Chapter 4
I break eye contact to check Liam’s message. ‘Well, that was weird,’ Liam texts me. ‘Make sure you keep me updated, otherwise I will assume some sort of Phantom of the Opera thing is going on.’
Christ Almighty. That’s all I need. Luke is probably the boss of the Sinfonia for all I know. I can feel cold, sticky tears drying on my face as I attempt to smooth my hair back into place and subtly give my cheeks a wipe.
Before things escalate, it might be best to check. ‘And what do you do exactly?’ I ask. ‘Besides hurrying people onto the bus.’
‘Does it matter?’
Good question. ‘It does if you’re the boss. And are you?’
‘I understand this is your first classical tour?’ he says, ignoring my question. ‘Apparently, your audition moved everyone to tears.’ Luke pauses to tilt his head. ‘I can see why.’
My God. Is this going to haunt my career forever?
‘Is there a reason you’ve followed me down the aisle?’ I say, changing the subject. ‘Don’t you have any other musicians to harass?’
He seems vaguely amused at this.
‘I have to say. Considering this is my first tour with the Sinfonia, I’m not very impressed.’ I look him square in the eye, fully aware that the pot is calling the kettle black.
‘Touché,’ he says calmly, not rising to the bait. For some reason, probably my own nerves, I find him instantly antagonising.
I should tell him to move and give me some space. One more inch, and he’ll be able to tell me what type of foundation I’m wearing. Powder. In hindsight, a cream would have been sturdier against the streaking. He watches me dab at my cheek.
Suddenly, a thought occurs. His handkerchief is screwed up in my hand. ‘Oh. You’ve come to get this back,’ I realise, holding it out. Of course, his posh monogrammed handkerchief. Gah! It is filthy with black mascara.
‘Keep it. You seem the emotional sort. You may need it for your… frequent outbursts.’
‘How do you know they are frequent?’ I’m immediately rattled by his rudeness.
‘Just a hunch.’
‘Perhaps you could find a seat elsewhere,’ I say. I’m fraught enough as it is. I don’t need this level of stalker vibe from a complete stranger.
‘Perhaps I should introduce you to the designated Welfare Officer for the tour.’
‘Why would I be needing a Welfare Officer, exactly? I’m perfectly well-adjusted and capable of doing this tour.’
He’s just seen me clinging onto Liam, begging him to take me back home and weeping my way onto the bus, but I’d hate to give the impression I’m incompetent and unable to hold my own on tour. And I could do with dropping the posh accent I’ve suddenly acquired. Lord knows where it has sprung up from.
He continues studying me as though he’s going to paint my portrait. ‘You don’t seem okay. You seem very on edge.’
I take a calming breath in and through slightly gritted teeth, remain polite. ‘I think you’ll find it is you that has me on edge.’
Now he’s got me being rude.
With an annoying smile, he says, ‘I’ll ask Dolly to keep an eye on you. Just in case.’
I roll my eyes. ‘If she needs to keep an eye on anyone, it should be you.’
In response, Luke relaxes even further into his seat. It feels like a power play. I wish he’d move. I can just imagine the headlines now, ‘Connie Cooper, classical singer found murdered in hotel room. Police confirm cause of death as ‘entirely victim’s fault’ all because ‘victim too polite to insist stalker switches seats’.
I shift in my seat to get up. If he won’t move, then I will.
He exhales sharply. ‘Stay,’ he says in such a commanding voice it causes me to obey. ‘I’ll go. We have obviously gotten off on the wrong foot.’
He’s not wrong there. Hopefully, we’ll be able to avoid each other for the whole tour. He might be attractive, but his patronising manner is highly irritating.
‘Well, if you don’t have any questions, I’ll get back to Dolly. She’ll be wondering where I’ve gone to,’ he says, getting up. ‘If you need anything at all, more handkerchiefs, a shoulder to cry on, we’ll be down the front. We should arrive in two and a half hours.’
Patronising arsehole.
Luke gets up from his seat, to walk down the aisle. He says hello to the people scattered further down the coach and receives lots of greetings and enquiries after his health and wellbeing. He seems popular, at least, which puts me more at ease. Stalkers are loners. Everybody knows that.
The journey whizzes by with many text messages back and forth between me, Liam and Ged – they are worried for my emotional safety. Me and Tash – she is worried that my singing ability will be compromised (I’ll try to show off) after a week with braying toffs. Me and Cherry – she is worried that I will forget how to sexy-dance (I was once described as a singing statue). Me and my dad – he is worried that my three singing jobs (the Northern Royal Sinfonia, Voices in Benidorm and Nancy’s tours with The Dollz) and the constant gallivanting is too much for me after two solid years of barely leaving the house.
Phew.By the time I have convinced everyone who cares about me that I’m at my physical and emotional best, the coach has pulled up outside a grand-looking hotel in Manchester. I rise out of my seat and peer around at the serious faces dotted about. I can see a group of similarly dressed women my age sitting near the back. Unlike The Dollz on first sight, they aren’t intimidating-looking and are probably the chorus line, therefore hopefully nice and friendly.
A matronly pudding of a woman bellows up the aisle. ‘Everybody off! Collect your room keys at reception. Dump your bags. Back on the coach in twenty minutes for rehearsals and sound check at the venue. Then back here for late lunch before the evening performance.’
The women near the back bustle past down the aisle, smiling and chattering away.
‘Listen to Dolly barking orders at us.’
‘She’d make a great baritone. She sounds more manly than the men.’
‘She looks more manly than the men too.’ This causes a wave of sniggering.
‘Someone needs to have a word with her about those whiskery eyebrows and that pot belly. Just because she once toured with Pavarotti, she thinks it’s okay to let herself go. What Luke sees in her, I’ll never know.’
My ears are burning as I pretend to check my handbag for something imaginary.
‘He’s like an electric bike. Smooth, silent and fully charged,’ one of them explains. ‘I’m going to get on that saddle and ride him for hours and hours.’
The girls stop suddenly in the aisle right next to me.
‘No way, Maddy. I’m going to get off with Luke. Facto benito,’ says another.
‘Stop pretending you speak Italian. I had first dibs on him, Florrie. I told you on the last tour. You know I did.’ Maddy frowns huffily.
‘You said you were going to milk him like a cow, and you didn’t. He’s obviously not interested.’ Florrie looks down at her through thick lashes.
‘Pack it in, you two. Luke has never once looked at the pair of you in his life.’
‘What would you know, Trinny? You fancy him even more than we do,’ Maddy snaps.
I watch them bicker all the way to the front.
Cripes.They are The Dollz in posh form. All I need is for them to start heavy drinking and pole dancing, and we’re good to go.
When they pass by Luke, they give him big, shy smiles. Dolly scowls at them and whispers something in his ear as soon as they have disembarked. Luke shakes his head, a faint grin playing on his lips. She must have to watch him like a hawk. As I follow the rest of the singers off the bus, I avoid eye contact with the pair of them, keeping my eyes trained on the floor.
‘Not very friendly, is she?’ I hear her say, just as I’m about to fling myself down the stairs and hurry away. ‘Although, you’ve had many a snooty singing partner. I’m sure you can handle it.’
Wait. I’m his what now?
My jaw falls slightly open as I’m stopped in my tracks mid-step. I turn slowly towards him.
‘Oh, didn’t I mention? I’m the lead tenor,’ says Luke, looking distinctly unimpressed. ‘Graduate of the National Conservator of Music, one of a handful to reach an octave above middle C without breaking a sweat and celebrated in over forty countries. You’re insanely out of your depth but do try not to feel emotional about it.’
What a cheek.
I’m immediately incensed. ‘Wow. Forty countries. And yet you manage to remain so modest,’ I say. ‘It’s a wonder the Sinfonia can afford such a global super star.’
I seem to have hit a nerve. He screws his eyes at me. ‘Don’t come crying to me when you can’t keep up.’
Dolly’s eyes are pinging back and forth.
‘The only crying I’ll be doing is with joy, when this tour is over,’ I say tightly.
‘Looking forward to that day already.’
I’m not even going to dignify that with a response. Instead, I blink deliberately slowly at him. The atmosphere growing increasingly hostile. How am I ever going to get through this tour with a partner like him?
‘Time to go,’ says Dolly, breaking up the spat. ‘We don’t want to be late.’
I scamper down the steps away from them. My heart is beating wildly. I am not great at confrontation at the best of times, never mind with an accomplished international singing star who obviously now hates me.
Luckily, there is a concierge who will deliver all of our heavy cases to our rooms while we are in rehearsals. I just have time to join the massive queue to collect my key at reception, scroll through a variety of messages from The Dollz on how to confront perverts, stalkers and smug singing partners, take the lift to the third floor, open my door, sweep my gaze around – basic but clean - and close it again… because my twenty minutes are up.