In some ways, I was quite grateful the exchange with Cameron had fallen silent for the time being. The longer we continued ‘chatting’ with such immediacy, the harder it was to ignore his very reasonable and polite questions about my supposed musical success. I felt bad about swerving his request for a playlist, but I was paranoid about anything which might give me away. I knew that if I didn’t say something soon, he was going to get suspicious, but how could I respond without digging myself deeper into a hole? I also needed to work out how I could explain away what he might or might not find out about me if he did manage to get internet decent enough to do a search. It sounded like the slow, intermittent connection might keep me safe until he returned to port, but when that happened, I knew I would be exposed. My increasingly rose-tinted daydreams about his life among the penguins were the distraction I so desperately needed from my current dreary reality, and I couldn’t bear to think about how I’d feel if our correspondence came to an end.
On top of that worry, I also had to deal with press night for the one-man show. Just when I thought things couldn’t get any worse, the theatre critic I’d been expecting didn’t turn up. To my greater despair, another one did show their face, the very last person I wanted to attend. I recognised her immediately from my position lurking in the dark corner between the box office and the stairs up to the main auditorium. I was surprised to see Ottilie Havers covering a theatrical performance, but I guessed with cutbacks in every industry nowadays, music critics would have to turn their hand to other areas of the arts.
As soon as she walked into the foyer, my heart started thudding with anxiety, and I was instantly transported back to two years ago when I’d last seen her, a day it was no exaggeration to say had changed the course of my life. It sounds melodramatic, but it felt like everything that had gone wrong for me stemmed from then. Certainly, all the decisions I had made subsequently were a consequence of what happened that day.
After years of hard work and dedication to my musical craft, I’d finally got my big break, the chance to perform on the hallowed stage of Usher Hall, probably the most famous concert hall in the city. I had been one of only five musicians selected after an extremely competitive process to perform under the banner of ‘Are these Edinburgh’s future stars?’ I should have known the answer to that question was no. Although I’d played in front of an audience countless times before, this was going to be the biggest one yet, and in the days leading up to the concert, something within me had switched. Instead of looking forward to what was an amazing opportunity, I had started to dread it, frightened by the amount of expectation on me, and terrified that I was going to let everybody down. I practised every minute available, setting my alarm earlier and earlier so I could get in an extra few hours of rehearsing rather than wasting precious time on sleep. And when I did allow myself to drift off, I dreamt about being late to get the train to the concert, or losing my violin five minutes before I was due on stage, and so woke up feeling even less rested than before.
My growing angst wasn’t helped by the amount of interest in the concert around the city. One day when I knew I should have been practising, we were all required to do interviews with the local media. The other musicians in my cohort had loved every minute of it, thriving on the attention, and confidently fielding questions like the pros they were about to become. I on the other hand saw my own growing doubts about my abilities reflected in every question. I had stumbled through the answers, convinced that the reporters could see right through me, and were pitying me as the obvious odd one out, the weakest player of the bunch.
The final rehearsals had passed in a fog, and then the night of the concert arrived. I was so knotted with nerves that I had spent the afternoon throwing up over and over again until there was nothing left, and my body ached. I arrived at the concert hall feeling weak and pathetic, channelling the little strength I had left into trying to put on a confident front, but I was certain everyone could see through me and recognise me for the phoney that I was. I had been hanging on by a thread, but I was at least hanging on.
And then, as I was shakily applying my makeup, the news had reached me. The whisper that Ottilie Havers was in the audience had spread like wildfire backstage, crew and fellow soloists practically quivering with anticipation that the woman who styled herself as Scotland’s most influential musical tastemaker was here. It was no boast. A good review from her could send a person’s career to another level. Conversely, if she didn’t like you, she would not hold back in providing feedback with what she termed to be ‘radical candour’. She didn’t do social media, but her reviews would instantly get posted there and invariably go viral.
Everyone knew her presence was a massive deal, but instead of accepting that this was just another part of the process, I’d felt even more crushed by the expectation and pressure. By the time it was my turn to go on stage, my limbs were literally trembling, such was the state of anxiety I’d worked myself up into. It was as if everything I had ever worked for had been building up to that moment, all my dreams resting on that one performance.
I stood in the centre of the stage, the glare from the spotlight turning the audience into a hazy blur. I felt dwarfed by it, wiped out by the seemingly endless trek to my performing position. I lifted my violin to my shoulder, the wood of its polished neck fragile between my clumsy fingers, and my mind had gone blank, as if someone had pulled the plug out and I’d completely powered down. I could no more have played ‘Twinkle Twinkle Little Star’ than the ‘Allegro’ from Beethoven’s ‘Violin Sonata No. 5’ which I was actually meant to be performing. The seconds stretched out endlessly, the dull roar growing in my head as I struggled to catch my breath. I could feel the audience exchanging glances, could almost hear their unspoken exchanges, ‘What’s the matter with her?’ and ‘Poor girl, she obviously can’t hack it.’ For a moment, I contemplated turning on my heel and fleeing the stage, running until I’d escaped through the fire exit and disappeared down the street. In retrospect, I wished I had. But then someone coughed, and another person rustled their programme, and somehow, I managed to put my bow against the strings and start playing.
Muscle memory alone got me through to the end of that piece, although for me it passed in a blur. But I knew it was not a performance to be proud of. My arm was shaking throughout so the bow kept juddering along the strings, definitely not the kind of vibrato the music called for. And although a few bum notes could have been forgiven, the ‘completely soulless performance, lacking in depth’ as Ottilie Havers later wrote could not. The words had leapt out of the review, burning themselves onto the back of my eyes, forever ingrained as that voice in my head which still reminded me of my failure. She had seen what I had tried so hard to conceal—that I wasn’t good enough, and never would be.
Nowadays I could appreciate the favour she had done me that night. She’d given me a much-needed reality check: she’d said what had to be said. She’d jolted me into accepting the limits of my meagre talent, and forced me to reassess my priorities and choose a more sensible path. I hadn’t looked back. However, despite the fact that she had saved me from no doubt much more heartbreak in pursuing a pointless dream, it didn’t mean I relished having to see her now.
But that was my job. The staff at the Variety were relying on me. And now I needed to somehow persuade this oh-so-discerning critic to write a glowing review of ‘My Crap Life: A Memoir in Five Acts’. What chance did I stand when even the name of the show provided reviewers with the perfect adjective to describe it?
I summoned my courage and marched towards her trying to convey an air of confidence, all the while praying she didn’t recognise me.
‘Ottilie Havers? From the Examiner? I’m Amy Cameron, from the comms and marketing department.’ Let’s hope she didn’t realise I was the sole member of that team. ‘I’m so happy to welcome you to the Edinburgh Variety. Thank you for coming to tonight’s performance. We’re very excited to have you here.’
She shook my hand, her face a polite mask of indifference. There was no hint of recognition there. Although I wasn’t surprised, I did feel somewhat affronted. I knew that my performance was merely one of the thousands she’d reviewed over the course of her career so far, and that it was probably a good thing she didn’t remember it or me, but I couldn’t help feeling it was unfair that an evening which had marked me so indelibly had left no impression on her whatsoever.
‘Press pack?’ she asked, holding her hand out.
I nearly dropped it on the floor in my nerve-induced clumsiness, but then I gave myself a mental shake and fought to put on my best professional mask of competence. ‘Sure, I’ve got it right here. And I can email it over, too, if you like.’
‘That would be helpful.’ She gave what had taken me hours of careful work a cursory glance and then dropped it into the bottom of her overlarge handbag, where I was convinced it would remain until her next clear out.
‘The show is due to start in a quarter of an hour, but we are offering complimentary hospitality for members of the press beforehand, if you’d like to follow me to the Stalls Bar,’ I suggested. ‘I know it’s not Burns Night until tomorrow, but we’ve laid on some haggis—traditional and vegan—plus there’s a fine selection of whisky.’
Ottilie wrinkled her nose. ‘Thanks, but no thanks. I don’t accept hospitality of any kind. I can’t be seen to engage in anything which could be misconstrued as bribery. I always insist the Examiner pays for my tickets to shows as well. It doesn’t make me very popular with the accounting department, but I’m not in the business of keeping people happy. It’s important to be honest. If they’re going to make me review theatre as well, I need to be very clear about such things.’
I got the impression that this was a speech she made regularly.
‘Absolutely, quite right too,’ I said, because it seemed to be the response she was expecting. And although it meant that my plan to ply her with enough booze to make her feel kindly towards tonight’s performance was out of the window, I took the one small comfort that I could find, which was that we’d sold at least one ticket.
‘Is it always this quiet here?’ she barked, looking around at the near empty foyer. Colin, who was meant to be on duty in the box office, was playing a game on his phone, while the usher was reading a magazine.
Had she started writing her review already? I wouldn’t be surprised. I surreptitiously moved to block her view of the doorway through which there was, alas, no throng eagerly queueing for tickets.
‘Many of our regular audience members come straight from work so arrive fairly close to show time,’ I said, plucking the first plausible sentence that I could out of thin air.
She pursed her lips, clearly not believing a word I’d said.
‘Let me show you to your seat,’ I said. I kept up a steady stream of chatter as I led her up the stairs and into the stalls.
‘The Variety is a classic music hall in that it was originally a room above a pub—that’s where our box office and the foyer are now—very much the sort of venue where the working class of Edinburgh would come and sing along to the popular ditties of the day. We’ve got some newspaper articles in the archive which talk about how people would shout obscenities at the performers if they didn’t like their act. Obviously, we discourage that kind of behaviour nowadays.’ Why had I brought up the idea of people not enjoying what was on in the theatre? No need to plant that suggestion at this early stage.
Ottilie didn’t smile back at me but she did scribble a couple of notes on her pad.
‘I’ll send you a copy of them, if you like.’ I knew I was trying too hard with her, but the combination of my past encounter with the woman together with my desperate need for this evening to be a success meant that I was in full-on sycophant mode.
I thought I detected a faint nod of agreement. It was a slim chance that she’d be distracted by the Edinburgh Variety’s history, however fascinating it was, but I had to try.
‘Here you go, best seat in the house,’ I said, gesturing at the chair. I thanked my lucky stars that whoever in the box office had taken the call from the Examiner to book the ticket had decided to put her in one of the few seats where the velvet hadn’t worn through to reveal the discoloured foam beneath it. I hovered for a second, wondering whether I should offer to stay during the performance. But I’d seen enough of it during the tech run, and I figured if she didn’t like accepting hospitality from a venue, she certainly wouldn’t appreciate the comms manager peering over her shoulder while she did her job.
I decided the safest thing to do was go and hide out in the office and pray to whatever divinity there might be that Ottilie Havers felt more kindly towards experimental theatre than she did to nervous debut violinists.
* * *
From: cameron.a@myemail.com
To: a.cameron@myemail.com
Date: 24 Jan, 21:56
Subject: Brief signal window
I’ve written this in advance and I’m going to hit send as soon as my mate who works on the bridge tips me off that the satellite connection is back up and running again (actually crawling would be a more appropriate description). How exciting for your friend to be making the move abroad, although that must be a big change for you. Maybe you’ll be able to visit her in Australia and combine it with a performance at the Sydney Opera House. Isn’t it one of those stages on every musician’s bucket list? When I visited Sydney, I was unfortunately too stuck with the work schedule to go and take a look, which is one of my biggest regrets. There’s nothing more frustrating than travelling to places but feeling like you haven’t actually been there or experienced the best of what it has to offer.
When we get to port, I’ll be able to send some pictures of the penguins in Antarctica which you’re welcome to share with your friend and her little one. It will be a good education for Percy the soft toy penguin to know what his compatriots are up to while he enjoys life in warmer climes.
You asked about hobbies aside from photography. I would say travel, but as I’m doing that for work, mentioning it feels like cheating. It’s always been my ambition to visit all seven continents, and doing this job means that’s another one ticked off my list. Reading is a favourite pastime, obviously, although I would elevate that from hobby status to basic life essential. One of the things I’ve enjoyed most about shipboard life is being able to spend time with my nose in a book when I’m not working. The ship’s library is a godsend. As you’d imagine, it’s stocked with lots of amazing tomes about Antarctica but there’s also a small and eclectic mix of fiction left behind by guests past and present. My favourite section is the book exchange where people can swap out their reads and take stuff home with them. It reminds me of those lovely telephone box libraries which seem to be very popular at the moment. In fact, thinking about them has given me a brief whiff of homesickness. The UK sometimes feels like a very long way away.
Back to the point, I suspect I won’t be able to squeal with you immediately about a murder mystery series as the limited selection of books available to me means I’ve been going through a non-fiction/travel books phase. Maybe after this trip I’ll have enough material to write my own. But I’m always keen to have recommendations, so please do let me know the name of your favourite books, crime or otherwise, and I’ll see if I can source a copy. You never know, one of the guests might have left a volume in the exchange.
I should produce another hobby or two to round this off. So here goes. I enjoy rugby union, watching, not playing it, and I’ve also been known to dabble in competitive jigsaw puzzling. Yes, that is a thing. I’ll leave you with that thought, and will look forward to hearing more about what you get up to in whatever free time you have between your performances.
Cameron
PS: Not trying to hassle you, but if you do have any tips to help counteract my nerves during lectures, I would appreciate them. George has made the executive decision that I’ll be taking a lead role at the round-up talk when we’re heading across the Drake Passage back to port. He claims it’s to help me stop feeling seasick, but I have this horrible fear I’m going to vom in the middle of the lecture, which is making me somewhat concerned.
PPS: I promise I’ll get on the door if the worst comes to the worst in the storm. And to reassure you, we have state-of-the-art lifeboats. They look hellishly uncomfortable, but a damn sight better than the alternative, that’s for sure. Ironically the passengers had a movie night last night, and would you guess what they chose to watch? Funnily enough, lots of the crew made their excuses not to join in. It’s probably not like saying ‘Macbeth’ in the theatre, but why tempt fate?