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“Yes, you’re under pressure. But you’re taking it out on me.” I kept my voice flat and even to avoid an argument escalating. “It’s not on, Petra. I’m not putting up with it.”
“I know. All I can do is apologise. I’ll try to do better.”
“What did you mean when you told me I was slippery?”
“I don’t know. I feel like you’re drifting away from me, and I really need you right now. Especially now my brother’s all but dumped me.”
There was nothing I could say to that, so I carried on making the dinner. Clearly noticing the smell of toast, Petra got the margarine out and spread the slices when they popped up. I split the ravioli between the two plates, and we sat down to eat dinner.
“So why was Cass here?” Petra asked when she was about halfway done and I was nearly finished.
“She was stressing about the solo, so we worked through it. Did you know about Felicia?”
“That she moved in with Cass?”
“That she has Dissociative Identity Disorder.”
“No?” Petra frowned. “Tell me more.”
I relayed what Cass had told me, and watched her frown deepen.
“Poor thing. I have heard of DID. It’s a type of PTSD. Stems from trauma in early childhood.”
“Really? Cass never mentioned that.”
“Makes life a million times harder for all of them, I expect. Makes our lives seem simple.”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, things felt normal. Like we were sharing the silence, rather than on two opposing sides of it. Then I fully took in what Petra had said: lives, plural, as opposed to the life we were supposed to be sharing. My eyes filled with tears that I pressed my lips hard together to keep at bay – luckily, Petra was standing up and clearing the plates away, so she didn’t notice.
Two and a half weeks until Whitsun. Then she’d have a week off, a nine-day break from this loop of exhaustion-anger-apologise-repeat in which we’d become entrenched. I just had to hang on to that.
In bed later that night, I thought back over what Petra had said, and told myself to stop being so pedantic. It was clear what Petra meant: that we were extremely privileged to have good mental health, and that we should be grateful for that fact. I had missed her point entirely and latched onto something that wasn’t even an issue. You’re a chump, I told myself sternly, rolling over onto my side and finally dropping off.
Chapter Eighteen
The following Tuesday, the hall filled up, and I distracted myself from fretting by greeting the singers as they entered. But the minutes ticked closer to seven o’clock, and there was still no sign of Petra. Where the hell is she?
Given that she worked in the school in which we had always rehearsed, it wasn’t beyond the realms of imagination that Petra would be on time. She always was. She had a sense of duty that was almost superhuman in its strength, and she knew that on a Tuesday night, her duty was to be here, playing the piano and supporting the group of fifty-odd women who were filling the chairs. In return, they put their all into creating magical moments that, when they got it right, made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. She had been so upset at cancelling the rehearsal two weeks ago… so how come she had gone AWOL now?
At one minute to seven, just as I was about to search for her, she appeared from her office. The stress was visible on her face as she entered the room, and I immediately chastised myself for thinking badly of her. However, that stress disappeared as if a switch had been flicked, replaced by her what-we-called ‘performance mode’ smile as people turned to greet her.
“Evening, ladies! Evening, my beautiful lady,” she said, making her way to the front and giving me a peck on the cheek before sitting herself down on the piano stool. I’d set out tonight’s pieces ready for her, and she picked up Ave Maria with a frown. “What’s this, Jean?”
“The new song. Replacement for the old Ave Maria. We discussed this a couple of weeks ago, before everything kicked off.”
“Yes, of course we did.” She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes, and I recognised her not-often-seen embarrassment. I idled over to her while the rest of the ladies were still chatting.
“Long day?” I murmured.
“When are they ever short, now?” she responded, before turning a winning smile on the woman who had just approached me from behind.
“Petra, Jean, I’m sorry, but I had to bring my son tonight,” the woman said, clearly anticipating a bad reaction. “I promise he won’t be any trouble. His dad bailed last minute, and I couldn’t get a sitter, and I really didn’t want to miss tonight’s rehearsal…”
“That’s no problem, Estelle,” Petra said, standing up and beaming at the little boy who was standing beside her. He looked up with a tentative smile. “I know you, don’t I, little Atlas? You’re the star of Starling Class. Mrs Edwards has such a lot to say about you! Let me get you set up with some colouring while Mummy does her singing, hm? Follow me!”
I watched her lead the little boy away. He trotted off happily, not even looking back at his relieved-looking mother. I watched them for a moment – her whole aura, her whole being, changed when she was in performance mode. I often wondered which was closer to the real Petra: this warm, motherly, loving schoolteacher, or the uptight, stressed wife with whom I shared a home these days. I’d fallen in love with the former, but now seemed to be married to the latter.
