He started forward, she saw. But somehow Teresa moved across his path, with a smiling word or two to him. And a moment later they were out of the room, and then out of the house and in Rod’s car.
She managed that her father went in front with Rod. And, by replying in no more than monosyllables to anything addressed to her, she contrived to give the impression that she was already half asleep. Even her good-night to Rod, though becomingly grateful and friendly, was brief. And the moment they were inside the house, her father said,
“Bed for you right away, my dear. I can see you’re beginning to get the reaction after this astounding evening. What you need is a good night’s sleep.”
“You’re right. It’s all been wonderful, but I’m suddenly almost dead.” Convincingly, she stifled another yawn, and her father laughed and kissed her good-night and watched her slowly mount the stairs apparently in the last stages of exhaustion.
But the moment she was alone in her room she tossed off her clothes and made ready for bed with a sort of desperate haste. She was alone! She was alone at last, with no need to pretend to anyone, and she sat down on the side of her bed and buried her face in her hands.
It had been the greatest night of her life — and the most shattering. Any small earlier triumphs paled into insignificance beside what had happened this evening. She had scored a sensational success before a knowledgeable and largely influential audience. The fact that Oscar Warren-der considered her worthy of his personal recommendation to Dermot Deane was some measure of the impact she had made. And Jonathan Keyne wanted her for his Canadian tour — if it ever took place.
That was something, wasn’t it? Six months ago she would have been mad with joy to be selected by Jonathan Keyne for such a tour. He didn’t have to be in love with her. Only a romantic fool expected to mix sentiment with a career. What was she agonising about? She had been made the kind of offer every artist dreamed of. And
here she was crying — she was surprised to find that she was crying — because the little bit of romantic gilt which he had added to the gingerbread probably had an ulterior motive behind it.
“Pull yourself together!” she admonished herself. “And try to grow a decently tough skin. This may not be the beginning of a great romance. But it could be the beginning of a great career.”
In the next few days she almost convinced herself that this was all that mattered to her. The reviews of the concert, when they came — on the Thursday morning, as Teresa had prophesied — were uniformly good, and in some cases so lavish in their praise of both the work and the soloist that, as her father said, “We couldn’t have done more if we’d written them ourselves!”
Again people telephoned from all over the place to congratulate her, and her friend Judy Edmonds even telephoned from London.
“Oh, Anna, bless you! You made it — you made it! You transported them. Remember what I said about that quality which you have?”
“I remembered all the time I was singing, Judy.”
“Did you really?” Judy was evidently immeasurably gratified.
“Yes. I just felt something rising within me, and I knew that was IT, and that I was crossing the line between a good performer and an artist. It’s a most extraordinary feeling, but thrilling!”
“I can’t wait to discuss it all,” Judy declared. “When am I going to see you?”
“I’ll be in London on Monday. Oscar Warrender is arranging for Dermot Deane to hear me on Tuesday or Wednesday.”
“Just say that again, will you?” Judy begged.
Anna did so, and there was a little squeak of excitement from the other end.
“Do you remember when you envied me just because I saw Oscar Warrender in the office and heard him talk about Jonathan Keyne? You’ve come a long way since then, Anna, and pretty fast.”
“Yes, I’ve been incredibly lucky,” Anna agreed earnestly.
“Not just luck! Years of hard devoted work behind it too,” Judy declared. “What is the latest news on Jonathan Keyne, incidentally? Didn’t he have something to do with your local festival?”
“Well—” Anna hesitated, unwilling to embark on that subject on the phone. Then she said virtuously, “Shouldn’t we stop now? You must be spending a fortune telephoning from London during the day.”
“It’s all right. I’m on the office phone — with full permission.”
“Isn’t that surprisingly generous of them?” said Anna in astonishment.
“No. We’re music publishers, remember. I just told them I was the best friend of Kenneth Fulroyd’s daughter, and suggested it might be a good thing for me to move in on the connection right away. It worked like magic.”
“Judy, did it?” Anna was almost awed as she saw what amazing vistas might be opening out for her father as well as herself. “How — how unbelievable life has become!”
“Well, tell me about Jonathan Keyne’s part in your unbelievable life,” Judy urged.
“Not now. I’ll tell you everything when I see you,” declared Anna. And if she had certain mental reservations about exactly what “everything” might mean, she found she was longing for a marathon talk with Judy once more. “Come to the flat on Monday evening and we’ll go out somewhere to eat.”
On that she rang off, and went to find her father, who was still poring over the reviews.
“I must take these all over to your mother this afternoon,” he said without looking up.
“Then I’ll come too, of course! I must see Mother before I go to London, anyway.”
So there was a happy and triumphant family discussion that afternoon, and for a few hours Anna almost believed that there was no cloud on her happiness after all.
She felt differently, however, when she returned home and the invaluable Mrs. Ford stated that two gentlemen had been there enquiring for her.
“Together?” asked Anna.
“Oh, no!” Mrs. Ford’s tone said clearly that each had obviously wished to see Anna very much on her own. “The first was young Mr. Delawney. He was disappointed not to find you, but said he would phone later and wanted you to drive to London with him on Sunday.”
“I can’t,” said Anna, immediately and rather defensively.
Mrs. Ford made no comment on that but, consulting a pad on which she had evidently made notes, went on, “The other gentleman said his name was Mr. Keyne. He was disappointed too, I think. He said to tell you he had to go to London this evening and he wanted to know where he could find you there. But I couldn’t tell him. That was when he seemed very disappointed.”
“It doesn’t matter, Mrs. Ford,” declared Anna airily and quite untruthfully.
“Doesn’t it?” said Mrs. Ford. “He was a nice young man.”
It was Anna who withheld comment that time. And when Rod telephoned later that evening with his offer of the lift to London she replied, with almost unnecessary firmness, that long car journeys tired her, and she would be going on Monday morning by train. She then told herself she was glad not to have to bother with either of them. And she almost believed that too.
When it actually came to leaving home she found there was a lump in her throat. During those long, anxious — and then wonderful — weeks she had grown very close to her father, and her home town would always now be the place to be remembered nostalgically as the scene of her first great triumph.
But once the good-byes had been said and the train was rushing her on her way, she found her thoughts were running eagerly ahead. To London, which she had always loved, and where Warrender and Dermot Deane, fresh work and perhaps further triumphs, were awaiting her. Jonathan too, of course. But she tried to pretend to herself that he represented no more than a possible further step forward in her career. Any personal feelings about him must not be allowed to enter into the picture.
When she arrived at the flat there were friendly greetings from the other girls. But her world was so far removed from theirs that their interest in her success was largely academic. They were slightly imp
ressed, it was true, by the fact that there was a letter waiting for her from the famous Oscar Warrender. But their reaction would have been much the same had he been a footballer of note or a disc jockey.
The letter — of no more than half a dozen lines — told her to be at the Carrington Studios once more the following afternoon at three o’clock, and Anna would have been less than human if she had not exulted in the thought of how much her life had changed since she last sang there.
Not until Judy joined her that evening was she able to describe at length for a passionately interested listener the experiences which had been hers in the months she had been away. They sat for hours in a small Italian restaurant, where the proprietor was indulgent towards young things who needed to tell each other their life stories.
Anna enjoyed answering most of Judy’s questions, and when inevitably the question about Jonathan Keyne was repeated, she was able to say in all innocence that he had indeed had a good deal to do with the Festival, since he was a special friend of Teresa Delawney.
“I didn’t see an awful lot of him until the famous concert when Dad and I made the headlines,” she explained truthfully, “but he was very complimentary then. In fact, he brought up the question of his Canadian tour again and, if it comes off, I think he wants me to be in the company.”
“What do you mean — ‘if it comes off’?”
“There’s some difficulty about financing it, I understand, and it may be necessary to postpone it for a while. Mr. Warrender says it would mean good experience for me if it does materialise, but that I mustn’t count on anything until it actually happens. Which is just common sense, of course. If Dermot Deane takes me on, it will mean that he will look for engagements for me, so it wouldn’t do to tie myself up too much in advance.”
“But surely you’d put the Canadian tour with Keyne before almost anything else, wouldn’t you?” exclaimed Judy.
And the moment that was said Anna knew how willingly — how willingly — she would do just that. The very idea of turning down that tour in favour of anything else was absurd. With the situation put in a nutshell like that, she saw her assumed indifference for what it was. Just a piece of silly bluff which did not deceive even herself.
“Yes,” she said slowly, “I suppose I would put Jonathan’s Canadian tour before almost anything else.”
“Do you call him Jonathan to his face?” asked Judy curiously. And when Anna nodded, she went on, “And do you call Warrender Oscar?”
“Oh, no!” Anna sounded genuinely shocked. “No one but his wife does that, I imagine.”
“I’m glad,” said Judy unexpectedly. “I don’t like it when the Olympians get all chummy with every Tom, Dick and Harry. It destroys their star quality, in my opinion. Though I shall still expect to call you Anna even when you’re a prima donna at Covent Garden!”
They both laughed over that, and fell into a happy mood of casting Anna in imagination for various Covent Garden roles, until Judy looked at her watch and said Anna had better have an early night, after her long journey.
“You’ll need to be fresh for tomorrow’s audition,” she declared. “And I expect you’ll be going to Madame Mar-burger in the morning for a bit of extra coaching.”
Anna said that she certainly was. And at last, reluctantly, they parted.
In spite of genuine weariness, it took Anna a long time to fall asleep. Not only did brilliant scenes from a possible future dance before her eyes, but her mind went back to unforgettable moments in the past; in every one of which Jonathan had been involved. Particularly she thought again and again of that first time she had gone to the Carrington Studios to sing for him. Well, at least this time he would not be there.
She was quite wrong, however. No sooner had she entered the studio that next afternoon than she realised there were three men waiting to hear her. Warrender, a
stout, knowledgeable-looking man she recognised as the famous Dermot Deane — and Jonathan Keyne.
Anna hesitated a moment and then walked forward, her heart thumping unnecessarily hard. Warrender introduced Dermot Deane. Then, as he seemed to think Jonathan’s presence required no explanation, Anna said as casually as she could,
“Hello, Jonathan. I didn’t know you were coming along.”
“Nor did I.” He smiled full at her in that compelling way. “But I ran into Deane this morning and he happened to mention this audition, and I explained I had a watching brief on your career and would like to come too.”
“A watching brief?” Anna permitted herself a look of some surprise. But Warrender cut across this unnecessary verbal exchange with the remark that they were all busy people and perhaps Anna would tell him what she wished to sing, as he was himself going to accompany her.
Oddly enough, this did not have the effect of putting Anna off her stroke. On the contrary, it stiffened her professional backbone. So she produced her music, had a word or two of discussion with the conductor and then went, completely relaxed, to stand in the curve of the grand piano.
“Turn to face me,” he ordered. “You aren’t yet capable of managing entirely on your own.”
She turned obediently so that she could see his handsome, expressive face, and was glad to find that this meant she need not look in Jonathan’s direction.
She sang a lesser-known aria of Handel’s, then one of Susanna’s airs, and finally Musetta’s Waltz Song, with which she had created such a good impression in this studio before.
Dermot Deane said nothing at all until she had finished, then he merely observed to Warrender, “Yes, I see what you mean.” And to Anna — “Do you sing any songs?”
“What sort of songs?” asked Anna doubtfully.
“Anything. German lied, French chanson — even an English ballad.”
“I sing Berlioz’s ‘L’Absence’,” said Anna obligingly.
“Oh, come! That’s quite a good test,” replied Dermot Deane, obviously a good deal amused at this modest way of offering one of the most difficult songs in the repertoire.
“I haven’t got the music with me.”
“I can sketch in the accompaniment, I think,” Warrender said. “What key?”
She told him and he began to play. Anna knew it was rash of her to attempt this song before such a knowledgeable trio. But when she took the magical rising phrase without a quiver, she sensed that they were all approving.
At the end Dermot Deane observed, “One could make a recitalist of her eventually.”
“Eventually, but not for a long time,” retorted Warrender. “That’s the last stage.”
“There are so few good recitalists today for a wretched manager to handle,” sighed Dermot Deane.
“Of course,” said Warrender coldly. “Every little warbler thinks she can choose her own party pieces, inflict them on the public and call herself a recitalist. They scratch the surface of one great song after another without the faintest idea of the real meaning. Don’t you dare push this girl into concert work yet.”
“Not against your advice,” Dermot Deane smiled. “Oratorio, I think, and some minor operatic roles if I can get her in.”
“She’s due for operatic roles with me in Canada early next summer,” stated Jonathan at that point.
“It’s not absolutely settled,” Anna heard herself say. And she suddenly felt sick as she saw the patent dismay in his eyes. She had not meant him to give himself away as badly as that.
“I thought it was a promise,” he said, and his tone was just the least bit harsh.
“Rather a lightly spoken one.” She looked coolly at him. “And that was before I knew I was to sing for Mr. Deane.”
“But, Anna—”
“I suggest we hold our discussions of actual engagements until I’ve got Miss Fulroyd under contract and we can talk on a proper business footing,” cut in Dermot Deane smoothly. “Can you come to my office tomorrow, Miss Fulroyd? — No, not tomorrow, I have to go to Paris. Say Thursday morning at eleven-thirty?”
“Yes, indeed
.” Anna spoke eagerly, and she studiedly avoided Jonathan’s glance.
Then Deane clapped Jonathan genially on the shoulder and said, “All right, I’m not going to sell her to any rival of yours. This is just business. Can I give you a lift? My car is outside.”
“No, thank you,” replied Jonathan. But Warrender said he was going Deane’s way, and before Anna realised what was happening, the two men had bade her good-bye and were going out, leaving her alone with Jonathan.
She gathered up her music with almost feverish haste, and made to follow them with all speed. But Jonathan’s hand on her arm — none too gently — stopped her, and his voice said rather grimly, “Just a moment. What are you playing at this time, Anna?”
“I’m not playing at anything! What do you mean?” She shook off his hand impatiently.
“You know very well what I mean. That promise was not at all lightly given. Nothing we said to each other in the car that night was lightly meant — or so I thought. Why have you suddenly turned round and played hard to get, both artistically and personally?”
“I haven’t—” she began. And then, with a cold shock of awareness, she realised all at once that this was the moment of truth. “It’s quite simple, Jonathan,” she said deliberately. “I just happened to find out why you really wanted me in your company.”
She wished he wouldn’t look so deathly startled. It made her feel almost sick again. But he recovered himself and said angrily, “I want you because you’re one of the best singers I’ve heard in years. Isn’t that sufficient reason?”
“If that were the only reason — yes. But there is another, isn’t there? I’m not quite so — dumb as you seem to think.”
He stared at her for a moment as though he could not believe he had heard aright. Then he flushed a dark red, like a schoolboy found out in a lie.
She waited, feeling horrible. And then, to her unspeakable dismay, he laughed and shrugged, as though they were dealing with something which could be dismissed as easily as that.
Song Cycle (Warrender Saga Book 8) Page 15
