by Jane Lambert
I tut inwardly as I recall how secretly upset I was when Nigel bought me an exercise bike for my fortieth. He’d casually informed me that he was doing me a favour, as he’d noticed I was getting a bit flabby around the waist. I’d felt instantly ashamed and unattractive. Now I’ve actually grown fond of my flabby bits, crow’s feet, and the wee freckles that have started to appear on the backs of my hands. Francesco says they are beautiful because they are part of me and tell la storia della mia vita. To misquote Whitney: ‘Learning to love your cellulite. It is the greatest love of all.’
No more regret, bitterness, or resentment. In fact, I feel grateful; thanks to Nigel’s betrayal, I’m following a path I would never have had the courage to take. I like my life now, with all its risk and uncertainty. It’s given me an inner freedom. What if he hadn’t dumped me? How would my future have panned out then? Would we have married, had children, been happy? Life is so full of what-ifs – just like when Gwyneth Paltrow misses that tube train in Sliding Doors.
‘Come on, you old poop!’ calls Mags, emerging through the stage door giggling, arm in arm with Oliver, his gait a little unsteady, trilby pulled down over his eyes.
She shoves him into the front seat, then plonks down next to me and says, ‘Lord, Emily, who was that divine man in the bar?’
‘Him? Oh, no one of any importance,’ I say, flashing her a huge, self-satisfied grin as we are whisked off into the Vienna night.
* * *
My footsteps echo down the empty street under the pewter moon, my shadow flickering along the cracked walls of Rudolfstrasse. I raise the collar of my trench coat and am reminded of those old films noir, where spies silently disappear through enormous, heavy wood doors of once-grandiose buildings. The only things missing from the picture are the dark glasses and headscarf (and spies in thriller movies do not get drunk and waste five minutes fumbling for their keys).
I stagger through the shadowy entrance, up the long, winding staircase to the third floor, and tiptoe into the apartment, quietly closing the door behind me.
I kick off my shoes and the bed groans as I flop onto it. My mobile bleeps and the little screen lights up greeny-blue. One new message: Tonight, I think about you many times, cara. Sogni d’oro. Francesco ☺
I curl up and slip into a smiley, alcohol-induced coma, clasping my phone tightly to me.
* * *
I awake with a tongue reminiscent of Beryl’s shag pile and a body like the Tin Man from Oz. I will never drink Sekt mixed with apricot Schnapps again. In fact, I will never drink alcohol again. EVER. I pull the quilt over my head and snuggle further down, but then the irresistible aroma of freshly ground coffee and home baking wafts under the door, luring me along the corridor and into the kitchen.
‘Guten morgen, liebling!’ Anna smiles, her face and apron daubed with flour.
‘Kaffee?’ she says, picking up the coffee pot, a knowing, maternal look in her great, grey eyes.
I clamber onto the kitchen stool, wrap my hands around the warm, comforting mug, and watch in fascination as she rolls and stretches dough over the expanse of her kitchen table.
‘My Mutti used to say a good Apfelstrudel pastry should be so thin that you can read a newspaper through it,’ she says, wiping her hands and producing a letter from the cluttered dresser.
I instantly recognise the yellow, Florentine envelope and the spidery handwriting. Francesco is a man of contradiction: someone who has his finger on the pulse of politics, literature, world music, films, fashion, and sport, yet still writes letters and refuses to be lured by social media or fast food. Texting is as far as he’s prepared to venture into the push-of-a-button, click-of-a-mouse, ping-of-a-microwave, selfie world. I think of him as my Mediterranean Mr Darcy – minus the disagreeableness.
* * *
‘What are you doing Sunday evening?’ asks Mags one night in the dressing room.
‘Hmm, let me see now … nothing,’ I reply, plucking a white hair from my left eyebrow. ‘Gotcha!’
‘Good, because we, my darling, are going to the opera.’
‘Opera? Blimey, isn’t it awfully expensive?’
‘I don’t consider four euros expensive, do you?’
‘Four euros! You’re kidding me.’
‘You don’t have dodgy knees, do you?’
‘What?’
‘Varicose veins?’
‘Nope.’
‘Suffer from vertigo?’
‘No. Why?’
‘Good. Then you won’t mind standing up in the gods for three hours.’
‘Three hours?’
‘That’s nothing. Olly and I saw Tristan and Isolde last Sunday. Four hours thirty. But it’s worth it, believe me. Oh, and dress up. Everyone in Vienna dresses up for the opera – and bring a scarf to mark your place on the lean rail.’
‘What, like reserving your sunbed with a beach towel?’ I say, screwing up my nose.
‘Now, Emily, darling, don’t be a snob. And wear comfy shoes.’
* * *
Sunday: waiting for Mags
I am having yet another pinch-me moment: I am standing before the majestic opera house, devouring a Wienerwurst (the Rolls Royce of hotdogs), two tickets for Tosca in my pocket. Life doesn’t get much better than this.
As I wipe the ketchup from around my mouth, a mature, well-dressed couple scurry past, hand in hand, laughing. Her scarf falls to the ground. He runs back, picks it up, places it around her neck, and kisses her lightly on the forehead. I sense the tenderness of this moment and feel a spike of envy.
Let me rephrase the above statement: life would be perfect if Francesco were here. I don’t mean I miss him in a needy, hurting way, because I’m different to the woman I was before: the one who had to be in a relationship at any price in order to feel whole. No, the reason I think about him so much is because I miss his friendship, and the fact that he actually enhances my life.
Looking back, I realise that since I was sixteen, I’ve always had a boyfriend in tow. These relationships would usually end in dramatic circumstances, but then it would only be a matter of weeks until I found myself swallowed up by the next one. I now know it takes time to find a quality relationship with someone you are truly compatible with, and while we all have to compromise, moulding yourself into what your partner wants you to be is not the right way. No, I hardly dare admit it, but at last, here’s a man who asks nothing of me – except perhaps to work harder at my Italian, but then only because I want to learn. How I love to wrap my tongue around its rich, beautiful, passionate sounds; they make me feel alive, sensual and joyous.
Whilst I don’t need Francesco as some sort of passport to happiness, I can’t think of anyone better to share those special, pinch-me moments with. It’s as simple as that.
* * *
From my corner vantage point, high up in the gallery, like a marksman, but armed with a pair of opera glasses, I scan the red, gold, and ivory horseshoe-shaped auditorium.
Two fifty-something, classy ladies – dripping with expensive jewellery – are chatting in the stalls aisle. From their body language, I imagine the English translation of their exchange to go something like this:
1st LADY: Mwah, mwah, daahling. How super to see you.
2nd LADY: Likewise. You look fabulous. Designer?
1st LADY: Naturally.
SWOONSOMELY HANDSOME YOUNG MAN APPROACHES 1st LADY.
YOUNG MAN: There you are, sweetheart. (KISSES HER) We’d better take our seats. Please excuse us.
2nd LADY: Of course. (THROUGH GRITTED TEETH) Bitch.
PAN TO ORCHESTRA PIT …
BASSOONIST: I told him, how would you like it, to be stuck under the stage every night behind the tuba?
VIOLINIST: Honestly, mate, it’s no better where I’m sitting. You get the full force of the sopranos from the front.
SWING TO A BOX …
GRUMPY MAN: Don’t start. I didn’t bloody well want to come in the first place. You know how I hate the opera.
PO-FACED WOMAN: Oh really? That’s funny. Because a little bird told me you were here last week with your PA – and you looked as if you were having a whale of a time …
Mags taps my arm lightly with the programme, folded back at the synopsis page. I pop on my glasses, but only get as far as Rome. 1800. Inside the church of Saint Andrea della Valle … before we are plunged into darkness. The chit-chat fades as the conductor appears in the spotlight, bowing to thunderous applause. He turns to face his orchestra, nods and raises his arms. The string section hold their bows at the ready, poised, waiting for the baton to be lowered, like a starting pistol at the beginning of a race.
All at once the opening bars of the overture are released into the air, and the heavy, red velvet curtains swish open.
Because we are so far away from the action, and because my Italian is not yet up to comprehending the convoluted plots of opera (people in opera never do day-to-day things, like ask for directions or buy stamps, do they?), I haven’t a clue what’s going on most of the time. I suspect the lady with the high voice and big chest must be Tosca. She and Mario, her artist boyfriend, seem to have a bit of an up and down relationship, if the constant appeasing (him) and pushing away (her) is anything to go by.
Her diva-like strutting and petulant tossing of her black, pre-Raphaelite hair, and the way she keeps jabbing her finger at his painting of a beautiful blonde woman, tells me she’s the jealous type (it’s only a painting, love), but then again, maybe Mario has a wandering eye, in which case, I’m totally on her side.
When the action takes place upstage and our view is completely obscured, I close my eyes and allow the music to swim through me; otherwise my poor sightlines are more than compensated by the very nice rear view of the conductor, who though not tall, is rather cute in that Al Pacino-way, with his black floppy hair, which flicks back and forth as his whole body communicates the subtle moods of the music to his players.
By the time the first interval arrives, I am transfixed, totally lost in the story (my version of the story at any rate), oblivious to the discomfort of leaning against a railing for over an hour. The safety curtain descends and the lights come up.
‘I have a little treat for us,’ whispers Mags, nudging me. ‘Ta daa!’ She produces two quarter-bottles of Sekt and two plastic champagne flutes from her bag and proceeds to pop them open and pour while I keep a watch out for the hawk-eyed ushers.
Armed with drinks and a dose of schoolgirl daring, we descend the winding stairs and join the rich and the beautiful in the Schwind Foyer. Here, it is the Viennese custom for the audience to promenade among the paintings and busts of famous composers, whilst unashamedly eyeing one another up and down, checking out who’s wearing what and who’s with whom.
This all sounds horribly pretentious, but believe me, if you’re there, in the midst of it, you can’t help but be mesmerised by the sheer elegance, the opulence, the self-assuredness, the Devil-Wears-Prada-ishness of it all: glamorous, expensive-smelling ladies in designer dresses with perfect tresses and heels as high as skyscrapers; distinguished, well-bred gentlemen with slicked-back hair, tailored jackets draped squarely across their shoulders, clutching Gucci man bags.
Do any of them suspect that there are a couple of impostors in their midst, I wonder? I half expect the Posh Police to burst through the doors, prise my plastic glass of supermarket champagne out of my hand, drag me by the collar of my flea-market dress, and throw me out onto the street, where I belong.
‘So, you were here last Sunday?’ I say to Mags, tearing my gaze away from a striking, Amazonian woman with telescopic legs, wearing a slinky LBD, leopard print turban, and matching shoes.
She falls quiet for a moment. ‘Olly adores the opera, like me, and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to be able to share things with someone again.’ Lowering her eyes, she continues, ‘You must think I’m awful.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I’m married, and am enjoying the company of another man, while my poor Easton has nothing more to look forward to than his next meal and Judge Judy.’
‘Mags, your friendship with Oliver is nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say, squeezing her hand and looking her square in the eye.
‘I should be at home, taking care of my husband,’ she says, her voice breaking as she looks away, pulling an embroidered hankie from her sleeve.
‘You’ve done the best you can, but you’re entitled to a life too,’ I say soothingly. ‘And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like Easton needs professional care now, which you’re not qualified to give.’
‘All the same …’ The three bells ring, summoning us back to our seats. ‘Come on,’ she says, her taut expression relaxing. ‘I bet you five euros Tosca snuffs it in the end.’
‘I’m here for you if you need someone to talk to,’ I say, gently touching her arm. ‘I can be a good listener, as well as a good talker, you know.’
‘Bless you, my darling girl. I may well take you up on your offer sometime.’
* * *
We’re not quite sure what happens to Tosca, as we’re too high up to see, but later, over a Maria Theresia (orange liqueur coffee), we study the programme in detail and learn that she commits suicide by throwing herself from a parapet, so Mags wins the bet.
Do women in opera ever survive?
* * *
I am woken early next morning by the persistent ringing of my mobile.
‘Hello,’ I grunt, holding it to my crumpled face.
‘Morning, poppet!’ trills Mum. ‘Couldn’t wait to tell you – your father and I have just booked a winter Imperial cities tour to Prague, Budapest – and Vienna!’
‘Really?’ I say, propping myself up and rubbing my sleep-filled eyes. ‘Brill! So you can see the play after all.’
‘Ah,’ she falters. ‘I’m afraid we only have one night in Vienna. We leave for Prague by coach early the next day, and we’re supposed to go to a Vienna Boys’ Choir concert that evening – I’ve always wanted to see them, and it’s all included – but if there’s a performance of your play on Saturday afternoon, we could probably squeeze it all in, couldn’t we?’
‘Huh! So, The Vienna Boys’ Choir takes precedence over me and my play, eh? How very dare they?’ I reply, feigning offence. My former self would have been genuinely miffed by this, but the new me just thinks, that’s okay. No problem. I don’t want a fight. What’s the point? I’ve been down this road too many times before. It accomplishes nothing and only leaves me feeling wretched. Mum doesn’t mean to be blunt. She’s just Mrs Say-It-Like-It-Is, whereas Dad is more Mr Keep-The-Peace, and Mum can’t put a foot wrong where he’s concerned. (Never mind trying to teach me how to knit, why on earth didn’t she give me lessons in how to wrap men around my little finger?)
Still, you can’t change people – particularly those hurtling towards their eighth decade. Age, or maybe my new, more frugal life is forcing me to reassess situations and my reaction to them. I think, hope I am becoming more tolerant, less of a control freak. I wish I had a brother, though – someone to back me up, to exchange family worries and frustrations with, to share sibling banter and childhood memories
‘What do you say, poppet?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Is there a matinée on Saturday?’
‘Yes. Fine,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ll arrange two tickets, and maybe we can have an early supper afterwards. I’d like you to meet …’
‘Darling, don’t tell me you’ve met a new man? Not an actor, is he?’
‘… Mags and Oliver. They play my mum and dad.’
‘Oh. I see,’ she says her voice dropping. Quickly drawing a deep breath, she yammers, ‘Have a guess who rang me the other day? Dorothy Devine! Greg’s still unmarried, you know.’ I pull the patchwork quilt over my head and count to ten, fighting my old instinct to snap back. She ploughs on.
‘Dorothy says he’s doing very well at the bank, got a lovely semi-detached house and a brand new company car. He hasn’t dated a girl since … well r
eally, Dorothy and I could knock your two silly heads together …’
Poor Mum. With Nigel now definitely out of the picture, in her mind the only way of rescuing me from pending spinsterdom or lesbianism is to try and reignite an old flame, which was extinguished for very good reason, which neither Mum nor Mrs Devine can ever be party to. I have been sworn to secrecy.
I remember the night Greg and I split up – Valentine’s Day, 1999 in Pizza Express.
When he said he had ‘something important’ to tell me, I thought, oh my God, he’s going to get down on bended knee right here, in front of everyone. How embarrassing, for you see, I’d wanted to break up with him for ages, but had allowed the situation to drift. Why? Because back then I was afraid – afraid of hurting him, afraid of being alone, afraid of change. I’d selfishly been waiting until I felt ready, and now I was going to be forced to confront my fears in front of a restaurant crammed full of lovesick diners.
Greg tearfully took my hand and mumbled something about having met someone at the bank – and his name was Troy. He’d tried to fight his feelings, but it was of no use. He couldn’t bear this double life any longer. I almost choked on my Margherita, though looking back, should I have guessed – given his penchant for scented candles and Kylie Minogue?
Whilst a part of me was secretly relieved, liberated, a bit of me thought, I’m supposed to be the one doing the dumping, not him, and more to the point, I’ve heard of someone driving their partner to drink, but – homosexuality? If I’m totally honest, it was a crushing blow to my female pride.
‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this,’ I say, interrupting her mid-flow, ‘but I’ve decided to steer well clear of men for a while.’
‘I see,’ she says, a surge of unspoken despair mixed with agitation crackling down the phone line.