I am halfway through a solo cello performance on stage
at the London Palladium when I decide to leave my
husband. I have been considering the idea for the past
two years, half hoping that he would take action before I
did. Now I realise that if I want to be free from Jack I must
fashion my own freedom; and there will never be a perfect
time to tell him. Tonight is an imperfect time for many
reasons: it will do.
I have played this suite a hundred thousand times, so
I let my mind wander, confident that the notes will keep
coming. I want to turn my head, to evaluate the way Jack
is watching me from the wings, but this would be unpro-fessional.
Two thousand pairs of eyes are focused on me
alone. It would have been less scary if I’d asked to play
something that needs at least a piano accompaniment,
but no one wants to hear me playing Brahms. They
demand the prelude to the Bach Solo Suite No. 1 in G
major. The reason they want to hear that, and that alone, is because I
played it on a mobile phone advertisement.
I have desecrated Bach’s memory by playing his music
on an advertisement, which in turn led to a surprising
number of people downloading the opening bars as a ring
tone. I might not do the music justice, but mobile phones
slaughter it.
I tilt my chin, instead, towards the Royal Box, wonder-ing
whether His Highness is enjoying my performance, or
whether he’s picking his nose. Although famously
cultured, I can’t imagine that this could really be his
favourite way of spending his birthday. Then I force myself
to refocus my attention on the music. I am coasting. I am
always coasting, and so far I have got away with it. In a
concert like this, in a hall which has been sold out for
months, I know that I can give an acceptable perform-ance
on adrenalin alone. The hot lights keep me going,
along with the prospect of dismal failure. I force myself
not to go completely on to automatic pilot: that would
be too dangerous. One day I will make a complacent
misjudgement and the result will be a disaster. I must play
with some degree of musicality. The trouble is, I can clone
my performance of this Bach suite from the advert, and
I can do it without really thinking. I, like everyone else in
this hall, have heard it countless times, and I can play with
exactly the same nuances as I did then. That’s what these
people want. That’s why the organisers were so keen to
make me play the Solo Suite No. 1, rather than anything
else I might have wanted to offer them. I didn’t even try
to change the programme. I like an easy life.
These suites are deceptively simple. It’s very hard to
play them properly, I tell myself, as I dip from A string to D string.
It is all in the phrasing, and I copy my phrasing
from a recording by Rostropovich. It seemed the safest
way to do it. I do not try to convince myself that I play
this anything other than adequately. But I give my
adequate performance with an enormous confidence, and
since I play it like I do on the telly, everyone is happy.
I am confident because I know I look like a professional
cellist. I am a professional cellist. I make my living this
way. Every day, I expect to be found out. Real musicians
don’t take me seriously; neither do music critics. Everyone
else thinks I’m fabulous. Jack knows I’m not. He has always
let me know that, although he is far from a musician
himself, he sees through me. He knows I’m not brilliant,
and he uses this fact to keep me in my place. He would
call it encouragement – ‘If you do this well, Evie, when
you’re not really trying, think how fantastic you would be
if you put your heart into it’ – but I know that he’s
play-ing
with my mind. He would love me to fail, in the way
he failed as an artist. He wears me down, and I don’t need
him any more.
This stage is vast, and I am lit, mercilessly, by the spot-light,
so I can’t make out anything in the audience beyond
the glint of glasses, and the exit signs, far back in the dark-ness.
The sound of my bow across the strings fills every
corner of the concert hall. I rarely play for live audiences
– my preferred venue is a small recording studio, with a
few men in black moving dials and knobs behind a sheet
of thick glass. I was almost sick with nerves before I came
on to play my mercifully short part in this enormous
classical-lite charity concert. I prefer to play wearing jeans
and a T-shirt, with my hair scraped back and no make-up on. This evening
I am dolled up so my own mother must
barely recognise me from her seat in the stalls. I’m wear-ing
a dusty-pink long dress by Maria Grachvogel, designed
for me personally, because the cello does not lend itself
to the wearing of clingy scraps of skirt, and because I am,
in my own way, famous enough to have my own dress.
My hair is shining blonde, freshly bobbed, with a diamond
clip in it, and absurdly over-styled. My make-up is fright-eningly
garish, but the make-up woman assured me that
it wouldn’t look that way to the audience.
Jack laughed when he saw me. He said I looked like
Barbie’s mother. This was not what I needed to hear.
With relief, I note that I am on the homeward stretch.
It doesn’t take long to get to the homeward stretch of a
piece that is less than three minutes long. I know I’m
nearly there when the high notes start coming in. I am
tempted to rush the last few bars, to get this over with,
to move on to the thing I have to do, to make myself free.
I know the audience is loving my performance, and that
they’re loving it for the wrong reasons. I am now repris-ing
the very passage from the advert, and the two thou-sand
two hundred and eighty-six people who have paid
£150 a ticket to see me, among many others, are humming
along collectively. I can hear a breathy rush coming
towards me from them, a random mass hum-along. It has
the same out-of-time, tuneless quality as hymn-singing in
church.
I hold myself back, and pace my performance, not want-ing
to make it obvious how desperate I am to be off the
stage and attending to my personal life. I will tell him.
Things have been going wrong for far too long. I am certain that I’m
strong enough to get by without him, at
last.
When I come to the end of the piece, relief swamps
me, and I allow myself to smile a wholehearted smile. I
love this moment. It makes everything worthwhile. Every
person in the auditorium is applauding me. Even, I note
after a quick glance, my husband. All eyes are on me. I
have played my part, played my cello, and these people
have paid very good money to hear me, and now they
are clapping. I love them, because they love me.
I stand up and bow, and the applause grows slightly
stronger. My smile goes up a notch, and I look out into
the audience, genuinely grateful to every single one of
them. A light shines on Prince Charles, and I see him clap-ping
for me.
At moments like this, I always have the same thought:
I hope Louise is watching me now. The thought lasts a
fraction of a second. I bow twice more to the audience
and once to the Royal Box, not caring, for once, about
the obsequiousness. Although the television cameras are
here, I ignore them like a professional. I stiffen my resolve
not to play an encore, and accept a bouquet of pastel
roses from a little girl who stumbles on to the stage wear-ing
a shiny pink dress. I kiss her, and hear an ‘Ahhhh!’
from my fans. She curtseys to me, as if I were the Queen,
and walks backwards off the stage, to her waiting, beam-ing
mother. I smile again, at everyone, and depart from
the stage as my applause starts to die away. It is my
applause. I wish I could keep it, and bring it out when I
need to hear it.
‘Well done, Evie,’ says Penny, the stage manager, giving me
a pat on the shoulder. ‘Good stuff.’ Then she is off,
attending to the next performer, an eleven-year-old male
pianist who has been fingered by the press as a rising star.
What they mean is that he, like me, is photogenic. Little
Billy, as he is known in print, has blond hair that flops
across his eyes, an angelic face, and, unless he’s excep-tionally
lucky, an incipient drug or alcohol problem. He
will be delighting the audience with Rachmaninov’s
Prelude in C sharp minor. God help him when he reaches
puberty.
I am the perfect candidate for a concert like this. I am
classical-lite through and through. My musicianship would
be put to best use in one of the London orchestras, or
playing solos on the second rung of the semi-professional
ladder. My talent has been promoted far beyond its value
because, apparently, everyone loves a blonde girl in
lipstick who can do interesting things between her thighs.
I always have a CD out at the beginning of December, and
it has always sold hundreds of thousands of copies by
Christmas Eve. I make most of my income playing for
adverts, and I seem to be increasingly filmed, as well as
recorded, as my profile has risen. I have played for the
President of the United States, and for a reception at
Downing Street, and I have been invited to the Kremlin.
My agents say I should branch out into pop music – ‘That
is where the money is’ – but I have resisted, so far. When
I try to picture myself playing the cello on Top of the Pops,
all that comes to mind is a vision of Dexy’s Midnight
Runners. Unless I put my foot down, however, my next
CD will contain several tracks played over a techno beat.
The press like me, and I like them, too. I’m often pictured in the
tabloids, and I enjoy it. If I suspect some-one
is waiting for me, outside the house or anywhere else
that I’m going, I make a particular effort with my hair and
make-up, and they appreciate that. I appreciate it, too.
Every time my picture is printed, hundreds more CDs
vanish from the shelves. My personal life has never been
interesting enough for them, so I’ve had to wear out-rageous
dresses and high heels to sustain attention.
Now I’m going to leave Jack. They will adore that, when
they hear about it. My profile will soar. Briefly, I wonder
whether I should call a friendly hack in the morning.
There are several in my address book who would leap
upon my news.
My cynicism is disgusting: I haven’t told my husband
yet, and I’m already contemplating telling the readers of
the Mail. I look around among the dusty stage lights and
random clutter, and catch sight of him chatting to a stage
hand. I pause for a moment and look at him. He looks
cheerful. He hasn’t dressed up for the evening, because
he knew he would stay backstage with me. When I met
Jack, he looked like what he was: an art student. I loved
that look. Now he looks like what he is: a computer tech-nician.
I walk towards him purposefully, holding my cello
like a shield. I have no doubt at all that I am doing the
right thing.
‘Evie,’ says Jack, throwing a companionable arm around
my shoulders. I look up at his face. He is rosy-cheeked,
and he looks pleased. ‘Well done, gorgeous. You were
great.’
‘Yeah,’ says the stage hand, with a shy smile. ‘You
were.’
I smile at him. ‘Thanks.’ Jack ignores him. ‘Shall we
grab some dinner?’
I shake him off, irritated, and shift my cello to the other
hand, so it is between us.
The boy produces a biro from behind his ear. ‘Could I
possibly have an autograph?’ he asks nervously. ‘I’m
your
biggest fan, Miss Silverman.’
‘No,’ I tell him, and stare pointedly until he shuffles
away. I know I’m supposed to be charming to the fans,
but that was an intrusion.
‘Jack,’ I say to my husband, ‘I have to stay here till
the
end. You know that. I told you before. They need me back
on stage for the finale.’
Little Billy’s three chords ring out, confident and arrest-ing.
I want to stand exactly where I am and listen to him.
He is good. Jack takes no notice.
‘But you don’t have to play again. No one will notice.’
‘I do. They will. We’re all playing “Happy Birthday”
to
Prince Charles. Cringeworthy, yes, sure, but I have to do
it. They will notice if I’m not there – how could they fail
to in a dress like this? And don’t tell me I didn’t tell you
about it, because I know I did.’
‘Then let’s just say, if you told me, it slipped my mind.
Bugger it, Evie, I don’t want to spend my whole evening
hanging out backstage at some pageant of arselicking syco-phants.
I have a lot else on, you know, and of course I
wanted to come and support you here, but unfortunately
there are other things I need to get on with.’
‘Then go home.’
‘Sure you won’t come with me?’
‘Why don’t you get us a takeaway and we can have it
in my dressing room? You know I can’t leave.’ Jack shrugs.
He looks annoyed. ‘Whatever.’
We have reached my door. I go in, and look around the
tiny room. It is meticulously tidy. The only time I cannot
bear to have an item out of place is when I am about to
perform. I feel like a fraud anyway, and I know that if I
wasn’t prepared mentally for a performance – if I let the
chaos creep in – then I would no longer get away with it.
My serious reviews would go from mediocre to scathing.
I only get good reviews from Heat and Smash Hits, and
that’s because they hardly ever review anything classical.
Never, in fact, but they make an exception for Evie
Silverman because they like my hair and they like my
clothes. They would love it if I shifted my focus to pop.
One mag did a feature a couple of weeks ago, based
on a photo of me, advising people how to ‘steal her style’.
I was wearing jeans and a cardigan. Not a difficult look, I
wouldn’t have thought. It included phrases such as ‘Evie
swears by John Frieda Sheer Blonde Spun Gold Balm’.
Which was news to me, but I might try it out, to see why
it is that I love it so much.
I put the cello away, and leave the door of its case swing-ing
open. Then I turn back to my husband.
‘I still think you could sneak out now,’ he says, grumpily.
‘You can play the diva, can’t you? It’s your right.
You do
it with me all the time.’
I hold up a hand. ‘Jack,’ I say, my heart suddenly thump-ing,
‘sit down a minute.’
He takes an apple from my fruit bowl and paces round
the room. ‘Why? I’m starving. Got anything to drink that
isn’t water?’
‘No. Actually, there might be some wine in the fridge, I think.
But sit down a sec. There’s something I’ve got to
talk to you about.’
He sighs. ‘What?’
I don’t reply, and he lowers himself, with a show of
reluctance, on to the sofa.
‘Jack,’ I tell him, terrified by what I am about to do,
and still elated by the post-performance adrenalin. ‘It’s
about us. You and me. Our marriage. I don’t think it’s
working any more.’ I hear myself speaking, wondering
why it’s not possible to say words like these, words which
change the course of two people’s lives, without sound-ing
as if you’re in a bad soap opera.
He freezes, the apple almost at his lips. I watch him
intently. Jack has always been good-looking, but age and
confidence have not served him well, and now, at thirty,
his pores are blocked and his chin and cheekbones have
lost their old definition. Nonetheless, I know he is hand-some.
I just don’t want him anywhere near me.
‘What are you talking about?’ he demands. ‘That’s
bollocks.’
‘It’s not.’ I am still terrified, but now that I have
begun
this, I am going to finish it. My emotions are heightened
anyway, and this is not a moment for backtracking. ‘I know
you know I’m right, really. I don’t want us to be together
any more. I’m not happy. I don’t think you’re happy
either
– I think you’re happy in most of your life, but not with
me. It would be best if we tried living apart for a while.
I’d like you to move out. Go and stay with Ian and Kate,
maybe.’
He pretends to splutter. ‘Evie, this is completely out of
the blue. Are you having a laugh?’ I shake my head. ‘Of course
not.’
He looks around the room. ‘And you tell me this now?
Backstage at the London fucking Palladium?’
‘I’d been wanting to talk about it for ages,’ I tell
him,
trying to be soft and sympathetic, ‘but it never seemed
the right time. Then I realised there was never going to
be a right time, and that I just had to do it when I had a
moment. When we were alone together. I know you must
have noticed it too.’
He stares at me. ‘You are a hard bitch, do you know
that?’
I’m stung. ‘I’m not! I’m right, and you know it.
You’ve
had your head in the sand for the past three years or
more.’
‘Oh, have I? It’s all my fault?’
‘No! It’s not all your fault. It’s no one’s fault.
We’ve just
changed a lot since we were twenty-two, that’s all.’
‘And in five minutes you’re going to go back out on to
that stage and play “Happy Birthday” to Prince bloody
Charles?’
‘Yes,’ I tell him. ‘Even divorce won’t get me
out of that.’
I sit, he stands, and we look at each other in silence
while the word echoes between us. Jack looks at the apple
in his hand, then tosses it into the bin. His arms hang by
his sides and he doesn’t seem to know what to do with
himself. I look at our reflections in the big mirror above
my dressing table. We present a strange tableau: a
computer technician in his jeans and a shirt, with an over-grown
Barbie doll.
‘All right,’ he says, after a while.
I look at him. ‘Thanks, Jack.’He avoids my eyes as he picks
up his coat from the
back of a chair. ‘I’ll go home now. Pack up some stuff and
get out. We can sort out the rest of it later. You’re going
to regret this, Evie, I promise you. Let me know when
you come to your senses.’
He leaves the room, the theatre, and my life without
looking at me. As I watch him leave, I force myself not to
smile. The moment the door shuts behind him, I look at
myself in the mirror and grin. I am still high from the
performance, and I am certain I have done the right thing.
Finally, I am capable of being on my own. I don’t need
my mother to look after me, and I don’t need my husband.
Fifteen years after the event, I can stand on my own two
feet.
I reapply my lipstick and wait to be called back to the
stage.