‘You looked good out there, dear,’ said Mary, the chief wardrobe manager, over an armful of taffeta. I’d gathered she’d been backstage on every production this company had done since it was started. ‘Very nice.’
‘Thanks!’
‘I never realised what hot stuff this Tchaikovsky was, you know.’
I grinned and lifted the curtain to our little chamber. The mirror lights had been switched off and the space was in shadow. Just for a moment I thought I saw a slight, dark figure sitting in my chair, head in hands. Then the light from the room behind me shifted in as I changed my stance and I saw that the room was empty.
Odd, I thought. But I didn’t have time to worry about it. I had to get into my costume for the masked ball, and meet my betrothed.
The opening night was a thorough success and I couldn’t have been more pleased; this was my first principal role with an opera company this big, and though it was an amateur company it was a top-of-the-range one, with costumes and sets as good as any you’d see in a professional show. It was only the participants who didn’t get paid for what they did.
After the final curtain fell some of the cast went to the pub to celebrate while others went home and the backstage crew scrummed down into a technical discussion. I hung around chatting for a while, but ended up getting changed back into civvies alone, humming to myself my riverbank aria. I was just putting my earrings on when Elliot lifted the curtain and looked in on me.
‘Hey.’
‘Hi there.’
We stood smiling at each other, not entirely sure of ourselves. Elliot’s silence before he next spoke was just that little bit too extended. All of a sudden the room felt too warm.
‘I was wondering if you would like to go out for a drink, Tanya.’ His invitation was measured and polite, but it could not be construed as casual. His eyes said everything.
‘A drink?’
‘There’s the bar at the Hilton.’
‘I’d love to.’ I ran my hand over the back of a chair. ‘But I can’t.’
He raised an eyebrow. ‘Hm?’
‘I’m …’ I bit my lip. ‘I’m married.’
‘Ah. Fair enough.’ He smiled ruefully. ‘So am I,’ he admitted.
‘I’d have liked to though,’ I blurted out as he turned away. ‘You know.’
He held me with his gaze one beat longer. ‘Yes. I know.’
A moment of aching frustration passed between us, unspoken. Then he stepped in towards me and I thought that he wasn’t taking no for an answer. He took my hands in his and I thought how big and warm his were compared to mine. And I thought I was sure I was capable of denying myself – but not if he pushed it, not if he took control, not if he touched me. Please, I thought, just kiss me and it won’t be my fault.
Stooping, Elliot brushed his lips to my cheek. ‘I think it’s probably a good job we’re not on tour together, don’t you?’
‘Yes,’ I whispered.
‘Goodnight, Tanya.’ He left me breathless and shaking – and alone.
I sat down heavily, feeling the air go out of me like from a punctured tyre. I should phone home, I told myself, my fingers fluttering over my face. I should speak to Tim and his voice would remind me who it was that I loved, who it was I could come home to every night and find always pleased to see me, pleased to slide into bed beside me, pleased for my success and my passion and my pleasure in an art he understood not at all. Tim would have bought a bunch of flowers to congratulate me on my opening night, and would have a bottle of my favourite wine open. We would make love because I’d be too wired and hyper to sleep, and it would be quite wonderful and satisfying.
None of which made one whit of difference to how I was feeling now. My panties were soaking. My insides churned, craving Elliot’s touch, the smell of his skin and his cologne, the sound of his voice. His beautiful, perfect voice. For a few moments I relived in my head our lovers’ scene on stage, hearing again our two voices intertwining passionately, seeing his body moving down on mine. It was too much to bear. With a groan I shook my head and reached for my car keys, but my fumbling fingers knocked them across the dressing table and into the wastepaper basket. As I scrabbled among the crumpled make-up-smeared wipes, I realised that I was in no condition to drive. Frustration was making me clumsy and unfocused, and the itch between my thighs was too cruel to be ignored.
With a quick glance out through the curtain I ascertained that there was nobody else in the changing room. Well, I told myself wryly, this wouldn’t take long. I stood with one hand on the glass of the mirror, hitched my skirt with the other hand, and delved into my panties. If I need to come quickly, that’s the way to do it: on tiptoes, my legs straining, my thighs braced. A peek of white cotton and a flash of mouse-brown hair under the folds of my skirt were the only visible naughtiness, but my fingers confirmed that I was slippery, that my clit was engorged and stiff. I fingered myself with quick vibrating movements. In the mirror I could see the tension in my jaw, the deep hunger in my eyes, the strain of my breasts against my tight blouse.
What if he comes back? I asked myself, strumming hard. What if he comes back through that curtain to ask me again? Would I be able to stop in time or would he catch me working off my frantic desire for him? Would he stand and watch, delighted, or would he pull up the back of my skirt and wrench down my knickers and stuff me hard from behind with his eager cock, just as I deserved?
Reflected behind me, in the shadow behind the costume rack, two eyes glinted. A dark figure stirred.
I froze, more confused than shocked. Movement behind me ceased. When I looked over my shoulder I was as sure as I could be: there was no one else in this cubbyhole of a room. The shadows were simply not deep enough to conceal a human being. It had been a trick of the light.
Nonetheless, there was a strong feeling of eyes upon me.
My heart racing, I turned back to the mirror. ‘Watch if you want,’ I whispered, thrusting out my lower lip. This time I fingered myself all the way to orgasm, my legs trembling with the strain, my boobs out-thrust and shaking, a blush storming my cheeks. And in the reflected room a shadow watched with avid eyes.
Pique Dame ran for a week, every night. It was hard work – physically, vocally and emotionally. I’d taken leave from my day job, but even so this pushed me to my limits. Elliot was as polite as ever and didn’t try his luck on any following evening, but it wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say that he backed off; on stage every night he seduced and ravished me with predatory zeal, ripping the seams of my costume on one occasion. His body imprinted itself on mine as if he were branding my flesh. Lisa’s virginal reluctance became flimsier and more transparent. Our singing reached new heights of emotion; we seemed ready to tear each other apart in our passion, and my character’s anguish as I discovered him false became raw with pain.
For a short time that opera consumed my life. I have never been happier.
At home I tried to rest my voice as much as possible, not daring to chatter but miming to Tim when I needed to communicate. I also ambushed him daily in his home office, dragging him from the computer to fuck me on the bed, the sofa, the living-room carpet and – memorably – over the lip of the bath. I was high with tension. I was on heat. Tim was bemused but willing enough to indulge me, and did not question my horniness. I could hardly tell him it was because I was gasping for the show’s star performer.
Back at the theatre, our mutual desire was articulated in silence as much as in song. The ravenous look in his eyes as he stalked me across the stage during the ballroom scene made me quake. The private and knowing smiles we exchanged when I watched over his shoulder in the mirror while he had his make-up dusted on made my heart leap painfully. It was as if we shared a secret language.
It didn’t go entirely unnoticed, the tension between Elliot and I. The producer was heard to mutter darkly that if that seduction scene got any steamier the paint on the flats would start to run. But this was theatre, and opera at that; nobody disapproved.
Emotion was what it was all about. Everyone capable of fancying men had a crush on Elliot anyway, and all the female chorus were completely aflutter in his presence.
On the Thursday afternoon I approached the wardrobe mistress casually. ‘Is this theatre haunted, Mary, do you know?’
She cast me an amused glance. ‘The opera been getting to you, darling?’ Pique Dame is after all a tale of supernatural vengeance, and the make-up of the Countess’ Ghost was particularly grisly. The final scene, where Herman went mad and killed himself, still made the hair stand up on my neck even after several performances.
I smiled. ‘I mean it. Does it have a ghost?’
‘A Grey Lady, you mean? Or some Victorian gentleman in a top hat?’ She waved a hand at the building around us, which certainly looked like the proper setting for a traditional theatre ghost. It was Victorian red brick and cavernous, and full of tiny backstage corridors that rose and dropped and branched. I stood my ground though, determined.
‘A skinny black guy in grey overalls.’
She stopped smirking. ‘You’ve seen William?’ She raised her voice. ‘Ted! Come here!’ When Ted ambled over she added: ‘Tanya’s seen William!’
‘Oh, that’s good. I thought he might have gone.’ Ted was one of those elderly gentlemen that you find in amateur theatre; they take tickets and sell programmes and wedge themselves firmly into every management committee available.
‘William?’ I said faintly.
‘He hasn’t been seen in a couple of years. I thought he might have faded, you know. Ghosts do.’
‘You know his name?’ I don’t know why, but having a name to put to the shadowy face made me feel uneasy, as if he were suddenly more real.
‘Well,’ laughed Mary, ‘he’s not an old ghost. Nineteen fifties, I think.’
Ted nodded. ‘He came here on that ship, the whatsit …’
‘The Windrush?’ I guessed.
‘That’s the one. From the West Indies.’ He looked pleased with himself. ‘Worked here eight years, first as a carpenter and then as stage crew. Never a day off, they say. Hard working, and kept all his money carefully. He was saving up to bring his wife and children here too, you see.’
‘So what happened?’
‘Oh, nothing terribly dramatic. He just passed away quietly one night, behind the scenes. Aneurysm or something, I should think. The sad thing was that his family was on a boat headed to England at that very moment. He never got to see them again.’
‘That’s awful,’ I said.
‘But if his ghost shows, that’s supposed to be a very good sign for a performance; he’s taking an interest. It’s not at all common. You’ve seen him, have you, my dear? Whereabouts?’
How was I supposed to tell them that I’d glimpsed him every night since we opened, in the wings or corridors or dressing rooms? That I could feel him watching me whenever I went on or off stage? That when I was alone he came to hungrily watch me undress? ‘The green room,’ I muttered feebly.
And I lay awake that night thinking what it would be like to be separated from my spouse for eight years, working for the day that we would be reunited, a day that would never come. Not to mention being stuck in a foreign country, treated as some sort of oddity at the very very best. Poor William. Had he found distraction among the flighty and curious actresses who passed in succession through the theatre, or had they been only a source of temptation and torment? Had he really stuck it out for eight long years? I didn’t think I could go that long without my husband without going crackers; celibacy was not in my repertoire. Wasn’t it the case that even with my man in my bed every night I was panting foolishly after another one? Why couldn’t I just be content?
In the dark I snaked my arms around Tim’s sleeping form and kissed the nape of his neck, as if trying to apologise.
The ghost’s attentions might have been a good omen, but things were not going smoothly. As the last night of our run loomed the atmosphere grew not just more strained but distinctly odd, and though we should have been settled into our routine by now all sorts of little problems were sparking off without warning. The lighting rigs were playing up and different corners of the stage would be plunged into shadow or lit in peculiar colours, despite the lighting operator swearing that there was nothing wrong with the electrics during the technical run-throughs. The dressing rooms were always either too hot or too cold. Leo and the conductor had a huge row over, as far as I could tell, an entirely imaginary series of slights, and the orchestra threatened for an hour to walk off the production – musicians being the only performers who get paid for their efforts, and so having no loyalty to the show. Prince Yeletsky, who was a seasoned trooper of the amateur circuit, suffered unaccountable attacks of nerves and barely made it onto the stage one time. The Countess complained that the make-up was making her eyes itchy and bloodshot, and certainly her facial appearance even as a living woman was haggard. A family in the audience complained bitterly that they had brought their children along to an opera because it was culture, and they hadn’t expected the final scene to be so nasty. They got their money refunded.
But the singing was magnificent. Despite all the peripheral problems, I’d never been in a production sung with more passion. The fact that everyone seemed tense and out of sorts translated into dramatic energy the moment we were in front of an audience.
On the last night I stationed myself in the wings as the overture played. We had a full house yet again. The reviews had been glowing, even in the national papers. I wasn’t due onstage for some time, but I didn’t want to miss a thing, and that moment in the first scene where Herman stood beneath the tempest, arms outspread and his wet shirt clinging to his chest, and swore he would triumph over fate – oh, that was a moment I particularly looked forward to.
‘Our last time,’ said Elliot, and I nearly shot out of my skin. I hadn’t noticed him moving up behind me. I struggled to compose myself.
‘Well, it’s been incredible. I’ve … I’ve learned so much.’
‘I meant what I said before, Tanya.’ He had to stand quite close to me so as not to shout over the music, and his chest brushed my arm. ‘About you trying out for a professional company. There are auditions coming up for the ENO chorus; with training you’ve got a real chance.’
‘Ah.’ I didn’t know how to respond to that. I shook my head. ‘That’s kind but … I don’t think so. I’m not ready to face that level of competition. You know, the unending bitchiness and the sleeping with musical directors …’
He chuckled.
‘And,’ I added more seriously, ‘the travelling away from home and the daft hours. I’d have to give up too much. It’s just not me, I’m afraid. I love singing opera, but it’s not my whole life.’
He nodded. ‘I hope you don’t regret the opportunity later then.’
Was he still talking about my career? ‘Regret’s not the worst thing to live with,’ I said sadly.
‘That’s true.’ He glanced towards the curtain. ‘Is your husband out there tonight?’
‘Yes.’ I smiled. ‘Despite the fact he’s absolutely tone-deaf and thinks opera is plain silly.’
Elliot’s forehead wrinkled. ‘Perhaps we should tone it down for tonight then. We don’t want him getting upset.’
‘Oh, Tim won’t worry. He’s not the jealous type.’
‘Well.’ He brushed my bare arm with the back of his fingers, very gently. ‘I’m certainly jealous of him.’
I parted my lips, but I had no answer to that. His gaze lingered on me as if he were searching my soul. I felt my heart begin to race.
‘I’d better get into place,’ he murmured as the safety curtain started to lift and reveal the tabs. Then he withdrew into the shadows.
That final performance was like a fever dream. Whatever was going wrong with the lighting, it changed the settings by degrees until the stage was eerily lit like an impressionist film, all inky shadows and blue highlights. I could see Leo’s grimace of fury from his position in th
e wings stage-left, but there was nothing he could do about it, it appeared. The players flung themselves into their roles, seemingly determined not to be outdone by the melodramatic staging. And when I made my first entrance, promenading at the Countess’ side through the Summer Gardens, I understood why. A blue light in the rig overhead seemed to be shining into our eyes when we turned to look upstage, plunging the audience beyond into darkness. It created a most peculiar feeling of disassociation from the reality of the theatre, as if we were trapped in our own little world and the stage was a bubble of light floating in blackness. We emoted fiercely in an effort to communicate.
But the sound was wonderful. Every note, perfectly true, soared thrillingly in the auditorium. After the first scene I came dizzily off stage, feeling almost drunk with the power of our voices. Janice, who played the Countess, gripped my arm hard, and I was shocked to see tears running down her cheeks.
‘Are you all right?’ I asked.
‘It’s just this make-up in my eyes,’ she said, turning her face away. But her speaking voice sounded like it was trembling.
Then the second scene began: the seduction scene. As soon as I stepped into character I felt the outside world recede and the fervid reality of the opera take its place. I became Lisa, at least in part. I wasn’t remembering rehearsals and stage directions; it flowed through me as if I were living it for real, as if there could be a world in which people sang their every thought out loud. I listened to my female friends’ pitiful attempts to cheer me up with genuine impatience; I bid them farewell with heartfelt relief. I flung myself around the room in an agony of virginal frustration.
Then Herman appeared at my balcony window. My heart crashed in my chest.
We sang that night like I’ve never sung in a duet before or since, every word meant for real, our mutual desire raw and naked. Herman’s voice seemed to batter upon me, one moment caressing and the next filled with violence. We circled each other, we reached to touch each other, we drew away. He caught me from behind and pulled me against him and I felt his physical arousal in no uncertain terms even as his hands mauled my hips and bit into my shoulders, stalking the lines of my flanks. I’d have bruises tomorrow, I realised dimly. His fingers smeared my lipstick. I could smell his heat and his cologne. His muscles felt like rock under his military uniform.
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