Metropolitan Opera House. She’d have been yodelling in her seat at the curtain call. Unlike Mum, who would have refused to come to New York in the first place.
Tears stood in Fi’s eyes and she nodded, perhaps seeing the same image of her mother cheering and whooping. Seeing her cry set me off and for a few minutes we sat in silence, tears coursing down our two very different faces. But while our grief might have been painted in different colours, it came from the same place. Now, as ever, we were more like twins than cousins.
Our drinks arrived.
Fi pushed her cocktail away. ‘I’m stopping drinking for good,’ she said, wiping at the lacy patterns of mascara on her cheeks. ‘I’m getting it all under control now. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Since meeting Raúl I’ve realized I don’t need booze or diets and I certainly don’t need drugs. I’m ready to be a grown-up!’
And, as usual, I believed her. Raúl had cured everything. Of course he had.
Scene Four
New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington
Our two weeks in Manhattan were the happiest of my life. When we travelled north to Boston I tried to write in my diary but just drew a massive, goon-like smiley face. Then I drew a big knob on it because I knew I was being a big knob and I couldn’t have cared less.
After Boston we headed south to Philadelphia and finally Washington. The taxi journeys from the airport into each city were identical, regardless of where we were. Huge green metal plates suspended above the highways announced turnpikes and beltways and Interstates with giant, iconic American trucks thundering underneath them. For no obvious reason, I loved even the road signs.
And for even less obvious reasons I loved and couldn’t stop photographing those illuminated signs that thrust up into the darkening sky – Denny’s, Wendy’s, IHOP, Duane Reade – announcing our arrival in every single city.
I also found American hotels very comforting. There was always someone wanting to help you, always more food than anyone could eat, always a laundered towel anda blackout blind and a huge wardrobe in which to sing. I felt strangely calmed by the sterile chatter of infomercials on the hotel TVs, and the hum of aircon frequently sent me to sleep even when I was wired after a mad performance. It was such a scintillating time, brimming with excitement and newness, yet it was marked by anonymous, silent bedrooms. Another American paradox of which I was very fond.
Fiona was a different woman. I couldn’t tell if it was the excitement of the tour or the gradual unfolding of her relationship with Raúl but, to my astonishment, she remained true to her word. Each day she got up, warmed up properly, like the others, arrived in time for rehearsals and performances and occasionally even ate proper meals. She seemed quite genuinely to have stopped drinking, which was a miracle on an unprecedented scale. In a tiny fish restaurant in the North End in Boston, Bea, Barry, Fiona and I shared our childhood dreams, and Fiona said, simply, ‘I just wanted to be like Sally,’ and everyone had a bit of a cry until Bea ordered another carafe of blood-red wine and told us all to shut up.
I didn’t stop worrying about her, of course. I’d never stop worrying about her. I felt uncomfortable that she spent so much time on the phone with Raúl, and her intense chattiness, even early in the morning, was plain weird. I was used to her being hung-over and sullen. One night she and Bea went out dancing and didn’t get back until five a.m. Even though Fiona was still full of energy when she returned I could tell from her breath that she hadn’t been drinking. I had no idea how she’d managed it but I wasn’t about to start interfering.
She was still late and chaotic, at times, and every now and then would become horribly irritable only to disappear off on her own for a while and come back happy. Barry and I decided she had taken up meditation.
Barry had a fling
Tears stood in Fi’s eyes and she nodded, perhaps seeing the same image of her mother cheering and whooping. Seeing her cry set me off and for a few minutes we sat in silence, tears coursing down our two very different faces. But while our grief might have been painted in different colours, it came from the same place. Now, as ever, we were more like twins than cousins.
Our drinks arrived.
Fi pushed her cocktail away. ‘I’m stopping drinking for good,’ she said, wiping at the lacy patterns of mascara on her cheeks. ‘I’m getting it all under control now. That’s what I wanted to tell you. Since meeting Raúl I’ve realized I don’t need booze or diets and I certainly don’t need drugs. I’m ready to be a grown-up!’
And, as usual, I believed her. Raúl had cured everything. Of course he had.
Scene Four
New York, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington
Our two weeks in Manhattan were the happiest of my life. When we travelled north to Boston I tried to write in my diary but just drew a massive, goon-like smiley face. Then I drew a big knob on it because I knew I was being a big knob and I couldn’t have cared less.
After Boston we headed south to Philadelphia and finally Washington. The taxi journeys from the airport into each city were identical, regardless of where we were. Huge green metal plates suspended above the highways announced turnpikes and beltways and Interstates with giant, iconic American trucks thundering underneath them. For no obvious reason, I loved even the road signs.
And for even less obvious reasons I loved and couldn’t stop photographing those illuminated signs that thrust up into the darkening sky – Denny’s, Wendy’s, IHOP, Duane Reade – announcing our arrival in every single city.
I also found American hotels very comforting. There was always someone wanting to help you, always more food than anyone could eat, always a laundered towel anda blackout blind and a huge wardrobe in which to sing. I felt strangely calmed by the sterile chatter of infomercials on the hotel TVs, and the hum of aircon frequently sent me to sleep even when I was wired after a mad performance. It was such a scintillating time, brimming with excitement and newness, yet it was marked by anonymous, silent bedrooms. Another American paradox of which I was very fond.
Fiona was a different woman. I couldn’t tell if it was the excitement of the tour or the gradual unfolding of her relationship with Raúl but, to my astonishment, she remained true to her word. Each day she got up, warmed up properly, like the others, arrived in time for rehearsals and performances and occasionally even ate proper meals. She seemed quite genuinely to have stopped drinking, which was a miracle on an unprecedented scale. In a tiny fish restaurant in the North End in Boston, Bea, Barry, Fiona and I shared our childhood dreams, and Fiona said, simply, ‘I just wanted to be like Sally,’ and everyone had a bit of a cry until Bea ordered another carafe of blood-red wine and told us all to shut up.
I didn’t stop worrying about her, of course. I’d never stop worrying about her. I felt uncomfortable that she spent so much time on the phone with Raúl, and her intense chattiness, even early in the morning, was plain weird. I was used to her being hung-over and sullen. One night she and Bea went out dancing and didn’t get back until five a.m. Even though Fiona was still full of energy when she returned I could tell from her breath that she hadn’t been drinking. I had no idea how she’d managed it but I wasn’t about to start interfering.
She was still late and chaotic, at times, and every now and then would become horribly irritable only to disappear off on her own for a while and come back happy. Barry and I decided she had taken up meditation.
Barry had a fling
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