I’m known for my laid back demeanour. The white-hot rage which surged through my body shocked me to the core. ‘How dare you?’
Rezanov stared at me, speechless.
‘Who the hell do you think you are, insulting a fellow artist? I’m supposed to work with you. Well, I’ve got news for you, mate, forget it! I wouldn’t allow you within spit of the stage with me!’
He started to say something, but I hadn’t finished. ‘You’re totally unprofessional. It wasn’t my idea to play flute to your piano, believe me!’ I swung around to the one I thought could be the manager. ‘Get someone else to play with this drongo.’
Leaving Joan waving her arms, I swept out of the dressing room and charged along the corridor to the canteen, the only possible place of sanctuary on the floor. The canteen ladies greeted me with smiles as I stalked into the dining area. The way I hurled myself at the counter pretty much showed them the way the wind was blowing. A cup of coffee and a slice of iced banana cake were produced in record time. As I sat at a table forcing myself to hold hot, angry tears at bay, footsteps sounded behind me. ‘You needn’t bother oiling your way around here. I want nothing to do with you!’ I snarled.
‘Er...Ms Miller, I’m sorry you had to overhear Rezanov...’
I turned to find one of the combatants, a tall, well built, extremely good-looking, fair-haired man standing behind me. He introduced himself as the Concert Hall manager, Bill Seymour. Conceding he wasn’t to blame, I invited him to sit with me. Looking relieved, he pulled out a chair and sat down. One of the ladies brought him a cup of strong, black tea. We faced each other, neither wanting to be the first to speak. Finally, he sighed, took a sip and grimaced. ‘They always make it too hot, bless them,’ he confided, ‘but they’re so good to me I can’t say anything.’ I remained silent; he could make the first move. ‘Ms Miller – ‘
‘Pam.’
‘Pam, I heard you’ve overcome your stage fright and I can’t for a moment imagine you’d undertake a concert of this magnitude if you felt you couldn’t perform.’ He smiled and I almost reached over to pat his hand. What he had to put up with would have made me choke the living you-know-what out of most people.
‘I used to have a problem with paralysing stage fright, Mr Seymour, but I’m over that now. Oh, I still get nervous, but nowhere near the debilitating terror that used to overcome me.’
‘Please call me Bill. I used to have a problem with stage fright – yes, I’m a musician too, pianist actually – though I don’t get much chance to play with an orchestra anymore. Sometimes I play with the Gordon Trio as a quartet.’ He laughed, and blew on the top of his tea to cool it down. ‘I’ve been hearing great things about you. The critics are raving over your work but presumably, Rezanov hasn’t been reading the papers! Unfortunately, you’re contracted to play the Haydn with him, so we have to come to some sort of arrangement. Hopefully, his agent is giving him a good bollocking.’
I dissolved into giggles. Bill stared at me for a moment and then joined in. It was a few minutes before we could control ourselves. ‘The thought of anyone scolding Rezanov is ridiculous!’ I chortled. ‘He’s a law unto himself! He does speak the language, but I don’t know how fluently. And all that Russian crap is just that. He’s as Australian as you and I, albeit with parents of Russian descent, but someone said he uses his dual nationality when he wants to get his own way.’
‘I’ve had some royal battles with performers over the years. We know all about Vlad’s tantrums, but when you get to know him, he’s a pretty good bloke. You’ll get on with him when he’s settled down.’ Bill Seymour eyed me appreciatively. Uh oh, no, down boy! I’ve no time for dalliances.
‘Okay, so what can we do?’ I had to get our relationship on a business-like footing.
‘Would you be prepared to go ahead with the item if I can broker a deal with,’ he smiled, ‘the ‘drongo’?’
‘Well, I’m being paid for it, so really I have to shut up or put up,’ I replied, ‘and I’ve never reneged on a concert in my whole life, but it did feel good to throw a tantie for once.’
Bill grinned. ‘I think I know just what to say to that young man. Let’s go and talk to him. Don’t say anything, just follow my lead.’
Loud voices boomed down the corridor as we neared the dressing-room. It was impossible to tell who had the upper hand, but when we stepped into the room the two men fell silent. Rezanov scowled at me from the easy chair on other side of the room. His agent, an unassuming man with a more than adequate nose, looked enquiringly at Bill Seymour who presented an expressionless face. Only I saw him wink at the agent, before he confronted the Impaler. I took a chair near the door and sat down to watch the show.
Bill lowered his tone to a sympathetic croon. ‘I fully understand how you must feel, Mr Rezanov, being paired with a woman whose concert tour has been lauded by the critics. What if she outplays you! Now, I don’t know if you realise this, but Ms Miller is also a highly accomplished pianist, so if you feel you have to cancel out of the concert, I am sure she is more than able to take your place. Right, Ms Miller? And we can easily announce a change to the program for her to do a piano item as well.’
Oh no! I couldn’t – he turned to me, carefully shielding his face from the pianist and winked again. The agent became engrossed in a painting on the wall.
‘Oh yes, I could do that!’ I replied with a smile, quaking inside. What if Rezanov told us to get on with it then and charged out of the concert hall? The silence lengthened. I didn’t dare look at him, but kept my eyes on the poker-faced manager.
‘It’s not good enough! This woman can’t play the work!’ Rezanov leaped to his feet, sending the chair crashing onto its side. ‘Ridiculous!’ He reached me in two strides and thrust his face into mine. ‘You can’t play the Mozart. You’re not a bloody pianist!’ He’d forgotten to be Russian in his angst. I almost laughed aloud. No, of course I‘m not, you berk, but that set you back a peg or two. I leaned back in my chair and met him stare for stare. ‘Sez who?’
His nostrils flared; as a turn-on it was spectacular. ‘I do. I, Rezanov, am booked for this performance. I will play! But not with you.’ You’ve remembered to be Russian now have you? Too late!
‘Oh yes you will, Mr Rezanov, you’re contracted and we’ll sue if you don’t. Get over it. Pam hasn’t had any problems throughout her whole concert tour. It’s lasted six weeks and the critics have gone wild over her. No problems, right?’ The last word clanged like the hinge on a steel strap.
A silent communication took place between the mad pianist and his agent. Something must have been decided to their satisfaction, because the agent faced the manager. ‘He will play. Everything is alright.’ He turned to glare at the pianist. ‘And he apologises to Miss Miller.’
Rezanov’s mutinous expression indicated that he no more wished to apologise than fly to the moon. Still, better to quit while we were ahead.
‘We’ll just have a look around. There’ve been some changes since you were here last.’ Bill raised his voice. ‘Give Mr Rezanov time to cool down.’ As he put his arm around my back to guide me from the room, someone growled. Don’t laugh for God’s sake, Pam...
Suppressing a grin, Bill looked at his watch. ‘Let’s go and look at the river.’ He took my arm and tucked it under his own, snug along his ribcage. Startled, I was about to pull away, but before I could, we were headed for the front of the concert hall. I allowed him to lead me through the concrete maze, down past the restaurant and across the grass to the edge of the water. ‘See here, you don’t have to put up with that, Pam. He’s just pulling rank because he thinks we can’t do without him!’
‘But we can’t! He’s under contract for this concert, same as I am.’
Bill picked up a small stick and lobbed it into the water. ‘Yes, but we all know he has to front up or lose a stack of money. I just wanted to stick it to him that we can pull the rug out from under his size thirteens. Actually, we can sue, but I would have to contact the dir
ectors first. I can’t do that my own and really, it’s a little late with the concert tonight.’
A chill wind came off the water. I shivered and my companion put his arm around me. By common consent we started to walk along the path beside the water. Ducks bobbed in the backwash from a passing City Cat – one day, I thought, I must have a ride on one of those – the sun was shining and in the distance the city went about its Saturday business. No matter what happens, Rezanov is not going to ruin this concert for me.
‘So where do you go from here, Pam? I know you’re joining the orchestra for the outback tour.’
Bill’s voice startled me. ‘My next concert is in Ipswich, and then I do a short tour in the UK. Oh, and the Outback Tour with the Pacific!’
Bill turned and put his hands on my shoulders, miraculously, a man the same height as me. ‘Can you make some time for dating?’ he asked, his eyes shining with mischief.
I looked back at him. ‘Possibly. What did you have in mind?’
‘Well, how about after the shindig is over tonight we go and find some supper in the city?’
I already had plans, but would it be a good idea to bring my social life so close to my professional? I liked him immensely, although he didn’t pack the sexual punch of Rezanov...where did that come from? Disappointment flashed across Bill’s face and he withdrew his hands, obviously thinking I wasn’t going to respond.
‘I’ve already made an arrangement to go with friends, but perhaps another time? I’m looking forward to winding down afterwards, though I might have bashed His Maj over the head with my flute by then and be under arrest.’ In the distance, the town hall clock chimed. I looked at my watch. ‘OMG, I really must go back and see if that twit will rehearse with me.’
‘No problems. We’ll go out to dinner one night next week if you’re free, and Rezanov’ll have to work with you because I’ll make sure of it!’ Bill replied grimly. We didn’t speak much as we almost trotted back to the concert hall. The fact that there were no shouts coming from the dressing rooms was a good sign. The door to Rezanov’s room was closed and Bill knocked quietly.
A cleaner thrust the mop-head into his bucket and grinned. ‘If you’re looking for ‘his nibs,’ he’s gone upstairs.’ Obviously they all knew what was going on, which was more than I did.
‘Right. Thanks, John.’ Bill turned to me. How about you grab your gear and I’ll go ahead and test the waters?’ He ushered me into a nearby dressing room, straightened his shoulders and winked before striding off to battle.
Someone had prepared the room – the air conditioner was running and my music and flute cases had been placed on the makeup bench. The room was small but comfortable with two easy chairs, coffee table, makeup bench and on the side, next to an open cupboard with hanging space and hangers, was an en suite complete with shower.
I nipped in and freshened up, then took a moment to deep breathe, allowing my mind to float to a space recommended by my hypnotherapist. A kaleidoscope of colours and memories swept through my mind...the audience, smiling at me...the orchestra approving...the conductor – the face of Sir James’ Macpherson’s precocious son, Lance, danced into my vision. Lance was a bit of a hunk; anticipation stirred within me. Things were shaping up to be interesting.
The years I’d worked for my career, always striving to give of my best, I felt deeply privileged to carry what I believed were messages from the great composers to my audiences, giving them the beauty from the brilliant minds of men such as Mozart, Beethoven, Handel and Bach. No one, certainly not a Russian thug, was going to disrupt my concentration and jeopardise my performance. I picked up my flute case and turned the air-conditioner and light off before I left the dressing room – my mother taught me frugality – and headed for the concert hall stage.
Rezanov was talking to his agent as he softly played the opening bars of the second movement to his major work for the night. Neither of them acknowledged my presence, so I walked over to the music stand beside the pianist and placed my case on a nearby chair. A waft of his after shave came to me and I stepped back a little. They stopped their conversation and turned to look at me. ‘Well, are you ready to start?’ I snarled.
A wee smile played around the agent’s mouth; with a wave of his hand and a muttered salutation, he toddled off, business bent. Rezanov looked me up and down and then parted his lips in a sour grin. ‘I was waiting for you, Princess.’ The heavy Russian accent had given way to pure “Ocker.”
How am I going to keep my cool around this character...? If we got through the concert without strangling each other, it would be a triumph of patience and my hypnotherapists counselling.
‘Are you ready or do you want to daydream the time away?’ Rezanov’s voice cut through my reverie.
I frowned. ‘Which one did you want to do first?’
‘The Haydn.’ Turning back to the keyboard, his murderous expression shone in the gleaming patina of the grand piano. Gritting my teeth, I opened my flute case and took out the precious instrument, vowing to show him what I was made of. I gently blew into the instrument to make sure the pipes were clean, catching the eye of a stagehand with whom I’d had acquaintance with some years previously. Smiling, he mimed a retch into a bucket. Rezanov, who didn’t appear to have noticed the pantomime, counted me in and away we went. If it was the last thing I did in this life, I would show them all that Puking Pam was a person of the past.
I was exhilarated after two hours of rehearsal. Demanding I call him ‘Vlad,’ he’d thawed somewhat after the first twenty minutes. We side-lined our differences as we played phrases over and over, working on nuances and even my past problem was discussed in between swapping gossip about fellow musicians.
‘When I first started out I was the same as you, only I saved my throwing up for the dressing room. I’d clear out anyone who was hanging around – including the birds’– he laughed – ‘If there wasn’t an en suite I’d try and wait until the coast was clear before rushing for the bathroom.’ Noting my surprised look, he added, ‘I wasn’t always given my own dressing room, you know. I’ve played in some pretty manky places.’
Most artists, including musicians get to perform in draughty church halls, conference rooms, outdoors under the stars, in fact anywhere there’s someone willing to pay the money. ‘I know what you mean!’ I replied. We shared a moment of accord. Just then the stagehand came back and, catching our eyes, gave a merciless grin and mimed puking into his hands.
Vlad leaped to his feet and charged at the man, whose eyes widened in shock. Bearing down on the hapless man, Rezanov roared so loudly that even I, who realised what he was on about, cringed. Down in the auditorium, staff cleaning and preparing for the evening performance, stopped what they were doing and watched the show. Backing away, the stagehand waved apologetically at me and scuttled for his life. ‘Sorry, mate. I didn’t mean anything. I was just having a bit of fun.’
Vlad strode back and snatched his music off the piano. ‘If anyone ever does that to you again, I’ll get them sacked.’ His eyes bored into mine and I was lost to everything. His 189cm actually towered over me – oh, the novelty of looking up to a man – but spoiled the moment, by snapping, ‘I can’t have you collapsing before the concert.’ With that, he turned and stormed off.
A slow hand-clap alerted me to a man standing at the back of the stage. ‘Rezanov’s full of shit, isn’t he?’ Lance MacPherson, as tall as his father and built like a Rugby front-row forward – is being tall, hefty and good-looking a job description in this place? – moved to the piano, leaned over the keys and played a quick trill. A shiver went down my spine. I knew MacPherson was a pianist too, but I hadn’t realised how good. Perhaps he could stand in if Rezanov refused to play tonight? I had a feeling the Russian’s tantrums were over for the time being.
A shadowy figure moved in the background and another man walked away from the stage. I looked after him, surprised he hadn’t stayed to be introduced. Lance shrugged. ‘Oh that’s the new bloke. Doesn’t ta
lk much, but he can play like the devil himself. Now let’s get down to business.’ We went through the score, Lance emphasising phrasing. A few minutes later, the orchestra started to trickle in and we soon got down to rehearsing the Haydn, followed by Schubert’s Shepherd on a Rock, the two pieces I was playing with full orchestra and Rezanov. Dance of the Blessed Spirits was set for an encore if required.
It was almost two o’clock before I could pack my flute away. I am rarely affected by men, though I’ve had my share of relationships which had crumbled to dust, along with my emotional confidence, but here I was, ready to kill Rezanov and we hadn’t even performed together. Oh, he had actually gone in to bat for me with a snide stagehand, but only because he didn’t want me too upset to play.
I didn’t have anything to pick up from my dressing room, so I headed for the outside world. As I arrived in the foyer, Bill, who was signing for a delivery, hailed me. ‘How did it go? Did he behave himself?’ I thought that it would be far safer if this kindly and eminently suitable man could accompany me instead of the mad Russian.
Blessing Goldie for lending me her car, I turned toward her cottage. People and their dogs were out and about, Saturday markets flooded with shorts and T-shirted couples while children wrestled and chased each other on the lawns abutting the river. The main street, littered with small boutique shops, was narrow, making it necessary to stop for kamikaze pedestrians. I looked around as I waited at the crossing for the lights to change – and there it was! Hanging in the window of a nondescript dress shop, halfway along the shopping strip, was the most fabulous dress I had ever seen and one I wouldn’t have bought in a fit.
‘No, you already have your outfit for tonight, you don’t need another one,’ said Sweet Reason.
‘Of course you do!’ oozed The Devil, nestling in my wallet.
Tucking the car into a vacant space nearby, I practically ran up the street, skidding to a halt as I got to the door. The interior, cool, quiet and blessedly incense-free, lured me on. A young girl of about sixteen with dark brown curling hair, sporting nose rings and a stud in her lip – ouch – and a name tag, Tia – hopped out from the back room. ‘Are you right?’ she chirped, and tripped over a vacuum cleaner cord. Her light hazel eyes twinkled as she untangled herself from it.
After Ariel: It started as a game Page 7