The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (20 page)

I was so lost in my thoughts that I didn’t realize we’d been driving across Manhattan for nearly half an hour. Julian had been tapping away on his phone for ages, an endearing scowl of concentration on his face. From time to time he muttered things like, ‘I hate smartphones.’ Or ‘Cocking technology.’ Or just ‘Grrrrrr.’

‘Where are we going?’ I asked. I felt dazed, as if someone had held my head under water for ages. I had to sort this out. Fiona’s life had completely taken over my own.

Julian grinned. ‘Aha. Nearly there.’ We were crawling along Central Park South, a fact I was rather proud of knowing.

‘We’re heading towards Columbus Circle,’ I said matter-of-factly.

Julian just laughed at me. ‘Oh, you’re ridiculous,’ he said. He leaned over and kissed my nose. ‘Wait a few more minutes and you’ll see where we’re going.’

I’d never seen myself as ridiculous. I was normally called things like ‘a rock’ and ‘nice’ and ‘steadfast’. ‘Ridiculous’ was a bit odd. A bit out there.
But why not?
I asked
myself, with what I thought was probably an impish grin.
Who says I have to be sensible?

A few minutes later, we pulled up outside the Lincoln Center. The plaza’s beautiful fountains leaped up in huge columns of twinkly light and behind them the Met stood proud, its immense arches blazing. Hundreds of feet swarmed towards the entrance and, behind the towering glass windows, hundreds more moved and climbed. I fell out of the taxi, wobbling like Julian’s badly made Angel Delight. I’d never been out here at this time of night when the audience was arriving. A deep thrill crackled up and down my spine. I imagined the singers warming up for … What was on tonight? Ah, yes.
L’elisir d’amore
. Dannika Welter would have finished her vocal warm-up now and would be pacing the corridors, loosening her shoulders.

‘Are we … Are we going to the opera?’ I breathed. I sounded like a mad toddler.

Julian spoke in a bad, pseudo-Black Country accent. ‘We most certainly are, bab!’

I didn’t even care that he was taking the piss out of me. ‘Oh, my God!’ I breathed. ‘Oh, my GOD! You got us tickets for the
MET
?’

Julian laughed. ‘I was a bit worried you’d be disappointed. What with working here and all. But you look like you’ve been sniffing glue.’

‘I feel like it!’ I squeaked. ‘ARGGGGH! The Met! The Met! The Met!’ I pumped the air with my fist and Julian called me a mad hamster and I half glided, half flew across the paved circles of the plaza. ‘Arggggh,’ I repeated
ecstatically. ‘Arggh, the Met, the Met … Thank you thank you thank you thank –’

But Julian had put a hand over my mouth. ‘Sally,’ he said firmly. ‘Shut up. It’s my pleasure. I know how much opera means to you.’

I looked at him sharply, suddenly afraid that Fiona might have said something about my wardrobe singing, but he looked perfectly innocent. So I skipped on, trying to imagine what Dannika Welter would be doing right now. And promptly decided to forget about her. I wanted the pure pleasure of being an audience member. I wanted to drink in the red carpets and spiky chandeliers and mingle with the posh people in the Grand Tier restaurant. I wanted to stare excitedly at the lush velvet curtains as I waited impatiently for the orchestra to strike up.

I stood in the vast, soaring foyer and wanted to cry. Ringing with a thousand voices, the Met ploughed on around me. ‘I’ll go and pick up our tickets,’ Julian smiled, ‘and you can carry on standing here, looking like a wide-eyed baby.’

He wove off into the crowd, then came straight back and kissed me. ‘I can’t help it. I’m completely in love with you.’ He left me again.

I texted Julian to say I’d be at the bar and wandered off up the stairs, drinking in every detail. I stared at the audience members, the champagne, the posh crisps, the uncomfortable high heels for those who’d made the effort. I stared at handbags, up at the vast ceilings and out at the plaza below.

Giddiness quieting my usual inhibitions, I watched a fabulous-looking woman – a sort of American Helen
Mirren – with a sexy silvery crop and some very cool black-rimmed glasses. I admired her elegant neck and diamond drop earrings. Her rough but probably very expensive poncho wrap and her air of total composure.
What a brilliant woman
, I thought.
I bet she has some lovely sprawling house in Park Slope full of books and paintings. A confident, cultured, clever American woman, who knows about wines and stuff. I wish I knew her
.

Sadness overtook me. This woman, eating canapés at a little table, reading the programme and sitting with complete ease in a theatre bar, was the polar opposite of my mum. I imagined Mum, in her best outfit, hunched and angry, judging everyone around her and complaining (at a whisper) to Dad about how much a packet of crisps had cost. Mum would never go to the opera. She would never go to New York. When I’d called home yesterday she’d torn strips off me because she had also been contacted by the Royal Ballet and was furious with Fiona.

Poor Mum
, I thought, rather to my surprise.
Poor Mum, never letting herself do anything. Never allowing herself to try anything new
.

‘Sorry,’ Julian said, appearing at my elbow. ‘The tickets weren’t there. I just need to call the person who actually booked them for me …’

‘Sure.’ I smiled gratefully at him and carried on watching the woman. She took out a mobile and broke into a wide smile when she saw who was calling. ‘Darling!’ I heard her say.

‘Hi, Mom,’ Julian said, next to me.

‘Are you here?’ asked the woman at the table.

‘I’m at the Met. Um … are you?’

I looked slowly round at Julian. He was standing facing slightly away from me, impossibly handsome in his old soft shirt and jumper. I looked back at the woman, who’d stood up and started scanning around her.
His eyes. She had his eyes
.
And that delicate freckled nose
. My senses slowed down.
She was Julian’s mum
. ‘I’m at the bar on the second level,’ she said. ‘Where are you?’

I stared in amazement at her face. And back at Julian, who was saying that he was also at that bar, and what was going on? Why was she there? I saw them spot each other, saw Julian’s mum break into a naughty little giggle. Julian registering shock and surprise, then shaking his head as if to say,
I might have known!
And before I even had time to be nervous, I was being swept towards her by her beaming, clearly very amused son.

‘You’re very naughty, Mom.’ He grinned, allowing himself to be pulled in for a big hug.

‘I am,’ she agreed, standing back to appraise him. ‘You look lovely, darling. So handsome. In spite of the unironed sweater,’ she added affectionately, picking off a bit of fluff.

Julian pretended to ignore her but was patently delighted. ‘Mom!’ he said, shaking his head again. ‘You’re so bad!’

‘Stevie Bell,’ she said to me, pinning her steely blue eyes on me. ‘And you’re Sally. What a great pleasure!’

I shook her hand, saying how funny that she’d turned out to be Julian’s mother because I’d just been watching her and was thinking how elegant and fabulous she looked. Stevie was delighted. ‘See?’ she said to Julian. ‘I told you she’d be fine. He said it was too soon for us to
meet,’ she explained to me. ‘And I told him, “OK, son, I’ll leave the tickets at the box office.” But then I changed my mind. A woman’s prerogative, so butt out,’ she said firmly, in Julian’s direction.

‘She very kindly got us the tickets,’ Julian said, sliding his hand into mine. ‘Cos they’d sold out and Mom’s brilliant at knowing people. But I told her she wasn’t allowed to come.’

‘Well, you’re a meanie,’ I told him, at which Stevie cackled delightedly.

‘Quite right, darling,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got a seat right next to you kids, so no making out, please. Shall we get a drink?’

‘Yes!’ I said. ‘And we can compare notes.’

‘Oh, God.’ Julian sighed. ‘This is worse than I thought.’ But he was pleased. ‘Can I leave you two alone while I go to the bathroom?’

‘Of course,’ we said in unison.

‘Shit,’ he muttered, sloping off.

Stevie cackled again, a glorious, velvety sound, and linked my arm. ‘May I buy you a drink, Sally?’

‘No, Mrs Bell, you may not. I’m buying you one. It was very kind of you to get the tickets. I really love this opera!’

‘Darling. If you call me Mrs Bell, I’ll have to throw my purse at you and I’d really rather not. I’m Stevie, OK?’

I giggled. ‘Roger.’

‘No, darling. It’s Stevie.’ Her eyes twinkled. She’d known what I meant.

‘Well, Stevie, what are you drinking?’ I was rather impressed with myself, remaining calm and ungabbly. But
I’d been the same when I’d met Julian. Perhaps it was just a Bell thing.

Stevie had a scan of the drinks list. ‘Will we have cocktails, Sally?’

‘We will.’

She smiled, a rather radiant-starlet smile. ‘Julian hasn’t stopped talking about you,’ she said. ‘My poor boy has been through a lot, and it really is so wonderful to see him happy.’

I froze momentarily, waiting for the inevitable follow-up.
So if you hurt him, I will tear you apart and feed you to my dog
. But it didn’t come. ‘No vulgarities,’ she added, as if reading my mind. ‘I’m not here as a henchman. I’m here because I trust Julian’s instincts and wanted to meet you. That’s all.’

I floated to the bar. Stevie was
fabulous
. I had worried, vaguely, that if I ever met the
mom
that Julian was always on about she’d look at me, with my dumpy little figure and shire-horse-tail hair and think,
Oh, God, my boy’s lost it
.

I still didn’t know anything about Julian’s deceased wife but he’d tell me about her when he was ready. But that hadn’t stopped me worrying that she had been everything I was not: tall, thin, beautiful and talented; an Ivy-Leaguer who knew about wine and could make puff pastry rather than buying it from Iceland.
But Stevie doesn’t look remotely disappointed
, I thought happily.
She likes me. Already!

I felt dizzy as I approached her with two glasses and a confident smile. I barely recognized my life, these days. I didn’t have much money and my family was still a big mess. I had never owned a serious handbag or eaten caviar (Barry had told me it was fish poo) but right at this
moment I was truly happy. I was
me
. I was out in the world, not drawing attention to myself but not hiding either.

And as Julian arrived back from the loo, giving his mother another big hug and giggling with her about something, I realized I was madly in love with possibly the best man on earth.

I cried during the curtain call, of course. I always did when I went to see an opera, even if it was an absurd, happy nonsense of a show like tonight’s. I cried because I loved the music so much, and because every opera felt so incredible to hear. I cried because opera reminded me of who I was and made everything in the world dance.

Julian, on one side of me, handed me a tissue. ‘You do totally love opera, my little douche,’ he said. ‘Don’t you?’ I nodded, snorting into the tissue, and tried to wave an apology to Stevie, who was on my other side.

‘Not at all.’ She smiled, putting her glasses back on. ‘I never believe anyone who says they don’t like opera. They just don’t understand it, that’s all. To love opera is to really know it. And you really know it, don’t you?’

Bell senior and junior were watching me with interest. ‘A lifelong passion,’ I said vaguely, as an undignified thread of snot escaped from the tissue. ‘Oh, God! Sorry!’

Julian sloped off to get some toilet roll, telling us he’d wait at the main entrance.

‘I like you,’ Stevie said, as we descended the final staircase. ‘And I don’t mean that in a regal sense. God knows
I’d support anyone who made my boy happy. But I do, Sally. I like you. I think you’re good news and you seem pleasingly straightforward.’

‘Don’t be fooled. I’ve got my stuff.’

‘Oh, darling, come on. Haven’t we all?’

Slightly amazed, I challenged her, telling her she was surely the sort of woman who had everything under control, always.

Stevie smiled, somewhat sadly, I thought, and watched her son come down the stairs. ‘Don’t
you
be fooled, my dear,’ she said softly. ‘I’ve made mistakes. I’ve made some colossal mistakes. As does any mother who loves her baby.’

‘He seems to have turned out pretty well,’ I said.

Stevie sniffed – a split-second weakening – then straightened. ‘He’s completely himself with you,’ she told me. ‘And you have no idea what a relief that is.’

Julian – relaxed, mildly fluffy – was nearly with us. I didn’t ask Stevie what she meant.

‘
YOU NEVER DID
.’

Barry stopped stretching and stared at me. I shifted from one foot to the other.

‘I kind of did, actually.’

‘
YOU MADE THE SEX WITH THE HUNGARIAN?
’

‘Well, yes.’

‘How many times?’ Barry’s face was cracked in two with amazement.

‘Quite a few, to be honest. We’ve been on three dates and I’ve … we’ve … Er, I can’t stop, Barry. It turns out I like wild sex a lot more than I’d thought.’

Barry shook his head dazedly. ‘Oh, my days,’ he said. ‘Oh, my
days
. Chicken is getting regular sexings with a Hungarian dwarf.’

‘He’s not a dwarf! He’s just shorter than me.’

Barry looked pointedly at the top of my head. ‘Shorter than you, Chicken, is pretty fuckin’ short.’ I frowned. ‘You’re like a little Shetland pony, my girl. Without all the
fur. Although you do have that little Shetland pot-belly thing going on –’

‘SHUT IT!’

‘Sorry, Chicken!’ Barry was giggling. I was not.

‘Barry, seriously. Enough about my weight.’

We both paused, surprised.

He peered at me. ‘Chicken, are you well?’

‘I’m fine. I’m just a bit over the comments about my weight. Can you put a sock in it, please?’

I hadn’t known it would be so simple to stand up for myself.

‘I most certainly can put a sock in it, Chicken,’ he said, getting up off the floor where he’d been stretching. ‘And I offer my deepest apologies, I didn’t realize I was upsettin’ you.’

‘Imagine how you’d feel if I told you you were fat,’ I said, going back over to the cooker where things were bubbling.

Barry paled. ‘I think I’d die,’ he admitted.

‘Exactly. Just because I’m not a ballet dancer it doesn’t mean I don’t care about my weight. I do. I’m just not very good at keeping it under control.’

Barry helped himself to a carrot from the fridge. ‘I’m only ever joshin’ you anyway,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’

I smiled forgiveness and Barry topped up my wine glass. He held it out to me. ‘Chicken, I want to propose a toast to you. You’ve been at that college for just three and a half weeks but you’re turning into a right little firecracker.’

I batted him away. ‘Oh, don’t be silly!’

‘No, you listen up, my girl. First, you’re having all the
sex with the Hungarian. And now you’re all like
telling me off
. And cooking proper dinners rather than eating that shite from cheap supermarkets. You’re like a grown-up!’

I added some wine to the bolognese in the pan and stirred it in. I liked what Barry was saying and, actually, he had a point. Not only was I doing all of the things he’d said but I’d also recorded the stupid sanitary-towel advert without dying or passing out.
And
I’d applied to audition for the British Youth Opera in January, which would mean singing for a panel of real-life people.

But the biggest achievement of all was that today I had sung outside my wardrobe. Finally, after a year of deep, stagnant awfulness, the confidence I’d found in New York was straggling back in. Slowly, painfully, but it was coming. And it didn’t rely on Julian Bell.

‘Well, blow me DOWN!’ Barry yelled, when I told him I’d sung outside the wardrobe. ‘BLOW ME DOWN!’

We toasted and drank until he wandered off to take a call. Rather to my annoyance, I found myself thinking about Julian.

Julian, like me, seemed to have found his stride at college and just about everyone was in love with him. It infuriated me to see him chatty and quippy and sharp. As if he were a decent sort of a man, rather than a selfish, dishonest shit and probable drug dealer.

I made myself think instead about Jan Borsos.

Jan Borsos was completely crazy and I was enjoying our fling very much. So much, in fact, that I seemed to be spending most nights having bizarre and magnificent sex with him. Last night he had taken me to the Gay Hussar where he made me eat
kacsasült
and other dishes whose
names were even less pronounceable. His scholarship money had finally come through so he not only paid the bill but then snuck me sideways into the Dean Street Townhouse where he had booked a surprise room for the night. It contained a bed the size of a stable. Jan insisted that we had sex on every inch of it and yodelled several times.

He was the best thing that could have been happening to me right then.

I sat down and called Fiona while my bolognese bubbled. I suspected she would be very pleased to hear about me and Jan Borsos.

She was. She shrieked with mirth when I told her about last night in the hotel. ‘It’s all down to you, Fi,’ I told her. ‘I wouldn’t be doing any of this if it wasn’t for you. You and your sodding
seize the day
! It’s made me very brave, you know.’

Fiona was telling me that I could think again if I thought I was going to blame her for my filthy exploits with a young Hungarian, but we were interrupted by Barry. I’d had my eyes closed and hadn’t heard him come in.

‘Chicken?’

I sprang up guiltily, ending the call. Fiona had had to get used to me abruptly terminating our conversations.

‘Who are you talking to?’

‘No one.’

Barry looked sad. ‘Oh, Chicken. You have to stop calling her.’

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.’