She crossed Oxford Street and, hardly noticing where she was going, continued on down Bond Street. As she did so, she was aware that somewhere there was a cloud on the general radiance of Mr. Bannister’s plan. It was nothing to do with lack of confidence in his judgment, nor even a diffidence about her own gifts, for she was determined to work on this role as she had never worked before. What troubled her — and she faced the fact now — was the idea that all this was to be done without the slightest reference to the man most concerned.
It was, as she had protested to Oliver, Marc’s opera. Surely he was entitled to know about every step taken towards its successful presentation?
She sighed unhappily, for she had accepted Quentin Bannister’s offer on his terms. What else could she do? If he liked to go his own autocratic way, and keep Marc in the dark about what he was doing, it was not for her to interfere in family politics. But it occurred to her suddenly that she was being asked to keep altogether too many family secrets for the Bannisters. First Oliver had sworn her to secrecy over his work with Tom Mallender. And now Quentin Bannister high-handedly demanded that she should preserve unreasonable secrecy over his meddling in Marc’s affairs.
‘Meddling’ was not the most gracious — or grateful — way of describing the magnificent offer which had been made to her. And, feeling both guilty and bewildered, Gail paused to look into a shop window. Not that she really examined the beautiful china displayed there with any special interest. She had merely come to a standstill in an effort to sort out her own confused thoughts.
And then a voice behind her said, ‘Well, what do you like best in that window?’ and she swung round sharply to find Marc Bannister at her elbow, a slight smile of amused inquiry on his face.
‘I — I don’t know,’ she stammered, overwhelmed by the absurd idea that she had pretty well conjured him up out of her own thoughts.
‘Then look again,’ he said, and confusedly she brought her attention to bear on the display in the window.
‘Th-that one, I think.’ She swallowed nervously and indicated a smug, fat eighteenth-century Cupid who was smiling as he placed an arrow to his bow.
‘He is rather nice, isn’t he?’ Marc bent to examine him. ‘Come on in and I’ll buy him for you.’
‘But I couldn’t let you!’ she protested. ‘He’s probably frightfully expensive. And anyway —’
‘I’d like to. And I owe you something for half spoiling your week-end visit.’
‘You don’t! I loved every minute of it.’
‘Oh, not every minute,’ he reminded her.
And, before she knew quite what he was doing, he had swept her into the shop, had the Cupid taken from the window, and was handing over an embarrassing number of notes for the smug little creature.
‘You can’t,’ she whispered agitatedly, even as the figure was being shrouded in tissue paper and placed in an ornamental box.
‘But I have,’ he pointed out. And presently the box was placed in her hand and they were outside in Bond Street once more, and she was trying incoherently to thank him.
‘It’s nothing — if you really like it. Come and have tea with me,’ Marc said. ‘We’re almost at the Ritz and they do a good tea there.’
She could hardly refuse, considering he had just bought her such a charming gift. Anyway, she discovered suddenly, she didn’t want to refuse. On the contrary, she was curiously elated by the prospect of tea with Marc Bannister on her own.
‘Give me your case.’ He held out his hand for her music case, and she surrendered it helplessly, wondering as she did so what he would have said if he could have known that it contained one of the few copies of his own operatic score.
CHAPTER FOUR
BY the time they entered the lounge at the Ritz Gail had recovered herself a little, although she still felt a nervous tremor every time she thought what her music case contained. Then, as they sat down at a table, she glanced down at the parcel she was carrying and exclaimed,
‘I haven’t really thanked you properly for this beautiful present! I’m afraid I was too stunned and surprised to find the right words. But I’m simply enchanted with it — and longing to have another look at it.’
‘Then unwrap it and look.’ He smiled across at her with a faint touch of indulgence.
‘It’s so beautifully done up —’ she began. Then pleasurable curiosity got the better of her and she carefully opened the box, undid the wrappings and stood her china Cupid on the tea-table.
All the time Marc Bannister watched her, with amusement, but a certain air of pleasure too.
‘I’ve never owned anything so lovely before,’ she said earnestly.
‘Oh, nonsense! you must have.’ His was the amused surprise of a man who seldom had to ask the price before buying something he wanted.
‘But it’s true.’ She looked up and laughed. ‘I like my flat, but it’s furnished with the oddest bits and pieces, and most of my domestic china came from Woolworths. I have got a nice little Bavarian vase that a friend on holiday brought me. But it’s not in this class at all. Is this French?’
‘No. Meissen, I expect.’ He took it in his strong, well-shaped hands and turned it over, to show her the crossed swords on the base of the figure. ‘It’s quite a good period,’ he added, examining it more closely. ‘I’m glad you like it.’
‘I love it,’ she said shyly. ‘There really wasn’t the slightest reason why you should give me a present — but I love it.’
‘I told you — I owed you something for spoiling your week-end.’
‘But you didn’t, you know. There were only a few annoying moments. Anyway, you were unhappy and had to take it out on someone, didn’t you?’ she added without rancour.
‘That sounds a pretty petty explanation,’ he said, with a slight grimace. ‘How did you know I was unhappy? — if I was.’
The tea was brought just then, and she poured out while she considered her reply.
‘Usually when people are unreasonably bad-tempered they are either frightened or miserable,’ she observed at last. ‘I can’t quite imagine your being frightened, so I suppose you were miserable.’
He was silent at that and after a moment she asked candidly, ‘Were you very much in love with Lena Dorman?’
‘Very much. Though I don’t know why I should tell you about it,’ he added rather stiffly.
‘No reason at all,’ Gail agreed cheerfully, as she bit into a delectable sandwich. ‘What else shall we talk about?’
He laughed at that, and then said, rather as though he couldn’t help it, ‘She was in love with me too at first.’
‘Oh?’ Gail could not quite keep the note of scepticism out of her voice, and he added reluctantly, ‘In her way, I mean.’
‘I’m bound to say I think it would always be a very self-seeking way,’ Gail told him kindly. ‘But no doubt you know that for yourself. Still, one doesn’t stop loving people just because one recognizes their faults. If you still feel so badly about Lena, why don’t you put a line under the shabby way she treated you, and start again? Forgive her — or whatever you like to call it.’
He stirred his tea moodily and said without looking up, ‘You know the answer to that, don’t you?’
‘There are two or three possible answers,’ replied Gail. ‘I don’t know which one you give yourself. It could be that you feel you could never trust her again. It could be that your pride means more to you than your affections. Or it could be just that you know perfectly well she’s had enough of you anyway.’
‘It’s the last one,’ he said, and then they were both silent.
‘I’m so sorry.’ Gail spoke at last. ‘I’m afraid there’s not much help for that, is there? And I won’t tell you that you’re well rid of her, because you probably know that too. One does get over most things, though — if that’s any consolation. Try going out with some other girl instead, even if —’
‘You, for instance,’ he interrupted sardonically.
‘Oh, I wasn�
��t thinking of me,’ she assured him coolly. ‘I don’t think I’m your type at all. But lots of girls would be very happy to be noticed by you. You’re good-looking, quite well heeled, on the way to being famous, and attractive in your way.’
‘Why don’t you think you’re my type?’ was what he said in reply to all that.
‘Well, your week-end reactions certainly didn’t suggest I was, did they? Anyway, I imagine you like your womenfolk to be rather sophisticated, and I’m not a bit that.’
‘No, you’re not, are you?’ he agreed, with rather unflattering emphasis. But then he added unexpectedly, ‘I think that’s why I like you.’
‘Oh —’ she looked down at the Cupid again, a trifle put out by this plain statement.
‘Come out with me this evening, Gail,’ he exclaimed suddenly. ‘I have tickets for the Verdi Requiem at the Festival Hall. Oscar Warrender is conducting and Anthea is singing the soprano part.’
‘I —’ she hesitated, longing to go, yet frightened still at the thought of the score in her music case. In addition, she had a vague sense of disloyalty in accepting Marc’s invitation while sharing his father’s subterfuge — however well that might be meant. ‘I’m not dressed for anything like that,’ she said at last, glancing down at her very ordinary everyday attire.
‘You look all right to me,’ he replied. ‘But if you want to dress up, I imagine you have plenty of time to go home first. It doesn’t start until eight. Where do you live?’
‘Just off Hampstead Heath.’
‘Well, then —’ he glanced at his watch. ‘Meet me near the box office at the Hall at twenty minutes to eight. And,’ he added with a sudden smile, ‘I’ll take you round afterwards to meet the Warrenders, if you like.’
‘You will?’ Her eyes shone with excitement. ‘Do you know them quite well?’
‘Yes, of course.’ She rather gathered that he knew everyone in the musical world quite well. ‘Warrender is interested to some degree in “The Exile”, as a matter of fact.’
She trembled again at the mention of that dangerous title. But the invitation was altogether too enticing for her to refuse.
‘I’ll come, of course. And thank you a thousand times!’
‘The pleasure is equally mine,’ he told her with that half mocking, wholly charming smile of his. ‘Can I get you a taxi?’ as they rose to go.
‘Oh, no, thank you. I’ll go by Tube.’ She carefully picked up her re-wrapped parcel.
‘Don’t forget your music case.’ He picked that up. ‘What are you working on at the moment?’
‘Several things,’ she exclaimed in great confusion, and she more or less snatched the case from his hand, lest he should look inside. ‘I’ll have to hurry now, if I’m to get home and back. Thank you for my lovely tea — and my wonderful present — and for the invitation to the concert. Thank you for everything, in fact.’
‘And thank you for being so appreciative,’ he said with a smile as he parted from her outside the Ritz.
As Gail ran down the steps to the Tube station she was aware of a flutter of excitement and anxiety and rapture and confusion such as she had never known before. She told herself it was the mixture of uneasiness because of the secrecy which Quentin Bannister had forced upon her and the sheer delight of being taken to what would undoubtedly be one of the great performances of the season.
‘I’m terribly lucky!’ she thought, feeling sorry for all the other people in the Tube train who were not going to the concert and didn’t know Marc Bannister.
And didn’t know Marc Bannister.
Suddenly the realization hit her, almost like a physical blow, that what irradiated this whole experience was the fact that Marc was taking her, Marc had bought her that lovely present, Marc had said he liked her.
‘Well, why not?’ she asked herself defiantly. Hadn’t she herself enumerated to him the reasons why a girl might very well like to be taken out by him? She had been trying to cheer him for the loss of Lena, of course. She certainly had not had herself in mind when she uttered those words. But now she saw, with sobering clarity, that what she had really been putting into words was how he appeared to her.
She arrived at the end of her journey before she had fully examined what the implications of that discovery might be. Which was just as well, she told herself. Otherwise she might have got the impression that it was all rather more important than it really was.
After that she was too busy hurrying to her flat, changing, snatching a cup of coffee and a sandwich, and setting off for town again, for her to have time for foolish introspection.
She was in good time at the Festival Hall, but he was already there waiting for her, looking extremely distinguished in his dinner jacket.
‘Goodness! You didn’t go back to Sussex and change, did you?’ she greeted him rather perkily.
‘No.’ He smiled down at her. ‘I have a flat of my own in town.’
‘Oh, I see. You look terribly distinguished and exactly as though you might be the composer of an important opera,’ Gail told him.
‘Thank you for those heartening words. You yourself look enchanting,’ he replied. ‘What do you call that particular shade of green?’
‘I don’t know,’ Gail confessed. ‘But it’s pretty, isn’t it?’
‘No,’ he said. ‘It’s lovely. And so are you.’
‘Well —’ Gail suddenly found she had come to the end of her stock of banter, so she looked round instead, and was more than ever glad that she had rushed home to change. For it was, largely speaking, a well-dressed audience, sufficiently well-bred to know that a festive occasion requires a little effort from the audience as well as the artists.
She was too sensible a person to demand this particular atmosphere for every occasion, of course. Music-making was, she knew, deeper than any externals, and could be appreciated in much humbler circumstances than these. But there was no denying the fact that the hall looked splendid, that a subtle air of festivity permeated the place, and that as the famous conductor came on, and the orchestra and choir rose to their feet, one felt an upsurge of something very much more than good, solid pleasure.
Then the four soloists filed on to the platform, and Gail looked at Anthea Warrender and thought how beautiful and distinguished she looked. And she remembered the romantic story of how she had been a mere singing student once and Warrender had picked her out, trained her, bullied her, coaxed her to stardom and finally married her. It was a good story, and Gail found herself hoping that at least some of the romantic details were true.
She doubted if anyone — by which she meant herself — could really fall in love with someone as arrogant and unapproachable as Oscar Warrender. But once the performance had started she fell completely under his spell, realizing that there was something in that strange mixture of ruthlessness and tenderness which not only drew the last ounce of artistic effort from his players and singers but perhaps belonged also to the man himself.
After a while, in company with most of the audience, she began to feel that she too was part of the performance. And then it became not a performance but an experience, and she was aware of that strange, glorious feeling of being in some way transported.
This is, of course, the special gift of the genius, as opposed to the excellent, worthy artist. To transport us from the mundane world of everyday to some other dimension of thought and experience, so that we too are better, happier, greater than we thought ourselves to be. It is something one can neither teach nor learn, but to those who have it the world instinctively pays ungrudging tribute. (With the melancholy exception of those who are too small-minded to love greatness anyway.)
As the last notes of the ‘Libera me’ floated away into what seemed like eternity a deathly hush fell on the hall. Then the applause broke forth in a perfect storm. Gail found herself on her feet, cheering with the rest, and once she turned an excited face upon Marc Bannister and exclaimed, ‘Oh, you darling for bringing me! It was wonderful — wonderful. I’ve never
heard it sound like that before. I wouldn’t have missed it for the world!’
‘Nor would I,’ he said, and he smiled down into her radiant face, before they both turned once more to the platform to applaud the returning soloists.
Finally the audience insisted on Warrender taking a solo bow. But as the applause broke out afresh, he simply took the score in his hand and held it up, so that the one name ‘Verdi’ was plain for all to see.
‘Oh, that’s lovely!’ exclaimed Gail, greatly moved. ‘He can’t really be arrogant, after all.’
‘As a man he is rather,’ Marc assured her with a slight laugh. ‘As a musician not at all. Come along, and we’ll see if we can fight our way round backstage.’
It was something of a struggle, literally, to make their way through the enthusiastic crowds. But presently one of the ushers recognized Marc and made way for him and his companion.
‘Good evening, sir. Mr. Quentin Bannister not here this evening?’
‘No. He had to go back to the country,’ Marc said.
‘A pity! He would have known how to appreciate tonight.’
‘Indeed, yes,’ replied Marc courteously. But Gail noticed a slight tightening of his mouth, and she wondered if this were the sort of thing Oliver had meant when he said it was difficult being merely the son of one’s father, instead of someone in one’s own right.
As they reached the door of the conductor’s room, someone exclaimed, ‘Hello, Marc! Are you just going in to see Oscar? Come with me.’ And Gail realized that it was Anthea Warrender who had caught her companion lightly by the arm.
Marc performed rapid introductions, the famous young soprano smiled warmly at Gail and then said in a low voice, ‘The opera is terrific, Marc. Makes me almost wish I were a contralto!’
Music of the Heart (Warrender Saga Book 6) Page 7