Chapter 37
"You're too late." Bony fingers grip my bicep as the high notes of the first violins play. I jolt forward but the hold is solid and I'm anchored only inches from the stage. I flap my arm like a chicken, attempting to shake whoever's gripping me. "She's been announced."
"Let me go," I growl, tugging my limb away with every element of strength. I must progress forward. All I need is a few inches, an arms length max and then I'll be shining beneath the lights. This is what I've worked for. This is what I've always desired. I ought to persist. Not just for the sake of joining the major league but for Otto.
He only agreed to perform for me. That must be the case. I can't believe why else he'd be here when he's not fully recovered.
If I don't step out onto the stage right this instant, the second violins will enter the piece. The music can't gather too much momentum before I claim my rightful spot on the stool next to Otto.
Yet the grasp on my arm is rocklike. I buck my shoulder with force of a braying horse. I'm afraid my shoulder my rip from its socket. But paranoia drills into my psyche.
"It's supposed to be me out there," I beseech and glare at my captor who is none other than the sinewy stage manager, equipped with a black headset.
"Stop making a racket," the stage manager hisses.
"Be fair." I stop struggling and swivel to face the stage manager. I'm detained in the stage wings like a prisoner in a jail cell and she's the one holding me here!
"The piece has already begun," the stage manager insists. "Besides I can't allow you to step out there looking as you do. This is a production, a show, and the orchestra has standards. You like a guttersnipe."
A hand instantly rakes through my hair. "That's not particularly fair. I've run through the snow to get here."
The stage manager rolls her eyes with disgust. "What the heck happened to you, fancy missing rehearsal and then your slot? You can't expect the world to stop revolving because you missed your slot for whatever reason you've got. But honey, this is beyond unprofessional."
"Me, unprofessional?" I gasp. "I didn't know. Veronica set me up."
"Don't point the finger." The stage manager shakes her head and I can tell she doesn't believe me. "We all know your history Phoebe."
I inhale sharply, moisture coming to my eyes. I can not cry. Even though her attitude is completely unfair, even when the piano resonates round the concert hall and it's Veronica on the stool rather than me. I squeeze my eyes shut.
Veronica's a nasty little troll.
My lip wobbles and I flick open my eyes.
"If I release you, you're not going to charge on now, are you?"
I shake my head and her fingers release me. I rub my probably bruised arm and cock my head to the side, just far enough to witness both Otto and Veronica, sitting side-by-side, playing the duet.
That was supposed to be me.
My legs buckle beneath me and someone catches me from behind. "I've got you," Mickey whispers, her icicle hands support me until I manage to straighten up again on my legs. Mickey's skin is cold, her clothes are wet and she looks as bedraggled as I must. Her red hair is chaotic from the wind and mascara has run down her cheek.
I'm overcome with emotion. Mickey's a pillar of strength, always pulling rabbits out of hats. She's come to my rescue and now she'll probably get pneumonia. I'm supposed to be the protector being her elder sister but I couldn't even get to this one single opportunity of a life time.
This is a defining moment in my life that's for certain. My head spins with what the repercussions will be in my budding career. If it wasn't for her, I don't know if I'd even be here in the first place, trying to get on stage. Maybe, just maybe I can fight my case with Maestro. Maybe he'll believe me. But the words the stage manager said repeat in my head.
So why am I even here in the first place? Mickey doctored my resume, creating the opportunity for the recruiter to put me forward as a musician's assistant. I met Otto. He convinced me to get back on the piano. We played duets together. Then when Otto and I fell apart she called Maestro, even when I protested. She's interfering, maddeningly so. But I love her and she's Super Girl.
But this time Super Girl couldn't help me for I lost my chance by seconds.
Suddenly I'm reminded by a different defining moment so long ago now; I had been preoccupied talking with Ben at the bus stop and missed my ride to the audition. My throat feels tight as I remember how Mum and Dad attempted to get me to my audition. I cover my mouth, stifling a sob. Here I am again. I've missed out. Surely this isn't one prolonged conspiracy to prevent me from ever performing on this very stage.
I can't watch this anymore.
I can't just wait for the performance to finish and gesticulating madly toward backstage Mickey links her arm through mine. She steadies me and like I'm a colt learning to walk she ushers me from the dreaded stage wings.
"We need to dry off." Mickey chews her lip and starts opening random dressing room doors. I point to the one on the end, the dressing room I'd always wanted in this theatre. We enter the dressing room, not caring who it has been allocated to. Mickey pushes me into one of the empty seats in front of a large mirror which extends across the wall.
This is where I should have put on my makeup before the show. Ugh.
The reflection staring back at me is tired and worn. My hair is scraggily and Mickey attempts to drag a random brush through the stands. "I need a hair drier or something. You can't explain the situation to Maestro looking like a ragamuffin."
"Do you think he'll believe me?" I ask.
Mickey, resourceful as ever, finds a hairdryer and switches it on. "Hair first."
She ignores my question. It's just typical that she ignores me. But I'm too tired to protest. None of this matters anymore. I have no idea what I'm going to do. I don't even know whether Maestro will back me going to Vienna, if I'm still planning on going there....
This evening is a mess.
Sophie and Carol suddenly appear in the dressing room, who knows how they found us. Sophie is laden with a jammed bag. "You had a few items in your suitcase which I'm guessing are for performances for when you get to Vienna. Both you and Mickey need to get dry, so put them on." She removes clothing from her bag.
"I missed the performance. There's no point in getting too dressed up," I say, taking the red garment from Sophie's hand.
"You need to have a frank conversation with Maestro and make sure he fully understands what that bitch did," Mickey says severely. "So stop moping and put the thing on."
Carol strips me on the spot and pushes me back into the chair. As the ballerina Carol is much more competent with anything stage related and she takes over the hair drying. Sophie helps Mickey out of her sopping clothes.
The three girls chat as Carol beautifies me. Somehow I don't think it will be enough. I close my eyes momentarily, forming words to explain Veronica's deception and soon the hairdryer turns off. Carol then directs me to close my eyes. She applies makeup to my devastated face. But when she's done, I can barely to look at my reflection in the mirror, my silky hair, the performance red dress. I'm a failure.
Carol beams at her handiwork and Mickey claps her hands together. "Chop chop. Put on my shoes."
"What about you?"
"Don't worry about me."
I do exactly as she instructs, pull the stilettos on and that's when the dressing room door flies open.
Veronica strides into the centre, her hands come to her hips. "Not only are you a complete flake but you're helping yourself to my things?"
Otto trails behind her and I stand up from the dressing table, my legs quivering. "All those times on the phone when you acted so nice, when you were helping me arrange my relocation to Vienna, you never mentioned tonight." My voice shakes as I talk. I point my finger at her chest. "All those times on the phone, you didn't mention anything."
"Come on Phoebe, we all know why you didn't perform." She throws her head back and laughs. "You were too frightened. Ever since your car accident you've bailed on any opportunity. Everyone knows, Maestro knows, Otto here knows and now the world knows that because you didn't show."
"You tricked me." My hands curl into tiny little fists. "You set me up. You purposely took my spot."
"No one's going to believe your sorry little tale, not even Maestro." Veronica folds her arms and raises her eyebrows. "The rumour mill knows that once upon a time you were a pianist with great potential. You were Maestro's protégé but boy you let him down when you refused to continue lessons after your accident. Some musician's just can't handle it when the going gets tough."
"That's not what happened tonight. I've pulled myself together."
"Ah," Veronica smiles sweetly. "But your reputation precedes you."
"It's your word against mine."
"Yes, it is your word against mine."
I cover my mouth with my hand. "Oh my God." I rush from the dressing room because I know that Veronica's right. No one will realise that Veronica is a two faced snake. I'll be blacklisted as a pianist. No conductor will want to take a chance on having me as a soloist in his production. Pedro will probably dump me. My career is finished, over, and I don't know what I can do about it.
There's a tread behind me and at first I wonder whether it's Mickey but I hear her shrill voice as she shouts abuse at Veronica. I swivel, and stare at Otto. Disappointment is stamped on his face.
"I'm so sorry," I say but his expression doesn't change.
"Phoebe, we waited and waited and waited." Little lines form on his forehead. "The audience was getting restless. We couldn't wait any longer."
"The snow held us up and then security wouldn't let me in because I was soaked." My voice cracks and I wave my hand. "It doesn't matter, does it? It wasn't meant to be. This whole career thing wasn't meant to be. I know that now. You were so angry about the piece in Symphony Magazine and I would have never guessed that you'd agree to play a duet."
"I thought by facing the rumours then maybe the magazine would print something nice about me. They might say I've still got it...but...."
"Well you'll show them," I say, softly. "Good luck."
"That's just it...I need a favour."
"What's that?"
"I'm supposed to be playing a solo tonight."
"Yes, I know. You're going to show Symphony Magazine and all that!"
"I need you to play Brahms for me," he says in a flat voice.
I fold my arms. "What are you talking about?" I stare hard at him and he stares back. I can tell from the look in his eye that he's serious.
"I just need you to play Brahms for me. I can't play it."
"What are you talking about?" I reply. "You've been teaching me that exact piece, only allowing me to move forward by one single note at a time. And we've been playing Brahms in synchronicity too. If I know every single note off by heart then so do you."
"That's not the problem."
"Then what is it? You're the great Otto Arnold, the coo for the orchestra, don't tell me you're getting stage fright?"
"My hand's swollen after rehearsal with the orchestra. I physically can't play."
"It's only one performance of course you can play," I say severely.
"The problem is Phoebe is that my hand is too swollen. I'm not even sure if I'll be able to stretch to the right notes. Worse is that I'm worried that if I do stretch to the notes that I'll break the tendon."
"Of course you won't break the tendon. Don't be stupid. Why tonight out of all nights?"
"If I go on that stage and don't stretch for the notes, people will believe it's true. They'll believe that I can't play anymore. I'll ruin my career."
"But they're expecting you. Maestro's expecting you. Everyone's expecting you."
"We'll phrase it like it's a surprise."
"No. No way. I'm in enough shit with Maestro."
"The orchestra are professionals, so is Maestro, just walk out and do it."
"I can not. This is ridiculous. I don't understand. Besides, I can't step in and play your solo. Maestro would die. He would physically die. He'd have a heart attack, a coronary, a stroke, or some sort of seizure. The audience is expecting your solo. They want you. They don't want a no name, Phoebe Vermont."
"The orchestra boasts that it fosters new talent."
"But Otto, surely your hand didn't just swell up over night? You must have known about the swelling earlier today?"
"The swelling started just after the rehearsal with the orchestra. I pushed it too hard. I went against everything Eve said. I went too far too fast. My hand has doubled in size."
"Why the hell didn't you tell Maestro this earlier?"
"I wanted to talk to you about it first but you bloody didn't get here until the eleventh hour," Otto hisses. His face is red and a little vein runs down his forehead. "I thought it would be a career making opportunity for you so I didn't ask Maestro to scrap the piece."
"This better not be out of pity...." I frown in his direction and shake my head. "Don't have pity on me, just because I screwed up by trusting Veronica and didn't make the gig. If you don't get up on stage, everyone will know you've broken your hand. The rumours will be confirmed true. You went to so much effort to keep it quiet."
"I don't think you understand the gravity of the situation Phoebe," Otto says and folds his arms. "If I play I might ruin my career but if you play, you'll make your career. You understand the difference, don't you?"
"Otto –"
"You have a choice Phoebe, either you play or I'll ask Veronica to play. I can not break my tendon over this. I'll explain the situation to the stage manager."
Then leaves me standing mute on the spot, he storms the backstage hall and marches into the wings. I race after him, my heart hammering in my chest as he confronts the stage manager who wouldn't let me on stage about thirty minutes ago.
This must be a dream. I must be hallucinating.
All colour falls from the stage manager's face. The stage manager turns Otto's hand in her palm. She frowns and I detect confusion in her voice. "Can't play? But you just played?"
"It was a three handed duet. I played with only one hand, the other hand, this one has ballooned. I can't do this."
"You can't do this?" the stage manager repeats.
"Just introduce her in the way I told you to."
"Otto Arnold, all the things I heard about you this is completely out of character, extremely unprofessional-"
"Maestro will understand."
The stage manager ogles at me like I'm some sort of alien creature. Then as if I'm a prized possession she snatches my hand, using the same death grip as before. "Don't go anywhere," she hisses.
Otto swivels on his feet, he absconds down the hallway without so much of a goodbye.
"You, or Veronica?" the stage manager demands. "Tell me what's it going to be and tell me now."
"You'd admit that my appearance has markedly improved." I lift my chin.
"You're much more presentable." She grunts.
"I'll do it." I lift my chin. "The show must go on."
"We agree on one thing at least." The stage manager nods curtly. "The show must go on."
***
There's an announcement and I can make out the word protégé and Otto Arnold. The stage manager gives me a little dig in the ribs and my hand comes to my chest. "Me? Now?"
The lady nods. "Go. Go," she urges, frowning at me.
Then my name is called from loud speakers and is followed by thunderous applause.
The woman gives me a little poke in the ribs and I'm pushed out onto the stage. It's at this moment my insides clench.
This isn't the time to consider how many people are seated. It's a full house. Glancing from the wings there are no spare seats. There are about one thousand people ready to watch me. Or two thousand individual eyes.
I smile into the lights, pausing briefly because I'm half blinded by the spotlight. This performance has to be better than anything Maestro has ever seen because he's glaring as I walk onto stage. Not that I can see him glaring, I can feel the glare.
I'm so nervous that walking to the piano is like some sort of dream. Images of mum and dad rush through my head as I traipse onto the stage. I can hear the way my mum always encourages me and the way my dad always jokes.
My heart beats and my breathing is ragged.
That's why it would have been safe to play a duet – with Otto. But on my own, will I cope in my own headspace?
Thousands of audience members clap and for a moment I forget about mum and dad because with all the applause I feel like I'm in a country music festival rather than a concert hall.
I find myself arranging the piano stool. This might seem fussy but I've got to move the stool otherwise my feet won't reach the pedals. The clapping stops as I move the chair and the audience silences as I move beneath their scrutiny.
I'm not sure what to be frightened of as the chair scratches against the stage.
Am I scared of my past or my future?
I don't know if scared is the right word – but I'm worried.
Maestro's steely gaze in pointed in my direction and he mouths something, did I catch the word, 'blacklisted'? Surely he's referring to Veronica and not to me. I brush down my dress and sit down.
After everything that's happened today, even tonight where I missed my duet, I have to make the most out of this experience. This is my chance, this is fate, this is my performance. This is Phoebe's performance.
I wipe my forehead. I'm not going to let sweat drip from my forehead and onto the keyboard but by golly I'm nervous and I don't have Otto next to me to help calm me down like he has all those other times.
I wish he were here.
I haven't played as a soloist for God knows how long. And now, this is the biggest and most nerve wracking opportunity in my life. I can not shrivel like a raisin. I've got to let go – somehow forget about the audience there and Maestro who is undoubtedably glaring in my direction.
I glance out toward the audience and my heart clenches as my eyes fix onto the doors. I'm half expecting to see the police officer who informed me of my parent's death. There is someone out there though. It's a solitary figure standing at the first stage door. He must have snuck into the theatre and asked one of the ushers to let him watch. From the posture, I know instantly that the person is none other than Otto.
Otto smiles, one of his stomach flipping beams and I almost forgive him for virtually throwing me in the shit tonight. I agreed to play a duet with him- not Brahms! His expression is proud and his gaze twinkles.
There's a cough that catches my attention and I turn back to Maestro who is frowning. Maestro throws a fleeting look over this shoulder and clocks Otto in the audience. Maestro glances at me and then glances at Otto. Oh God – will Maestro blow his top if I don't suddenly start playing this piece.
I nod in Maestro's direction. It's the action that Maestro is waiting for – so we can begin. He waves his baton and the orchestral melody sounds.
My hands rest on the keys as I wait for my turn to come in. When Maestro indicates for me to strike the keys, my fingers connect the keyboard like they're made of steel. I push past the fretting feeling inside. I try and let go.
I've got to own this.
I refuse to rear away from the piano.
I refuse to ignore the memories of my mum and dad which surge through my mind, coming thick and fast.
I embrace the anger.
I harness it.
I'm angry that they're not here with me now. I'm furious that I'll never tell them how much I loved them or have the opportunity to thank them for giving me this chance of being up here on stage.
But the accident was just that, an accident.
My sorrow transfers through my hands, in the manner Otto wanted me to do for Pedro. I'm so sorry my parents don't have the chance to see this and that I could only imagine how they'd react.
They'd be proud. That's how they'd react. I'd probably blush from all their bragging. Dad would probably take photos from his seat. Mum would probably cry, and snivel, and wipe at her face all the way through the piece.
As I play, I remember them. I remember how I lost my first tooth. I remember my Mum bandaging my knee. I recall my dad fixing my car. I remember putting up a Christmas tree with them. If only I could connect with them now? I play for them as much as I play for myself. Even though it's impossible, somehow I feel like they're watching. And amongst all this I realise that I'm born to be a performer.
I lose myself in the rest of Brahms. Sweat drips from my forehead, letting my hands do gymnastics.
Finally the piece ends and I stop. I'm panting from the exertion.
Silence fills the auditorium.
Every element inside of me wants to glance around and gauge a reaction. I know it's not customary to clap after a piece but I wish I had an indication. Instead I look to Maestro's face which is completely neutral. I stand from the stool with trembling legs. There's still nothing.
Fuck. So they hated it? My gaze darts to Otto's face, he's beaming. Mickey, Jack, Carol and Sophie are all standing with him.
One person claps. The sound is slow and protracted. My face twitches and I'm not sure whether to smile yet. Then another person claps. And another.
I swallow. Even as the dazzling spotlight sends sweat down my back and I'm facing temporary blindness, I hold my chin up, take a bow.
Blinking a few times, my eyes adjust to the brightness and my gaze outlines the crowd. I can't quite make out facial expressions but I don't think I have to. The applause is thunderous. People stand out of their seats, they're clapping like they're at a rock gig rather than at a classical music concert. I'm almost wondering if there'll be some foot stomping.
This standing ovation, this epic audience reaction is a slice of heaven for any entertainer. "This is better than sex," I say as a rush streams through my veins. I then catch Maestro's gaze and rush towards him and throw my arms around his neck.
"Thank you. Thank you. I'm sorry about Otto not playing but his hand swelled and you got me instead. I hope I did okay...."
"You'll be the talk of the town. A real hit," Maestro replies and I pull away from him, realising there's no smile behind his gaze. "Symphony Magazine will tear him apart for backing out. They'll want to know all about the break. But you did well my dear."