A very nice girl, p.24
A Very Nice Girl, page 24
I’m so sorry I’m late – I said, and then, with forced brightness, I found myself chatting on about the Director and rehearsals and Angela’s trip, trying to delay the moment where she’d want to hear me sing. She interrupted me.
Anna – she said. – What’s going on?
Nothing. What do you mean?
I mean you don’t sound ill to me. Manic, yes, but not ill. I was expecting you to come in here with a streaming cold. So what’s wrong?
Weakness meant being left behind in this industry. I knew that. Asking for help meant saying you couldn’t do it.
I don’t really know – I said. – I don’t know what’s wrong. It just doesn’t feel right.
Ok, well let’s see. We’ll warm up very gently. See where the voice is at.
I took a couple of breaths, tried to relax into the familiarity of the practice room. This wasn’t a frightening scenario. We’d spent hours together in this room, working on my voice, and Angela had heard already everything it could do. There was no reason to be scared.
She ran me through some exercises. At first it was ok, and she made reassuring noises while I sang – fine – good – that sounds great. But then I started to think about the people walking past the practice room, how bad the sound-proofing was because the building was listed, and how they could all hear me, imagining ears pressed against walls and eyes at window slits to watch. I tried to get back inside my body, inside my voice, to steady the quiver in the sound – to imagine the breath as an expanse of water in the dark, its surface unrippled, but I couldn’t make myself see it. Instead, the images that flickered across my eyelids were random, uncontrolled, irrelevant – Spitalfields Market that evening, and him saying – what do you like? – the heart on my stomach, still there, it wouldn’t wash off – the earrings I was wearing, the ones he’d given me – like two lanes of traffic, these images on one side, and on the other, the sound, me scrutinising each note as it came out, turning back to look at it, to think – why wasn’t that right? What was wrong with it? – and Angela wasn’t saying anything now, she was just looking at me, and then there was a thickness to the voice. Something between my throat and the sound and I couldn’t dislodge it, and panic descended on me, like a persistent rain, so light at first you barely notice it until you’re soaked, and I stopped.
I’m sorry – I said. – I – it doesn’t feel right.
Ok – said Angela. – It’s ok. Well, look, Anna, honestly I can’t tell too much from what I’ve heard. It doesn’t sound to me like there’s anything seriously the matter, but you’re protecting it, aren’t you? Not singing out. We’ll get you to an ENT, of course, just to be sure, and then – well, when are these performances? Two weeks? I’m wondering if we can get away with not telling Marieke just yet. If we can get you to an ENT first and see what we’re dealing with. Because assuming there’s no real issue – it’s just a technique blip we can sort together straightforwardly, maybe quite quickly – it seems silly to risk her pulling you out, and—
I don’t want to – I said.
Don’t want to what?
I don’t want to go to an ENT.
Why not?
Thinking about the energy, the movement, the effort, the struggle it would take to deal with. Something wrong with me or something not wrong with me. It didn’t much matter. The result would be the same. Picking myself up, starting over, hours of work, of sacrifice, all leading me to a future of uncertainty, of – no thanks, try again next year. It was insanity, this life.
What do you mean you don’t want to, Anna? This is your livelihood. You have to—
It’s not.
What?
It’s not my livelihood.
Hearing the dull, sad truth of my words, I said them again – it’s not my livelihood. I barely earn anything from it. I pay more to do it than I earn.
Angela’s next student arrived.
Give us a minute – she said. – Can you wait outside? Anna, do you have rehearsals today?
Yes. Now.
Well, you should go, because you’ve already missed a week, haven’t you, and I don’t want you getting into trouble. Mark if you can, and we’ll talk afterwards, ok? Call me.
Ok.
I’d picked up my bag and turned to go, when she said – what does your man think about all this?
About all what?
Well, about how you’re feeling?
I don’t really know – I said. – Nothing, I don’t think.
Then Angela’s next student was peering in through the glass to see if we were done, so I left.
You promise you’ll call me later? – she said.
Ok.
I was late to the rehearsal, and the Director was angry.
Bit of professionalism wouldn’t go amiss, sweetheart – he shouted, as I made my way down the aisle, through the sad emptiness of the stalls, the ghosts of audiences past.
Rodolfo, Marcello and Mimi were already onstage. My cover was there too. She went and sat in the front row, score in hand.
Tavern scene – the Director said. – Yes, that’s right. Remember what opera you’re in, dear? Well, get up there then.
The argument. We’d sketched it out a few weeks ago. We started. None of them were marking, so I couldn’t either. Marcello began to accuse me of flirting. You don’t own me I’m meant to be saying I can do whatever I like, but he seemed too close to me and, at the same time, much too far away. Loud, and I could barely hear him. I couldn’t hear my voice. I couldn’t hear the piano. I could control nothing. It was like those dreams where you have to run and your legs don’t work, and Marcello had his hands on my shoulders, shaking me, and then the Director was shouting – stop, stop, everybody stop.
I could see Frankie looking at me, and I avoided his eye.
Well, great acting, sweetheart – the Director said. – Great acting. But – and believe me, it really fucking pains me to say this – but this is opera, you know. The audience is here more for your pretty singing than anything else, ok? Marieke won’t like it if you compromise on that, even if it’s a fucking Oscar-worthy performance. So let’s not have that emoting thing get in the way of the voice like that, got it?
He realised at the same time as me, and with exactly the same horror, that I was crying for real.
Christ – he said. – Let’s take five. Take five and pull yourself together. My rehearsal room isn’t a safe space, sweetheart, ok? I’m not going to make this safe for you. I frankly don’t have fucking time, ok? Anyway, any art that feels safe isn’t worth creating.
Mimi looked delighted. Frankie put his arms round me. I tried to hide my face from the light.
Any art that feels safe isn’t worth creating – the Director said again, ponderously, after a pause. – That’s good. You can write that down if you want.
The rest of the rehearsal happened and then it was over. Afterwards, I couldn’t remember much about it, because when we started up again, the fear – the fear that was stopping me, I’d thought, from getting inside my voice, from reaching that thing in the centre of me that gave it weight and colour and meaning – gave way to something far more frightening. I suddenly thought – this indefinable thing at my core – this thing I’ve always believed about myself – well, maybe it doesn’t exist. And then there I was, standing on stage, singing – and I must have been singing something, though God knows what, because no one had stopped me – pulling off and discarding layers of myself, trying to get hold of this thing of value, finding nothing.
When it was over, I went to get my stuff, and Frankie said – not coming for a drink?
I knew that I should. I should go and be chatty. Say – God, that rehearsal was a fucking car crash, how embarrassing. I’m so hungover – or something, anything. Make a joke of it, like someone who knew that it was a one-off and was confident it would all be fine tomorrow. Or, at the very least, I should go and sit there in silence. Be there, so they couldn’t talk about me.
No – I said. – I’m going home.
Are you ok? You seem kind of off today.
Off?
Yeah, you seem stressed. Come and have a drink.
I shouldn’t. I should rest. I’m still ill.
Sure – he said. – Up to you.
I watched him head towards the other singers. They were solid and real, and I was dissolving.
Then I was on the Tube. People all squeezed close together, pretending not to be. People sneezing. People biting their nails and putting their hands, still glistening with spit, back on the pole. People coughing into their shoulders. Sweat beads on temples, smudged mascara, dandruff on collars, air vibrating with the potential for contagion, the germs of London mating and mingling together, smeared on plastic and glass. I tried to hold my breath, not to touch anything, and then I was standing on the corner of his street, breathing in metallic air, the men in suits swerving round me, like I was an object in their way – a lamppost, a postbox – or like they hadn’t seen me at all.
It was Friday, but I knew he had a meeting the next morning, was still in London. As I walked towards his building, I called him. He didn’t pick up.
I called him again. It rang and rang and rang.
I called him again, and then I called him again.
No thoughts, just that I had to hear his voice, I had to see him, he must make me real.
I called him again.
I stood on the street, outside his building, the noises out there too loud, the traffic, the sirens, the helicopter circling somewhere overhead.
I walked in. I walked past security, they didn’t stop me – so they can’t see me either, I thought – I went up in the lift. I banged on the door to his flat. No one answered.
I called him.
I banged on the door again.
I stood there, thinking I couldn’t go back out there, I couldn’t, I’d have to sit on the floor here, wait for him, however long that took. But then I banged again, and he opened it.
Anna – he said. – What the fuck?
He looked awful, like he hadn’t slept in days, eyes ringed with red and skin so pale it was like you could see the skull underneath.
Why are you here? – he said. – We didn’t have plans.
I’m sorry, I – can I come in?
I’m really not in the mood for this sort of thing – he said, and I remembered how cold his eyes could be.
For what sort of thing?
For the sort of thing I imagine someone who’s called me fourteen times out of the blue has turned up to say.
Please – my voice cracked. – I haven’t come to say anything, I promise. I just wanted to see you.
For a moment, I thought he was going to tell me to leave, but then he stood to one side, and I went in.
It was a mess. Drawers in the cabinet open, papers all over the floor, like he’d been looking for something and given up. Contents of his bag tipped out on the table, crumbs and receipts and coins spilling over onto the carpet. Takeaway containers littered on the kitchen counters, leaking their juices.
He ignored me, and went back to the sofa. His phone was on the table, flashing with my calls, next to a bottle of whisky, a glass, wet rings where he’d picked it up and put it down again, overlapping, superimposed, like the footprints of someone lost, walking round and round the same old ground.
I stood, not knowing what to do, and then he said – I suppose you’d better tell me why you’re here.
I just wanted to see you.
Let’s not do this, shall we? I’m not going to play a guessing game with you. What is it you want? Tell me, or you can leave. Your choice.
His voice was empty, like an actor memorising his lines, not trying to imbue them with meaning. I needed to feel his eyes on me, the warmth of his approval, to tell me I was real. But he didn’t look at me. He stared out of the window.
I just wanted to see you – I said. – I’m ill. I still can’t sing, my voice hasn’t come back, not properly, and it’s not too long until opening night, and—
You’re ill? – he said, and he did this nasty laugh. – That’s why you’re behaving like a crazy person? Because you’re ill?
It’s not a joke – I said. – It’s not just some stupid thing. It’s a big deal. This show’s a big deal.
So you keep telling me. But you’re ill, and so you can’t do it, and you can’t be the first person in the history of the world this has ever happened to. I don’t know what you expect me to do about it. What is it you want from me, Anna?
For you to look at me – I thought. – I want you to look at me.
Nothing – I said.
Talk to someone at the Conservatory – he said. – You’re a student. Sorting this out, finding someone else if they have to – that’s their job, not mine.
I can’t tell anyone – I said.
And I couldn’t. That’s why Angela was so reluctant to tell Marieke – she knew how this worked. If I pulled out, if I told them I couldn’t do it then, fine, it happens, I wouldn’t do it. But I wouldn’t be cast again. Not in a role like this, and possibly not at all. That would be it. People remembered. Show people you’re weak, and they might be nice to you, but they’ll never forget it. Plenty of singers out there, just as good, who don’t cause problems.
You think I should drop out? – I said. – You really think that’s what I should do?
He finished his glass and topped it up, took another sip.
I have no idea what you should do – he said. – I don’t know why you’re asking me.
He still didn’t look at me. I could see my reflection in the window, transparent, partial, against the bright lights of the city, and I wondered if that was how he saw me too.
He got up, went over to the sink, started washing up.
Is that – is that all you’re going to say? – I said. – Do you really not care?
I followed him. He put the mug he’d rinsed on the side, wiped his hands on a tea towel, and turned towards me. He spoke, very calmly.
Anna – he said. – Do you honestly think I don’t care? About your career? You think it’s ok to say that to me? Really? That I don’t care about whether or not you do well? Maybe think about that one for a second. Remember how exactly you’ve got the time to do all this in the first place, why you’re not doing that shitty bar job anymore, hm?
I felt like I had in that rehearsal, like I was dissolving.
I’m sorry you’re having a bad time – he said. – I really am. But, frankly, you want me to believe how much you love singing, how it’s a vocation and you do a vocation for joy not money, etcetera, etcetera. But I look at you now and I don’t see a happy person. You want to know what I think? Do you? Really? Well, I think you’re miserable. I think that if you have to pull out and if that apparently means, as you insist, that that’s the end of this whole endeavour, well – you want to know what I think? Really? – I think that’s maybe not the worst thing in the world.
He sighed.
Look, I know you think this is really important right now – he said. – I know this opera seems really important. But I promise you, in ten years, it won’t seem important at all, if you even remember it. You’re so young. You’ll find something else to do. Most people don’t get what they want. They start off with all these big grand ambitions, and then they learn it’s better to compromise, to be realistic. To find meaning in other things, you know, in their friends, their hobbies, their children. Learning that’s part of growing up, Anna.
I was suddenly enraged.
You’d love that, wouldn’t you? – I said. – You’d love it if I gave up on what I really wanted. If I got some mediocre little job that never fulfilled me, stopped working to have kids, and never started again, said to people – oh well, you know, it wasn’t such a big thing for me, because I never really found what I wanted to do. That’s exactly what you think a woman should be like, isn’t it? That’s your sad little fantasy, isn’t it? Which is weird, I think, given that’s what your mum did, and you clearly despise her for it.
I don’t know what order it happened in.
Him taking a step towards me.
Him saying – don’t ever talk to me like that, do you understand? Don’t ever make comments like that about my family.
Some movement of his hand, to – what? – to gesture, to grab me maybe, to, I don’t know, but me flinching away from him and my voice saying – don’t, don’t – and then he stopped and I stopped, and for a moment we just stared at each other, like we’d both forgotten our next line. His mouth opened and shut again, and then he walked away.
I stood in the middle of the room, trying to slow my breathing down, then I followed him. He’d gone into the bedroom, and he was standing, forehead pressed against the glass. He didn’t turn round. I stood there, looking at him, not knowing what to do, and then he said – I’d never hurt you, Anna. Why did you flinch like that? I wasn’t going to hurt you. I’m not that sort of man. I’ve never hurt a woman in my life. I never would. I don’t understand why you thought I would.
I’d never heard him sound like that before. He sounded broken.
I went to him, and put my arms round his waist. I rested my cheek in between his shoulder blades.
I’m sorry – I said. – I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.
I don’t know how long we stood like that, before he breathed out deeply, turned to face me. Then he put his arms round my shoulders, and drew me to him. It was such an unexpected gesture, loving and warm, that I wondered if I’d imagined his anger. He held me tight against his chest. He kissed my forehead. He murmured into my hair – what will we do with you, my love?
I don’t know – I said.
He led me to the bed and told me to sit, gave me a shirt to wear, poured me a drink. I was going to say I couldn’t, not with the performances so soon, but I realised that didn’t much matter anymore, and he said – drink it, it will relax you – so I did. I lay down, and he lay next to me, rested the back of his hand on my cheek. It seemed pointless, now, to pretend. I told him how afraid I was, and he listened. I made it sound, perhaps, even worse than it was, because he was sympathetic, saying that sounds awful, saying my poor love. I felt empty and calm, like when you’ve walked for miles and every muscle feels used up.
