The Maestro's Mistress (34 page)

She breathed in deeply.

Instantly Tullio paused. He knew
her to be as easily alarmed as a deer. Even now – when he had penetrated her on
countless occasions. He must proceed each time with caution. Woo her afresh,
never give the impression of presuming, of taking her for granted. He must
always assume a reverential gratefulness for whatever was to be bestowed.

It did not irk Tullio to do this.
It was an amusing entertainment for him, an intriguing diversion. Learning how
to control one’s fellow human beings was endlessly fascinating. And when he had
brought her to the slippery point of breathless begging, then he gained his own
satisfaction in the easiest and swiftest way imaginable.

Signora Xavier preferred a simple
straightforward performance, nothing fancy. Man on top, conventional
penetration, the minimum of thrusts. He got his satisfaction with very little
effort.

And then there were all the other
benefits. Rich older women liked to show their appreciation in the most
gratifying ways. Gifts of hand-tailored suits, leather jackets, silk shirts. He
had already had those in abundance, and bonuses on his weekly wages in
addition.

He judged that if he played his
cards right there could be richer pickings still.  Which was why he had got
into the habit of scanning the motoring magazines for the perfect classic car
to suit his taste.

Glancing into the mirror he saw
that Georgiana’s eyes were closed. He permitted his fingers to stray onto a
nipple. Georgiana gave a little groan – her consent to allow proceedings to
develop.

Tullio lifted her from her stool
and laid her on the bed. As he covered her and the bones of her
greyhound-slender body stabbed into his muscle-toned bulk, he thought of his
little Flora, a young Scottish nurse who comforted him on his nights off. 
Flora’s bones were hidden in a gorgeous cushion of springy flesh and she had no
squeamishness about performing certain services a lusty young man found utterly
enchanting.

Georgiana tilted her head back.
She began to breathe faster, dainty shallow gasps. Nearly, nearly there, she
whispered to herself. Sometimes it happened, sometimes not. Tullio should
really have learned by now to arrange things so it happened for her every time.

But she liked hearing the groans
announcing his own satisfaction and knowing she was still lovely and desirable.

She lay still and passive beneath
him, reflecting on the curious way in which she had discovered the pleasures of
sex at this stage in her life. She tried to pinpoint the beginning of this late
awakening but with no success. She thought of the interminable naval-gazing
group discussions in the exclusive and luxurious clinics she had attended up
and down the country. Oh, she could remember all of those. They hadn’t helped a
jot and quite frankly they had bored her to death.

And yet she retained the strange
notion that there had been some definite moment of sudden healing. A puff of
smoke, a flash of light, some magical process that had conjured up the
realization that even she, the terrified, frigid Georgiana could let a man into
the temple of her body – and take pleasure in doing so.

When she tried to uncover the
mystery, her mind would dig deep into itself, curling its tail around buried sensations.
Almost, almost. But the heart of the mystery had never yielded up its secrets.

Tonight as Tullio rolled from her
to creep respectfully back to his own room she found herself thinking of Saul,
recalling the sense of invasion that had used to terrify her during the latter
years of her marriage.

But how would it be now - sex
with Saul? There was a stab of intense excitement. To make love with Saul, to
have him enslaved to her beauty. She could have him in her power as he had
been, just a little, just for a while, at the beginning of their marriage.
Then, as swiftly as it had surged up, the excitement faded. Anxiety prickled.

Georgiana frowned, bewildered and
uneasy. As the night progressed to that cold point when a woman on her own can
feel most cruelly alone she saw herself being swept remorselessly on into the
future like a little particle of dust. Insignificant with no one to care for
her. Her father was dead, her mother ageing and helpless. Saul was no more than
a visitor; he had virtually gone from her life.

Saul gone, she whispered to
herself. Maybe for ever.

Georgiana was suddenly convinced
of the impossibility of going forward into the future alone. She needed
guidance, the ear of someone who would listen, share and sympathize. Someone
with a capacity to unravel the twisted threads of her doubt. Someone who would
understand her hopes and help her to see the way ahead.

Her mind clicked down old
pathways, making a series of connections. A fresh thought presented itself. And
then a decision was made, and again there was a tremor of excitement. She
smiled to herself in the darkness.

Beyond in the apartment she heard
Tullio walking with the stealth of a cat through to the kitchen. He would be
after the remains of the uncorked champagne. Well, he was welcome to it. He’d
earned it. And who else would drink flat Bollinger?

Tullio was quite an agreeable boy
all in all. He was not Georgiana’s first young lover. She rather fancied,
however, that he might be the last.

Xavier waited at the stage door,
standing back in the shadows so that he would be hidden. He had no wish to
suffer the annoyance of being recognized and having to withstand the inevitable
surprise and concern that would be forthcoming.

Eventually Tara appeared. To his
relief she was alone. She walked forward, oblivious of his presence, her brisk
steps firm and rhythmic. He moved towards her.

When she saw him an expression of
huge relief came over her face, like that of a mother whose wayward child has
run off and got lost and now is found.

‘Saul!’ she said. ‘Oh thank God!’

He placed his arm around her
shoulder and his fingers pressed and caressed the flesh encasing her delicate
bones. ‘So! How was your evening, little Maestro?’

CHAPTER
31

Saul had booked a ski lodge
perched high in the hills overlooking the Grundlesee Lake east of Salzburg. An
amphitheatre of mountains protected the lake, a deep and breathtaking blue
under a cloudless daytime sky. At dusk, as the sun dropped behind the high walls
of the hill, the water turned to the shade of blood as it sank into its own
vast dying glow.

In the mornings the alpine slopes
dazzled, white and crusty, zigzagged with a network of grey tracks left by the
skiers.

The lodge was a long low wooden
chalet built on a flat shelf of ground and girdled all round with a railed
terrace which caught every minute of the sunshine.

Tara would stand on the terrace
in the mornings, breathing in deeply and looking down through the empty slopes
to the deep still lake. The bright sharp air smelled of pine and cold.

Inside the chalet all was warmth
and comfort. Log fires, huge duck-down duvets on the beds, all the latest
appliances. It was a situation which could be described as idyllic, something
which Tara wished she could get across to Alessandra who, when not distracted
with the sheer excitement of being perched on skis, mooched around the chalet
wearing the look of one who is suffering greatly. And doing so in silence.

Saul had not fulfilled her
prophecy of abandoning her in order to indulge his own skiing prowess. He had
taken her off each morning to rendezvous with her instructor and had stayed
around to observe and encourage.

Tara judged that he was pulling
out all the stops to play the role of devoted and interested father. But
perhaps his campaign of trying so hard defeated its own ends. Perhaps
Alessandra was uneasy to be the focus of such close paternal attention. Or
perhaps she was merely aching with longing for Tosca.

Whatever undercurrents were at
work Tara had a sense of living with a barrel of unexploded gunpowder. She had
made no attempt to ski herself, having long ago decided that the sport was far
too cold, wet and hazardous for her liking. The days passed pleasantly enough
sipping coffee at the wickedly expensive café at the summit of the ski lift and
catching up on her reading and studying – a mixture of biographies and music
scores.

Five days into the holiday, just
as she was dressing before her morning patrol of the terrace and observation of
the sunrise, she was interrupted by the trill of her mobile phone. It was
seven-thirty in the morning. And the caller was Roland Grant.

‘Are you sitting down?’ he asked.
‘Because if not you should do so. Are you on your own?’

‘Yes. Roland, you’re making me
very jittery.’

‘The Jupiter World Music Award
short list was announced late last night. They have nominated you for your
video disc of
The Flying Dutchman. 
And on the grapevine I’m led to
believe there are no real contenders.’

‘Oh,’ said Tara.

‘That is not the expected response,’
Roland observed mildly.

‘It’s the old dilemma of
wondering whether to laugh or cry.’

‘Why should you cry? It’s news to
make any normal mortal shout for joy.’

She made a nondescript little
grunt.

‘Is Saul about?’ Roland asked.
‘Just say yes or no.’

Tara held the receiver away from
her ear. She could hear the hum of the shower heater, the hiss of hot water.
‘Yes, but I can still talk.’

‘Is that the problem for you? Are
you wondering what his reaction will be?’

‘Of course I am.’

‘You’re worried he’ll feel his
nose put out of joint. Oh, come on Tara!’

‘Come on, Roland. That video was
his baby, until I snatched it from his hands.’

‘Until he walked out and
virtually handed it into your safekeeping.’

‘Things can sound so beautifully
simple when you phrase them like that.’

‘Tara, Saul will do nothing but
applaud your achievement. And in any case, you had a great deal of input in the
preparation and directing of this performance. Don’t put yourself down.’

‘No, no. Perish the thought.’ She
laughed out loud now.

‘The important thing is that in
the end you were the one who directed the final rehearsal and conducted the
performance. You brought everything together and made it come alive, made it
into a huge success.’

‘Thank you.’ Tara smiled to
herself; an acerbic and ironic grin. Tara knew all about Roland when he got the
bit between his teeth.

‘Saul will get full credit for
the part he played,’ Grant insisted. ‘But when you get the award, which you
will - it’s yours alone.’

‘Oh God! Tara thought.

‘Saul is too big a man to cast a
shadow over this,’ Roland concluded.

‘Yes, of course you’re right.’
Tara thought it wise not to say anything directly to Roland about her growing
anxiety on Saul’s account. Of how brittle he seemed, how his mood was
occasionally so dark she felt she could no longer reach him at all.

Those things were deeply private.
And if they turned out to be more than a passing phase Roland would soon sniff
them out for himself.

‘I’m simply not used to being in
the spotlight,’ Tara said eventually, hoping that would satisfy Roland.

There was a pause. ‘Ah well,
that’s something I’m hoping we shall be able to put right at long last.’

Tara clicked off the connection,
heartily glad that Saul had not been around when this particular call came
through. Roland’s news had shaken her. Delighted, shocked, alarmed.

Her mind kept swerving back to
Saul’s likely reaction. She had no doubt that he would display all the
enthusiasm and warm congratulations appropriate to her achievement. But what
would he feel in his heart? Would he judge himself to have been beaten at his
own game by his young, inexperienced lover? Is that how he would view it? And
if so how would he bear it? Would he even end up hating her?

She let out a sigh of dismay. She
needed to get out of the chalet for a while, have some time to explore her
feelings further. There was no question of facing Saul before she had time to
think.

In the breakfast kitchen she
scribbled a hasty note and propped it against the coffee pot on the breakfast
table.

To my two dear ones. Gone for a
pre-breakfast walk. Carry on without me. See you soon. Love, love, love…

She walked out of the
north-facing door of the chalet, through the car parking space and out into the
lane from which the snow was removed each morning and fresh salt put down. It
wound its long meandering way down to the village below.

The morning was enlivened by the
sound of cheerful birdsong. A luminous white haze hung over the lake like a
giant cover. In an hour it would have cleared away completely and the sun would
burnish the water to a coruscating copper brilliance.

Tara breathed in deeply, mindful
that the majority of the world’s creatures were not so privileged as she to be
a spectator of all this wonder. But even this reflection did not quell the
drone of anxiety within her.