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

a safer time.
    I started to sing softly, pleased by the sound of my voice. It filled a small part of the room and did so rather well. ‘ “You love me?” ’ I sang, raising the volume another notch. I imagined the sensation of falling in love as deeply and totally as Rodolfo and Mimi.
    ‘ “I will be yours for ever,” ’ I sang, allowing my voice to curl outwards.
    ‘ “For ever!” ’ Slightly powerless now, I felt myself build momentum. I was aware that I should stop singing – or at least take it down a few decibels – but I couldn’t.
    ‘ “I will never leave you!” ’ It rushed out of me and filled the entire room. I stopped singing, shocked. Sound waves snapped and fizzled around me.
    I sounded like a proper singer.
    ‘Oh,’ I said to the empty room.
    ‘
Sally?
’ It was Brian the baritone, appearing suddenly through the door like a very unwelcome genie from a lamp. He was ‘popping in’ sometime this week to be measured for his
La Bohème
costume next September. I’d been really looking forward to seeing him. Until now.
    ‘Was that you?’ He looked stunned.
    ‘No.’
    Brian’s brow furrowed. ‘Oh, I heard someone …’ His eyes scanned around for someone to pin the blame on but came back to me. ‘No, it was you,’ he insisted. He peered at me over his half-moon glasses. ‘You were singing Mimi. And it sounded ruddy amazing.’
    I wasn’t much of a blushing type because I never got myself into a situation where blushing would be necessary. But blush I did, so intensely that I must have looked like I’d been at the crazy tomato festival that Fi went to every year in Spain.
This is why you never sing outside your wardrobe
, I thought furiously.
Too many interfering –
    Brian interrupted my rising anger. ‘I cannot tell you how good you sounded,’ he said quietly. ‘Are you a singer? Have you been wasting away all of these years, Sally?’ He was looking at me far too intensely for my liking.
    I squirmed, wishing I could vaporize. Horrible memories of Mum’s panicked face during the school concert hung in the air around us. I shook my head.
    Brian smiled. ‘There’s nothing to be ashamed of,’ he said. ‘Quite the opposite, in fact. Carry on! I’d love to hear you!’
    I muttered something about having come in early to order a load of knickers and disappeared into the laundry room, adding that Tiff would take care of his costume measurements. Brian must have known that I couldn’t order many pairs of knickers in a room full of washing-machines but, thankfully, he left it.
    My heart was racing for a long time after the incident, but by lunchtime I’d managed to get a lid on it. It was OK. I was going to New York tomorrow, he’d be away all summer, and by the time we saw each other in September he’d have forgotten about it.
    Only he hadn’t. When I left at the end of the day to go home and pack, Ivan from stage door handed me a letter. From stupid, horrible, interfering Brian. Whom I had stopped loving until further notice.
    It had burned a hole in my bag for the next twenty-four hours and had somehow managed to get on the plane with me:
I’m retiring
[he’d said].
The wife’s had it with me running off round the world every five minutes. I’m in the middle of interviews for a contract teaching singing at the Royal College of Music starting at Easter 2012. They have an internationally renowned opera school there. If you were even a fraction as good as I thought you were, you have to audition, Sally. Don’t bury your light under a bushel. YOU WILL REGRET IT!
    The plane jolted as we passed through a tiny patch of turbulence but, unlike my mind, it quickly straightened out and resumed its calm, low growl through the black silky sky.
    It went without saying that I would never audition for an opera school. But if Brian was going to start hassling me – Fiona, too, for all I knew – I could be in deep water.
    I’ll leave
, I thought angrily.
I’ll leave that job before I