The Concert Pianist (20 page)

‘Did you cancel?'

‘Well . . .'

‘He can't do that!'

‘There's bad blood, I'm afraid.'

He
could feel her frustration with him.

‘I'm more trouble than I'm worth, you see. You're better off without me.'

‘Oh, don't be absurd!'

It amazed him. She was only twenty-six. He was touched by her possessiveness.

‘Honestly. I'm a handful.'

‘Philip, you're in a state. You need somebody to help you. Please don't cast me off.'

‘You see -' He swallowed. ‘I may not play again.'

‘What!'

There was a tense silence.

‘You'll play.'

‘Ursula. . .'

‘If I have anything to do with it.'

‘I'm so grateful for your concern.'

‘Concern!'

He listened, not knowing what to say.

‘Oh, Philip!'

‘There's nothing you can do.'

‘This is so awful.'

‘Oh . . . well . . . maybe . . .'

‘And I can help you.'

‘I think it's too late for help.'

‘You need looking after, actually. That's what you need.'

He held the phone to his ear, stared at the grass. He felt goosebumps on the side of his neck.

‘Are you there?' she said more gently.

Her solicitude was incomprehensible, overwhelming.

‘Can we meet?'

‘Well . . . I . . .'

‘I can't call from work. When d'you return to London?'

It was too much for him.

‘Um . . . I don't think we should meet.'

‘What?'

‘Not just yet.'

‘What's wrong?'

‘It's too complicated. I want to terminate the agency completely.'

‘I don't believe it.'

‘
Sorry.'

‘Can't we just talk it through?'

‘No, Ursula. Goodbye.'

He ended the call and turned off the mobile.

He laid his head on the grass. A breeze furrowed the leaves on the trees. He trembled.

Chapter Fourteen

It was late, but still people chatted outside on the terrace. Cigarettes glowed in the dark. Wine bottles were passed along. Laughter erupted here and there. Most of the oldies had turned in - Arthur blowing kisses, Cedric shaking a dozen hands and patting shoulders. Konstantine remained at the end of one table, sipping fizzy water and listening quietly. He was glad to be around younger folk.

Oswald's puddings, it was generally agreed, had been out of this world.

Philip was unobtrusively drunk. Sitting at the edge of a group that included Lola and Julius, he had begun to find the shop talk irksome. Subtle rivalries were playing out amidst flip references to great conductors and famous venues, or items of epic repertoire that someone had knocked off in Rio or Helsinki. Absent colleagues were being discreetly downgraded. If someone's career was on the rocks their playing was praised to the skies - no longer a threat. Anybody meteoric - ah well: ‘What burns bright does not last.' Excluded from the group chatter, Philip had risen carefully to his feet and strolled inside. Looking for a more comfortable place in which to be quietly drunk, he found himself in Oswald's study eyeing an armchair.

He let himself sink into the deep cushions of the chair. He was tired, but his mind was on the move again. He dreaded the return to London. Being with people was hard; being alone would be worse.

He looked up.

Oswald stood in the doorway, rumly inspecting him. ‘Great minds,' he declared, heading towards a similar chair.

They sat opposite each other in the glow of table lamps, amidst
polished
furniture, embroidered cushions, framed photographs and glass ashtrays. Oswald got his calves up on to the footstool. ‘Oh!' He shut his eyes, taking in slow breaths, exhaling peacefully. After a moment he drew himself up in the chair, moistening his lips. Today he had achieved catering greatness. Now was not the time to drop off.

‘D'you know I was nine when that violin sonata was written! Oh Lord.' He smiled, his wrinkled face softened by remembrance. ‘The gliding years! I must say, my minions behaved impeccably.'

Philip was blank faced. Anguish welled inside him.

‘Isn't Galina tremendous! That woman is a beacon to her sex. No spring chicken, clearly. But everything is relative, and relative to some people I'm a juvenile. Of course, you get to my age and realise you might drop off tomorrow, or hammer on into geriatric infinity. I don't know which is worse. How are you, Philip?'

Philip's head was tilted back. For a moment he was unable to speak, and then the pressure overwhelmed him. ‘Oh . . . cracking up.'

‘Cracking up!'

He could pretend no longer. ‘I'm going to pieces.'

‘Dear, oh dear.' Oswald was ruffled with the greatest concern. ‘I'm extremely sorry to hear it. What can we do about that?'

‘A drink might help.'

‘Most certainly! Press that bell, will you.'

He pressed the bell.

Oswald urged a silver cigarette box on Philip. ‘You'll have a cigarette?'

‘No thanks.'

Oswald took one for himself, tucked it between his teeth and snapped on a lighter. He looked enquiringly at Philip, exhaled smoke.

‘My dear fellow, what can the matter be?'

Philip's face darkened. Oswald was a dangerous confidant. ‘You'd better give me an honest answer.'

Oswald looked suspiciously at his guest. Rarely was he asked to be honest.

‘Cub's honour. Hope to die.'

‘What's gone wrong with my playing?'

Oswald involuntarily smiled.

‘
Please be serious.'

‘What's wrong with anybody's playing? You are doing what you have come to do, and what you are able to do.'

‘I've got problems, admit it.'

‘I'll admit nothing.'

He had humiliated himself already. ‘Did you read the reviews?'

‘I don't read reviews. I form my own opinion.'

‘You heard me play last year in Aldeburgh.'

‘Very fine, too.'

‘Oh, for God's sake! Say what you really think! You're always slagging off other pianists. Now's a good chance to slag me off.'

Oswald was demure. ‘I don't slag anyone off. The slag word is not in my vocabulary, thank you very much.'

‘Am I falling off?'

‘My dear fellow!' He was pained and amused. He had not reckoned on a conversation like this in his private study after an exhausting party. ‘Nothing anybody can say to you makes a shred of difference if the main thing is there. If it isn't, you're lost anyway. You have what counts, and the rest is down to managing one's temperament.'

Philip levered himself up in his chair. ‘That's unusually diplomatic and evasive for someone with your talent for mockery.'

Oswald batted his eyelids. ‘You're in wonderful form tonight.'

‘Yes. I know. Sorry.'

‘All very cosy in here,' said a voice.

‘Brian!'

The broadly beaming face of Brian Bellew peered into the room. ‘Hello, hello, hello!'

Philip sighed heavily.

‘What impeccable timing,' hailed Oswald. ‘Philip, you must talk to Brian.'

‘No, thank you. Brian's a fucking critic!'

Brian thought this was most entertaining. ‘Fucking critic, eh!'

‘Philip's having a crisis about his playing. You'd better join us.'

‘Love to.'

‘Oh, Christ!'

Brian crossed from the door in the direction of a third armchair. He tripped on the corner of the rug but just managed to keep his
balance.
He was a burly fifty-eight-year-old with a brainy forehead and glittery, irresponsible eyes.

‘You're looking pretty festive,' said Oswald.

‘D'you mean drunk, by any chance?'

‘Good heavens no, not drunk.'

Brian sank like a deadweight into the armchair. ‘Lovely party, my dear. Barry's very attentive, I see.'

‘Thanks to the martinet skills of yours truly.' Oswald curled a distinguished eyebrow. ‘Were I but twenty years younger . . .'

Brian's torso rocked with schoolboy mirth.

‘I was very imposing as recently as ten years ago, I'll have you know.'

‘You're imposing now.'

‘I'm decomposing now!'

‘I think I might turn in,' said Philip.

‘Don't you dare!' said Oswald. ‘Where the devil is Kevin? KEVIN!'

As luck would have it Barry was passing in the corridor outside. He stuck his head into the room.

Oswald snapped a finger. ‘Bottle of bubbly and three glasses for these gentlemen. Philip, stay where you are. We're here to help.'

Barry nodded and vanished.

‘Patience, Brian! You'll get an eyeful when he returns.'

Brian gasped at the imputation.

‘So hard to find diligent catamites these days.'

Brian burst out laughing. He recovered himself slowly, wiping a tear from his eye. ‘Philip, how are you?'

Oswald waved a cigarette. ‘Young Philip here wants to know what's wrong with his playing.'

Brian blinked convincingly, commandeering seriousness.

‘He's rather concerned about a review.'

Brian was deputy editor of the
Musical Times.
He crossed his legs. ‘A review?'

There was a pregnant pause.

‘Oh, yes. A review.'

‘Is this some kind of trap?'

Oswald smiled dangerously. ‘You look pretty trapped in that armchair.'

Brian
was profoundly entrenched. ‘You'll need a crane to get me out of here.'

‘Let's not change the subject, shall we.'

Philip cast his eyes down in embarrassment.

‘Did you hear the recording?'

Brian tongued his underlip. ‘We haven't . . . I think we haven't done anything in the
MT.'

‘Well, that in itself is cause for concern.'

‘Ignore him, Philip. He's being mischievous.'

‘You're thick with those bloodhounds at
Gramophone?'

‘What am I saying? I did hear it. Somebody sent me the disc about a year ago. Gosh,' Brian put fingers to forehead. ‘Sorry, Philip. No, I heard it. I thought . . .'

‘Say some reassuring words, for Christ's sake, man!'

Brian wore his discomfort on his sleeve. ‘Well, I . . . what did I think . . . Of course you know I don't do reviewing any more.'

Philip's face was a mask.

‘That's a paltry excuse!'

‘It was terrific. Technically remarkable. Beautifully refined, voiced, very sharply recorded. I think you've cut away a lot of lazy performance tradition . . .'

‘There you are, Philip.'

Brian nodded readily. ‘I'm a huge fan of your playing, Philip. Isn't everyone?'

‘Not apparently your colleagues at
Gramophone.'
Oswald turned ominously.

Brian shook his head in puzzlement.

‘Philip would like to know why.'

‘Well, I can't answer for them.'

‘What!' Oswald forced himself higher in the chair. ‘Are you telling me the profession has no weight of consensus! That you're all breezy enthusiasts with your own opinionated grudges? I mean, is this just a sub-branch of belletrism, or what?'

Brian looked long-sufferingly at Philip. It was getting beyond a joke.

‘Can we trust
Gramophone?'
said Oswald acidly.

Brian shook his head. ‘Reviewing's not a science.'

‘This man is in a state of spiritual despair,' said Oswald, ‘because of a beastly review in
Gramophone
magazine.'

‘
Urn . . .'

‘Have you any idea what pain your pronouncements . . .'

‘ I haven't pronounced . . .'

‘The pronouncements of your professional coterie cause to practising musicians?'

Brian began to laugh. ‘This is a bit rich, Oswald.'

Barry entered with a tray of champagne flutes and a packet of Bendick's Mints; Kevin followed with Bollinger and towel. Brian looked around at the new arrivals, hoping to direct the focus of everybody's attention away from himself and on to them.

‘Well trained,' said Oswald.

Kevin released the cork with impressive control and administered the glasses. ‘Champagne, sir?'

‘Rather,' said Brian.

‘Oh, the pleasure of selected vulgarities. Present the mints please, Kevin.'

‘Was that a bottle of champagne I saw before me?' said another voice.

‘Aha!'

Julius appeared in the doorway.

Oswald smiled fetchingly. ‘We're having our own party in here.'

Brian turned in relief. ‘Hello, Julius.'

The American pianist looked rather manly and imposing in the doorway. ‘What fun! May I join you?'

‘We insist. There's gallons of champagne to get through. Barry, be a dear and fetch up a couple more.'

Julius settled himself back on the chesterfield. ‘Actually, ah . . . Barry. Would you have something shorter? Malt or . . .'

Barry drew himself up to a level of perfect composure. ‘Talisker, Macallan, Laphroaig, Glenochil.'

‘You run a tight ship,' smiled Brian appreciatively.

‘I'm getting tighter by the minute,' drawled Oswald.

Philip was inert in the chair. A champagne flute had somehow been wedged by Kevin between his forefinger and thumb. From where he was sitting he could see the bulk of Julius's midriff straining on a shirt button. The American pianist was developing weight around his jowls. His eyes were a little piggy. Even the
arms
of his glasses cut into the flesh of his cheek. He had the temporarily relaxed confidence of a man who has recently seen his double CD boxed set of Fetzler-Rose Symphonic Transcriptions in dumpbins at HMV. His self-esteem had survived a whole day in the company of world-class pianists, and he sprawled back now with the well-earned complacence of a busy professional who knows that whilst others are greater he has made his mark, earned his peers' respect, and is content to take his place in the pantheon with all due humility at whatever level is assigned to him by whomever decides these things, because even if Serebriakov was tiringly the greatest, Lola the most smouldering, Vadim the most exciting, nobody else could get within a mile of his Fetzler-Rose Transcriptions at that level of polydextrous elucidation, and absolutely nothing could take that skyscraping achievement from him. He nonetheless gazed at the picture-rail of Oswald's boudoir with cultural perplexity. What a curiously English place to celebrate the old Russian's birthday! Oswald, it had to be said, he found characterful but anomalous. The classical music world was so small it forced odd bedfellows.