by Anita Notaro
And she was always right, even if privately I thought she could be a bit cruel sometimes. I knew that some of the other contestants didn’t like her – they were afraid of her sharp tongue – but to me, she was my ally, the only one who knew exactly what I was going through.
Colette had even said it to me once. ‘Watch out for Amanda, Antonia, will you? You don’t know her that well.’
‘What do you mean?’ I’d protested, and I’d looked so shocked that Colette immediately backtracked.
‘Nothing, nothing, pet, it’s just … well, she’s been around the block, and she’s a bit cynical maybe, do you know what I mean?’
‘No.’ I shook my head, bewildered, and she’d let it drop, but not before she’d tugged my hair as if I was a child and smiled. ‘You’re a true innocent, Antonia, do you know that?’
I knew, of course. Because I had practically zero experience of other people, I had to take them all on trust. And so far, that trust had been repaid. I had Colette and Mary and Sister Monica, even Niall, all of whom had surrounded me with love and support. The press had been lovely too, even the tabloids, and I’d had to laugh at the portrait they painted of a country girl who’d hit the big time, although I suppose it was fairly accurate. The shy young girl who’d found her voice in the local choir, who hadn’t left Wicklow, not to mind Ireland, in all her life, except to go to Holyhead, who preferred jeans and a T-shirt to a designer dress. It seemed to touch a nerve with everyone, and it was true. I was that girl, even though I didn’t see much of her these days.
But the press attention was overwhelming, even with Karen’s support, and I took her advice to pull back on it as much as I could. ‘Look,’ she’d said to me after the regionals, ‘it helps if one contestant doesn’t appear to be getting all the publicity, I’ve seen it backfire on people.’
God, ‘backfire’? What did she mean by that? It sounded terrifying. I thought of Dave Byrne and his questions, the regular profiles he’d been running in the paper. It was all fairly innocuous, but I had an uneasy feeling about it all the same. I managed, ‘Well, I’ll be guided by you, but just know I’ll do anything you ask. I realize how lucky I am to be here,’ I told her.
‘I think we should keep your first big interview until later in the competition, and so do Sandy and Martin. Your life story is quite unique, and there will be a lot of interest in it, so we’re happy to hold back for now. There will be a bit of a question-and-answer session with the judges in the semis, but we’ll be writing the questions so there won’t be any surprises, OK?’
‘OK,’ I said doubtfully. I must have looked like a rabbit in the headlights, because Karen unexpectedly reached over and squeezed my hand. ‘We’ll take care of everything, Toni. You are a very precious commodity to us, and it’s our job to look after you.’
‘Commodity’, sounded a bit clinical, but I nodded and smiled, because even after the last six weeks, I felt I knew what she meant. I was filler for newspapers, big glossy photos of me in my sequinned dress with the caption ‘The Nation’s Sweetheart’ underneath. It was as if it was happening to someone else.
And then came the night of the semi-finals. It was another one of those moments, I suppose, those twists of fate that seem to shape life, whether we like it or not. It seems that no matter how much we think we’re in control, well, we’re only ‘blowing in the wind’, aren’t we?
It was a wet Saturday in December, just three weeks before Christmas. My first Christmas without Mum, and I’d never been so glad of the distraction of the competition. I’d have to buy presents for Colette and Mary, of course, and Sister Monica, but putting up a tree just seemed like too much trouble, really. Mum always loved Christmas, inviting half of Glenvara around for Christmas drinks and making sure that we had turkey and ham and all the trimmings, even if it was only the two of us for dinner. Not that it ever was, really, because Mum would invite Sister Monica and Betty and anyone else at a loose end. Without Mum, I just didn’t have the heart – and anyway, the competition absorbed every waking moment of my life.
And now, it was reaching the semi-final stage, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about it, or what on earth I’d do afterwards. It had kept me going for weeks, and the future looked uncertain. Of course, I didn’t dare think about winning it. There were so many talented artists at this stage from all over the country. A singer-songwriter called Damien was so talented, and gorgeous, too, and if I were to be honest, I thought he was in with a better shot than me – I could see that the girls in the audience just loved his cheeky grin and his quiff. And there was a fantastic street-dance troupe from Cork, too. All I could really do was my best, as Dad always said.
I woke up that Saturday morning with a feeling of dread in the pit of my stomach. My head felt as if it was full of cotton wool and my throat felt as raw as sandpaper. We’d all had to hang around the studio till midnight the night before because of a technical glitch, and by the time it came for me to rehearse, I’d been alternately shivering and sweating. I’d chosen my favourite song of all time, ‘Yesterday’, and yet when I sang it, it didn’t work, at least not as well as I’d wanted it to. My voice kept cracking on the top notes, and by the end of the run-through I was frustrated and embarrassed. Paul McCartney would have been horrified if he could have heard me murdering his song. And what’s more, the semi-final would be live, so there would be no second chances if I messed up.
Karen had tried to be reassuring. ‘Not to worry, Toni. It’s been a long day. It’ll be all right on the night, promise.’ I’d been mortified, slinking off from the studio without a word, trying to ignore the sympathetic looks from the others, and Amanda’s gentle hand on my arm.
‘C’mon, love, we all have bad days.’
‘I know, and all I want to do is go home and curl up under the duvet,’ I’d said.
‘Well, you do that. Tomorrow is another day, eh, Antonia?’
‘You’re right. What would I do without you, Amanda?’
‘Oh, I don’t know, be slightly less brilliant than you are?’ She’d smiled, and for a moment, I’d hesitated. I hadn’t been quite sure what she meant, but then she’d hugged me tightly and I’d felt reassured.
I’d gone home, buoyed up by Amanda’s words, climbing into bed with my hot-water bottle and curling up tightly to keep warm. I was just dozing off, when I heard my mobile bleep. I’ll ignore it, I thought, because it was always going off nowadays. It seemed that every person in Glenvara had got my number and texted me five times a day to wish me luck.
I sighed. Suddenly I was wide awake. I shifted in the bed and reached out to my mobile, blinking in the dim light. I didn’t recognize the number, but pressed the message button, sure that it was another local well-wisher. Who on earth had handed my number out to half the town? I thought as I scanned the message.
I had to read it a couple of times before I could make sense of it. ‘YESTERDAY ISN’T THE RIGHT SONG FOR YOU. KISS GOODBYE TO THE SEMIS.’ I felt cold all of a sudden, and pulled the duvet more tightly around me. ‘What on earth …?’ I said out loud in the darkness. Only a handful of people knew my song choice for the semis, so who would have sent a text like this? Hardly Eithne, or Karen. Maybe the media had got hold of it? That had to be it. I thought of Dave Byrne and his cheeky grin. Maybe I should ring Mary, I thought, or Colette, but then I looked at the clock and saw that it was 2 a.m. I could hardly ring them now. I’d have to manage this one alone.
C’mon, Antonia, you’re a big girl, I told myself, pressing delete. There, all gone. I lay back down in the bed and tried to sleep, the words ‘kiss goodbye to the semis’ going round and round in my head.
And now, I’d woken up with the mother of all colds. I opened my mouth and tried a ‘C’, to see if I could sing, but all that came out was a hoarse rasp.
‘Shit!’ I croaked, and then chastised myself. Mum would kill me for swearing, but what on earth was I going to do? I could hardly go on national television to do my impression of a bullfrog, could I? And then I thought, ma
ybe my texter knew something I didn’t. I’d have to go to see Dr Murphy and see what he could give me.
I dragged myself out of bed, feeling my head swim, and shuffled downstairs to the phone and dialled his number, which I knew by heart. And of course, it being a Saturday, the surgery was closed. I listened to the answerphone message about his emergency contact number, before putting the phone down again. A cold was hardly an emergency, was it? And Dr Murphy was in his seventies – I couldn’t drag him out on a Saturday morning.
A thought began to form in my head, which I dismissed at first, but then, I thought, I have to. I have nobody else. Niall. Maybe he has a miracle cure, I thought, dialling his number.
‘Niall?’ I croaked.
At first, he didn’t recognize that it was me. ‘God, Antonia is that you? You sound awful.’
‘Is that your professional medical opinion?’ I tried to joke, but was cut off by a loud sneeze.
‘It’s not exactly a difficult diagnosis, is it?’ He sounded friendlier than he had in a while, less reserved. I don’t think he’d entirely forgiven me for cancelling, but I’d never had the chance to talk to him really, because the competition had been so all-consuming. I’m using him, I thought now, but I have no choice in the matter.
‘I’m ringing … look, I need some help, Niall. I can’t speak, let alone sing. Do you think you might be able to prescribe something?’ I ventured. I wasn’t sure if Niall could prescribe: he wasn’t a GP.
Niall immediately went into doctor mode. ‘Look, take a glass of hot water and dunk a couple of teaspoons of honey and a squeeze of lemon in it, and drink that. I’ll drop around later with something a bit stronger to get you through tonight.’
Don’t, I thought, as he spoke. Don’t be brotherly. I don’t want it. And yet, part of me was grateful. I had a feeling that no amount of medication would get me right, but still, I had to try. I couldn’t go on stage in front of thousands like this, could I?
I wasn’t sure when Niall would appear, so I thought I’d sit on the sofa and rest for a few minutes, closing my eyes and feeling them red and swollen behind my eyelids. I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I knew, there was a loud knocking. ‘Coming,’ I tried to shout, but nothing came out of my mouth. Not one sound. I dragged myself to the front door, and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. God, you look awful, I told myself. All the strain of the last few weeks was etched on my face, my eyes were red and itchy, my nose swollen. How on earth could I let Niall see me like this? And then I remembered that night in the hospital. He’d seen me in those daft fluffy slippers, for goodness’ sake, with ‘Antonia’ on the toes. I’d just have to swallow my pride.
‘You look terrible,’ were his first words when I opened the door. He was in his blue hospital scrubs, a black bag slung over his shoulder. He looked dishevelled, and I realized with a start of guilt that he must have been up all night already.
‘Thanks,’ I whispered ruefully. ‘I feel terrible.’
‘Are you going to let me in?’ He smiled, and my stomach flipped.
‘Oh, sure,’ I said, moving back to let him in and ushering him into the living room. ‘I’m really sorry about the mess. I’ve been too tired to tidy up.’
‘That’s OK,’ he said doubtfully, looking around at the untidy living room, strewn with half-drunk cups of tea and used tissues, the remnants of late-night dinners on the coffee table. I thought with a sudden jolt of mortification that Mum would have been horrified at me receiving visitors in this state. She always insisted that the living room be spick and span before anyone was allowed in the door. ‘Treat your guests the way you’d like to be treated yourself, Antonia.’ What on earth would she think now?
I perched on the edge of the sofa, unable to think what to say. ‘Look, Niall, I really appreciate you coming …’
‘It’s fine,’ he said, the smile not quite reaching his eyes, opening the black bag he’d been carrying and extracting a few packets and boxes out of it. ‘Right, let’s treat the patient, shall we?’
‘So how have you been?’ I tried, as he shook the thermometer in his hand.
He didn’t reply, simply ordering me to, ‘Open, please.’
I did as I was told and held the thermometer in my mouth for a minute.
He extracted it and looked at it. ‘Hmm, you’ve a temperature all right. The Neurofen will see to that. Now, let’s have a look at your throat. Say aah.’
Obediently, I did as I was told, nodding as he told me I probably had a throat infection. ‘Hmm, it’s very red, and you’ve got some yellow spots on your tonsils. A sure sign. I’m not certain you’ll be able to sing in this condition—’ he began.
‘Kiss goodbye to the semis.’ The words of the text flashed into my mind. I jumped up on the sofa and grabbed his arm. ‘I have to be able to sing!’ I croaked. I was aware that I sounded like a complete madwoman, but there was no way that I wasn’t going to perform.
He looked at me and then nodded. ‘Well, it’s your choice, but you could do more damage to your voice if you sing in this condition, you know.’
How could I explain to him that if I didn’t, that was it? I was out of the competition. That’s Talent! didn’t take sick notes. ‘It matters a lot to me, Niall …’ I began. ‘I feel that I have to see it through, do you know what I mean?’ And as I painfully whispered the words, I realized that they were true. Funny how something that had scared me so much had now become the centre of my life. I could truly say that I wanted nothing more than to win That’s Talent!
‘I know,’ he said, looking me directly in the eye.
I knew what he was implying. I took a deep breath. ‘Look, I’m sorry about our date, but I couldn’t help it, really …’
He shook his head. ‘It doesn’t matter. We’ll do it another time, when you’re less … busy.’
‘You think I’m selfish, don’t you?’ I blurted.
‘No, no …’
‘You do. You think I’m selfish and self-absorbed and I don’t have my priorities right.’
‘Antonia, that’s not true. Look, you have talent, real talent, and of course you want to see how far you can go with it. It’s just … I can’t pretend to understand what this life is like, but it seems to be all-consuming.’
‘Well, so is yours,’ I retorted. ‘How many hours a week do you work?’
He looked sheepish for a moment, before muttering, ‘Ehm, eighty, a hundred?’
I thumped the sofa. ‘See? What did you say to me that time in the hospital about passion, and facing my nerves if I wanted to get anywhere in life?’
‘You’re right.’ He nodded bleakly. ‘It’s just … if you come from, well, a background like yours, ehrm, it can leave you unprepared for disappointment.’ He fiddled with the strap on his bag and looked at his feet.
‘What do you mean, a “background” like mine?’
‘Well, you spent the first seven years of your life in an orphanage, Antonia. You don’t have that core of self-confidence that others have, that have been brought up with families.’
I felt a sudden wave of anger. How dare he be so patronizing? What on earth did he know about being brought up in an orphanage? ‘Excuse me, that’s not true. I may not have had the best start in life, but Mum and Dad gave me everything. They more than made up for it.’
‘I wasn’t implying that they didn’t …’
‘Oh, no,’ I said indignantly. I could feel the colour in my cheeks now, and my voice, such as it was, was shaking. ‘You weren’t implying anything other than the fact that I’m somehow deficient as a person and that I only have myself to blame for it. Well, you know what, Niall, I don’t need your help, thank you very much,’ I said, jumping up from the sofa. ‘Please go.’
He looked genuinely shocked. ‘Antonia, I’m sorry if I offended you. It’s just—’
But I put up my hand. ‘You are judging me, Niall. And finding me wanting. I don’t need it. Thanks for the medicine,’ I said, summoning all my strength to usher him
to the door, which I shut behind him as firmly as I possibly could. And then I collapsed on the floor and sobbed my heart out. Why did it always have to be like this with Niall – what was it about me, or him? I knew that he really cared about me, but why was that tension always in the air? Except for that one time in Powerscourt, when he’d seemed to relax a little – until I’d asked him a question about his family, and he’d frozen again. And then I thought about him kissing me … ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said out loud in the living room. ‘I can’t think about this now.’ I supposed at least I’d put an end to it, throwing him out of the house like that. I knew we wouldn’t be talking any time soon.
And then I thought of the text. Surely Niall wouldn’t have sent it? But that was just plain silly. Unless he wanted to protect me in some way, save me from disappointment. He’d seemed so adamant about my ‘background’ and everything. ‘For goodness’ sake, Antonia, that’s ridiculous,’ I said out loud to myself. And it was ridiculous. If I was to survive tonight, I’d have to put that text right out of my mind.
I spent the rest of the day fielding phone calls from well-wishers and trying to gather myself, gargling with salt water and, every so often, croaking out a note or two. All that came out of my throat was a kind of a whistle. I tried not to panic. I had until eight o’clock to sort it out, or later, depending on what time I went on. Mary arrived and stuffed me full of throat lozenges and painkillers, so by the time Colette dropped by, I had fooled myself into thinking that I was feeling marginally better.