The infatuation has worn off now, two years later, and the reality of life has kicked in. Recently, Piers has been coming home later and later from the theatre, more than once mentioning the name of a new starlet who, he makes a point of telling me, really gets his vision and is a total dream to direct. I’ve begun to realise that he needs the affirmation of an audience far more than I do. Life is a performance for him and, like the productions he directs, each of his relationships seems to have its run before the novelty wears off and he moves on to the next one. I’m still clinging to the hope, though, that I will be the one to change all that. That I will be the one who makes him want to stay.
The constant anxiety is taking its toll. Sleepless nights and a feeling of nausea in the pit of my stomach have had an effect on my voice, although I’m not admitting that to anyone. Perhaps I’ve overstrained it a bit, trying out for several parts that have stretched my vocal range. But I can’t afford to let that doubt affect me now. I need to push through today and put in a performance that will land me the female lead in Jesus Christ Superstar.
‘Alexandra Gordon.’ The production assistant calls my name. And so I step on to the stage and take a deep breath, determined that, even though my heart is fluttering against my breastbone like the wings of a trapped bird, my voice will soar free again, as effortlessly as the skylarks that fly above the hills surrounding my former home.
I land the part. And for a few weeks, Piers is as attentive as he used to be, bringing me flowers and taking me out for a celebratory meal. It’s going to be all right, I think, breathing a big sigh of relief. But once rehearsals begin, I seem to be struggling more and more to reach the high notes. The director is concerned, and when he talks to me I can see his eyes flicker with the doubt that he’s made the right choice for the role. Then one day a voice coach takes me aside and asks me if I’m okay.
‘Fine,’ I say, forcing a smile that’s a good deal brighter than I’m feeling. ‘It’s been a difficult couple of months but I’m getting back on track. I’ve had a bit of a stomach bug, too, but I’m getting over it now. I’ve just been a little off form, but my voice will be fine once I’m fully recovered.’ I hope I manage to sound convincing. Actually, I’ve been feeling horribly queasy after downing a piece of toast and a cup of coffee this morning, but I’ve ploughed on determinedly and come in to work.
‘All right.’ She looks at me doubtfully. ‘But Alexandra, I’ve seen this happen once before. I hope you don’t mind my asking . . . are you pregnant?’
The second she says it, I know. It’s as if I’d known already, I just hadn’t admitted it to myself. Automatically my hands go to my belly as the blood drains from my face. A pregnant Mary Magdalene isn’t going to look the part on stage, despite it presumably having been a hazard of her profession. I sway as the walls seem to collapse in around me.
The voice coach sits me down on a stool at the corner of the rehearsal room and presses my head towards my knees to stop me from fainting.
‘It can happen,’ she explains. ‘In pregnancy the hormonal changes can cause the vocal cords to swell. It can affect your range. You’ve been straining to reach the notes and that can cause a bleed. You should see a specialist, get it checked out. And definitely rest your voice for a while.’
Piers’s fury erupts with the force of an Atlantic storm. ‘What a complete disaster,’ he says when I tell him that evening, having seen a doctor who has confirmed both that I am pregnant and that I have what looks like a lesion on one of my vocal cords. I reach out to put my arms around him, desperately needing the reassurance of a hug, but he shakes me off.
‘You’ll have to get rid of it,’ he says, the heat of his rage turning to a cold, hard anger as he turns away to pour himself a large Scotch.