The Maestro's Mistress (39 page)

Bruno noticed that Xavier was not
using the sustaining pedal at all. And yet the lyricism of the piece was
entirely intact. There was no trace of starkness, nothing jarring, everything flowing.
Xavier’s left hand, which had moments ago been mountain climbing with Liszt now
danced over the keys with a butterfly touch.

Follow that, thought Bruno
ruefully.

Caroline was watching Alessandra,
waiting with interest to hear her reply to the question she had just posed.

‘No,’ Alessandra said shortly.

Tara longed to intervene. She
stopped herself.

‘Oh!’ Caroline could not conceal
her surprise.

‘I have lessons,’ Alessandra
admitted. Her eyes took on a wicked glint. ‘Each week my teacher says: “Now
then Alessandra, I’m looking forward to hearing the results of your practising.
Yet another triumph of hope over experience.”’

Bruno hooted. ‘Well if you
abandon the piano you could always get yourself a reputation doing
impressions.’

‘I do sing a bit,’ Alessandra
told him, astonishing Tara who had never heard her daughter confess this to
anyone before. ‘That’s your thing, isn’t it Bruno?’

‘I simply direct. I don’t make
any sound myself,’ Bruno told her, his face mockingly grave.

‘Oh, like Daddy when he’s
bullying orchestras,’ Alessandra said with a show of gritty scorn. But when she
looked across to her father at the piano there was pleading and aching and need
in her face.

Tara resisted the impulse to
reach out and hug her daughter. Things had not been easy in the last few weeks.
After they had returned from Austria Alessandra had tried so hard to build a
bridge to her father. She had spent hours with him in the projection room
acting as his willing slave and dogsbody. But he had barely seemed to notice
her, appearing completely absorbed in the editing of the films.

Increasingly it seemed as though he
had little interest in anything else when he was not actively engaged in
conducting work. Tara sensed he was in the grip of some conflict, some
fathomless personal despair. Being Xavier he put on a good front, hiding whatever
was troubling him. As ever there were never any displays of violent emotion;
nor did he resort to moodiness. He was unfailingly courteous and outwardly
loving. And yet Tara knew that Alessandra, like herself, had a chilling sense
of his moving away from them, slipping into a private world of music over which
he wielded total power.

Tara judged it was only a matter
of time before Alessandra blew up and stormed out on him. Maybe packed her bags
and went off to live with Rachel and Donald. And why not? How could she be
expected at her age to put up with what amounted to constant rejection? Let
alone try to understand it.

Tara felt a hand on her arm. It
was Roland. ‘I need to have a word with you. Not tonight, but very soon,’ he
said softly. ‘There must be no more missed opportunities.’

‘OK – fine. I’ll call you first
thing in the morning.’ She reached up and gave him a light kiss, chuckling at
his sternly raised eyebrows.

Roland turned to Bruno. ‘And I
hope you will call me too.’ He laid his hand briefly on Bruno’s shoulder, as if
in blessing.

Bruno is made now, Tara thought
with pleasure and affection. Once Roland touched you everything you did turned
to gold.

Her head was beginning to buzz
with dizzy sensation from the excitement and stress of the evening and too many
glasses of champagne. She thought of the new career which would inevitably
unfold for her, of Alessandra’s desperate needs, of Saul’s frightening
alienation.  How was she going to cope with all of this in the cold grey light
of morning?

The Mozart was drawing to a
close. Roland stole up to the piano and leaned over Saul. The two men quietly
left the room together. Thank God, Tara thought. If anyone can pull Saul round,
Roland can.

Bruno wandered to the piano and
started tinkering. He noticed Alessandra watching him. He smiled. She moved to
stand beside him, drawn by his gentle and reassuring manner.

Some of her music lay open on the
stand. Bruno flicked through the sheets and then played a few cheeky bars of
The
Harmonious Blacksmith.

Alessandra bridled. I do
sometimes think of other things besides horses.

‘Sorry.’ Bruno grimaced
apologetically. He picked up the song sheet of Schubert’s
Rose among the
Heather.

‘Will you turn the pages?’ he
asked Alessandra. ‘I expect you do that for your father.’

‘Daddy never needs sheet music.
His memory is phenomenal,’ Alessandra said.

‘Mine is abysmal,’ Bruno lied
cheerily. He played the opening bars and grunted out the words in his deep
baritone voice.

‘Dreadful!’ Alessandra exclaimed.
She looked swiftly around, automatically checking the whereabouts of her
father. Realizing he was safely off the scene she felt herself able to relax.
Amidst the hubbub of laughter and conversation she began to sing.

Tara heard the sound of her
daughter’s voice through the background noise and felt her eyes fill with
tears.

‘Bruno will be inviting her to
audition for his choir,’ Caroline said, tilting her head as she listened. ‘He’s
always on the lookout for young female singers. I tell him I shall get terribly
jealous.’

Tara was certain jealousy was the
last thing Caroline was feeling with regard to Bruno. Her conviction in the
security of her wifely status glowed around her like a halo.

Saul came back into the room. As
always his presence brought about a subtle change in the atmosphere. Alessandra
sensed his presence even before she saw him. Her singing faltered. She was
suddenly attacked with a fit of coughing and had to disappear to get some
water.

Bruno got up from the piano and
returned to stand by his wife, throwing an affectionate arm around her
shoulder. Tara, strung up with tension and fatigue considered how pleasant and
comforting it would be to lay her head on Bruno’s fatherly, well-cushioned
shoulder and blurt out all her problems. Just as she used to when they were
first year students.

She drained her glass and laughed
at herself.  Too much fizz could make one very soppy and sentimental. She
stretched out her hand and placed it in Saul’s, needing to make physical
contact with him. The strong dry pressure from his fingers instantly reassured
– pushed away every other need.

‘What a lovely daughter you
have,’ Caroline said to him. ‘You are so lucky, we didn’t manage a girl.’

‘We are indeed lucky,’ Xavier
said quietly.

‘She’s already taller than me,’
Tara commented. ‘My authority diminishes with each passing day.’

‘She has very striking colouring,’
Caroline continued. ‘Such wonderful blonde hair – so unusual with those green
eyes. Bruno used to have blond hair, didn’t you darling? Right up to being a
teenager. And look at him now; just a few mousy brown tufts.’

Tara felt a slight alteration in
the pressure of Saul’s hand. She looked up at him and saw a blood vessel
flickering in his jaw. Her mouth went dry.

Excusing herself she went into
the small office next to the kitchen where Mrs Lockwood did her menu and
shopping planning and made up her accounts. Her cheeks and forehead burned with
heat. Throwing open the window she sought the coolness of the night air. It was
the past that seemed to rush in.

Alessandra crept up behind her.
‘I think I’ll go to bed now, Mummy.’

‘Are you all right?’ Tara asked
concerned.

‘I just got a frog in my throat.
It’s nearly gone now.’ She produced one or two throat-clearing coughs.

‘Good.’ Tara put her arm around
Alessandra and kissed her tenderly.

‘Isn’t Bruno sweet?’ Alessandra
exclaimed suddenly.

‘Yes, he is.’

‘Like a big cuddly teddy bear.
Has he any children?’

‘Twin boys, six years old.’

‘They could do with a daughter to
control Caroline’s dire fashion sense. That dress! If she went out in a wind
she’d take off like Mary Poppins. Well, I’ll be off.’ She was all brittle
cheeriness. ‘Is Daddy OK?’

‘Fine.’

‘He was great tonight, wasn’t
he?’ He looked so proud when you went up for the award. Really pleased.
Honestly, he did.’

‘Of course he did.’

Tara stood at the window, unable
to make herself go back to the party. She tried to clear herself of all
feeling, to empty and purify herself. She wondered how long it would be before
Bruno decided to confront her. Tomorrow, next week? Never?’

He was already in the room. He
closed the door behind him.

‘Tara,’ he said, as though it
were an endearment.

She was silent.

‘Alessandra is a wonderful girl.’
His voice was thick with pent up feeling.

‘Yes.’

A long pause. Tara closed her
eyes. Saliva poured into her mouth.

‘Is Alessandra mine?’ he asked
softly. ‘Is she my child?’

‘No.’

‘Can you be sure?’

‘No, I just know.’ The words were
simple and brutal.

She heard his breathing, jerky
and harsh.

‘Don’t imagine things Bruno. Don’t
hope.’

‘She could be mine – it’s
possible.’ He was suddenly strong – fiercely determined. ‘It is possible, isn’t
it?’

Tara let her head sink into her
hands. ‘Alessandra belongs to Saul,’ she whispered.

‘It’s possible,’ Bruno repeated.

‘Yes,’ Tara admitted flatly.
‘It’s possible.’ She had always known it was possible. She had also never had a
shred of doubt that it was Saul who had made her pregnant. She wondered if
Bruno would demand a DNA test to be done to try to determine paternity. Oh
hell!

‘Are you absolutely sure about
dates and so on?’ Bruno asked.

Tara closed her eyes. ‘Alessandra
is Saul’s child. She is his legacy,’ she cried out in protest. ‘For God’s sake
Bruno, look at her. Listen to her, it’s obvious.’

Suddenly she couldn’t wait to get
away from Bruno and his earnest, considerate ponderings. Pushing past him she
stumbled to the door.

Saul stood behind it. Silent.
Knowing.

What had he heard? Anything? 
Everything? She knew he would never demean himself by referring to it. She felt
her eyes burning with grainy dry tears that refused to be shed.

Later, when the guests had gone
and she and Saul were undressing for bed, he began to talk calmly to her about
plans for the future, spelling things out clearly and logically. There would be
offers for her to take on the musical directing of an orchestra with national
prestige. Build it up, forge new and exciting paths. How would she feel about
that? It would be a marvellous challenge, though riddled with pitfalls. But he
would be there to give her all the help she needed.

She did not want the precious
time with him eaten up on professional discussion. She wanted him close, their
hearts beating in unison. She wrapped her arms about him, moved her hands over
the line of his vertebrae. The hardness of him, the smell of his skin brought
back sensations of their past love-making all its spinning intensity, its
hypnotic enchantment.

‘We’ll think about it tomorrow,’
she murmured.
And all the other things.

She slid into bed, worn out, but
eagerly awaiting him. Saul was pacing restlessly. He was often sleepless
nowadays. She held her arms out to him. He bent to kiss her. ‘I think I’ll take
a short walk,’ he said suddenly. ‘Clear the head of champagne.’

She heard him go downstairs and
the click of the front door. When did Saul ever go for a walk, she asked
herself anxiously. A run maybe, a punishing game of squash, a whirling scurry
down a mountain slope. Never a walk. And she doubted he had drunk more than
half a glass of champagne.

Sure enough after a short pause
she heard the engine of his new Porsche Turbo roar and whine into life in the
street below. It was a departure from his previous cars. No wraparound stripes
- stark and black, more powerful than any car he had before. He said it made
him feel young again. Well, at least he would be happy behind the wheel.

The issue Bruno had raised
wouldn’t leave her thoughts, even though she knew in her heart that there was nothing
to be afraid of. She had no shred of doubt that Alessandra was Saul’s child.
Maybe she should arrange a DNA test herself, and simply knock the whole matter
on the head for ever. But then she would have to tell Alessandra. No way could
she go in stealth and pluck hairs from her brush, or whatever was needed in
order to provide a sample for analysis. And, of course, whilst Bruno would be
only too ready to oblige, asking for his co-operation would flag suggest she,
Tara, harboured doubts about her daughter’s parentage. It was all unthinkable. 
  

Exhaustion claimed her. Her
muscles relaxed and she fell into a deep sleep.

She was pulled back into
consciousness by a relentless banging on the outer door. She rubbed her eyes,
blinking away the tendrils of drowsiness. A thin grey light penetrated the
curtains. Birds were shrilling out a dawn chorus.