Eighty Days Blue (17 page)

A black dress.

Summer approached the garment with a tingle in her fingers.

Surely not?

It was made from a double layer of chiffon, almost but not quite see-through. Daring, but just modest enough to pass the eagle eyes of the concert organisers. It had a very low back, thin spaghetti straps and a turquoise beaded strip that snaked down the front, providing extra cover for the wearer's more private areas and also highlighting the curves of a feminine body. The bottom of the dress was beaded in the same colour, weighting the dress down so that it would hold its shape and swish with each movement. It came with a pair of full-length fingerless gloves, with the same beading
running
from a delicate strap that fitted through the index and middle finger, to just past the elbow.

The stallholder, spotting a possible sale, was quick to approach. ‘It belonged to an English burlesque dancer. She had it made for her. Only dress like this in the world, and she had a body just like yours.'

‘It's beautiful. Just feel the material – it's so soft to the touch.' She called Dominik over and displayed the second-hand dress to him.

‘It is,' he confirmed.

Summer turned the dress inside out, looking for a label with an indication of its size. There was none. ‘It would just be too much of a coincidence for it to be my exact size,' she pointed out with a sigh of resignation.

‘How do you know?'

‘It's unlikely.'

‘Try it on,' he suggested.

‘There's nowhere to change,' Summer pointed out, waving at the crowds milling around them in the shadow of the Washington Square Arch and, just a few steps away, the children's swing enclosure, where tiny voices screeched and laughed.

‘I know,' he said. ‘So what?'

‘I can't,' she sputtered.

‘Of course you can.'

Before leaving the loft, she had slipped into a loose, casual flower-print summer dress for the walk to the park. She wasn't wearing a bra, as its top held her breasts tight.

‘Dominik . . .'

‘Since when are you shy?'

‘It was different, the other times,' Summer protested.

‘I know. It was sexual. Here it's not. Anything but that.
So
just do it. It's straightforward.' His tone was now peremptory, severe.

She looked him in the eyes and recognised that familiar glint of mischief and authority that sometimes changed him into an entirely different person, the welcomingly evil and demanding Dominik, a man she now knew well.

She tried to retreat a few steps under the canopy of the improvised tent to pull her dress off, but she heard Dominik tut-tut.

‘No . . . Where you are right now will do.'

Avoiding the glances of the many passers-by, Summer gripped the thin straps of the summer dress she was wearing and pulled upwards, the cotton fabric bunching between her fingers, and pulled it swiftly above her head. All she wore underneath was a thin pair of low-waisted black panties.

She was in a New York street, strangers slaloming across her, virtually naked. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the glances, the surprise, how some even stopped to take a closer look, while others diverted their gaze. She held her breath and took hold of the black dress, her cheeks on fire, and dropped it across her head. The fit was perfect, even round her uncommonly slim waistline. The material felt like silk next to her skin, and soothed the terrible heat racing through her at the thought of all these strangers witnessing her undressing and catching more than a glimpse of her body. There was both an element of shame and one of intense arousal, reminding her of the occasion she had first been naked and turned on in public, at the fetish club in London all those months ago.

It was maybe just a few inches too long, but she knew that with needle and thread that would easily be rectified.

‘You see,' Dominik said.

With a smile she nodded.

Dominik paid the stallholder.

Summer was about to suggest she could walk the short distance home in the new black dress, but Dominik asked the stallholder for a plastic bag in which they could carry it and indicated she should change back into her loose summer dress. Once again, Summer stripped under the lubricious gaze of the crowds who had slowly gathered around the clothes stall to watch.

‘You liked that, didn't you?' Dominik suggested.

‘I like the black dress we bought,' Summer defiantly said, refusing to take his bait.

The new dress had been dry-cleaned and its length shortened and Summer was ready for her solo gig. At Dominik's predictable insistence, she wore nothing underneath. It felt exhilarating. She wondered what Simón would think of her if only he knew.

He was conducting tonight, as usual.

The concert, which was being held at Webster Hall on 11th Street between Third and Fourth, would begin with the full orchestra playing Mussorgsky's
Night on the Bare Mountain
, in the Rimsky-Korsakov orchestration. Summer would then follow with Korngold's Violin Concerto in D major, and the gig would end with the orchestra giving a performance of Shostakovich's Symphony No. 5 in D minor.

Simón had chosen the pieces as perfect showcases for the new dynamics he had brought to the Gramercy Symphonia and felt the Korngold was ideally suited to Summer's temperament and talent.

Dominik arranged for a cab to pick Summer up, as she had to be at Webster Hall sometime ahead of the concert. He would travel there later, separately. He knew the venue, having once attended a performance there by Patti Smith, and had arranged for Summer to get him a place on the balcony, where he knew he would have a superior view of the stage.

There was a buzz in the air as the orchestra and Simón, who was a veritable bundle of energy, curly hair in motion with every movement of his arms, took a bow at the end of the first short and sometimes pyrotechnic Mussorgsky piece as the audience anticipated the arrival of the violinist whose first concert this had heavily been advertised as. It was at Dominik's insistence that a headless photo of Summer holding her violin against her bare chest, with just stray strands of her fire-red hair visible, had adorned the posters for the event, thus keeping her identity a mystery until the actual day of the performance. It was a photo a friend of hers had taken back in London and which he treasured for the private memories it evoked. When the idea had been suggested to the concert's promoters and the orchestra's management, they had proven surprisingly enthusiastic. Even the
Village Voice
and
Time Out
had picked up on it, and the event had, as a consequence, become a sell-out.

The lights dimmed and Summer walked onto the stage. The murmurs in the audience faded.

Summer adjusted her stance, brought the bow into position and launched into the soaring opening solo of the Korngold, the ‘
Moderato nobile
', which ran into two octaves over five notes.

The new black dress clung to her like a second skin.

Watching from above, Dominik felt a knot in his throat.

He was transfixed by the beauty of both Summer and the music. There was a lush sensuality in the way the jungle of her hair, tousled and luxuriant, was accentuated by the concert hall's lighting, the pale skin of her bare arms contrasting so strikingly with the black fabric of the dress and the background darkness of the suits worn by the rest of the orchestra.

He closed his eyes, imagined her nakedness, the way she played for him, wanton and beautiful, the way the sight of her body lost in the music made his cock shiver and could almost bring him to orgasm, a willing victim of lust.

Around him, the whole world disappeared.

Time slowed but still flowed on and on, lullabied by the sublime sounds and the virtuoso performances of the rest of the orchestra in which the brass section had particular bravura measures, including her Croatian friends, who both displayed broad smiles as they attacked their instruments full-cheeked and teeming with calculated aggression.

All too soon – the Korngold concerto was barely twenty-five minutes long at best – the ‘
Romanze
' section was over and Summer fell into the opening staccato jig of the final movement, the ‘
Allegro assai vivace
'. It was the most demanding part of the composition, one over which she had laboured rehearsing for hours on end, but she made it look so easy now, her body in tune with her instrument and the music.

The next time Dominik opened his eyes, the final echoes of the concerto were fading into the distance and the audience were on their feet, applauding wildly, as Simón on his rostrum grinned wildly at Summer as she took her first bow.

Dominik, from his high vantage point, focused on
Summer's
face, ignoring the other spectators on the balcony all standing and jostling him as they clapped enthusiastically. There was the faintest of smiles on Summer's face, as she modestly kept on bowing to the audience, and the orchestra members behind her on the stage rose altogether in unison and joined in the applause. It was a smile in which Dominik could read quiet satisfaction but also sadness, as if she had now come to the realisation that tonight she had reached a crossroads and that her life would never be the same again.

A concert-hall attendant walked out of the stage wing and presented Summer with an enormous bouquet of flowers. For a moment, she just stood there, confused, not knowing how to take hold of it, still nervously gripping her violin by her side. Simón approached and, whispering something into her ear, gently relieved her of the Bailly. She now held the flowers, and without glancing up to the balcony, she was led off stage, her retreat delayed by the unending applause.

It was her night, her triumph. She would no doubt want to spend the rest of it with her fellow musicians, celebrating backstage, Dominik knew. Shortly before the tumult quietened down and the orchestra was led into the final piece of the concert, the Shostakovich, he moved to his feet and retreated from the balcony seats. He walked downstairs and left Webster Hall to return to the loft alone.

7

A Prelude to the Road

All I wanted was some peace and quiet, a place to sit in solitude and feel the residual post-performance energy ebb and flow from my body, but backstage was like another concert, a cacophony of well-wishers and congratulations.

Marija threw her arms round me and I stiffly hugged her back, her hard body pressed so firmly against mine I worried that she might break one of my ribs.

‘You were amazzzzing!' she cried.

Baldo stood next to her, applauding. ‘You better come get the stuff you left in the flat,' he said, laughing. ‘Marija is planning to sell it now that you're famous.'

She let go of me and turned to give him a smack across his backside.

In the background, I heard the pop of a champagne cork and one of the percussionists squealing as the fizzing liquid threatened to erupt over her dress. A moment later, someone pushed a glass into my hand.

I panicked when I realised that I was missing my violin. Now, of all times, I wanted the instrument in my hand.

‘Don't worry,' Simón said softly into my ear. ‘Your Bailly is safe. I put it out the back with my things.'

He removed the glass of champagne from my hand and replaced it with a bottle of beer.

‘I thought you might prefer this.'

‘Oh, thank you. You're too kind.'

‘No, I'm really not. You were incredible out there. Truly.'

‘Thank you. I just wish . . .'

‘What?'

‘I don't want to be ungrateful, but I feel as though my head might explode. I just want to sit down.'

‘I know what you mean. Come with me.'

He took my hand in his and led me away through a side door into one of the adjacent rooms, then down another corridor, and then through another door, which opened onto a flight of steps leading straight downwards, another unknown door looming out of the murk at the bottom. I hesitated. The steps were wooden instead of stone and lacked that scent that attaches itself to ancient things, but other than that, it reminded me exactly of the crypt that Dominik had taken me to, where we had had sex for the first time.

Dominik. I should be celebrating with him, not Simón. If he hadn't happened upon me playing Vivaldi at Tottenham Court Road Station, more than a year ago now, then I probably wouldn't be here. Most of the events that had happened since would likely not have occurred without him; our chance meeting was like the current that had swept me away from one course and sent me full speed down another.

I hesitated.

‘Don't worry, there are no ghosts down here. Just an old store room, but the one place in this building that we'll go totally unnoticed, at least for a few minutes.'

I followed him down the steps. We wouldn't be long, and Dominik would still be waiting, I hoped.

The room was nothing like the crypt – just a few shelves full of cleaning products, some packing boxes and a few buckets and mops.

Simón overturned a yellow bucket and sat down on it, his long legs stretched out awkwardly in front of him.

‘Plain black shoes tonight, I see?' I said, amused at the way the formality of his suit contrasted with the dusty surroundings of the store room and bright child's colours of our impromptu seating.

I tipped over another bucket and sat down alongside him, careful to dust off the bottom so that I wouldn't get any dirt on my dress.

‘Just one of those things,' he said. ‘There's always going to be parts of me that are better kept from view in polite company. Not everyone approves of orchestral conductors wearing snakeskin boots. Though I see you've skated further to the edge than I dared, with that dress.'

He could probably see from this distance that I wasn't wearing a bra.

I shrugged. ‘Sex sells,' I said. ‘When was the last time you saw a frumpy musician do well? Classical music is all about sex these days.'