The Maestro's Mistress (24 page)

In addition to the players Xavier
had invited a number of prominent soloists: a flamboyant bearded flautist, a
brilliant bald cellist and a gorgeous Danish soprano. Tara went forward to
greet them all. She was becoming skilled at playing the charming hostess.

Around ten o’clock when the
consumption of supper was in full swing, the manager of the hired caterers and
waiting staff glided softly to Tara’s side, whispering to her that there was an
important phone call. She looked at him, startled.

‘Mr Roland Grant,’ he told her.

She picked up the phone in the
oak-lined study at the back of the house. ‘Roland?’

‘Tara – I’m so sorry to disturb
you at this hour.’

‘Why aren’t you here, Roland? We’re
having one hell of a party.’

‘I know. I was fully intending to
come along, but you know how it is…’

‘Not really. In fact I wish I
did!’

He laughed. ‘I’ve just had a call
from David Brenner. He’s had a fall and sprained his wrist. Can’t play a note.
He was due to play the Elgar at the Golden Hall in Vienna three nights ahead.
Can you step in?’

The shock hit her like a swung
plank. Brenner was an established violin virtuoso. To step into his shoes was
an awesome prospect. And the concert date was the day before Alessandra’s
birthday. But then it only took a few hours to fly back from Vienna. ‘I don’t
see why not,’ she said slowly, amazing herself.

‘Those are the sweetest words
I’ve heard all day,’ Roland told her.

‘I suppose it’s a nightmare
trying to get people to fill in with everyone being booked years ahead,’ Tara
commented, her voice a little unsteady now as the full  enormity of her
decision began to sink in.

‘It isn’t a walk in the park, but
don’t get the idea that you’re a last resort. I haven’t been ringing round the
troops. I happen to think you are the ideal person for the job.’

Tara drew in a sharp breath. ‘Had
you ever considered a career in the diplomatic service, Roland?’ she enquired
with an ironic smile.

‘I
am
in such a service,’
he responded.

Tara replaced the receiver and
stood beside the desk, her heart beating with great thick jumps, her stomach
protesting again. She heard a sound in the doorway and sensed Saul’s presence.

She turned. He wore the blank,
austerely remote expression that could still send a chill of desire and
apprehension down her backbone.

‘Bad news?’ he enquired softly.

Her mouth went dry. She gave him
the news in a nutshell: unemotional and to the point. It felt like firing a
pistol.

The muscles around is long curved
mouth flickered under the skin. He gave one of his dry smiles.
‘Congratulations.’

Tara could not believe he meant
it. She felt defiant, touchy and on the defensive. Roland had offered her a
hard earned prize and no one, not even Saul, was going to take it away from her.
Although, to be fair, Saul was giving her no grounds to for thinking he would
try. His tone had been perfectly reasonable, holding no hint of sarcasm or
mockery.

‘I’ll be back in time for
Alessandra’s birthday,’ she said, unable to stop herself justifying her
actions.

‘Good. Good.’ His eyes held hers,
relentless and unfathomable.

Tara felt herself quake
internally. It must be this wretched pregnancy.

‘What about the sickness? Will
you be able to cope?’ he enquired in clinical tones.

‘I just won’t eat anything. I
won’t even look at any food.’ She tried to sound light-hearted.

He nodded, his glance coolly
assessing. ‘So!’ he commented. The gateway to the road to success is opening.
Mmn?’

Tara felt deeply uneasy. She
wanted to throw herself into his arms and be close to him, share this moment of
triumphant anticipation with him. He seemed as distant and remote as that first
time she had seen him on the podium the night of her father’s death.

‘You don’t want me to go, do
you?’ she challenged him.

‘I want you to feel free to make
your own decisions,’ he said enigmatically.

‘You want me to stay here and
breed children for you and act the perfect hostess!’ she burst out.

‘Tara.’ His voice was low and
gentle. But there was a note of chiding fatherliness which kindled a spark of
deep resentment in her.

‘You’ve got it made haven’t you?’
she continued bitterly. ‘Success, critical acclaim, the licence to do exactly
as you like. A wife, a mistress…’  She knew she had gone too far.

‘Darling, if you’re in a state
like this will you really be fit to play?’ he asked evenly.

It was a perfectly valid
question. Tara refused to answer.

‘My sweet, you must do what you
want to do and not feel constrained by me,’ he said softly.

‘But I do. I feel as though
you’re holding me in bonds of steel,’ she appealed.

‘No.’ He looked at her with such
tenderness.

Her mind raced. She felt like a
trapped animal. She suddenly recalled that he had mentioned going to Copenhagen
at the end of the week. ‘We shall both be away the night before Alessandra’s
birthday,’ she exclaimed.

His eyes stared into hers. ‘Yes.’

She knew there was no question of
his cancelling his arrangements. And she would not expect him to. What a
conventional little woman I’m becoming, she thought, scorning her weakness and
indecision. ‘I’ll ask my mother to come and stay,’ she decided.

‘Good. And after the new baby I
really think we must apply ourselves to engaging a suitable nanny, so that we
can both pursue our work in peace.’ He smiled and quietly left the room.

Tara took some deep breaths. She
returned to the party and forced herself to eat.  She willed the food to stay
down.

Circulating amongst the guests
she whipped herself up into lively, witty socializing. Her eyes sought Saul. He
was watching her from across the room. He smiled at her, a deep intimate
message. Her heart swelled. For a moment she considered calling Roland back and
telling him she had changed her mind.

The moment passed.

Informal musical performances
were now in progress and everyone was having great fun. The flautist
entertained with dazzling extracts of Mozart and the cellist varied the mood
with some touching Dvorak. The blonde Danish singer hung back, wide-eyed and
nervous as a woodland gazelle.

Saul sat down at the piano. He
summoned her with that deceptively casual flap of his hand which was
irresistibly compelling.

Tara watched the singer approach
the Maestro and incline her shining head towards his as he flicked through some
song sheets. She knew that Saul was constantly on the look-out for singers. He
needed a constant supply of new talent for his operatic work and for vocal
recordings. She also knew that he had an inclination for sopranos with sweet,
pure, lyrical voices in preference to the big divas with their awesome ability
to project their voice over a full orchestra. But tonight, with this enchanting
young woman, she sensed an extra unquantifiable dimension at work.

They started off with some
Schubert. The woman was desperately nervous. There were continuous small breaks
in her exquisite voice which was clear and shining like polished crystal. A
hush fell over the guests and heads turned in her direction.

Saul stopped her. ‘You are
working too hard. Don’t try to give too much at once, yes?’

She took a sip of water from the
glass offered by one of the guests standing near to her.

They started again. This time the
voice flowed out unfettered: gorgeous and liquid. Sharp and clean cut like a
rain-washed sky.

Tara marvelled afresh at Saul’s
skill as an accompanist. He was technically faultless but he also had an
instinctive understanding of the needs and difficulties of the person he was
playing with. Tara recalled playing the Cesar Franck sonata with him that
fateful day when they had first made love and how she had been utterly seduced
by the sensations aroused by performing music with him. Her body glowed with
remembered passion.

She heard him speaking to the
singer over the music as he played. ‘Hold back a little. Now! Let yourself flow
into the music. Good, good. Wonderful!’

The singer was flushed and her
eyes shining as she reached a final top C.

Saul lifted his hands from the
keys. ‘Hold it, hold!’

She held.

Xavier smiled. ‘There you are.
Perfection!’

Applause rippled through the
captivated audience.

Xavier looked the singer up and
down, his eyes skating over the slender figure, and the long thighs shown off
in a clinging silky dress. ‘So! Do you know Handel’s oratorio
Samson?
The aria,
‘Let the Bright Seraphim?
Yes? Will you sing it for me?’

The singer gazed at him with soft
appeal. ‘It is a
bravura
piece,’ she protested in her charming Danish
accent. ‘And all those difficult English words.’

Xavier gave a dismissive chuckle.
‘Don’t be frightened. I’ll make a fool of myself imitating the piccolo trumpet
part on the piano.’

The voice rang out again. It was
getting better by the minute.

Tara felt her blood heating up.
She sensed a personal chemistry working between these two musicians as potently
as though it were being injected into her own veins. The expression on the Danish
songbird’s face was one of pure exhilaration and rapture.  She was clearly
bowled over by the response she was getting from the great Xavier. To Tara it
seemed as though he was pulling the voice right out of the girl’s throat; any
moment now she would be literally squealing with delight.

And if he should take her to bed!
Well then really would squeal. With ecstasy. Tara couldn’t stop the awful
thoughts from racing round her brain. Maybe this kind of thing was common in
the early stages of pregnancy she told herself, struggling to fill her mind
with anything but the word jealousy.

She went forward to give the
singer her congratulations which from a musical point of view were totally
genuine. ‘Come and have a proper drink now,’ she told her. ‘You’ve earned it.’

The woman’s name was Margerita.
She was really very likable. In other circumstances Tara would have been making
arrangements to meet up with her and talk music and concerts and agents and
conductors.

But tonight she was wary. And
when Saul joined them she judged that her anxieties were more than the neuroses
of a pregnant woman at the mercy of her hormones.

‘Marvellous stuff!’ he said. ‘I’d
like to give you a role at the London Met when I next direct there.’

Margerita gasped. ‘Oh, my career
will really set on fire then.’

‘Ignite,’ Xavier corrected
gently.

‘Sorry, is that how you say it?’
She turned to Tara. ‘I was so nervous to come here tonight. When your husband…’
She paused here, confused.

‘Go on,’ Tara smiled.

‘When he asked me to sing I felt
like I do at auditions. Very sick – here.’ She placed her hand on her enviably
flat stomach.

‘Audiences are the work of the
devil,’ Saul observed with a smile. ‘People listening out for you to make a
mistake. Predatory agents lurking in the wings, wicked conductors waiting to
pounce.’

‘Oh, yes. That is so. Quite!’ She
stared at him with admiration.

Tara, looking on, felt as though
she were growing older and wiser extremely fast.

Saul poured himself some more
wine. ‘You see,’ he told Margerita, ‘in an audition the way to success is to
tease your audience. Entice them. Have them on the edge of their seats to hear
more of what you can do. It’s rather like a striptease.’ He smiled into her
eyes, arching his brows.

‘Violinists have the same
problems,’ Tara informed the starry-eyed singer. ‘I learned to take my clothes
off very slowly.

In bed that night Xavier reached
for her.

Instantly the blood began to sing
in her veins. The bovine sensations of pregnancy slid away from her and she
felt like the most desirable woman in the world. Still, he could do that to
her!

‘Our unborn child,’ she murmured
in mock protest.

‘I am afraid my longings for you
will have to take precedence even over that precious creature,’ he confessed
regretfully. His fingers were already probing with sensuous intimacy.

Tara rolled over on her back,
forgot about the Danish nightingale, forgot about everything, and allowed a
tidal wave of pleasure to wash over her.

She refused to listen to the
small inner voice that told her some kind of warning had been issued.

CHAPTER
21

There were two works on the
programme - the Elgar violin concerto in the first section and a performance of
Handel’s oratorio
Israel in Egypt
in the second.