Dont You Dare Sing
Youre not smiling right.
For a moment, I didnt realise the words were meant for me. I was staring at my own hands, folded in my lap on top of this navy blue dress, the one I never would have picked out for myself. Far too tight around the shoulders. Far too shiny. Far too foreign to me.
Nina. I said, youre not smiling right. It looks forced. People notice.
Graham spoke under his breath, not even glancing my way. His eyes were on the banquet hall, scanning as his firms anniversary guests took their seats. Twenty years in businessa grand party, an important evening. My role had been predetermined, like a clause in a contract: sit quietly at his side, look presentable, say nothing unnecessary, dont drink more than one glass, and definitely dont speak to his colleagues without his go-ahead.
Sorry, I murmured.
Dont apologise. Just improve it.
This was one of those restaurants where you feel money in the air, not because it shouts at you, but in the sweep of the starched tablecloths, the warm gleam of the chandelier, the silent steps of waiters gliding about as if their feet never touched the floor. Id been here before, and each time it felt the sameI was out of place. Not as the wife of a successful English businessman, but as myself. A woman with a name, with a past, with something quietly burning inside.
I was fifty-five, and for twenty-eight years, Id been married to Graham Baxter. Wed met as I was finishing my music studies at the Royal Academy. I was full of light then, my voice carried, I was in love with Chopin and Vaughan Williams. Graham was an ambitious young entrepreneur with shining eyes and that English belief that he could reshape the world into his own image. When he looked at me, I imagined he really saw me. But it turned out, he wanted to recast me instead.
Graham, perhaps Ill go and say hello to Lucy. Shes just over there, on her own.
Lucy can wait. You dont need to go over to the Thompsons table.
But Ive known her for twenty years.
Nina. No malice in his tone, just the tired patience of a man explaining something for the hundredth time to a child. Tonight matters. Just sit and smile.
So I smiled. The correct way, as instructed.
People trickled in. Colleagues, clients, government officials, their wives. Everyone decked out in their finest, everyone speaking in the careful, lively way people do at such occasions. I caught snatches of conversation and realised I couldnt recall the last time Id spoken about anything I actually loved. Music. How counterpoint works. Or why the second movement of Vaughan Williams Fifth Symphony could still tear me to pieces, even if I only caught it on Classic FM.
Of course, we never had the radio on at home. Graham disliked classical musiche said it got on his nerves.
At the next table, a woman in a bright red dress laughedloudly, carelesslyat someones joke. It was the sort of laughter thats alive and genuine, a bit raspy. I found myself watching her with something like envybut not for her dress, nor her age or beauty. I envied, simply, how she laughed as though she deserved to, without asking permission.
The evening continued. Toasts, applause, speeches about twenty years of success and a dazzling future ahead. Grahams toast was short and sharp, as always. The hall applauded. He knew how to hold a room, that was true. I clapped along with the rest, remembering Id once known how to do it too: how to stand in front of people and sing so that all their breath caught.
The last time I sang in public was twenty-four years ago, at a Royal Academy concert. Graham had driven me thereand picked me up early after a business call.
The compère announced a talent contest after dessert, once everyone had loosened up a little. A light-hearted ending to the night: anyone could step up in the corner for a bit of a turntell a joke, do a trick, sing a song. Graham winced.
How ghastly, he muttered.
I didnt reply. My eyes were pulled to the piano by the stage, where a young man with kind features sat, fingers already skimming over the keys. Id noticed him earlierlong fingers, head bobbing to the silent beat, even when playing barely above a whisper.
A man stood up and told a joke. Another followed with a tune on the harmonica. The audience cheered them on, politely, but not with much fire. Then the compère called for more volunteers, and the room quieted a bit.
I felt something shift inside me. Not like a punchmore as if a long-closed door eased open with the gentlest touch. I set my napkin down. Stood.
Where are you going? Graham asked.
The ladies.
I didnt. Instead, I found the compère and whispered a few words. Surprise flickered over his face, then he nodded. Next, I spoke with the pianist. We exchanged a few quiet words. He nodded too, a spark of keen interest behind his eyes.
When the compère announced my name, I think Graham didnt clock what was happening right away. Then, he did. I caught the edge of his glare as I walked onto the stage. I made sure not to look.
The steps up to the stage were three. I climbed them, stopped, took in the hallfull of strangers in sharp suits and elegant gowns. Many were already turning away, chattering at their tables. Some watched me politely, expectant: Well, lets see what this is.
I met the pianists eyes and nodded.
He played the first chords, and suddenly the room hushed. This wasnt a rousing pub tune or a music hall number. This was Rachmaninovhis *Vocalise*. One of the most breathtaking and difficult pieces I could have chosen, the same piece I sang at my final exam. No words. Just voice and music.
I started to sing. I barely trusted myselfmy voice? Was it really there? Had the years of silence not shrivelled it? But there it waschanged, deeper, darkened with age, but real. Alive.
By the third phrase, the hall had fallen silent. Not gradually, but all at onceglasses set down, heads turned, murmurs ceased. I barely noticed. I sang, thinking only of breath, of holding a phrase, refusing to let thoughts of Graham, his face, or what would come after, intrude.
What would come later didnt matter. There was only this.
When I finished, the silence lasted mere seconds. Then applause swelled. Some stoodnot all at first, but steadily. The cheers were genuine this time. The woman in red shouted, Brava! The pianist glanced up at me, genuine astonishment lighting his face.
I returned to my table, legs a touch unsteady, heart thudding but calm. I saw Grahams face as I approached.
He wasnt clapping.
Sit down, he said.
I did.
Do you realise what youve just done?
I sang.
Dont be clever. His voice was low and cold. You paraded yourself at my celebration. Without my permission. Do you know how that looks?
How?
Like my wifes starved for attention. Like she wants more. He picked up his wine, then set it down with care. Well leave in ten minutes.
Graham, its not
In ten minutes, Nina.
People came to me before we could go. The woman in redher name turned out to be Charlotteshook my hand and said, Youre extraordinary! Where did you train? An older man with a professors beard paused, only saying, Magnificent. Who was your teacher? And Lucymy old frienddarted over, squeezed me and whispered, Nina, where have you been hiding? You sang like
Nina, time to go, Graham said, suddenly at my side, sliding his hand around my arm. Gentle, on the surfacebut his grip tightened so that I felt it through the dress. Excuse us, Ninas not been feeling herself. To me: Lets go.
He didnt speak in the car. His silence was worse than berating. I stared out at the London nightlights and shop windows drifting past. I felt something strange: not joy, not fear, but this steady calm. As if Id just remember my own name after ages.
Once home, he hung up his suit jacket, turned to me.
So. I understand youre restless. That you want something for yourself. But keep in mindthere are limits. There are things that are proper, and things that are not. Tonight, you embarrassed me in front of people who matter to my business.
I sang. And people applauded.
You behaved like a performer at a work event. Do you not see the difference?
No, I replied, surprised at my own composure. Explain it.
He stared for a long while. Then: You have everything. House, comfort, social standing. I dont know what more you want. Frankly, I dont want to solve it anymore.
I can tell you whats missing. Whats missing is me.
What does that mean?
You know exactly.
I left for the bedroom. Closed the door behind me. I lay down in that spotless, impersonal room, still dressed, eyes on the white ceiling. I heard Graham moving about outside: opening and closing cupboard doors. Then silence.
I didnt sleep. I remembered. How fifteen years earlier, Id left my job teaching singing at the local schoolGraham called it beneath his status, a waste of time for his wife, hardly worth the pennies. Id agreed, thinking Id find something else, reinvent myself. But each time I tried, Graham found a reasonit was never right, never the time, never useful.
He never raised his voice, and certainly never his hand. Instead he reasoned, gently and methodically, exactly what was proper. Over twenty-eight years, I grew so used to listening, I lost the sound of my own voice. Literallyeven in my mind.
Until last night.
The next morning, while he showered, I dug out an old suitcase from the attic. I packed my documents. Passport. My Royal Academy diploma, unearthed from the back of a drawer, a handful of photos. Mobile. Some cash Id been quietly collecting from my pin money for years, for a reason I hadnt known until now.
I dressed simply, in jeans and a warm jumper. When Graham came out, I was by the door, bag over my shoulder.
Where are you going?
Im leaving.
A long pause.
Dont be ridiculous.
Im not. Im leaving.
He dabbed his hands on a towel, his look that of someone exhausted by a tantrum. Youre upset. Lie down, calm yourself. Well talk this evening like adults.
Weve already talked.
You dont have money. You dont have a job. Where will you go?
Ill find somewhere.
Nina, dont be silly. Youre fifty-five. Where will you
I shut the door behind me. I could hear his voice trailing after mewords blurring. The lift to the ground floor took forever. In the mirrored doors, my reflection was crumpled, a bit fuzzy. I half-smiled at myself.
I walked. Just walked through the city, breathing in the cold, crisp autumn air, the scent of leaves and distant coffee drifting from a nearby café. I ducked in, bought a cup, sat by the window. I called the only person I could think of.
Lucy, I need help.
Oh, love. Whats happened?
Ive left Graham.
Silence. Then: Where are you?
Lucy lived alone, in a flat on the edge of town. Her children had all moved out, her husband had died years ago. She opened the door, saw me and my single bag, and skipped the questionsjust stepped aside and said, Come in. Kettles on.
We sat in her kitchen until late. I told my story; Lucy just listened, topping up the tea now and again. When I finished, she said, You left. Thats what matters. The rest can be sorted.
Hell freeze the accounts. He warned me. Last year, after an argument, he said if I ever tried to go, Id see.
Well, lets see, said Lucy, pursing her lips.
Sure enough, Graham didnt delay. My phone was ringing that evening: first him, then his assistant, thenworsemy mother, whom hed obviously primed. She was in tears, saying Graham claimed Id suffered a breakdown at the event, that Id left in a state and urgently needed help.
Mum, Im not having a breakdown.
He says hes terribly worried. Said you behaved oddly last night, that you need to see someone
Mum, I sang. I got up and sang on stage. Thats all.
He says it was embarrassing. That you humiliated him
Mum. Im fine. Im at Lucys. Ill call tomorrow.
My cards wouldnt work, just as Id feared when I tried a withdrawal at the cashpoint. The secret savings Id tucked away dwindled quick. Lucy refused any board money, but I knew I couldnt stay long.
Three days later, Graham sent my thingsdelivered by two strangers. Inside the bags: random bits. Summer dresses in October, heels, cheap trinkets. Not a single warm jumper, not a single treasured book. An extra message.
The next day, my mother rang again, this time to report Grahams visitover tea, hed told her Id always been nervous, unbalanced, that hed done everything for me, and now could only hope I got proper professional help. Mum, as always, listenedand, as always, trusted calm voices over quiet ones.
Nina, maybe you should go home, have a proper talk
Mum, hes blocked my money and now tells people Ive gone mad. Do you not see what that is?
A long pause.
Hes a man, darling. Theyre all a bit off when theyre upset.
I put the phone down and watched the darkening sky. Then I took my diploma from my bag and put it on the table. Its cover was dark blue, gold letters for Nina Mary Foster. I hadnt held it in fifteen years.
In the morning, I rang the Royal Academy. I asked after Professor Harold Bellamy, my old tutor. I half-expected him to be gone. But he was there, still teaching well into his seventies, and they gave me his number.
Professor Bellamy? Its Nina Foster. I dont know if you remember me.
A pause.
Foster? Year of the big fire alarmof course. Where have you been, Nina?
I vanished. Thats right. Professor Bellamy, I need your help.
We met two days later in one of the old practice rooms at the Academy. He was much as I remembered: small, wiry, piercing gaze, hands folded in his lap. He looked me over.
Were both older now.
You as well.
He smiled slightly. Good. Sing, then.
Now?
No point waiting around.
I sang. Tentatively, lungs tight, voice wobbly on the top notes. Bellamy listened in silence. When I finished, he sat a moment.
The voice is there, he pronounced. Techniques slipped, breath control needs work. But the voice is thereand thats the main thing, Nina. The rest can be rebuilt.
How long will it take?
Thats down to you. If you put the work in, a few months till youre fit for anything serious. He paused. Why did you stop?
I got married.
He forbade it?
Not outright. It just faded.
He held my gaze, then repeated softly, Faded. I see. Well then, Foster. Lets get on.
Every day, I returned to the Academy at nine, leaving at two, sometimes later. My voice came back slowly, unevenlyoccasionally it all fell into place, then reverted again the next day. Bellamy was strict. No excuses for age or not singing in years. Voices dont ageonly technique and willpower do. Everything else is an excuse.
Lucy soon found me a job: leading a singing club for older adults at the local community centre. It barely paid, but they were my own earnings. The women there sang not for career or applause, but sheer love. Their joy was a remedy.
Meanwhile, Grahams campaign did not stop. Through acquaintances, I heard the stories: that I left for a music teacher, that my mind was unstable, that hed put up with my eccentricities for years but finally released me. Depending on the listener, the details shifted, but the central message remained: I was mad, he was the martyr. Some believed. Others kept out of it. Mum rang rarely, always tentative, as if picking her way through wreckage.
Are you thinking of your future, your finances, a place to live?
I am, Mum.
He says hed talk sensibly if youd go home.
Im not going.
Couldnt you sort a divorce, arrangements?
Hes not negotiating, hes freezing me out and telling everyone Ive had a breakdown. You dont negotiate with people like that; you leave for good.
She sighed and changed the subject. I didnt blame her. Mum was raised in another era, with a different notion of marriage and struggle. Resentment made no senseshe simply didnt have the words for it.
After a month, Bellamy told me something significant. Just as we finished a session, he announced (eyes still on the score), Theres a charity concert in towntwo months off. Classical repertoire. Theyre seeking soloists. I could recommend you.
I stopped.
Professor, I havent performed in twenty-four years.
I know.
Whats the audience?
Live broadcast for the county childrens hospital. Yesserious crowd.
I hesitated. Ill think about it.
He said, Think quickly.
Two days later, I agreed. Bellamy simply nodded, as if expecting nothing else.
The next six weeks were the hardest since student days: we worked on arias, art songs, and, for the finaleBellamys insistenceVaughan Williams again, something longer and more demanding. I was so spent, Id drop asleep on Lucys sofa before dinner. But the exhaustion was differentbrisk, purposeful, alive.
Lucy fussed, trying to feed me up, scolding when I skipped a meal. We grew closer than ever those monthswhen there are no roles left, only the real person is left.
Three weeks before the concert, problems arose. First, a politely nervous call from the concert organisersome questions about my entry. A little evasive. I asked point blank:
Has Graham been in touch?
After a silence, I cant comment.
I told Bellamy. He listened, then just said, Come in tomorrow. Ill sort it.
He did. Somehow, but I stayed on the programme. But a week before the concert, Lucy called my mobile during rehearsal:
Nina, two men came here. Said Graham sent them. Asked if you were staying here.
What did you say?
That I didnt know you. But theyre hanging about. Be careful.
A chill settled over me. Not fearjust certainty: he wouldnt let go. Not personally slighted, just affronted at someone disobeying the natural order.
I told Bellamy. He took off his glasses, cleaned them, put them back on.
Hell try to stop the concert.
I suppose so.
Are you afraid?
I thought honestly. No. Im too tired to be afraid.
Good. At the concert, Victor Stanway will be there.
Whos that?
Producer. Famous chap, books the big halls. I invited him specifically. He heard about you after that restaurant nightone of his people was there and told him. Hes keen to hear you. So sing well, Foster.
I stared. You set all this up, didnt you?
Ive taught forty years, he said quietly. Ive had three true voices come through. One moved to America, famous now. Another passed too soon. Third married and vanished. I used to wonder about her. Im glad shes back.
Concert day dawned dull. I arrived at the Town Hall two hours ahead, walked the stage, listened to the silence. The empty seats, eight hundred strong, melted into darkness. I always treasured the moments before the hall fillsa kind of promise.
An hour before showtime, the event manager found me.
Nina, there are two men outside, looking for you. Claiming to be your husbands representatives. With a medical document, supposedly to have you sectioned.
I was still.
They can say whatever they want. Im singing. Let them in if they wish. Perhaps theyll finally listen.
He hesitated. Youre sure?
They have no right over me. Just get Professor Bellamy, would you?
Bellamy handled it. Whatever he said, Grahams men didnt pursue. Just before the show, I glimpsed a tall stranger in an expensive coat with Bellamy out in the foyerStanway, surely.
My turn came, third on the programme. The hall was packed; the cameras rolled. I wore a simple dark dress Id chosen myselfnothing ostentatious. I stood at the microphone, looked out, and began.
The first song was almost joyful. The second tripped me a moment, but I steadied myself. By the third, Id forgotten about the hall, the camera, Grahams henchmen outside. There was only the musicthis was my world, my true home, at last.
When I reached Vaughan Williams for the close, the hush was so complete you could sense the crowd holding breath. I sang and felt something new: what it must be for a sick person to step outside after recovery and discover the skys still brightthe world still waiting for you.
As I was finishing the last phrase, I heard someone at the side doora ruckus, heavy steps. Graham, striding toward the stage, talking in angry bursts to the usher, gesturing frantically, his face red and taut. Another man following.
I sang the very last note as planned. Didnt falter.
The standing ovation rolled through the crowd.
Graham stood frozen in mid-aisle. Next to him, I saw Stanway quietly speaking. Graham answered, his face shifting as if something inside gave wayno drama, just the grim realisation a person has when the world doesnt bend for him.
He turnedand left.
Backstage, Stanway sought me out. He shook my hand.
Ive heard talk, he said. Now Ive heard you. We should talk.
About?
A contracta tour. Starts here, then Europe. There are halls waiting for a voice like yours. He smiled. No one will hinder you again. You have my word.
I caught Bellamys eye across the room. He noddedjust once. That said everything.
I spoke with Mum in earnest later. I visited, we sat at the kitchen table. She looked at me a long while before speaking.
I saw you on the telly. At the concert.
You did?
Lucy phoned, said to turn it on. I watched. She fidgeted with the tablecloth. I never knew you could sing like that.
You heard me before, at the Academy.
That was years ago. Then, I was your mum, worried sick. Watching you on TV was different. For once I just watched you. She squeezed my hand. Forgive me.
For what?
For believing him, not you. He always talked so well. You were quiet. I thought your silence meant things were fine. I didnt know.
I took her hand.
You understood in the end, Mum. Im grateful.
Youre not angry with me?
No.
She cried quietly, and I sat holding her. I realised then: forgiveness isnt pretending nothing happened. Its carrying forward only what you need. The rest, you outgrow.
A year passed.
I stood backstage at a concert hall in Vienna, listening to the sound of an unfamiliar audience filtering in: rustling coats, quiet greetings, a cough. The hall, while small, was magnificent, ornate, golden. Snow began to fall outside.
Life looked different now: rented flat in Vienna, a contract with Stanway, regular travel. My battered suitcase, always at my side. Bellamy called every week or so. Mum visited, always marvelling at how much I managed.
I rarely heard of Grahamonly vague news from friends. His business suffered, some partners dropped him. Within six months, he had remarrieda quiet, unfamiliar woman. When I heard, I felt only a weary understanding. Not satisfaction or hurt, just knowledge: some people never change, merely move on to the next convenient someone.
I pitied her. But it was no longer my story.
Now, I had a new story. There were challenges: jet lag, wrangling over tempos with conductors, awkwardness in foreign tongues, lonely hotels. And joys: waking up to unfamiliar skylines, applause meant for me alone, buying whatever dress I pleased, phoning whomever, closing the door with no one waiting to explain what Id done wrong.
Sometimes, I thought about the lost yearsnot in bitterness, just a steady reckoning. Twenty-eight years. Thats no small stretch. I could have sung through all that time. I could have become someone else. Or perhaps the same person, only sooner.
But could have is a pointless game, Ive learned.
What matters is now. I am here, my voice is here, my stage is here.
A stagehand peered around the curtain: Ms Foster, three minutes.
Im coming.
I smoothed my plain dress, the one Id chosen. Focused my breath. Closed my eyes for a heartbeat.
Oddly, Grahams face from a year ago surfaced: Youre not smiling right. And Id said, Sorry. Sitting there with my rehearsed smile, Id thought Id forgotten my own voice.
This time, I smiledjust as I liked. No permission required.
And I stepped out.
The crowd fell silent.
And I sang.
