'All about old shoes?' suggested Nicola amusedly.
'No, nothing like that at all!' But she did not offer to repeat it. Instead, unexpectedly, she kissed Nicola and said, 'I'm sorry I was cross a little while ago. I was getting rattled. But I'm all right now. Everything's going to be all right now.'
And it was.
There are, as every opera-goer of ancient vintage knows, a few performances—very few—which confer a sort of cachet on those who were present, giving them the right to speak in terms of insufferable superiority to those who were not. The return of Torelli as Lady Macbeth constituted one of those occasions. And, as Nicola stood in the stalls at the end, still clapping her exhausted, stinging hands, Julian Evett moved over to her and said above the clamour,
'This is something we shall remember all our lives.'
'You too? You feel that way?' Nicola turned a radiant face upon him.
'Of course! Do you think I'm any less romantic or enthusiastic than anyone else in this crowd? If you want the truth, I adore Torelli at this moment. Tomorrow I shall remember she is in many ways impossible. But tonight I'd willingly lie down and let her walk all over me.'
'Oh, what a darling thing to say!' Nicola laughed, and actually caught hold of his arm in her excitement and delight. Unlike Oscar Warrender, he apparently saw no reason to remove that hand, and they stood there for a moment or two, very close together and with a current of indescribable harmony coursing between them—until the great red curtains swept up again and Nicola pulled her hand away to join in the final burst of applause.
After that they slowly made their way round backstage together, neither with much to say to the other and both of them faintly self-conscious because all the barriers had been down for that moment when they stood and applauded Torelli together.
The scene backstage was now familiar to Nicola, but she never failed to thrill afresh to the curious mixture of glamour and almost sordid realism. There was something inescapably exciting about the contrast between the dreary corridors and flights of stone steps and the glimpses into dressing-rooms through half-open doors. There one might see some gorgeously clad figure to which an overpowering stage personality still clung even after the curtain was down—giving the curious impression of someone strangely over-life-size and coming from a fascinatingly alien world.
Torelli was still in her last-act costume, surrounded by friends—and possibly enemies—the picture of glowing triumph and almost naïve happiness. Julian stayed only to kiss her warm cheek and congratulate her before he went to Oscar Warrender's room. But Nicola remained, of course, content to be mostly in the background while intrigued and amused by the people who came and went.
Those she knew, like Dermot Deane, greeted her briefly. But there were others who fell upon Torelli with cries of admiration and affection suggestive of close family ties. They took no notice of Nicola and when, after the exit of a whole group, Nicola managed to whisper to her aunt, 'Who were they?' Torelli replied cheerfully, 'I haven't the slightest idea.'
The moment when Nicola started forward from her chosen background position was when the crowd at the door shifted again and among the handful of newcomers who entered she recognized the unmistakable and beautiful red hair of Michele Laraut.
But first things came first with Michele. She saw only the star of the evening in that first moment, and her greeting to Torelli was a miracle of respectful awe. In her turn, the older woman was charming in a friendly, faintly condescending way. And it occurred to Nicola that, in spite of the difference in age, they were well matched in their backstage technique.
'I didn't realize you would be in London quite so soon,' Torelli said. 'Rehearsals for the "Flute" don't start until the seventeenth.'
'I know. But I think it's always best to be in good time if one can, don't you?' was the reply, spoken just a trifle too much as one distinguished colleague to another.
'No doubt you're right,' replied Torelli with unmistakable irony, and with a slight nod and an even slighter smile she turned to speak to someone else, leaving Michele very much on her own.
But, seizing her obvious opportunity, Nicola came forward eagerly and said,
'Hello. I'm sorry we didn't get together in Paris. But perhaps we'll have better luck in London. Are you going to have any free time in the next few days?'
There was a moment of hesitation. Then Michele said, in her pleasantly husky voice, 'I was sorry about the Paris meeting too. I just couldn't make it that afternoon.'
The small but deliberate lie made Nicola blink slightly. Not, of course, that she had expected to have any account of Michele's meeting with Julian Evett. But this cool assertion that she had not been able to be there at all gave her the uncomfortable sensation which visits all truthful people when someone else lies to them.
'What about arranging something while you're here?' Nicola pressed her.
'Oh, no doubt something can be managed.' Michele smiled—but vaguely, and Nicola had the inescapable impression that she was being put off. Her own anxiety for a talk, however, was too keen for her to accept the evasion.
'Could we fix something now?' she suggested. 'Or would you like to give me your phone number and—'
'No, you give me yours,' was the cool reply. 'I probably shan't stay more than a day or two where I am now. If I have your number I'll call you when I know what I'm doing.'
'Very well.' Nicola scribbled down both her home number and the number of her aunt's flat. It was all she could do, but she knew that she had been frustrated in her real intention. Now the ball was in Michele's court and, if Nicola were not much mistaken, there it would remain—ignored.
'She doesn't really want to meet me and talk,' Nicola thought. 'Why doesn't she? It isn't just that I'm no special use to her. It's something more positive than that.'
But now the last visitors were being ushered from the room and Lisette stood purposefully ready to take her mistress's costume and wig and help her to change.
'You can stay, Nicola,' her aunt said. 'And now tell me really how the performance was.'
'You know how it was,' declared Nicola with a laugh. 'And if you didn't, there have been dozens of people to tell you during the last twenty minutes.'
'Most of them know nothing about it.'
'I'm not sure that I do!'
'Yes, you do. You have natural judgment. I've noticed that,' observed Torelli, as she stepped out of her heavy costume and enveloped herself in a faded cotton wrap which she always wore in the theatre because she considered it lucky—one of the few superstitions which she permitted herself. 'You're inexperienced, but you have a sense of quality. All too rare these days.'
'Well, then, let me prove my sense of quality by telling you that I thought you and Mr. Warrender absolutely beyond praise, I thought the Macbeth good without being sensational, and I thought the Macduff had a rare tenor voice that will take him places if he ever learns to use it properly.'
Torelli laughed approvingly and said, 'Good child! Correct in every particular.'
'And if you want that opinion reinforced by an even better-informed one,' Nicola went on with a smile, 'Julian Evett said that this evening he would willingly lie down and let you walk all over him.'
'He said that?' Torelli, who was rapidly and expertly twisting up her long, heavy hair, turned from the mirror and laughed. 'He's a nice boy. You should marry him, Nicola, and keep him in the family.'
'Marry him? Don't be absurd!' The laughter was struck from Nicola's face. 'Have you forgotten what he did?'
'Probably,' replied Torelli tolerantly. 'When a man makes a remark like that about me I'm prepared to forget almost anything else he has done. Now, please, my dear, don't start reminding me about that unfortunate business in Canada. I'm not in the mood to take it. Let us talk of something else.—Did you notice how the little Laraut tried to put herself on a professional level with me?'
Nicola swallowed hard, and said with an effort, 'I noticed that you snubbed her. Rather unneces
sarily, I thought.'
'Not unnecessarily at all,' retorted Torelli firmly. 'With the Micheles one must begin as one intends to go on. She will be an excellent Pamina and that is why I wish to have her in the cast. But she must not be allowed to have ideas above her vocal station. I noticed you talking to her, by the way.'
'I was trying to arrange a meeting, in place of the one we—we missed in Paris. As you know, I particularly want to talk to her. But she's oddly cagey. I don't think she wants to have much to do with me. She wouldn't give me her phone number and though she took mine, I feel pretty sure she won't use it.'
'Then we must force the issue,' said Torelli, with the pleased air of one who saw a challenge and intended to take it.
'How?' inquired Nicola dubiously.
'I don't know yet.' Torelli stood up to allow Lisette to slip her dress over her head. 'But I shall find a way.'
And, half impressed, half irritated, Nicola felt inclined to believe that she would. It might not be her own way of doing things, but Torelli would find some way. Always provided, of course, that the matter remained in her mind as being of any importance at all.
During the next ten days no further reference was made to the subject. Nor of course was any word received from Michele. But, sorely though Nicola's patience might be tried, she dared not raise the matter again with her aunt. For one thing, Torelli was now deeply involved with the 'Trovatore' rehearsals, as well as the repeat performances of the highly successful 'Macbeth'.
Trovatore isn't such fun dramatically,' she complained once to Nicola. 'The mezzo has all the jam in that respect. Vocally, of course, Leonora is a tremendous part, and a lesson every time one goes on to the stage. But I'm getting a bit old to have troubadours singing at my window. And she's a poor-spirited creature, really, when you come to think of it. No ideas above going into a convent when the luck turns against her and then drinking poison in the end. I'd have found a better solution than that.'
'I'm sure you would,' Nicola laughed. 'Nevertheless, you bring the tears to my eyes when you sing your dying phrases.'
'Yes, I'm pretty good there,' Torelli agreed. 'It's easier than you might think, you know. It sounds fiendishly difficult, but you're lying down and that relaxes you naturally. Just notice next time you hear a basic screamer as Leonora. The tone may be as tight as a fiddle string during most of the opera, but once you put her on her back in the last act she has to sing in a relaxed way.—Some people, of course, would be well advised to sing in that position always,' she added drily. 'Have you heard from Michele, by the way?'
'No.'
Then it's time we did something.' Torelli spoke briskly. 'I shall ask her—tell her—to come and see me here, in order to discuss one or two details. Where is she staying?'
'I wasn't able to get her address, you remember.'
'Tch, tch!' said Torelli, by which she meant that Nicola should have prised this information out of her somehow. 'Well, never mind. They will know at the Opera House and will relay any instructions of mine. Next Thursday afternoon, I think.'
'I was intending,' Nicola explained diffidently, 'to see her alone, so that I could ask—'
'Of course, dear child! I shall arrange that you do. Leave it to me,' replied Torelli affably. And she was obviously so pleased with whatever plans she was making that Nicola stifled a certain degree of misgiving and refrained from further argument.
The first Trovatore performance fell on the Wednesday of that week and, familiar as she now was with the pattern of things, Nicola neither expected nor received any attention so far as her own affairs were concerned. They went through the usual nerve-strain, meticulous preparation and eventual triumph. And if the mezzo deservedly carried off the dramatic laurels, Torelli pretty well brought the audience to their feet with her sheer singing. The impeccable phrasing and the subtle grading of tone colour were miraculous, and Nicola realized that only the most accomplished artist could hope to achieve anything like such an effect.
On Thursday morning Torelli read the critiques with obvious satisfaction. Then, suddenly, like a girl let out of school, she flung down the papers and exclaimed,
'And now I can go to Oxford and enjoy myself for the whole day without a qualm!'
'To Oxford?' Nicola was taken aback. 'But why should you be going to Oxford?'
'Didn't I tell you? I'm visiting old Professor Davey. He is under the impression that he's unearthed a hitherto unknown Cherubini manuscript. I think it doubtful myself. But it's a chance one couldn't altogether ignore. Imagine!' She clasped her hands and looked almost ecstatic. 'Imagine if another "Medea" were to come to light!'
'But—' Nicola could not conceal her dismay—'I thought Michele was coming this afternoon.'
'She is. I arranged it, if you remember.' Torelli looked rather excessively innocent.
'But if you're in Oxford all day you can't see her.'
'See her?' repeated Torelli. 'I don't want to see the girl. It's you who want to see her, dear.'
'But she's expecting to see you at first. You indicated that you wanted to discuss something with her, I thought.'
'Don't start every sentence with "but", darling. It gets monotonous and tires the ear. When she arrives, you will explain, of course, that there was some confusion about dates. You can say I made the mistake, if you like,' she added generously.
'You mean that you never really intended to see her at all?'
'Certainly not. What would I have to say to her?' Torelli looked surprised. 'And I don't know why you're looking shocked. There was no absolute deception about it.'
'A trifle disingenuous, though, don't you think?' retorted Nicola, both amused and put out.
'And how do you suppose, dear child, that I arrived at the position I have without sometimes being a trifle disingenuous?' Torelli wanted to know. 'Enjoy yourself, dear, and get all the information you can. You will have the field to yourself.'
She was so patently pleased with the way she had arranged things that it was impossible to withhold the word of thanks she obviously expected. And once this had been accorded her, she dressed in the kind of suit which can very nearly stop the traffic with its deceptively simple perfection, had Lisette summon her car, and took herself off to Oxford for the day, with every appearance of innocent enjoyment.
As the ruse was not one to which Nicola would ever have thought of resorting herself, she was faintly annoyed and felt unusually self-conscious about her position. But after reflection she decided there was nothing to do but accept the doubtful service which had been rendered her. And by the time she heard Michele's ring at the bell, she was cool and ready for whatever the occasion might bring.
There was the sound of Lisette going to answer the summons of the bell, the slight murmur of voices in the hall, and then the drawing-room door opened and Michele was shown in.
Nicola contrived to appear perfectly natural and friendly as she greeted her visitor and then she said frankly. 'I'm afraid I have a disappointment for you. Madame Torelli had to go to Oxford. It's about some important musical manuscript, I understand. She asked me to give you her very sincere apologies—' Nicola thought she might stretch the truth as far as that— 'and make you welcome.'
'Until she comes back, you mean?' the other girl asked quickly.
'No, I'm afraid she won't be back until quite late, but—'
'I wish I'd known! I wouldn't have come.'
'I had no number where I could phone you,' Nicola reminded her, though without rancour. 'But now you're here, do have some tea. Lisette—'
At that moment, Lisette, whose timing was almost as superb as Torelli's, wheeled in a tea trolley, and a little reluctantly Michele sat down in the chair which both Nicola and Lisette secretly regarded as exclusively 'Madame's property'.
'What exactly did Madame Torelli want to discuss with me?' Michele accepted her tea with the same air of reluctance she had shown in remaining at all.
'I don't really know,' Nicola admitted. 'I thought myself that yo
ur discussion in Paris was exhaustive enough. But she's such a perfectionist that she concerns herself over the smallest detail, you know. I'm sure she will manage to have some sort of chat with you before the first rehearsal.'
'Julian Evett is taking that himself,' Michele volunteered. 'He's leaving very little to any of the Opera House coaches. He's a perfectionist too.' And she laughed and made a slight face.
'Have you worked with him before?' Nicola asked, but the other girl shook her head.
'Not personally—no. But I saw a good deal of his work when he was in Canada. At the Festival, you know.'
'Yes, I know. That was where you met Brian Coverdale, wasn't it?' Nicola found suddenly that she was controlling her breathing with some difficulty. 'And you knew him quite well in—in those last weeks, didn't you?'
'What makes you say that?'
'He implied it in the letter he sent me. The one which went astray and arrived long after—after it was over.'
'You mentioned that letter before, when you spoke to me on the phone in Paris.' The other girl's tone was casual, but there was something about her not entirely relaxed. 'What did he say?—beyond the fact that we met, I mean.'
'Do you mind if I ask a leading question first?' Nicola was surprised herself at the calmness of her own tone. 'How much did Brian mean to you?—or you to Brian?'
'Isn't that a rather odd question from a virtual stranger?'
'It's a very odd question indeed from the girl who was going to marry him,' replied Nicola drily. 'And perhaps the best thing is for me to be quite frank and put my cards on the table.' She paused, as though groping for the right words. Then she raised her chin a little defiantly and said, 'Someone told me, on fairly good authority, that you and Brian meant a—a great deal to each other in those last weeks. Quite simply, I'd like to know if that was true?'
She heard Michele catch her breath, but whether in surprise or dismay she could not have said. Then the answer came quite deliberately.
'No, that wasn't true.'
The Curtain Rises Page 11