Viv swallows. Since she arrived he has hardly moved. Apart from breathing and speaking, that is. Deeply, in both cases. Whereas she has twitched, and shifted—
‘Yes, I feel drawn to you, Vivien. I hope you are not shocked. And I hope you don’t mind if I tell you this straightaway, with no beating about the bush and no polite nothings. Because I think both of us have no time for that. Do you know what it is I am talking about?’
‘Well, I – not entirely, no.’ Viv is feeling gobsmacked, she has no other word for it, by the course events seem to be taking. Unless she is misinterpreting them, which is quite possible. She essays a nonchalant smile, but the muscles around her mouth have atrophied with no contribution from Botox. Dev is not smiling, and his delivery is even and intense. ‘I mean, an unusually deep connection. A physical relation between us, Vivien, that I have sensed before you have even touched me.’
‘Oh.’ Viv’s facial muscles spring to life of their own accord as her mouth drops open for the second time this morning. If only she had a secret device to record this riveting conversation. A miniature one, perhaps, inside a fountain pen.
‘I would like you to ask yourself whether you too are feeling, or can come to feel soon, what I am talking about. It is an important principle to establish. Before we go any further.’
Viv feels an involuntary stirring of the loins. She may be perilously close to losing objectivity. Is she becoming delusional? She needs to keep her head, regain some detachment.
She unlocks her eyes from his. Their surroundings are indeed undistinguished. They are in a small coffee shop, the basic type, fast-disappearing, where you queue up to order at the counter. More of a sandwich bar, with few chairs and tables. There’s a sprinkling of other people drinking coffee and biting into sugary buns. Perhaps they too might do this. She could give herself some breathing space. A minute or two to take stock.
‘Shouldn’t we – Dev, before we go any further, shouldn’t we have a coffee? Or tea? If we sit here taking up space without buying anything they’ll get, you know – rather peevish.’
She is annoyed with herself for getting so spectacularly rattled. It’s very stuffy. Her mouth is dry. She has to project her words in order to pronounce them.
Dev looks indifferent. ‘Certainly. I have had one already. While I was waiting for you. You must have whatever you like, Vivien.’ He makes no move.
‘Well, I think I need refuelling, even if you don’t.’ She suspects he may be affronted at the interruption. He remains motionless and impassive as she fetches her coffee, a flat white, the now widespread Australian style Jules introduced her to. And a jam doughnut. She feels in need of something comfortingly sickly, even though she rarely eats doughnuts. Geoff loves them, though. Dev appears not to have moved when she returns to the table, but she sees him observing it.
She gropes for a topic. ‘Have you had many other introductions from Martin Glover, Dev?’
He shakes his head. ‘This is my first time. You are the very first lady he has sent me, Vivien. And that is why it is such a remarkable coincidence.’
‘You’re my first introduction too.’ She cuts the doughnut in half. The coffee is not well made. It’s very weak; she should have asked for a double shot. Or a triple. ‘Although I suppose – it’s not such a coincidence really, is it? We both went to the same agency, after all.’
‘Ah, but how likely is that occurrence? That we are both visiting the same agency, at the same time? Not likely at all, is it? And yet that is what we did, Vivien. It is the hand of fate, I am thinking.’
Is it possible Dev could be a Bollywood film star? His speech is well-enunciated and deliberate, rather like that of the late Richard Burton. Its impact is similarly hypnotic. And now he is gazing at her again, the melting brown eyes fixed and unblinking. She’s finding the doughnut hard to eat. It sheds granulated sugar and jam everywhere. The debris is probably all round her mouth.
She scrubs at her face with one of the wafer-thin paper napkins, then worries that she has smudged her lipstick. Or did she forget to put any on? Too late to look for evidence; she has screwed the napkin into a ball.
She asks Dev what he does. He is in the hospitality business, he says, without enthusiasm or elaboration. He puts out a hand and touches her wedding ring. His fingers brush hers. A light touch, almost a caress. Her hand reacts.
‘And I think you are married unhappily, Vivien?’
She looks down at her plate. Half a sticky doughnut, smears of jam, a scattering of sugar crystals, a screwed-up paper napkin. Hearing this question posed so starkly, she is unsure how to answer it without being disloyal to Geoff. Disloyal to Geoff, she hears Jules scoff, what do you fondly imagine you’re being?
‘In a way …’
Dev responds with unexpected vigour. ‘Well, Vivien, I am thinking you would not be signing up with the Discretion Agency and paying our Mr Martin Glover a great deal of money if you were in an ecstatic union. Is that not a correct assumption, exactly?’
‘It’s – well, I suppose so, yes.’ Although how realistic is an ecstatic union in any long-term relationship? Not realistic at all, exactly. That’s not what it’s all about. It’s all about long-term happiness and contentment, and entitlement to a—
‘You are an independent woman, Vivien. I think you are wanting exciting new experiences?’ He pauses. ‘I think you are wishing for someone with whom to enjoy a more physical life than you have been having. You are wanting to desire someone sexually. You are wanting someone to desire you.’
Viv has a sensation that compares, she imagines, with that of being hit by a train. She meets his eyes, this madly attractive man. This madly attractive, considerably younger man sitting opposite her, with more sex appeal than you could—
‘I think that we are both wanting the same outcome, Vivien.’
And now she really is poleaxed. She nods dumbly.
‘You will come to the house next week, and we will have an initial assignation.’ He sees she is about to prevaricate. ‘In the country, near London. Don’t worry, there will be no one there.’
‘But what about your – your wife? Or your – partner?’
‘She is not around. Don’t worry.’
Viv looks down. There’s a dusting of white sugar on her red cardigan. She brushes it off. She takes the bull by the horns.
‘Dev, why did you go to the agency in the first place? After all, it’s not as if you need—’
‘Why? Surely this is obvious, Vivien.’
‘Well, I’m not sure that it is.’ Something must be said. It simply must. But how to put it? Straight down the line, nothing for it, no alternative. ‘There is a big age difference between us.’
‘A big age difference?’ This seems to galvanise him. For the first time he becomes quite animated.
‘But this is exactly what I wanted, Vivien. This is what I said to him,’ his voice rises excitedly, ‘find me an older, attractive, confident lady who would like to meet me! That was my order to Mr Martin Glover. An independent lady. And he has done it, first cab off the rank. He has hit the jackpot.’
Viv is aware that her misgivings are in steep decline. And this younger man with the film star looks and perfect, dazzling teeth, sitting less than three feet away, seems to be smiling for the first time. It’s certainly not a beaming grin, but it is a movement of the mouth she has no hesitation in finding captivating.
She smiles back, thinking (like Alice in Wonderland) how very curious all this is. My body has parted company with my mind and my reflexes have taken over. It’s as if I were a teenager again, in the back seat of a car.
‘I hope you would like to meet me. Meet me biblically, I mean, Vivien. Because I, definitely, would like to meet you.’
Biblically? Viv barely hesitates. This is her surrender-to-chance moment, and she can’t remember when one of those last came along. Not for some years, that’s for sure. She knows, and knows full well, that chance is blind. It takes no care and no responsibility. This may not
turn out well, but what the hell, she tells herself, if it doesn’t? I’m of an age where I can choose to do foolish things. And do them just for the sake of it.
She is ready to suspend her disbelief. More than willing. Because she can’t believe her luck. Jules, Joy, listen up, y’all! Just wait until you hear this.
9
A LATE COURTSHIP
Julia has her mobile turned off. She is sitting at a table in a smart Covent Garden eatery being wooed by two men. Two attractive men, as it happens, one around her age and one considerably younger. They are, respectively, the conductor and director of The Queen of Spades, a new co-production with La Scala, which opens at the Royal Opera House before Christmas. In less than eight weeks’ time. Right now they are without their Countess, and they want, with a measure of urgency, Julia Jefferies.
Lunch orders are in but haven’t yet arrived. No one has mentioned the subject in the forefront of all three minds. The elder of the two men is expecting the business end to be somewhat protracted. He has talked to Malcolm Foster, Julia’s agent, and he knows that the desired outcome is by no means a dead cert. But he is a seasoned campaigner, well prepared, ready to bide his time and await the right moment. In this regard his restraint and urbanity are very English. The younger man is noticeably un-English, and is containing himself with difficulty.
Julia is enjoying the experience of being courted by two suitors. Milking it, as she would be the first to admit, for all it’s worth. It is not a new experience; in the course of her career there have been many men – it has usually been men – competing for her professional favours. But the fact that it hasn’t happened for a while (and she had feared it might never happen again) makes it all the sweeter.
On her right, in a pinstriped suit and silver tie, is the eminent British conductor Raymond Bayliss. She knows Ray from way back. They’ve worked together many times, most recently five years ago in Berlin on a production of Janacek’s The Makropulos Affair.
The thickset young man on her left is one of the hottest young properties of the day, Emils Liepins. The polar opposite of an ascetic dreamer, his broad features radiate dynamism and intelligence. Passion and virility too; Julia would put money on that. His shot at sharp dressing involves an ancient herringbone jacket thrown over a shapeless sweater and jeans.
Already formidable at twenty-eight, Emils cut his directing teeth in Riga at the Latvian National Opera. He is unknown to Julia personally but his reputation is not; along with the rest of the opera world she has heard all about his triumph with War and Peace in St Petersburg. He may be the opera world’s only wunderkind with a broken nose.
As the food arrives Ray steers the conversation towards the Sydney Opera House. Glorious from the outside, its cramped orchestra pit and tiny stage are notorious. A complete nightmare, Julia confirms, although there have been improvements lately. She is gloating over a grilled Dover sole, her all-time favourite and done very well here, off-the-bone with tartare sauce, new potatoes (a guilty luxury) and sautéed spinach. But it’s remarkable what high standards Sydney manages to achieve on a regular basis, given those disadvantages.
Ray saw her Dido and Aeneas. ‘She had them in a collective trance, Emils. It was sheer genius.’ His pale blue eyes light up at the memory. Dear Ray, he’s looking older, Julia notes. Since their last meeting his face is more lined and he’s down to the bin-ends of his hair. But his vim and vigour are undiminished.
This is the signal for Emils to let rip. ‘We need that genius!’ He swivels round in his chair. ‘We’re on course for a ground-breaking production, Julia. But this is critically dependent on the casting. Because, you see, the Countess is an exceptional role for a singer who can act. It’s her image that the audience will take home with them.’
Julia stirs mutinously. Small role, unworthy – the objections come crowding in. Reigniting the embers of a dying career …
Emils extends his hands towards her. ‘Okay – the role is not big in terms of lines, we know that. But Julia – it is huge, huge in its implication. I can’t stress this strongly enough.’
His English is fluent and idiomatic, with a pronounced American inflexion. She senses he would love to leap out of his comfortable chair and pace around. He grips the edge of the table, seemingly oblivious to his stylish surroundings, to the other people lunching in close proximity.
‘You know the opera, but can I refresh your memory?’ Rhetorical; he’s off and running almost before he has finished the sentence. ‘It’s got the whole package: music, story, spectacle. Everything you could ever want in your wildest dreams, Julia.’
Oh, I wouldn’t count on that, she murmurs, but he either ignores this or doesn’t hear.
‘Which makes it super-challenging, right? It’s a suspense thriller, and that’s fine, but along comes this paranormal stuff. We don’t know how to read that.’
He is drinking his wine fast, fairly gulping it down. It’s a Meursault, rich yet light, and selected by Ray with Julia’s sole in mind. It is quite something, in her opinion, and deserving of more respect. She sips hers slowly, rolling it round in her mouth.
Emils drains his glass mid-sentence, but Ray catches the waiter’s eye and with an infinitesimal shake of the head deters him from a refill just yet. In any case the younger man has now switched to water and is swigging away with the same avidity. Water or wine, they’re one and the same to him at this moment. What matters – in fact, the only thing in the world of any consequence – is this project. And Julia thinks: as long as he doesn’t take himself too seriously, that bodes well. She suspects Emils works more through instinct than analytical reasoning. She has observed this before with certain directors.
He hasn’t missed a beat. ‘Fantasy in the movies we can do. But this is different. These people on stage are tangling with supernatural forces. Fate. Retribution. Premonitions of sudden death.’
He looks at Julia. ‘Take hell. The prospect of burning in hell for eternity is very real here. And preying on the Countess’s mind is what she got up to in her reckless youth – ’
The back of Julia’s neck prickles. She lays down her cutlery and sees that Ray has done the same. He’s letting his young colleague have the floor. His arms are crossed, his high-domed forehead cocked attentively to one side.
The waiter, his eye on Ray, refills the empty water glass as Emils leans forward brandishing his fork. ‘Here’s where your acting ability will be critical, Julia. The audience needs to believe that you are an old lady. We need them to totally believe it.’
He flicks his hair aside with the fork and gives her a blatantly heterosexual look. ‘This is one big ask in itself. But in your youth you were a staggering beauty,’ another appreciative look, ‘incredibly sexy. You were a femme fatale, the Venus of Moscow. It shouldn’t be too hard to convince the audience of that.’
A pair of vigilant dark eyes are half-hidden behind a dishevelled clump of hair. The male gaze. Just as Viv has very recently (and unknown to Jules) been exposed to it, Julia is now on the receiving end of an even more potent delivery. Her eyebrows are raised. On a less calculated and entirely feminine level, she rewards this very unignorable young man with a glance of some intimacy.
He’s not finished. ‘And in your old age you’re still magnetic. You command the stage at all times, Julia. Even when the Countess is not physically present, it’s like she’s still there in everyone’s mind. All the stories swirling around her, all the rumours. She’s a lady with one helluva past. She has a dark aura.’ He uses his fork to sketch a halo around Julia’s head.
‘It’s sinister and alluring. It attracts, it repels. No one’s immune to it. Including the orchestra,’ a broad grin at Ray, ‘and the conductor. And every other male in the house.’ He deals Julia a wide, disarming smile.
She smiles back. She knows exactly where her would-be director is coming from. It helps that he has his own aura, with sex appeal as a prime constituent. At this stage in her career, when it comes to sweet talk (both personal and profe
ssional) Julia is a dab hand at sorting the wheat from the chaff. And she’s not immune to the allure of it, either. It won’t be around forever, but today it’s there for the taking. She can take it. She can take it in spades. Ray, suave, amused, catches her eye.
They can both see how this ardent young man has had such a meteoric rise. He has a natural authority and intensity that command attention. Most crucially, he has the power of intellectual seduction, which every director with vision must possess.
‘Do go on,’ Julia invites.
‘As a young woman on the make, the Countess made a kind of Faustian pact with a sleazy Count. He had a foolproof gambling formula. If she could get her hands on it, she could set herself up for life, and hang the consequences. So, she agreed,’ another speaking glance, ‘to what was called in those days an overnight meeting.’
Fair exchange, some might think, Julia murmurs again, and they chuckle.
‘But this is grand Russian opera, where bad deeds come back to haunt you. They come and hunt you down. Her scandalous youth will lead to three dramatic deaths in her old age. One of these deaths,’ a pause, ‘is hers.’
Something dark skitters briefly over the table. Julia has four decades on Emils. Ripples from the past have a resonance for her that is blithely absent from his mind. He senses it, and lays a light hand on her arm.
‘But wait. She bounces back, as a ghost. And here’s where we go places the Garden’s never been.’ A glance at Ray. ‘I mean cutting edge. I mean holograms. On stage.’ He leans towards Julia with an air of revelation.
‘And let’s not forget,’ Ray backs this up, ‘that the entire production will be filmed for cinema release.’
On film, the singer’s voice can be amplified to envelop the auditorium. Earlier in Julia’s career she wouldn’t have been happy about this, but now it has a certain appeal. At this late stage in her career, could she perhaps become a film star? Malcolm Foster, her agent, had mentioned this. But holograms? She has never heard of such a thing.
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