The Maestro's Mistress (40 page)

She went to the door, her heart
dipping and swooping with premonition. Behind her, a white-faced Alessandra
padded up on bare feet. Two police officers stood on the doorstep. Their faces
were grave.

‘Mrs Saul Xavier?’ one of them
said.

Tara flinched. Sighed. ‘Well…yes.’

‘I’m afraid we have some bad
news, madam. May we come in?’

CHAPTER
34

Tara and Alessandra sat together
after the police had gone. Stunned. Numb. Temporarily suspended even from pain.
That would come soon enough.

Alessandra stared ahead of her.
She began to comb the fingers through the long strands of her hair. Over and
over, strong downward sweeps as though she were grooming Tosca’s mane.

Tara sprang up. ‘We mustn’t be
like this!’

Alessandra’s compulsively moving
hand stilled. ‘What? What do you mean?’

‘It’s not a death. We mustn’t
behave as though it’s a death.’

‘His car has been found all
mangled and burned. There’s no sign of him!’

‘Yes – but…’

‘For goodness sake, Mummy!’

‘You heard what the police said.
Officially he’s simply missing.’

‘Who are they trying to kid?’’
Alessandra stared at her mother, furious and bitter. They won’t just say the
word
dead
until they’ve got a body to gawp at.’

‘No,’ Tara moaned softly,
covering her eyes with her hands.

‘Look, it was obvious what they
were thinking. Why would they have kept banging on about all those other
“cases” where drivers have gone missing and then been found in a river
somewhere. Dumped by some drunken truck driver who didn’t want to find himself
on a charge of manslaughter.’

‘No.’

‘That’s what they think has
happened. The driver of the truck that crashed into Daddy’s car dragged him out
of the mess and then…’ Alessandra faltered. ‘Mummy, don’t live in cloud cuckoo
land!’ she finished, burning with fury and grief and impotence.

Tara gasped as though Alessandra
had punched her and crushed all the air from her chest.  She sat down again and
began to tremble, shaking uncontrollably.

‘Mummy. Oh Mummy!’ Alessandra
panicked, feeling again like a little child, terrified that her parent might
break down completely. ‘Don’t, don’t!’ She pulled Tara’s head down and held it
against her neck and shoulder.

In time Tara was calm and herself
once more. She looked at her watch. ‘Eight-thirty. You should be thinking of
school.’

Alessandra sighed. ‘It’s Saturday.
And we’re in London, not at home.’

Home! The mock Tudor monstrosity.
How Tara had come to love that place. She wanted

to be back there in the big
sparse drawing room: Saul’s room, filled with his music collection, his piano,
his presence. She wanted to fly there and draw the atmosphere of the place
around her like a blanket of comfort.  She longed for the ministrations and
refreshments of the kind and loyal Mrs Lockwood.

Alessandra was watching her
mother anxiously.

Tara smiled. ‘Don’t worry, I’m
not about to go to pieces. Look, if it’s Saturday that means you’ll be entered
for dressage classes at the riding centre.’

‘It doesn’t matter. Not today.’
Alessandra’s eyes swivelled from side to side, not knowing where to look.
Hating to be thinking of trivial pleasures when a black cloud of tragedy hung
in the air. And yet longing for that pleasure as the only shred of comfort
available.

‘Of course it matters,’ Tara said
briskly. ‘Get ready. I’ll drive you there right away.’

Tara helped Alessandra unload
Tosca from the trailer. Alessandra got out her grooming kit and set about the
horse with a will.

Looking on Tara felt strangely
comforted. It struck her that Alessandra was rapidly outgrowing her beloved
Tosca. They would have to consider another horse. Saul would have a few words
to say on that subject, she could imagine. She halted her thoughts in horror.
Saul, oh Saul!

Tara grasped one hand tightly
over the other, praying that Alessandra had not heard her high-pitched mew of
distress.

‘It’ll be ages until we’re in the
arena,’ Alessandra said. ‘Don’t wait Mummy. Go and see Grandma. Come back
later.’

Friends drifted up to make horsey
talk with Alessandra. Tara looked on with an uncertain smile, then slipped
quietly away and drove straight to Rachel’s.

‘He’s a survivor,’ Rachel said
with dry practicality, having served up coffee and listened to Tara’s long
story without making any interruption.

‘But he’d have been in touch by
this time. He wouldn’t leave me in this hell of uncertainty if he were alive,’
said Tara. She looked at her mother. ‘Would he?’

Rachel picked up a biscuit from
the plate in front of her, staring fixedly at her at it as she crumbled it into
little pieces. ‘You don’t believe he’s dead - do you, Tara?’

‘No.’ Tara looked up with hunted
eyes. ‘Oh, I don’t know. Alessandra doesn’t want to hope. She keeps saying that
awful word: dead, dead, dead.’

‘Of course she does. If you tell
yourself the very worst there’s nothing else to fear.’

‘Yes, I know that’s right.’

‘He always loved you,’ Rachel
said to her daughter gently. ‘He was simply besotted.’ She recalled the journey
with Saul to the hospital when Tara was fighting for Alessandra’s life. ‘And if
he’s alive, he’ll still love you. But he’s one on his own. He has the capacity
to think and act and feel in ways other men don’t.’

‘Do you think he did it on
purpose?’ Tara asked suddenly. ‘Tried to kill himself?’

‘No, certainly not.’ Rachel
judged this was a time to be firm, whatever uncertainties hovered. ‘Do you?’

‘The police said the HGV driver
was well over the limit. The road surface was wet and slippery.’

Tara kept reminding herself of
this. It was an accident which had not been Saul’s fault. Not of his doing. Yet
she couldn’t help thinking that if only Bruno’s wretchedly chatty wife hadn’t
opened her  mouth about Bruno’s bloody blond boyhood hair…

She recalled her words to Saul
when he had taken her for a spin on the motorway after Monica Helfrich’s master
class.
You believe your life is important. You would never put yourself at
real risk.
Words she had spoken fifteen years previously. Had they been
crookedly, grimly prophetic? And was a particle of doubt about Alessandra’s
paternity the final twitch on the trigger of a pistol which had long been
cocked?

She groaned out loud, thinking of
her beloved, beleaguered Saul. The pain was cutting through the numbness now. 
She had to brace herself against the conjectures revolving in her mind,
grinding relentlessly into her spirit.

Rachel comforted herself with the
thought that Tara was still young. Even if Saul were dead her sadness would not
be forever. Rachel’s inner thoughts of the maestro were bitter. From his lofty
pedestal he had dangled his adoring satellites, Tara and Alessandra, on strings
of steel and they had danced around him in worshipful adoration, keeping in
strict synchronisation with every tune he called. If he had gone, then now
there was a chance for them both to be free. Fulfilled in their own way, on
their own terms.

Rachel got up and filled the
kettle in preparation for yet more coffee. No, she thought. That’s not right.
That’s just my way of looking at it. Tara’s will be quite different, and
Alessandra’s different again.

‘You need your work,’ Rachel told
Tara bluntly. ‘You need Roland Grant. You need an orchestra and a trunk load of
music.’

‘I can’t. Not now. Not yet.’

‘That’s something he would never
have said,’ Rachel stated brutally.

The police had agreed with Tara
that they would maintain an embargo on issuing any public statement for
twenty-four hours. After that it would not be possible to maintain silence any
longer. They had pointed out their obligation to publish details regarding
missing persons. And of their hope that following the release of information
someone might come forward with some fragment of knowledge regarding Mr Xavier’s
disappearance, some scrap of enlightenment which would help towards his being
found.

Tara did not disagree. She knew,
however, what would happen once the press got onto the story. She had wanted
Alessandra to have at least one day of peace.

A breathless quiet hung over the
house at the start of Sunday morning, thirty hours after Xavier had set out in
his car. Tara grimly braced herself for the storm which would roll over her and
Alessandra once the news broke.

Alessandra, worn out with grief,
shock and the nervous elation of coming second in her equitation class with
Tosca, slept on well past breakfast time.

Tara walked out into the garden,
her mind full of the man who had dominated her thoughts and her whole life for
so long. The thin white cloud which had dominated the early summer weather for
days seemed about to be banished by a luminous disc of sunshine. Tara looked up
at it, her eyes dazzled and aching.

She wandered underneath the
dipping branches of the monkey-puzzle tree, past the lawns and down the
driveway, idly touching the glossy leaves of the bordering bushes. At the gates
she stopped, looking out into the road. The gates were standing open. She and
Saul had long ago decided that security was a matter of taking care and trusting
rather than alarms and searchlights.

A silver Mercedes coupe rounded
the curve in the road, signalling its intention to turn, passing between the
gates. The driver, not noticing Tara, drove on, making for the house. But Tara
had taken notice. As she ran up the drive she was conscious of a strong need to
get to the front door before Georgiana announced her presence and was
confronted by a half-asleep Alessandra.

Surely, she said to herself in a
rush of panic as she ran, it couldn’t be possible that Georgiana knows
something of Saul’s whereabouts. A bolt of joy surged up. Maybe, just maybe,
there was hope.

Georgiana was still arranging
herself prior to getting out of the car. Tara saw the blonde hair swing to and
fro as its owner stroked fingers over cheeks and hairline whilst staring in the
rear view mirror. A pale hand brushed at the shoulders of her dress. Eventually
the car door opened and two slender legs swung out. The rest of the figure
unfolded itself, standing erect, cat-walk svelte in dark navy silk.

Tara called out. ‘Georgiana!’

Georgiana turned, hesitated and
then walked forward. Tara stood astonished and stone-like as Georgiana leaned
forward and pressed her cheek against Tara’s.

As she pulled back Tara looked
into the big china-blue eyes of Saul’s wife and knew with a terrible rush of
disappointment that Georgiana knew nothing. She came bringing no significant
news which could bring Tara back into full life again.

‘Come in Georgiana,’ she said,
cool but polite.

Georgiana sat on the big cream
sofa, crossing her legs with dainty precision, revealing smooth golden legs in
sheer stockings. ‘I had hoped to see Saul,’ she said, calm and gently smiling.

Tara had an urge to burst into hysterical
laughter. ‘I’m sorry - he’s not here at the moment.’ She stopped. How to go on,
she wondered. A wave of nausea seized her.

‘I’ve tried the London house,
left messages on the answer phone,’ Georgiana said.

Tara straightened her spine,
marshalled her resources. ‘Georgiana, I think you might be able to help me,’
she said. ‘Will you help me?’

Georgiana blinked. ‘I’ll try.’

‘Saul had a car crash in the
early hours of Saturday morning. He’s missing. I’ve heard nothing from him.’

Georgiana stared at her, then
blinked. ‘Oh,’ she said. ‘Oh dear.’

‘You haven’t heard from him, have
you?’

Georgiana hesitated. ‘No – not
for a week or two.’

So he had still been visiting
her. Tara had always suspected as much. The bastard she thought, vicious in her
rage for a brief moment. The stomach-churning anxiety and despair welled up
again. Oh, if only he were still alive. Even the thought of a blazing row was
like some dream of bliss.

‘He will be all right,’ Georgiana
said. ‘He’s never hurt himself in an accident. He’s a wonderful driver.’

Tara winced. ‘He hasn’t been in
touch. Not a word. Not a call. Nothing.’

Georgiana finally caught the
torment and hint of menace in Tara’s voice. Her hands fidgeted with the silk of
her navy skirt.

‘Where might he have gone? Do you
know?’ Tara asked urgently.

Georgiana shook her head. ‘I’m
sorry,’ she said looking helpless.

Silence.

‘Dr Denton, my doctor, he would
say…’ Georgiana paused, as though regretting having embarked on this line of
thought.

‘Yes?’

‘That anyone who goes missing is
searching for their past.’