The Butterfly Effect Read online

  And so this became almost normal. For several weeks, I would work hard on Sunday mornings, go and join the band in the afternoon and sing a song or two. Sometimes Olga and I would sing together, her much deeper voice complementing mine, but I would always sing at least one song alone. Just me and the rest of the band, with Olga standing in the middle of the room with a smile big enough for a whole audience, her approval practically tangible. I loved it, and my nerves were gradually replaced with a feeling of huge satisfaction and pleasure. I was very grateful for this experience, and I hoped they wouldn’t get tired of me taking up their time, but I had no thought of it going any further. That’s why what happened next was such a surprise, so completely out of the blue.

  “We’ve got a gig here in a couple of weeks,” said Olga, as I helped her carry equipment out to the van.

  “That’s good. You should get a decent crowd here.”

  “Yes, it’s always a good night. That’s why we thought it would be a good choice for your debut,” she said, heaving an amp into the back of the van with a grunt. She said it as if she were talking about covering a lesson or being on gate duty. Something you just did. Nothing to get excited about. For a moment I wondered if she’d actually said it at all, but she must have, for now she straightened up and carried on the conversation as if I’d already replied.

  “Just a couple of numbers, we thought. Something you know really well, so you won’t have to think about remembering the words. What do you think?”

  What did I think? Well, I thought she had probably gone mad, or maybe that she was teasing. I thought that I could never, ever, make the huge leap from singing with friends to singing to a whole room full of strangers, however nice a crowd they were, but then I had a fleeting image of the band, all lit up on the little stage, and there were people crowded at the front, some of them dancing, and I was there too, next to Olga and sharing her mic, belting it out. Aretha Franklin, ‘Say a Little Prayer’. We’d tried it out just now, just half an hour ago. Could I really do it?

  Somehow, it was agreed. I didn’t even argue much, although I regretted it when I got home, but by then it was already a fact. The next Sunday, they worked their way through their list in a businesslike way and left a good chunk of time for my two songs, one with Olga and one on my own. They sounded good, I knew they did. There was never any discussion about whether it would actually happen, it was only a question of when, and they decided I would sing the last number of the first set with Olga, then kick off the second set with my solo song.

  “Before you have a chance to change your mind,” said Anton with a smile.

  I could have changed my mind. I had nearly another full week to think about it, and I did seriously consider it, more than once, but somehow the days passed without any decision being made and the closer the day of the gig came, the more unreasonable it seemed to pull out. Mostly I didn’t have time to worry about it anyway, as the Headteacher was convinced that the school would be inspected at any time, certainly before Christmas, and suddenly a culture of fear and panic seemed to descend on many of the staff. Even more work, even more scrutiny. Sometimes a whole day would pass without a single thought of the gig, and then it would hit me, as the last child left the last class of the day. Oh my God. Haven’t I got enough bloody stress in my life? Why am I doing this to myself?

  But then there were also the happy reveries as I drove home and imagined my song going down well, heard the applause and even the odd whoop of appreciation. I was never going to miss this opportunity, not really, and if I’m right and everything else flowed from that gig, well actually it all started weeks before that, in the shower of a cheap hotel room. That was my very own butterfly effect. The beating of tiny wings that would stir up a storm. And what a storm it would turn out to be.

  So that’s how I got to be rushing around like a crazy person on a damp Friday afternoon, dumping my school work in a corner, showering, dressing, looking at my reflection in horror, undressing, dressing again, applying make-up, swearing, wiping it off, applying it again. I was like a silly teenager on her first date, my heart pounding away and my stomach churning. Behind the fear and anxiety there was a little thrill of anticipation at the thought of Richie being in the audience, but mostly that was completely swamped and, when it did pop up, I told myself it was only casual, it had never been a real date. He probably wouldn’t even come.

  The early part of the evening passed in a blur. I was aware of a trickle of people coming into the room as the band finished setting up and carried out a sound check. I was aware of the lights that flooded the stage and of all the kit sitting there, like some kind of deformed, electronic copse: the spindly saplings of the mic stands, the guitars leaning against their stands like stunted little trees doomed to failure and the cables snaking around everywhere like creepers. Olga and the others were at the bar, enjoying a quick drink before it was time to start but I could not stomach the thought of anything, let alone the fairly substantial glass of wine that Olga set on the table in front of me.

  “OK chick?”

  I nodded, and thanked her for the drink, but it must have been obvious how nervous I was, so she sat down beside me and gave me a little pep talk. Everyone, she said, feels the same before their first performance, but once you are up there, it all falls into place. She told me to enjoy it, which did not seem likely, and told me how good I was.

  “We wouldn’t have invited you to sing with us if we weren’t sure you could do it, isn’t that right Tim?” she called. Tim joined us and said the same thing, and then Anton and the others, and I was bombarded with encouragement until Anton looked at his watch and announced it was time to start.

  To be fair, they were only a pub band. They played covers and they mostly did it for fun, to give themselves a creative outlet away from their jobs, all of which were stressful in their own ways. They didn’t compose their own songs and there was no musical genius amongst them, but they were pretty good at what they did. They knew their audience liked to hear familiar songs, but didn’t mind if they were given a new treatment, so they pushed this as far as they could with some songs and left others more or less alone, to produce an eclectic mix that was pretty well guaranteed to leave the average pub audience happy. That was the aim and it had seemed fairly simple a few weeks ago, as I sat at the back of the room and watched them rehearse. Now it seemed a lot less certain.

  One by one, the band played the songs on their list. The audience were appreciative insofar as there was a ripple of applause at the end of each number, but nobody was dancing yet and most people were sitting in groups and chatting, only pausing to clap politely when convention demanded. This was quite normal for a first set, and the playlist was designed to recognise it. Most of the faster and more popular tracks were saved for later, when the audience would have had a few more drinks and might be in the mood for dancing.

  I was quite grateful for this as, inexorably, my slot drew closer and closer. Maybe they wouldn’t even notice my presence. Three more songs and then it’s me. Two more songs. This song, and then I have to stand up, walk across the space that has been cleared for dancing, climb onto the stage. What if I trip? What if I freeze? I had barely even thought about Richie, so caught up was I in the moment, in the excitement and the anxiety of it all. And anyway, people often came later to these things didn’t they, I told myself on the couple of occasions the thought rose to the surface.

  And then, suddenly, it was time. Olga introduced me but there was no obvious response from the crowd. I managed to walk across the tiny dance floor without incident even though it appeared to have expanded to the size of a cricket pitch, and then I was behind the mic with Olga and we were singing. Just like that. I can’t describe it properly, even though I thought about little else the next day, but it was as if someone had thrown a switch in my head. Click. One minute I was a nervous wreck, convinced that I would chicken out when the moment came for me to sing, and the next I was belting it out with Olga, our cheeks almost touchi
ng. I may not have been Aretha Franklin, but I was giving it my best shot.

  Just like in the lyrics of the song, that moment will stay in my heart forever, even though without it I probably wouldn’t be lying on this bed right now, trying to quell the waves of panic that could so easily overwhelm me. Trying to think it all through, just in case my memories provoke some tiny little clue about what went wrong and what I can possibly do now, now that I am on my own with no Nat to protect me. No Nat to shore up my defences, to make it all OK.

  Despite all this, I still treasure that moment when the song ended and there was more than just a ripple of applause. I hadn’t been able to see it whilst we were singing, as the lights were in my eyes, but now, as Anton announced the break and the stage lights were replaced by the wall lights around the room, I could see that people were looking at us, exchanging a few words, nodding their heads. They had liked it, and Olga gave me a huge hug as I stood there, bright spots from the lights still dancing in front of my eyes and my blood coursing through my veins at twice its normal speed.

  “That was fantastic!” she said. “Can’t wait to see what they think of the next one!”

  That was the thing about Olga. She was absolutely lacking in any kind of mean-spirited jealousy or self-interest. She had a great voice and I wasn’t any threat to her position, but it wouldn’t have been surprising if she’d felt a little put out. The only song that had aroused any interest in the audience was the one that I had been involved in, but she was delighted for me. I still get a lump in my throat when I think about the fact that I have lost her now, and that she never understood why it had to happen. I wonder if she still thinks of me, or whether she has erased me completely, a person not to remember, a person who rejected her friendship and support and pushed her away.

  I was really buzzing then and, although of course I was scared, I was also excited about my song. It was a Bob Dylan track, ‘Knockin’ on Heaven’s Door’, but with a soft, slow, dreamy arrangement that really suited my voice, so Anton said. Its other advantage was the fact that it was very easy to remember, with only two verses and a highly repetitive chorus, so there was little chance that I would forget the words. Nothing could go wrong, and, when at last it happened, nothing did. I sailed through it, and I could tell that the room had grown quieter, that some of the people standing at the bar had turned sideways to watch. I could see Olga out of the corner of my eye, standing to the side, and I could see her hands held flat together, her fingertips touching her mouth in silent supplication. I saw her almost jump, and clench her fists in pleasure as I finished, and I heard the applause, louder than before. I even heard a couple of little whoops and whistles, just as I had imagined, and it took me a moment to remember that I had to stop then, to step away from the mic, leave the stage and go back to being a mere part of the audience. A few hours ago I had imagined my relief when it would all be over, but now I wanted nothing more than to stay where I was.

  I spent the rest of the second set basking in a warm glow only partly tempered by the fact that Richie obviously wasn’t going to turn up. Nothing, not even being stood up by someone who was pretty nice to look at and had seemed like a genuine guy, could spoil my enjoyment right then. It was a good night, as predicted, and there was quite a crowd bopping away at the front as 11 o’clock approached. The pub had a strict rule about finishing by then, as there were historical difficulties with neighbours’ complaints about noise, but there was such a clamour for an encore at the end of the last number that the landlord held up a finger to indicate one more and the audience cheered and clapped. I clapped too, but then I noticed a few people turning to look at me, still sitting at my table to one side where I had been joined by Anton’s girlfriend and Tim’s wife.

  “They want you,” someone said, and then, before I knew it, I was back on stage next to Olga and we were singing. I didn’t know all the words, but I knew the chorus. It was ‘Girls Just Want to Have Fun’, that old Cyndi Lauper classic, and I think the rest of the room knew it too.

  And didn’t I have fun! It was a couple of minutes before the audience gave up and realised that the landlord’s impassive stance, arms folded, indicated a man not to be moved. Nevertheless, there was a lovely feel-good atmosphere in the room as we left the stage to get a quick drink before clearing up, and several people stopped us to say how much they had enjoyed it. We found a table recently vacated by a large group, and pushed all the empty glasses to one side, but I had barely sat down before I realised that I hadn’t been to the toilet the whole evening. Now that I had relaxed a little, my body was demanding to be heard.

  “Sorry,” I said, squeezing past Anton. “Won’t be a minute.”

  The ladies toilet was right at the other end of the pub, down a long corridor behind the bar area, but I knew where to find it because of all the Sunday afternoon practice sessions. I wasn’t really looking where I was going or thinking about anything other than what had just happened. If I closed my eyes, even for a few seconds, I was back on stage again, feeling the thump of the bass and the heat of the lights and the tickle of Olga’s hair on my shoulders as we leaned in together to sing. I washed my hands and looked at my reflection in the mirror. I looked exactly the same, if a little flushed, but I knew it was a different me standing there; a subtle change had happened up there on the stage and I gave myself a little smile to show that I knew it.

  I was probably still smiling as I dried my hands and opened the door into the corridor, and just as the door swung shut behind me, someone came out of the men’s toilet and stood there. He was smiling too.

  “You were amazing tonight,” he said. “I’ve seen The Butterflies loads of times, but you really added something. Have you sung with them before?”

  He was a nice-looking guy, about my age or a bit older. Dark blonde hair in an artfully tousled style, faded T-shirt with some kind of logo on the front, jeans. He wouldn’t have stood out in a crowd and he probably didn’t look unlike a number of other young men in the audience that night, but he had lovely, white, even teeth and it would have been difficult to get past him in that narrow space without completely ignoring him or being rude. Besides, Richie hadn’t turned up, I was in a good mood, and here was someone who wanted to say nice things about my singing.

  I smiled back.

  “Oh, thanks, I’m glad you enjoyed it, but actually it was my first time.”

  “Oh. Well it worked, really it did. I’m not just saying that. Who were you with before?”

  I told him it was my first time, not just with The Butterfly Effect but at all, my first time ever, and his eyes got rounder by the minute. I noticed they were a beautiful colour, an unusual grey with flecks of blue and green. I said ‘yes’ when he asked if he could buy me a drink, and I hurried back to the others. Would it be OK if I had a quick drink with someone? I’d only be ten minutes or so and I’d help with the clearing up afterwards.

  “That’s fine, take all the limelight and bugger off, we don’t care!” said Anton with a smile, and there was a bit of good-natured teasing from the others, but Olga took my hand and squeezed it.

  “Go for it, girl,” she said, “and take as long as you like.”

  Olga knew I’d had a succession of doomed relationships in the past two years since splitting up with Arif, my long-term boyfriend from sixth form. The cultural difficulties between our families had defeated us in the end, and I’d had my heart broken. Everything that had happened since seemed designed to prove that he had been the only one I would ever really love, despite Olga’s predictions that ideal men were like buses, you only had to wait and any number would come trundling along.

  I smiled and squeezed her hand back, and there he was, at the bar. I felt a funny little lurch of something – disappointment, I suppose – that it wasn’t Richie standing there waiting to tell me how much he’d enjoyed the night, but I pushed it to one side. It was his loss, and if he couldn’t even be bothered to turn up I was probably well shot of him.

  He bought drinks, an
d we looked around for somewhere to sit. The pub was emptying fast, even though they were still serving, so I pointed out a table near the stage, as far away as possible from Olga and her encouraging smiles, and we sat down.

  “I know I said it before, but I have to say it again. You’ve got a quite remarkable voice,” he said.

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really, it gave me the shivers – in a good way, of course. Are you going to be a regular now?”

  I told him I didn’t know. Although it was pleasant to receive such glowing plaudits it felt a little over the top, and I really had no idea whether the band would want to include me again. I tried to change the topic of conversation, asked him the usual kind of things, but I didn’t get a great deal in response, only that his name was Greg and he worked in IT. By that time, I could see the band beginning to unplug the equipment and wind up the cables, so I swallowed the rest of my drink and thanked him.

  “I’d better go. I can’t leave them to do all the packing up, but it’s been nice talking to you.”

  “Oh, do you have to?”

  I was standing by then, and I nodded. Yes, I really did have to go, but he looked so sad that I found myself agreeing to meet him again. Just for a drink, just so we could finish off the conversation, he said. I could see Olga glancing across at me, and because I felt guilty about not helping and guilty about taking a drink from him then leaving so quickly, I arranged to meet him the following Wednesday after work, at a pub in town.

  There was an awkward little moment when I thought he was going to try to hug me, but it turned into a handshake and then he was gone. His hand had been warm and a little damp, so I ran my palm over my thigh.

  “He seemed nice,” said Olga.