A Voice in the Distance (19 page)

I don't know why I sent Flynn a ticket to the concert.
Well, actually that's not true, I
do
know why. Because I
want him to come. I want him to come and hear me sing
Letting Go
in public for the very first time. I want him to
come and see how much I still love him. But now I
realize it was a mistake. It was a mistake because now,
either way, I'm going to cry. If he comes, I'll cry. If he
doesn't come, I'll cry even more. A lose-lose situation.
And the deadliest thing you can do when trying to sing
is start to cry.

My nerves are absolutely shot. It's ridiculous. Just
some silly charity concert in some silly, nothing music
hall in Manchester. But if Flynn comes, it will be the first
time I will have seen him in eighteen days. If I manage
to get through
Letting Go
, it will be the first time his song
is publicly performed. And if Flynn comes to find me
afterwards . . . My heart thumps as if it's ready to burst.
Please let him come. Oh, please let him come.

I almost want to ring Sophie to check he received the
ticket. What if it got lost in the post? But then I realize
that ringing would defeat the whole purpose. I just have
to hope. But I do hope; I hope so much it hurts.

I am doing my make-up in the large communal dressing
room, amongst a dozen or so other singers, most of
them pupils or friends of Mrs Ellis. The main doors have
just opened and we can already hear the distant rumble
of people going to their seats. Someone comes in to give
us our fifteen-minute call. I feel spectacularly ill.

The black concert dress decorated with silver
sequins is so thin I feel like I have nothing on. Talk
about exposed. Talk about vulnerable. I can feel my
knees shaking. It takes me three attempts to get my hair
up. I think I might be sick.

I can hear the hum of the audience from the
platform entrance, almost feel their heat. The orchestra
is tuning up already. Mrs Ellis comes off the stage after
giving a short speech. The first performer leaves the
dressing room, and moments later I hear the sound of
applause. Then the orchestral introduction to
Ave
Maria
. Why did the woman I'm replacing have to be
last? The seconds tick by like slow torture. I accept a
cigarette from someone. Too bad if I sound like Patty
Bouvier when I finally get to sing.

The recital drags on. Alice, an old school friend, is
chatting to me, but all I am aware of is the frantic beating
of my heart. Is he there or isn't he? Just tell me, God,
and put me out of my misery. I want to rush out into the
auditorium, scan the rows of seats for a sign of his
tousled blond hair. He must be here. He
must
.

When I finally step out onto the stage to sing
Letting
Go
at the very end of the recital, my legs threaten to
buckle beneath me. I can't remember ever feeling this
nervous before, not for anything. I catch sight of Mum
and Alan beaming proudly in the front row. The rest of
the audience is just a mass of dark heads. How will I ever
know if Flynn is here or not? The applause dies away. I
want to lie down and die.

The lights have been dimmed – how appropriate –
and the members of the orchestra are sitting back. It is
just me and the funny little balding accompanist. The
music starts. Concentrate on the song. The song. Flynn's
song. I take a breath and start to sing.

The applause at the end is tremendous. I'm
desperate to get off the stage but Mrs Ellis forces me out
for a second bow. I don't dare scan the audience. If I see
Flynn now, I don't think I will be able to cope.

In the dressing room the noise and good cheer are
overpowering. Everyone is laughing and jostling and
chatting and back-slapping. I try to concentrate on getting
my things together as quickly as I can. My hands
won't stop shaking and I am being jogged from all sides.
In a few minutes I will be going out of the stage door,
where I am due to meet Mum and Alan. Will he be
there?
Will he?

I button my coat with fumbling fingers and step out
into the cold night air. There are people, people everywhere;
taxis at the kerb, performers being hugged, the
streetlamps very bright. Members of the audience come
up to congratulate me – a friend of Mum's, a friend of
Mrs Ellis's, another friend of Mum's. Everyone is
jostling, talking, laughing. I can't see Flynn anywhere.
Mrs Ellis has grabbed me by the arm and is trying to
introduce me to someone.

'Isn't she a star? A former pupil, no less, just back
from studying at the Royal College of Music . . .'

'Really? You're not little Jennah Dawson who used to
go to school with my Freddie . . . ?'

'You really have a beautiful voice . . .'

'Hey, Freddie, it's Jennah Dawson!'

'That song of yours, who wrote it? It's not one I
recognize . . .'

'She stepped in for Marianne just like that! It
couldn't have been more perfect!'

'Do you sing professionally?'

I look at them and then suddenly past them, beyond
them. I see a familiar figure lurking at the edge of the
crowd. A long dark coat, tousled blond hair, a gaze so
piercing it hurts. He smiles slightly and then steps away,
steps back, turns away.
No
.

'Well done, darling. You sang beautifully. Didn't she
sing beautifully, Alan?' Mum is hugging me now. Alan is
taking my bag. Mrs Ellis is asking whether I will take part
again next year . . .

The figure is moving, moving away across the street.
As he reaches the other side, he turns back and looks at
me. Raises his eyebrows and nods as if to say well done.
Then he leaves, walking quickly down the road.

I am going to burst. I am going to burst with disappointment,
sorrow and pain. I scan the street
desperately with my eyes. He does not come back.
He
does not come back.

The crowd is dispersing now. Mum looks cold. 'Have
you got all your things, love? Let's go then, the car's just
round the corner.'

'Yes,' I say numbly. 'All right, I'm coming.'

As we approach the car, I stop and pull out my
mobile. I find the crumpled business card buried
deep inside my purse. I peer at it under a lamppost
and force myself to key in the mobile number written
across the bottom. If Flynn can just walk away, then so
can I.

'Françoise Denier,' a woman's voice answers in a
sharp French accent.

'It's Jennah Dawson,' I say. 'The girl who sang
Summertime
at the Royal College of Music's recital at St
Martin-in-the-Fields in March.' My voice is shaking. Will
she even remember me? 'I'm sorry to ring you so late,
but I just wanted to say, if – if you're still interested in
having me at the
conservatoire
in September, I – I'd like
to accept.'

There is a silence. I can hear my heart. 'Well, this is a
surprise. I am due to fly back to Paris the day after
tomorrow. But I did like your voice. You had a clarity, a
freshness that I have been looking for. I could perhaps
see you tomorrow. I am in Oxford at the moment. Can
you come here?'

'Yes, of course,' I say quickly. 'Where should I meet
you?'

Using the car bonnet as a writing surface, I scribble
down directions on the back of the business card with a
pen hurriedly supplied by Mum. When I hang up, Mum
is beaming. 'Oh, darling, I'm so glad,' she says as we get
into the car. 'You've made the right decision, I'm sure of
it. Alan, did you hear? Jennah's going to study singing at
the Paris Conservatoire. Under the wing of a famous
French opera singer! Oh, how exciting, darling. A new
chapter in your life!'

I smile and nod, fighting back tears.

I walk quickly back to the station. I will not cry, I will not
cry. You sang the song so beautifully, my love. Perhaps I
hoped you would be a wreck, perhaps I hoped you
would be a mess. But when you came out of that door,
surrounded by friends and family, your eyes alight with
happiness, everything became clear. Suddenly I knew
what I had to do to make you happy. Suddenly I realized
the answer had been there all the time.

They say that if you really love someone, you should
be willing to set them free. So that is what I am doing. I
will step back and you will move on. I will let you go.
I will not bring you back to London, back to hospitals
and moods and rows. I will watch you from a distance,
watch you succeed in whatever you do. And without me,
you will.

My lovely Jennah, my beautiful Jennah. Your
happiness means everything to me. I will listen for your
voice in the distance. I will look at the moon. I will keep
you in my pocket. I will carry your smile with me everywhere,
like a warm and comforting glow.