'You're back on the lithium now; you just need to give it a chance to work,' Sophie says quietly.
'But the lithium doesn't cure anything.'
'No, but it can help.'
'I just want Jennah to be happy!' I blurt out.
Sophie strokes my back. 'I know you do, love, I know you do. And you'll find a way. I'm sure about that.'
The following morning I receive a letter. A letter, addressed to me, here in Watford. My heart starts to pound. I tear it open while Sophie spoons runny egg into Aurora's open mouth.
There is nothing inside. Yes, there is something inside. A ticket. Huh? A concert ticket. Charity concert in support of the NSPCC, Dewey Hall, Manchester, Saturday 18th July. That's less than a week away. I look back at the address on the envelope. Jennah's handwriting, without a doubt.
'I don't get it,' I say to Sophie, showing it to her.
'It's an invitation to a concert,' Sophie says simply. 'Go and find out.'
'Yes, but why? Is she going to be there too?'
'I don't know,' Sophie replies, still feeding Aurora. 'But if Jennah has invited you to a concert, then I suggest that you go.'
'Why?' I am crushed that there is no letter. Just a stupid concert ticket. What is Jennah playing at?
'Don't you think it might be some kind of gesture?' Sophie asks, noticing the expression on my face.
'Gesture of what?'
'Maybe . . . a step toward reconciliation?'
'Maybe it's a joke,' I mutter. But inside, my heart is doing backflips. OK, it's not a letter, but it's still something. A sign. From Jennah. A sign she is still thinking of me.
Chapter Sixteen
JENNAH
I don't know why I sent Flynn a ticket to the concert. Well, actually that's not true, I do know why. Because I want him to come. I want him to come and hear me sing Letting Go in public for the very first time. I want him to come and see how much I still love him. But now I realize it was a mistake. It was a mistake because now, either way, I'm going to cry. If he comes, I'll cry. If he doesn't come, I'll cry even more. A lose-lose situation. And the deadliest thing you can do when trying to sing is start to cry.
My nerves are absolutely shot. It's ridiculous. Just some silly charity concert in some silly, nothing music hall in Manchester. But if Flynn comes, it will be the first time I will have seen him in eighteen days. If I manage to get through Letting Go, it will be the first time his song is publicly performed. And if Flynn comes to find me afterwards . . . My heart thumps as if it's ready to burst. Please let him come. Oh, please let him come.
I almost want to ring Sophie to check he received the ticket. What if it got lost in the post? But then I realize that ringing would defeat the whole purpose. I just have to hope. But I do hope; I hope so much it hurts.
I am doing my make-up in the large communal dressing room, amongst a dozen or so other singers, most of them pupils or friends of Mrs Ellis. The main doors have just opened and we can already hear the distant rumble of people going to their seats. Someone comes in to give us our fifteen-minute call. I feel spectacularly ill.
The black concert dress decorated with silver sequins is so thin I feel like I have nothing on. Talk about exposed. Talk about vulnerable. I can feel my knees shaking. It takes me three attempts to get my hair up. I think I might be sick.
I can hear the hum of the audience from the platform entrance, almost feel their heat. The orchestra is tuning up already. Mrs Ellis comes off the stage after giving a short speech. The first performer leaves the dressing room, and moments later I hear the sound of applause. Then the orchestral introduction to Ave Maria. Why did the woman I'm replacing have to be last? The seconds tick by like slow torture. I accept a cigarette from someone. Too bad if I sound like Patty Bouvier when I finally get to sing.
The recital drags on. Alice, an old school friend, is chatting to me, but all I am aware of is the frantic beating of my heart. Is he there or isn't he? Just tell me, God, and put me out of my misery. I want to rush out into the auditorium, scan the rows of seats for a sign of his tousled blond hair. He must be here. He must.
When I finally step out onto the stage to sing Letting Go at the very end of the recital, my legs threaten to buckle beneath me. I can't remember ever feeling this nervous before, not for anything. I catch sight of Mum and Alan beaming proudly in the front row. The rest of the audience is just a mass of dark heads. How will I ever know if Flynn is here or not? The applause dies away. I want to lie down and die.
The lights have been dimmed – how appropriate – and the members of the orchestra are sitting back. It is just me and the funny little balding accompanist. The music starts. Concentrate on the song. The song. Flynn's song. I take a breath and start to sing.
The applause at the end is tremendous. I'm desperate to get off the stage but Mrs Ellis forces me out for a second bow. I don't dare scan the audience. If I see Flynn now, I don't think I will be able to cope.
In the dressing room the noise and good cheer are overpowering. Everyone is laughing and jostling and chatting and back-slapping. I try to concentrate on getting my things together as quickly as I can. My hands won't stop shaking and I am being jogged from all sides. In a few minutes I will be going out of the stage door, where I am due to meet Mum and Alan. Will he be there? Will he?
I button my coat with fumbling fingers and step out into the cold night air. There are people, people everywhere; taxis at the kerb, performers being hugged, the streetlamps very bright. Members of the audience come up to congratulate me – a friend of Mum's, a friend of Mrs Ellis's, another friend of Mum's. Everyone is jostling, talking, laughing. I can't see Flynn anywhere. Mrs Ellis has grabbed me by the arm and is trying to introduce me to someone.
'Isn't she a star? A former pupil, no less, just back from studying at the Royal College of Music . . .'
'Really? You're not little Jennah Dawson who used to go to school with my Freddie . . . ?'
'You really have a beautiful voice . . .'
'Hey, Freddie, it's Jennah Dawson!'
'That song of yours, who wrote it? It's not one I recognize . . .'
'She stepped in for Marianne just like that! It couldn't have been more perfect!'
'Do you sing professionally?'
I look at them and then suddenly past them, beyond them. I see a familiar figure lurking at the edge of the crowd. A long dark coat, tousled blond hair, a gaze so piercing it hurts. He smiles slightly and then steps away, steps back, turns away. No.
'Well done, darling. You sang beautifully. Didn't she sing beautifully, Alan?' Mum is hugging me now. Alan is taking my bag. Mrs Ellis is asking whether I will take part again next year . . .
The figure is moving, moving away across the street. As he reaches the other side, he turns back and looks at me. Raises his eyebrows and nods as if to say well done. Then he leaves, walking quickly down the road.
I am going to burst. I am going to burst with disappointment, sorrow and pain. I scan the street desperately with my eyes. He does not come back. He does not come back.
The crowd is dispersing now. Mum looks cold. 'Have you got all your things, love? Let's go then, the car's just round the corner.'
'Yes,' I say numbly. 'All right, I'm coming.'
As we approach the car, I stop and pull out my mobile. I find the crumpled business card buried deep inside my purse. I peer at it under a lamppost and force myself to key in the mobile number written across the bottom. If Flynn can just walk away, then so can I.
'Françoise Denier,' a woman's voice answers in a sharp French accent.
'It's Jennah Dawson,' I say. 'The girl who sang Summertime at the Royal College of Music's recital at St Martin-in-the-Fields in March.' My voice is shaking. Will she even remember me? 'I'm sorry to ring you so late, but I just wanted to say, if – if you're still interested in having me at the conservatoire in September, I – I'd like to accept.'
There is a silence. I can hear my heart. 'Well, this is a surprise. I am due to fly
back to Paris the day after tomorrow. But I did like your voice. You had a clarity, a freshness that I have been looking for. I could perhaps see you tomorrow. I am in Oxford at the moment. Can you come here?'
'Yes, of course,' I say quickly. 'Where should I meet you?'
Using the car bonnet as a writing surface, I scribble down directions on the back of the business card with a pen hurriedly supplied by Mum. When I hang up, Mum is beaming. 'Oh, darling, I'm so glad,' she says as we get into the car. 'You've made the right decision, I'm sure of it. Alan, did you hear? Jennah's going to study singing at the Paris Conservatoire. Under the wing of a famous French opera singer! Oh, how exciting, darling. A new chapter in your life!'
I smile and nod, fighting back tears.
Chapter Seventeen
FLYNN
I walk quickly back to the station. I will not cry, I will not cry. You sang the song so beautifully, my love. Perhaps I hoped you would be a wreck, perhaps I hoped you would be a mess. But when you came out of that door, surrounded by friends and family, your eyes alight with happiness, everything became clear. Suddenly I knew what I had to do to make you happy. Suddenly I realized the answer had been there all the time.
They say that if you really love someone, you should be willing to set them free. So that is what I am doing. I will step back and you will move on. I will let you go. I will not bring you back to London, back to hospitals and moods and rows. I will watch you from a distance, watch you succeed in whatever you do. And without me, you will.
My lovely Jennah, my beautiful Jennah. Your happiness means everything to me. I will listen for your voice in the distance. I will look at the moon. I will keep you in my pocket. I will carry your smile with me everywhere, like a warm and comforting glow.
A Voice in the Distance Page 18