Read Online The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me by Lucy Robinson - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Lucy Robinson
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cowered at the foot of the steps, painfully aware of the stone I’d put on since New York. Although I was by no means enormous, I felt grossly unsuitable for something that called itself a
conservatoire
. Barry had done nothing to assuage this fear. ‘Maybe I’ll blend in,’ I’d gabbled earlier. ‘Opera singers have always been on the chunky side.’
‘But not
your
kind of chunky,’ he’d countered,squidging my stomach fondly. ‘They’re aristocrats and stuff. They eat goose fat and fine imported meats. You mark my words, Chicken, those opera singers don’t buy four-packs of steak and kidney pie.’
Sodding Barry. Sometimes I found myself thinking that living with Fiona had actually been easier. She had been madder than a mushroom but she’d at least pretended I wasn’t fat.
I glanced furtively along Prince Consort Road, which was surprisingly quiet. There was a madman hobbling around vaguely at the far end of the street but there were certainly no music students in view. I could, if I did it now, still run. Tell them I’d been attacked and my vocal cords stolen, and explain that I hadn’t yet touched the scholarship money and could pay both of my scholarships back without delay. (How had I got
two
? It made things so much worse. I was accountable not just to the Associated Board of Something but also to some bloke called Lord Peter Ingle, who probably wore a cape and a monocle.)
The hobbling man had decided to hobble in my direction now.
And I knew it was time to go.
I turned and ran, away from the hobbling man, back towards the tube and freedom. Engaged in an activity that actually made sense, my body responded with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
As my muscles pumped, my head cleared. Of course I couldn’t do it. Of course I couldn’t go and study for a performance diploma in opera or whatever the stupid course was called. It didn’t matter a monkey’s bollock that I could sing:
I was not a performer
. Standing in front of panel afterpanel of poshos for my auditions – including bloody Brian from the opera house – had been the hardest thing I’d done in my entire life: I’d had diarrhoea constantly and had been anguished ever since. I’d been fighting with Barry, whom I never fought with, I’d been fighting with my brother Dennis and his wife Lisa, whom I always fought with, and I’d even been trying to pick long-distance fights with Fiona, an activity made all the more infuriating by her uncharacteristic refusal to engage.
It was settled. I would pay back the scholarships, I’d apologize to Brian and the other folk at the college, I’d beg the opera house for my job back and I’d return to a life in which I felt very comfortable and perfectly happy. Fiona and her seizing of days would have to lump it.
‘MUHHH!’
‘Paaaaah!’
Two bodies colliding hard.
Obviously it was Brian. Of all the people who might have been turning off Exhibition Road. And obviously, being Brian, he looked extremely jolly, rather than extremely furious.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, as if I had just dropped a pencil, rather than galloped into his chest, like a charging rhino. ‘Forgotten something?’
‘Only my mind,’ I muttered. ‘Brian, I’m very sorry, but there’s been a mistake. This is not for me, it’s –’
‘No,’ he said lightly, and without the faintest hint of surprise. ‘You don’t get away that easily, Sally. Do you have any idea what the competition is like for places here? More than thirty people were turned down for your place alone.’
I wondered if he was serious. How was that an argument?
He was serious, by the look of things. ‘Well, then, you’ll have twenty-nine brilliant singers to choose from,’ I told him, picking up my bag.
‘No.
You
are the brilliant singer we picked,’ Brian said firmly, taking me by the elbow and turning me back towards the college. He started walking; I didn’t. So he pulled my elbow until it came with me behind it.
‘You’ll be OK,
conservatoire
. Barry had done nothing to assuage this fear. ‘Maybe I’ll blend in,’ I’d gabbled earlier. ‘Opera singers have always been on the chunky side.’
‘But not
your
kind of chunky,’ he’d countered,squidging my stomach fondly. ‘They’re aristocrats and stuff. They eat goose fat and fine imported meats. You mark my words, Chicken, those opera singers don’t buy four-packs of steak and kidney pie.’
Sodding Barry. Sometimes I found myself thinking that living with Fiona had actually been easier. She had been madder than a mushroom but she’d at least pretended I wasn’t fat.
I glanced furtively along Prince Consort Road, which was surprisingly quiet. There was a madman hobbling around vaguely at the far end of the street but there were certainly no music students in view. I could, if I did it now, still run. Tell them I’d been attacked and my vocal cords stolen, and explain that I hadn’t yet touched the scholarship money and could pay both of my scholarships back without delay. (How had I got
two
? It made things so much worse. I was accountable not just to the Associated Board of Something but also to some bloke called Lord Peter Ingle, who probably wore a cape and a monocle.)
The hobbling man had decided to hobble in my direction now.
And I knew it was time to go.
I turned and ran, away from the hobbling man, back towards the tube and freedom. Engaged in an activity that actually made sense, my body responded with uncharacteristic enthusiasm.
As my muscles pumped, my head cleared. Of course I couldn’t do it. Of course I couldn’t go and study for a performance diploma in opera or whatever the stupid course was called. It didn’t matter a monkey’s bollock that I could sing:
I was not a performer
. Standing in front of panel afterpanel of poshos for my auditions – including bloody Brian from the opera house – had been the hardest thing I’d done in my entire life: I’d had diarrhoea constantly and had been anguished ever since. I’d been fighting with Barry, whom I never fought with, I’d been fighting with my brother Dennis and his wife Lisa, whom I always fought with, and I’d even been trying to pick long-distance fights with Fiona, an activity made all the more infuriating by her uncharacteristic refusal to engage.
It was settled. I would pay back the scholarships, I’d apologize to Brian and the other folk at the college, I’d beg the opera house for my job back and I’d return to a life in which I felt very comfortable and perfectly happy. Fiona and her seizing of days would have to lump it.
‘MUHHH!’
‘Paaaaah!’
Two bodies colliding hard.
Obviously it was Brian. Of all the people who might have been turning off Exhibition Road. And obviously, being Brian, he looked extremely jolly, rather than extremely furious.
‘Oh dear!’ he exclaimed, as if I had just dropped a pencil, rather than galloped into his chest, like a charging rhino. ‘Forgotten something?’
‘Only my mind,’ I muttered. ‘Brian, I’m very sorry, but there’s been a mistake. This is not for me, it’s –’
‘No,’ he said lightly, and without the faintest hint of surprise. ‘You don’t get away that easily, Sally. Do you have any idea what the competition is like for places here? More than thirty people were turned down for your place alone.’
I wondered if he was serious. How was that an argument?
He was serious, by the look of things. ‘Well, then, you’ll have twenty-nine brilliant singers to choose from,’ I told him, picking up my bag.
‘No.
You
are the brilliant singer we picked,’ Brian said firmly, taking me by the elbow and turning me back towards the college. He started walking; I didn’t. So he pulled my elbow until it came with me behind it.
‘You’ll be OK,
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