Olivia’s Luck (2000) (29 page)

Suddenly there was a hush, and then a roar, as Hugo Simmonds took the podium to tremendous applause. He greeted his orchestra, then turned to the audience and smiled. Out of the corner of my eye I saw Ursula Mitchell straighten her back as she clapped madly. Actually I could see her point. He had quite a presence, if you liked narrow, pale faces with high foreheads, swept-back fair hair, and slightly hollow cheeks. There was something very English, very clever, and extremely intense about him. His sharp grey eyes darted about the audience, quickly searching the rows until he’d found what he was looking for. His gaze fell on Imo, beside me. I could almost feel the residual heat. Cool as a cat, Imo acknowledged him with a slight inclination of her blonde head and a Grace Kelly smile. She didn’t blush or squirm as I would have done; she wasn’t embarrassed to be singled out before hundreds of people; she was gracious, she was relaxed. I marvelled, briefly, but then again, I reasoned, she was used to it. If every time you batted an eyelid it started a stampede, you would get used to it. If every time you stood up, a queue formed, you’d get to take it in your stride.

Satisfied, if not satiated, Hugo turned his back on us, and faced his orchestra. His raised arms paused briefly in mid-air, then came down with a flourish, and the music began. I sank back in my chair and let it wash over me. Modern, explosive occasionally, but at the same time strangely melodic, whatever it was, it was a relief, and I was thankful for it. Thankful for its blanketing effect, for being able to shut my eyes and hide behind it.

So many thoughts churned through my head. I thought of my mother and Howard, meeting in that hospital waiting room, and of Howard, with his twinkly, northern charm, somehow asking her out. How on earth had he managed it without getting the cold shoulder? I thought of Angie too, alone, yet never lonely, surrounded as she was by her huge, loving, extended family. But most of all, I thought of Johnny. I remembered his head touching Nina’s, and then, all of a sudden, I had one of those awful, monstrous flashes that I’m subject to occasionally, of the two of them entwined in bed together. An obscene vision, it lurked like some dreadful, leering Caliban at the back of my mind, awaiting its chance, always keen to spot a gap and roar in. I held my breath and stared furiously at the stained-glass windows on my right until it passed, until I was breathing normally again. The urge to look to my left, though, across the aisle, was becoming more overpowering, and as the music went on I found I did – continually, compulsively, couldn’t help it – until eventually the inevitable happened. She looked too. I caught her eye, looked away, and realised she’d tell Johnny I was here. In that split second, knowing he’d glance across, I dived my head playfully into Rollo’s shoulder, gazing up at his face. He glanced down, surprised but pleased, and as I turned back, I was just in time to see Johnny turn away, a slight flush on his cheek. Good, I thought viciously. I hope that hurt.

Rollo, on the other hand, was far from hurt. Hugely encouraged, he nestled in close, and every so often he’d peer round at me with a questioning little smile and an alarming look in his eye. I groaned inwardly. Oh hell, I didn’t want him getting the wrong idea. I hesitated, then armpit dived him again, only this time made damn sure my face was upturned to the glorious ceiling.

“It’s lovely,” I breathed by way of explanation – unfortunately, just as the trumpets sounded.

He looked surprised, then smiled. “Thank you,” he whispered.

I froze. Thank you? Christ, did he think I’d said ‘
You’re
lovely’?

I cleared my throat. “The Abbey,” I muttered quite loudly. “The lovely ceiling, the way they’ve lit – ”

“Shhh…” He silenced me gently, as one or two people turned and frowned. He smiled, put his finger to his lips. “Later,” he whispered excitedly, squeezing my arm.

I sank back in horror. Later? God, did he think I was rampant or something? Couldn’t wait? Was sitting here twitching away in an agony of erotic anticipation? I shook my head in disbelief and listened on in silence.

On and on. Interminably. No interval, of course, I discovered gloomily from my programme, so held in thrall were we all supposed to be by this sodding symphony. Oh no, an interval would no doubt be deemed to break the mood, spoil the atmosphere. Just the two hours of purgatory then, looking rapt and cultured with an aching heart and an aching bottom, waiting for the agony to end.

Finally, of course, it did, and to my astonishment, the applause was deafening. There was a sudden roar of approval, tremendous clapping, and then the audience got to its feet as one. Dropping my handbag and programme I hastily followed suit, catching Molly’s eye as she nudged Hugh awake and he too got up, rolling his eyes at me in mock horror at the ordeal. All around, people were calling out in rapture, and some, like Imo and Rollo beside me, even stamped their feet which I thought was a bit childish, but by all accounts, judging by the flushed, enthusiastic faces of those in the know, it had been a towering success.

Hugo Simmonds, flushed, elated and dripping with sweat, raised his hands and gave us his orchestra. They stood and bowed, as Hugo, with elaborate gestures, singled out the stars: his leader, his flautist, his brass section, his percussion, before finally, turning himself to bow to thunderous applause. He soaked it up for a moment, stood, waved, then turned and disappeared off stage, only to reappear a moment later and receive the same treatment. But still the applause went on. Louder now, and more insistent, as if something was missing, some need waiting to be gratified. Hugo Simmonds smiled, nodded knowingly, and flicked back his damp fair hair. Then he simply gestured to someone near the front of the audience to come up. For an awful moment I thought he might be looking at Imo, but then a few rows ahead of us, a tall, dark man in a dinner jacket stood up with his back to us. As people craned their necks to see, murmuring, “There he is!” I realised it must be Faulkner himself. He brushed back his hair, and slid along the row to the end, where he went to the front to mount the stage. As he got to the top step and turned to the audience, there was a deafening roar of approval, and for the first time I saw his face. My hand shot to my mouth.

“Bloody hell!”

I gaped in horror, unable to take in what I was seeing. Unable to quite believe my eyes. For up there on the podium, smiling shyly but delightedly, bowing, and waving occasionally to acknowledge the tremendous applause, was Sebastian.

I
gaped, wide-eyed and frozen with horror. The vaulted ceiling, the medieval panels, and all the ancient Roman tiles above it, seemed to fall in on my head. Sebastian. Sebastian was…Faulkner? How on earth could that be? Despite the pressure of several tons of masonry on my shattered skull, what was left of my brain strung the names together. Sebastian…Faulkner. God, yes, of course, even I, with my modicum of classical music knowledge, had just about heard of him. I flushed to my roots, jaw hanging, boggling at him up there on the podium, bowing and smiling.

“Christ,” I murmured.

“What’s up?” yelled Imo into my ear, above the applause.

“I know him,” I muttered.

“What?”

“I said I know him!”

“No!” she squeaked, swinging excitedly around to face me. “How come?”

I opened my mouth to speak, but happily, didn’t have time to elucidate, as in a matter of moments, Ursula was upon us, bustling importantly along the row, knocking into people’s knees, sending programmes flying, eyes shining.

“My dears,
such
a thrill,” the breathed ecstatically. “Hugo Simmonds has conveyed to us by means of a sweet note, that he’d be delighted to have us all join him backstage for a small celebration. Imagine, Imo, we’ll meet Faulkner too!”

“Oh, but Olivia already knows him,” said Imo excitedly, “don’t you, Liwy?”

“Er, well,” I gulped, “sort of…ish.”

“No!” Ursula gasped. “My dear, why didn’t you say?” Her eyes shone alarmingly. “Is he
totally
enchanting?”

I swallowed, and it was on the tip of my tongue to explain that I wasn’t the best person to ask since the last time I’d seen him I’d brandished a rake and cast aspersions on his moral character, so the chances of him being overly enchanting to me backstage were minimal, but instead I edged away, smiling nervously.

“D’you know I’m – not sure, Ursula, because to be honest I don’t know him terribly well, and – and actually, what with the baby-sitter waiting I really must be getting – ”

“Nonsense,” she insisted, seizing my wrist urgently, the possibility of a personal introduction gleaming in her eyes. “Imogen was telling me how wonderful your builders are, always stepping in to help you out. They won’t mind another hour. Come!” She called me to heel, dragging me firmly by the arm. “How absolutely splendid to make an entrance with someone who’s actually acquainted with him,” she squeaked. “I can’t wait to tell Hugo! How exactly do you know him, my dear?” She swooped, hawklike, her sharp nose level with mine as she propelled me from the nave, through the crowds, bumping into people’s backs with no regard at all as she made for the back of the Abbey in a frenzy of excitement.

“Um, he lives in my road,” I muttered, glancing around desperately for a convenient side exit.

She stopped, clapped her hand to her forehead. “Of course he does! In The Crescent! Which is precisely why he wanted the first rendition of this work to be performed here, giving something back to his city, rather than it going straight to the Festival Hall!” She marched on again. “The powers that be were dead against it of course – wanted it in London – but he was absolutely adamant – and what a success! Tell me,” she breathed, “right there at the end, throughout that final recapitulation, did you or did you not have goosebumps literally all over?”

“Um, yes.” Not a lie, but from fright rather than ecstasy, and actually they were beginning to reform.

“Come along, my party!” Ursula threw back imperiously over her shoulder as we marched on, glancing round to check that Imo, Rollo, Molly and Hugh were all trailing dutifully behind. Suddenly Ursula stopped.

“Damn. Wait here,” she hissed, parking me by a pillar, but never for a moment loosening the grip on my arm.

She turned and beamed delightedly. “Charles! Sonia! So good of you to come! Did you enjoy it?” This she addressed to a rather mousy, elderly couple who’d followed, a trifle bemused, in our wake. “I’m
so
pleased,” she enthused without waiting for an answer. “
Lovely
to see you again,” and with this she kissed them with a definite air of finality.

But Charles and Sonia, camel-coated and seventy-odd, were slow to catch her drift. They were inclined to linger, chat a little, become expansive, come with us even, and Ursula was going to have her work cut out explaining that they were the last people on earth she wanted cluttering up her backstage salon; just the young, the vibrant, the chic and, of course, me, the sick at heart. I glanced about wildly for a handy escape route or even just a pew to hide behind, but I was comprehensively hemmed in on all sides now: Ursula to my right, her hand on my arm, a pillar behind me, and Rollo, quivering with excitement and hopping stupidly from foot to foot, to my left.

“What fun, a party!” he squealed as he pranced skittishly.

Berk. I regarded him with complete disdain. Total, utter, berk. I’d really gone off him in a major way. He was the sort of intellectual giant who clutched his sides when the fool pranced on in a Shakespeare play, the sort who pooped a stupid horn at the last night of the Proms, wearing an oh-so-funny Union Jack hat. Hugh sidled up to me, elbowing Rollo out of the way, and found my ear.

“What’s going on?”

“Party, backstage,” I muttered. “Ursula’s idea, but I’m out of here.”

Hugh brightened. “You mean we get another drink? Splendid, I’m game.”

“Why don’t you want to go?” asked Molly as I slipped behind Hugh, past Rollo, and then behind another pillar.

“Because,” I hissed flattening myself against it, “that chap I told you about, the one who lives down my road and I thought had abducted Claudia – turns out to be bloody Faulkner! It’s bloody Sebastian Faulkner!” I inched sideways, spotting, with relief, the Chapter door to my left.

Hugh’s eyes widened. “Faulkner abducted Claudia? I didn’t hear about this.” A
Daily Mail
exclusive lurked alarmingly in his eyes.

“No! Of course not, but I thought he had! I made a mistake, but I can’t possibly go in there now, it’ll be excruciatingly embarrassing! Now for heaven’s sake go away and stop talking to me – I’m trying to be discreet, for God’s sake. Cover me or something useful.”

I scurried off to the side door, with Molly and Hugh dutifully turning back and shielding me, helped by Molly’s huge bulk. Seizing with relief the high iron handle on the old oak door, I turned it. Rattled it dementedly, in fact. Damn, locked. As I swung around frantically, about to leg it to the main entrance, I saw Ursula bearing down on me, with Molly shrugging helplessly behind her. My deodorant was beginning to let me down.

“Wrong way, Olivia!” she called. “They’re using the refectory for the party!”

She linked my arm and made to pull me away, but I dug my heels in hard.

“Ursula, listen,” I said desperately. “I’m – I’m awfully sorry but I can’t come. I feel terribly ill. In fact, I think I’m going to be sick.”

“Oh, I know, it is frightfully stuffy in here, isn’t it? Terribly close. But once we’re out of this madding crowd you’ll feel heaps better, I promise!” She yanked my arm.

“But I – ”

“Listen, Olivia, I’ll be honest with you.” She dropped her voice dramatically and lowered her head. “I didn’t get a note from Hugo, although I rather hoped I would, but then again he is terribly shy. All the same, I know he’ll just be dying to see Imogen, but it would help enormously if you came too. Just to sort of ease our path through the stage door, seeing as how you’re a personal friend of Mr Faulkner’s and all that.”

I gaped. “N-no, but listen, Ursula, I’m not, I – ”

“Mum, what
is
going on?” Imogen came up looking totally bewildered. “Are we supposed to be going backstage or not? Everyone’s waiting!”