‘It made all the difference,’ Viv says to Max, as they leave their seats, ‘having you around for rehearsals for the first time.’ His eyes, blue-violet like those of his half-sister, meet hers. They are as she has always found them: expressive, yet impenetrable.
They surge out with the crowd.
‘Are all operas so incredibly tragic?’ Eliza demands.
‘Julia says all operas are about love,’ Viv tells her, ‘but some just rub it in more than others.’ She chooses to omit Jules’s astringent postscript: and they all end in tears. Instead, she agrees with Martin that they all end in a blooming miracle of catharsis.
From being dazed and shattered, everyone is revitalised. Together with Malcolm Foster they go round to the stage door, where the fans are massing with bouquets and autograph books. They have passes to Julia’s dressing room, which is filled with flowers and cards. By the time they’re admitted, Jules has had her costume and make-up removed and is her customary smart self. Max takes charge of the champagne.
Emils, the director, pops in to give Julia kisses and a hug. The length and ardour of both are unconstrained by the presence of outsiders. Viv sees a stocky young man with a tangled mass of hair (not unlike her own) and a broken nose. His evident dynamism is unchecked by a suit that looks mismatched and a crumpled tie that’s coming loose. She is suddenly put in mind of her stepfather, Stefan.
Emils relinquishes his diva with evident reluctance. ‘The first time we met, I told Julia the Countess was the star of the show,’ he announces. ‘She didn’t believe me. Can you imagine that?’ Julia regards him indulgently as she attends to his tie. If Viv didn’t know better, she’d think she had designs.
Julia introduces him to the others by their first names, her keen eye lingering on Martin, and lastly on Max. Emils is throwing a post-performance party, small and select. My date is my brother here, she smiles.
‘But Julia, I totally thought you were my date,’ Emils protests, with a comradely grin at Max. He knows all about Julia’s weather eye on his short-term objectives vis-à-vis Ms Waterstreet. And is totally undeterred, as she expected.
Only the principal singers and significant others will be admitted to the party. ‘What do you have to do to be a significant other?’ Geoff inquires of Max. Viv looks at him sharply. His expression is bland.
Max shrugs an elegant pinstriped shoulder. ‘What makes you think I’d tell you?’
Parsons Green, late Sunday morning. Newspapers, magazines and an open laptop are on the dining table, along with debris testifying to a proper English fry-up. Viv and Martin are trawling through the reviews.
‘“Gripping and thrilling production.”’
‘How about this? “ROH goes high-tech with holograms. Seniors behaving badly.”’
‘I can top that. “Julia Jefferies marks her welcome return to Covent Garden with a superlative sound and a shatteringly sensual performance.”’
‘“Yuri Dutka has a commanding presence. Bridie Waterstreet has a gleaming sound. But the stage belongs to the peerless – and fearless – Julia Jefferies.”’
‘That’s the winner,’ says Viv.
‘Did he get your seal of approval?’
How much is riding on the answer? Not as much as she’d once have thought. Still …
‘You can relax. Both of us liked him. He’s quite a cool guy, we thought.’
Both of us. We thought. ‘I couldn’t help noticing, darling, that you were drinking water in the interval.’
‘We weren’t planning on telling you quite yet. It’s extremely early days.’ A sigh. ‘Nothing gets past your eagle eye, does it, Mum?’
Breakfast in West Hampstead, a few days later. Coffee, toast, the Telegraph and the Guardian.
‘I’ve got some amazing news, George.’ He looks startled. ‘Sorry – I meant Geoff. Fingers crossed, you are going to be a grandfather.’
A brief pause. ‘It’s not that amazing. These things happen. I thought it would.’
‘I think I thought so too. Isn’t that odd? I didn’t want to say anything for fear of jinxing it. The cot quilt will come in useful after all.’ Geoff seems to be studying something in the paper. ‘But you’re pleased, on the whole?’
A longer interval as he weighs things up. A grunt. Viv understands this to indicate qualified assent.
‘How’s he taking it? Assuming it’s his, that is.’
‘Oh, I think we can assume that. Daisy says he’s over the moon.’ Viv hesitates. ‘She says he’s boasting about being one up on Heggers and Venetia. They were having a race to the finish.’
Daisy had also said Adrian felt like he’d finally activated the full flower of his manhood. She was about to regale her mother with his follow-up remarks before she remembered who she was talking to and thought the better of it.
Geoff says, ‘No doubt he thinks he’s validated his existence.’
‘As a male? Or by raising the quality of the gene pool?’ No response. ‘Is that what you thought?’
He looks up. ‘For fuck’s sake. Normal men don’t think like that.’ He sounds mildly amused rather than full-on irate, which is encouraging. The import of the news must be sinking in.
‘Lize enjoyed the opera, didn’t she? I’m glad she’s such a feisty young thing. We had quite a good talk at dinner, about opera themes and prejudices. How women have such a bad time of it, and so forth.’
‘Yes, I know. I was there.’
‘So you were, I was forgetting.’ She throws caution to the winds. ‘Well, what did you think? Of Martin, I mean.’ Although it’s of minimal interest. Basically, I couldn’t care less about anyone’s opinion, yours in particular. All the same …
‘He seemed like a pleasant chap.’
Quite high praise, really. ‘Yes, he is, isn’t he?’ He’ll be coming round here after work tomorrow. There’s a thought: perhaps he could stay the night. Now we have separate bedrooms, this is perfectly feasible. How daringly bohemian. Wouldn’t Adrian approve?
And the new quilt is already on the bed; she put the finishing touches to it yesterday. Joy is coming over on the weekend to see it in situ. They’re going out for the once-over dinner afterwards. You may as well book for four I suppose, Joy told Viv, offhandedly.
There is one other thing (of importance to Viv, but evidently not to Martin) that she wishes her husband to know.
She says casually, ‘I’ve been meaning to tell you something, Geoff. He’s a few years younger than me.’
The sentence hangs in the air between them. Invisible words, linked by invisible threads to different words that Viv and Geoff have said to each other over the years. A long time ago, or in the recent past. Forgotten, and unforgotten. Relevant, and irrelevant. Words that marked moments: moments that were mostly inconsequential, because that’s how life is, but were sometimes decisive.
A small pause. Geoff looks up from his paper. ‘Well, bully for you, petal.’ Another beat. ‘Younger, eh?’ A grin. He clinks her coffee mug.
‘Touché.’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
My principal thanks go to Robert Gay, who put at my disposal his encyclopaedic knowledge of opera and music over many enjoyable meetings. While his enthusiasm for this project from the outset and his informed suggestions were the springboard for Julia Jefferies’ fictional existence, any mistakes or howlers, naturally, are mine.
For many ‘insider’ insights I am most grateful to Dame Anne Evans, who generously shared her experiences and answered incessant questions with patience and warmth.
Hywel David of the Royal Opera House took me on a detailed personal tour of backstage Covent Garden that was an invaluable spur to the imagination.
For their zeal in inspiring certain aspects of Viv’s experiences, I thank various friends who (together with their contributions) shall remain nameless.
Among those who read, commented or contributed in different ways, I particularly thank John Duigan, Penny Gay and Jennifer Bryce, as well as Tara Fisher, Nammi Le, Katrina Mortimer,
Drusilla Modjeska, Sara Colquhoun, Anne Chisholm, Jean Deacon, Jo Smith and George Merryman.
To my agent Jane Novak for her drive, humour and unfailing belief, and to everyone at Ventura Press – Jane Curry, my perceptive editor Claire de Medici, Zoe Hale, Eleanor Reader and Sophie Hodge – for their exemplary zest and commitment – thank you all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Virginia Duigan grew up in England and Australia, and apart from spells in America has contrived to live and work between the two countries. Besides freelancing in many branches of print journalism, with a strong bias towards the arts, she has written a movie, and in the more distant past had stints as a tea lady, a teacher, an ABC television interviewer and writer of children's drama series. She is the author of three other novels, most recently The Precipice, which was longlisted for the Miles Franklin prize.
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