Free The Unfinished Symphony of You and Me by Lucy Robinson Page A

opera singers at work had used it; it was an outward display of egalitarianism –
I’m still your friend, even though people pay £
350
a night to watch me sing and you’re just a twat with a sewing-machine –
but the subtext was always clear.
We are not equal. We never will be
.
    I need to go shopping
, I thought glumly. Everyone around me, especially this shimmering column of a woman, was cool and youthful. No nice middle-class bohemian fashion, like I was used to at work. Just lots of … trendiness.
But it’s a bloody music college!
my mind wailed.
Shouldn’t everyone here be a posh geek?
    Fortunately, Jan Borsos stepped in. ‘Violet Elphinstone, good day,’ he said grandly, stooping into another deep bow. ‘Please you forgive me for my shoe. I did lose one in France on my pilgrimage to London. It is a pleasure to meet with you today.’
    I watched Violet decide what to do about this strange man flourishing theatrically at her feet. I waited for her lip to curl, but it didn’t. Instead, she began to smile. ‘What a
fab
greeting,’ she said. ‘Like, wow,
Jan Borsos
, what a name!’ Jan kissed her hand and she giggled, pulling the Chloé bag up her arm so it wouldn’t thump him in the face.
    ‘I don’t think I’m going to like her very much,’ said agirl who’d appeared at my elbow. She had a messy brown ponytail and perky pink lipstick, and was clutching a big home-made folder saying, ‘OPERA SCHOOL YEAR 1’. She glared at Violet, who was prancing around Jan Borsos. ‘Thoughts?’ she asked. Then: ‘Oh, Jesus, she’s not your sister, is she?’
    I was appalled. ‘What do you think?’
    The girl chuckled. ‘It didn’t seem likely.’
    ‘Correct. But for the record, no, I don’t think I’m going to like Violet very much.’ I paused, looking fearfully at the throng of students moving around me. ‘Although I’m not sure I’m going to like
anyone
very much. No offence or anything.’
    The girl sniggered. ‘You’re right up my street, then,’ she told me. ‘Helen. Helen Quinn. I’m not just nervous, I’m fucking terrified. I haven’t eaten in three days and I’m thinking about running away.’
    I nearly cried with relief. ‘Oh, Holy Mother of God,’ I whispered. ‘Thank you, Helen Quinn, for your honesty. You might just have saved me.’
    Helen grinned and wandered off towards the opera school.
    Brian, I noticed, was watching the whole pitiful scene like a proud dad. Right at that moment I hated him. I hated everyone, really. Brian for hearing me sing in the first place and Fiona for blackmailing me into auditioning. I hated the Royal College of Music for taking me on with cries of ‘What a wonderful story! Wasting away in the wardrobe department!’ and other such balls. And I supremely DETESTED everyone I worked with for being so lovely and encouraging about it, once word gotout that I could sing and was trying to get into opera school.
    ‘This is just
so
exciting!’ they’d all yelled.
    Bunch of tossers
, I thought fiercely. I’d like to punch them all, one by one.
    Please, please stop it
, I begged myself.
    It felt sad that I was so mental these days. Since New York, the landscape of my life had changed dramatically and nothing was certain any more, especially my feelings. I missed being controlled and predictable. I missed the pleasant sense of calm I’d had when I woke up in the mornings, the knowledge that even if Fiona went bonkers or I lost a costume everything would be OK. These days I seemed to spend all of my time firefighting feelings. It was exhausting and distressing. I didn’t
want
to start college in this way.
    Although, really, I didn’t want to start college at all.

Scene Three
Later the same day
From: Sally Howlett [mailto [email protected] )
    To: Fiona Lane [mailto [email protected] )
    Sent: Monday, 10 September 2012, 22.59.55 GMT
     
    Fiona Freckle. Hello darling. Now, I know I say this all the time but I miss you. More than ever. Is