Songs for Abrielle

by Mae Temson

Can I even call you that? Belle Delta I called you back then didn’t I? So long ago now. I am sorry for any intrusion or upset my writing to you now may cause. It is not my intention. Please believe me.

  I have had you on my mind a lot lately and I have tried to put it aside as I am certain that you won't have the time or the inclination for me but I find I cannot. I went home to my mothers house in Grosseto a couple of months ago. Sadly she died earlier this year, I don't know if you or your parents heard that at all? I very much doubt it as we severed many ties didn't we? I think I am right in saying that that was down to me. Mama being Mama she had never thrown any of her children's things away. So much to go through. I was looking through old things and I found my first address book and a photograph of us. So long ago. You were so beautiful Delta. You still are. I see your picture everywhere.

  I wondered if, like mine, your parents, your family, had not moved away and I thought I should take a chance and write to you at your old address, the address I wrote to all those years ago.

  Our lives have changed so much haven’t they? Do you even remember me? Can you forgive me for letting our special connection fade away?

  I wont go in to details now in case this never finds you. I will say though that I have an exhibition in London. At the Eden Gallery. Just off Oxford street. I pursued my photography. I hope you would be proud. I will be there for some of the run. Do you feel you could meet me? For coffee maybe? I know you are very busy and a big part of me isn't expecting anything.

  For my part, Dear Delta, I would love to see you again.

  There, now, I am posting this (how retro!) quickly before I change my mind again.

  Yours,

  Abrielle.

  Yours, Abrielle. I read and re-read those two words over and over. I re-read the letter and re-read it again. I could hear her voice as though she were talking to me in the room. It couldn't possibly be real could it? It had to be an elaborate hoax but who would go to such lengths and besides no-one I knew now knew of our friendship and certainly no-one else ever knew just how close we had been. If it really was from her then I couldn't begin to think about what it meant. What was I supposed to do now? Exhausted I propped the letter up beside the clock once more.

  11

  When I woke I was totally disorientated. There was no coach engine humming underneath me and no hotel air conditioning rattling in the corner, just the sound of our street waking up and my father singing in the bathroom. A deep, beautiful sound that filled my heart with joy. No doubting where my voice came from.

  Catching sight of the letter I reached for it and read it again. I thought of one way to see if it was real or not, look up the gallery on the internet. As I reached for my phone I couldn't work out why I was so doubtful, so mistrusting, so unsure. This was all I had ever hoped for wasn't it? The chance to see her again. The chance to reconnect.

  I searched the net for the Eden Gallery, London. The usual amount of inane, infuriatingly irrelevant results popped up and after some scrolling there was the site, the website for the Eden Gallery. I clicked and waited. The site was minimalist, chic and classy. Expensive.

  “The Eden Gallery is proud to be hosting the only UK exhibition of internationally renowned photographer, Abbey Falcone. Ms Falcone is highly praised for her portraiture and The Eden is honoured to be presenting her latest collection. Ms Falcone is...”

  I didn't read any more. Abbey Falcone. Falcone was not the name she had when I knew her. My heart sank as I realised she must be married. Abbey Falcone. She had only ever answered to Abrielle when I knew her. No wonder I had never found her on the web in the times I had tried to find her. Yes I admit it. I have looked for her before. Who hasn't huh? I mean who hasn't looked up an old pal, an ex? It's easy to do right? Peek in on their lives, scoff at or envy their situation now depending on whether you loved them still or loathed them when contact was lost or you broke up. Yes I have looked for Abrielle but I have always searched for Abrielle Ricci. Certainly not Abbey Falcone. Still, this had to be her, no doubt and if it was her then what should I do now? Should I go? For the sake of an old friendship?.

  As I lay there pondering, my phone pinged. It was the boys and some silly shots of them in Vegas pretending to miss me. Pulling faces and pretending to mope over their cocktails. I could see from the pictures that they were in Caesar Palace. It's one of their favourite places to stay although they like to visit as many of the casinos as they can in any one visit. They looked like they were having a lot of fun but this time I really didn't regret not going with them. I was on the verge of searching the web for Abbey Falcone when my mother knocked the door and came in with the customary Di Noia morning cuppa, nothing like fresh brewed Italian coffee to clear the head. She placed it on the bedside locker by the letter and sat down on the end of the bed just like she used to when she was making sure I was up in time for school.

  “I see some people still like the old style approach.” she said, nodding towards the letter, “fan mail?”

  For a second I toyed with the idea of telling her who it was from, to gauge her reaction, to see if she thought I would be stupid to go chasing a dream. Instead I chickened out,

  “Yeah” I lied “Fan mail.”

  We chatted for a while. It was always so special to have these moments with my mother. I realised as I watched her talk just how time was flying. She had aged a little since the last time I saw her and I vowed to myself to visit more often. She brought me me up to date with as much neighbourhood gossip and news as she had. A lot of the families I had known when I was living there had moved or faded away. There were still one or two of my parents original friends around however and she and Dad had made quite a few new ones. My father came looking for her, complaining about the amount of time women can waste in talk before staying and chatting a while himself. They left me then to go and do their weekly shop. Same day of the week, same time of day and same amount of jovial aggravation between them as it had always been. It was good to be home.

  12

  I decided to go. To go the gallery. I had nothing to lose and besides I couldn't ignore it. She had contacted me. I decided to go while my parents were shopping. A train in to central London wouldn’t take long. I left them a note to say I had gone out and would be back later but didn't know what time.

  All the way there I am running scenarios over and over in my head. She must be married. I mean Falcone? She must be married. Our time together must have been teenage curiosity, teenage confusion, experimentation. I don't like the idea of being someone's test but I guess if she had to try I'm glad she tried with me. She must be married. I don't want to meet the husband. Or the wife if it comes to it. Kids. Oh god kids. By the time I have played this over and over in my head I ready to jump out at the first station and go home. I manage to convince myself to grow up. Go find her. Go reclaim our friendship at the very least.

  There were a few fans at the London station and I had to stop for a few selfies. Eventually I freed myself and headed in to the centre of town. I found the gallery with no problems. What I couldn't muster for a while was the courage to go in. I looked at the posters in the window. If this was her work then it was stunning. Truly beautiful. The work was amazing even in reduced poster form. I had to go in and see the originals for myself. I steeled myself and when a group of what looked like art students appeared in a noisy throng I pulled down my cadet cap and went in with them.

  They soon dispersed in to little groups of hushed conversation around the gallery. I wondered slowly around looking at the sensational images. Large and small in format. She had somehow captured time and a sense of the soul in each face. Suddenly I came face to face with the past. It snatched my breath. Abrielle's Grandmother. Just as beautiful as I remembered her to be. Here she was older, far older than when I had known her but still unmistakably Mrs Ricci. Caught perfectly peeking around the side of a winged back armchair. Laughter in her eyes, her lines, her smile. Smiling in adoration of the woman behind the camera. I had no doubt
of that. Truly stunning in black and white.

  I don't know how long I stood there, just drinking in that photograph. Remembering. Reminiscing. Her eyes were Abrielle's eyes as I had always pictured them in my mind. I was truly lost for words. The depth of emotion I felt rendered me incapable of moving from that spot.

  “Are you okay?” a voice to my left, “Perhaps you would like to purchase the portrait? Signora Ricci was truly a beautiful woman I think?”

  I turned to find a very attractive young woman beside me. She had short, vibrant red, fashionable hair and funky glasses. She offered me her hand,

  “Julietta Giordano. I am the P.A for Ms Falcone when she is in London. I am happy to..” that familiar look of recognition flashed across her pretty face, “You are? You are? You are Ms Delta Di-Noia No?”

  In her surprise she said my name a little too loudly and the hushed conversations of the students turned immediately to mixed squeals of “Yes! I told you it was her” “I thought it was” and “Quick get a picture”. The squealing reached fever pitch. Soon I was surrounded and the selfie tank rolled in to town..

  I lost sight of the P.A in the melee only to spot her again looking mortified at the unfolding, chaotic scene. I edged a little closer to her,

  “Is there somewhere I could go? Please?” I hissed as I turned to face another lens and struggled to find my smile again.

  “Oh. Yeah, sure.” She said, regaining her composure, “Ms Di-Noia will not be posing for any more pictures at this time.” She announced suddenly and loudly over the chatter, taking my hand and leading me away, “She has a prior appointment. Thank you for your support. Please continue to enjoy the exhibition.” She led me out of the gallery to a quieter area at the rear of the building. Abrielle could be anywhere in the building. My heart raced at the thought. We entered a small but elegant office at the end of the corridor. Realising that she was still holding my hand Julietta blushed, let go and hurried in behind her desk.

  “Do please sit down.” She gestured to a chair and a designer sofa. Fearing a solo fan attack from the P.A I opted for the chair.

  “Can I offer you a drink? Does that happen to you a lot?”

  “No, thank you to the drink and yeah fairly often I guess. Is Ms..” I was about to ask about Abrielle when Julietta cut me off,

  “Abbey, Ms Falcone is going to be so sorry she missed you. She..”

  My heart sank,

  “She's not here?” I asked, stupidly, trying to cover my disappointment,

  “No. no, no. I should have explained before. I see that now” Julietta suddenly looked like the competent and effective P.A I imagined Abrielle would have. “She is really going to be so disappointed to have missed you. She is such a huge fan. We..”

  “She is?” I don't know why it hadn't occurred to me before that Abrielle may have followed my career,

  “Oh yes!” she continued, “Abbey, Ms Falcone listens to your music all the time. She has all the albums.”

  “So where is Abri.. Ms Falcone now?”

  “So sad. Her Mother died earlier this year, such a shame and..”

  “Yes I heard that. I...”

  “You know this?” She looked stunned, “but Ms Falcone told no-one. No-one that didn't need to know of course. She was very specific about it. I can't see..”

  “She wrote to me. I”

  “She wrote to you. To You? Delta Di-Noia. Why? She knows you?”

  “Yes we..”

  “Yes!? Why has she never mentioned this? I know she is a great fan. A great fan. But why didn't she ever mention this? I cannot understand.”

  “It was a long time ago.”

  “Still. This is not something you wouldn't share. I..”

  “Well obviously it is and she must have her reasons.” My patience with the situation was wearing dangerously thin. Why Abrielle hadn't shared her past friendship with me was a puzzle but this wasn't getting me any nearer to finding out where she was.

  “So, Ms Falcone has gone where?” I asked.

  Julietta sat upright and shuffled some papers around on her desk.

  “I am not sure I should tell you.” She said, looking me right in the eye, “Maybe Ms Falcone didn't tell anyone she knew you because she didn't want you to find her? Maybe you were horrible to her a long time ago.”

  This was descending in to farce,

  “and yet you say she is a huge fan?” Julietta's face crumpled.

  “You are right. Yet I still don't know if I should tell you.”

  “Look, you were about to quite readily until you found out we knew each other. Ms Falcone wrote to me, asking me me to come here. She said she would be here.”

  “I just don't understand why she didn't tell me she knew you.”

  “Like I say. It was a long time ago. I guess we were almost still kids then. Please. I have to know where she is. Look, you say she is a fan. Are you?”

  “Oh yes I..”

  “Okay so tell me where she is and I will send you gig tickets to where ever and when ever you want for the next three years.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Seriously.”

  “Okay. Deal. She is in Italy.”

  “Well that was easy. So much for confidentiality.” Julietta paled, “I am kidding. Where in Italy is she?”

  I got the rest of the necessary information and Julietta's details for future Tickets. The cheeky blighter even insisted on a selfie.

  It turned out Abrielle's father was now ill too. He hadn't coped at all with the death of Abrielle's mother and hadn't looked after himself properly or noticed that he was ill. He had moved in with one of Abrielle's brothers, Samuele. Samuele, apparently runs a restaurant in Talamone on the coast and the family thought the sea air may help their father. She had gone home to see her father settled in to life with his son and to also over see the sale of her parents home. The money was going to be put aside in case her father later needed permanent care.

  Abrielle had been needed in Grosseto as she was required to sign a reservation offer on her parents house to secure a potential buyer. Julietta didn't know how long she would be staying there but thought that she would be packing up more of her parents things and what with going to see her father, it wasn't going to be a quick trip. I couldn't believe it. Abrielle was in Grosseto and our next gig was in Rome. I looked it up on the way home to my parents. It was two and a half hours by train from Rome to Grosseto. Do-able, but do I do it? I had only just come home to my parents. They were used to me dipping in and out of their lives and it was was never going to be a long stay but still. To leave them earlier than planned seemed mean.

  13

  The plane to Rome is only about two thirds full, quiet. I picked the earliest flight in the hope it would be used more by businessmen than my kind of fans. My desire for the incognito approach seemed more essential right now. I made contact with Dave to say I was going to Italy earlier than planned. He asked no questions. As long as I am safe and happy then Dave is happy. As long as I can assure him I am fine and that my reasons for doing something are justifiable he is just happy to know where I am. Like I say we have always been close and I trust him like a brother. In fact he probably knows more about me than some of my brothers. I emailed Julietta to make sure Abrielle hadn't returned to London suddenly in the mean time and she gave me the address of Abrielle's parents home. I cant believe I am doing this. Then again Abrielle did write to me and express a desire to see me. It's just that I don't want to be a shock to her. I don't want her to think I am a stalker and in the same thought I realise that that is just plain ridiculous. It's incredible how a lifetime of suppressed insecurities can surface all in one go. I can't stop turning things over and over in my mind. In truth she may feel that we had relatively little between us all those years ago and yet to me, right now it feels like we had everything. If I am honest I have never had the same depth of feeling again.

  Flying makes me sleepy and before I know we are in to the descent. I have decided to get a cab straight
to the train station and get the first one that stops at Grosseto. I am travelling light. All my stuff for the tour is being shipped out as planned. I only have with me the few things I took to my parents. I have booked a room at the Grand Hotel Bastiani in Grosseto. It's a five minute walk to the address Julietta gave me for Via Cesare Battisti. Abrielle's parents place. According to google any way. Whether my legs will carry me that far I don't know. I am feeling so nervous I may just go straight to our gig hotel in Rome.

  My room at the Grand Hotel is nice. Not too busy, not too fussy. I don't really deal well with all that frilly girlie décor. That comes from a life mostly on the road I guess. I have condensed my life to very few precious things. A tour bus has no room for unnecessary clutter and the boys make enough mess for anybody.

  The hotel is good, understated. The whole place is in shades of cream. Very chic. The staff seem friendly and if they recognise me then they are being very professional about it. I have been up for hours and am going for a shower.

  14

  The cathedral in Grosseto is a beautiful Romanesque building. Cattedrale di San Lorenzo. It's on the Piazza del Duomo. A beautiful square in shades of terracotta. Stunning. I want to go in but I know I am stalling, procrastinating, avoiding the situation. What ever you want to call it, I am doing it. Abrielle's parents house is just a few minutes walk away. I want to go there but at the same time I am scared to go there. I never knew I was such a wimp. If I delay any longer she may not even be there any more and actually she may have gone to her brothers place first and not been there at all yet. Oh for god's sake Delta pull yourself together.

  The house is in the middle of Via Cesare Battisti. It looks like it's more like an apartment. A pretty balcony juts out above my head. Wrought iron, filigree. Geraniums in pots. The building is sand coloured, as are most of the buildings in Grosseto from what I have seen. Shades of sand. Maybe I will call my next album that. There is a large wooden door and several letter boxes to its left. There is an intercom entry system. Names by the buzzers. There it is. Ricci. 4a. Come on D, press the bloody bell.