‘I should be at home, taking care of my husband,’ she says, her voice breaking as she looks away,pulling an embroidered hankie from her sleeve.
‘You’ve done the best you can, but you’re entitled to a life too,’ I say soothingly. ‘And from what you’ve told me, it sounds like Easton needs professional care now, which you’re not qualified to give.’
‘All the same …’ The three bells ring, summoning us back to our seats. ‘Come on,’ she says, her taut expression relaxing. ‘I bet you fiveeuros Tosca snuffs it in the end.’
‘I’m here for you if you need someone to talk to,’ I say, gently touching her arm. ‘I can be a good listener, as well as a good talker, you know.’
‘Bless you, my darling girl. I may well take you up on your offer sometime.’
* * *
We’re not quite sure what happens to Tosca, as we’re too high up to see, but later, over a Maria Theresia (orange liqueurcoffee), we study the programme in detail and learn that she commits suicide by throwing herself from a parapet, so Mags wins the bet.
Do women in opera ever survive?
* * *
I am woken early next morning by the persistent ringing of my mobile.
‘Hello,’ I grunt, holding it to my crumpled face.
‘Morning, poppet!’ trills Mum. ‘Couldn’t wait to tell you – your father and I havejust booked a winter Imperial cities tour to Prague, Budapest –andVienna!’
‘Really?’ I say, propping myself up and rubbing my sleep-filled eyes. ‘Brill! So you can see the play after all.’
‘Ah,’ she falters. ‘I’m afraid we only have one night in Vienna. We leave for Prague by coach early the next day, and we’re supposed to go to a Vienna Boys’ Choir concert that evening – I’ve alwayswanted to see them, and it’s all included – but if there’s a performance of your play on Saturday afternoon, we could probably squeeze it all in, couldn’t we?’
‘Huh! So, The Vienna Boys’ Choir takes precedence over me and my play, eh? How very dare they?’ I reply, feigning offence. My former self would have been genuinely miffed by this, but the new me just thinks, that’s okay. No problem.I don’t want a fight. What’s the point? I’ve been down this road too many times before. It accomplishes nothing and only leaves me feeling wretched. Mum doesn’t mean to be blunt. She’s just Mrs Say-It-Like-It-Is, whereas Dad is more Mr Keep-The-Peace, and Mum can’t put a foot wrong where he’s concerned. (Never mind trying to teach me how to knit, why on earth didn’t she give me lessons in how towrap men around my little finger?)
Still, you can’t change people – particularly those hurtling towards their eighth decade. Age, or maybe my new, more frugal life is forcing me to reassess situations and my reaction to them. I think,hopeI am becoming more tolerant, less of a control freak. I wish I had a brother, though – someone to back me up, to exchange family worries and frustrationswith, to share sibling banter and childhood memories
‘What do you say, poppet?’
‘Hmm?’
‘Is there a matinée on Saturday?’
‘Yes. Fine,’ I say brightly. ‘I’ll arrange two tickets, and maybe we can have an early supper afterwards. I’d like you to meet …’
‘Darling, don’t tell me you’ve met a new man? Not an actor, is he?’
‘… Mags and Oliver. They play my mum and dad.’
‘Oh.I see,’ she says her voice dropping. Quickly drawing a deep breath, she yammers, ‘Have a guess who rang me the other day? Dorothy Devine! Greg’sstillunmarried, you know.’ I pull the patchwork quilt over my head and count to ten, fighting my old instinct to snap back. She ploughs on.
‘Dorothy says he’s doing very well at the bank, got a lovely semi-detached houseanda brand new company car.He hasn’t dated a girl since … well really, Dorothy and I could knock your two silly heads together …’
Poor Mum. With Nigel now definitely out of the picture, in her mind the only way of rescuing me from pending spinsterdom or lesbianism is to try and reignite an old flame, which was extinguished for very good reason, which neither Mum nor Mrs Devine can ever be party to. I have been swornto secrecy.
I remember the night Greg and I split up – Valentine’s Day, 1999 in Pizza Express.
When he said he had ‘something important’ to tell me, I thought, oh my God, he’s going to get down on bended knee right here, in front of everyone. How embarrassing, for you see, I’d wanted to break up with him for ages, but had allowed the situation to drift. Why? Because back then I was afraid– afraid of hurting him, afraid of being alone, afraid of change. I’d selfishly been waiting untilIfelt ready, and now I was going to be forced to confront my fears in front of a restaurant crammed full of lovesick diners.
Greg tearfully took my hand and mumbled something about having met someone at the bank – and his name was Troy. He’d tried to fight his feelings, but it was of no use.He couldn’t bear this double life any longer. I almost choked on my Margherita, though looking back, should I have guessed – given his penchant for scented candles and Kylie Minogue?
Whilst a part of me was secretly relieved, liberated, a bit of me thought,I’msupposed to be the one doing the dumping, not him, and more to the point, I’ve heard of someone driving their partner to drink, but– homosexuality? If I’m totally honest, it was a crushing blow to my female pride.
‘Oh, Mum. I’m sorry, I know you don’t want to hear this,’ I say, interrupting her mid-flow, ‘but I’ve decided to steer well clear of men for a while.’
