Chapter Nineteen
1986
Cord had booked the tiny Italian restaurant on a narrow lane off Brewer Street: it was a recommendation of Professor Mazzi’s. After the arthritic waiter had cleared the coffee cups – all four of them self-consciously drinking espresso and saying how much they liked it – he brought four thimble-sized glasses filled with a cloudy yellow liquid to the table. Only Hamish knew what it was.
‘It’s limoncello,’ he said, giving a thumbs-up to the restaurant owner, who stood behind the swing doors in the kitchen, watching for their reaction with almost comic anxiety. ‘Thank you! Oh, it’s delicious.’ He smiled at Cord; they had a joke that he liked old-lady drinks: sherry, crème de menthe. ‘I first had this in Naples when I was filming a swords-and-sandals epic. I had one line, Sire, the phalanx won’t hold. I got the giggles each time I had to say it and eventually the line got cut. I was devastated. But there was a lovely restaurant in a tiny piazza near our hotel and the owner’s wife was Scottish. Cheers.’ He raised his glass, as the others laughed.
‘Stop!’ Cord put her hand to his mouth. ‘Don’t drink. We should make a toast. Happy birthday, Mads.’
Mads shrank back into her chair, as the others pushed their glasses together. ‘Oh, no,’ she said, tipping her head forward so her hair covered her face. ‘I hate birthdays.’
But Ben tucked her hair behind her ear and kissed the ear, gently. ‘Come out of there, Mads.’ He put his arm round her. ‘We should make a toast—’
‘Yes,’ said Cord. She reached over and took her friend’s hand. ‘Happy birthday, darling Mads.’
As they clinked their glasses together, the operatic aria playing in the background swelled to a climax, and they all smiled at each other, and drank. It’s so easy, the four of us together, Cord found herself thinking, and the back of her neck prickled, and her head ached.
‘Is that you, Cord?’ said Ben, gesturing towards the record player. ‘She sounds pretty upset about something.’
‘She’s about to throw herself off a building,’ said Cord. ‘Her lover’s been shot.’
‘Fuss fuss fuss,’ said Hamish. ‘She shouldn’t have got together with an artist. They’re the worst kind of boyfriend.’
‘Actors are better, then. OK.’
‘Oh, yes. Very reliable. Steady income. Normal-sized ego. My advice to anyone seeking a life partner is – go with an actor.’
Cord laughed, squeezed his thigh. He took her hand, held it tightly in his.
‘The three of you, and Tony and Althea, with your strange occupations,’ said Mads. ‘I’d like to point out I’m the only one who has an actual job.’
‘You got a job?’ said Cord. ‘Where? That’s wonderful.’
‘Yes!’ Mads grinned. ‘At Rolls-Royce. I start next month after we’re back from Australia.’
‘You’re going to Australia?’ Cord said, not sure if she’d misheard.
‘Yep. We’re going to visit Aunt Jules. She wants to meet Ben.’ Ben nodded, Mads nodded in sync and Cord thought how alike they seemed these days. Their blonde hair the same colour, their eyes – his blue, hers a deep dark grey – with similar expression, the jawlines both set, determined, the mouth quick to smile. ‘Going to Melbourne, Sydney, the Gold Coast and then home. Four weeks. I can’t wait.’
‘Me neither,’ said Ben.
‘Are you going to stay in Bristol?’ Hamish asked.
She nodded. ‘Ben wanted to move to London, but I said not yet. He’s got these two productions lined up in Bristol and a film job, haven’t you?’
‘Where?’ demanded Cord. ‘That’s wonderful.’
Ben said, ‘It’s just doing a bit of second AD work. It’s a comedy, they’re filming at Pinewood. Friend of Simon’s. You know, Cord, Simon Chalmers, Mumma and Daddy’s old mucker.’ He hesitated, about to say something. ‘Who knows. But it should be good experience. And it pays, which is something.’
‘Simon Chalmers is a terrific director,’ said Hamish. ‘I saw his production of that Shaffer play last year. Great stuff. You are funny, you Wildflowers, you know everyone.’
There was a slight pause, and then Cord said, ‘Shall we get the bill?’
‘We could go for a drink somewhere, have a look round Soho,’ said Ben, hopefully. ‘We’re staying at Mumma and Daddy’s tonight – the later we get back the better.’
‘Don’t say that,’ said Mads, as Hamish asked curiously, ‘What do you mean?’
‘Oh, there’s always some drama on with them, you know,’ said Ben, casually. ‘Daddy’ll have been drinking, Mumma won’t like the new script they’ve sent over for On the Edge, they’ll pretend everything’s fine in front of us . . .’ He trailed off and looked across the gingham tablecloth at his sister, who smiled.
‘Where were you thinking of going?’ she said.
‘I don’t know. What about that pub Daddy took us to before the matinee of Cinderella? We walked past it on the way here. It looked pretty much the same, funnily enough.’
Cord nodded. ‘Great idea. Although this time, please don’t be sick with nerves in the loo.’
Ben laughed. ‘I won’t. Actually—’ He looked at Mads, who nodded. ‘Can we just say something, before we go? We really do want to toast something, toast it properly. We wanted to tell the two of you before we tell the parents.’ He moved closer to Mads.
‘We’re engaged,’ she said, and leaned back, as if dodging a blow.
Hamish stood up, hands clapped to his face. ‘Madeleine! Benedict! This is wonderful news.’ He stepped around the tiny table, knocking against another diner. ‘Sorry. Apologies.’ He put his hand on the shoulder of the lady he’d hit; she smiled up at him, her eyelashes actually fluttering. ‘Give me a hug. I’m delighted.’ He embraced Ben, enfolding Mads in with him. ‘Wonderful!’
Cord sat still, watching him, keeping a smile on her face. Ben disentangled himself from Hamish’s embrace, patting him on the back. He stood on the other side of the table from his sister.
‘Are you pleased, Cordy?’ he said. Mads, still in Hamish’s arms, looked back at her, her eyes darting from brother to sister.
Cord blinked. ‘Of course,’ she said. She stood up, stumbling slightly. ‘Of course I bloody am.’
She came around to their side of the table and hugged Mads, feeling her thin frame, the silky sheet of hair on her own cheek, the smell of her, almonds.
Ben turned round to accept the congratulations of another diner behind him. Cord leaned as close as she could to Mads and whispered, ‘I love you, as if you were my own sister, you know that.’ She touched her forehead to Mads’s, and wanted to cry, though she didn’t know quite why exactly.
Then she hugged her brother. ‘Oh, Ben. Lovely brother.’
‘We thought you might be a bit funny about it,’ he explained.
‘Course not,’ said Cord, wiping one eye. ‘I’m not a jealous teenager any more. I’m—’ She looked at her watch. ‘You know what, I actually can’t go for a drink,’ she said, and pushed her hair out of her eyes. ‘Dammit.’
The other three stared at her. ‘Really?’ said Hamish, first.
‘I have an audition in the morning,’ she explained. ‘First thing.’
‘You never said.’
‘It’s – it’s top secret.’
Mads nodded, politely. ‘How exciting. You can’t tell us anything about it?’
Cord hesitated. ‘No, I can’t.’
‘That’s convenient,’ said Hamish, quietly.
She turned to him. ‘What does that mean?’
‘Nothing.’ Their eyes locked. ‘I’m sorry.’
‘I don’t lie,’ Cord said, quietly. ‘It’s true.’
‘She doesn’t, she’s right,’ said Ben. ‘Never has done.’
Hamish put his scarf around his neck. ‘I want to celebrate with you guys. Shall we go and find that pub? Cord, can you come for one drink?’
‘I—’ Cord was torn. ‘I’m sorry. I did promise them. I really did. I’ll walk with you towards Charing Cross Road. I can get the bus from there.’
They walked down Berwick Street, busy on a Friday in late July. Tired, tawdry young women stood in doorways. Brackish liquid pooled on the pavements. Down the road towards Piccadilly, the lights from the Windmill and the Raymond Revuebar glittered.
‘It’s not very nice round here, is it?’ said Mads, looking round with interest. ‘Where are we?’
‘Soho,’ said Hamish. ‘It used to be nice. It’s a bit crummy these days. Still, all of human life is here. Where’s your dad’s pub?’
‘On Wardour Street. The Moon Under Water,’ said Cord, and the four of them walked, in silence, Mads and Ben in front.
The atmosphere was different. It’s all my fault, Cord thought. I can’t tell them about the audition, can I? They’d go mad if I did . . . it’ll come to nothing, I’m sure . . . But just in case . . . She squeezed Hamish’s arm, as if trying to let him know, via ESP, that she was sorry for behaving badly. He squeezed it back, his warm fingers on her skin, and began humming ‘La Mer’. He was always humming, usually songs by French singers, or trying to sing them in execrable French. His fingers tightened around hers. I could just lean in to you, and never stop leaning, she thought and again the prickling feeling started.
‘Well, it’s a great night,’ Hamish said, in his soft voice. ‘I’m glad we could all celebrate your news.’
Cord wished he wouldn’t say things like that. Childishly she broke her arm free of his grasp. ‘The pub’s just here.’
‘Oh,’ said Ben. ‘Oh, it’s not the one I’m thinking of then.’
‘It’s busy,’ said Mads, doubtfully.
Cord suddenly felt responsible for the evening. ‘Look, I’ll come in for a blackcurrant and soda. Let me just see if there’s any room—’
She left them and went across the road, standing on tiptoe to peer into the window of the pub. She was still, pressing her nose against the dirty glass, breathing fast, and then came back across. A motorbike dodged past her, and hooted.
‘There’s no room,’ she said. ‘Let’s – let’s go somewhere different.’
But there wasn’t anywhere else – it was almost eleven, and other than brothels and private drinking clubs, there was nowhere open. ‘Are you sure?’ Ben asked. ‘Not just a tiny table we could all—’ He stepped off the kerb.
‘No!’ Cord called, angrily. ‘God, why don’t you believe me? Don’t, just don’t.’
‘I only wanted to—’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry. Anyway, you know, you’d better go if you’re catching the last train to Richmond. Otherwise you’ll be stuck on the night bus.’ She caught her brother’s hand, pulling him away from the kerb so that his back was to the pub. ‘Look. What about if you come back to my halls? I’ve got a bottle of whisky from Aunt Isla. I have to sleep but you guys could—’
‘Stand in the street drinking?’ said Hamish, wryly.
‘Oh—’ said Mads. ‘That’d be so lovely, but you’re right, it’s getting late—’
‘I’m not sure where the night bus goes from—’ Ben began. ‘Perhaps we had better get the tube. It’s just—’
Cord breathed a sigh of relief. ‘I’ll show you how to get to Embankment tube. You’ll remember, won’t you, Ben?’
Ben said, ‘I don’t know.’ He looked deflated. Hamish was staring at Cord, disappointment on his face.
‘We’ll celebrate properly soon!’ Cord said. ‘After you’ve told Mumma and Daddy. How about that?’
‘Yes,’ said Ben. ‘Our last night down here’s tomorrow. How about you plan to come over then, both of you?’
Cord laughed. ‘I can’t. It sounds like I’m avoiding you, but I really can’t.’
‘What is this thing tomorrow?’ Mads said, curiously. ‘You really are being so mysterious. Are you going to the moon? Are you singing for the Queen?’
But Cord just shook her head.
They walked down Charing Cross Road, past the theatres, thronged with crowds, lights blinking. Cord saw them off towards the District line of the tube, and then she and Hamish turned around, towards Covent Garden and the deserted streets around Seven Dials.
‘Do you want to come to mine?’ Hamish said. ‘We should have got on the tube with them, I suppose.’
‘No, I’d better get back.’
‘Can you tell me what it’s about? Just me?’
She said, ‘No, Hamish.’
‘Are you seeing someone else?’ He was half joking, but there was a strained tone to his voice. His jaw was tight. ‘Just tell me if you are, Cord.’
‘I’m not. Don’t be silly.’
They were on a quiet street, lined with Georgian houses, down a tiny cul-de-sac. She looked around her, confused; she’d never been this way before.
‘It’s not silly. You won’t fix dates. You won’t return my calls. You tell me you love me. You want me. I know you do, you can’t make up the way we are together.’ His hands were clenched. ‘I know your family – I know it’s hard sometimes. I know you think I’m too old for you.’ She was shaking her head. ‘But . . . You break up a nice evening like this, you want everything on your own terms and it’s not always like that, Cord. Grow up. This is real life.’
She swallowed, her hand on her throat. ‘I am grown up.’
‘You’re twenty. You’re a baby.’
‘Why are you with me then? Why do you say you love me if you think I’m a baby?’
‘Because you’re behaving like one now! Refusing to go into the pub. Acting so weird with them about their engagement. Making up some excuse about needing to go home.’
‘I didn’t want to go in there. And I need an early night.’
Hamish said gently, ‘I know why you didn’t, because of the smoke, because of your voice. Well, that’s fine, but you can’t let it stop you doing—’
She laughed. ‘I can’t? Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Hamish.’ He tried to reply and she held up her hand. ‘Don’t ever tell me that. Ever. It’s my life, singing, I’ve told you that before. It always comes first. It always does.’ She felt as though the dam had burst, that she was free to say what she wanted. ‘It’s my life, and you’re always trying to get me to do what you want, what you think we should do, what you think is best for me. I have to do this tomorrow, OK? You’ll know, you’ll know soon enough. And as for the pub, I don’t ever want to go in there, and it’s none of your business.’
She was shaking; he came towards her, his eyes dark. ‘I want what’s best for you because I thought we loved each other. I want to look after you, and vice versa. And you do, you are the kindest person I know. You need someone who watches out for you, who you can lean on, Cordy! I want you to be happy. You need someone to—’
Cord stepped back. ‘That’s it, though, that’s the thing. I don’t need someone. In fact, I – I really don’t.’ She stared up at him, tears running down her cheeks. ‘I don’t want to be with you any more. I want to be on my own. I have to – I have to be able to do what I need to do. I’m sorry, Hamish. The voice—’
‘The voice isn’t everything. It’s not a person. It doesn’t love you.’
‘God, what a cliché. You don’t understand, darling, darling Hamish—’ His dear angular kind face, the thick sandy hair with the tuft that stood up the wrong way . . . She wiped her nose on the back of her sleeve, looked down, cleared her aching throat. ‘Professor Mazzi says for the rest of your singing career you have to lay an extra place at the table for your voice. And I will. It’s everything, to me.’
‘Everything?’ His voice was hollow.
‘Everything.’
He put out one hand towards her, then let it drop, and they stared at each other, in the moonlit silver-and-dark street.
The next morning, at eight o’clock, Cord walked up the wide steps below the Albert Hall, looking for Door 11. It was a warm morning, but she had a scarf tied round her neck. There, waiting for her, were Professor Mazzi and Sir Bryan Linton, the director of the Proms, and as they saw her, they started, and moved towards her, eagerly.
Sir Bryan clasped her hands. ‘My dear Cordelia,’ he said. ‘I trust you got some sleep.’
Cord smiled. ‘Not much. I’m afraid I – I couldn’t.’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’d be unusual if you did. Now, come with us, my dear. The orchestra is waiting.’ They were walking along the curved corridors of the vast circular building, picking up pace. ‘Not all of them could make it at this hour, and we don’t have much time, as they need to start packing up the previous night and unloading for tonight. Here we are.’ He opened a pair of doors and they walked down, through the rows and rows of red velvet seats, through the open Prommers area, and Cord stared up at the huge mushroom acoustic diffusers hanging from the vast ceiling, like flying saucers.
‘Have you heard from Isotta Cianfanelli?’ she said.
Sir Bryan shook his head. ‘Not a damn word. My dear, I fully expect she’ll come to her senses and go on tonight, but we can’t assume that, not when no one’s heard a peep from her since she arrived and that was two days ago. I’m afraid she’s very angry with us.’
Professor Mazzi spoke for the first time. ‘She is an artist. This is how they will behave.’ He held out his hand to Cord, and she realised they had reached the edge of the stage, where steps had been pushed into place for her. She went up, followed by the two men, and the orchestra started clapping, or banging their bows on the music stands, until Sir Bryan called for quiet.
‘We do not know whether Miss Cianfanelli is able to sing tonight,’ he said. ‘And her understudy is, as you may or may not know, at home with a broken ankle. The Proms has a fine tradition of debuting new artists. We have asked Miss Wilde to step in and sing the part of the Countess in The Marriage of Figaro. She has just left the Royal Academy of Music, and has performed the role several times there, but we must crave your indulgence, and thank you for supporting her.’
There was another smattering of applause. The orchestra members gazed at her, some shyly, some openly curious.
The conductor, Pierre Besson, nodded at her.
‘My dear, it is a great honour to conduct your Proms debut.’ He turned back to the orchestra. ‘I have heard this girl sing the Countess before, at the Academy, and she will be one of the great singers of her age. If she goes on . . .’ There was a murmur of amusement. ‘An impossible situation but we will carry on. Thank you for coming this early, to run through the work with her.’ He tapped his baton, and Professor Mazzi squeezed her arm, and he and Sir Bryan melted away. ‘Now, this is a concert performance, so there are no stage directions, but clarinets, if you could gesture Miss Wilde as she walks on as we agreed I would be very grateful. And at the end of “Sull’Aria” remember we are still allegretto, no rallantando as Miss Wilde will not slow down . . . do you usually slow down at the end here before we lead back into the recitative, Miss Wilde? Miss Wilde?’
But Cord was staring around the vast Victorian hall, imagining it filled with people, seeing their faces, waiting for her to open her mouth and sing. The prickling feeling, the sweaty, tight panic she got lately, every time Hamish mentioned meeting his parents, or visiting hers, or talked about a weekend away with Ben and Mads, or even moving in together – all of it had gone. It had gone, truth be told, the moment she’d peered over the window frame the previous night and seen her father, holed up in a corner of the Moon Under Water, kissing some girl. Cord knew who she was – she’d met her in fact – she was a young actress, daughter of an old friend of Daddy’s, and she’d got a part in Richard III, playing his wife, Lady Anne. She was, however, twenty-five years younger than Daddy. Of course she was . . .
It was how little he seemed to care, there in that smoky, dingy pub, there amongst the pissed office girls with their white shirts and red lipstick, and the yuppie boys in their wide suits. As she’d stared at him, his hands moving over Georgina’s body, slipping under her clothes, then moving back, holding her face as he passionately kissed her, and she him, Cord had seen a man nudging his mate, over by the pool table, both of them smiling at him. She knew they didn’t recognise him. She knew they were smiling at this drunk, dishevelled man, fondling a young woman in public.
These images – Mads’s sweet smile, her brother’s gentle pride, their father . . . the long, long walk across the floor of the Albert Hall to this stage, in the early morning chill . . . She closed her eyes, as Hamish’s kind, bewildered face appeared before her. You need someone who watches out for you, who you can lean on.
She struggled to blink back the tears, gritting her teeth, and she gently cleared her throat. It’s better on my own.
‘Yes, Sir Bryan. I’m so sorry. I’m ready now,’ she said, and the conductor nodded at her, and raised his baton, and the orchestra began to play.