The Age of Discretion

by Virginia Duigan

  Maybe in that case I wouldn’t need to broach the physical aspect after all, Viv suggests, hopefully.

  Now there’s a thought, says Martin. Important as the physical side is, the sugar-mummy aspect is more of an overarching problem, isn’t it? Which lets us off the other hook. A two-pronged assault might be too much for the poor chap, all in one go. It might be best left for me to tackle, in due course.

  Viv is not completely convinced, but she nods into the phone. Dev would get his money back if he left the agency, she assumes. After all, he hasn’t had much of a bang for his bucks. Martin agrees a refund would be only right. He’d hold on to a minor percentage for admin. And to cover the work done to date.

  To cover his one unsuccessful introduction, Viv says. It sounds forlorn. She is about to put her phone back in her pocket when it pings with another message. It’s Dev. Well, of course, it would be. It’s a sign. A sign that I am not yet quite off this particular hook. Even though I don’t believe in signs. She calls him back before she can renege on the impulse.

  ‘Vivien!’ The voice on the other end of the phone vibrates with annoyance. ‘This is my fourth attempt to contact you. You are very hard to connect with, Vivien. It is a week since we last saw each other. We are needing to make another appointment in the very near future.’

  She recoils, and swallows. ‘I’m sorry, Dev, I really am, but I don’t think you and I have any future.’ She is impressed by her own directness.

  ‘Why would you make such an assertion, Vivien?’ He sounds astonished.

  Be resolute. ‘Because you and I are not – I’m afraid I don’t think we are very well suited. It’s nothing to do with either of us, it’s just one of those things.’

  ‘On the contrary, Vivien, I feel we are very well suited. I want to show you a brochure that will convince you of this. Definitely.’

  ‘A brochure?’

  ‘I have it in my hand.’ She hears a rustle of paper. ‘It is from my local travel agent. It depicts a transatlantic voyage to New York on the Queen Mary 2. There are lavishly appointed bedroom suites, each with its own balcony overlooking the ocean.’

  ‘Dev—’

  ‘There is a planetarium on board. And a spa club, which offers the personal pampering you have been longing for, with innovative and indulgent treatments by a qualified—’

  ‘Dev!’ She stops just short of shouting down the phone. ‘Please will you kindly listen to me? I’m not that kind of person. I haven’t been longing for pampering spa treatments—’

  ‘It caters for all kinds of person, Vivien, you can be sure of that. There is a well-equipped library for those seeking quiet meditation, and a ballroom with elegant ambience and high ceilings …’

  When she was the parent of a two-year-old, Viv was told that lowering the voice could be more effective than yelling. ‘I don’t want to go on that voyage, Dev.’ She enunciates slowly and clearly. ‘Or any voyage. Or any train journey. And even if I did want to, I couldn’t possibly afford it.’ She lays heavy stress on the last half of this sentence.

  ‘But it is quite brief, and your estranged husband would certainly—’

  ‘Look, Dev, my husband – who is not estranged, by the way, or not as such –’ she hears her voice rising again, ‘certainly would not agree to cough up enough dough for me to take a sybaritic holiday with my lover. But that’s not the point. The point is, Martin Glover feels you are unlikely to find the person you’re looking for at his agency. It’s the wrong place for you.’ She draws breath and adds lamely, ‘He wants to talk to you about giving you your money back. Most of it, I should think. Nearly all, with any luck.’

  ‘You have been talking about me with Mr Martin Glover?’ Dev sounds agitated.

  ‘Well, only a little.’ She feels irrationally guilty. ‘He wanted to know … he inquired how – how it had gone, so I, ah, I tried to explain.’ She hopes the guilt is irrational rather than the opposite.

  ‘To explain what? What did you tell him, Vivien?’

  ‘What I’ve been trying to tell you. You know, that we weren’t suited and I wasn’t right for you.’ Should she mention the physical side after all? ‘And,’ dropping her voice again, ‘vice versa.’

  ‘But this is not appropriate. It is not the right thing to do at all!’ Dev’s voice rings in her ear excitedly. ‘It is talking out of school, Vivien!’

  ‘Yes, I know it is, and I’m really sorry about that, but I couldn’t seem to avoid it.’ No, it would be a major mistake to bring up the physical side. It would unleash a whole new can of worms.

  Hurriedly, ‘I have to go now, Dev. I’m sure there is a filthy rich, elegant woman out there who is up for any number of glamorous junkets and pampering treatments, and who can bankroll them at the stroke of a pen. Or –’ such people would do this via the internet, wouldn’t they? – ‘the click of a mouse. Or her secretary would. I am not that woman, but I sincerely hope you find the one who is.’ She ends the call with a decisive stroke of the thumb.

  14

  DISGUISES

  To Julia’s way of thinking, an opera production is a feat of engineering. It resembles in some respects the soaring arc of a bridge (the Sydney Harbour Bridge for preference) where every rivet plays an essential supporting role. If one sequence of rivets fails, the bridge will not collapse and nor will the production, but both will be threatened. Should many fail, collapse is inevitable. Collapse, in the case of an opera, meaning bad reviews and the ignominy of public failure.

  Like Viv, Julia is dealing with life-changing issues. Following a fallow period she has been catapulted into the heart of the action. This time it was unexpected, but that apart it’s nothing new. She’s used to a pattern of sudden changes; it has been the way of her working life since the early days. For the immediate future her parallel lives, professional and personal, will be defined by her role as the Old Countess.

  A compact but central role, as those around her feel honour bound to repeat. These people include her costume designer, milliner, wigmaker and dressmaker. And her director, who will intercept her before she leaves wardrobe after lengthy consultations on gowns (four), wigs (two), shoes (three pairs) and make-up (three looks – one being a ghost).

  She will not be in the best frame of mind to be intercepted. Wardrobe had her measurements on file from last time, but as it turns out they’re not altogether accurate. Last time was several years ago. The dreaded words put on weight hover, but are not mentioned until Julia, never one to beat about the bush, pulls them from the air.

  ‘I have, haven’t I? It’s your pursed lips. Don’t spare me, Marj.’ The fitting room has expansive and unforgiving mirrors.

  Marjorie Mackintosh, the fitter, herself a short, wide woman (her girth having expanded considerably more than Julia’s since their first encounter nearly, God help us, four decades ago) is scrutinising the tape measure encircling Julia’s hips.

  ‘Only minor adjustments, dear,’ she murmurs, ‘ just an inch or so here and there. You have retained your figure amazingly well, and a great deal better than most.’

  Julia would like to know the identities of the most. She can make educated guesses, but knows better than to ask. Discretion on the part of wardrobe is a given. Even more than wigs and make-up, wardrobe is privy to intimate knowledge, especially when there is a long-standing relationship with a diva. Both parties in the relationship have aged at the same rate, but only one has stood in front of the other with her defences down, and revealed her physical (and sometimes personal) vulnerabilities.

  Returning to sing at Covent Garden is a homecoming of sorts, and coming across Marjorie Mackintosh is a bonus akin to running into a long-lost cousin, or even a second mother. When they first met, and the young Julia was a long way from home and singing regularly here, the community was like family. There were certain highly personal concerns she felt unable to discuss with new friends, such as Vivien Quarry. Some of these she confided to her dresser, though not in exhaustive detail. But she knows Marj will not ha
ve forgotten them.

  These are subjects kept close to the chest since those early, insecure days. But there are matters today, related matters, that Julia is tempted to share with Marj. Quite strongly tempted, although she resists. Her prevailing impulse is to protect herself, and anything likely to engender inner turmoil is best avoided when one is already being stretched to the limit.

  ‘So, dear, how are you feeling in yourself?’ Marjorie restricts herself to asking, and Julia replies that, overall, she’s fine. They share a speaking glance, and a hug.

  It occurs to Julia that Viv would feel at home among the racks of garments, the sewing machines and ironing tables. Every task is one strand of a complex web that underpins a singer’s eventual appearance in front of the audience. The central aim being, always, to boost the singer’s well-being: her wigs must fit securely, her shoes must be comfortable, she needs to inhabit her garments as if they were her own.

  Costumes, wigs, make-up – the cunning elements of disguise are the visual keys to a singer’s transformation. In spite of her director’s positive presence, Julia is brooding. She has approved the sketches of her gowns (faux eighteenth-century with contemporary riffs, says the designer) with some private reservations. She needs to go away and think these over.

  She will make her first appearance in a full-length gown and a long cloak trimmed with ermine. Somewhat heavy for a spring day in St Petersburg, but she’s not worried about that. The costume for the crucial second-act scene, the one that culminates in the Countess’s demise, is another matter.

  It is a form-fitting creation. Unsuitably so? A ruffled nightgown in black silk and lace, full-length, high-necked (mercifully) and long-sleeved (ditto). But also clinging, from below the bust. This is potentially troubling. Initially it will be screened by a beautiful if filmy peignoir, but before she reclines onto the chaise longue (only to rise up in terror and fall back in a lifeless swoon) the negligee will be off her shoulders.

  Would this slinky gown be flattering, or the opposite? She is not convinced by Marjorie Mackintosh’s reassurances that it’s not revealing, and she can wear foundation garments (Marj’s term) underneath. It – the wretched weight creep – might be small, and have arisen over several years, but it’s concerning. How did it happen?

  Julia knows how most of it happened, only too well. Only a few weeks ago she was singing in Sydney, where the food is fresh and first-rate (when you know where to go) and her brother Max, whom she saw a lot of and who knows where to go, is a gourmet. Her Dido was not called upon to wear anything tight, and she let her guard down. There were some delicious meals. Too many scrumptious dinners. Even a few ill-advised (and incautious) late breakfasts.

  Which brings to mind her brother’s impending divorce. Her sister-in-law has sent Julia a long email she has put off reading. It will only be, she has predicted to Viv, a litany of complaints about Max. And probably with an undercurrent of resentment towards her. Although Julia has always bent over backwards to be nice to her, as she’s sure Viv would attest.

  This bittersweet train of thought comes to an abrupt halt as Emils introduces Yuri Dutka, the Ukrainian star who will sing the demanding male lead role of Herman. Julia is warm and gracious, though still a touch preoccupied. Yuri is in his forties. He’s an affable fortress of a man, built like a brick shithouse, as her father might have said. Head and shoulders taller than the stocky Emils. And he looms over Julia. This makes her feel more petite, and takes her mind off Max’s divorce and her measurements.

  In his big scene with the Countess, the physical contrast between them will be to her advantage. It’s harder to maintain a romantic operatic illusion with a short tenor or a particularly stout one. Not that Herman and the Countess have any romantic entanglement in this opera; very much the opposite. He’s courting her granddaughter Lisa. He aims to extract the secret of the cards from the Countess and win a fortune. When he pulls a gun on her, the old lady has a cardiac arrest.

  Yuri’s physical envelope will assist with the believability of this outcome, jokes Emils, clapping him on the back. And it means that Lisa won’t have to sing with her knees bent in their scenes together, Julia adds, lucky girl. She has had to do this herself on occasion – in unimaginative productions.

  Emils plans to bolster the shock quotient further with lighting effects. Gruesome shadows will be thrown up on the walls of her boudoir, he says with relish. Grotesque, like in an old Hammer horror movie.

  On his youthful shoulders the ultimate responsibility for the production in the public mind – it might be argued – is resting. Fortunately those shoulders are broad and capable, as Julia has observed. The director’s concept is not always everyone’s cup of tea. But she’s confident Emils has no interest in shock for its own sake. Or schlock, for that matter. He’s not setting this opera in an igloo or dressing his cast in cling wrap. Not like some of the look-at-me tyros she has known.

  Emils commandeers his star for a quick chat over coffee. Is she happy with everything? Her jewellery? Wigs and costumes? She’s going to turn all heads in the opening scene. That incredible wig. The drape of that gown. Very sophisticated. Soigné, right? And that curvy nightdress, how about that then? He looks searchingly at Julia.

  Among other anxieties, Julia is concerned that lacy French flounces are rather unusual embellishments for an old woman’s night attire. She hasn’t yet come to a decision on this costume. It is within her power to veto it altogether. She decides not to raise this now, and says instead, ‘Just as well I don’t have to sing a note in the first scene, from under that badger wig.’

  The badger wig is a stunning creation, black with an off-centre white stripe. She made a show of being not entirely sure about it, but Marj and everybody else thought it was fabulous. It will echo the Countess’s own hair, revealed in the deadly bedroom scene with Herman. That wig will be long and straight. Iron grey, with the distinctive white streak.

  Julia doesn’t have to sing in the opening scene, Emils agrees, but she must do something else instead. She must attract attention.

  ‘You rotate your head like you’re the Queen of Sheba. And the soldiers and the kids – they spring out of your way as you and Lisa make your progress through the crowd. With swishes of that sumptuous cloak. With your trademark look, Julia. And whoever gets impaled on that look – do they know about it!’

  He monitors her reaction. Julia knows what he’s getting at. It’s all down to deportment, and deportment is a matter of confidence. She knows how a performer on a crowded stage can be the focus of all eyes, purely by means of her physical bearing. If that’s what he wants she can deliver, no worries at all.

  Emils has a to-do list longer than her arm, but instead of rushing off as she was expecting he leans towards her. He radiates purpose and intensity, and something else too. ‘I need to run another thing by you, Julia.’

  She detects a hint of indecision. Or it could be unease. ‘Run with it, then. I’m all ears.’

  ‘Okay, here’s the thing. Your bedroom scene with Herman. This is the pivotal scene of the opera, right?’ They both know she likes that. ‘Well, Julia, I want there to be a moment. An unoperatic moment, when everything hangs in the balance.’

  She raises her eyebrows. ‘An unoperatic moment? In my bedroom scene?’

  ‘I mean like a metaphoric pause in the music, when everything goes kind of stunned. A critical moment. When, unexpectedly between you and Herman, and improperly at every level,’ the bright, savvy eyes engage hers, ‘there’s a flicker. A gesture, maybe.’

  A beat. ‘Like this.’ Without disengaging his eyes from Julia’s he picks up her hand and brushes it against his thigh. ‘And at that instant there’s a mass gasp. The entire audience does a double-take. Omigod, is she really vamping him? Is she thinking of one final seduction?’

  A quizzical look as Julia retracts her hand and cuts through the moment. She sits up in her chair. This is exciting. Not something she has seen or heard suggested in this opera. And yet, she can easily s
ee how it might be …

  ‘And Herman gets it. Before the reality of where he is – alone with this spookily alluring old woman, in her bedroom, before the gravity of it reasserts itself – because this lady is his lover’s granny, for God’s sake – we have this ambiguous moment. Where – briefly, no more – there’s a deeply inappropriate possibility hanging in the air.’

  For an inappropriate moment, no more, Julia suppresses the urge to push the hair out of his eyes.

  ‘You see the point of that shapely black nightgown? It’s elegant, but also –’ his eyes are again on hers, not on his hands as they trace, absently, a pas de deux in the air, ‘also sexy.’ He looks away, shoving his hair aside. ‘Even if it is high-necked,’ he murmurs, almost as an afterthought, with a sidelong glance.

  Julia hopes the shapeliness is not too unforgiving. She gives Emils a look that is very finely judged. ‘Well. Let’s see. We can but try it.’

  ‘Thank you, Julia. I really want to nail this, because it impacts everything that follows. I wouldn’t have thought of suggesting it.’ He avoids naming the unfortunate singer who had to pull out of the role. ‘But when we cast you as the Countess – it was suddenly possible to think outside the square.’

  Julia murmurs. ‘The Parisian ruffles…’

  ‘Right. The previous costume was very prim and proper. Like, not stunning. Think grey flannel. And then we thought: hey hey, let’s give that stuffy old nightdress a makeover.’

  With a wide and possibly relieved grin Emils heaves his chair back. He kisses Julia on both cheeks, over a mischievous look. The look, she thinks, is aspirational French, with associated (optional) connotations.

  ‘I can’t wait to see you in your nightie, Julia,’ he says.

  15