A Moment Like This

by Anita Notaro

  About the Book

  Be careful what you wish for ...

  Antonia has always put everyone else before herself. Shy and quiet, her life in a small village in Wicklow has been devoted to her invalid mother and singing in the local church choir. Somehow, it’s easier that way.

  But when she is left alone, her friends encourage her to audition for a television talent show. Blessed with a glorious singing voice, she is suddenly thrust into the limelight and enters the world of celebrity and glamour. She’s the Girl from Nowhere, but can she cope with this startling new life? Antonia discovers that this business is tougher than she ever thought possible, but also that she’s stronger than she thought she was. And she finds that help can come from the most unexpected places ...

  From the number one bestselling author of Take a Look at Me Now, winner of the Galaxy Irish Popular Fiction Book of the Year.

  Contents

  Cover

  About the Book

  Title Page

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  Also by Anita Notaro

  Copyright

  A Moment Like This

  Anita Notaro

  To my readers

  Prologue

  Do you ever get the feeling that your life is just a series of moments, brief seconds in time when something that defines you happens, only you don’t even see it? There is no big plan for life, at least I don’t think so. It’s really just a series of accidents, good and bad, which happen while we think we have it all under control, and before you know it – well, life has changed for ever.

  That’s what happened to me, Antonia Trent, or Toni, as I’m now called. I didn’t plan any of this. A year ago, I was just a girl from Wicklow who sang in the church choir. And now, I’m here, backstage in The O2, waiting for an MC to call out my name. A hush falls over the huge crowd, broken by just the odd whistle, a scream. I peer around the edge of the set, and then pull back. All I can see is a sea of faces, the MC standing in a pool of light in the middle of the huge stage. My stomach flutters, the old nerves bubbling up, and I have to put a hand on my tummy to settle them. They’re nothing like they used to be in the beginning, but I still get them, a churning sensation mixed with a rush of adrenaline, but now I know that it’s all part of the process – that in a funny way the nerves help me to sing better. They keep me on my toes, but they don’t stop me in my tracks any more, like they used to.

  He’s talking now, warming up the crowd, but I can barely hear him, his voice echoey and muffled. ‘Get a move on,’ a heckler yells, and he obliges.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen, this year’s singing sensation, Toni Trent!’ His voice is lost in the roar from the crowd.

  I hesitate for a moment, then I turn around. They are all there, behind me: everyone that’s meant so much to me this year. Everyone except Mum, but I know she’s up there somewhere, looking down on me.

  ‘Break a leg, Toni.’ Niall squeezes my hand. I squeeze it back. And then I step forward on to the stage.

  1

  ‘BOILED EGG AND toast, mum. Your favourite.’ I put the tray down on the coffee table, picking the TV remote up and turning the volume down on the television. Mum was watching Fair City, as she always did, but Betty next door could probably hear it, she was playing it so loudly. I had to smile.

  ‘Here, let me move this cushion for you. Make you more comfortable.’ I pushed Mum gently forward in her chair, placing a hand under her shoulder while she pulled a cushion up behind her. ‘There we go. Now lean back there. Better?’

  ‘Perfect, thanks, pet.’ Mum closed her eyes for a second and relaxed back against the cushions. Then she opened her eyes again and smiled at me. ‘You look nice.’

  ‘Oh, God, Mum, I don’t.’ I looked at my navy trousers with the crease down the front, the white scoop-neck T-shirt that I used to wear into the office – when I had a job, that was. I used to work in an IT company before Mum’s stroke, but that seems like a million years ago. I look, well, frumpy’s the word that comes to mind, but then I’m going to choir practice, not a nightclub. At least, that’s what I tell myself. I don’t exactly need to dress to impress.

  But earlier, as I was getting dressed, I looked out my bedroom window to see Mary O’Donnell leaving her house in a sequinned sheath and killer heels, and I wondered what it would be like to dress like that: like a smart, confident young woman. I think I’ve forgotten how. Sometimes it feels as if I’ve never really grown up, not properly anyway. I’m twenty-five and all I’ve ever known is here.

  ‘Well, you look lovely to me.’ Mum smiled up at me and took my hand in hers. ‘Always my lovely Antonia, with those fine curls and those big, dark eyes.’ She reached up, then, and pulled at a stray lock of my golden-brown hair, which I’d tied into a ponytail. It’s so long now that it hangs down below my waist. I’ve hardly ever had it cut, at least not in the last five years. Mum used to do it, and of course she can’t now. And I’m too busy, to be honest, with the cleaning and the cooking and everything that Mum’s needed since she’s had her stroke. But then it’s what she deserves.

  I owe Mum everything, you see, and I want to look after her. Maybe I feel it all the more because I’m adopted. Until I was seven, ‘home’ was a grey stone convent near Bray, with girls just like me, and Sister Monica, the nun who ran it. Home meant bells ringing for homework-time, dinner-time, bedtime, and a room shared with four other girls. Not that I ever really knew I was different, until my best friend Sally told me. I can still remember: it was going-home time after school, and we were both seven. We always left the yard together, saying goodbye at the school gates, when she would turn left to go to her house and I would turn right to the convent.

  ‘My Mummy says you have no one to love you,’ Sally said, and she smiled at me with her gap-toothed grin.

  ‘Oh.’ I still remember standing there with my brown schoolbag on my back, my hair in tight plaits. I didn’t know what she meant, but I knew that it didn’t feel right. What did she mean, no one to love me? It bothered me, all the way home and through homework and teatime. Sister Monica loved me, and Mary-Kate and Jane and the others in my room. They loved me, too. What had Sally meant? I couldn’t get it out of my mind, and at story-time that night, I asked Sister Monica. ‘Why don’t I have a mummy, Sister Monica?’

  ‘Well, Antonia.’ She smiled. ‘You live with us because your mother died when you were born.’

  I knew this, of course. She’d told me many times, always with the same expression, the same calm smile. But now, I curled my fists up into tight balls. ‘And what about my daddy?’ I persisted. ‘Where is he, and why can’t I live with him?’

  ‘I’m afraid we don’t know who your father is,’ she said gently. ‘But you’re happy here, aren’t you?’

  ‘Yes, but my friend at school has her own room, and her m
ummy makes her lunch and buys her nice clothes. I want that, too.’

  ‘Well, we’re your family, and I promise we will do our best to look after you,’ Sister Monica said, and she gave me a hug, pulling me towards her. I could smell the talcum powder she always used, and feel the scratch of her black habit against my cheeks. Sister Monica was the person I loved most in the whole world, I thought, as I returned the hug. But she wasn’t my mum.

  The funny thing is that when she told me that she’d found me a real mum and dad, who wanted me to go and live with them for ever, I was heartbroken. I was only seven, and it meant leaving everything and everyone I’d ever known. ‘I don’t want to go, Sister,’ I told her, my bottom lip trembling.

  ‘Don’t you want your own family, Antonia?’ Sister Monica’s tone was gentle, and when I looked up at her, she was smiling at me, her brown eyes crinkling at the corners. A family of my own. I couldn’t imagine what it might be like. ‘I think you’ll like them.’ And she came around the desk and held her hand out to mine. ‘Come on, let’s go and meet them.’

  And that’s how I became Antonia Trent, and came to live here in County Wicklow, in a little country village called Glenvara, with Anna and David Trent, my mum and dad, and a room of my own painted pink, and a garden with a swing in it. It was perfect, of course, and I had everything I could ever want. But more than that, I finally understood what it was like to live in a real family. It was another one of those moments, I guess, another one of those twists of fate.

  I didn’t need anything else, except Mum and Dad and my room and my friends at school and, of course, my singing. And I wasn’t the kind of girl to stand out – not really. I think I was afraid that I’d be sent back if I didn’t behave, but soon I just wanted to be good for the parents who’d given me everything. And I am kind of shy and quiet, or at least I think I am. I’ve been this way for so long that I can’t really remember. Before Mum had her stroke, I used to go out with the other girls in the village, maybe to the cinema in Bray, or for burgers at our local café. The girls, never the boys – at the grand old age of twenty-five I’m not sure what I’d say to boys. Miss Mouse, that’s me. And you know what? I’m happier this way, really.

  I kissed the top of Mum’s head. ‘I’m off, Mum. Are you sure you’ll be all right? I’ll be back home in a couple of hours to take you up to bed.’

  ‘I’ll be just fine here with my television and my supper.’ She smiled. ‘You go on and sing your heart out, pet. That way, I’ll have Sunday Mass to look forward to. Do you have a solo this week?’

  I blushed a bright red. ‘Well, Eithne’s asked me to do “Ave Maria”, but I don’t know …’

  ‘Of course you will. And you’ll be the pride of Glenvara, pet. My little nightingale.’ And with this, she patted me on the cheek. ‘I’m so proud of you, Antonia. But I wish you had more of a life of your own.’

  It’s not the first time Mum’s said that to me. Every so often, she drops hints, about whether I’d like to go out more with the girls, insisting that she could easily get Betty next door to help out if needed, but I can’t leave her. I just can’t.

  ‘I have you, don’t I?’ I squeezed her hand.

  ‘Of course you have.’ Mum smiled up at me and patted my cheek. ‘And now, EastEnders calls.’

  ‘Which means that I’m late,’ I said. ‘And Eithne will kill me.’ I leaned over to kiss her again, and then I left her in Albert Square, a look of contentment on her face. She was happy, and I was too, and that was all that mattered.

  2

  I WAS LATE by the time I reached the village church, even though I’d run all the way down the main street, past the post office, the chip shop and my old primary school, brightly painted pictures hanging up in its windows. I waved at Mrs O’Brien in the sweet shop, and old Jim Dunne, who was out mowing his lawn. I know everyone here and they all know me, which is nice, I suppose, although sometimes I wonder what it would be like to spread my wings a bit more. It’s a pretty place, Glenvara, but it’s small. And it’s funny to be a grown woman, and to have left Ireland just once, for a day-trip to Holyhead with Mum and Dad on the ferry. I’ve often wondered what Paris might be like, or London, and the closest I’ve been to New York is watching Sex and the City, but I try not to think about what I can’t have.

  I closed the church door behind me and climbed the steep steps into the choir, out of breath, huffing and puffing like an old woman. ‘Sorry, Eithne,’ I mouthed to the choir leader, and was rewarded with a smile and a nod as I took my place in the second row and listened to the others to find my note and then I opened my mouth to sing.

  We were halfway through the hymn ‘Hail Holy Queen’, and when we reached the final note, Eithne beamed at me. ‘Thank God for you, Antonia, or else we wouldn’t have a note between us.’ The others all laughed, and of course I turned bright red, as usual. Billy, who always stands behind me, patted me on the shoulder. I turned to catch his eye and he winked. Billy’s someone I count as a friend, even though he’s all of sixty and has hardly a hair left on his head – I know, it sounds a bit sad, really, but he’s been so good to Mum, calling around to her almost every day, always ready for a laugh and a cup of tea. I don’t know what we’d do without him. Most of my other friends are up in Dublin working or have busy lives, so without Billy and Betty, Mum’s neighbour, I’d be lost.

  ‘All right, everyone,’ Eithne continued, ‘let’s prepare “Ave Maria” for the O’Dwyer wedding, shall we? It needs a bit of polish. Now,’ and she looked at us over the top of her reading glasses, ‘I need someone for a solo.’ I blushed to the roots of my hair and looked down at my shoes. Please don’t pick me, please don’t pick me, I repeated to myself over and over again.

  ‘Antonia. Would you like to take the first verse?’

  ‘Well …’ I began, desperately trying to think of an excuse, until Bridget O’Reilly piped up.

  ‘Ah, Antonia love, would you ever not sing, just for us? When I hear your voice, sure, it’s like the angels are singing …’

  ‘For goodness’ sake, Bridget.’ I laughed. ‘I’m not that good.’

  ‘Oh, yes you are, pet. Now sing up,’ she shouted, and everyone laughed. Oh, God, I thought, I’ve no choice now. I hate it when everyone looks at me like that. But I took a deep breath and heard the first notes in my head, and then opened my mouth as the song just came out. It’s always been like that for me. I don’t even have to think about it. As the notes come, I feel my heart lift – and by the time I get to the end of the first verse, I feel as if there’s nothing else but the song. I forget everything. I forget about being the shy girl I am, about how I hate my hair and my clothes and the fact that I can’t open my mouth in a public place without blushing to the roots of my hair and wanting to run away. I just focus on the song and the music and how it makes me feel. And, when the song is over, I feel a sense of surprise. It’s as if I’m waking up from a sleep, as if the song is holding me, controlling me. I can’t explain it, but it’s the most special feeling in the world.

  I sang the last few notes of Schubert’s ‘Ave Maria’, and when I finished, there was complete silence. Oh, God, I’ve sung it all wrong, I thought. Maybe I was out of tune for the whole thing. I hardly dared look at Eithne’s face. But then the choir burst into applause, and I found myself going bright red again and looking down at my feet. Bridget clutched her hands to her chest and whispered, ‘I’ve never heard anything like it. It’s like I’ve died and gone to heaven.’

  ‘Beautiful, just beautiful,’ Billy murmured.

  Eithne smiled at me briskly and said, ‘Well done, Antonia. Good work. And now everyone, let’s move on to “Our Father”, will we?’ And I felt a sudden burst of gratitude to her for sparing me any more of the spotlight. She knows me so well, Eithne.

  ‘Well, that was a blast, sure, wasn’t it?’ Billy was smiling as he tucked his arm into mine and we walked out of the church door into the chill of the autumn evening. ‘Even deaf old Mrs Ferguson managed to keep in tune for m
ost of it.’

  ‘Billy, you’re awful.’ I laughed.

  ‘I’m not, girl, I’m just accurate. How that woman was allowed to join a choir is beyond me. Now you, on the other hand …’ He smiled and squeezed my arm. ‘Your singing just lifts my heart.’

  ‘Thanks, Billy.’ I blushed and looked down at my shoes again. But I knew he meant it. I feel comfortable with Billy, maybe because he reminds me of my dad, the first man I ever really knew. David is – was – my dad. He died when I was fifteen, and since then it’s just been Mum and me.

  He’s solid, Billy, but fun, too, and I know that he’ll always look out for me, like a big brother. And it’s safer that way, I don’t have to think of what to say to strangers, especially male ones. Sister Monica says it’s because I never knew my real father, but all I feel is that if a man I didn’t know came up and tried to speak to me, well, I’d run a mile. I know, I sound like a nun, but it’s true. Sometimes I wonder how I’d manage in the real world, but I suppose I don’t have to find out, not yet anyway.

  ‘You should take it further, Antonia,’ Billy was saying. ‘You need to get lessons, at least. That voice of yours is just wasted on Glenvara parish choir.’

  ‘I like the choir,’ I protested.

  He turned to look at me. The lines in his forehead were creased into a frown, and he ran a hand through his few strands of white-grey hair. ‘Antonia, you deserve better. I’m sure your mammy would love to see you go out into the world and make something of yourself and that wonderful voice of yours.’

  I was shocked that Billy was disappointed in me. ‘I know, Billy, but I can’t abandon her.’ I sounded panicky, but just the thought of it made me feel a bit sick.

  ‘Ah, Antonia, a few singing lessons wouldn’t do any harm, you know that. Sure I’d keep her company while you got the bus up to Dublin or Wicklow town. You know …’ he paused and looked at me sharply, ‘If I didn’t know you better, I’d think you were just scared.’