The Age of Discretion

by Virginia Duigan

  She calls back, right away. She’s not on the street again, is she? Martin asks immediately.

  ‘No, I hived off the street into a little bistro. They were two of the biggest martinis you ever saw. Biggest and most dangerous.’

  ‘But you got away,’ Martin says.

  ‘Leary revealed the barman was the best in London.’

  Martin says he could do with a dangerous martini right now.

  What’s stopping him? He says the absence of key ingredients, such as gin or vermouth, is stopping him. He’ll have another glass of claret instead.

  They reawakened a sybaritic instinct, she says. Always there, but latent. ‘I know how you like your instincts.’

  They should be let out on occasion, Martin thinks. One wouldn’t want them to atrophy.

  One would not. Have mine atrophied lately? Perhaps a touch, Viv says, to be honest. What is the state of yours?

  Not the healthiest they’ve ever been. Although he’d hesitate to say they’ve withered away entirely.

  ‘I daresay they’re just waiting to be reactivated.’ Viv says she hasn’t gone home yet because – well, partly because George is at the movies with friends. Did she say George? She meant Geoff. She tells Martin about the confusion over her alias. ‘And then I topped it by not being able to remember Leary’s surname.’

  ‘It sounds like you had a nice time with him.’

  She considers. The drinks were nice, definitely. And he was nice too – if a trifle souped up. A trifle? ‘I think he has a manic streak, Martin. I made the mistake of mentioning Blade Runner, the film George is going to, and I couldn’t stop him. It was as if he’d been injected with a truth drug and it all came pouring out.’

  Leary had an exhausting effect. She realised she was faint with hunger after she left the club. That was when she was seduced by welcoming lights and people eating things, and was lured inside.

  ‘A better outcome than seduced and abandoned.’

  ‘Yes, and with better food.’

  What was she having?

  The main course has arrived. She describes it. ‘Sorry, I’m probably interrupting your dinner. You should have told me to desist from this inane chatter.’

  He says she’s not interrupting anything. He hasn’t started yet.

  So, what’s he going to have?

  Steak and kidney pie.

  ‘Really? Ambitious. Leftovers, or is it your turn to cook?’

  Her imagination, or was there a hesitation? ‘I’m on my own. It’s heating up in the oven. In fact –’ she hears something in the background, ‘there’s the buzzer. Signal to take it out.’

  ‘I can eat pasta with a fork. But I should probably let you—’

  No, it’s all right, once he’s extricated the dish he can eat it with a fork as well. She can carry on with the inanity while he gets it out of the oven.

  Viv toils over what is still in her mind. ‘Martin, tell me this. Do you think romance has any place here? I mean, you must have had a lot of experience observing people in all kinds of permutations. In your opinion, can it start up from nothing? I mean, if there’s not a skerrick of rapport, after a certain point? Don’t forget the oven gloves.’

  There is a lengthy pause. She imagines him lifting out a pie and putting it on the kitchen table, with mustard and a pepper grinder standing by.

  ‘Did you or your wife make the pie?’

  ‘It’s a bought one. Quite good, though.’ Another pause as she pictures him dishing out a portion. ‘You were asking about romance.’ She nods into the phone. ‘Tricky, isn’t it? Theoretically, of course, it has to be possible for it to start up from nothing.’

  ‘It’s the chicken and egg, isn’t it? Leary’s the kind of person who wants instant solutions. Or in their absence, a rapid advance towards a resolution situation.’

  ‘That’s a common male trait, one is led to believe.’

  ‘Massively enlarged in film directors, I daresay. All those problems swarming round, that you have to solve instantly and get out of the way.’ She hears something crunchy. ‘Is it nice, the pie? I hope you’re having some greens with it.’

  It’s nice, yes, and he made a salad. Returning to the romance question, was this something Viv had decided she wanted?

  Well. Viv knows she hadn’t said she wanted it. Not initially. And besides, it was probably unrealistic to expect …

  Another pause, while they continue eating.

  ‘Still on the problem of absent romance,’ he says, sounding unusually tentative.

  ‘Yes?’ she prompts.

  ‘One wouldn’t want to say it could never start from scratch.’

  ‘No, one wouldn’t. On the other hand …’

  ‘On the other hand, if there’s not a skerrick by a certain point, maybe the odds are against it. I think that’s what I would say.’

  ‘Yes,’ Viv says. ‘That’s more or less my feeling, too.’

  25

  THE PORTRAIT

  Unknown to each other, Viv and Julia are both in Covent Garden at the same time, but with different objectives. Viv is combing the shops for a portable dressing gown, light enough to fold into a tote bag. She has decided that what she needs is a classic negligee, preferably black. And something silky to wear underneath, perhaps a satin slip with shoestring straps. For once, she finds the two items on her shopping list, more or less as designated.

  Leary is keen to progress their liaison, as soon as problems around the transgender nun, now the Mother Superior, have been ironed out. Viv is not sure she can get her head around Leary or progress their liaison, but Joy thinks she should keep her head right out of it. At least he’s not a fake vicar. And he’s the only ship on the horizon, right?

  Julia has been through Marjorie Mackintosh’s hands and arrived at the piano rehearsal primed for action. Today is her big scene with Yuri. Her nightdress is not quite ready so she is wearing a rehearsal skirt, a plain cotton gown in similar style, with a lightweight robe. Marj, who knows Julia likes support and something to push against when she sings, has given her a structured bodice.

  Already in position in the rehearsal room is the set of the Countess’s bedchamber: a shadowy candlelit room in grand classical style. Outside the tall windows, moonlight illuminates a stormy sea. The Countess’s gowns are displayed on stands. And dominating the room is a huge portrait from the days when she was known throughout Russia as the Moscow Venus.

  Although she knew it would be there, Julia is unprepared for the impact. They hadn’t bothered with any of the alternatives she brought in. They had just used her teenage photograph, and reinvented it.

  Staring down at her is a remarkable likeness of June Jeffs as a young girl on the cusp of womanhood. Arresting, rouged, her hair in elaborate ringlets. The dark hair is bisected at the crown, dramatically, by a slash of white. The chin has a provocative tilt, as if challenging the onlooker to a duel.

  The smoky eyes are not those of an ingénue. She wears an off-the-shoulder scarlet evening dress, cut low, with a tight bodice and flowing skirt, and an equally sensational necklace of emeralds and diamonds. It’s like a Gainsborough portrait.

  Emils is transfixed. ‘It’s bloody breathtaking.’ A bloody marvel, Yuri concurs, shaking his head. Julia says she wouldn’t mind that bloody necklace.

  It has caught her unawares and she has to conceal the fact that she is shaken. It’s not every day you encounter a stunning portrait of yourself as you once were. Although you never looked exactly like that, in truth, because it is informed by artistic licence. The fact that you are now in your late sixties (although everyone believes you to be only in the mid) lends a further lack of clarity to your feelings.

  ‘At least the stripe will identify me. In case nobody knows who it’s meant to be.’ The men scoff. It’s obvious who it is.

  Emils watches her. Smiling, hands on his hips. He’s about to take her and Yuri through their moves, to piano accompaniment. Complicated moves, crucial timing, to be teamed with singing of the greatest
delicacy and finesse. The fusion of these will need to be embedded. The portrait perfectly sets up what is to come between them.

  Yuri first. The scene opens as Herman arrives. He is riveted by the portrait. I cannot tear my eyes away from that terrible, fascinating face. I stare at it with hatred, and yet my eyes cannot get their fill …

  The Old Countess enters the bedchamber after the ball, escorted by her entourage of female attendants. Julia emerges from behind a screen wearing her second wig, the Countess’s own hair: long, iron grey with the white streak. Her night attire appears dignified and funereal at first, draped with a black peignoir.

  A chaise longue in rococo style is positioned under the portrait. The Countess dismisses her servants and reclines upon it, mesmerised by her own image and memories (poignant, troubling) of her youth.

  This is Julia’s great moment: Je crains de lui parler la nuit. A famous aria from the Countess’s youth, and Tchaikovsky’s homage to an earlier French opera. She rises to her feet, and very slowly – ‘molto grave, Julia’ – she begins her dance movements. A frail old woman, observed only, as she believes, by the ironic eyes of her younger self.

  Behind her a slow-motion film is projected on the tall windows. The soft-focus outlines of men and women in wigs and elegant costumes. Dancers, long dead but unforgotten, revolving in her mind. The simplicity of what she sings is deceptive. It requires formidable technique. Total vocal and emotional control, the result of a lifetime of training.

  In order to maintain her equilibrium, to be at one remove from the emotion of the words (and the unsettling effect of the portrait) Julia will sing slightly outside of herself. This is the moment the Countess reveals the fragility behind the facade. It is a lament for the past, and for her lost youth.

  I’m afraid to speak to him at night

  I hear too clearly what he says

  he tells me: I love you, and I feel

  – in spite of myself – I feel

  my heart, which beats

  which beats …

  The peignoir slips from her shoulders as she reclines. She continues her reverie (‘pianissimo now, Julia’) softly, as in a dream. Almost imperceptibly, the last word fades away. It trembles and dies on the air. Her eyes close as Herman emerges from the background. His stealthy figure approaches. Don’t be frightened! The Countess awakens, with a start.

  Emils demonstrates, with the lightest of touches on her upper arm. ‘You are initially in dread, Julia, of this staring, threatening man. You have seen him before. You had a fearful premonition.’

  I have come to ask a favour …

  ‘As he continues to sing, your history kicks in. You make a gesture. It’s not a flirtatious move, but it’s subtly erotic. You invite him. You indicate the space next to you, and he obeys. You are a dark presence, Julia. A bird of prey. You are totally aware of each other.’

  You can make my whole life happy.

  It won’t cost you anything—

  ‘For a moment,’ Emils says, ‘we need to think – and almost believe – that this is the start of a love duet. The Countess listens. And as she responds to his words, she leans towards him. Leans into him. And she puts out her hand – make your hand old and spidery, Julia – on his leg as he sings …’

  If you ever knew the feeling of love

  If you remember the ardour and passion of young blood

  If you ever smiled at a child, or felt your heart beat in your breast

  I beg of you, by all you hold sacred – reveal your secret!

  ‘Your hand is making a move up his thigh. You must time this right, Julia,’ Emils cautions, ‘or all of us are in very deep shit.’

  This breaks the tension. They relax, and regroup. ‘And then comes Herman’s fatal error.’

  What good is it to you?

  You are old, you will die soon.

  Emils’ hand guides Julia’s elbow. ‘She repudiates him for those words.’ Enraged, quivering, the Countess rises from the chaise. As she brandishes her stick, Herman pulls out his pistol.

  Old witch! I’ll make you answer!

  She falls back, and expires from shock. Compared with many deaths Julia has undergone in her operatic career, this one almost qualifies as run of the mill. It appals Herman, but for a darker reason: she has died before revealing the secret of the cards. Bridie Waterstreet as Lisa enters, to be greeted by the sight of her dead grandmother. The scene ends.

  They run through it again, twice. The director appears casual and relaxed, hands in his pockets, listening and watching with ears and eyes that miss nothing. Between each break other key people surround the singers. The language coach, the assistant conductor, the movement director, the choreographer.

  Rehearsing a difficult scene for the first time is demanding enough. The nuances of this one are exceptionally tricky. But the work is cathartic in the way, only semi-explicable, of all great art. As Julia puts it at lunch: ‘The way it seizes your feelings, puts them through the wringer and shreds them. And then reassembles them in a new and improved version. It’s what keeps us all going, isn’t it? What else is there in life, when it comes down to it?’

  She glances at Bridie. ‘Of course, there’s always love.’ This is by way of being a simple, throwaway line. Almost, but not quite.

  Bridie shares a special smile with her. ‘You were simply wonderful, Julia.’ Contriving, Julia notes, to sit on the banquette next to Emils.

  26

  A REVELATION OR TWO

  Leary has been texting sprightly messages once or twice daily. What’s up, B? Omg I’m snowed under. No change. Transgender issue causing papal ructions. Still snowing.

  Still snowing arrived during Viv’s meeting with Daisy, but was not read until afterwards. The latest one came when she was shopping for new nightwear: Hey. Watch this space. Upcoming wop.

  Viv has responded in a sprightly way too, while contriving to be non-specific about outcomes. She is reluctant to think about where an upcoming window of opportunity might lead. At the same time she is disinclined to mention Leary in any further communication with Martin. Which hasn’t come up, as there has been no further communication with Martin since their conversation a few days ago.

  Julia’s attachment to her goddaughter is beyond doubt. But Daisy, like her mother, has grown up in tandem with Julia’s career and knows the rules. Jules was never going to make it to the opening of her show and it’s no surprise when she phones to cry off, with apologies. No surprise either that she will opt out of Daisy’s birthday celebrations the following week. They’ll have a humdinger of a party instead, after the closing night of The Queen of Spades. Daisy says she’s not at all sure turning thirty-nine is anything to celebrate.

  Her godmother tells her that from any objective perspective the age of thirty-nine is sheer heaven. You’re young enough to have every possibility in front of you, and old enough to know what you’re doing.

  ‘Did you know what you were doing at thirty-nine?’ Daisy demands, and then regrets it. A rubbish question on any reckoning. By the age of thirty-nine Julia Jefferies was a world-famous name. Daisy Mayberry, who is similarly passionate about her art, hasn’t abandoned such soaring ambitions, although she is aware of doubts creeping in.

  She says, ‘Don’t answer that, it was a dumb question. You knew exactly what you were doing. You were well on your way, in every respect.’

  Jules feels for her. ‘Only in some,’ she replies.

  A slight equivocation prompts Daisy to pursue this. It propels her to ask something she last asked as a teenager, and has often toyed with asking again. She has always chickened out at the last minute, in large part out of respect for Julia’s privacy. Why this time should have been any different, she will reflect afterwards, she couldn’t say.

  ‘Did you ever consider having children?’

  Jules answers casually. ‘It wasn’t possible with my career. As I’ve told you before.’

  There is something pat about this that suggests many rehearsals and much repetit
ion. It is both too automatic and too evasive for Daisy today. ‘Didn’t you ever take any risks?’

  This time there is a pause on the phone, quite a lengthy one, as Julia weighs this up. Where her goddaughter is concerned she wishes to play with a straight bat. ‘I took risks. I had an abortion once. Between ourselves, of course.’ They have a longstanding agreement where sensitive matters are concerned.

  ‘Of course.’ Daisy, who is astounded, sounds like she takes this information in her stride.

  ‘After that I never took any more risks. Ever.’

  ‘Right.’ Daisy proceeds to put another toe in the water. ‘Were you tempted at all? To go ahead?’

  ‘No. I wasn’t tempted for one moment. It wasn’t possible.’ A fractional beat. ‘Or desirable. I knew that.’

  Daisy tosses caution to the wind. ‘Why not?’

  ‘Usual reasons,’ says Jules, lightly. ‘No money, too young, wrong time.’ A Hollywood accent: ‘Wouldn’t have fitted in with my skedule.’

  Daisy is being fobbed off and she knows it. She changes tack. ‘What about the guy? What did he think about it?’

  For a moment she thinks they have been cut off. Then Jules says, without expression, ‘He thought nothing because I didn’t tell him.’

  ‘You didn’t?’ This seems to go against everything Daisy knows about Julia.

  ‘I dealt with it myself. It was better that way, I thought.’

  There is something in Jules’s tone that Daisy can’t identify. ‘Didn’t you have a relationship with him? Who was he? Was he just –’ a grin, ‘a ship in the night? Or don’t you remember?’

  Another pause. ‘Oh, I remember.’ It’s quite plain, even over the phone, that Jules is not prepared to say anything more.

  Something strikes Daisy. She is silenced, almost, by the implications. The possibilities. ‘Jules – it wasn’t Dad, was it?’

  Julia expostulates. ‘Geoff? Allah preserve us. What on earth gave you that idea?’

  ‘You would tell me?’

  ‘Of course I would.’ But she probably wouldn’t, Daisy thinks.

  At Daisy’s show, as with most small art openings in a confined space, there are no in-depth conversations. They are precluded by wall-to-wall sound in the three uninsulated white cubes, and an Aeolian wind harp and percussion (played by two of Daisy’s musician friends) in the background.