by Brianna Hale
“I am authorized. I’ve been backstage many times, I’m his... He’s my...” I trail off, realizing I’m gabbling. I’m not his anything, and “friend” isn’t going to cut it. The words stage door latch on in my brain and I turn and push again through the treacle-slow crowds winding their way down the carpeted stairs. I burst out onto Shaftsbury Avenue and hurry round the back to the stage door. Opening it, the security guard just inside looks at me in surprise. I don’t recognize him. But still, I try. “I’m a friend of Monsieur d’Estang’s.”
“No public access,” he interrupts, stepping forward to bar my way.
“But I—”
“No public access.” Before I can explain further I’m pushed out onto the street and the door is firmly shut in my face. I stand in the cold with a handful of other people, gruesome thoughts running through my mind. One of the cast members has been taken violently ill or knocked out by a falling stage light. Mass food poisoning from the milk they all use to make coffee. A vital set piece sent crashing onto the stage.
But somehow I know, and I don’t know how I know, that this has something to do with Frederic. I want so badly to be wrong but I feel in my bones that I’m not. Something has been building these last few weeks, something ominous, and the universe has delivered on its promise by ruining Frederic’s opening night. My heart goes out to him and everyone involved, but if I’ve learned anything as Anton Bell’s daughter it’s that the theater world is resilient. The show must go on. Whatever happened will be fixed by tomorrow or the next day. The cancellation might even be good for publicity as the papers will all report on whatever’s happened and the remaining seats will be sold.
But where is Frederic? I need to know he’s all right. I stare at the door, willing him to appear. He’ll look sheepish, I think, and scrub a hand through his curls and sigh when he sees me. Quite a few people have gathered now, rubbernecker shopping for gossip no doubt, and he’ll push through them to my side, take my hand and whisper, “Merde, you’ll never believe what happened.” Or, if he’s ill, one of the cast will pop their heads out of the stage door and beckon me over, and I’ll sail past that stupid guard who didn’t know me and into Frederic’s dressing room where he’ll be—
But I can’t picture Frederic ill or injured and the picture goes hazy. It won’t be dire, though, as ambulances haven’t materialized. He’ll have a sprained ankle, perhaps, and look cross and embarrassed. Poor Frederic.
I hear my father’s voice approaching and a moment later my family rounds the corner. Mona and Therese are looking at Dad as he talks on the phone, his face pinched into a frown. He knows something. Ice water fills my veins and I hurry to his side.
“Yes, all right, Martin. Thank you for calling.” He hangs up, his lips thinned with some strong emotion.
I grab his arm. “Was that Frederic’s agent? Why was he calling you? Is it Frederic?”
Dad glances around at the crowd of people and mutters, “Not here. Let’s get into a cab.”
But I can’t just leave Frederic, he might need me. “Is he hurt? Sick?” Dad shakes his head and some of my panic eases. I point at the stage door. “I need to see him but they won’t let me in. If you tell them who you are they’ll let us both in.”
He’s got a strange expression in his eyes that I’ve never seen before. He turns his phone over in his hand a few times. “Sweetheart, Frederic’s gone. He left the theater before tonight’s cancellation was announced.”
I stare at Dad like he’s an alien I’ve stumbled across in some impossible dimension. Frederic can’t be gone. I look back at the stage door desperately, willing him to materialize. If there was something wrong he’d wait for me, wouldn’t he? He’d need me. “But he’s... Why? Is he ill?”
“Frederic’s been keeping a voice disorder secret. He was warming up for tonight’s show and it just...” He makes a flicking gesture with his hand. Phut. Angrily shoving his phone into his pocket, he says, “Martin knew the whole time and he didn’t tell me. Of all the idiotic, unprofessional—” He scrubs a hand over his face. “Didn’t he tell you any of this? The two of you have been close, haven’t you?”
I barely hear a word of what he says. A voice disorder. Secret. Frederic has a voice disorder and he didn’t tell me. But we shared everything. Hopes, fears, plans for the future. We were far more intimate than people just sleeping together.
Weren’t we?
Dad steers me into a cab and in my confusion I go, unresisting. Mum and my sisters take another one, and I can hear Dad talking to me but I’m rerunning my time with Frederic, the events colored by this new information. Every word he spoke to me, every gesture, every kiss takes on a new, unpleasant meaning. When he called me minette he was keeping this secret from me. When he argued with Giselle and she made him take time off, that was because of his disorder. When he would come back from the studio looking stressed it was because he was worried. When he would meet me on the train from Paddington looking tired but promising me everything was all right, he was lying.
Frederic is a liar.
Dad’s repeated question finally penetrates the turmoil of my thoughts. “Evie, did Frederic ever tell you that there was anything wrong with his voice?”
I swallow and shake my head. “No, Dad. He didn’t tell me a thing.”
Chapter Seventeen
Frederic
Giselle, I can’t talk.
A text comes back in under a minute. Can you breathe? Does it feel like your airways are obstructed?
Angrily, I punch in a response. I can’t fucking talk and I can’t fucking sing. I might as well not be fucking breathing.
The reply takes longer this time. I thought this might happen. I tried to make you understand.
I throw the phone down on the car seat and press the heels of my hands against my eye sockets. Fuck fuck fuck. The cast. The director. The people who bought tickets. I’ve let so many people down. What’s going to happen to the show now? Will the understudy take over? It depends on whether I’ve tainted things so much that everyone returns their tickets. There’s meant to be a three-month run, work for all the actors and crew who signed on and were relying on the show to pay mortgages, educate their children. It can’t just be over for them. There must be a way I can—
I snatch my phone up again, hope flaring within me. There must be vocal exercises that can fix this. We can delay a week, maybe a fortnight, while my voice recovers.
It’s too late. I’m sorry.
Anger and disbelief slam through me. Fuck sorry. You’re giving up on me?
Several minutes pass and the cab pulls up outside my address. I pay the driver and get out. As I’m letting myself in the front door of my flat my phone buzzes.
I told you you were doing too much but you wouldn’t listen. You’re pigheaded and egotistical and wouldn’t take my advice or tell anyone else about your problems. You wouldn’t give anyone else the chance to tell you how stupid you were being so you can just keep your fuck sorries to yourself.
I glare at my phone, breathing hard, wanting to scream, wanting to punch my hand through the plaster in the hall. It can’t be over. I’m not ready for it to be over. I was supposed to have till the end of January and go out with dignity after a successful run. Not like this. It wasn’t supposed to happen like this.
A text message comes through, in English this time. It’s from Evie. Merde. She must be beside herself with worry, wondering what the hell has happened. I open the text and read, Why didn’t you tell me?
So she knows. Behind the cold pixels I can feel her hurt and disbelief. I had a thousand opportunities to tell her but every time I found an excuse not to, and now it’s too late. What can I say to try to make her understand I had a good reason for keeping this from her? I had a good reason, didn’t I?
But here, out past the limits of the world I thought I inhabited,
I can’t find a single good reason.
Just tell her something. She deserves an explanation.
My fingers hover over the keys to compose a reply. Sweet Evie, who I’ve been closer to than anyone since I got the diagnosis. Why didn’t I tell her?
You wouldn’t give anyone else the chance to tell you how stupid you were being.
Giselle’s right. I couldn’t face the thought of anyone holding up a mirror to my denial. I told myself that it was because I feared the flash of gladness in her eyes like I saw in Marion’s, but Evie would never have been glad that I could no longer sing. She’s shown me nothing but affection and sensitivity the whole time I’ve known her, and I’ve betrayed the trust she put in me.
Everything’s ruined, my career, the show, the short time I had with Evie, and it’s all because of my stupid fucking pride. I hurl my phone across the room and it hits the wall with a bang and clatters to the ground in the darkness.
I’ve never felt more alone in my life.
Chapter Eighteen
Evie
Read 20:29.
The read receipt mocks me well into the small hours. He hasn’t even deigned to reply to me. No sorry. No where are you. No let me explain. Nothing. And in the silence I can’t help but feel that nothing is telling: I was nothing to him. Fury and hurt boils through me and I grip the sheets in my fists, staring at the hotel room ceiling. For the first time in our relationship I feel the imbalance between us: him older, successful, experienced; and me, naïve, young and impressionable; and how foolish I was to believe him when he told me we were equals. My stomach rolls when I remember how I let him treat me. Little baby. I want to hit you. I want you to obey me.
How could he? I knew he could be sadistic, but cruel? No matter how deep we got into pain and domination I always felt like he was keeping me safe as he stripped me bare and laid me vulnerable. That was the only reason I let him do those things.
I squeeze my eyes shut, humiliation sweeping through me. I didn’t really let him treat me that way, did I? I wanted him to. The familiar, thick shame, my old friend from my breakup with Adam, returns. What’s wrong with me?
I lie awake for a long time, going over every moment of our time together again and again. Frederic assuring me there was nothing more to tell me. Frederic’s eyes looking unreadable and guarded. Frederic obsessively playing the piano, unable to relax. God, all the signs were there that he was keeping something from me but I was too naïve to spot them.
Eventually, exhaustion overcomes me and I slip into sleep.
I wake at six a.m. as the room starts to become light and immediately reach for my phone, even as I curse myself for my neediness. To my amazement there’s an email from Frederic, sent just after five.
Evie, sweetheart.
I can only imagine how confused you’re feeling right now. I meant to tell you the truth but I ran out of time. I’m sorry for how things turned out. I never meant for it to be this way.
F
Tears gather in my eyes. That’s it? A few scant lines is all I get, a vague, untruthful I meant to tell you? This is worse than silence. At least before I could imagine that he was ashamed of what he’s done, but this cold, blasé message seems like the sort of thing he’d type out while waiting for a cab to take him to the Eurostar. Even the endearment at the top of the message, which I’d read at first in his gentlest voice, sours and becomes something cheap. Hey, sweetheart. Catch you ‘round, sweetheart. He’s never called me sweetheart in his life.
I stifle a sob and the sound makes Mona lift her head. Her voice is slurred with sleep. “Wass wrong?”
I fended off my sistersʼ questions last night and they’ve respected my wishes so far, though I felt their burning curiosity. I swipe at my tears and fling the blankets back. Whispering so as not to wake Therese, who’s snoring softly in the next bed, I say, “I’m going back to Oxford. I’ll get an early train or something, I can’t be here right now.”
Mona struggles out from beneath twisted sheets. “Wait a sec. You can’t go by yourself. Let me see if the others are awake.” She picks up her phone and texts someone, Mum or Dad presumably. Her phone buzzes a moment later. “They’re awake. We’ll all go, all right?”
I don’t look up from the clothes I’m stuffing into my overnight bag. I wanted to go alone, my misery and silence unquestioned, unseen. But I suppose there is some comfort in us all going together and my packing slows. “All right.”
Mona picks up one of her platform heels from beside the bed and throws it against the skirting board next to Therese, who awakens with a start. “Oh good, you’re up. We’re all heading back to Oxford now. Would you like first shower?”
It’s seven thirty before the whole family is washed, dressed and down in the lobby. Mum puts an arm around me while Dad checks us out of the rooms. “Have you heard from Frederic?”
I nod and show her the email, not caring that she sees the sweetheart. Everyone knows by now that it wasn’t the book bringing me up to London every week. Her mouth tightens, and I can see she feels the inadequacy of his words almost as much as I do.
Paddington Station is painful to behold, as is the dark green Great Western train that will bear us all home. I’ve become accustomed to associating this place with sweet reunions with Frederic—him lifting me up in his arms as I come through the barriers, his searing kisses goodbye, just one more. All right, I’ll let you go—but first, just one more.
Lisbet slips her hand into mine as we walk along the platform, her face pale and serious, and I manage to give her a small smile though it’s twisted with the emotions I’m holding back.
“Did you and Frederic have a fight?” she asks.
The breath I inhale shudders with unshed tears. “Something like that, Betty-bun.” How to explain to her the humiliation I feel? She’s not a child any longer but she won’t understand the terse cruelty with which Frederic has ended things between us. Is he heading back to Paris today? Is he packing even now? He never even asked to see me. That email is going to be the last word I ever hear from him. A tight, bereft sound escapes my throat.
Mona flashes me a look, and says to our little sister, “That’s enough questions, Bitty-betty. Evie doesn’t want to talk about it.”
Revulsion impales me through my chest. All these stupid nicknames we give Lisbet, like she’s four, not fourteen. Betty-bun, Bitty-betty. We’re making her into the child we want her to be, not the grown-up she’s fast becoming. It’s disgusting. It’s what Frederic did to me. He made me small and stupid so I wouldn’t pick up on the things he was hiding from me. I thought it was because he liked the comfort and happiness it gave me, but that just made it convenient for him. He was the one who told me to be small and cling to him. He was the one who—and I shudder in disgust—gave me the pacifier. Even now it’s buried deep in my holdall, ready if I find a secret moment to put it in my mouth. The symbolism of the object suddenly strikes me: he wasn’t comforting me, he was shutting me up.
We find a free six-seater on the train and I collapse next to the window and rest my forehead on the glass. Now I know how Jane Eyre must have felt when confronted by Bertha Rochester on her wedding day. She’d wandered alone on the moors, her heart breaking. It’s the lies that hurt the most. More than the loss of him, I say to her. Down the passage of years and pages she nods sadly.
Despite my misery and anger I wonder where Frederic is and what he’s doing. How he’s coping with the loss of his voice.
My god, his voice. It was everything to him. Despite my own pain I can feel his, and I know he must be in hell right now. He’ll feel terrible for ruining the show.
But then I remember his perfunctory email and my heart hardens against him. He wanted to bear his loss alone, so let him. I won’t shed any tears for Frederic d’Estang’s career, not after what he’s done to me, making me into a dumb, unquestio
ning baby so that he wouldn’t have to face the things he was afraid of. I’m still that baby now, vulnerable and needy, and everything hurts twice as much in this little place. I trusted him to be careful with me when he put me beyond my limits, but I’ve been struck a killing blow. And I wonder, bleeding to death, why I thought it was safe to let my guard down.
Chapter Nineteen
Evie
“Evie, please. Won’t you tell us what happened? We’re worried about you.”
I look up at my sisters sitting on either side of my bed, dressed in day clothes. Therese has makeup on so I suppose she’s come from university or her internship at the law firm. Glancing at my window I see from the light that it’s early evening, but I’m still in my pajamas. My sticky, crumpled, third-day pajamas.
It’s been nearly two weeks since the opening night of Jane Eyre. I never replied to Frederic’s email and he didn’t contact me again. Don’t I deserve at least the satisfaction of ignoring his texts and emails as he makes a desperate bid to explain? I imagine myself finally replying after the twentieth email and the fiftieth text, being sharp and angry with him, telling him I can never forgive him.
But my phone remains stubbornly silent, even as my browser history is full of him. I can’t stop myself from Googling his name. For the first few days the art sections of the newspapers were sympathetic to his plight, but as more details emerged they turned on him.
Understudy Takes On Role In West-End Show After Star Diagnosed With Rare Voice Condition