m., we really didn’t have a great deal of time left, and I wanted to hear whatever Julian had to say to me. ‘OK. Find me a dress in which I won’t be a dick.’

  Julian picked three gowns before sending me to the changing rooms. I hardly dared look at them, they were so beautiful. They were so heavily beaded that they weighed almost as much as I did, but I knew that if I was wearing something this stunning I’d have no trouble singing. I felt like royalty already.

  And then the assistant brought me Louboutin heels to try them on with, and a scarf to protect the dresses from my crappy makeup, and pooled the dresses on the floor for me to step into, and talked about getting them hemmed by the Harrods tailor overnight and I began to lose the plot. This was like something that happened in bloody Hollywood.

  ‘I used to be a wardrobe mistress,’ I said dazedly, as she moved round me, shifting and tucking and smoothing. ‘I should know how to do this. But I …’

  I was kind of lost for words.

  The first dress, a vivid pink trompe l’œil gown (which Julian said he’d seen Emilia Fox wearing on a red carpet) was incredible. As the assistant fitted me into it I gasped, remembering that I was not fat and ugly, like the banana had suggested, just curvy and maybe even a bit pretty. ‘Stunning,’ grinned the sales assistant.

  The second, a floor-length black version of the chalk gown, was a knockout but I wasn’t quite sure about wearing black onstage. Julian agreed. Just to wear it, though, with those beautiful expensive heels, and my own dedicated assistant sliding around doing clever things to make it look even more extraordinary, was like nothing I’d ever experienced.

  ‘What’s going on in there?’ Julian called.

  The sales assistant fitted me into the third dress – the chalk-coloured gown – and when I looked at myself in the mirror I thought I’d cry. ‘Julian …’ I called, awed. The sales assistant let him in, then disappeared. He stood behind me, taking in my reflection. He smiled – a lovely, shy sort of a smile – knowing as I did that it was perfect. His eyes came slowly back up again and I knew I had to look away, but couldn’t. Time passed, memories fluttered and I forgot the present. Just for now the only two people breathing were him, lovely, handsome Julian Bell, and me, Sally Howlett, the beautiful woman he’d helped me realize I was.

  ‘You are perfect,’ he said. His eyes were bright with a pain I couldn’t quite understand.

  ‘Julian …’

  ‘You are perfect,’ he repeated. ‘And I want you to know that, whatever happens, I will never forget you. I will never forget us.’

  ‘Julian?’ I turned round, confused. ‘Why are you saying that? What do you mean?’

  He looked at me for a few seconds, some sort of conflict playing out in his mind, then shook his head, smiling slightly. As if to say, Ignore me.

  I couldn’t. Neither could I pretend any longer: we’d crossed a line in my wardrobe that night. A line that could not be erased or forgotten.

  ‘Julian …’ I began softly.

  ‘No.’ He backed away. ‘Sally. Remember what we said. Let go of the past.’

  My breath caught in my throat. ‘I did. I let go of Fiona. But I don’t think I can let go of … of …’

  Tears shone in his eyes. ‘No,’ he whispered. ‘Don’t do this to yourself, Sally. We both had to move on.’

  Before I knew it he had pulled me into him. He hugged me so hard I thought I’d stop breathing, but before I had time to enjoy it he’d pulled away. ‘I’ll wait outside,’ he muttered. ‘You look sensational.’

  When I emerged five minutes later, Julian was nowhere to be seen.

  ‘He asked me to tell you he had to go,’ said the sales assistant. ‘But the good news is, he bought you the gown!’ She pushed a big, beautiful bag across the counter towards me with a folded note on the top.

  This is from Mom, not me. After seeing you at the Royal College she gave me some money and instructed me to get you a proper dress. She also asked me to say, ‘Don’t mess with me, Princess – it’s yours. With love, Stevie.’ Julian xx

  ‘Your boyfriend is rather amazing.’ The sales assistant smiled. ‘So handsome! And so generous! You must be madly in love with him!’

  I took the bag and smiled bravely. ‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I am. That’s the problem.’

  Scene Twenty-seven

  The next day

  Another envelope. Another letter addressed to me in Julian’s handwriting. Only this, I knew before even opening it, was the very worst sort of a letter. I slumped against the wall by the college noticeboards, looking out at the flat, grey sky, and wondered how I could have let this happen.

  Dearest Sally

  By the time you read this I will be on a plane back to New York.

  I handed in my notice almost as soon as I started working here, because I could see that my presence was causing you too much trouble. I wanted you to be able to learn and grow without being reminded of your past every five minutes.

  I promised Hugo I’d see out a term but after last night I’ve realized that even by seeing out my notice period I’m making it worse for you. I looked at you, standing there in that dress, and I loved you more than I ever had. But I could see that you were wondering if you felt the same and that’s when I knew I had to go, even if it meant missing the last day of term.

  I can’t cause you any more confusion. I don’t want to ruin your relationship with Jan Borsos. And I don’t want to get in the way of what is without doubt going to be a wonderful singing career. I just want you to be happy and to get on with your new life. I am part of a past that you have to leave behind.

  I know that because, like you, I’ve lost someone I love. I know what it takes to move on.

  Over the last twelve weeks I have watched you blossom, and become the person you were always meant to be. You have overcome so much, Sal, and have done it with such dignity and courage – you absolutely blow me away. Tonight I will think of you singing in that dress, and I’ll smile as I hear all of the applause and cheering. I will feel even more proud than I do now.

  I hope that you will be brave enough to agree that it’s for the best that we don’t remain friends. I think contact would be too confusing.

  You and I could have been awesome together, but life had other ideas. So let’s get on with our new lives. Let’s celebrate who we are and what we taught each other.
>
  Let’s start a new chapter. A new act!

  With all my love,

  Julian X

  ‘Sally.’

  It was Helen.

  ‘Hello?’

  I looked back out of the window and wondered blankly where Julian had bought such nice writing paper.

  ‘Oi!’ Helen was beginning to look concerned. ‘Is anyone in there?’

  I handed her the letter. Helen looked down at it. ‘Oh, shit,’ she said quietly. She took my hand and began to read Julian’s note. When she’d finished she hugged me for a very long time. ‘You do understand what’s going on here, don’t you?’ she said.

  I did not. I had no idea about anything any more.

  ‘La Bohème,’ Helen said, clarifying nothing.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘La Bohème,’ she repeated. ‘You two are bloody Rodolfo and Mimi. You meet in some ridiculous rooftop apartment. You fall in love on the spot. You go off to some wanky art café and fall even more in love. You start a relationship and then he leaves you because he thinks he’s bad for your health. I mean, hello?!’

  I gave the matter some thought and saw that – as usual – Helen Quinn was bang on. ‘Wow. That’s insane.’

  Helen nodded.

  ‘But what happens next, eh?’ I asked her weakly. ‘Mimi tracks down Rodolfo to give it one last try and then she dies?’

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘So I guess he really does mean it,’ I said sadly. ‘He really is trying to set me free.’

  ‘I suppose so. But, oh, God, Sally, that sucks. You and he were meant to be.’

  ‘Apparently not.’ I placed the letter carefully in my satchel.

  Jan came barrelling along the corridor, singing scales. ‘HELLO, hello,’ he sang, patting my bottom and giving Helen a big smile. He barrelled off towards the canteen, full of energy and good humour.

  I watched him go and tried to pull myself together. I’d done enough crying in this corridor over the last three months. ‘Well, then,’ I said, taking a long, shaky breath. ‘I suppose I’d better get on with my new life.’