The The Moon and Stars

By Jenna Warren

Matthew Capes, struggling with chronic stage fright, has not sung in front of an audience for ten years. A classical tenor with a magnificent voice, he only dares sing late at night on the empty stage of the Moon and Stars theatre. When Matthew's old singing partner Angela who just so happens to be the woman of his dreams gets back in touch and offers him the chance to perform in a nationwide tour, his low self-esteem and anxiety stand in the way. But Matthew has a plan: he will sing in the shadows while his handsome and charismatic friend Ralph takes to the stage with Angela. What could go wrong? Loosely inspired by The Phantom of the Opera, this warm and witty debut novel is the perfect read for fans of David Nicholls.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Fairlight Books
• Release date: Oct 20, 2022
• ISBN: 9781914148224

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The_Moon_and_Stars_-_Jenna_Warren.jpg

The Moon and Stars

Jenna Warren

Fairlight Books

First published by Fairlight Books 2022

Fairlight Books

Summertown Pavilion, 18–24 Middle Way, Oxford, OX2 7LG

Copyright © Jenna Warren 2022

The moral right of Jenna Warren to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by Jenna Warren in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. This book is copyright material and must not be copied, stored, distributed, transmitted, reproduced or otherwise made available in any form, or by any means (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the publisher.

A CIP catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10

ISBN 978-1-914148-22-4

www.fairlightbooks.com

Printed and bound in Great Britain

Designed by Laura Barrett

To my parents, with love

Contents

Overture

Prima Donna

Audition

Ensemble

Counterpoint

Tenor

Discord

Opera

Tremolo

Masque

Trio

Piano

Intermezzo

Maestro

Da Capo

Notation

Melodrama

Quartet

Debut

Diminuendo

Pitch

Aria

Operetta

Fortissimo

Sotto

Opus

Allegro

Serenade

Lacrimoso

Harmony

Fantasia

Presto

Flat

Bravura

Nocturne

Cadence

Virtuoso

Sharp

Waltz

Crescendo

Solo

Lament

Finale

Forte

Duet

Coda

Acknowledgements

About the Author

2008

Overture

I stood in the darkness backstage, trembling.

Onstage, my singing teacher was making her introductions. I could hear the pride in her voice. Phrases like ‘dedicated to his craft’ and ‘professional accolades’ and ‘tenor of extraordinary potential’ drifted towards me.

She said my name, and there was applause from the auditorium.

This was my cue to appear.

My nerves were screaming at me to run, to flee the Conservatoire and keep running until I forgot the whole dreadful scene. But my body had switched to automatic, and a moment later I had slipped out of the shadowed wings and was standing centre stage.

The auditorium loomed in front of me like a vast cavern, cold and dark. It was a modern space, all sharp corners and straight lines, with none of the elaborate decoration present in most older theatres.

Every seat was taken. I couldn’t see the faces of the audience, but I knew they were looking at me.

I took a breath. Of course they were looking at me. I was onstage. Wasn’t this what I wanted?

Somebody giggled. Several coughs echoed off the black walls.

The spotlights burned brighter than any sun, shining on my face. I had only just managed to stop crying, and I knew most of the concealer had been rubbed away. They would be able to see the dark shadows under my eyes, every pore and blemish on my pale skin.

Someone was playing the piano. The sound seemed very far away.

I’d missed my cue.

I tried to ignore the taunts inside my head. I nodded at the musical director. The piano started again.

I opened my mouth to sing, but the voice that emerged was quiet and flat. It didn’t sound like my voice at all. I cracked a note, and my voice fell silent.

There was no sound from the auditorium.

I looked into the wings. My singing teacher was staring at me in horror.

I ran.

2016

Prima Donna

It was almost eleven years since I had arrived in London with the following plan:

Attend the Conservatoire.

Graduate from the Conservatoire.

Attend audition for West End show.

Get leading role in West End show.

Become successful singer on the back of performance in West End show.

Solo album.

Broadway.

It wasn’t the most comprehensive of plans, but I was very young at the time, and the details hadn’t seemed particularly important.

Unfortunately, it was almost eight years since my last successful performance, and I was standing in a freezing auditorium, attempting to remove chewing gum from the bottom of a theatre seat.

The gum had been left behind by a school party, to whom I’d delivered a talk on the history of the Moon and Stars Theatre. I had tried my best to make it exciting, telling them the anecdote about the magician who had burned the original building to the ground when a firework had gone awry.

I’d hoped to inspire them with the magic of theatre, but instead I’d been forced to watch as their eyes glazed over.

Chewing gum removal wasn’t technically part of my job description, but no one else had volunteered, so it was up to me. I was using a paint scraper I’d borrowed from the workshop. The task would have been satisfying if it wasn’t so disgusting.

My mobile rang. I dropped the scraper.

‘Hello?’

‘Matthew? Is that you?’

It was a woman’s voice, musical and strangely familiar in a way which made the back of my neck prickle. ‘Who is this?’

‘It’s Angela.’

Her name conjured up a face, but more importantly a voice, singing across a room from me. There was no audience, just the two of us.

‘Are you still there?’

I snapped out of my musical trance. ‘Yes. Hello… Angela.’

I couldn’t begin to imagine why she was calling me. We hadn’t spoken in nearly eight years.

There was a sigh on the other end of the line. ‘I’m so glad it’s still the right number. How are you?’

‘Oh…’ I stared at the nearest chewing gum deposit. ‘I’m good.’

There was a pause.

‘Listen, Matthew. I realise this is totally out of the blue, and I’ll completely understand if you’re not interested – but I just thought I’d give you a call because I’m about to start recording my next album.’

‘That’s great.’ I was pleased for her, even though she had made it, and I had not. ‘Congratulations.’

‘We’d like to include a few duets, and we were discussing guest artists when your name came up.’

My hand tightened around the phone. This wasn’t real. This couldn’t be real. The fact that Angela was recording another album was hardly surprising. What was surprising was that she had thought of me.

‘You want me to sing on your album?’

‘There’s no one else. I really mean that. Your voice is still the best I’ve ever heard.’

‘Right.’ I was stunned. I couldn’t believe she was paying me this sort of compliment after so many years.

I was tempted to say yes, but then I remembered the competition, the last time we had sung together. And I remembered those words that were always lurking at the back of my mind. For eight years, they had been there every time I had been tempted to sing in front of an audience.

Angela, you look like a singer. But Matthew, well… you just don’t.

My free hand strayed automatically to my face. ‘Are you sure about this, Angela?’

‘Of course. The album’s classical crossover, mainly musical theatre. You’ll be perfect.’

‘What would I have to do?’

‘Just come along to the studio and sing for my manager. I know I want you, but he insists on hearing any guests. The record label gets the final say.’

Managers and record labels. This was scary stuff, and way beyond my limited experience. And I was still hearing that voice in my head.

Angela, we can pair you up with someone else. A better match.

‘I’m not sure,’ I said. ‘I don’t think I’m quite in your league. Vocally, I mean. I… haven’t sung very much lately.’

‘That doesn’t matter. Come and audition for us. Then, if you decide it’s not for you, that’s not a problem.’

I swallowed hard. ‘All right. Thank you.’

‘Great. Would 9am tomorrow be all right? I’ll text you the address…’

It wasn’t all right, but I said it was. I would tell work I was going to be late. Pretend to have a dentist appointment, perhaps.

‘It’s so lovely to talk to you,’ said Angela, her voice soft, kind. ‘It’s been too long. I can’t wait to see you again.’

When she’d gone, I slumped into the theatre seat and sat very still for several moments, staring at the phone. I touched my forehead and found it damp with sweat.

Oh, God. What had I done?

I would text her and tell her I’d moved on, that I wasn’t interested in singing anymore, that I already had a career I enjoyed.

I stood up, intending to go back to scraping gum, and trod on a half-empty packet of Wotsits, sending a spray of crisp residue across the dark blue carpet. I stared down at the new mess I’d created, and saw my future with terrible, powdery-orange clarity.

I was nearly thirty, practically ancient. I had expected to be a successful performer by now. I knew I couldn’t let this opportunity pass me by. I’d already done that too many times. And Angela wanted me.

I’d been given another chance, and now I needed to make sure Angela – and her record label – would be impressed enough to hire me.

I couldn’t change how I looked. And I couldn’t change the past. But at least I could practise until my voice was the best it could be.

It was only 5pm. There was no performance tonight. I had plenty of time to rehearse.

The theatre wasn’t quite dark; shows were still performed a few times a week, and an amateur operatic society used it for rehearsal every Sunday afternoon. But on free evenings, the stage was mine.

Just the way I liked it.

I always waited until the other staff had left, to be safe. After six years, the theatre felt like home. But I wasn’t supposed to be there after hours. My privileges as manager only extended so far.

I made my way up the centre aisle.

The auditorium had seen better days. There were signs of decay everywhere: peeling paint, chipped plaster. The scent of damp lingered in the air. The blue velvet curtain was faded. The seats were worn. Everything needed repainting, or reupholstering.

I climbed the steps at the side of the stage and stood in my usual position, downstage centre. I stood half in shadow, looking out at an audience of empty seats.

I began with some exercises: scales designed to aid the voice, breath and diaphragm. Then, when I felt that my voice was sufficiently warmed up, I launched into my rehearsal pieces.

I chose ‘Being Alive’ from Company, ‘The Impossible Dream’ from Man of La Mancha and, because I was in the mood for opera, ‘The Toreador Song’ from Carmen.

I was worried my voice was not as fine as it used to be. I had limited time to practise, and a voice can suffer from lack of use. Still, the acoustics in the theatre were good, and gave my voice a pleasing, eerie echo.

If someone had heard me singing, they would have been more than a little startled. But I told myself that by doing this, I was breathing some life back into the old place. It didn’t hear enough voices.

When I’d rehearsed all three pieces several times, I was as prepared as I could be. I bowed to the empty auditorium and slipped back into the shadows.

Until next time.

Audition

Before I went to my audition, I had to attend to my morning routine.

I checked my face in the shower-room mirror. I had to make sure there were no spots or other blemishes on my skin. If I found any, I would rectify the situation by covering the offending patch with a small touch of concealer.

This usually took me around fifteen minutes. Sometimes, if I was attending an important meeting, I would return to the bathroom twice or three times, just to make sure I hadn’t missed anything. On the morning of my audition, I checked three times, which could have made me late for my appointment had I not set my alarm half an hour earlier than usual.

The studio was located near Piccadilly, and at 9am I found myself staring at a glass-fronted building with nothing to distinguish it from the offices on either side. I checked the address on my phone for the umpteenth time, in case I was mistaken, but this was definitely the place.

I stepped through the automatic doors into a reception area that looked more like a show floor at Ikea. The walls were painted a pure, glaring white, and low, colourful chairs were arranged around the edges of the room. Everything was ultra-modern, functional and anonymous. The only hint at any sort of musical association was a white bust of Ludwig van Beethoven, which glared at me from the reception desk as if wondering exactly what I was doing there.

I inched towards the reception desk. It was presided over by a young woman who was busy typing something into a computer. Her dark hair was styled in a sharp bob, and her smart appearance made me feel unfashionable in comparison. I smoothed down my suit.

‘Excuse me – I’m here to see Angela Nilsson. My name’s Matthew Capes.’

She didn’t look up from the computer. ‘Do you have an appointment?’

‘I’m here for an audition.’

She did look up then, and her eyes narrowed sceptically.

‘Take a seat. I’ll let her know you’re here.’

I waited while she made a phone call, my stomach tight with nerves. The previous day’s excitement had faded, and even more doubts were starting to crowd in.

Angela hadn’t heard me sing for years. What if she was horribly disappointed? I couldn’t even be sure my voice was still up to scratch.

And then there was the question of my appearance. As I waited in reception, I began to wonder if I had done enough before leaving the flat. Perhaps I should have checked the mirror one more time. My hand strayed to the tube of concealer in my coat pocket. Maybe I could quickly go to the gents…

The door next to the desk opened.

‘Oh my God, Matthew!’

Angela hadn’t changed. No, that was a lie: she must have changed, but only slightly. Her hair was styled differently. And her face seemed sharper. But she still had the same confident poise of someone who was absolutely sure of her purpose in the world. This was something I’d both admired and envied when we’d first met.

I looked down at the floor, suddenly overcome with shyness. ‘Hello, Angela.’

‘How are you? You look great.’

I flinched internally at her untruth.

‘I’m fine. You do, too.’

We stared at each other for a moment. It was strange, to be confronted by a little piece of my past. Suddenly our time at the Conservatoire felt like yesterday.

Angela grinned at me. ‘This is so exciting! I’m so glad you could come. It’s just this way…’

I followed her through the door and down a white corridor illuminated by strip lights. I had expected some framed album covers or gold discs, but instead there was just blank wall after blank wall. The blankness heightened my nerves. There was something clinical about it, as if we were in a hospital and not a recording studio.

Angela chuckled. ‘Behind the scenes tour. All glamour, huh?’

Finally, we came to a door marked Studio One. Angela opened it, spilling piano music into the corridor.

The music was familiar.

I froze and looked at Angela in confusion. ‘That’s my song.’

‘Yes,’ she said, with a soft smile. ‘I showed it to my manager. I hope you don’t mind.’

The song was a youthful attempt at a love ballad which had felt like a sincere work of genius at the time, but which struck me as gauche and embarrassing now. But I was very touched that she’d kept it all these years.

‘Not at all,’ I said.

She nodded towards the door. ‘Please go in.’

There had been a recording suite at my college which I had used a couple of times for student projects, but this studio was on a different scale entirely. There were rows of electric keyboards and mixing desks, and three separate vocal booths.

At a magnificent grand piano sat a pianist, a man in his fifties with a neatly trimmed beard and stylish glasses. He was playing my song with a focused skill and intensity.

‘Hi, Steve,’ said Angela.

The man nodded but did not look up.

‘Steve’s one of our session musicians,’ said Angela. ‘He’s going to play for your audition. We’ll have an orchestra for the recording, of course.’

My mouth went dry. I stared at her. ‘An orchestra?’

‘Yes.’ She chuckled. ‘Please don’t look so terrified. I mean a small session orchestra, not a symphony.’

‘Right. Good.’

‘We just need to wait for Chris – then we can get started.’

‘Chris?’

‘My manager.’

‘Oh, of course.’ I kept forgetting how professional Angela was. Professional enough to have a manager, a studio and an actual orchestra at her disposal.

Angela gestured at the piano. ‘Do you still play?’

‘Very occasionally. When I have time.’

‘I remember when I first heard you play at college. You were like the next Mozart or something.’

Steve the pianist cleared his throat. I blushed.

‘That’s a slight exaggeration,’ I said. ‘I’m nothing special.’

‘You always were too modest.’ She paused. ‘Have you written any new songs recently?’

‘Not for a while. I’ve been quite busy with work and stuff.’

‘Ah, I see.’ She sounded a little disappointed. ‘But you still have all your old material?’

I wondered where this strange line of questioning was heading. Angela had not mentioned my compositions on the phone.

‘I’ve kept the good ones,’ I said.

Angela looked ready to say something else, but then the door opened and a man strode into the studio.

‘Chris!’ said Angela. ‘This is Matthew.’

Chris appeared to be about forty. He was dressed in a smart, expensive-looking grey business suit. His dark hair was neatly swept back with gel. He reminded me vaguely of a gangster from my conservatoire’s production of Guys and Dolls.

He looked at me, and an expression of surprise flashed across his face. But he quickly hid it with a smile and gave me an enthusiastic handshake.

‘Matthew, my man! Thanks for coming. I’ve heard so much about you. This one never stops talking about you.’

‘Hello…’ I began.

‘I know Angela would just hire you right here and now,’ Chris continued, still pumping my hand. ‘But obviously I’d like to hear you sing in person. Got to make things official, do things properly…’

‘I know it’s not necessary,’ said Angela. ‘But Chris insists.’

‘No problem,’ I said.

‘You don’t mind singing your own song, do you?’

‘Of course not.’ I hoped I didn’t sound too reluctant. I had practised my audition songs until they were perfect, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about singing a song from my past.

‘I realise it’s a duet,’ said Chris, ‘but if you could just sing your verse and the chorus to start with, that would be great. Steve?’

Steve nodded and began the introduction. The piano had a beautiful tone; perhaps, if I got the job, I would have the chance to play it myself. But that would never happen, because I could already feel the nerves dancing in my stomach. I was going to fail – my voice would go…

I tried to remember that I was good. Tried to remember that this was what I loved. That this was what I was, or had been. And it wasn’t as if all the people in the room were strangers. Angela knew that I could sing, which was why she had invited me along.

Gradually, my nerves were soothed by the music, and I became absorbed in song. I sang softly at first, as the song demanded, but then allowed my voice to fill the room with sound.

When I had finished, I looked at Chris. He was staring at me, a slightly stunned expression on his face.

‘Well, Chris?’ said Angela. ‘What do you think?’

‘Wow. You weren’t exaggerating.’ He stepped forward and shook my hand again. ‘You, my man, have a great voice.’

I looked at the floor. ‘Thank you.’

‘When can you start?’ Angela’s voice was bright with enthusiasm. I looked up again to find her beaming at me.

‘You mean I’ve got the job?’

‘Of course you’ve got the job.’

‘Now hold on a sec,’ said Chris. ‘It’s not quite as simple as that.’

‘It is as simple as that,’ said Angela. ‘I want to sing with Matthew.’ She turned to me. ‘We’d like to start recording as soon as possible. When can you come in?’

‘Well, I work full time, so—’

‘Can you come in on Saturday?’

I couldn’t speak. I just nodded.

‘Great. This is going to be so much fun! Chris will sort out all the legal stuff, won’t you?’

‘Of course.’ Chris gave her a forced-looking smile. I was starting to get the impression that he wasn’t completely sure about hiring me.

‘Great!’ She gave me a quick hug. ‘Sorry, I must run. I need to get to a magazine interview. I can’t wait to sing with you again.’

I was left in the studio with Chris and Steve the pianist.

‘Steve, would you leave us alone, please?’ said Chris.

Steve rose from the piano stool. As he passed me, he gave me a look which was almost pitying. I wondered what his problem was.

The moment Steve had gone, the smile vanished from Chris’s face.

‘All right, Matthew, here’s the thing. You’re here because we need a hit.’

‘I’m sorry?’ I said, a little startled by his sudden transformation into a businessman. ‘Angela has had lots of hits.’

He waved a hand. ‘Yes. Classical repertoire. Musical theatre covers. Specialist stuff. It’s all a bit niche. And there’s a danger we’re going to start replicating what’s already out there. I mean, how many different versions of You Raise Me Up does the world actually need?’

‘That’s one of my favourite songs,’ I said defensively.

Chris nodded. ‘Mine, too, mate. But that’s not the point. We need something new, something to appeal to the pop market while still being firmly rooted in classical crossover. Something which will appeal to both mums and their teenage daughters.’ He smiled. ‘I think your song would be perfect. It has hit written all over it.’

‘My… song?’ I was stunned.

‘It’s perfect. Romantic, but not soppy. Powerful, but not creepy. We just need to big it up a bit.’

‘You’re not serious.’

‘I’m deadly serious. I want this song, Matthew.’ He paused. ‘If I had my way, I would buy the rights to this song from you. Then I would call up any of the numerous male singers on my books. They’re a great bunch. Polished, experienced, good-looking…’

The nerves fluttered in my stomach.

‘But there’s one rather big problem,’ said Chris. ‘Angela wants you. She said to me just the other day: I’ll only sing Matthew’s song if it’s with Matthew.’

‘I… see,’ I said, both confused and touched.

Chris folded his arms. ‘Will you allow me to be blunt?’

I thought Chris had already been sufficiently blunt without asking my permission, but I nodded.

‘You’re not quite what I expected. Listening to Angela talk about you, she made you sound like this… charismatic star. An absolute pro who could turn his hand to anything. And it painted rather a different picture in my mind.’

I had an awful sense of déjà vu.

But of course it was happening again. What had I expected?

‘Well, I’m sorry to disappoint you,’ I said.

Chris shook his head. ‘I wouldn’t go that far. You’re a wonderful singer and a wonderful writer. But we really want this album to succeed. I just need some reassurance that you’re not going to mess this up. Can I rely on you, Matthew, not to mess this up?’

‘Of course. I mean… no, I won’t mess it up.’

‘Have you ever recorded anything before?’

‘Not professionally.’

‘But you have plenty of singing experience?’

I hesitated, unable to meet his eye. ‘Yes.’

‘You sure? Angela tells me it’s been a while.’

‘I’ve been having a break, doing other things. But… I still practise every chance I get.’

Chris gave me a long, appraising look, and then seemed to relax. ‘Good. I’m glad to hear it.’ He crossed to the table and picked up a folder. ‘Your other duets. I’m sure you’ll be familiar with them.’

‘Thank you.’

‘If I seem a bit… harsh, it’s only because I care passionately about Angela’s career. Do you understand?’

I nodded. ‘I won’t let you down.’

Ensemble

Later that morning, I stepped through the stage door of the Moon and Stars Theatre and trudged up the three flights of stairs to my office.

There was a Post-it note stuck to my computer screen. It said: The mice are back. Also: hole in ceiling of Gents toilets.

I removed it with a scowl. The mice had been a problem for a while. I had called pest control several times, but they were proving elusive (both pest control and the mice). Short of creeping around the theatre with a net, I didn’t know what else I was expected to do.

But the hole in the ceiling: that was a new one.

I could already tell that it was going to be one of those days.

I sat down at my desk and eyed my collection of foam stress balls. I had seven of them of varying designs and colours. I had only bought one myself; the rest had been gifted to me in the office Secret