Chapter 5
5
Deva Nadar squirmed uncomfortably in his seat, wishing he hadn’t put on this tight grey suit, let alone the white shirt with the stiff, constricting collar and this noose of a tie. No matter how many times he ran his finger around the tie to loosen it, it seemed to creep back up into place, threatening to cut off the circulation to his brain. No, it was no good, he would have to take it off, stuff it into his jacket pocket and undo his collar buttons. No matter what the rest of them thought.
In the dim light of the theatre, just before curtains up on the second act, he glanced across at the group of guys from his class. They had won this trip to one of London’s biggest musicals in a uni competition. He was the one who’d seen the uni advert for the competition to analyse an entertainment business. He’d organised the group, taken charge of the project and been the perfectionist who’d made sure it was good enough to win, all so they could get these premium seats to one of his absolute favourites – Andrew Lloyd Webber’s Phantom of the Opera. But he could tell the other guys were starting to get bored.
While he was mouthing the words to every song, and trying to lose himself in the perfection and sheer gorgeousness of the performances, his appreciation of every detail of this show kept being interrupted by a whisper from Nate, or a giggle from Greg, and as for Will’s suggestion that they all turn up suited and booted – why had he listened to that? He glanced over at them again, this group of five ambitious lads; to be honest, they all looked like candidates from The Apprentice. Something the others would no doubt be delighted to hear, but Deva felt out of place and oddly disappointed.
He wished he’d just saved up, bought a cheaper ticket and come on his own, dressed exactly the way he wanted. The feeling that he wasn’t really part of this group, and that the others had just gone along with the competition as something else to put on their CVs, stole over him. Once again, he’d tried to be part of the gang, tried to ‘get’ them, make jokes like them, use the same phrases, even put on a suit and tie like they’d wanted to, but all of this trying to be like them made him feel even more of an outsider and a fraud. The feeling that nothing about them was really like him began to grow and now it was triggering that familiar, but unwelcome, nervy, anxious feeling.
He was in the third term of his first year on a very prestigious business degree in London. But he knew he didn’t fit in. There was no module that he’d really enjoyed yet, no classmate that he’d really connected with. Shut up , he told himself. Business is a huge field. Just learn the stuff you need to and then you’ll graduate and find the business that works for you. Maybe he would become an accountant for a huge theatre like this one. Maybe that would work for him.
But as the lavish red velvet curtain was pulled back to reveal the set for act two, and as the orchestra broke into those achingly familiar opening bars, he felt the flutter of anticipation in the pit of his stomach at the song he knew was coming. He didn’t want to be an accountant for a business like this… Oh no. He looked with deep, heart-felt longing at the stage. Yes, he wanted to work here, but definitely not as an accountant…
Deva clapped and clapped and clapped after the final curtain came down. He stood up, whistled and even cheered. There was a tear on his face and he quickly brushed it away before any of his fellow students saw. How could they possibly know how important this show had been to him? Or how many times he must have played this music over and over in his little bedroom at home in Glasgow, dreaming of Paris, dreaming of stage shows and music and costumes and a life far away from the one he was living? I’m in London, he reminded himself. I’m here, in the theatre, watching, listening – I’m right here, a part of this.
‘Deva, we’re going to go to this cool bar not far from here. You coming with us?’ Nate asked as they made their way out of the row of seats and into the packed aisle to slowly follow the crowd out of the theatre.
For a few moments, Deva considered. He pictured a crowded, noisy place, having to shout to be heard, not being able to follow the conversations over the hubbub, not hearing the jokes, laughing at the wrong time, chipping in with the wrong comments, gulping at beer to drown his growing anxiety. He didn’t want to go, but he saw Nate’s friendly encouraging grin.
‘Go on, it’ll be a laugh,’ Nate said.
And Deva was on the brink of accepting because it felt so good to be asked, to be invited, wanted, part of the gang, after what felt like a lifetime of being cold-shouldered at school, and never getting the invitations, never being able to join in with the Monday post-mortems of what everyone else had got up to over the weekend.
But Deva already knew what he really wanted to do. He wanted to get back to his room, where he would change out of this awful suit immediately, where he would play tonight’s music all over again, where he would close his eyes and remember all the best moments from tonight’s performance.
‘No, you’re alright,’ he told Nate. ‘I’m going to push on home.’
After saying his goodbyes to the rest of the group quickly, before they tried to convince him to go with them, Deva headed to the underground station, took the Tube to his part of the city, then made the short walk to the anonymous block where he had a tiny student bedsit. Soon, he’d navigated the reception, the lift and his corridor without having to say more than a quick hello to one or two familiar faces and then, at last, he was in the quiet, blissful solitude of his own room.
The relief when he closed and locked the door on the outside world and finally felt that he was home, alone, himself, un-judged, not trying to be anything for anyone, was physical. His shoulders dropped, his hands unclenched, and his face relaxed from the tense mask put on for the world outside into a much softer expression.
He went to his bedside table and switched on the lamp there, instead of the harsh overhead lights. The creamy low-watt bulb lit up Deva’s little haven. It was immaculately tidy, as always. His narrow bed had a duvet in a cream cotton cover pulled ruler straight and sharp; on his desk, where all the pens were herded into two neat pots, a laptop was placed bang centre beside a notebook with a smart black cover. On the walls was an unusual choice of artwork for a business studies student. There were three large framed posters, all famous portraits of the legendary fashion designer, Coco Chanel. They were striking – Coco’s jet-black bob, her pale skin, white pearls and black dress all set the monochrome theme for Deva’s room.
He loved being here, in this space that, for the first time in his life, looked exactly as he wanted it to. No need to impress anyone else with this room, no need to conform to anyone’s expectations. Here, in his own little cocoon, he could fully indulge in his love of France’s most famous fashion designer, the music of the seventies, and songs from the greatest musicals. The classic Phantom poster was also framed on the wall, and taking pride of place on the bookcase were five Chanel biographies, all read several times over, and several lavishly illustrated books about his favourite musicals. On the shelf above the books were two small, prized bottles of scent – Chanel’s Pour Monsieur and the classic, No 5.
Deva took off the suit and shirt, then pulled on his pyjamas and wrapped himself tightly in his beloved, well-worn dressing gown. Lying down on the bed, he checked his phone and saw a rash of messages newly in from his mum. It was late, but she was never one to spend much time sleeping.
Hello Deva, did you get my email about Uncle Miles’s wedding? I know he will want us to be there. So I will RSVP for us all.
Followed by:
Your sisters and me will all fly from Glasgow. But if you’re working in London over the summer, it makes sense for you to fly/take the train from there. Can you book your ticket please? And I’ll pay you back. Wedding is 16 July, but M wants us there on 15 – big dinner and stuff planned.
Followed by:
Does that sound OK? I know you will enjoy being in France again. Love you, Mxxx
Followed by:
How was the musical? As good as you hoped? Xxx
Deva got up from the bed and went over to his artfully arranged shelf. He picked up the little bottle of No 5, bought in Duty Free, secretly, on the way home from a family holiday. He pulled off the glass lid and directed a short blast onto his inner wrist. Then he breathed in that sharp-sweet, powdery, utterly distinctive scent that evoked so much. His mother, yes, but also many other glamorous women he’d known and admired. This was the smell of theatre lobbies, cocktail bars and, of course, Coco herself. Fashion designer, muse, style icon, businesswoman extraordinaire, who’d gone from being a child abandoned in a convent orphanage to become one of the richest, most famous women in the world. Her essence was available to everyone, anyone, by taking the lid off this bottle and squirting her unique formula into the air.
Deva sat down on the bed and picked up his phone to reply to his mother.
Hey Mum, excited about Uncle M’s wedding. France! I’ll book time off and take train. Perpignan! So close to Aubazine, Brive La Gaillarde and other places connected to Coco that I’m desperate to visit. I want to stop in Paris too.
His mum was the one person who knew about his Chanel obsession, and he wasn’t surprised to get a reply from her almost straightaway.
This trip is about the wedding, D, not rushing about France chasing your ideas. But if we can fit something in, maybe.
Now there was something else Deva was wondering about… but he knew just what his mother would think of this. Still, if you don’t ask, you don’t get… and all that. And after tonight, he definitely wanted to ask.
Do you think Uncle M would like me to sing at the wedding? Maybe at the ceremony or afterwards? Should I message him and ask?
He crossed his fingers and hit send.
Oh Deva, I thought you were putting singing to the side to concentrate on your studies.
This will be in the summer holidays
You’ll be working, remember
I can still practise singing in my spare time
Fine, you message him and ask. But don’t be surprised if you get a no. Jacasta wants everything to be perfect.
I’ll be perfect!
Well, send a message and see what they say
OK, goodnight, Mum xxx
Love you xxx
Deva slumped back on his bed now. It didn’t matter what his mum said, or even thought. He was going to find a way to stop in Paris so he could follow in Chanel’s footsteps. He would stand in the Place Vend?me, gazing at the Ritz Hotel where she once lived. Then he would cross the square to the iconic Chanel shop on the other side of the street and stroll down Rue Cambon to gaze in the windows of her other stores. Brive La Gaillarde was maybe optional, but nothing was going to stop him from going to Aubazine, to visit the convent where Chanel spent the formative years of her youth.
For Deva, Chanel represented the spirit of independence and determination. She’d been small, like him, and overlooked, like him, and had plenty of ‘issues’, like him too, but somehow through sheer belief and stubborn determination, Chanel had created a fabulous life for herself. The life she knew she was destined to lead. She’d worked very hard, but it had given her freedom to live the life she wanted – and now images from his favourite Chanel photos came to mind: Chanel in pearls, Chanel in black, Chanel on a yacht, by the beach, Chanel wearing the one item guaranteed to cause a scandal in the 1920s – trousers!
Independence, determination, the willingness to defy convention – that was what Deva loved about his heroine. This was what inspired him.
And it was crazy… but whenever Deva daydreamed about stepping through the imposing limestone arch of the Abbey, where Chanel had spent her youth, he pictured himself wearing something that bore the legendary Chanel label, and he was carrying the iconic 2.55 quilted handbag.