The Maestro's Mistress (2 page)

At the break in the rehearsal the
hall manager gave Xavier a report on the noise. It came from the pump powering
the massive boiler in the basement of the hall. ‘I have to confess that I’ve
never noticed it before,’ the manager said ruefully.

‘It will have to be turned off
during the concert,’ Xavier decreed without expression. There were never any
tantrums with Xavier, never any rages or storming. He kept himself in tight
control. Just occasionally he would strike – with all the stealth and venom of
a poisonous snake.

The manager knew better than to
protest. He expressed a mild hope that the operation of the hall’s bars and
cloakrooms would not be totally disrupted.

Later that evening, as the
audience assembled, the air in the hall was on the chilly side but the
psychological atmosphere was quietly smouldering. International celebrities
were turning out in force, the men in black ties, the women in a shimmering
array of peacock-bright silks.

Half-way down the auditorium a
young woman dressed in black jeans and a dark blue velvet tunic curled her legs
up onto her seat, hoping to make herself taller so that she could see the stage
better. The gaze from her big green eyes was intense as she watched the
audience assembling.

Her ears thrilled to the
insistent throb of the instruments tuning up, the rich steely sound of the
strings, the clarity of the notes bursting from the brass section so sparkling
and bright that she could imagine the great horns had been washed to gleaming
brilliance in a torrent of thunderous rain.

She closed her eyes in
anticipation. Soon the orchestra would sing; the music wind itself into every
crevice of the auditorium like the mist of an autumn morning.

A minute before the concert was
due to start a small party processed down the auditorium causing a flurry of
interested speculation amongst the already seated audience. The woman leading
the group was exaggeratedly slim, her long blonde hair worn dead straight in a
manner which only the very beautiful can get away with. She was dressed in a
classically cut white crepe gown and wearing similarly simple diamonds. Before
taking her seat she looked around her, bestowing a benevolent, slightly
capricious smile on the watchful audience. By the time her party was seated and
settled the starting time of the concert had been exceeded by three minutes.

There was an agitated rustling in
the auditorium. A woman sitting behind the latecomers whispered to her husband
that the woman in white was Xavier’s wife. ‘I suppose that bestows on her the
God-given right to make all the rest of us wait,’ he whispered back with a wry
smile.

Then suddenly all agitation was
stilled and an electrifying hush fell on the auditorium as the tall figure of
Xavier appeared on the stage, threading through the orchestra and moving to the
podium. A deafening storm of applause broke out.

Ignoring the acclaim Xavier
mounted the podium, planted his gleaming black shoes in line with his
shoulders, raised his baton and started straight away. His gestures were those
of a man of great restraint, a man who knows how to extract the maximum from
his followers without any indulgence in hysterical gymnastics. Exhibiting scarcely
any movement he set the orchestra off on a journey of pure musical delight.

As the sound surged from the
orchestra into the auditorium, he reflected that he must have conducted the
Brahms Tragic Overture more than a hundred times in his extensive career. And
yet there were still things to discover in the piece. Great music was always
receptive to further interpretation. It was like a great ocean: one could dive
down and down and never reach the sandy bed.

In his early days as a struggling
young conductor, trying to coax performances of Mozart’s

Don Giovanni,
or Puccini’s
Thieving Magpie
from ragged local orchestras and singers in the north of England, Xavier would
fantasize that when conducting he was actually composing the piece himself. A
heady experience!

But in recent years he had
finally recognized that the gift of composing had not been granted to him by
whatever divine force shaped the world. Accepting this, he had driven all his
energies into perfecting the art of conducting. And he had not failed. Indeed
one of the most influential music critics in New York had once remarked that on
the podium Xavier was a true artist, one of the great baton virtuosos who
could, with a flick of the wrist, do what others could not have achieved with
the aid of a bulldozer. Moreover he never used a score whilst conducting: he
had learned most of the major works in the great classical repertoire by heart.

Acclaim had been showered on him
all over the world as he progressed from continent to continent, enticing
penetrating performances from a host of great orchestras. In Germany the
Chancellor summoned him to dinner. In Japan, electronic magnates became his disciples.
A self- made British billionaire was regularly flown by company jet to wherever
he was conducting and the United Nations Secretary General had gone so far as
to create him an Ambassador of Good Will.

Conducting fees, television
appearances and royalties from the many recordings in current circulation
provided an annual remuneration into seven figures. Careful selection of
financial advisers to help him play the world markets and navigate his way
through the complexity of international tax laws meant that his overall net
income was vast. He was a man of immense wealth.

There were many who envied him;
who would give anything to match his musical ability, his lifestyle, his money,
his seductive, absolute power over the world’s finest orchestras.

Yes – much had been achieved he
thought as he stood before this magnificent London orchestra, noting the velvet
timbre of the string section, sensing the slight tightness of feeling it
brought to his throat.

And yet, and yet…

There was this fear growing
inside him; this embryo flexing its limb buds, nodding its bulbous head,
demanding to have life. At the approach of this milestone birthday Xavier was
menaced by a sensation of emptiness, a terror of the future where the days
collided together in frightening sameness, where there was nothing to look
forward to beyond a replication of the glories of the past. He recognized that
it was unrealistic to hope for anything more than the continuation of his work
as a brilliant interpreter. He had brought countless great works of music to
life, but he had never created anything of his own. He had never painted,
sculpted or written. He had created nothing lasting.

He had no child and now it was
too late.

Xavier had a sudden image of
himself as an eagle caged at the peak of its strength. Panic thrust within him.
The silent, unseen face of time mocked him. What should he do? Should he go
back to the beginning? Look again at the great classical repertoire through the
fresh eyes of a new ensemble. Maybe he could find some rag, tag and bobtail
group somewhere out in the provinces, take them over and shape them into a
great orchestra?

The thought kindled a frail flame
of inspiration which flickered uncertainly but failed to ignite. A chill shot
down his spine.

His hands moved with automatic
precision but his spirit fluttered away from the music. He felt his eyes close.
For a moment there was a faltering in the string section: infinitesimal, no
more than a split second. Only the most sensitive of musicians would have
noticed.

Xavier’s eyes snapped open with a
jerk. He turned the whiplash of his iron will upon himself. Self pity played no
part in his personal repertoire. And losing concentration was an unforgivable
sin. That must not happen again. He might never be a composer, but he was never
going to be anything less than a supreme and inspired maestro.

Next week there were to be two
further concerts; an evening of Sibelius and Britten and after that a dip into
the classical era with Nigel Kennedy playing the Beethoven Violin Concerto. He
made himself a grim promise that those performances would be nothing short of
superb, they would be unsurpassable. The mealy-mouthed British critics would
eat their tight-lipped words.

The applause at the end of the
evening was persistent and tumultuous, electric with acclaim. The audience had
loved every minute. And they had loved Xavier.

Four times they brought him back
to the podium. Staring out over the feverishly applauding audience he inclined
his head gravely. His austere features registered only the faintest of smiles.
Whatever Xavier’s feelings were about the performance he was keeping them to
himself.

Then suddenly he had had enough.
Having savoured the applause, now he was sated. With an abrupt flick of his
hand he dismissed the orchestra and strode off the stage, seeking the temporary
solitude of his dressing room.

The audience began to sweep out,
carried on a wave of dizzy excitement.

The green-eyed girl made no move.
She sat motionless, curled in her seat, staring up at the empty stage.

CHAPTER
2

Georgiana Xavier watched her
husband leave the platform and smiled with satisfaction. With the hurdle of the
concert over she could now devote her mental energies fully to the celebrations
she had planned to mark his birthday the following evening.

She had listened only
half-heartedly to the music. After reviewing the menu for the party supper her
mind had wandered away into the past, reflecting on her sixteen years of
marriage to Xavier. She was pleased with her marriage. In the world of the
performing arts there were many couples who failed to stay the course;
separations and divorce were commonplace. But she and Xavier were still
together, a glittering couple on a rock solid foundation.

There had been only one
frightening moment, a split second of horrified panic when she feared that
foundation might crumble and split.

She recalled the fateful occasion
with perfect clarity, every detail intact: the sultry sky of a summer afternoon
in New York, the luxurious beige and gold hotel suite filled with the scent of
fresh flowers.

She had spent the afternoon
shopping whilst Xavier rehearsed at the Carnegie Hall. Clothes, jewellery and
other trinkets littered the bedroom of their suite, spilling out of bags
stamped boldly with the names of fashionable stores.

Georgiana had sunk into a chair
feeling exhausted, not so much with journeying through the shops, as the long
years of travelling with Xavier on his endless conducting tours of Europe and
America. In the beginning she had been happy enough to trail after him like an
eager young groupie on his yearly tours, but after his showdown with the
English Symphonia with whom he had been chief conductor for over a decade, he
had become demonically restless, tearing around the globe, shaking the dust
from one great city after another from his feet before it had even had time to
gather. It was becoming impossible to keep up.

Xavier, lying prone on the bed
relaxing between rehearsals and a big performance that evening, heard her weary
sigh. He had looked up at her, surveyed the spoils and smiled indulgently.
‘Don’t tell me you haven’t been enjoying yourself?’ he commented with mocking
incredulity.

‘Yes, of course I have.’

‘But?’

‘But I was alone. I’m always
alone,’ she said bitterly. ‘You have your work, your orchestras, your music…’

‘So?’

‘I need my home, my friends, my
own life.’ She knew her words sounded trite and unoriginal, that Xavier would
never understand her need for her social circle, her women friends and the
crackle and thrust of gossip. Shopping – like so many other luxurious pastimes
– had a limited attraction when you were doing it solo. And what was the fun of
buying outrageously expensive things if there was no one there with you in whom
you could kindle a spark of pure envy?

Xavier raised himself slowly into
a sitting position and held out his arms to her. ‘Georgiana! You have me. We
have each other.’ His eyes beckoned her to approach. When Xavier beckoned it
was hard, no impossible to refuse him.

Georgiana moved slowly towards
the bed and allowed him to place his hands on her slender hips. His hand moved
over one toned buttock and silky thigh. His fingers pressed into her flesh. She
stiffened, she couldn’t help herself. She prayed he hadn’t noticed.

He reached up and stroked her
face. He drew his fingers around her lips and parted the long blonde strands of
her hair very gently. As always his iron control went some way to reassuring
her. Xavier was astonishingly controlled. He could maintain a quiet, courteous
demeanour throughout what seemed to Georgiana the eternity it took to prepare
for sex, and when he eventually penetrated her he seemed to keep going for ever
before eventually exploding deep inside her.

He was an exquisitely sensitive,
careful and considerate lover. He had never once alarmed her with violent
passion even though she sensed an undercurrent of longing within him for just
that.

His hand reached inside her silk
shirt. Mentally she shuddered. Dutifully she stroked his neck and chest. She
hooked her fingers hesitantly in the band of his trousers. Her mind slurred
away from what lay beneath, that terrifying pole of masculinity: swollen, hard
and dangerous.