t...” I’m silent a long time, stroking a finger over the topstitching on his shirt, trying to put into words the question I have in my mind. “All the little pieces of the things I love. Do you think maybe I’ll be able to do something with them one day? Add them all up, so they’ll become something more than the sum of their parts?”
Frederic cups my cheek his eyes very warm and soft. “Evie, I know so. You’re going to do something wonderful.”
“Like you, you mean?”
He grimaces and looks away, and I wonder if I’ve said the wrong thing. After a long moment he says, “No, not like me. Sometimes I feel wretched about my life. That if someone took a hammer to it and broke it down into parts, each little piece, once examined, would be discovered to be worthless.”
I stare at him, unable to comprehend where this is coming from. I’ve never heard him sound so bleak before. Is he dissatisfied with his achievements or worried about the future, perhaps? Maybe he’s concerned that I’ll put whatever he says in the book if he shares it with me. Because that’s what I’m doing, isn’t it, breaking his life down into parts and examining them. “Frederic, are you worried about something? Nothing you say to me will go any further if you don’t want it to.” When he doesn’t answer I stroke his hair back from his temple and say, “You’ve worked so hard for everything that you have. I admire that about you.”
“Do you? Isn’t that funny, because that’s what I admire about you.”
He’s looking into my eyes as he says this and I feel something ring bright and clear through my body, like a chord struck on a piano. I realize I’ve been wrong about our relationship. What we have isn’t ice cream for breakfast. It’s not something soft and sweet but ultimately transient that will melt away into nothing.
It’s real.
I love you, Frederic. The words are heavy notes on my tongue, waiting to be spoken. But I can’t say them to him, so I dampen them like a hand placed over vibrating strings. He’s not mine to love—not out loud. What can I say to him instead? You make me feel so safe. You make me feel more myself than I ever have, and that it’s okay to be what I am. But he’s a musician. He’ll hear what’s resonating behind those words as clearly as if I had spoken my love for him out loud.
I’m in love with Frederic and I’m going to get my heart broken. I even know precisely when. How many people get a countdown timer for heartbreak?
I put my pacifier back in and put my head down on his chest, my love a silent, unexpressed thing, though no less deep and true than if I had shouted it from the topmost tower of Paris.
Chapter Fifteen
Frederic
I can’t do this anymore. I can’t keep lying to Evie.
This has become the refrain of my nights and days. Evie’s become so much more than my lover and my submissive but I don’t want to trust the truth to someone who will shrug off its importance to me. How alone I would feel if I saw in Evie’s eyes what Marion saw. Would she, though? She understands the significance of working at something you love. She would know what a heartbreak this is for me.
It’s not just that I have to tell her, I want to tell her. That’s what’s changed. And not only that—I want her. My want is written on my soul in words of fire. I want her, and I need to tell her the truth the moment I see her again.
Because you can’t hide the truth from the one you love, and I love Evie.
I realized how deep we’d got as I held her in my arms and felt the bliss radiating off her in waves. She’s not just a little girl, she’s my little girl. How could I want anyone but her? She’s young, in several ways, but she’s strong. She knows what she wants and she’s powerful, possibly in more ways than she realizes. I wonder if she knows how much power she has to wound me by a mere look. But I have to be as brave as her. She laid herself bare to me, exposed her throat, willed me to do my worst when she was most vulnerable, and she never flinched. I can do the same for her. I trust her.
I carry the words on the tip of my tongue for a week, then another. I know I will tell her and that’s made it easier not to feel guilty, but it never feels like the right time. Will Evie be angry with me that I’ve concealed the truth from her for so long? I just hope she understands. When she’s in Oxford or I’m at rehearsals, all I can think about is my voice. I’m becoming obsessed with how my throat feels, how my voice sounds in my own ears. Is my speaking voice deeper than usual? Am I struggling to hit those higher notes? Are my costars not noticing anything is wrong? I should take some time out to rest my voice, but when? Opening night is fast approaching and we’re having more rehearsals than ever.
As the days tick past I’m sure Evie has noticed that I’m not myself. That I’m tense and quiet, and I think she puts this down to preshow nerves and is particularly sweet to me.
Then, before I know it, opening night is upon me. I’ve done my best to rest my voice for most of the preceding three days, citing advice from Giselle to the director, though the truth is I haven’t spoken to her in weeks. Several times I’ve wondered if I can detect something off with my voice. A breathiness when speaking, a difficulty hitting high notes. I tried some scales in the bathroom before setting off for the theater and they sounded all right to my ears, but did I have to struggle to hit the top register?
No, it’s fine, you’re being paranoid. Pull yourself together, for fuck’s sake. You’re meant to be a professional.
Evie’s coming up to London with her family for the show and they’ve booked a hotel nearby. I wish I could see her before I go on, to kiss her for luck, to see her smile, but she’s still on the train when I go through the stage door.
I take my time applying my stage makeup, putting off the moment when I have to start warming up my voice. My heart is thumping painfully in my chest. What the hell is wrong with me? A runner calls through the dressing-room door that people are filing into the theater as I’m putting on Rochester’s riding habit and I can’t delay it any longer. I didn’t realize I was consciously delaying it until I feel my stomach lurch.
It’s just nerves. Last-show nerves. You want to be good in this, like you told Evie, so get a grip, old man. You’re not going to go to pieces from stage fright now.
I take a deep breath and start on the scales. I start low like I always do, rising up and down through the notes. As the scales climb higher and higher I break out into cold sweat. I sing the A above middle C—and nothing happens. Just wheezing. My throat feels thick and strange. I try again, and the same thing happens. I try to speak, saying the first word that comes into my head. Evie. I manage “E...” but no more.
No, no, no. This can’t be happening, not yet. I had until the end of January, that was the deal. That was the deal. Taking a deep breath I try the scales again.
But it’s too late. My voice is gone.
Chapter Sixteen
Evie