The truth is a cunt

For the lie click here.

The night started with a surprise. Instead of rehearsing the Ode to Joy, M decided that we’d do the finale of Dido and Aeneas and the introitus and lacrimosa of Mozart’s requiem. He knows that the requiem is my favourite work, and that I’ve always wanted to sing it under his direction. As the opening strains of the lacrimosa danced out of the piano I felt strangely cold. My eyes tensely shut to suppress the tears, I sang each note as though I were urging all the life out of my body. Suddenly all the pain and sadness surged up inside me and my heart fought to leave my chest. It actually physically hurt me. Then he stopped us.

‘No no, you’re doing it all wrong. Listen to the first violins. The maudlin lilting of the double croches. Like teardrops falling. Drip drop. Drip drop. Imagine a young beautiful girl crying. And each teardrop falling in her lap.’

With this, he looked up and gave a knowing smile accompanied with a sideways glance to a forty-something redhead in the first row, who smiled back and giggled girlishly. She then glanced over her shoulder and smugly looked at me. I was too empty to react.

‘Right, let’s do the Dido and Aeneas. But the lyrics are in English. Can anyone help with the translation and pronunciation? Ahhh…my favourite English girl. Would you mind doing us the honour?’

This delighted everyone, as their happy sighs revealed. A real English girl reading real English lyrics of one of the most tragic love stories in history, set to the music of England’s finest baroque composer. A cultural treat.

‘Indeed.’ I said, sighing as I stood and obliged.

And I started to read:

‘With drooping wings, ye Cupids come
And scatter roses on her tomb;
Soft and gentle as her heart.
Keep here your watch and never part.’

‘Thank you, my beauty.’ Said he.

In the corridor during the break he passed in the opposite direction and firmly placed his hand on my arm, giving it a squeeze. He smiled tenderly, as though with pity. I met his eyes with a neutral stare that almost passed through him and visibly wriggled out of his grasp, so that the people standing by looked questioningly at us. I made my way to the balcony, where I found my friend Claire.

‘Are you Ok?’

‘I lost one and a half stone since August.’

‘Oh my God.’

‘This has to end.’

She stubbed out her cigarette and nodded gravely.

‘Come and have a coffee.’

She led me by the arm, which felt cold where M’s touch had been, and took me into the cafeteria. In the corner, M and his vieille poule were seated together, locked in an intense silent gaze, both their chins resting on their hands. I glanced over at them and he caressed her face, in the same way as he used to do to me. I half expected to cry, but the tears were all gone, as though my heart was so cold that they had frozen. Part of me wanted to see her dead. Part of me wished him dead. And part of me just wanted to forget I had even met him. I retreated to the practice room with a cup of coffee.

My mother then cautiously opened the door.

‘I spoke to M in the corridor. He actually came over to me to try and find you for me. He took me to the cafeteria but you weren’t there, so he took me here. He’s lovely isn’t he?’

‘Just don’t talk to him.’

‘But he’s - ’

‘Just don’t.’

Distracted and distraught I somehow forced out the notes from my breast as from an old accordion, the air building up under each one as I pushed each creaky key. As we filed out, M placed his arm around the waist of his new pétasse, and firmly planted a kiss on her neck. The pair slowly strolled together in the corridor ahead of myself and mother, who touched M’s arm. He turned to her and smiled warmly.

‘Just keep walking.’ I snarled.

‘But I want to say goodnight to M.’

The vieille poule looked at me with contempt, jealousy and self-satisfaction at the scene.

‘Just go.’

He silently took my mother’s hand, and bent down to kiss it.

He never did that to me.

Outside, the pair proceeded to the red mini. My red mini - home of so many memories.

I pressed my mother on hurriedly and left without saying a word.