The Maestro's Mistress (11 page)

Dr Denton smiled. He doubted she
would ever change. What motivation was there? She truly believed herself
perfect. He imagined her naked, the smooth skin, the elegant bone structure,
the small breasts with rosy nipples. Her buttocks would be soft ellipses; if
she turned her back to him and bent over with her long legs together those
globes would form a perfect heart.

His pulse quickened. As the light
on his tape recorder winked and Georgiana’s voice chimed in the background he
allowed his mind to play out a fantasy where he delicately peeled off her
clothes and using the most gentle, most leisurely touches of his lips and
fingers brought her to a shuddering climax which made her his slave.

CHAPTER
9

Bruno walked with Tara along the
embankment. Looking down at her he felt a painful lurch of tenderness. He had
known as soon as she arrived at his room earlier on that his terrifying
premonition of losing her was about to become reality. Sadness welled up inside
him.

She had spoken hardly a word in
the past hour, her face still and solemn.

‘What’s the matter, darling?’ he
asked gently.

She shook her head. ‘I don’t
know. I honestly don’t know.’ Tears glittered on her eyelashes.

‘It’s hardly any time at all
since your father died —‘

‘No,’ she interrupted softly,
sending a chill to his heart, ‘no, it’s not that. I just feel…well, I think we
should stop seeing each other for a while.’

It was incomprehensible to him.
They got on so well. He loved her so much. There would never be anyone else.
Never.

He took her hand. She held on
tightly, trying to make things easier for him. Bruno sensed her pity, which
only made the hurt worse. He simply wanted to have her with him for ever.

‘There’s no one else,’ she said
truthfully.

He winced. It was more than two
weeks since they had made love and his body ached for her. The mere thought of
another man possessing her engulfed him in a fresh wave of misery.

‘Good!’ he said. Because I’d have
killed him. GBH at the very least!’ He forced the words to emerge with delicate
irony. On no account was she to guess the extent of his grief.

‘I’m being such a bitch!’ she
wailed. ‘I just don’t seem to be able to get anything right at the moment.’

‘For me you do,’ he said with
quiet sincerity. ‘This last year has been the best of my life – simply because
of being with you.’

Getting it right, he thought. He
had thought about that endlessly ever since he had asked her on the telephone
if he had done anything wrong. He knew that if it were possible to start again,
one thing he must never do was let her guess the extent of his adoration. He
guessed he had smothered her with it, given her no space to breathe. Even that
last little speech had been just the kind of thing to chase her away. He had,
in fact, done everything completely wrong.

He saw it all now with perfect
clarity. And at the same time he knew that even with the miracle of a second
chance with Tara he would make exactly the same mistakes. But then if you
really loved someone there was no way of concealing it. And on the whole that
meant you were doomed to suffer.

He took her to the train. He
kissed her and told her she was very brave to have been so honest with him. As
the train lurched into movement he saw the tears glistening on her beloved
face.

‘Cheer up,’ he mouthed to her,
waving, smiling, keeping his own emotions locked tightly behind the required
façade of manliness as he made his way out of the station. Squaring his
shoulders he plunged bravely into the road beyond.

For a year now Tara had been his
friend, his lover, critic and ally. His rock. He had allowed her to mould his
identity. Without her he would not be the same person.

Tara spent a miserable day or two
trudging round the local restaurants and eventually got herself an evening job
waitressing in a small Italian trattoria ten minutes’ walk from her home. It
was hard work but better than being unemployed and queuing up with the sad
procession of life’s losers every Wednesday morning to argue the toss about
state benefits.

With her earnings and tips she
would be able to give her mother a small amount to contribute to the
housekeeping bills and just manage to pay for one or two tutoring sessions with
a reputable violin tutor. Having broken her father’s heart by rebelling against
his lifetime ambition for her in the world of music, now all she wanted to do
was play.

During the day when her mother
was at work, she continued to practise non stop. Holding and playing her
father’s instrument fulfilled some deep need. There was no clear aim behind her
punishing regime. She was simply driven to do it. It was as though in as short
a time as possible she had to make up for all the lost time of the past two
years.

She had started with some basic
exercises, working on her technique which her father had always claimed should
be in perfect working order so as to leave the way clear to concentrate on the
interpretation of the piece. After that she had moved on to some solos from Bach,
and then fragments from the great violin and piano sonatas of Mozart and
Beethoven.

It was tempting as well to start
learning the lead parts of one or two of the big solo concertos in the
repertoire, practising against the orchestral background of the vinyl LP
records from her father’s vast collection.

It was while she was engaged on
such an undertaking – the work being Elgar’s mighty concerto which was making
her sweat with effort – that she was astonished to see the tall figure of
Xavier standing outside the window staring at her.

A coil of shock spun inside her
as his eyes made contact with hers. She stared at him blankly for a few
moments. He gestured towards the door, requesting that she should open it. He
walked straight in and stood in hallway looking down at her. A faint, ironic
smile flickered over his features.

Tara looked back at him, her mind
racing with conjecture as to why the hell he had turned up like this, so soon
after the disaster with serpent-tongued Monica. ‘What do you want?’ she asked,
polite but very direct.

She was struck afresh by the
psychological power of the man, the magnetic, subtly menacing charisma that
clung to him like a halo of light illuminating everything around him. As he
watched her in calm silence she had the sensation of standing under a
spotlight, with all the little human flaws and faults mercilessly revealed.

‘Elgar,’ he said, tilting his
head towards the sound surging from the stereo.

‘I was playing along to the
recording,’ she told him. ‘I know it’s not the approved method, but it seems to
help.’

He raised his eyebrows slightly
but offered no opinion. ‘I’ve come to make a proposition to you,’ he said,
ushering her in front of him into the sitting room and settling himself on the
sofa.

Tara turned the music off. It
unnerved her to have been discovered practising in this way. And the recording
was not even one of Xavier’s.

She looked at him. ‘Oh?’

‘You have no job at the moment I
take it.’

She told him about the restaurant
and he waved a dismissive hand. Clearly that did not count.

‘I’ve been approached to take on
the role of music director and chief conductor with the Tudor,’ he told her.
‘I’m considering it very carefully.’

‘You haven’t been with one
particular orchestra recently, have you?’ She stood before him, her face intent
and speculative; a small barefoot figure clad in faded old jeans and a well
worn Arran jumper.

‘There have been links with one
or two, but I’ve been mainly guest conducting as I’m sure you know.’

‘Jet-setting around the world and
picking up the loot,’ Tara suggested mischievously, not being able to stop
herself.

His features registered no
response, but his grey eyes pierced her relentlessly, never leaving her face
for a second. ‘It will mean settling down in London, making my base there again,
taking up the cause of a great orchestra. There are many advantages to
consider.’

‘Yes, I can see that. And
orchestras like it on the whole having one guy at the helm long-term, as long
as he isn’t a malevolent despot.’ Her eyes held his. Verbal fencing with Xavier
took a lot of nerve but she judged she was up to it.

‘Is that your own opinion, or
your father’s?’ Xavier enquired.

‘His, of course. How else would I
know?’

He paused. ‘For the record Tara,
I am indeed a despot. But not, I think, unduly malevolent.’

She nodded, holding his gaze
firmly, refusing to be the first to drop her eyes.

‘I think my decision is made,’ he
stated evenly. ‘I shall take on the Tudor Philharmonic and shape it into one of
the finest orchestras in the world. It will have a repertoire second to none.
And the players will be rewarded not only artistically but financially. We
shall gain recording contracts which will make them rich enough to drive to
rehearsals in Mercedes and when we go on tour they will stay in the best
hotels. Because that is what they will have earned, that will be what they are
worthy of.’

‘And what will you do on the
second day?’ Tara interjected wickedly.

The hint of a smile hovered
around his stern medieval features. ‘I’m sure I shall think of something.’

‘I’m sure you will. So what is
your proposition?’ she demanded.

‘I came to say that I’d like you
to take over the future publicity and promotion of the orchestra.’

Tara was astonished. She forced
herself to say nothing. Automatic responses such as protests at lack of
experience and so on were to be avoided at all costs.

Xavier was no fool. If he was
seriously asking her to do this – and she believed he was – then he must
believe her capable of it. And if he believed it then she could believe it too.
But did she want to? It was playing that she wanted, not an administrative
post, however exciting and prestigious.

‘There is no need to give an
answer now,’ Xavier said. ‘I merely wanted to introduce the idea to you. You
can have time to think it over and I’ll set up a meeting with the orchestra’s
management board sometime next week so that you can meet them and find out
more.’

‘Is it in your power to hire and
fire me?’ Tara asked.

A muscle flickered at Xavier’s
temple. ‘You know about the management and politics of orchestras. Of course I
don’t have that power. But with your father’s reputation as a backing and with
my recommendation there will be no difficulty about securing the post for you
if you decide you would like it.’

Tara frowned. She was hugely
flattered – and immensely suspicious. ‘Are you trying to do me some sort of
good turn?’

His eyes became steely. ‘I don’t
do “good turns”. I’m surprised you asked me that.’

‘Sorry.’ She stared ahead of her.
He was right. She needed time to think. But the idea was by no means
unattractive; she was not going to reject it out of hand.

Xavier stood up, unfolding his
long frame with athletic grace.

Tara experienced an unexpected
desire to hang on to him. She was hungry for companionship. The full extent of
her loneliness hit her with painful force. When she split from Bruno she had
imagined she was making a fresh start, cutting herself adrift from all the ties
of the last two rebel years. She had thought she would connect with a younger
Tara, the child who had shown such musical promise, who had delighted her
father with her youthful talent.

She had wanted to create a space
to fulfil that wish. And in some ways she had achieved that. But what she had
thought of as a clean slate was beginning to look like a simple void. A few
moments of the nerve-jangling Xavier seemed preferable to solitude.

He made no move to the door,
however, but walked across to the piano and fingered the keys. ‘How is your
mother?’ he asked.

‘Surprisingly well.’ There was an
edge to Tara’s voice.

‘And the widower doctor?’

‘The same.’

‘And how is your young friend
Bruno?’

Tara held back for a moment, then
changed her mind. What was to be gained by concealing what had happened? ‘I
don’t know. We’re not seeing each other at the moment.’

Xavier turned to glance at her
and Tara stared resolutely back.

He drew in a long breath. ‘Ah.’
He turned again to the piano. On the stand in front of him was the score for
Cesar Franck’s violin sonata in A major, the paper well thumbed and pencilled
all over with handwritten comments and directions. Xavier flicked over the
sheets. ‘This piece can be played in so many different ways,’ he mused. ‘A
truly astonishing work.’

‘I used to play it with my
father,’ Tara said. ‘He took the piano part and I wrestled with the rest!’

‘You know this first movement
takes a gigantic hand to play the piano part,’ Xavier commented. ‘Look at
this!’ He played a chord, his long fingers just spanning the notes.