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

there any chance of you coming back to London?
Please?
    Bah. I hadn’t cried today but now I’m bawling. I don’t even know what’s wrong with me. I suppose it’s still New York. Grief, anger, that sort of stuff. Having J turn up at my house last night didn’t help matters. Or maybe I’m just mental because of this stupid course. I HATED it, Fi. It was triple crap and I felt like such a big fat biffer.
    We didn’t have to sing, which was a blessing because I would have actually shat myself, right there in front of everyone. I was mute for most of the day so everyone probably thinks I’m arrogant. I got lost
every
time I went anywhere; it’s a rabbit warren. And then I did a really noisy nervous poo in the toilet next door to this amazingly beautiful woman called Violet who isgoing to be the star of the course and she and I will never be friends because she looks INCREDIBLE and I’m fatter than ever AND SHE HEARD ME POO.
    There was a welcome talk in the theatre. It was awful. The man was saying, ‘You only get to be a student here once, so don’t waste the opportunity,’ and other scary things. I mean, he was very nice, and he was obviously really excited for us, but I just …
    Ah, it’s pointless. People are there because they’re going to be the best in the world. Fi, I don’t
want
to be the best in the world. I don’t want to ‘make the most’ of my time there because I don’t want to be there at all. And then I feel even worse because everyone else is exploding out of their skin with pride at having got in.
    Urgh.
    My coursemates are a funny bunch. I expected them to be like the boarding-school kids we used to thrash at netball – what was that school called? Well, I thought they’d all be like that. WRONG. This Violet bird is super-posh and there’s a few other proper aristos – Hector someone, who has this distinguished fifty-year-old’s bouffant, in bright orange (he’s actually thirty), a mega-rich Malaysian guy who went to Eton, and a couple of girls who look exactly the same and keep saying things like ‘No
waaaay
.’ But everyone else seemed quite normal. There’s even one who’s poorer than me. He’s from Hungary and he’s mental. Only twenty-three but he’s a right little power rocket of a man. He’s already married a repetitor (I think I’ve spelt that wrong. Basically, a pianist who accompanies people while they sing) AND got divorced and trained with some operatic legend. As I said, by the age of twenty-three. WTF?!
    But get this – this bit is the absolute best – he WALKED ACROSS EUROPE to get to the college. From Hungary to Calaisand then across to London! He had to walk because he lost most of his money in his divorce and then blew the remainder coming over for the auditions in February. I AM NOT JOKING! He even lost a fecking shoe in France! AND CARRIED ON WALKING! It’s bonkers, Fi. You’d love it here.
    Actually, writing all of this, I sort of hate it a little bit less.
    Maybe.
    Anyway this Jan seems to want to be my friend, which is nice because everyone’s fallen madly in love with him already, and there’s also a really nice girl called Helen whose dad’s a doctor; she stole a prescription off him and got herself some beta-blockers so she wouldn’t die of fear in the first week! I like that. I might ask her for some myself – she seemed pretty chilled on them.
    What’s weird, though, is that everyone except me and Jan seemed to know each other, or know each other’s singing teacher, or have done some stupid workshop together last year. It’s like a knitting circle, Fi. Everyone knows everyone else’s business. Don’t like it.
    Anyway. Back in on Wednesday when we watch a masterclass with Julian Jefferson from America. He’s well famous in the States and they’ve got him in to ‘inspire’ us although I can’t see that happening for me. Wednesday’s also my first singing lesson but I refuse to talk about that. Or think about it.
    I am going to want