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But it was not the mortification of arriving so late to rehearsal, her breathless arrival and hectic heartbeat that were making it impossible for her to sing. It was because inside her head an explosion had taken place, wiping out everything that had once been in it.
Replacing it only with searing white-hot memory.
Her night with Bastiaan.
It filled her head, overwhelming her, consuming her consciousness, searing in her bloodstream—every touch, every caress, every kiss. Impossible to banish. Impossible for anything else to exist for her.
‘Sarah!’ Max’s voice was sharp, edged with anger now.
She felt another explosion within her. ‘I can’t.’ The cry broke from her. ‘I just can’t! It isn’t there—I’m sorry... I’m sorry!’
‘What the hell use is sorry?’ he yelled, his control clearly snapping.
And suddenly it was all too much. Just too much. Her late arrival and the collapse of her voice were simply the final straw.
Alain, her tenor, stepped forward, put a protective arm around her shoulder. ‘Lay off her, Max!’ he snapped.
‘And lay off the rest of us too!’ called someone else.
‘Max, we’re exhausted. We have to have a break.’
The protests were mounting, the grumbling turning into revolt. For a dangerous moment Max looked as if he wanted to yell at them all, then abruptly he dropped his head.
‘OK,’ he said. ‘Break, everyone. Half an hour. Get outside. Fresh air.’
The easing of the fractured tension was palpable and the company started to disperse, talking in low, relieved voices.
Alain’s hand dropped from Sarah’s shoulder. ‘Deep breaths,’ he said kindly, and wandered off to join the general exodus outdoors.
But Sarah couldn’t move. She felt nailed to the floor. She shut her eyes in dumb, agonised misery.
Dear God, hadn’t she said she must have no distractions. None. And then last night—!
What have I done? Oh, what have I done!
It was the same helpless, useless cry she’d given as she’d stood in Bastiaan’s apartment naked, fresh from his bed.
Anguish filled her—and misery.
Then, suddenly, she felt her hands being taken.
‘Sarah, look at me,’ said Max.
His voice had changed—his whole demeanour had changed. Slowly, warily, she opened her eyes. His expression was sympathetic. Tired lines were etched around his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘We’re all burning out and I’m taking it out on you—and you don’t deserve it.’
‘I’m so sorry for arriving late,’ she replied. ‘And for being so useless today.’
But Max squeezed her hands. ‘You need a break,’ he said. ‘And more than just half an hour.’
He seemed to pause, searching her strained expression, then he nodded and went on.
‘Should I blame myself?’ he asked. There was faint wry humour in his dry voice. ‘Wasn’t I the one who told you not to be late this morning? Knowing who’d turned up to see you? No, no, cherie—say nothing. Whatever has happened, it’s still going on in your head. So...’
He took a breath, looking at her intently.
‘What I want you to do is...go. Go. Whatever it takes—do it. I don’t want to see you again this week. Take a complete break—whether that’s to sob into your pillow or... Well, whatever! If this rich cousin of Philip is good for you, or bad, the point is that he’s in your head and your work is not.’ His voice changed. ‘Even without last night you’ve hit the wall, and I can’t force you through it. So you must rest, and then—well, we shall see what we shall see.’
