“It’s just that…” she says a moment later. “I need to have a role.”
“The bakery is just there. I’ll buy you ten rolls, if you like.”
She gives me a light dig with her elbow.
“I feel like a spare part, a meaningless person. Sitting at my desk, looking at columns of figures about haulage companies or lorries. This.” She waves a hand at the bazaar in the village square. “This wonderful community effort for a worthwhile cause to help women in trouble…I could have helped…so many wonderful things if only they had better funding. But, no. No, no, no. This warm community has slammed the doors shut in my face. And who can blame them? Without my real name, I have no credibility. I’m a nobody. Why would Philomena Hill listen to me?”
“I disagree. If she knows her job, she can’t pretend her work starts and ends in this little village sale. I’d have thought someone working with victims of violence knows something about the real world.”
We say no more, but I decide to help tonight at the pub. I’ll seek out the Seigneur and have a word with him.
“Do you want to go home and change for this party?”
She glances up at me with a determined expression shining from her face. “Of course.”
At home, she goes upstairs. After a moment, I hear the sound of the shower running. I decide to use the time to check my emails. In the beginning, I checked my various messaging apps every few hours, now once a week. Even then, I hardly have any messages. It’s not taken long for my communications to dwindle. Mostly it’s comments back and forth on social media. Friends ask about me, exchange jokes and news, but they’re all busy, their lives run to a faster tempo than La Canette.
This afternoon, however, I find an email waiting for me from Janey.
Concertgebouw auditioning for permanent cor, March/April. Tell your agent to get you in. I hear from ‘someone’ your name has been mentioned. I can’t believe you didn’t come for this tour now, but March/April will come soon enough. Miss you, but March is soon... Wink, wink.
I stare at my phone for ages.Permanent cor. A full-scale orchestra has one hundred-thirty musicians, but only four of them are oboists and one, just one, cor player. I love the oboe, but the cor is my true passion. And if I had to choose one orchestra, just one, to make my permanent home, it would be the Concertgebouw. A dream job like this comes once in a lifetime. Of course, it’ll be a hotly competitive audition, but I will give it my best.
March/April.
Automatically, my eyes go to the wall calendar. Lessa’s handwriting in red felt tip across the title,New and improved calendar. Even so, the auditions are three months away. If I get the job, it’ll likely start in May or June.
The year Liam wanted me to live here doesn’t end till September.
I finish my coffee and put the mug in the sink. I haven’t even got a place at the auditions yet, let’s not tempt fate and think about how soon I might abandon La Canette.
Lessa’s usual tread on the stairs tells me she’s coming down. I lift my coat from the back of the chair, feel in the pocket for the folded hat and gloves, then go out into the sitting room.
I see her and stop dead.
Chapter Twenty
Lessa
I’ve always been the kind of person motivated by failure. When things go wrong, it pushes me to act.
Failing to get the exciting job at the Lady Isobel Centre forces me to think about my future. So, I find my phone in the tray on my desk and text the safe number Viv Smith gave me.
ALICE: Can I speak to him? It’s important.
Until now, I’ve been avoiding thepomegranatesituation. Telling myself there isn’t much I can do. Waiting to catch my breath. Life has changed so much, yet, all I’ve managed to do is tread water and hope not to drown. Now it’s time to think, to plan. I’ll tell Clive the truth and we’ll find a plan for what comes next.
It feels like an hourglass has just been set and the sands have started to drain. Soon, I’ll be on my way.
But for now, no more pity party like this afternoon, forcing Brandon to cheer me up, as if he hasn’t done enough already.
It’s not been easy for him, either.
Despite seeming to throw himself into digging up weeds or stripping old wallpaper, I can feel his struggle. A week ago, during the Christmas-that-wasn’t, he was on his knees grouting tiles with some loud symphony playing. Every now and then, his hand stopped, trowel in mid-air, while he listened to a passage in the music, his eyes closed, and his face lost in a dream. I can tell he misses his music, somewhere deep in his soul, he painfully misses it. But not once has he complained. Not once has he cried because someone didn’t give him a job.
So, I can follow his example and be the strong woman in charge of her life. This New Year’s Eve shindig might be the last thing I feel like doing, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to look miserable.
My wardrobe is limited, but it has one fabulous black knitted dress which comes halfway down my thighs. It’s a bit snug across my chest; I blame thepomegranatesituation, but thankfully, no bump yet, not much, and the dress fits fine. Paired with sheer, nearly black tights and tall boots, it works. I’ve had enough complements in the past to know this makes me look good. Pearls should go well. Every woman like me has a pearl necklace; we usually wear them to press interviews. Tonight, as I face this little island that apparently has decided to hate me, I need all the pearls I can find. Hair up in a loose knot shows off my dangly earrings. A little make up, too, just some mascara and smoky eyeshadow. I’m basically all in black, smoke and pearl, the only colour is my red hair.
