Out of the Blue (37 page)

“Lily knows what she’s talking about,” I said to Graham as I gazed at myself in the glass. I phoned Jos and told him I’d get the tube up to town, but he hit the roof.

“Darling, you are
not
getting the tube,” he said.

“Why not? I can meet you there.”

“Because, Faith, we are arriving together, by limo. You’ve obviously forgotten. I told you this last week.” So at six fifteen a large Mercedes, as black and shiny as a raven, pulled up outside the house. I stepped into its darkened interior, then we drove to Burnaby Street. Jos emerged from his house in a white tuxedo, looking like something out of a
GQ
shoot.

“You look lovely,” he said as he got into the car. I squeezed his hand.

“So do you.”

“This is the most important event of my life,” he said. “Did you see the
Sunday Times
piece?”

“Yes,” I whispered. “Oh yes, it was great.” He looked anxiously at his watch a couple of times as we idled in rush-hour traffic. By the time we were driving down Haymarket it was already ten past seven. But now we were moving slowly along the Strand, then turning left up Wellington Street. And here was Bow Street, and the Corinthian portico of the opera house, and the massive arched window of Floral Hall. Lily was right—the paparazzi were out in force. Who was it they were photographing? I craned forward a little to see. It was Anna Ford and her new man. There was Emma Thompson with Greg Wise, and wasn’t that Stephen Fry?

“The stars will be twinkling tonight,” said Jos. “OK. Breathe deeply. It’s us.” The driver stopped, ran round and opened the door, and I stepped out first.

“Faith! This way! Faith! Over here!” We paused on the bottom step, turned and smiled. I felt Jos’s hand on the small of my back.

“One more,” he whispered. “Very good. And in we go.” The foyer spangled with the refracted beams from diamonds, crystals and gold. The air was voluptuous with
un
common scents, and the tang of expensive cologne. We went up the wide, red-carpeted stairway and took our seats in the Grand Tier. I looked at the great swagged, red velvet curtains with their golden embroidery and royal crest. Just below us were the stalls, and rising vertiginously above, the tiered balconies, like the decks of an ocean liner. I glanced discreetly to left and right. We get celebrities coming into AM-UK! but this was something else. At the end of our row was Cate Blanchett with her husband, and just in front were William and Ffion Hague. On the left side of the stalls I spotted the Michael Portillos and, well to their right, the Blairs. In one of the boxes I spied Joanna Lumley, and in another, Michael Buerk. There were so many famous people I was suddenly possessed by the urge to start a Mexican wave.

“How’s your Italian?” said Jos with a smile.

“Not too
caldo,
I’m afraid. I’ll be reading the surtitles,” I said. And now the house-lights momentarily flared, then dimmed, and a reverential hush came down. Then the conductor came on in a burst of applause. He walked through the pit, stepped onto the podium, bowed once, then turned and raised his baton. There was a moment’s silence. Just a beat. Then, against a sudden flurry of violins, the huge red curtain lifted and there was Pinkerton, on his “wedding day”. Already the lyrical, lush beauty of the music was in stark contrast to his cynical words: “I will marry according to Japanese custom…” he sang, “And I can get divorced any time…” Now he was drinking a toast to, “The day when I marry a true American bride.” Then, from off-stage came Butterfly’s voice, sweet and high, as she approached the house with her maidens.

“I am the happiest girl in Japan,” she sang. “This is a very great honor.” And now there she was in her ceremonial kimono, with flowers in her hair, stepping forward to greet Pinkerton.

“Butterfly can flee no longer,” he sang as they were “married”. “I caught you, and now you are mine.”

“Yes. For life!” she replied ecstatically. I felt my head shake with pity for her terrible fate. And I must have sighed, because I suddenly felt Jos’s arm pressing on mine; out of the corner of my eye I saw him lift his right index finger to his lips. But I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t. I felt for her. And as the curtain fell on Act One half an hour later my throat was aching with a long-suppressed sob.

“Darling, I hope you’re not going to blub all the way through,” said Jos as we made our way to the bar.

“Probably,” I said with a thin smile.

“Well, please try not to. It’s annoying.”

“OK. But it’s just
so
sad. They ought to staple a couple of tissues into the program,” I joked. Jos didn’t laugh, but then he had other things on his mind. After all, this was a very big night for him, and I’d been forgetting that fact.

“The set looks wonderful,” I said again as he came back with our champagne. “You’re just so, so brilliant, Jos. I’m so proud of you.” And now, at last, he smiled. The bar in Floral Hall was a crush of
haute couture
and black serge.

“—fabulous voice he’s got.”

“—prefer Laurent Perrier.”

“—oh, I’ve never heard him. Is he any good?”

“—
super
little place down there.”

“—not mad about this libretto.”

“—our two youngest are at Stowe.”

Now the bell was ringing, then it rang again and we made our way back to our seats. But the champagne had made me feel dizzy, and as we sat there, waiting for the lights to go down, I could feel my head starting to swim. I
mustn’t
cry in the second half, I thought, because Jos won’t like it one bit. So in order to distract myself, I glanced around the auditorium again. I scrutinized the boxes, then dropped my gaze to the stalls. All of a sudden my heart began to beat so fast I thought it would burst from my chest. For halfway down, on the righthand side, was Peter—with Andie. It was as though I’d been pushed out of a plane.

“Anything the matter, Faith?” asked Jos as my heart hurtled to the ground.

“Oh, no,” I murmured. “I’m fine.” My face was burning and my mouth felt dry; the hairs had risen on the back of my neck. My stomach was churning like a cement mixer and someone was trying to push a blunt knife into my chest. Oh God. Oh
God
. I’d never seen them together before. But now here they were, side by side, my husband of fifteen years—and
her
. I stared, miserably, at them. It was masochistic, but I couldn’t
not
look, even though I didn’t want to see. Peter was in a dinner jacket, she was in a red silk dress, and she was chatting to him and picking lint off his collar, and suddenly she leaned her head on his shoulder. And I wanted to stand up and shout, “TAKE YOUR FUCKING HANDS
OFF
MY HUSBAND, YOU PREDATORY BITCH!” But I just managed to remember where I was. This was purgatorial. Why the
hell
did they have to come
tonight?
And why didn’t Peter tell me? He could have guessed I’d be here. Now Andie was taking hold of his hand as the house-lights began to go down. What was that she was whispering to him, I wondered blackly. “Ooh, it’s getting dark, Petie-Sweetie, so will you please look after your ickle Andie-Pandy because she’s a teensy bit afwaid.” I felt sick, and faint, and the champagne didn’t help, and now the orchestra were playing, and the curtain was rising. A bitter sigh passed my lips.

“Sssshhh!” whispered Jos. The music seemed to match my mood. It was plangent, funereal even, with the relentless slow beat of a drum. There was Butterfly, three years later, alone in her house, and poor. She’d abandoned her kimono and was wearing Western dress, and had unfurled the American flag. Her maid, Suzuki, was telling her she didn’t think that Pinkerton would ever come back.

“He will return,” said Butterfly defiantly. “Say it! He
will
return.” Then she sang “One Fine Day”, in which she imagined Pinkerton’s ship sailing into the harbour, and him walking up the hill to her house.

“He will call me, ‘my little wife’, you ‘fragrance of verbena’, the names he used to call me when he first came here.” She was still so in love, and so deluded—you’d have to have a heart of stone not to care. Now Sharpless had come, with a letter from Pinkerton, and it’s so obvious what it means. But Butterfly wilfully insists that Pinkerton is still in love with her. Sharpless tactfully tries to spell it out, but she just won’t hear. He’s about to give up, and the music is building, in this ominous crescendo, when she suddenly darts into the house. And now she was emerging with the child in her arms. This tiny boy. She was standing there, holding him defiantly, as the music swelled to an unbearable pitch. There was a blast of trombones, and bassoons and French horns, then the deafening crash of a vast gong.

“What about
him?
” she sang, as she stepped forward with her child, her voice soaring into the gods. “Could he also forget
him?
” Sharpless looked shocked.

“Is the child his?” he asked faintly.

“Whoever saw a Japanese child with blue eyes?” she sang. “Look at his mouth, and his golden hair.” I felt Jos stiffen beside me. I glanced at him, but he wasn’t crying. Not one tear. I guessed he was concentrating on the set and costumes rather than the music and plot. Then I glanced blindly down into the stalls, to see if I could make out Peter in the gloom. I wondered if he was crying—he probably was—he’s sentimental, like me. He wouldn’t have abandoned Butterfly, I thought feelingly. Oh no. He’d have done the right thing. Now, still determined that Pinkerton was hers, Butterfly was strewing her house with flowers and putting on her wedding kimono. Then she was waiting, and falling asleep. I could feel the audience stiffen into immobility as the drama intensified. For now at last, here was Pinkerton, with his wife, and Sharpless. Sharpless reminds him that he had always known that Butterfly would become profoundly attached.

“Yes,” sang Pinkerton. “I can see my mistake. And I fear that I will never be free of this torment. Never! I am a coward!” he sang. Yes, I thought. You
are
. “I am a coward!” Then, as he saw Butterfly stir, he ran away. And I thought, how could any man—let alone a brave naval officer—run away from a woman and a small child? By now I could hear stifled weeping as Butterfly realizes the terrible truth.

“Everything is dead to me!” she wept. “Everything is finished! Ah!” Then came the awful moment when she says goodbye to her son.

“Is it you, my little darling?” she sang sweetly. “I hope you never find out that Butterfly died for you… Farewell, my love. Go and play.”

All around me, I could hear suppressed weeping. I tried to swallow my own tears as I felt my eyes brim, then overflow. I couldn’t look as she took out her father’s ceremonial sword, then plunged it into her side. There were suppressed sobs and sniffs as the music swelled once more, then gradually faded and died.

The ensuing silence, as the curtain dropped in front of Butterfly’s lifeless body, must have lasted thirty seconds or more. Then the clapping started, building gradually, rolling like thunder, until it rang to the roof. Now people were cheering and shouting
Bravo!
And I wanted to do that, too, but I couldn’t—I felt too drained. I wiped my wet cheeks with my stole. The heavy curtain was parting, and, one by one the cast reappeared.

Bravo! Bravo! Encore!
Suddenly Jos stood up.

“I’m expected on stage too,” he whispered. “I’ll see you in the foyer afterwards.” Now Butterfly was taking her bow, spreading wide her arms to acknowledge the rapturous appreciation and the roses that rained down around her feet. People were standing and clapping and cheering, but still my eyes were full. On and on it went. Then the conductor came on stage, with the director and Jos, and the applause erupted again. They took their bow, smiled, then clapped the orchestra, still seated below them in the pit.

As the lead violin stood up, I looked into the stalls and saw Peter wiping his eyes. But now the applause had finally subsided and the house-lights were shining again. As reality returned, I felt myself engulfed by a wave of panic. What should I do? Stay in my seat until it was all clear? I couldn’t
face
seeing Peter with her. I resolved to stay put, but then found I couldn’t because the rest of the row wanted to leave. So now I was being swept towards the exit in a human tide. I glanced at the faces around me—they all looked shattered and drained. Many had been crying, but then it was so big, so terrible; it had been like watching someone being crucified. Now we were going down the stairs—there was the foyer—and still there were tears in my eyes. As I got to the bottom, I nervously looked behind me to see if Andie and Peter were there. I turned my head for a split second, no more, when suddenly, my contact lens flipped out. Oh God! It had gone. My vision had blurred and I felt it drop, its edge lightly brushing my cheek. Oh Christ! This was all I needed. There were people all around me and I was terrified it would get stepped on, so I dropped to my hands and knees. So there I was, groping about on the carpet, and it was impossible to see. I was aware that a space was being cleared around me as I probed the floor with my fingertips.

“Lost a lens, have you?” said a man. I nodded. “Let’s see if we can find it.”

“Oh, thanks.”

“Hard or soft?” I heard a woman ask.

“It’s a hard one,” I replied. And even with my blurred, trombone vision I could see about six people starting to look.

“Thank God it’s not a soft one,” said another voice. “They’re a complete nightmare to find.”

“Really?”

“Yes. They dry out and disintegrate, and they’re much harder to spot.”

“—but on the other hand they’re easier to wear.”

“—oh I don’t find that at all.”

“—no, you can wear them for a lot longer.”

“—prefer hard ones myself.”

“—got it! Oh no, it’s a sequin.”

“—sequin and you shall find!”

“—mine are tinted, actually.”

“—give me specs any day.”

“Have you been wearing them long?” someone else asked me.

“Oh, years,” I replied. “I don’t often lose them. But it just, you know, popped out.” And although it was nice of everyone to help me, I felt an utter fool. Jos, I knew, would be livid. He’d come downstairs after his triumph to find his girlfriend grovelling on the floor.