Atlantic Shift

by Emily Barr

  ‘I know. Can I do anything except wait?’

  He looks at me, and smiles, a genuine smile. ‘Officially, no, but actually, Evie, yes. I’ll do my best to help you. I can’t make any promises, but I’ll call in a couple of favours and see if I can’t find you a lead. As long as you promise me - I know how emotional these matters are, and I know how much you must have invested in her - so promise me that you’re not going to turn up at her house and make a scene. If you do, and if it comes back to me, I’ll be deeply, deeply in the shit. OK?’

  I smile at him and swallow the small amount of lukewarm coffee that remains in my cup. ‘Of course. I don’t know what I will do, but I won’t turn up and introduce myself. I think . . .’ I pause and wonder whether this is true. As far as I can tell, it is. ‘I think just to know who she is and where she lives and that she’s OK should be enough for me. I’d love to meet her, but only when she’s ready. She might not even know she was adopted.’

  ‘Indeed, although her parents should have been told it was far better for the child to know something like that from the very beginning.’

  ‘I think I’d feel much calmer if I knew what her name was and whether or not I’m really likely to be seeing her every five minutes on the streets of Manhattan. I mean, she might live in California, mightn’t she?’

  ‘She might, but the chances are she was adopted on the East Coast. There’s no saying where the family might have gone from there.’

  ‘Since I’ve been back in New York, I haven’t been able to stop thinking about her. It is such a relief to talk about her to you. None of my friends know. I used to push her from my mind quite effectively, but now I can’t. I’m even wondering if there’s any chance of her being in the audience at my concert next week.’

  Ron nods. ‘Unlikely, you do realise that. Highly unlikely.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And you might find that knowing about her makes you even more desperate to meet her.’

  ‘I don’t think it will. I think I have pretty good self-control, normally, and I know I’ll be able to hold off for three more years. I might tell a few more people, though.’

  ‘You said you haven’t told anybody at all?’

  ‘Not even my husband. We’re separated, as I might have mentioned, but we’ve been married for eight years and I never told him. He’s just turned up in New York thinking that I was ready to go back to him. I’ve screwed him over completely, but that’s not the point. He thinks my Caesarean scar is from appendicitis.’

  ‘Clearly not a medical man. So Kate and Ian and the waif-like Megan are all in the dark?’

  ‘I couldn’t bring myself to tell Kate when she was having such a hard time with infertility. It seemed like the ultimate slap in the face. But if this pregnancy goes well . . .’

  ‘You know, I have every confidence. Kate hasn’t been pregnant before, and that actually stands her in pretty good stead. Her body doesn’t have a history of rejecting foetuses. Of course it’s impossible to know, because she hasn’t got a history of nurturing them either.’

  ‘Fingers crossed.’

  ‘Indeed. You and I have each got more invested in this than Kate can possibly realise.’

  I look him in the eye. He seems more relaxed than earlier. ‘Shall I tell her about Anneka?’ I ask, carefully.

  Ron exhales loudly and leans back in his chair. ‘It’s in the paper, so I’m quite surprised she hasn’t seen it already. You know, “TV doc’s partner feared dead”. All that. But no. I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t. Not yet. Perhaps we’ll say something when she reaches her second trimester. Maybe we’ll wait until her baby is born. I have always made a point of not allowing my personal circumstances, whatever they may be, to affect my work, and I think it would be highly unprofessional if I let this awful matter upset Kate. She’s at a delicate stage and I want her to be happy. It’s good that someone can be happy.’

  ‘OK. I told Megan, though.’

  ‘I saw that in her face. Am I right in thinking that that slip of a girl is Guy Chapman’s girlfriend?’ He is smiling now, but it is a tense smile. Ron looks wary.

  ‘Yes, kind of. Possibly his ex-girlfriend, though I’m not sure if Guy knows that yet.’

  ‘Bloody hell. How on earth did he manage to attract a girl like that? I mean, the man’s my age, and as I recall he was a hell of a drinker.’

  ‘He certainly is. He’s nowhere near as dapper as you are, Ron.’

  Ron gapes at me, then chuckles. ‘Dapper?’ he echoes. ‘I’m dapper?’ He looks at me, leans forward, and laughs loudly, seeming to find this genuinely funny. ‘Well, thank you very much, Evie. Dapper is what you call an old man who wears a suit to buy his morning bagel, and polishes his shoes every night. What about sexy? Or handsome, or at least fit?’

  ‘Well, obviously you’re all those things, certainly to a higher degree than Guy has ever been.’

  ‘Thank you. That’s all I ask. So what does she see in him?’

  I feel relieved to be able to talk to someone. ‘She has a few hang-ups, I suppose. She has a complicated relationship with her father, that’s certainly something that’s come out since she’s been here.’ Megan’s mother rang Howard and Sonia’s house when we were all in Manhattan yesterday. No one was in, and she left a short, desperate message. When Meg called back, worried sick, she got Oliver. He told her not to be stupid, that everything was fine and she was imagining it. ‘He hits her mother,’ I tell Ron. ‘Yesterday she packed up and tried to leave, and Oliver caught her. Meg managed to speak to her in the end, but only by telling her dad she was going to call the police if he didn’t prove to her that her mum was still alive.’

  ‘The poor girl.’

  ‘So her dad lets her mother speak to her for a few minutes, then snatches the phone and tells Meg to keep out of it. She was devastated when she hung up. Now she doesn’t know what to do.’

  ‘Has she called anyone? Do they have friends who Megan could alert, who might be able to step in and take her mother to people who would help her? Can’t Guy do something? I might be able to mobilise someone in Bristol if you need me to.’

  I shrug. ‘My mum would help if it came to it, but I don’t want to get anyone to swing into action without Megan agreeing. She was considering going home, but she’s angry with her mother too, for putting up with it for all those years. She despises her, in a way, for cocking up her escape attempt. But at least she’s trying now. That’s a big step forward. I hope Meg will come to realise that. She’s been very harsh to her mother. I think that’s the only way she’s been able to cope.’

  Ron stands up and walks to the window. ‘Guy, then, is the nice older man she’d like her father to be?’

  ‘Except that she has sex with him.’

  He turns round and smiles at me. ‘With that exception, yes.’

  I decide to ask him. ‘Ron, what happened between you and Guy?’

  He looks back out of the window. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I know something happened. Guy goes all strange whenever you’re mentioned. Why?’

  ‘He hasn’t said anything? I thought he couldn’t have. None of you would have been so normal with me if he had.’

  ‘Is it to do with Marianne?’

  Ron stares at the glass for a while, then turns back to me. He looks at his watch. I am shocked to realise that I have been with him for more than an hour. I leave the question hanging for a few seconds, then cave in.

  ‘Sorry,’ I tell him. ‘You must have patients waiting.’

  He relaxes visibly, and comes to kiss me on the cheek. ‘Time flies in good company. Thank you for coming to see me, Evie. This past hour has been a breath of fresh air. It’s refreshing to think about something other than my own troubles, and I’ll let you know as soon as I have any news for you. For the record, any little girl would be proud to have you as her mother.’

  My eyes fill with tears. ‘Thank you.’ Nobody has ever said anything like that to me before. It is, without a doubt, the b
iggest compliment I have ever received.

  chapter eighteen

  A week later

  I sit in my dressing room and look at my dress on its hanger. At least I don’t have to worry about that. It is perfect, and because I paid so much money for it I know that it will stay perfect. It is not the sort of dress which suddenly changes as you allow yourself to doubt it. It is bigger and better than I am and it has an arrogant aura which I love.

  The shoes are equally wonderful. They are strappy and high and purple, and I have practised walking in them so I can be fairly sure that, barring a disaster, I won’t fall flat on my face or, worse, flat on my cello.

  I wish someone was here with me. I didn’t ask Kate or Howard to come backstage beforehand, because I thought I should be warming up and trying to meditate, as I usually do. This time, though, I am terrified. I wonder whether Jack is out there, or whether he’s gone home. Someone to talk to would calm me down, I think. Still, I haven’t got a phone in here, and I’m not going in search of a payphone. I will get through this.

  My good-luck cards are standing on the dressing table. There are six of them, from the family in Bristol, Howard and Sonia, Kate and Ian, Meg, Ron and Aurora, and Alexis and everyone at the label. I read them again. I have to do well tonight. All these people are rooting for me. A couple of people are probably willing me to fail too.

  I look at the cello, standing up in its open case. I try to think of it as a part of myself. The cello and I are one, and we will play this Elgar together. I have practised like a real musician since I’ve been here, and I know that technically I can do it. It’s the interpretation I’m worried about. Rehearsals with the orchestra have been fine, but I know that I’m not brilliant. This orchestra - the New York Philharmonic - are the best, and they are used to playing with the best. I am unable to look at the cello section, because I’m sure they must all be sneering at me, knowing that any one of them could do better.

  I know I will not be sending people away amazed at my prowess and my musicianship. Being not bad, within the parameters of acceptability to this audience and this orchestra, is all I ask of myself. I just hope that the posters with my image on them attract a dilettante audience, who will be easily pleased, like the people who used to go to see Nigel Kennedy playing the Four Seasons.

  The first half of the concert is in full flow. I can hear it through the intercom, but then I stand up and turn the volume down. A young man is playing a Mozart piano concerto, quite brilliantly. He is a native New Yorker, a couple of years older than me, and he sells CDs by the truckload. He is on home turf and everyone adores him. This audience has, almost to a man or a woman, come to see him, rather than me.

  I take the cello out and warm up some more. First I make sure it’s still in tune, then I tackle some scales and arpeggios. I play the first few minutes of the concerto, and then stop. I try part of the second movement, and realise that nothing I do now will make any difference. It’s like cramming for an exam at the doorway of the examination hall. If I can’t do it now I’ll never do it. I lay the instrument carefully on its side, loosen the bow and place it on top, and try to think of nothing.

  The auditorium is silent. The final chord hangs in the air. I know where I am, but the whole of the performance has been so hyperreal that it is more like a dream than reality. The orchestra behind me is different from the way it was in rehearsals. It is a part of my performance. I am barely aware at all of the first violins, only a foot or two behind me and to my right. The bright lights, which have always, in past performances, filled me with adrenalin, now seem natural and unremarkable. I don’t care how I look, whether I’m making a comical face. I don’t even care if my knickers are showing. This is how it is supposed to be. I have never played like this before.

  I keep my bow on the strings long after the chord has died away. The orchestra is also keeping its position, until the conductor ends the performance with a jerk of his baton. Suddenly, I am smiling so broadly that my face hurts. I have done it; and I did fine. I have never played this well in public. This is the peak of my career, and I am amazed at myself. I pulled it off. Even if I never play again, I have now had a career that makes me proud.

  No one in the orchestra, no discerning and knowledgeable member of the audience, will go home thinking they have witnessed the birth of a new legend, but I acquitted myself well, and that is far more than I dared to hope for. I have done more than not disgracing myself. The auditorium is enormous, and every seat is filled. I try to discern the faces, try to look for teenage girls, but the people merge together in the darkness. I count back to the sixth row to see if Jack is there, but I can’t make anyone out. I stand up and smile, and give a little bow, and smile again. I direct applause behind me, to the orchestra, and hold hands with the conductor as we take a bow together. Luckily, my breasts stay within the dress. He kisses me on each cheek, holds me by the upper arms and looks at me, and tells me, ‘You were beautiful, Evie.’ He gestures to the leader of the orchestra, who tries to take my other hand before he notices that it is holding my cello. I accept the most spectacularly tasteful bouquet I have seen in my life. It matches my dress, and I think these are orchids. All the time, they keep clapping, and I keep smiling. I’m almost crying. I have validated myself as a musician at last. I breathe deeply and tell myself to remember this moment. There are not many of these to a lifetime.

  People are waiting in the wings to congratulate me, and I smile gratefully at the members of the orchestra, and murmur my thanks. I don’t stop to talk to anyone, and they let me through in respectful silence. When I reach my dressing room, I close the door behind me and stand there for a moment. I hug the cello to me before putting it gently back in its case. We did it together after all. I have never felt a sense of achievement like this, and I vow to keep practising at the same level from now on, so I can make something of myself.

  I sit down and pour a glass of water. Immediately there is a gentle tap on the door.

  ‘Come in!’ I call, hoping for Kate.

  Alexis puts his head into the room. ‘Evie Silverman!’ he says, beaming. ‘I knew you were good, girl, but I had no idea you would be stunning! You are a star. Everyone is talking about you. New York is at your feet.’

  I smile at his hyperbole. I could not stop smiling if I tried. ‘Thanks, Alexis. I can offer you a celebratory glass of water, and that’s it.’ I hope he isn’t looking at the bin. If he does, he will see three empty crisp packets. I have not exactly adhered to his beloved Atkins diet: the only times I have boycotted carbohydrates have been when I’ve been with him, and even then I normally come away so hungry that I buy a sandwich on the way home. Yet I like him to think that I am his soulmate in my devotion to the process of ketosis.

  ‘We’ll solve that!’ he announces, and nips out of the door, to return immediately with an ice bucket containing a bottle of champagne, and four glasses in the other hand.

  I am amazed. ‘Alexis! But you don’t drink!’ I love the way I am feeling. Nothing can penetrate this shell of euphoria. A small voice tells me to be careful: the last time I felt like this, I left Jack, and the trouble began.

  ‘I drink occasionally,’ he corrects me. ‘I prefer to do it in extreme moderation. This is an occasion.’

  I laugh with delight. ‘Extreme moderation? That sums you up perfectly, Alexis.’ As he is so pleased with me, I add, ‘My next album doesn’t really have to have a pop backing, does it?’

  ‘We’ll talk about that another day.’

  While he pops the cork and fills two glasses with frothy bubbles, I look at myself in the mirror. I am successful. I am somebody, even if it doesn’t last. I have never, in my adult life, felt as secure as this. I know it’s dangerous to rely on the approval of others for one’s own self-esteem, but tonight I am happy to do it. They loved me. They loved me not because they saw me in a magazine or read an insincere interview in a newspaper, but because I did what I am paid to do, and I did it well.

  My cheeks are pink, m
y eyes wide, and I look unspeakably happy. I watch myself for a few moments. A few strands of my hair have escaped from the tight bob that Sonia’s hairdresser sprayed into place this afternoon, and they curl gently around my face. The dress’s strapless top is ridiculously flattering, and my collarbone and shoulders jut delicately above it. I try to pinpoint what it is about me that is different tonight, and just as I am deciding that, for the first time in years, I am not wearing any sort of a mask, there is another knock on the door.

  Alexis jumps to his feet and opens it. Kate, Ian and Megan pile into the room, closely followed by Howard and Sonia.

  ‘Wow,’ I say, looking at them. ‘Everyone’s here.’

  Kate rushes up and hugs me. ‘You were fantastic,’ she laughs. ‘I’ve never heard you play like that. Well done.’ She has dressed up in a short pink dress, and she looks as excited as I am.

  ‘I’ve never heard me play like that either,’ I admit. ‘Thanks. Have a drink.’ She shakes her head. ‘Oh,’ I remember. ‘Sorry. Hope there hasn’t been too much excitement for the baby.’

  ‘Nope.’ She shakes her head. ‘He’s going to have to get used to hearing Auntie Evie’s music.’

  Ian is introducing Alexis to Howard and Sonia. My dressing room is small, and it is extremely crowded, but I like that and I hope no one suggests moving the party elsewhere. I am walking on air. The chatter is loud, and the bottle of champagne lasts no time at all. I look at Megan, who seems radiant.