The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me

by Lucy Robinson

  ‘Hi,’ Helen said minxily, walking over to the piano. ‘I’m Helen. I’m playing Musetta.’

  ‘I know,’ Dima said, breaking eye contact with Jan for a few seconds. Her accent told of exotic train journeys and vodka, which was just about all I knew of Russia. ‘It is pleasant to meet you and to be working on La Bohème. I have loved it since I was ten,’ she purred. Which must have been only a few weeks ago, I thought, taking her in. She was tall, much taller than Jan, and had slender limbs and cold, creamy skin with an elasticity and firmness I’d long forgotten.

  Jan Borsos came briefly to his senses, realizing that it was perhaps not optimal to conduct an unexpected reunion with his ex-wife in full view of Helen and me. ‘May we …’ he faltered. ‘Can we … have some minutes together, my friends? We were previously marriaged.’

  Helen smiled and nodded. ‘Take all the time you need.’

  Jan became aware of me again. ‘Sally,’ he said apologetically, grasping my hand. ‘I want you to meet my past wife. I was not knowing she is going to be here. I am surprised. I am also happy,’ he added, catching a dangerous flash in Dima’s eye. I didn’t much rate Jan Borsos’s chances in a fight with her.

  ‘Oh, this is your girlfriend,’ Dima said serenely. ‘It is nice to meet you.’ She held out her hand and, just like Helen, I walked to the piano to shake it. ‘Do not worry.’ She smiled. ‘I do not try to take Jan back!’

  I swiped the air, muttering things like ‘not at all’, even though it was very plain that she was here to do just that. I smiled almost politely at Jan Borsos as I left, knowing that I’d lost him. He was mesmerized.

  And the saddest thing was that I didn’t mind. Looking at his little face, ablaze with fear and excitement, I knew that that woman was his true match.

  I stepped outside into the corridor with Helen and she closed the door behind us.

  ‘Wow,’ I said.

  ‘Wow,’ Helen agreed. ‘So, that’s quite an issue for your relationship, eh?’

  ‘Oh, Helen, stop it!’

  ‘I’m just saying!’

  ‘I know what you’re saying.’

  ‘I mean,’ Helen countered, ‘she looks like she’s still keen on Jan, doesn’t she?’

  ‘Of course she is. This is Jan Borsos we’re talking about! Married, divorced, orphaned, all by the age of twenty-three. And then he walked across Europe with only one shoe. What’s not to love?’ I was speaking brightly, as if it were hilarious that we’d both witnessed Jan falling head over heels back in love with Dima in less than a minute.

  To my embarrassment and fury, I felt a tear come out of my eye, then another. Helen rubbed my arm. ‘Oh, Sally, they might not –’

  ‘No, it’s OK!’ I gasped, blotting my face with my sleeve. Helen handed me a tissue from her pocket but it did little to stem the flow. ‘I’m fine, I’m fine,’ I told her.

  And that was the problem. I was fine. It was OK. I’d woken up this morning with Jan in my bed, had lovely, slightly bonkers sex with him, eaten toast with him in my kitchen and giggled all the way to South Kensington on the Piccadilly Line. I’d walked into the college holding his hand. Then I’d walked into a rehearsal room and lost him.

  And while it was sad, it was completely OK.

  ‘He’s been there for me at a very difficult time of my life.’ I sniffled. ‘But I don’t want to sound like I was using him. I wasn’t, I adore him … He means a lot to me.’

  Helen handed me another tissue and put her arms round me. ‘I know, Sal. I’m glad he was there. And I’m sorry to wind you up. Jan Borsos is a gem and this is definitely a sad moment.’

  But as I began to pull myself together, she added, ‘Perhaps you could just send a quick email to Julian, though. No?’

  Scene Thirty

  ‘Ahem. A-huh. Arggh. We need to talk,’ Jan said. He was sitting on my living-room floor, poring over one of Barry’s ballet shoes. Barry had given Jan Borsos a ballet lesson earlier, much to my amusement. I had watched them both, the two most ridiculous men I’d ever known – both so very precious to me – and welled up a little, knowing that these silly evenings would soon come to an end.

  The last week since Dima had arrived had been odd, to say the least. Jan kept cornering me to tell me that everything was OK between us. That Dima’s appearance had been nothing more than a huge coincidence, rather than the carefully planned and expertly staged campaign that everyone else at college knew it to have been. Dima, it had been revealed, had split up with her wealthy Belarussian husband because she had realized she was still in love with her ex, one Jan Borsos. She had gone to Budapest to find him – rather than simply sending him a message on Facebook – and had been told he’d come to London. She had flown to the UK, wangled a visa, somewhat surprisingly, and had been applying for répétiteur jobs at the Royal College of Music since September.

  ‘SALLY!’ Jan hissed. He was kneeling in front of the sofa. ‘We must talk!’

  ‘Oh, Jan,’ I said sadly. ‘There’s nothing to say.’

  ‘What are you meaning? I love you!’ he said furiously. ‘It is true! I am loving you!’ He knelt in front of me and I realized this poor man – this poor boy, because that was what he looked like at that moment – was utterly shattered. His face was grey and his skin almost translucent.

  ‘Sssh,’ I said, interrupting him.

  Jan blinked, confused. ‘Do not stop me in anger,’ he whispered. ‘I am telling you things between us are OK, Sally.’

  I put my finger on his lips. ‘Jan.’ I smiled. ‘My lovely, funny, gorgeous Jan. I have loved every minute of our time together.’

  Jan sat back on his heels, listening for once in silence.

  ‘But, my darling Jan Borsos, you love Dima, and while I know how fond you are of me, it’s nothing compared to what you have with her.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. Jan, look at yourself in the mirror. You look terrible. I know a lovesick puppy when I see one.’

  Jan tried to fight me for a few seconds, then hung his head, defeated. ‘Maybe this is true.’

  ‘Definitely, Jan. I’ve been there in the room too. I can see the feelings between the two of you.’

  ‘I think you are right, Sally. I am sorry,’ he muttered. ‘I am so sorry.’

  ‘Don’t be! Seeing you and Dima reminds me of what love is,’ I said.

  ‘You have felt strong love before? Love that could melt a mountain?’

  I tried not to giggle at the metaphor. ‘Yes. I’ve had love that could melt a mountain.’

  Jan looked at me shrewdly, sitting back on his heels. ‘I am thinking you have had this love with Julian Jefferson,’ he said.

  ‘What?’

  Jan smiled, and took both of my hands. ‘Do you think I am stupid?’ he asked gently. ‘You see the love with Dima and Jan. I see the love with Sally and Julian.’

  I stared at him.

  ‘Our time in Stourbridge was … how do you say? … very fruity,’ Jan said, with a twinkle in his eye. ‘But I was having fun with my sexy Sally, I did not mind.’ He put his head to one side. ‘Why did you not tell me about Julian?’ he asked.

  I shut my eyes. ‘He was part of a chapter in my life I was trying to forget. He – he was there the night Fiona died. In fact, for a long time I thought it was his fault.’

  Jan nodded. ‘This has sense,’ he said.

  I opened my eyes to find him smiling. ‘I am mad,’ he said. ‘But, as I tell you, I am not stupid. You must go and find Julian Jefferson!’

  ‘I can’t.’ I looked down at my hands, trying not to sound too sad. ‘He said we need to call it a day. Too much water under the bridge and all that.’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Yes. His wife died, my cousin died, we both somehow ended up at the Royal College of Music and it was a disaster. He wants me to be happy here. He’s going to get on with being a singer again. It makes sense. But it’s shit.’

  Jan looked sad. ‘I want you to have a big great love,’ he said childishly. ‘I do not l
ike that it is finished.’

  I shrugged. ‘I guess my big love affair is going to be with La Bohème instead.’

  Jan sighed, deflated. ‘Pah.’

  I leaned forward and cupped his cheeks. ‘You are the most precious man I know,’ I told him. He smiled, a lovely, furious, silly Jan smile. I kissed him on the lips and he stroked my hair and then we hugged each other for what felt like hours. It was the loveliest goodbye I could have imagined.

  ‘Grow some testicles,’ he whispered, as we hugged. ‘Fight for him. Or send him an electronic message. I know you have enough testicles to be doing this.’

  After he’d gone, I had another cry, then sat down at my desk. I thought about writing to Julian, of course. I’d thought about writing to him often, but I knew I wouldn’t. Julian was no longer a part of my life.

  I wrote instead to my family. I knew the chances of them coming to London to watch an opera were slim, but I was game to try.

  Scene Thirty-one

  April 2013, three months later

  ‘Baby, baaaaby.’ Dima panted like a beautifully naff pop star. She had Jan rammed up against a wall and was kissing him vigorously, as she had been doing every day since he had given in.

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Jan muttered hungrily. He was her slave and very happy about it too.

  I walked on. Bloody everyone was in wild love. Helen and Phil had got married at Easter, Jan and Dima were performing live sex shows – or close approximations of live sex shows – in the corridors with gay abandon, and Barry had gone completely batty over a Canadian photographer called Teddy. He was literally manic all day long, and during the few moments when they weren’t together, he would sit in my room with a fake Elizabethan lute that he’d bought in Camden Passage, screaming Tudor love songs. He was in a ballet about the Tudors, although that did not excuse anything.

  I was not in love with anyone. No one I could have, anyway. And that was lucky because I was flat out rehearsing for La Bohème while trying to keep up with college work, plus handling my suddenly crazed housemate and trying grimly to build my relationship with my family.

  We’d continued our stunted weekly phone calls but our progress, if any, was slow, and they didn’t mention my forthcoming performance in La Bohème.

  I was doing my best with them, but it hurt. Maybe I had been wrong, again.

  ‘It’s probably for the best,’ Helen said, on our opening night. It was an hour before the beginners’ call and we were in the middle of warming up. ‘I mean, you’re so nervous you’re actually see-through, Sally. You don’t want your folks to have to watch you weeing yourself again. Oh. Sorry. Too close to the bone?’

  ‘HA-HA-HA-HA-HA-HA,’ I shouted hysterically. ‘HILARIOUS! YOU’VE MADE ME LAUGH. I FEEL LESS NERVOUS NOW. THANKS, MY LOVE!’

  Helen stared at me, nodding thoughtfully. She obviously hadn’t noticed until now quite how petrified I was.

  ‘Sally,’ she said slowly, ‘should we get you some drugs? Legal ones, I mean. I think you might be on the verge of a psychotic outburst.’

  ‘YesNoYesNoYesNo – ARGGGGH!’

  ‘Right.’

  She had a think and realized she had no idea what to do. ‘Um, we need to sort you out, Sally, my darling. Any thoughts?’

  I froze, trying to think. She was right: there was no way I could sing in this state. Everything I’d learned about courage had evaporated and I was left with insides like white-water rapids. ‘Jesus,’ Helen cried, catching the end of a terrified trump. ‘SALLY! We have to do something! You’ll kill Jan if you do one of those onstage!’

  Come on, think! I implored my pounding head.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ I muttered, after a short pause.

  Three minutes later, I started to breathe again. It was pitch black and I had four wooden walls close by. Everything was still.

  Once my pulse had slowed down, I closed my eyes. ‘Fiona?’ I asked into the darkness. ‘Freckle? Can you help me, darling? I’ve gone mad and I’m shaking and guffing and mostly frozen to the spot.’

  I didn’t talk to Fiona any more, not since Julian had helped me let her go. But right now, sweat turning cold on my back, I needed a sense of her presence and, what’s more, I felt it. Stronger than ever. It was as if her pale little hand was holding mine, down here in a wardrobe of umbrellas in the prop store.

  ‘Freckle?’ I said, into the small oblong of air. (How had I ever sung in a wardrobe?) ‘Freckle? You’re here, aren’t you?’

  Silence. A warm silence; something gentle and soothing.

  ‘Well, any advice welcome.’ I laughed nervously. ‘Feeling slightly alone at the moment. What with you mincing around in Heaven or somewhere, and our family as usual ignoring me.’

  I held on to my ankles as if they might run away. ‘Yeah, and there’s the matter of Julian,’ I admitted. ‘That’s all a bit shit too. The whole new-life thing.’

  I imagined Fiona frowning.

  ‘But I’m trying, Freckle, my God, I’m trying! Look how bloody brave I’ve been, rehearsing this thing! And trying not to care about Mum and Dad. I’m doing all right, aren’t I?’

  The silence swayed as if in agreement.

  ‘I did it, Fi, I became a singer!’

  I smiled into the silence.

  ‘I’m quite good,’ I added proudly.

  I could feel Fiona nodding agreement. Punching the air, maybe, with some customary swearing.

  ‘Um, but I’m still asking for your help,’ I said. ‘I wonder if you could make me brave again. I’ve kind of lost it today.’

  For a short while, there was nothing. And then there was a feeling so strong it seemed almost to have a voice.

  You are brave.

  You are so very, very brave.

  Look at you. Look where you came from and what you’ve been through. Look what you did! Look who you touched, who you helped. Look how humble you stayed through it all. You are remarkable, Sally Howlett. You are truly, wonderfully precious.

  It doesn’t matter who loves you. You love yourself now, and that’s enough.

  You can do it!

  For a moment I stayed absolutely still, absorbing her words. An image of Julian sprang to mind, helping me step out of my wardrobe. His insistence that I could do it on my own, that I didn’t need to carry on hiding, talking to Fiona.

  What came next was one of the most extraordinary thoughts I’d had in my life.

  That hadn’t been Fiona talking. It had been me.

  And it had always been me.

  That small voice of courage, of self-belief: it was mine!

  I leaned back against the wardrobe wall, giddy with astonishment.

  My voice! My strength! I’d just made it sound like Fiona’s voice because I’d never believed I was big or strong enough!

  But I was strong enough. Somewhere, deep within me, there was a little pocket of trust. Of courage, dignity and determination. It didn’t come from Fiona or Julian or Carrot or my wardrobe. It came from me!

  You can sing Mimi bloody brilliantly, the voice said. Get out there and do it!

  I climbed out of the wardrobe. I was going to bloody well nail this performance.

  And nail it I did. My voice wobbled fearfully on my very first line, which didn’t matter anyway because I was pretending to be freezing cold and candle-less in a pitch-black building. But I dipped back into that pocket of strength and my voice came back stronger than ever. Jan, transformed as Rodolfo, smiled with absolute pride as he opened his front door to me, the Mimi who might never have happened.

  The performance was a blur. Before I knew it, I was bowing and people were cheering and my heart was in my throat and I could barely breathe for joy and relief and pride and exhilaration. ‘You fucking did it! WE fucking did it!’ Helen screamed, in my ear. ‘RAAAAAH!’

  Just as we stepped back for the curtains to close for a final time, Hugo, the head of the faculty, walked onstage. Amid the euphoria I registered a mild sense of irritation: I was looking forward to the curtains closing prope
rly so we could all jump up and down and scream and hug and hump each other.

  Hugo had been rambling on for a couple of minutes when I realized that the audience had started cheering again and the cast had started gasping and hugging each other. ‘SHIIIIIIIT!’ Helen was crying. ‘SHIIIIIIT!’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘For God’s sake!’ she said, as the curtains closed for the final time. ‘Didn’t you hear any of that?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘We’re going to do a summer exchange with the Juilliard!’ she hissed. I looked blank but Jan’s face was exploding. ‘We perform in NEW YORK!’ he yelled.

  ‘AT THE FUCKING METROPOLITAN OPERA!’ Helen screamed. ‘OH, MY GOD! WE’RE DOING A PERFORMANCE AT THE MET! THE METROPOLITAN FRIGGING OPERA!’

  I stared at them. Out of the corner of my eye I could see Hector the ginger bouffant having some sort of a faint, then Noon grabbing Summer and snogging her hard.

  ‘WHAT?’

  ‘The Juilliard is one of the world’s most prestigious performing arts schools, Sally, you IDIOT, and they’re based at the Lincoln Center WHERE THE FUCKING MET IS. WE ARE DOING AN EXCHANGE WITH THEM. THEY PERFORM THEIR OPERA AT THE ALBERT HALL AND WE PERFORM OURS AT THE MET. AT THE FUCKING MET.’

  She paused, wild-eyed, staring at me.

  I stared, wild-eyed, right back at her.

  ‘You mean, I –’

  ‘YES! I MEAN YOU ARE GOING TO PLAY MIMI IN LA BOHÈME AT THE FUCKING METROPOLITAN OPERA HOUSE!’

  ‘Oh, my God,’ I croaked.

  Helen laughed, then started to cry. ‘We are performing at the Met. We are performing at the Met. We are – oh, my God …’

  After a lot of screaming and more champagne than was advisable in the middle of a run of performances, I slid out of college, strangely deflated. It had probably been the best day of my life, yet there was still something missing. Specifically, my family. I hadn’t expected them to come, or even to acknowledge my letter, but the certainty that everyone was now off to the pub to meet their proud families stung just a little too much.