The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me (21 page)

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.

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.’

As the weeks passed, I did my best to forget about Julian’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.

I wouldn’t get too excited
, I thought, remembering what my school had been like.

‘But what
is
outreach?’ Jan kept asking, when we tried to plan it. ‘We do not have this thing in my town.’

‘I can assure you we didn’t have it in Stourbridge either. I think we just have to accept that it’ll be a disaster, Jan.’

After brainstorming several ideas we decided to use
Les
Misérables
as a starting point. Lord Peter Ingle was not so keen. ‘Very good,’ he said unenthusiastically. There was a pause. Then: ‘No. Very un-good.
Les Misérables
isn’t an opera!’

He said ‘
Les Misérables
’ in a proper French accent, which left me feeling like a bit of a tool. But I stood firm. ‘Trust me, to get them to sing at all will be a triumph,’ I told him. ‘
Les Mis
is as close as a musical’s ever going to get to being an opera.
And
it’s becoming cool again because of the
Les Mis
film coming out in January.’

Peter was unconvinced but when I explained that in my day it had been a thumpable offence even to join in the morning hymn at that school, he capitulated. ‘This may be more ambitious than I thought,’ he said ruefully.

Once we were agreed on
Les Mis
, Jan and I were able to put together a plan quite quickly. We were going to keep it very simple and had agreed not to put anyone in the spotlight unless they wanted to be there (that was my contribution). We submitted our plans to our college development centre and started to study the score of
Les Mis
.

In most respects, we were ready to go. But one thing remained outstanding, and it was keeping me awake at night. That thing was my family. Brenda and Patrick Howlett. Ramrod Hissing Woman and Pipe-smoking Doormat Man, as Barry called them.

Mum and Dad had all but cut off contact since I’d returned from New York a year ago. There had been a dreadful reunion in Stourbridge during which nobody had spoken: Dad had stayed behind his newspaper almost all night, clouds of uncomfortable smoke foaming out
over the top of the
Mail
, while Mum had been mute and, as far as I could tell, furious. It was as if she didn’t trust herself to open her mouth in case she spewed out abuse and blame, like molten lava. When I’d tried to talk about Fiona they had both been completely silent and I’d effectively conducted the conversation with the gas fire.

The next day, when I’d got out of the car at the station, more devastated even than I’d been when I’d arrived, I made one last attempt. ‘Come down to see me next time you visit Dennis and Lisa at CrateWorld,’ I offered.

‘We’ll see,’ Mum muttered. Her eyes were darting from side to side, as if she were afraid. Afraid of what? Of people seeing us? Of the town gossiping about what had happened to me and Fiona? Then, with a strange nod, she’d got back into the car and instructed Dad to drive off. I’d been stunned, standing by the station entrance with my wheelie case, face wan and waxy from days of crying. The truth could no longer be ignored: they blamed me completely.
They hated me
.

Mum didn’t call me again after that. She posted me some Tesco vouchers she’d saved from her Clubcard, and wrote to me when I got into music college saying, ‘Well done,’ but that she and Dad were very worried about the direction I was taking. That was it. If it hadn’t been for Dennis and Lisa grudgingly taking me in for the Christmas after New York, I wouldn’t have seen anyone from my immediate family in more than a year.

It would be easiest if Jan and I simply turned up at Stourbridge Grange, slept at the hotel Lord Ingle had put us in and never told Mum and Dad I was there. But that was a dangerous game. As far as I knew, Mum’s friend
Carol still worked as the school secretary and it would be only a matter of time before Mum found out we were there. And, anyway, I was sick of sneaking around. If they wanted to blame me, that was their business. No more hiding.

‘But your mum’s been a witch,’ Barry said, when I shared my decision. ‘She never calls you, just sends you supermarket vouchers, and there’s you dealin’ with all this shit about Fiona for a
year
. Why would you call her?’

‘Because I’m not going to be Mum’s scapegoat any more,’ I said, with more conviction than I felt. ‘I hate myself enough for New York. I don’t need them making it worse. If I’m in Stourbridge I should just bloody well be able to see them. They’re my parents, Barry!’

Barry nodded. ‘Onward, Chicken Soldier,’ he said proudly. ‘You’re damn right. Don’t you take no abusin’!’

‘I won’t.’

I wasn’t sure I believed myself. But I was willing to try. And as soon as I knew I was game, the quiet sense of courage – still so new to me – warmed my heart.

Unfortunately, the decision as to how and when to contact my parents had been taken out of my hands.

It was the day before our trip to Stourbridge and I was sitting underneath Jan in his narrow bed in Shepherd’s Bush while he held forth about the mid-section of his childhood. Jan loved telling me about his childhood and – perhaps luckily for us both – I was fascinated by the Hans Christian Andersen-ness of it all.

He was telling me about how his mother who, by all accounts, was a beautiful yet formidable woman, used to
sing English folk songs to him so that when he came to learn English he would have a head start. And then, quite casually, he broke off the story, peered into my face and announced, ‘And soon I meet the mother of Sally Howlett. I tell her her daughter is very beautiful and has great bottom.’

‘You won’t necessarily meet her,’ I told him. ‘Even if I do call her, she won’t be inviting us round for a cosy dinner. Trust me.’

I had told Jan that my relationship with my parents was non-existent but had not really explained why. Uncharacteristically for him, perhaps, he had never pressed me on this, but there was a lot about me that Jan still didn’t know. Even though I had been hearing his life story in daily instalments since we’d met.

But something in Jan’s furiously smiling, ever-so-slightly-guilty face was worrying me.

He swept his hair from his forehead. ‘Aha! Jan Borsos knows different things about your parents!’

My heart quickened. ‘Jan?’

His eyes gleamed. ‘I call your parents.’

‘NO! YOU MUSTN’T!’

‘Sorry, this is my English. I
called
your parents. It is done already.’

Anxiety howled through me.

‘I like you, Sally Howlett, and I want to meet your family. So I call them and I say, “Hello, it is Jan Borsos here. I come to Stourbridge with your child Sally Howlett and we help children at the school. Please we come for dinner at your house.” ’

I gaped.

Jan’s eyes narrowed. ‘She is battle-hammer, your mother.’

I was too shocked to say ‘axe’. All I could do was try to carry on breathing.

‘At first she was saying nothing, but then she says, “Yes, you come for dinner at our house. If you are with our Sally we want to meet you.” ’

I couldn’t believe it. Tears of panic pricked my eyes. Why couldn’t he have just kept a lid on it? Why did he always have to be so bloody
impetuous
? ‘Jan, I don’t think this is a good idea. You don’t understand the situation with my fa–’

‘No words! I will sing for them! They will love me!’

‘NO! You mustn’t sing! That’s the worst thing you could do. Oh, God, Jan!’

Why had he had to do this? Could he not have minded his own business? Just for once?

‘No, Sally, it is good. We arrive into the Stourbridge on Monday, we do workshop, then later at the six thirty hours we have dinner with your parents. Then we do more outreach workshop Tuesday and we go home to London. It is all perfect!’

I started to cry in earnest.

Jan dismounted and lay down next to me, staring at my face in dismay. He thumbed away a tear from my cheek. ‘What is the problem?’ he whispered.

‘I wouldn’t know where to start.’

‘You can talk to Jan.’

‘No, I can’t.’

Jan nodded thoughtfully. ‘Then I think it is best we have some sexing for now.’

Much, much later, as Jan slept with his hand flung across the pillow, Byron-like hair falling about his face, I snuck outside to the hallway to call Fiona. I’d not spoken to her for days and I missed her. As ever, I closed my eyes, as if to fool myself that she was there, next to me.

We’d had a few bad connections recently but tonight I could hear her as clearly as if she was crouched in the corridor at Jan’s halls of residence. And as soon as she started to speak I knew I’d be OK.

Fiona told me I absolutely had to go and have this dinner with Mum and Dad. ‘It’s time, Sally,’ she said. ‘Time for reconciliation. And selfishly I’m glad, because this mess is all my fault. I love you, Sal, and I want you to be friends with your parents. I’ve done you enough harm as it is.’

She ended the conversation by reminding me that Stourbridge Grange was a tough nut to crack, but if anyone could do it, it was me. ‘You and that bloody Black Country accent.’ She laughed. ‘They’ll love you.’ Then she disappeared, as she always did. She was impossible to pin down for long, even in New York.

It was only then, as I sat on the scratchy corridor carpet, leaning back against the cold wall, that I knew I’d be all right.

‘Thanks, Fi,’ I said to the empty corridor. ‘I love you.’

And so, even when the College Development Centre called us in to say that Lord Ingle had asked if a tutor could come up with us, and that the college had asked Julian Jefferson to go, I remained calm. Fiona wanted me to do this and it didn’t matter who was there to complicate things. In fact, it would be an advantage to have such an incredible singer with us.