He doesn’t extend me the same courtesy, merely barking ‘Figure 7’, ‘Figure 10’, ‘Figure 12’ and so forth whenever a phrase begins with my part, the First Soprano. There is no let-up, no time to breathe, and even I’m being taxed to my limits.
‘Good,’ he mutters from time to time, head bent over the keyboard. ‘Good.’ It’s Mahler on speed. And it’s great that I know the music sideways, because I need to. The others — save for Tiffany, who sees only what she wants to see, hears only what she wants to hear — follow our interplay with uneasy awe, turn the pages furiously, struggle to keep time, maintain focus, especially in the places where I am absent from the score.
Near the end, near my last crazed Gloria around Figure 91, even Tiffany’s about to break down, has a suspicious sheen in her eyes as Paul roars at her, ‘Double forte, girl. This is no time to run out of steam. Do that in concert at Carnegie Hall and you — will — never —work — again.’ The final Patri — Father — rips through the room, all nine bars of it, and when we’re done, breathing heavily like we’ve just run the race of our lives, we look at each other in amazement. Spencer wipes his mouth with the back of one pudgy hand, Tiffany’s face is high with colour and Delia is audibly puffing.
‘Now that’s a rehearsal,’ Paul grins, slamming his score shut with satisfaction. ‘Let’s head back to the others now and give them hell.’ A little shakily, we rise from our seats, clutching our music. I’m about to lead everyone from the room when Paul says quietly, almost as an afterthought, the question in danger of being lost in the scrape of chairs being pushed back, ‘Carmen? A word. Walk with me?’ Tiffany shoots me a hard look and sweeps out of the room, Delia at her side, Spencer glances back at me and Paul a little uncertainly as we trail the group back to the assembly hall.
‘I’ll admit, I wasn’t pleased at the way Gerard singled you out at the beginning of the rehearsal,’ Paul says, his voice pitched so that only he and I can hear.
‘He’s always been guilty of playing favourites a little too much. It causes … talk.’ I look at him enquiringly, sure Lauren was one of those favourites.
‘It’s unprofessional,’ he continues grimly. ‘And I don’t agree with his approach. Jealousies inevitably arise. But in any case, that, my girl,’ he smiles at me for the first time that morning, ‘was another test. And you performed beautifully. Those two,’ his voice is slightly scornful as he inclines his golden head at Tiffany’s back, Delia’s, ‘are mere cattle. Ordinary. But you …’ He breaks into a grin of open approval, a light flush high on his extraordinary cheekbones.
‘I wouldn’t say Tiffany’s exactly … ordinary,’ I cut in, keen to hurry him along. My thoughts are on Gerard Masson. If I have to rote learn a freakin’ Christmas carol to get inside the man’s head, so be it.
Groups of boys from the male chorus begin to filter into the hallway around us and Paul Stenborg drops his voice a notch lower. ‘She’s nothing,’ he insists.
‘Powerful, yes, I’ll give her that. But shrill. Not enough staying power. Good for the opera chorus at most. You, however, have what it takes to sing anything, anywhere.
I’ve only encountered a voice like yours a couple of times before in my career, and in my opinion — and I will tell Gerard this; he’s asked my views on the subject already — you far outshine them. You are, in a word, superlative, my dear. You should never let someone like Tiffany get to you. There’s simply no contest.’
‘Oh?’ I say, and feel a sudden twinge of discomfort.
Carmen? Can you hear this?
‘Gerard was right, you know.’ My gaze shoots back to Paul’s animated face at the mention of the man’s name again. ‘That mad, breakneck version of Mahler back there? He ordered me to force your hand this morning — and I have to say that you more than exceeded our expectations! He’s going to be very excited about what we’ve achieved this morning. Very excited indeed. Says he has great plans for you.’ Gerard Masson’s been laying unspoken traps for me? Formulating secret agendas? All this just makes me quicken my step towards the assembly hall. I have to get to him. I have to know.
Beside me, Paul lengthens his stride, keeping up easily as he confides, ‘Genuine talent like yours is truly, incredibly rare.’ My eyes flash to the back of Spencer’s head at the words, but he doesn’t hear or look my way.
‘If you say so,’ I reply as we turn the corner, the corridor suddenly full of students headed the way we are.
There’s that weird feeling again, like a stitch in my side, and I can almost hear Carmen begging me not to stuff this up for her, not to sell her too short in my quest to find Lauren. For an instant, I’m torn. Lauren first? Or Carmen? Who was I sent here to help?
Paul places a hand on my sleeve, which makes me look down in surprise. I’d almost forgotten he was there.
‘Do you want to grab a coffee after today’s rehearsal? I can give you some pointers on how to handle Gerard —who can be a little … insistent,’ he says delicately. ‘Perhaps go over some of your career options? I have contacts —better than any Gerard may offer you.’ When I don’t respond, he says a little more sharply, ‘I don’t think you’re really hearing me …’ And it’s true. I’m no longer listening, suddenly can’t even hear what he’s saying, because I’ve just caught sight of Ryan standing beside the entrance to the assembly hall. His eyes telling me that he needs me.
Paul makes a small noise of surprise, or protest, as I take Carmen’s sleeve out of his grasp.
People stare as I push through the crowded corridor in Ryan’s direction. I hear the whispers: ‘What’s he doing here?’ ‘When’s the last time anyone saw him at school?’ I put my hands on his shirtsleeves in concern. I can tell from his face something has happened. There’s a look in his eyes I haven’t seen there before. Like the death of hope. Something fatal to his resolve.
Plenty of people are taken aback at my familiarity, and heads swivel so fast in our direction that there’s a real risk of a general case of whiplash. It’s more reason for people to talk about Carmen, about him, but I don’t care. Seeing him like this has done something funny to my heart.
‘What’s happened?’ I say breathlessly. ‘Have they found her?’ My touch seems to bring his splintering gaze back into focus, his eyes so dark I can’t see his pupils. Shock.
He shakes his head, his long, dark fringe falling over his eyes.
‘No,’ he says, and his voice sounds strange, remote.
‘But someone else just got taken. In Little Falls. It’s leading all the local news bulletins. She was a singer, too, a soprano. A little older. All the hallmarks of Lauren’s abduction. Happened over the weekend — they were trying to keep it quiet but the media got wind of it.
Almost two years to the day. The media are already linking them together. You were right about that part, the singing thing. I shouldn’t have set so much store by a stupid … dream.’ He swallows hard.
There are students standing close by, listening to us unashamedly, their mouths open. I dimly register Paul Stenborg moving past us into the assembly hall, his eyes dark with unexpected anger. I suppose he thinks I’m rude, but I don’t care. Carmen can wait, the competing agendas of a bunch of small-town music teachers can wait, when Ryan looks this way.
I pull him down the hallway by his sleeve and out of the building, so we can talk. The harsh light outside accentuates his pallor, the dark beneath his eyes, in his eyes.
‘Does it mean she’s dead?’ he asks bleakly, and Carmen’s heart does a weird flip. It must be costing him a lot to say this.
I parry the question, try to get him to look at me.
‘What does your instinct tell you?’
‘Instinct tells me she’s dead. Instinct tells me the sick bastard got tired of her and traded “up”.’ His voice cracks as he throws himself down on the front steps of an empty portable classroom nearby, puts his head in his hands, pushes his fingers into his eye sockets.
‘I don’t feel anything,’ he whispers after a long silence. ‘That’s the problem.’ I have to resist the urge to stroke his hair. It’s a new feeling for me and it makes me edgy. Why this need to touch him so often? I never initiate contact. It’s unnerving.
‘It works both ways,’ I reply cautiously. ‘If something really bad had happened, wouldn’t you think you’d have felt it?’ Ryan raises his head sharply, considers this for a moment. ‘Yeah, I guess I would have. Either way. You’re right.’
‘So what do you want me to do?’ I cross my arms tightly and wait for his answer.
He screws up his face. ‘I don’t know. Go for a drive, look around. Hold my hand.’ He looks up at me, looks
