A Week in Paris (45 page)

‘So, big night tonight,’ Sandra remarked as she pushed her narrow feet into elegant black shoes. ‘We’re sold out, apparently.’

Fay dragged her thoughts back. ‘I heard. Do you think the Prime Minister is really coming?’

‘So Colin says. I suppose we do have to go on to the reception afterwards.’

‘Can’t see how we can get out of it.’

‘At least Georges is invited. We might bunk off early though.’ Sandra dabbed on scent from a bottle and the smell of Nina Ricci filled the air. ‘I shouldn’t wait up for me if I were you. It’s our last night, after all.’

‘Won’t you try to see each other again?’ Fay asked, surprised. ‘I thought you were rather fond of him.’

‘Oh I am, but that’s hardly the point. He’s in Paris, I’m in London. It wouldn’t work, Fay.’

‘Wouldn’t it? It seems a shame.’

Sandra gave a light laugh. ‘Easy come, easy go,’ she said, but Fay was sure she detected a sadness in her voice and wondered whether Sandra was kidding herself. Fay couldn’t live the kind of life the other girl did, moving between men, loving and letting go, and she wondered how long it would be before Sandra herself came to tire of it.

‘What about you?’

‘What about me?’

‘You are a dark horse! You know I’m talking about your young man.’

‘He’s coming to hear us. It’s his job to write about the concert, after all. He’ll come to the reception, too.’ She couldn’t bear to compare her relationship with that of Sandra and Georges. Surely she and Adam were of a different order altogether. She didn’t mean to be secretive, it was that it seemed too fragile and important to be exposed to Sandra’s casual eye. ‘Don’t you think we ought to go?’ she rushed on. ‘You look lovely, by the way.’

‘Thank you,’ Sandra said, pulling on a short black jacket. ‘So do you.’

Sitting quietly in her place, her instrument tuned, Fay looked about at the gathering audience, trying to calm her whirling mind. The hall with its fine wooden panelling and inlaid geometrical patterns was packed with elegantly dressed people. There, in the nearest of the boxes, was a stern bearded man, who James, her fellow violinist, whispered was indeed the French Prime Minister, sitting with his dark, striking wife. Somewhere, she thought as she scanned the rows of seats, must be Adam, though she couldn’t see clearly against the lights. Adam. The thought of him briefly filled her mind. Now the last few latecomers were settled in their seats and the air of expectation rose.
Concentrate
, she told herself fiercely. She mustn’t think of anything except the music.

The leader of the orchestra took his place to enthusiastic applause, and there was more as Colin hurried on stage with his bright, brisk demeanour. He mounted the podium and bowed low to the audience before turning to the orchestra and raising his baton in a sign to begin. There came that moment of stillness when all eyes were focused on him, bows poised and breath held. Fay emptied her mind of everything except her first note. Then it began, the dark, dramatic pulsating beat of the Dance of the Knights from Prokofiev’s
Romeo and Juliet
, which always thrilled her. Then it was the violins’ turn to soar, and at once she was there at the heart of the music, oblivious to all else but the part she was playing, the beat of Colin’s baton and the surge of sound building all around. She didn’t need to urge herself to concentrate any more, for the music filled her mind, possessed her, took her to another plane.

This was where she wanted to be, doing what she wanted to do, and she poured all her passion into her playing, seeing in her mind’s eye the whirl of the dancers for whom the piece had been written, feeling their yearning, their joy, their despair. And it was as though she shared it too. All the sorrow and confusion and delight of the last week poured out in her playing. And all too soon the piece was over. She raised her head, exhilarated and panting, as a rapturous applause began.

‘That went rather well.’ Great praise from the austere James, spoken as the clapping finally faded. Fay smiled to herself as she shuffled the music on their stand ready for the second piece of the night. It was one she adored, Rimsky-Korsakov and the beautiful haunting voice of his
Scheherazade
. As they played, Fay could imagine the clever young bride telling her fascinating stories through the sultry Arabian nights to beguile her impatient husband and save her own life. The leader of the orchestra was playing the violin solo. As Fay listened, a thought floated into her head.
One day it will be me playing that
. She wanted it badly, she saw suddenly. Again, she poured all of herself into the music, to the exclusion of all else.

Backstage at the interval, she half-hoped that Adam might appear, but when he didn’t, she wasn’t worried. He was probably with some journalist friend or other, caught up in the crowds at the bar. She was content to sit by herself, checking her instrument and drinking a glass of water as she prepared her mind for the long final piece of this Russian programme, Tchaikovsky’s Sixth Symphony, written for his beloved nephew and first performed only days before his own demise. Her mind was calmer now. She knew she could do it, she could master herself like a soldier preparing for battle. And now it was time to return to the stage. She walked with head held high, set for the task ahead.

At the end of the concert the atmosphere in the Green Room was electric with excited chatter as the musicians manoeuvred instruments into cases, and collected coats. Someone banged on a table to gain everybody’s attention and Colin stepped onto a chair to speak.

‘Congratulations, everybody, I’m extremely proud of you,’ he said, and there was an answering cheer.

‘Sad to think it’s all over,’ James said laconically as he checked his tie in the mirror. ‘Coming across the road to the bunfight?’

‘I hope so,’ Fay said. ‘I must look out for someone first.’ She was still buoyed up by the music, her nerves taut with the glory of the playing, but now all she could think of was Adam.

She took the violin case and hurried out into the auditorium to look for Adam, scanning the crowds still flowing towards the exit, but seeing no sign of him. Instead her attention was caught by the sight of a middle-aged woman with a stick making her way in the opposite direction towards the stage. With surprise, Fay realized it was Mme Ramond. She hurried to meet her and they exchanged kisses.

‘Nathalie, you didn’t tell me you were coming.’

‘I had bought tickets. I did not tell you as I wasn’t sure if I would feel well enough.’

‘I’m so glad you did. Thank you!’

‘No, thank
you
, Fay. It was a most wonderful concert. I loved to see you play. You looked as though you were enjoying it, my dear. You appeared to be transported!’

‘I was, I really was. I must confess, I felt quite shaken after what you told me today and I didn’t think I would play my best, but I did.’

‘That’s the sign of a real musician. It’s just a pity that Serge was not here. He would have loved it, too.’

‘Is it Monday that he returns?’

‘Tomorrow evening now, but you will have left Paris by then, yes?’

‘I’m afraid that the train leaves late afternoon.’

‘You must come back to Paris very soon and meet Serge. He will be delighted when I tell him I’ve seen you. I do hope that your mother is well again quickly.’ Mme Ramond hesitated, her manner wistful. ‘I should so like to see her again.’

‘I will speak to her about it,’ Fay said quickly. She sensed it would be a difficult task to persuade her mother. She thought of everything that she had to tell her, the questions crowding in her mind. It was clear from her letter that Kitty had not forgiven Sister Thérèse for her mistake. Would she do so now that Thérèse was Nathalie Ramond, older and wiser and struggling with ill health?

Mme Ramond turned to look up the hall towards the central exit. A woman of similar age was standing there and Mme Ramond waved to her.

‘I have to go now,’ she told Fay. ‘My sister is waiting.’

Fay walked with her as she made her slow progress. ‘I want to thank you again,’ Fay said. ‘For telling me everything. Perhaps I’ll start to remember more when I speak to my mother. But I wanted to say that I do remember you now. I remember . . .’ she faltered ‘. . . that you loved me. So thank you.’

The former nun looked up at her quickly and smiled, and through the lines of pain Fay could once more glimpse how she must have been before her illness. ‘I did and I still do, Fay. It was very wonderful to see you again, all grown up, and with such a talent. I am so proud of you.’

‘Thank you. That means so much to me.’

‘And now we must say
au revoir
.’ She laid a light hand on Fay’s shoulder and kissed her on both cheeks, then Fay watched her walk back up the aisle to meet her sister. At the top Mme Ramond looked back to her one more time and smiled, and then the women were gone.

At once Fay felt a sense of loss. She hadn’t really asked Nathalie enough about Serge or their life together. It would have to wait for another time. And for now Mme Ramond faded from her mind. She needed to find Adam.

He wasn’t anywhere in the auditorium. It was almost empty. There were several men on the stage clattering about with music-stands, and the percussionist was packing up his drums. Fay went up to the central doors at the back and stood scouring the crowds in the foyer, but couldn’t see him, so she turned and made her way back to the Green Room. Perhaps he would come to find her backstage.

‘Fay!’ It was Sandra in the Green Room, pulling on her coat, her cheeks flushed with warmth and excitement. ‘Are you coming to the reception? I’ll walk with you, if you like.’

‘Yes,’ Fay said uncertainly. ‘I was looking for Adam.’

‘Haven’t you found him?’

‘No. Have you seen him?’

Sandra shook her head. ‘He’s probably waiting outside. Hang on, just finding my gloves.’

He wasn’t outside and a glumness settled over Fay. Where was he? He’d said he’d be here.

‘Georges didn’t come to the concert either, the wretch,’ Sandra said, trying to cheer her up. ‘I’m meeting him later on at the reception. I expect we’ll see Adam there. Did you say that he was invited?’

‘He said he was.’

‘There you are then,’ Sandra said, which sounded meaningless, but it somehow cheered Fay.

They walked together until they came to the hotel where they’d been the first night, when Fay had stood on the balcony and listened to the beguiling music before Adam found her. Again there was a drinks reception, with hundreds of the same kind of people who had been present last time, but now there was a large group that included Colin standing around the Prime Minister, waiting to be introduced. Fay stared around, only interested in seeing Adam, but there was no sign of his blond head, his tall, laughing figure, his eager face, raised to look for hers.

She joined a circle of people from the orchestra and sipped champagne, not really listening to them. Frank was blustering about something again and gradually she tuned in. It was about it being his last concert for the orchestra, but by the time she started to engage properly, the announcement for dinner came and they all began to drift towards the restaurant.

Two dozen white-clothed tables lay sparkling with glass and silver under the soft light of chandeliers. Afterwards, Fay didn’t remember much of the rest of the evening, so anxious was she about Adam. She drank a little too much and picked at the food and politely listened to the elderly Frenchman next to her talk about his love for the works of a long-dead English artist of whom she’d never heard. Across the table, Sandra and Georges talked to each other. Sandra looked very happy and animated, hanging onto his every word, Fay thought. Georges was certainly sitting close to her, whispering in her ear, but Fay noted that he was always glancing at people passing, exchanging greetings with some of the men, and admiring the women a little too openly, and she felt sorry for her friend.

Fay left with her violin as soon as she politely could after the dinner and took a taxi back to the hotel, wanting to be alone. When she collected the key from an old man on reception she hadn’t seen before, she asked if there were any messages. He took his time finding the right pigeonhole, then inspected a slip of paper he found before passing it to her with a gravelly ‘
Voilà
.’

She took it, and seeing that it was a telephone message from Adam, read it quickly. He had rung just after she and Sandra had left for the concert.

Je suis désolé
, the receptionist had written down. Desolate. It sounded more sincere than the casual English ‘sorry’. Adam was desolate that he would not be able to come tonight because of – here the receptionist had crossed out the word for ‘emergency’ and replaced it by the one for ‘difficulty’. It seemed he would telephone again in the morning.

Fay walked slowly upstairs, rereading the message, glad to have heard from him but wondering what was wrong. The thought of an emergency was worrying, and clearly he’d thought so too, which had made him soften the word to ‘difficulty’. What could be wrong? Had he been hurt during the demonstration? She hoped it was nothing bad to do with his family. Still, she was comforted. He hadn’t simply declined to turn up this evening. There had been a good reason, and he was
désolé
.

In her room, feeling suddenly fed up and exhausted, she changed for bed as quickly as she could, taking the trouble only to fit her black dress over its hanger in the wardrobe and to wipe off her make-up with a few strokes of cold cream. But when she turned out the bedside light and lay at last between the cool sheets, she couldn’t settle. Her mind was full of everything that had happened that day. Adam, the demonstration that morning, the concert music that still played in her head, but above all there was the story that Nathalie Ramond had told her that had swept away her foundations. It seemed that there had been a long period when she was young when she’d been separated from her mother who was in the Vittel internment camp and the nuns had looked after her. That explained the familiarity of the convent when she’d visited, her memories of playing there with her toy animal. There had also been the feeling of terror that had engulfed her when she’d imagined shouts and the thud of boots on the stairs. Perhaps that had been the day that her father had been killed.