A Very Nice Girl Page 2

  He never said the right thing about my writing – she said. – Or else he’d say totally the wrong thing. Patronising. Things like very nice baby, but well, I’m not quite sure about—. So I started saying I wasn’t writing even when I was, because I dreaded him asking to read it. How he’d finger the words on the page. Frown, then fake enthusiasm, like he was critiquing my sub-par arts and crafts project. It’d got to the stage where every sentence I wrote, I crossed it out, because I imagined him reading it and what he’d think about it and what he’d say. And sex always ended when he came, you know, even if I hadn’t. He was one of those sorts of men. Like fuck I’m meeting him now.

  She sounded hard and angry, but she looked sad, twisting the ends of her hair through her fingers. She was twenty-eight and very pretty, I thought – blonde and tall and slim – but she was worried about getting old. She’d make me stand next to her in front of the mirror so she could compare which parts of my face were smooth where hers was lined.

  So, will you see that man then? – she asked.

  Maybe. Should I?

  I’d go for dinner. Why not? He’ll take you somewhere nice. Men like that always do. He’s got money – she said, putting a disdainful emphasis on the word, as if money were a sexually transmitted infection. – That much is clear.

  Laurie had a proprietary interest in other people’s money. She could always spot it and wheedle it out, like a pig rooting for truffles.

  That – she said – was a very expensive suit. And the watch. Did you see the watch?

  I shook my head. I hadn’t.

  I thought you said he was a twat? – I said.

  So what? It’s not like you have to marry him. I’d imagine he’s married already. They tend to be, in my experience.

  What, men?

  That sort of man.

  What sort of man?

  The sort of man that preys on girls in bars.

  Would you call that preying? I wouldn’t call that preying.

  No – she said. – I can’t imagine you would.

  He wasn’t really like that – I said. – Most men I talk to in there, they buy me a drink and then they treat it like their admission ticket. Valid and ready for me to stamp. They don’t come close to knowing anything about me. He wasn’t like that. He—it was like he put his finger on me and pressed down on it until it hurt. Do you know what I mean?

  I do. You want to fuck him because he’s hot and kind of mean, and you’re a masochist. That’s fine, Anna. You don’t need to be ashamed of that. There are worse things you could be. And God knows you need to fuck someone soon. I once didn’t wear earrings for the amount of time you haven’t had sex, and my holes closed up.

  Thanks for that image – I said.

  Any time. It’s tomorrow our rent’s due, isn’t it? – she asked.

  First Friday of the month. Yeah.

  You might have to lend me some. Not much. Fifty or so. I’m short.

  Sure.

  I had enough. I’d done a couple of extra sets that month, and I’d just been paid. The envelope in my bag was fat.

  I can give it to you now – I said.

  I got the money out, handed her the notes. I never minded lending to her. She didn’t ever pay me back, but she was excessively generous when she was feeling rich, insisting on extravagance and paying for everything – drinks and dinners and taxis. That’s why money trickled through her fingers like water, why she always needed it, and why she was so scathing of people who had it.

  She must have been worried about asking me, because she was happy then. We got off the Tube and laughed a lot about nothing the whole way down the Mitcham Road, where people clustered after dark, no matter the cold – congregating outside the grand old cinema turned bingo hall –shouting and kissing in the street – playing music from phones – queueing for the nail bar that, late at night, sold toast. Further up, though, it got quiet, and dummies stared out at us from unlit windows. Fully made-up heads in wig shops. Fabric stores, their child mannequins in satin party clothes. Laurie was getting me to sing bits of the jazz songs she liked, joining in when she knew the words – suddenly I saw you there, and through foggy London town, the sun was shining everywhere – and passersby stared. It was only when we turned onto our street that she became morose. She stopped saying anything and she sighed a few times and I felt this angry, sick, hopeless feeling in my stomach and I knew that she was feeling it too. She put her key in the door and she said – this bloody fucking house, this bloody fucking life, why do we do this, Anna? I should get a proper job. I should. I will. I can’t stand it anymore – and then she turned it.

  TWO

  On Monday morning, I had a singing lesson with Angela. I took the Tube to Moorgate – the breed of commuter squashing onto the Northern line becoming more corporate, more expensively dressed at every station closer to the City – and then I switched for the one stop to Farringdon. Walking down Clerkenwell Road, the sky was still dim, as though lit by an energy-saving bulb, and the Conservatory was empty and quiet. Musicians weren’t generally that keen on early starts, but Angela loved them. If you can get the voice to work first thing – she’d say – you can get it to work whenever.

  She was in the practice room already. It was 9 a.m. and, as always, she looked ready to get on stage – silk shirt, lipstick, heels.

  Nice weekend? – she said.

  Not bad. I sang at one of those charity dinner things Marieke sends round. Frankie did it too.

  Brave of you. They usually get you singing all sorts of nonsense, don’t they?

  It was ok, actually. Gilbert and Sullivan. Bit of jazz. And a few of the big opera tunes that everyone knows. Frankie had a bash at ‘Nessun Dorma’. It was fun. Well, they fed us, anyway.

  Angela tutted theatrically.

  Christ – she said. – Totally inappropriate rep for him. Who’s his teacher again? John? Did John know he’d be singing that?

  Doubt it. He got through it, though. You know what Frankie’s like, not much fazes him. Anyway, it was good money.

  Prostituting your voices for a quick buck – she said. – Terribly irresponsible of you both. Let’s see where we’re at then, shall we, after all that squawking.

  She played a chord and sang an exercise for me to repeat. Simple triad, open ah vowel, nothing special – but God, Angela Lehmann in the same room as me, hearing her sing right next to me, that voice so close – the same one I’d listened to for years, alone in my bedroom. Hers was the first voice I’d fallen in love with, discovering her recordings as a teenager, floored by the beauty of it and all that a human voice could be – its velvet intensity, so sweet and dark and rich it made me ache. As an undergraduate, I’d saved up the money, gone to London to watch her in Tosca, and after the show I’d waited outside the Stage Door, hoping for a chance to talk to her – it had started to rain, though, and she hadn’t come out.

  I’d always wanted to study at the Conservatory, knowing she taught there, but it was a vague fantasy – like how a child might say they wanted to go to space when they grew up. I didn’t apply at undergraduate level, too intimidated by the lengthy audition requirements, the jargon on their website – they wanted singers who were artistically truthful, they said. Versatile. Musically excellent. Vocally prepared for the demands of professional training.

  I ended up at a small performing arts school out of London, and I stayed to do postgraduate there when they offered me a bursary. In my final year, I applied for the Conservatory’s opera school programme, with no expectation that I’d even be called for audition, but I was – and, in the email, I saw that Angela would be on the panel. Over the course of a week, they’d hear hundreds of singers, most of whom were already studying at the Conservatory or at another major college, British or international. From them, they would select just twelve for their two-year opera school programme – the final and most prestigious step in a young singer’s training. My chances of acceptance were, I knew, practically zero.

  Stepping off t
he train in London, though, I felt oddly confident. I breathed, and the city rushed in. It filled up my lungs and fed my blood, made me new, and there was my future, stretching out in front of me, bright and unbroken. Mine to walk into, and I did, out onto the stage to audition, totally sure of myself. It was a certainty I’d only ever felt while singing – like the space was mine and, in it, I could do anything – and after I’d sung, Angela smiled and said brava. Later, it was her who called to say I’d got a place.

  And I was wondering – she asked – if you might want to learn with me? I’d like to teach you, if you’ll have me.

  So I was moving to London, city of superlatives – the best singers, the best directors, the best opportunities. I floated through the last few months of my masters, barely noticing it all – the end of year opera in the community centre, no budget, wearing our own clothes as costumes and improvising with props from home – my final recital in an over-lit church hall, half-full.

  In my first lesson, Angela sat me down.

  Now, I’m sure you were the star where you’ve come from – she said. – And you’re not going to be the star here, at least not for a while, and that will be hard on you, I know. But you’re responsible for your own future, Anna. The voice is there and it’s got something special to it, or you wouldn’t be here. But no one’s going to make allowances for you being behind. The rest is down to hard work – she said, and then she smiled. – But well, I love a wildcard. We’ll show them, won’t we?

  Since I’d started last month, I was almost always first in, getting to the Conservatory an hour or so before classes began. Walking through the corridors at that time – past the noticeboards announcing instruments for sale, language lessons, flats to rent – most of the practice room slits were dark. The occasional snip of light, a snatch of a violin sonata, a singer sirening up a scale, but otherwise silence. It was my favourite time to work. An hour alone with my voice, before the day started properly and I couldn’t come up for air. Standing in front of the mirror, straightening shoulders and massaging jaw. Leaving this world and going into a new one, one I liked better. Bringing it in from silence, starting with the breathing, then gently into real sound, until there’s my voice again, exactly as I’d left it. Repertoire. Building a piece from the ground up. Sing the notes to La, then work with the text – translate it, write the phonetic notation above, practise on the vowels, get the line, then add in the consonants, but don’t let them break it. They’re the foundations. But then, add the walls, the colour, the furnishings. Shape the piece into a space I can inhabit, a room I can walk through. Practise until I can’t get it wrong. Get it into my body, imagining the notes replicating themselves in my cells, so that I’m living the music and not just singing it. Looking inside myself for images, for memories that make me feel the way this text needs me to feel, and then turning myself inside out so they colour my song – because singing is not ventriloquism. To be a character is not to speak their voice through your body, their dead words on the page, but to zip yourself into their skin, to animate them with your own voice, to breathe new life into their words.

  That day, I’d taken Manon to my lesson. I was covering one of the final years for the December opera scenes show.

  It suits you – Angela said, when the hour was up. – Some roles fit your voice exactly, and this is one of yours, so enjoy it.

  I knew what she meant. The music felt to me like an old jumper, comfortable to slip into, moulded to the shape of my body.

  She’s a brilliant character – I said. – I’ve always loved her.

  Me too. None of the men know what to make of her, do they? Seductress or ingénue. Passionate lover or money-grabbing whore. But you need to understand her, of course. Don’t just learn the notes. Make sure you know the woman properly too.

  While I was packing away my music, Angela told me about when she’d done the role. A very famous tenor had played her Chevalier.

  Many years ago, this was – she said. – I’d be stretching the boundaries of credibility playing a teenager now, even by opera’s standards. Anyway, this man hugely fancied himself, thought he could do no wrong on stage, and he used to kiss me with tongues, even though I kept telling him not to. Said it was the only way he could get into the part. So one night, when he stuck his tongue in my mouth, I bit it. Actually made him bleed, which I felt quite bad about, I didn’t mean to do it that hard. Right before his aria too.

  What did he do? Was he angry?

  Well, he never did it again, let’s put it that way. Not that I’d encourage you to assault your colleagues necessarily, but sometimes needs must. Are you doing anything nice tonight?

  Kind of – I said. – I’m having dinner with this guy I met last week. At the hotel bar I sing at, you know.

  It had taken me a long time to construct the message to him. I felt awkward committing to a tone, knowing I was making myself into something he could reread, but when I sent it, he replied straightaway and suggested Monday. It would have to be lateish, though, because he couldn’t get out early. He named a time, a restaurant. Offhand, like he was arranging a business meeting.

  Oh, good girl – Angela said. – Go and have a love affair. Get some life experience. Something to sing about.

  Angela was one of the few people I knew who used phrases like love affair non-ironically.

  Well, I’ll do my best – I said.

  The rest of the morning was acting class with Stefan, who always wore a long black coat and called everyone, unsmilingly, my friend. We took turns walking into imagined spaces with purpose, while he leant against the wall at the back, watching.

  Where is she? – he asked. – How does she feel? How old is she? Is that clear from what she’s doing?

  At lunchtime, I realised I’d left my sandwich at the Ps’, so I sat drinking boiling water. Beth – who, by virtue of being the only mezzo in my year, got cast in everything – asked why I wasn’t eating. I said I was doing a cleanse.

  Ooh, interesting – she said. – I’ve never done that before. Is it a vocal thing? Maybe I should try it.

  Early on, I’d heard some singers discussing a postgrad who’d complained about having no money – it’s like she thinks she’s special – and I wasn’t about to make the same mistake. Being health-obsessed was fine though. Encouraged, even.

  In the afternoon, I did some practice by myself, and then it was general rep class with Marieke, the Head of Opera. The class took place in the concert hall, no windows, nothing lit up except the stage. The hall could seat hundreds, but the class was only my year, the twelve of us clustered in the front rows, making notes and nodding along to everything Marieke said, trying to make her like us.

  I was glad I wasn’t signed up to sing. I was distracted, wondering why I’d agreed to meet him – a man who was probably at least a decade older than me, and who I almost definitely disliked. It might be awful – I’d said to Laurie, when I was contemplating cancelling. Yeah – she said. – Well. So might everything.

  Marieke was in a particularly pedantic mood as well, and so no one was allowed to sing more than a bar or two before she stopped them. An illustrious career behind her, she had only recently become Head of Opera, and was terrifying with it. In the space of a minute, she could flip from being charmingly whimsical – dancing around, waving her arms, or making you pretend to be a tree – to scathingly annihilating your character.

  It was Natalie’s turn for deconstruction. She sang twenty seconds of music, and Marieke stopped her.

  The text is all over the place – she announced. – Double consonants everywhere. All over the place. Diphthongs. Diphthongs. Why are you doing all those diphthongs?

  She covered her mouth with her hand, as if physically pained.

  Why? – she said.

  Natalie seemed about to speak, which would have been a mistake. Marieke’s questions were nearly always rhetorical, and she disliked her performance being interrupted by people trying to answer them. Luckily, before Natalie had the chanc
e, she began to speak the text herself.

  E pur così in un giorno perdo fasti e grandezze? – she declaimed, in an accent more Italian than the Italians could ever dream of emulating. – So, in a day, I have lost my glory and my greatness?

  That’s what we’re aiming for – she said. – Like that. Do it like that.

  E pur così—

  No, no, no – she interrupted, despairingly. – Not like that. Like this. E pur così, E pur così. Am I speaking a foreign language?

  One of her favourite jokes. We all tittered obediently.

  She let Natalie have a stab at singing again, interrupting every other note so that the attempt became garbled nonsense. Natalie’s face began to give a much more convincing picture of Cleopatra’s abject despair, though. Perhaps this was Marieke’s aim all along.

  Who told you to do an appoggiatura on that? – she shouted. – An appoggiatura is a lean. Expressive. Why would you do a lean on a name, hm? Well, I mean, of course – she conceded – there are some circumstances where you’d lean on a name, but THIS ISN’T ONE OF THEM. Stop it. I don’t like it.

  Or – you did say you’d taken this to your Italian coach, didn’t you? Or didn’t you? Well, for God’s sake, take it again.

  Or – that note should be connected to that note. Well, it should all be connected really, but we’ll do what we can in the time.

  Or – that word is important, Natalie, so make it important. It’s an active word. Do you know what I mean by an active word? What then? Well, don’t say yes if you don’t. This isn’t primary school.

  Natalie agreed that it wasn’t, and Marieke dismissed us all, yawning, like when a cat unexpectedly tires of playing with a mouse and lets it go without eating it.

  I had an hour before meeting him, so I went to the cafeteria. Sophie, the final year I was covering in Manon, was sitting by herself, and I went to join her.

  Oh, you’re still here – she said. – Do you have a rehearsal tonight?

  No, I’m waiting to meet someone.

  Oh right. I’ve got extra coaching – she said, in a way that strongly suggested this was a better use of time. – Tim managed to fit me in for an extra slot. I’m doing this Così external, and the recit’s killing me. He’s great with recit.