The Concert Pianist

by Conrad Williams

  Praise for The Concert Pianist

  ‘Conrad Williams’s new novel examines in devastating detail the inner life of a concert pianist undergoing an existential crisis . . . This thoughtful novel hits few false notes in its presentation of the classical music business. Unlike many fictional treatments of this world, it manages to eschew melodrama, despite its dramatically heightened plot. Intellectually engaged with the aesthetics of music and humanly engaged in its protagonist’s story, it transforms its material into a remarkably well-made narrative’

  Lucasta Miller, Guardian

  ‘Williams takes us to the heart of the creative condition . . . [He] writes intelligently and sensitively about music and the musical world . . . [His] rich cast of characters - pushy but priceless patrons, charming but tricky agents, critics and mentors - explore the place of the high arts in contemporary culture . . . [and] the restless and often excruciating journey undertaken by all who attempt truthfully to create or interpret works of genius’

  Sunday Telegraph

  ‘A savagely acute novel . . . No critic, agent, entrepreneur or fawning amateur is safe from Williams’s glittering, scabrous and rhetorical assault, and there are enough disturbing psychological resonances to make even the most hardened careerist retreat from the field of battle . . . Would-be concert pianists should steel themselves before reading this novel. The ring of truth . . . is brilliant and enlivening and will stop even the most blase reader in his tracks’

  Bryce Morrison, The Gramophone

  ‘Flying colours . . . Williams writes with easy grace and an evocative turn of phrase . . . He follows his character’s emotional trajectory like the best kind of psychoanalyst, and makes us care what happens to him . . . The book’s gradually revealed truths come as a shock, which is testament to Williams’s narrative skill. He achieves a series of stylistic tours de force, some involving Philip’s re-encounters with the landscapes of his childhood, others moving into the world of dreams. The book ends with a starburst, in which the music of Chopin becomes the vehicle for Philip’s salvation’

  Independent

  For my mother and father

  CONTENTS

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Chapter Twenty-two

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Acknowledgements

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Also available by Conrad Williams

  Chapter One

  He saw a lawn freshly striped by mowing, steps rising to the old terrace, clumps of aubretia and lavender greening up. The house was bearded with clematis. A pair of deckchairs faced the glorious open countryside. He knew at a glance that it had been a waste, or at least a dumb oversight, to spend his middle years living in London.

  His heart was beating away. Children’s voices were audible. Beyond the walled garden was an orchard. One could distinguish the upper bars of a climbing frame.

  He pushed through the gate and strode on to the lawn, shadow going before him. The perfect grass drew attention to his shoes - unpolished. He saw a watering can by a flower bed, and suddenly there she was. She wore a light-blue summer frock. The skirt twisted as she came through an archway, wrapping around her thigh and then blowing free, trailing in the passage of air as she walked towards the wheelbarrow.

  He expected to be seen, but she was picking at her gardening gloves and for a second he was frozen by the spectacle of her lost in thought, unaware of him. And then she turned. ‘Philip!’ she shrieked.

  He could feel the lightness of her body even before she rushed into his arms, and because she greeted him with such delight, he swept her clean off the ground and nearly tottered over. The kiss was warm, straight on the mouth. She looked up at him with as much glee as a happily married woman can bestow on an old boyfriend.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ She was joyous.

  He shrugged and smiled.

  ‘I can hardly believe I’m looking at you!’

  ‘Been ages.’

  ‘Certainly has! Who’s that?’

  ‘Ilya, my driver.’

  Vadim stood by the wicket gate, gazing at the countryside.

  ‘Your driver!’

  He wore a black suit and a black polo-necked shirt and looked rather filmic between the cherry trees.

  ‘Gosh! Would you like some tea?’

  ‘I’d love some tea.’

  They drifted towards the house, Camilla still amazed and not knowing quite what to say or where to start - everything to catch up on.

  ‘I keep seeing your name,’ she said. ‘You were all over the Sunday Telegraph a couple of weeks ago.’ She turned, smiling. “The Renaissance Man of British Pianism!”

  ‘Yup. I’ve got a run of concerts on the South Bank so the publicists are in action.’

  She was impressed. ‘Shouldn’t you be practising, Philip!’

  ‘I should always be practising.’

  ‘I’m glad you’re not.’

  ‘Children?’ He nodded in the direction of the orchard.

  ‘Two.’ She smiled with lovely pride.

  He was fascinated by the sensation of physical closeness to a woman he had made love to fifteen years ago. He felt the original attraction as a tingle, inadmissible now.

  ‘I think Ilya would like some tea.’

  Vadim had progressed to the lawn, and was considering the view, cigarette tipped between knuckles.

  ‘Don’t worry about him. Where are your children?’

  ‘In the orchard. Lulu!’ she called. ‘Fernanda!’

  There were photographs of the two girls in clip frames on the kitchen wall. They were pretty; the kitchen was pretty; the mullion windows framed pretty views. As the kettle came to the boil he strolled around, admiring the homely touches and farmhouse feel. He found what he was trying to avoid on the fridge door: a photograph of her husband. It showed the face of a man beaming with pride. Weak features were enlivened by love and purpose and a kind of recovered innocence, as if the possession of farm and family gave him all the future he needed.

  Philip glanced at Camilla, busy in the kitchen: a frown of things to do, a ship to run. Her hair was fine and lustrous. It swept away from her forehead with all its original glamour.

  ‘Husband on the farm?’

  ‘He’s in Salisbury buying a bed.’

  ‘I like your home,’ he nodded.

  ‘Lots of hard work. Don’t go into farming, whatever you do.’

  ‘Beautiful girls, Camilla.’

  She smiled. ‘It’s so amazing to see you. Mr Famous Concert Pianist! Is Ilya taking you on a royal spin round the countryside?’

  ‘Tour of old girlfriends.’

  She laughed.

  He gazed at her with unguarded nostalgia. ‘I just wanted to see you.’

  ‘How flattering!’

  ‘Don’t be flattered. It’s the same old me.’

  ‘You’re looking extremely well, Philip Morahan.’

  She was so appreciative, and this he always liked. She had loved him absolutely for himself.

  ‘I had an interesting quiz question for you, actually.’

  ‘Oh yes!’

&n
bsp; He looked just the same, she thought, distinguished now, with that high, donnish brow and the glittering spectacles and sharp, nervous eyes that looked at you intimately. His face was sensitively creased, frayed with lines of worry and doubt, as though real life were a constant riddle for the concert pianist; and yet how warming was his smile, that heaven-sent smile, that made you want to amuse him and see his face light up. He had put on a little weight, she noticed, mainly in the right places.

  ‘What quiz question?’ She gathered the kettle.

  ‘For a maximum score of ten.’

  She looked ready and willing.

  He drew back a little, hesitating. ‘Why did you leave me?’

  She was startled. ‘Leave you?’

  ‘I know it sounds a bit left field after all these years.’

  She shot a glance at the door, suspecting children. ‘It does sound a bit left field.’

  He smiled encouragingly.

  ‘I hope you’re not serious.’

  ‘I’m always serious, Camilla. I play Beethoven for a living.’

  She was amused and slightly appalled. ‘That’s water under the bridge, isn’t it?’

  ‘Not my bridge.’

  ‘We left each other.’

  ‘You dumped me like a sack of rotten potatoes!’

  ‘I didn’t!’ She laughed in protest.

  ‘I’m not saying you didn’t have excellent reasons.’

  ‘Philip, shush! Now! Earl Grey or PG Tips?’

  ‘Glass of red would be nice.’

  She took the cork off a half-empty bottle at the back of the counter, and splashed some into a mug. ‘There. Change the subject, please.’

  She had the measure of him, and this he always liked. Camilla’s sense of humour fostered his eccentricity, his awkward directness.

  ‘Fine. You’re looking more gorgeous than ever.’

  She could not help laughing. ‘You are hilarious. You haven’t changed a bit. I don’t hear from you in ages and then you sail in out of the blue asking ridiculous questions. I honestly don’t think we were meant for each other. It was a lovely stretched-out fling. And anyway, you were married to the piano well before I came on to the scene.’ She smiled.

  Philip looked over his shoulder, a door banging. ‘Oh fuck.’

  Vadim strode into the kitchen like a foreign emissary assured of a gracious welcome.

  Philip frowned, looking away in frustration.

  ‘Hello!’

  He quickly pulled himself together. ‘Urn, Ilya. Meet Camilla.’

  ‘Ilya?’ said Vadim, as he crossed to Camilla, taking her hand and kissing it like a court noble.

  ‘You’re Russian?’ She was amused.

  ‘Ty ochen’ krasivaya.’ He bowed, clicking his heels. ‘Ya hochu chtoby ty byla moyei seichas.’

  ‘A Russian chauffeur?’

  ‘Chauffeur?’ Vadim glanced at Philip in double admiration.

  She beheld him with outright amusement.

  Vadim had a sort of grand sweep to his tread, and yet a young man’s mock knowingness, too. Despite being the foreigner in these parts, he seemed very at home in English country kitchens amidst Agas and women of a certain class. Dark hair scrolled off a high, photogenic brow, full of noble intentions. His mouth was a rosebud, his nose rather small, his cheeks rather preciously delineated. He had the face of a ballet dancer and the physique of a bear.

  ‘You’re not a chauffeur! Philip, you devil!’

  Philip shrugged at his diablerie.

  ‘Are you a musician?’

  ‘The Russian Mafia sacked him for incompetence.’

  ‘Professional gambler,’ nodded Vadim.

  She laughed brightly. ‘The pair of you! Shut up!’

  Vadim theatrically indicated certain needs.

  ‘Through that door on the left.’ She returned Philip a glance filled with delight. ‘Who the hell . . .?’

  ‘Friend.’ He waved it away. ‘Tickles the ivories.’

  ‘A pianist?’

  Philip glanced at the door to the loo. He had maybe three minutes to come to the point. ‘He’s got a concert this evening.’

  ‘This evening?’

  ‘I’m driving him down to Southampton to make sure he plays what’s on the programme instead of switching it around or bunking off altogether.’

  ‘So you’re bis chauffeur?’

  ‘His moral and professional minder,’ he nodded.

  She gazed at him radiantly, as though it had only just sunk in he was here. ‘Why didn’t you let me know you were coming, you monster?’

  ‘Advantage of surprise.’

  She grabbed him by the arm in affectionate remonstration.

  He smiled suddenly, brilliantly. He had really adored Camilla.

  ‘So nice to see you, Pip,’ she said, squeezing his arm and smiling back. ‘Rascal.’

  He raised his mug in salutation. It had been such a boon to fall for this sexy field marshal’s daughter, a flower of the British upper classes, so utterly different to him and so gloriously unbothered by classical music. She found him, for some reason, funny, lovable, and was quite joyously uncomplicated and vivaciously sexual herself. Yes, sure, he had been married to the piano. The instrument dogged his moods, his conversation, his diary, and trying to plan a relationship around the tours was hopeless, but despite all that she had rescued him from the excruciating earnestness of it all. Philip’s nervy demeanour seemed to amuse her. Through Camilla he caught a sense of his appeal to women: a sort of comic helplessness.

  ‘What’s going on?’ she said. ‘What’ve you been up to?’

  ‘Oh God! I’m doing these three concerts.’ He exhaled.

  ‘At the Festival Hall?’ she asked.

  ‘QEH. The Great Piano Sonatas.’

  ‘Fantastic! That’s coming soon?’

  ‘Next week.’

  ‘How exciting!’

  He smiled awkwardly. Now was the moment. Now or never. He had to ask.

  The Russian sailed back into the room, hands in jacket pockets.

  Philip groaned.

  ‘Red wine for health,’ said the younger man.

  ‘Steady on, Vadim.’

  ‘Is it Vadim, now?’ she said.

  ‘Many identities.’

  Camilla was enjoying herself. She poured wine into a glass. ‘Are you guys old friends?’

  She passed the wine to Vadim, who swept it back like a vodka shot.

  Philip rubbed his eye. He was not being fair on his protege. This detour was completely impulsive and unannounced, and although Vadim was swaggering around nonchalantly, the nerves would be picking away at him. All Philip needed was a couple of moments with Camilla, and then they could go.

  He adjusted his spectacles and tried a different tack. ‘Vadim, I loved Camilla more than anyone before or since. I realised two days ago in the bubble bath.’

  ‘Oh, here we go!’

  ‘Crabtree and Evelyn, to be precise.’

  ‘Left by one of your numerous lady friends,’ she smiled.

  ‘If only.’

  Vadim nodded understandingly. Love, romance, grand passion: these were his stock in trade. ‘Now I realise why you drive me to Southampton of all places in God’s earth. I thought you want to hear Brahms. But always Philip has ulterior motive.’

  She smiled expectantly.

  ‘To introduce one of great beauties of Hampshire.’

  She burst out laughing and watched in bright-eyed wariness as Vadim executed another knuckle kiss on her left hand.

  ‘I understand “English Rose”,’ he said, ‘only for first time today.’

  ‘Not for you, my friend,’ said Philip.

  She removed her hand with a twist. ‘Are all Russian men this gallant, Vadim?’

  ‘To begin with, yes.’

  ‘Changing the subject,’ said Philip, ‘if your husband dropped dead tomorrow, would I have a chance?’

  ‘You’re appalling. Shut up!’

  ‘Give me hope.’

 
; ‘Are you another famous pianist?’ she said, turning to Vadim.

  ‘ I will be world famous in about two years. Five minutes, please, Philip.’

  Philip grimaced. Vadim would need time to settle in, try the piano, get changed, eat something. They had to get moving.

  Vadim sloped off along the corridor to allow them a moment.

  ‘How’s Peter?’ she asked. ‘Didn’t he get married? I haven’t seen him for ages.’

  He swallowed. He was feeling strange. ‘They all got married. Except me.’

  ‘You two were such a laugh.’

  He tried to smile.

  He owed Peter for so much, including Camilla. This thought had not crossed his mind in awhile, and now it filled him with sorrow.

  ‘You may as well see this,’ he said with effort, pulling a wallet from his jacket.

  He drew out the photograph and handed it to Camilla.

  ‘What a sweet little thing. Not yours?’

  ‘No, no. My god-daughter.’

  She beamed maternally. ‘Peter’s?’

  ‘Yup. Little Katie. Three.’

  ‘Where do they live?’

  He averted his eyes.

  Vadim stuck his head into the room. ‘Philip, I see you in the car in two minutes, or I hot-wire it and drive myself there. Thank you, Camilla.’

  ‘Bye, Vadim!’ She smiled.

  Philip looked around to steady himself. He was swarming inside.

  There was children’s stuff all over the kitchen: zippy plastic files with homework reading, Lego bricks on the sill, small shoes on the doormat. This was the primary-colour world that bacherlorhood had denied him. Suddenly, you saw yourself staring longingly into other people’s lives, and realising the outcome of decisions made long ago was quite irreversible.

  ‘I’m so pleased you stopped by.’

  He managed a convincing smile and turned to look through the French windows.

  ‘Have the last drop,’ she said, bringing over the wine bottle.

  ‘I heard about the abortion.’ He turned.

  ‘What abortion?’

  ‘You were pregnant.’

  She lost colour.

  ‘ I got you pregnant.’

  Camilla gazed at him in a kind of disbelief. He was already sorry for her.

  ‘Is it true?’

  She hesitated.

  He could tell from her expression. His chest tightened. He had so wanted this not to be true.