The Maestro's Mistress (33 page)

Turning back to the stage she
raised her hands and gave a barely perceptible nod.

CHAPTER
30

Detached and self-possessed Saul
made his way to Georgiana’s apartment in Mayfair. Focusing on nothing more
complex than placing one foot in front of the other he arrived at the glass and
brass entrance to her block. As he raised his hand to the row of entry buzzers
the beginning of his journey and the deserted podium in the orchestra pit
flashed momentarily across his mind. I shall get my come-uppance later he
thought with a grim smile. But much later.

A disembodied voice came
metallically through the entry phone in answer to his terse announcement.

‘Saul! At this time!’

‘Yes. Saul.’

There was a low buzz. ‘Come up.’

The smoke-tinted glass door swung
silently open at a touch from his finger and he stepped through into a pale oak
and marble foyer. Banks of fresh flowers captured in wire and polished greenery
lined the walls.

In Georgiana’s lavishly decorated
drawing room preparations were in hand for some imminent entertaining. Tables
bearing small savoury delicacies were dotted around, and in the adjoining
dining  room her Italian manservant Tullio could be seen gliding about with
trays of tall champagne flutes.

Georgiana kissed Saul on the
cheek. ‘I was expecting you tomorrow. It’s Tuesday today. Are you all right,
Saul?’

He sat down on one of her vast,
plump sofas and stretched out his legs. ‘I’m sorry to interfere with your schedule.
I know Wednesday is my designated calling day. What time are your guests
arriving?’

‘Not until six. It doesn’t matter
anyway. Why not stay on?’

‘I think not.’ He gave a dry
smile.

‘It wouldn’t do to be seen
visiting your wife in secret?’ she suggested with a slanting glance.

‘Quite.’ Tara had no idea about
his regular visits to Georgiana which had been going on for the past five
years. He never spoke her name to Tara and in turn Tara and Alessandra were
barred subjects when he was with his wife. He had no idea what Tara’s feelings
about Georgiana were these days. The kidnapping incident had receded into the
past, but for all he knew she might still retain some of the shock and
revulsion she had demonstrated at the time. Whatever was the case he did not
think it helpful for her to know.

Georgiana’s black toy poodle
emerged from the kitchen and paddled its twiggy paws against Saul’s leg. He
bent down and gave it a single pat. Sensing that it was to be ignored the dog
went away and lay down in a corner of the room.

Watching Georgiana’s face Saul
judged that she was a happier woman now than she had ever been. Now in her
forties Georgiana had acquired a sleek look of mature self-assurance. She was a
woman of means. She was still beautiful: her hair still long and blonde, her
figure still slender, encased in a designer creation of peacock blue silk. In
addition to all that she had the potential of the older woman to be unnervingly
intimidating if she chose.

And she was still Mrs Saul  Xavier.
He knew that she would not have survived if he had robbed her of that.

Georgiana passed her days amusing
herself with an endless round of socializing: frequenting beauty salons and art
galleries, and in recent years becoming very accomplished at playing bridge.

Although she lived alone there
was the little dog to keep her company. And more importantly a succession of
hired hands. Tullio, her latest, with his showy dark good looks and his
sensitivity to her every wish and command was obviously the perfect servant and
household companion.

In  Saul’s eyes, the combination
of Dr Denton’s care together with occasional visits to an exclusive psychotherapy
clinic in the north of England had restored  Georgiana to the woman she had
been prior to the breakdown of their marriage. Saul presumed that she lived a
life of dainty celibacy and he recognized that there were many who would describe
her as an empty shell. But he judged that she was experiencing a degree of
happiness in her life and he need not reproach himself with having destroyed
her.

‘I’ve got some splendid 1976
Bollinger,’ Georgiana said. ‘Tullio will open it.’

Commandments were issued.

‘Alicia and I have booked an
Indian Ocean cruise,’ Georgiana told him, conscious of a growing silence. ‘We
shall be visiting the Seychelles and Mauritius.’

‘I hope you checked on the climate
at this time of year. It can be very humid.’

‘Of course we checked. And you
could do with a holiday, Saul. It’s long overdue since you took a break.’

‘I’m a workaholic – one of a
dying breed,’ he announced abruptly, staring into his glass of leaping bubbles.

‘You are, my dear. The ones
coming along now are just pale imitations.’

‘Monkeys dancing to the organ
grinder’s tune,’ Saul commented. ‘Hedging their bets between the incompetents
on the orchestras’ managing boards, kow-towing to the puffed up prima donnas.’

‘Absolutely,’ Georgiana agreed,
never considering for a moment that his view might be distorted or that he
might simply be wrong.

‘Idiots the lot of them,’ he
growled. ‘I’ve just about had enough.’ Anger smouldered within when he
considered the instrumentalists who demanded ever more power in decisions about
programming and player selection, singers who thought they knew best how to
interpret the great operatic roles. And that was before one started with the
administrators.

Even his daughter chose not to
listen to him and preferred to direct her attention up a horse’s nose.

‘I walked out of a dress
rehearsal for
The Flying Dutchman
this afternoon,’ he said casually. ‘I
don’t think I’ll go back. They can manage without me.’

Georgiana stared at him in
horror. ‘Impossible!’

He pressed his lips together.
‘They’ll struggle through.’

‘But how? Who is there to step
in?’

‘Tara will probably take over.’
He gave a tight, complex smile. ‘She will most likely do very well.’ After all
I’ve set everything up, he thought. All she need do is activate the starter
button. His mind ran back through the years, recalling the young Tara, his
plump pixie, his rebellious elf. And now she was a poised, svelte and elegant
woman in her thirties, making her way very nicely in the world of music. It was
hard for a woman in the conducting arena, but she would make a strong mark, he
was sure of it.

Georgiana was horrified. It was
not so much the sound of Tara’s name on Saul’s lips – although that was bad
enough. It was the idea of a mere slip of a young woman usurping the great Xavier’s
role. For Georgiana Saul Xavier was a true emperor of music. A god.

Having never earned a penny in
her life, and relied always on the wealth generated by men, Georgiana belonged
to a sisterhood of women who would defend the superiority of the male to the
death.

‘Oh what does it matter,’ Saul
declared, suddenly deeply weary. ‘What does anything matter?’

‘She may muddle through,’
Georgiana protested, ignoring the last two ominous statements.  ‘But she will
never be even mentioned in the same breath as you by true connoisseurs of
music. You are the Maestro. The king of all maestros,’ she concluded grandly.

Saul laughed. ‘Thank you for
that. But I’m afraid yours might be a lone voice in making such proclamations.’

He stood up in preparation for
leaving. In the mirror-walled lobby an infinity of Georgiana’s faces stared
into an infinity of his. Looking down at the flesh and blood woman he wondered
how long it would be before her beauty melted away. She was quite remarkably
youthful, her skin seeming untouched by the unseen finger of time which could
sketch out its lines with such cruelty. Maybe she had resorted to the cosmetic
surgeon’s knife, but there were none of the usual tell-tale signs.

He bent down and kissed her
lightly on her mouth, interested to note that the rosy, firmly plump lips
aroused no emotion whatever.

He walked through the London
streets, meandering and desultory, detached from the pressures of the present.
He found that his earlier anger had abated. But now he had a sense that his
perspectives on the outer world, his normal clear analysis of reality, were
somehow slightly off balance. He felt himself to be a spectator looking down
from a height with the view tilted and misty. A frightening sensation of empty
resignation gripped him.

He had said to Georgiana that he
was one of a dying breed. So! Maybe that was something to be glad about. He
often felt that had no wish to be part of the new order, that the days of his
golden glory were gone.

Let them go, he told himself.
Simply savour what has been. But it was hard not to indulge in wistful recall
of the early days of his youthful brilliance. He was doing it more and more,
remembering the young Xavier who had been both talented and wonderfully
impetuous. At twenty-five, invited to conduct the Czech Philharmonic in Prague,
he had walked out onto the platform having discovered that the solo pianist was
seized with a migraine and unable to move from the dressing room. Without
turning a hair he had sat down at the piano and played Prokofiev’s notoriously
difficult third concerto whilst directing the orchestra from the keyboard.

It had been a sensational
experience. Orgasmic. A flame leapt in him at the recollection.

He thought of Tara in her
thirties, ready for the world to roll itself out at her feet. Whereas he was a
man over halfway through his life, existing in a world all too well explored.
Had the hill been crested, he wondered?

He recognized that much had been
achieved. But for what? All that struggle and effort, all that giving of
oneself. What had it all been for?

He knew that such grossly
self-pitying thoughts were to be stamped on hard.

Tullio aimed a mainly harmless
kick at the little poodle before bending to wipe up the shiny pool of urine
under the dining table.

The dog made a menacing gargle in
its throat and nipped at Tullio’s Gucci loafers, succeeding in penetrating the
soft leather.

‘Tullio, don’t tease him,’
Georgiana said.

‘You should house-train him,’
Tullio told her, pulling his thick black brows together and looking stern. An
expression he knew she liked. ‘And see, he’s made a little prick in my shoe.’

‘I shall buy you another pair,’
Georgiana told him, making her lips pout and twitch. Something which she knew
he
liked.

Tullio sulked for a moment or
two.

The entry phone buzzed. It would
be one of her bridge party arriving.

Georgiana glanced with meaning at
her servant.

He picked up the receiver and
placed his hand over the mouthpiece. Employer and employee stared hard at each
other.

‘Will you be wanting me later?’ 
Tullio asked Georgiana, his brown eyes kindling.

Georgiana turned her head giving
the young man a view of her creamy smooth neck. She tilted a glance of girlish
coquetry at Tullio. And then arranged her features into a mask of cool
severity. ‘My guest is waiting to be let in,’ she told her servant, pointing an
accusing finger at the receiver, reminding him of the task to be done. Of his
position as a hired hand.

Through the evening Georgiana and
Tullio engaged in a tantalizing game of concealed flirtation. Nothing more than
the occasional conspiratorial glance, the split second touch of fingers as a
glass was offered and taken. But with each tiny connection was an accompanying sizzle
of sensation, the brief fizz of short-circuited electricity.

When the guests had left, Tullio
stacked all the glasses, plates, dishes and cutlery on a tray and took them
into the kitchen. He folded down the legs of the green baize card table and put
it in a store cupboard in the hallway. Methodically he loaded the dishwasher,
placed left over food in sealed containers in the fridge and opened up the
windows to let in a little fresh air.

With all his tasks completed he
combed his hair, splashed on a little cologne and knocked softly at Georgiana’s
bedroom drawer.

‘Come.’

She was sitting at the dressing
table, tranquil and serene. Tullio saw that the woman gazing back at her from
the mirror had the expression of a woman very pleased with what she saw.

He went to stand behind her and
placed his slim, tanned fingers on the slippery silk of her negligee. He felt
her bones underneath, jagged and brittle. Moving his fingers he slid the fabric
away from the stem of her neck until it fell in a shiny pool around her waist.
In the mirror he saw her girlish breasts, creamy white like sea pearls with
delicate rosy nipples, already hardening with desire.

Tullio, at twenty, found no
difficulty in becoming erect himself at the sight of beautiful female
nakedness. Even if that nakedness was well in excess of forty years old.

He knelt, laying his cheek
against Georgiana’s marble-like back, passing his arms around her. As his hands
began to creep upwards from her waist, he took the precaution of asking very
politely, ‘Is this permitted tonight?’ In the mirror he saw his fingers
approach the faint curve under her breast.