Chapter 14
The Maestro seems as though he is going to explode, from this distance. His eyes look like two boiled eggs. I have no idea just how see-through my champagne-mist dress is, but now I’m equally regretting having put nude-coloured underwear on.
I glance over to the chorus girls who are supposed to sing me in, but they are falling about laughing.
The musicians have also come in late because they too have been distracted by my walking onto the stage practically naked.
They all have their jaws hanging open. This has made a vessel in the Maestro’s neck turn blue, and his eye tic has returned.
The whole intro has been a cock-up. Everyone is out of time.
I will style it out. I make the brave decision to start singing, in order to give the ensemble and the chorus girls some time to get over themselves and start acting professionally.
The Maestro glares at me. I have made the wrong decision. I am now so terribly out of sync that we all sound dreadful.
The chorus girls keep coming in too soon, cutting me off. The brass section is out of time with the string section. The screeching sounds like they are warming up, not playing a beautifully crafted, two-hundred-year-old piece of music.
The audience has no idea how to react to this farce. And they clearly have no idea how to react to the Sinfonia’s lead classical singer appearing on stage in the nude. A low rumbling can be heard emanating from the back row and the upper galleries.
I keep singing, swaying my hips and wafting my arm at the musicians to encourage them to speed up. Some of them have cottoned on and are doing what I need them to do; others are religiously following the Maestro out of fear. It is painstakingly clear that he has no such plans to speed anything up.
It’s a complete disaster. The more we try to attune ourselves, the worse it gets. The rumbling gets louder and louder until even the Maestro begins to peer about to see what is happening.
Please let the ceiling be caving in, I think to myself. Anything to end this humiliation.
The rumbling is nothing to do with the place being on the verge of collapse, unfortunately.
But it does have everything to do with the audience belly-laughing at us.
I stop singing. They are howling with laughter.
Some of them have tears running down their cheeks.
They are creased up. They are nudging one another and shaking their heads in disbelief.
Slowly, the hilarity of the situation dawns on me, and I begin laughing too.
Most of the string section have had to put down their bows and are joining in until, eventually, the laughter fizzles to a stop.
‘I’m sorry,’ I say to the audience. ‘Artists are always told to picture the audience naked. I guess this takes things in a whole different direction.’ Another wave of laughter engulfs the theatre.
‘I’m going to get changed into something less distracting…
and let’s see if we can’t start this evening all over again. How would you like that?’
The audience goes wild, clapping and cheering.
‘But I must warn you that my next outfit might not be much better. While York is a magnificent city, your dry-cleaners leave a lot to be desired. They are quite “The Shambles”. Thank goodness you have so many charming boutiques that are willing to oblige.’
My little joke goes down very well. The Shambles is the best preserved medieval cobbled street in the whole world. The audience will be familiar with its plethora of atmospheric independent shops and bakeries.
‘Thank you for your patience. I’m sure Maestro has something he can have the orchestra play for you until my return.’
In response, the Maestro makes a big show of taking the sheet music from the lectern in front of him as he swivels to face the audience, and rips it into tiny shreds. Millions of tiny flakes of paper curl their way down to the ground. There’s an audible gasp before silence descends.
I’m not even going to make eye contact with him as I dash off stage. Dolly is there waiting. She scurries beside me as we run down the corridors.
‘Never in all my years,’ she says, shaking her head at me. ‘But I’m not really sure what else you could have done.’
I give her a grateful smile as we burst into my dressing room.
‘Good Lord,’ she exclaims when she sees me diving head first into the elaborately ruffled, peacock-blue, feathery creation. ‘Why does it have a life-size peacock stuck to the bustle at the back? Were Disney Studios having a clear-out? I’m not even sure you’ll fit through the door in that.’
She’s right. I get immediately stuck in the dressing room doorway, and she has to push me out using her foot on my backside.
Good job she’s built like a Navy SEAL. We race back to the stage area, her helping me with the dress as it is ridiculously heavy, just as the Maestro is finishing a soothing Mozart clarinet concerto. It has calmed the audience right down.
I chew my lip, nervous as to how he will react to my over-the-top, wildlife-themed, Cinderella-style outfit. It’s as though I am deliberately bringing the shame.
He takes one horrified look at me waiting in the wings and rolls his eyes dramatically. He pinches the bridge of his nose and gently shakes his head in defeat. The audience falls still, and we wait. Maestro taps his nose four times with his baton while I refrain from yelling any spells at him.
I get the sense that the audience knows that if one tiny chuckle escapes from any of them, the whole show will be cancelled.
He opens his eyes slowly as though hoping this is all some hideous hallucinatory nightmare.
The disappointed look that falls across his face when he sees me tells him this is not a dream.
I dread to think what he’ll do when I twirl around during the waltz section, and he spots a whole stuffed bird poking out the back.
My heart begins to thump loudly in my chest. I could do with some encouragement right about now. I see Luke staring at me. He looks me up and down from the far side of the stage, a huge grin spreading across his face.
‘I preferred the other dress,’ he mouths to me.
It’s okay for him. He’s already built his reputation.
I’m sure if the situation was reversed, he’d be having a huge diva fit.
Well, luckily for me, I have a long history of things going pear-shaped.
It’s as though my whole career has led to this moment, preparing me to rise above it and show resilience.
I inhale a deep calming breath. I’m ready to steal the show. I walk confidently onto the stage and thank the Maestro, the chorus and the ensemble, for their kindness and patience. They all look shocked as I praise them profusely before turning to butter up the audience.
‘How do you like my gown? I was going for Bridgerton meets endangered peafowl.’ I twirl around to show off the peacock. ‘Just doing my bit to raise awareness.’
They return a deafening response, cheering, stomping, clapping. I am going to give them the best performance they have ever seen.
* * *
‘You’ve done it again,’ Luke says, making his way to me at breakfast the following day. He sits down at my table and places a copy of The York Press in front of me.
I glance at the picture of me on stage and try not to react.
I’m so disappointed with myself. The champagne-mist gown is nowhere to be seen.
Like actual mist, it appears to have evaporated.
All you can see is the outline of my figure and a shocked Maestro with his mouth hanging open.
Words from the article are dancing around, leaping out at me.
Controversial. Attention-seeking. Stunning.
Jaw-dropping. And every girl’s dream, they’ve gone with the headline, Barely Heir!
– Just how far will one woman go to bag an heir to the throne?
and an article entirely dedicated to linking my desperate ‘naked’ singing stunt to the non-existent love triangle with a Norwegian count and his royal cousin.
Luke’s lips are twitching. ‘You certainly know how to make a splash, don’t you?’
‘Whatever do you mean?’ I will not be drawn into any more dramas.
‘You’ve been with us for three days, and we’ve had more publicity than we’ve had in a decade.’
‘Hardly deliberate,’ I say between mouthfuls of delicious avocado prawn mousse with beads of smoked salmon foam on toasted, almost see-through sourdough wafers. ‘If it wasn’t for you being famous, they wouldn’t be interested in me in the first place, would they?’ My voice cracks unintentionally.
‘I feel guilty,’ Luke says, sighing. ‘I feel guilty at dragging you into the tabloids. You’re right. It’s my fault. After a while you get used to the papers printing whatever lies they want. I should have warned you.’
I stop picking at my mousse and put my cutlery down.
‘Or the Sinfonia could have warned me. It’s kind of their responsibility.
And I’m not used to this sort of attention.
Besides, I’d like to know who’s encouraging the press to come along to our concerts.
Where are they getting their information from?
How would they even know about you and Hermione in the first place? ’
Luke shrugs. ‘Honestly, I have no idea. I’ll ask my father to pull some strings and find out.’
I give him a grateful half-smile. ‘Thanks.’ I wish he didn’t look so handsome and sorry for himself.
‘Maybe this will cheer you up,’ he says, handing me a small package. It’s a miniature velvet-covered box neatly tied with a bow. It is the perfect size for a ring.
An uncomfortable silence swirls between us as I remember us joking about him getting wed to avoid marrying his lesbian.
Alarmed, I quip, ‘Bit early for a proposal, isn’t it?’
Luke’s eyes immediately brighten. ‘Why?’ he says, dryly. ‘Would you wait until at least lunchtime?’ He pushes the box towards me.
‘I don’t need gifts. This isn’t your fault. If I had been better organised and… less distracted… then none of this would have happened.’
Luke regards me in a thoughtful manner. ‘Please take it. I had it commissioned before you started with us. I was going to wait until the end of the tour to give it to you, but I think, considering what I’ve put you through, it seems like a good idea to give it to you early.’
I frown at the box. It looks very elegant, which makes me exceedingly uncomfortable. And it’s a very personal gesture to make.
‘Open it.’
I sigh loudly. ‘Okay. But it better not be expensive.’
Gah! First-world problems. Hark at me, having to endure free Michelin-star cuisine and five-star luxury accommodation. And now gifts! Poor me.
I pick at the ribbon, pulling it gently apart. I can feel Luke watching my every move. I slowly pry open the lid and stare.
Inside is a silver locket. It looks antique.
‘Open it,’ he says again.
Jesus. He’s so bossy. I let out a huff of exasperation, which makes him grin even more. I take the delicate locket and chain out of the box and hold it up. It has exquisite markings and is extraordinarily pretty. I undo a tiny clasp at the side, and it springs open.
Oh my God.
My hand flies to my mouth as tears spring to my eyes. I stare down at the picture inside. It’s my mother. She’s holding flowers on stage at the end of a performance.
I frown quizzically at Luke.
‘That’s her first-ever performance with the Royal Northern Sinfonia. Dolly found it in the archives. She said you’d probably love to have it.’
I don’t know what to say.
‘And Dolly said that the pressed flower next to it is from the bunch your mother is holding in the picture. She knows because your mother asked her to press it as a souvenir. This was all her idea actually. Well, mostly.’
I swallow loudly and blink back my tears.
‘Thank you. This is the most thoughtful gift anyone has ever given me.’
‘Dolly says she lit up the stage. She sounds like an amazing woman. Just like you.’
I take a second to compose myself before I tear my glassy eyes away from the locket. I hear Luke scraping his chair back. ‘I’ll help you put it on. The necklace has an unusual clasp. It’s a family heirloom.’
‘I can’t accept it,’ I gasp. ‘It’s too precious.’
Luke studies me. ‘Yes, you can.’
I swallow a lump the size of Wales lodged in my throat.
The next minute plays out in slow motion as I hold up my thick, heavy hair to expose my neck.
Luke takes the locket and places it carefully on me.
His soft touch and close proximity are causing a ripple of tingles down my spine as he brings the two silver clasps together.
The world falls silent, except for our breathing.
My heart is thumping rhythmically in time with my quick breaths.
Luke trails his fingers leisurely down one side of my neck, causing me to inhale sharply. I feel him tense behind me. I’m not sure either of us knows what to do next. Without turning around, I say, ‘I should go.’