Love in Another Town. Barbara Taylor Bradford
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and that anger had stayed with him for a very long time.
Just over a year ago he had realized that Amy had cheated him of life for the entire time they had been married. To him that was a crime. But then he had allowed her to do it, hadn’t he? You were only a victim if you permitted yourself to be one, his mother had told him once. He reminded himself not to forget that.
Amy was so negative she was a genuine loser. He had tried to help her to change but she had looked at him blankly, obviously not understanding what he was getting at.
Suddenly impatient with himself, he pushed away thoughts of Amy. After all, she was on her own now. As was he.
Opening the fridge door, Jake took out a beer, prised off the cap with the opener on the counter, then stood leaning against the sink, drinking from the bottle, enjoying it; beer always tasted better from the bottle.
The phone began to ring. He reached for it. ‘Hello?’
‘Jake, is that you?’
He straightened slightly on hearing the voice. ‘Yes, it is. How’re you, Samantha?’
‘I’m fine, Jake, thanks. You haven’t forgotten the meeting tonight, have you?’
‘No, I haven’t. But I’m running late. Just got in from work. I’ll be there soon. Real soon.’
‘Don’t kill yourself. I’m late myself today. I’ll see you at the theatre.’
‘Okay.’ He glanced at the kitchen clock. It was just turning five-thirty. ‘In about an hour?’
‘That’s good for me. ’Bye.’
‘See you later,’ Jake said, and hung up.
He finished the beer and went through into the bedroom. After pulling off his boots and jeans he stripped off his heavy sweater, T-shirt and underpants, then strode into the bathroom to take a shower.
Five minutes later he was towelling himself dry, and after putting on a terry-cloth robe he padded through into the small living room.
Standing in front of his CD player, his eyes scanned the shelf of discs next to it. He had inherited his love of music from his mother, especially classical music and opera. She had had a beautiful voice, and he had been reared on Verdi and Puccini, as well as Mozart, Rachmaninoff, Tchaikovsky, and other great composers. He’d always thought it a pity his mother had not been able to have the proper musical education and training, since in his opinion she’d had a voice worthy of the Metropolitan Opera in New York City.
Automatically, his hand reached for one of her favourites, Puccini’s Tosca, but after looking at the Maria Callas disc for a moment he put it back, pulled out another one, a selection of Puccini and Verdi arias sung by Kiri Te Kanawa, whose voice he loved and who was his preferred opera star. After turning the volume up, he went back to the bathroom, leaving all of the doors open so that he could enjoy the music.
Staring at himself in the bathroom mirror, Jake ran a hand over his chin. No two ways about it, he needed a shave. He lathered himself with soap and scraped the razor over his chin, rinsed his face, combed back his damp black hair and then went back into the bedroom, all the while listening to Te Kanawa singing arias from Don Carlos, Il Trovatore, and La Traviata.
By the time he was dressed in clean blue jeans, a fresh blue-and-white checked shirt and a dark blue sports jacket, she was still singing.
One of the arias he liked the most was ‘Vissi d’arte’ from Tosca, and now he walked through into the living room, touched the track number for Tosca on the CD player and sat down. He didn’t want to be late for the meeting with Samantha Matthews, but he did want to hear his favourite piece from Tosca.
As Te Kanawa’s voice filled the room, soared up to the rafters, Jake was engulfed. He felt himself falling down into her wonderful voice, falling into the music, which never failed to touch him with its beauty and sadness.
Te Kanawa was Tosca, and she was singing of her sorrow, her tribulation, her hour of need, and Jake leaned his head back against the chair, closed his eyes, gave himself up to the music.
Unexpectedly, he felt choked. Tears welled. His emotions were suddenly laid bare … he was filled with yearning … for something … although he was not exactly sure what he yearned for. Then he knew … he wanted to feel again. I know there’s more, he thought, there’s got to be more to life …
He let the music wash over him, relaxing his body, and he remained very still even after the aria had finished. In repose, his lean, sharply-sculpted face looked much less troubled.
After a short while Jake roused himself, and went to turn off the CD player. He had to be in Kent in five minutes, and it would take him longer than that to get there.
He left the house through the kitchen, and ran to his pick-up truck.
On the way to Kent he thought about the meeting he was about to have with Samantha Matthews. He had met her a few weeks ago on the big lighting job he was doing at a mansion in nearby Washington. She was a resident of the town who designed and produced unusual, handmade fabrics which the owner, his current client, was using throughout the house.
He and Samantha had started talking over a cup of coffee one day, when they were at the house together, and she had been interested in hearing more about the special lighting effects he was creating inside the house and in the grounds.
Several days later she had phoned him with an offer. It was an invitation to work with her on the stage sets for an amateur dramatic group she was involved with in Kent.
He had agreed to come to one meeting at least. And it was tonight. He had no idea what to expect, and he wasn’t sure whether it would be the first and last, or the first of many.
Although he had not told Samantha, he was excited about working in the theatre, if only with an amateur group such as hers. It was a wonderful challenge and a way to learn more, he felt.
As he drove towards Kent, his mind preoccupied with lighting techniques, Jake Cantrell had no idea that he was being propelled towards his destiny. Nor did he have any way of knowing that his life was about to change, and so profoundly it would never be the same again.
Later, when he looked back to this night, he would do so wonderingly, reminding himself how ordinary it had seemed. He would ask himself why he had not sensed that something momentous was going to happen, why he had not realized that he was about to set out on the journey of his life.
SAMANTHA MATTHEWS LOOKED UP from the script she was making notations on and stared across the table at her friend Maggie Sorrell, frowning. ‘Now you tell me you think I’ve chosen the wrong play! Just when I’ve got it cast and everyone’s madly learning their lines!’ she exclaimed, her voice rising slightly.
‘I didn’t say that!’ Maggie protested. ‘I asked you why you’d chosen it. I was merely thinking out loud. Honestly.’
‘Thinking out loud or not, you sounded critical.’
‘I didn’t, Sam!’
‘Doubtful, then.’
‘Not doubtful either. You know very well I never doubt you, or anything you do. I really was only wondering why this particular play, that’s all.’
Samantha nodded. ‘Okay, I believe you. I know you’re my true blue friend who’s stuck by me through thick and thick and thin and thin over the years. My very best friend in the world.’
‘Just as you’re mine,’ Maggie murmured. ‘So come on, tell me. Why did you pick The Crucible?’
‘Because last year, before you’d come to live here, we did Annie Get Your Gun, and I didn’t want to direct a musical