The Concert Pianist (2 page)

‘So you're bis chauffeur?'

‘His moral and professional minder,' he nodded.

She gazed at him radiantly, as though it had only just sunk in he was here. ‘Why didn't you let me know you were coming, you monster?'

‘Advantage of surprise.'

She grabbed him by the arm in affectionate remonstration.

He smiled suddenly, brilliantly. He had really adored Camilla.

‘So nice to see you, Pip,' she said, squeezing his arm and smiling back. ‘Rascal.'

He raised his mug in salutation. It had been such a boon to fall for this sexy field marshal's daughter, a flower of the British upper classes, so utterly different to him and so gloriously unbothered by classical music. She found him, for some reason, funny, lovable, and was quite joyously uncomplicated and vivaciously sexual herself. Yes, sure, he had been married to the piano. The instrument dogged
his
moods, his conversation, his diary, and trying to plan a relationship around the tours was hopeless, but despite all that she had rescued him from the excruciating earnestness of it all. Philip's nervy demeanour seemed to amuse her. Through Camilla he caught a sense of his appeal to women: a sort of comic helplessness.

‘What's going on?' she said. ‘What've you been up to?'

‘Oh God! I'm doing these three concerts.' He exhaled.

‘At the Festival Hall?' she asked.

‘QEH. The Great Piano Sonatas.'

‘Fantastic! That's coming soon?'

‘Next week.'

‘How exciting!'

He smiled awkwardly. Now was the moment. Now or never. He had to ask.

The Russian sailed back into the room, hands in jacket pockets.

Philip groaned.

‘Red wine for health,' said the younger man.

‘Steady on, Vadim.'

‘Is it Vadim, now?' she said.

‘Many identities.'

Camilla was enjoying herself. She poured wine into a glass. ‘Are you guys old friends?'

She passed the wine to Vadim, who swept it back like a vodka shot.

Philip rubbed his eye. He was not being fair on his protege. This detour was completely impulsive and unannounced, and although Vadim was swaggering around nonchalantly, the nerves would be picking away at him. All Philip needed was a couple of moments with Camilla, and then they could go.

He adjusted his spectacles and tried a different tack. ‘Vadim, I loved Camilla more than anyone before or since. I realised two days ago in the bubble bath.'

‘Oh, here we go!'

‘Crabtree and Evelyn, to be precise.'

‘Left by one of your numerous lady friends,' she smiled.

‘If only.'

Vadim nodded understandingly. Love, romance, grand passion: these were his stock in trade. ‘Now I realise why you drive me to Southampton of all places in God's earth. I thought you want to hear Brahms. But always Philip has ulterior motive.'

She
smiled expectantly.

‘To introduce one of great beauties of Hampshire.'

She burst out laughing and watched in bright-eyed wariness as Vadim executed another knuckle kiss on her left hand.

‘I understand “English Rose”,' he said, ‘only for first time today.'

‘Not for you, my friend,' said Philip.

She removed her hand with a twist. ‘Are all Russian men this gallant, Vadim?'

‘To begin with, yes.'

‘Changing the subject,' said Philip, ‘if your husband dropped dead tomorrow, would I have a chance?'

‘You're appalling. Shut up!'

‘Give me hope.'

‘Are you another famous pianist?' she said, turning to Vadim.

‘ I will be world famous in about two years. Five minutes, please, Philip.'

Philip grimaced. Vadim would need time to settle in, try the piano, get changed, eat something. They had to get moving.

Vadim sloped off along the corridor to allow them a moment.

‘How's Peter?' she asked. ‘Didn't he get married? I haven't seen him for ages.'

He swallowed. He was feeling strange. ‘They all got married. Except me.'

‘You two were such a laugh.'

He tried to smile.

He owed Peter for so much, including Camilla. This thought had not crossed his mind in awhile, and now it filled him with sorrow.

‘You may as well see this,' he said with effort, pulling a wallet from his jacket.

He drew out the photograph and handed it to Camilla.

‘What a sweet little thing. Not yours?'

‘No, no. My god-daughter.'

She beamed maternally. ‘Peter's?'

‘Yup. Little Katie. Three.'

‘Where do they live?'

He averted his eyes.

Vadim stuck his head into the room. ‘Philip, I see you in the car in two minutes, or I hot-wire it and drive myself there. Thank you, Camilla.'

‘
Bye, Vadim!' She smiled.

Philip looked around to steady himself. He was swarming inside.

There was children's stuff all over the kitchen: zippy plastic files with homework reading, Lego bricks on the sill, small shoes on the doormat. This was the primary-colour world that bacherlorhood had denied him. Suddenly, you saw yourself staring longingly into other people's lives, and realising the outcome of decisions made long ago was quite irreversible.

‘I'm so pleased you stopped by.'

He managed a convincing smile and turned to look through the French windows.

‘Have the last drop,' she said, bringing over the wine bottle.

‘I heard about the abortion.' He turned.

‘What abortion?'

‘You were pregnant.'

She lost colour.

‘ I got you pregnant.'

Camilla gazed at him in a kind of disbelief. He was already sorry for her.

‘Is it true?'

She hesitated.

He could tell from her expression. His chest tightened. He had so wanted this not to be true.

She was startled, but rallied quickly, finding the presence of mind to look him in the eye. ‘We were finished for reasons you understood at the time.'

He touched his spectacles.

She frowned.

‘Sorry, I . . .'

‘Don't rake it up, Philip!'

‘I only heard the other day.'

‘Who?'

He shook his head.

She was flushed with dismay and embarrassment.

‘I needed to know, Camilla.'

‘Oh God. This is fifteen years old!'

‘It was a very long time ago and I'm trying to . . . work out why, you know, why it's so . . .'

She moved a coffee mug from the dish-rack to the shelf. The
memory
of a certain impatience crept into her expression, as though there were things that Philip had never accepted. She looked at him starkly.

‘It was awful.'

The words seemed to comfort him.

She gazed at him with candid regret.

‘Was it?'

‘Of course.'

‘You didn't want to tell me?'

The suggestion seemed to weary her.

‘I might have . . .'

‘Oh, please.' She was distraught now. ‘You were completely unviable as a husband or father. On tour, rehearsing . . .'

‘ I know . . .'

‘You were a brilliant pianist. From another planet. There was never any question of us . . .' She shook her head.

He nodded, almost trying to appease her. She had made an executive decision, very definite, very sensible. She knew what was best for herself, what kind of life she wanted, what sort of husband. Not him. He was no good for such a purpose, not appropriate.

He moved away, buffing the palm of his hand on the kitchen counter. He was steeped in unfamiliar feelings. After a long moment he said, ‘I've let music dictate my life.'

‘Music was always going to dictate your life. You're a wonderful musician.'

He looked up. ‘But I should have had a family. I should have found a way. In the end, love is the only thing that can make you happy.'

She could hardly argue with this.

There were children's voices in the yard outside.

The feeling was stronger now, a mixture of suffocating stress and anguish. The woman he loved had destroyed their child because he was a concert pianist. It came to him simply, dangerous to admit, but clear in his mind. ‘It's not a sacrifice I want to make any more.'

‘Philip . . .'

‘I've lost the will to play!'

She wilted. She was so unprepared for this.

Emotion was like a blast of jet lag, or sudden fever. Once expressed it left you ruined, slightly poisoned. He was stooped.

Camilla
regarded him tensely. She wanted him to go quickly now, because there was nothing she could say to make him feel better, and she was afraid the children would come in. She had loved Philip as a friend before they split up, but he was never the final choice, and if she knew it, in his heart he knew it, too.

‘I suppose it's never too late for a man to have a child.'

He looked at her in quiet devastation. The remark relegated him, pushed him off into the average happenstance of human experience.

She looked away, unable to bear his gaze.

‘It's not some hypothetical child I want!'

Vadim entered the room and came over to the kitchen counter, placing his palm on the edge of the work surface. He acknowledged the intrusion with a simple nod.

‘Philip, we must go.'

‘It's
that
child.'

She stared at him bleakly.

As they stepped into the car, she managed a repairing smile. Philip belted himself in and rolled down the window to say goodbye.

‘Lovely set-up you've got here.'

He could see in her expression the thought that after this he would probably never want to see her again, and that this was a final leave-taking.

‘Give my love to Peter,' she said.

‘Wish I could.'

She wasn't sure what to make of this, and nodded as though she understood something she didn't.

He put his key in the ignition.

‘Are you and he no longer buddies?'

‘Buddies?' It made him smile.

The car came on powerfully. He released the handbrake and revved the engine a little.

She stood there, arms crossed. Behind her he saw the two girls advancing across the lawn. Their two heads of blonde hair glimmered in the afternoon sunshine.

‘He's dead.'

She started.

‘Why is it always me that has to tell people?'

‘Can we go?' said Vadim.

‘
We're going. We're going!'

She was frozen with horror, and he could see the two girls coming closer, so he flicked it out quickly.

‘House burnt down. They all died.'

‘No!'

He let the clutch up.

‘Sorry, Camilla.'

The BMW circled around the gravel before pulling away down the drive. He saw her half-raised hand through the rear-view mirror and Lulu and Fernanda approaching through the garden gate.

Chapter
Two

In the dressing room it was cold. Brown water came from the washbasin tap. Vadim hunted around for a mirror. Nothing in the WC, nothing on the inside cupboard door. He stood in shirt and underpants holding a cigarette.

Driving into Southampton he had been fine. They had talked about Chopin and Szymanowski. Now in the dressing room he was panicky. His hand shook as he lit a cigarette. He stared at the hand with an almost clinical interest. A grandly confident person in general, he was palsied with fear right now.

Philip eased him into his tailcoat like a gentleman's gentleman; quite an operation because the younger man was heavy and getting heavier. He had a tussle with the trouser clip, problems with his belt, which notched too tight or too loose; and when the outfit was on he stood in the middle of the room looking desperate.

‘I'm indisposed.'

‘What! The Russian Lion indisposed?'

They had parked behind the building on a meter. Philip went off in search of cigarettes and change, and Vadim checked in at the box office. A dilapidated elderly gent in a tweed jacket with a spotted hanky took him through the hall to the artists' changing room. It was a 1950s civic building, used for lectures and theatricals, with long curtains hanging from high windows. Vadim tossed his bag into the dressing room and returned to the piano for a play. The instrument sounded like cotton wool in the dull acoustic.

‘I've got you down for a salami sandwich,' said the old boy. ‘Will it be lapsang souchong, or British worker's tea?'

Vadim looked up. ‘Working-class tea, please.'

‘Right you are.'

He
needed a bath, but there was no bath or shower. In the dressing room he became distressed by a patch of rising damp that had corrupted the plaster behind the coat hook. Philip found him rubbing his hands and shaking his head.

‘This is not good.'

‘You'll be fine. Think biriani. There's an Indian round the corner.'

‘I think cancellation.'

‘Come on, Vadim!'

‘The hall is terrible! I can't have shower. There's nobody here. Why must I play?'

‘Just hack through it. You can't play the Brahms in London for the first time.'

‘That piece is too long.'

‘Play from the score.'

‘I haven't French polished it!'

‘French polish it out there in front of the locals.'

Vadim looked desperate.

Philip patted him on the shoulder. ‘Tie on. Comb hair.'

He would get Vadim through the concert, and then tackle him over dinner - for fucking around. Nervous disarray lurked behind even the most autocratic talents. Beneath nervous disarray simmered infantile egotism and unhappiness. Compressing the ragged human being into an artist was his mission tonight. Urgent, because Vadim's malaise was beginning to harm his career. Promoters and sponsors were already wary of his cancellations and even John Sampson, their mutual agent, was wearying.