Page 97 of The Start of Something Wonderful

* * *

From my corner vantage point, high up in the gallery, like a marksman, but armed with a pairof opera glasses, I scan the red, gold, and ivory horseshoe-shaped auditorium.

Two fifty-something, classy ladies – dripping with expensive jewellery – are chatting in the stalls aisle. From their body language, I imagine the English translation of their exchange to go something like this:

1st LADY: Mwah, mwah, daahling. How super to see you.

2nd LADY: Likewise. You look fabulous.Designer?

1st LADY: Naturally.

SWOONSOMELY HANDSOME YOUNG MAN APPROACHES 1st LADY.

YOUNG MAN: There you are, sweetheart. (KISSES HER) We’d better take our seats. Please excuse us.

2nd LADY: Of course. (THROUGH GRITTED TEETH) Bitch.

PAN TO ORCHESTRA PIT …

BASSOONIST: I told him, how would you like it, to be stuck under the stage every night behind the tuba?

VIOLINIST:Honestly, mate, it’s no better where I’m sitting. You get the full force of the sopranos from the front.

SWING TO A BOX …

GRUMPY MAN: Don’t start. I didn’t bloody well want to come in the first place. You know how I hate the opera.

PO-FACED WOMAN: Oh really? That’s funny. Because a little bird told me you were here last week with your PA – and you looked as if you were having a whaleof a time …

Mags taps my arm lightly with the programme, folded back at the synopsis page. I pop on my glasses, but only get as far asRome. 1800.Inside the church of Saint Andrea della Valle …before we are plunged into darkness. The chit-chat fades as the conductor appears in the spotlight, bowing to thunderous applause. He turns to face his orchestra, nods and raises his arms. The stringsection hold their bows at the ready, poised, waiting for the baton to be lowered, like a starting pistol at the beginning of a race.

All at once the opening bars of the overture are released into the air, and the heavy, red velvet curtains swish open.

Because we are so far away from the action, and because my Italian is not yet up to comprehending the convoluted plots of opera (peoplein opera never do day-to-day things, like ask for directions or buy stamps, do they?), I haven’t a clue what’s going on most of the time. I suspect the lady with the high voice and big chest must be Tosca. She and Mario, her artist boyfriend, seem to have a bit of an up and down relationship, if the constant appeasing (him) and pushing away (her) is anything to go by.

Her diva-like struttingand petulant tossing of her black, pre-Raphaelite hair, and the way she keeps jabbing her finger at his painting of a beautiful blonde woman, tells me she’s the jealous type (it’s only a painting, love), but then again, maybe Mario has a wandering eye, in which case, I’m totally on her side.

When the action takes place upstage and our view is completely obscured, I close my eyes and allowthe music to swim through me; otherwise my poor sightlines are more than compensated by the very nice rear view of the conductor, who though not tall, is rather cute in that Al Pacino-way, with his black floppy hair, which flicks back and forth as his whole body communicates the subtle moods of the music to his players.

By the time the first interval arrives, I am transfixed, totally lostin the story (my version of the story at any rate), oblivious to the discomfort of leaning against a railing for over an hour. The safety curtain descends and the lights come up.

‘I have a little treat for us,’ whispers Mags, nudging me. ‘Ta daa!’ She produces two quarter-bottles of Sekt and two plastic champagne flutes from her bag and proceeds to pop them open and pour while I keep a watchout for the hawk-eyed ushers.

Armed with drinks and a dose of schoolgirl daring, we descend the winding stairs and join the rich and the beautiful in theSchwindFoyer. Here, it is the Viennese custom for the audience to promenade among the paintings and busts of famous composers, whilst unashamedly eyeing one another up and down, checking out who’s wearing what and who’s with whom.

Thisall sounds horribly pretentious, but believe me, if you’re there, in the midst of it, you can’t help but be mesmerised by the sheer elegance, the opulence, the self-assuredness, theDevil-Wears-Prada-ishness of it all: glamorous, expensive-smelling ladies in designer dresses with perfect tresses and heels as high as skyscrapers; distinguished, well-bred gentlemen with slicked-back hair, tailoredjackets draped squarely across their shoulders, clutching Gucci man bags.

Do any of them suspect that there are a couple of impostors in their midst, I wonder? I half expect the Posh Police to burst through the doors, prise my plastic glass of supermarket champagne out of my hand, drag me by the collar of my flea-market dress, and throw me out onto the street, where I belong.

‘So, youwere here last Sunday?’ I say to Mags, tearing my gaze away from a striking, Amazonian woman with telescopic legs, wearing a slinky LBD, leopard print turban, and matching shoes.

She falls quiet for a moment. ‘Olly adores the opera, like me, and I can’t tell you how lovely it is to be able to share things with someone again.’ Lowering her eyes, she continues, ‘You must think I’m awful.’

‘Why?’

‘Because I’m married, and am enjoying the company of another man, while my poor Easton has nothing more to look forward to than his next meal andJudge Judy.’

‘Mags, your friendship with Oliver is nothing to be ashamed of,’ I say, squeezing her hand and looking her square in the eye.

---