by Brianna Hale
Chapter Twenty-One
Isabeau
Now
I stay all night in his bed, sleeping in Laszlo’s arms. I wake several times and see him in the dim light, his handsome face softened by sleep and the bristles on his chin making him look like a rough angel. I close my eyes with a smile on my face and fall back asleep.
At ten minutes to six he kisses me awake so I can go back to my own room before too many people start to stir. We agreed that while we’re finishing the tour we should try and keep our relationship quiet. But I can’t go right away, not when he’s right there and we’re both naked. I draw his hands up to my breasts and his gentle, chaste kisses swiftly become deep and heated. I feel his hard length against my thigh and I pull him closer, opening my legs beneath him. I gaze up at him, scratching my nails through his beard, unafraid. Happier than I think I’ve ever been. He fumbles for a condom and then eases himself into me, and it’s even more delicious this morning, feeling his weight upon me and the incredible heat from his body. His movements are languid, one large hand on my inner thigh, pressing me open. We watch each other as we make love, our mouths very close together, panting breaths mingling, and as I come he groans good girl in my ear. He pounds me hard, watching his thick cock sliding in and out of me and then looking up into my eyes. His brows draw together as he comes, his eyes tightly closed and my nails buried in his back.
I press my face against his chest, breathing him in. I don’t want to go but I know I have to, and I finally manage to extricate myself from his arms and the tangled bedsheets. Before I open the door Laszlo catches me in his arms and kisses me. “Think about what we talked about last night. Take your time. There’s all the time in the world to decide what you want, sweetheart.”
I nuzzle his beard with the tip of my nose. “Yes, daddy. What about you, though, and what you want?”
He smiles down at me. “Just you, baby. That’s all I want. And whatever you give me will make me a happy man.”
Everything doesn’t encompass what I want to give Laszlo. I wish there was more than everything.
There are just a few staff in the corridors as I make my way back to my own room. I let myself in, my head full of memories of last night. I remember how different it was the first time we kissed, the fleeing and the tears. The cold and lonely days that followed. The email from the agent asking me to audition…
My back against my door, I frown. I haven’t thought about that in years: the day after the concert an agent who’d been at the showcase emailed me about representation. Amid all the heartache and confusion I put off replying and put it off some more, until I just never replied.
I make a pot of coffee in my room and boot my laptop up, and in the morning light from my open window I find the agent’s email and read it again.
Dear Ms. Laurent,
I want to congratulate you and the rest of the Royal London Symphony Youth Orchestra on a wonderful performance last night. I was particularly captured by your playing of The Swan.
I represent United Kingdom-based soloists and work comprehensively with musical directors across Europe and beyond. If you are considering representation at this time I would love to hear your audition tape…
I stop reading and sit back and look out across Bangkok. It’s been three years since this woman—Paloma Sanchez, her name is—sent me this email. She’s long given up on me and probably even forgotten who I am.
I consider again what I want from my career. If this email arrived in my inbox today, what would be my first impulse? Well, to panic, because I’ve never recorded an audition tape. But putting that aside, would I be excited to be offered the possibility of representation as a soloist?
Yes.
My heart beats a little faster and I reach for my phone to text Laszlo. Then I stop myself. I need to think first, about a lot of things, and the space he’s given me within his embrace is as special as his embrace itself. I can feel the ghost of his body against mine and it makes me braver. I want to figure this out on my own, but knowing Laszlo’s there if I need him is everything. I glance toward my cello standing expectantly next to my bed. I have all day before I need to be at the concert hall for tonight’s performance. I need to think and I’m going to do it with my cello in my hands.
I have a quick shower and put on fresh clothes and then take out my cello and start to play. But I stop almost immediately, wincing. The notes sound terrible in this tiny, carpeted space. I pick up my instrument and head down to the lobby where I speak to the concierge at the front desk. He’s helpful and understanding and points me to the mezzanine level. I go up and find a large, wooden floored conference hall standing empty and silent. There’s a stage at the far end and I take a folding chair and my cello and walk up the stairs.
The acoustics aren’t wonderful but I have space and peace. I play from memory, and I really listen to myself. I play the way I want to play, not in any the styles I’ve been taught or the way that people expect. I play The Swan, and I pour all my grief over my mother and father into the notes, but also all the love I have in my heart. There’s so much love. I feel it radiating through me as the strings tremble beneath my bow. I play Bach, Elgar and Brahms. I play all my favorite pieces like I used to do, experimenting with the sounds, inflecting them with my emotions.
And as I play I think. This is really why I went to the Mayhew five weeks ago, to face the three most difficult things in my life: losing Laszlo, being stuck with my music, and my grief over what might have been with my parents. They’re all connected, and if I want something real with Laszlo that means being real myself and facing the things I’ve done, stretching back to that day thirteen years ago.
As the music swells around me I let everything rise up. I remember the first time I saw Laszlo, the kindness on his face as he hunkered down before me and showed me that newspaper article. That’s me, Isabeau. I have an orchestra filled with musicians like you. Only the very best people, and I think one day you might be one of those people. I looked at the page and I looked at him for, what? Three seconds? I wanted what he was offering so much. A strained note enters my playing. I left my home, my life and my father, for a complete stranger and the jewel-box offer of a life of music. I was a child, and I don’t think I knew what forever meant, or what my father must have felt losing me. But I feel it now, the pain I must have inflicted.
I don’t know if a child can be held responsible for making thoughtless decisions. I don’t know if I can—or should—regret what I did.
Regret what Laszlo did.
I don’t want you to have any regrets, Laszlo. Promise me.
When I finish I put my bow aside and open my eyes, breathing hard through my nose, in and out, defiant tears in my eyes. This is what I want people to hear when I play. I don’t know if it’s good enough and I don’t know if it’s what people will want. But it’s all I have. People might think I’m strange or uninteresting or just plain wrong. I might make people angry with what I do. It’s scary, the thought that everything I have might still not be enough. But what if just one person wants to hear it? Really needs to hear it? That will be enough. I may not become the great soloist that I dreamt of but I won’t exhaust myself trying to be something I’m not, only to be left in the end with the ashes of my misguided efforts.
I get up and start to put my cello back in its case. It has to be everything from now on, or nothing. I won’t hold back just a little in case I fail. No more holding back. I look down at my cello laying so snug in the black velvet lining. My playing might be nothing to strangers’ ears, but it’s exactly what I want.
And that means it’s not nothing. It’s everything.
Back in my room I write an email to Ms. Sanchez, apologizing for never replying to hers and telling her that I’m looking for representation if she’s still interested in me. I feel a huge sense of relief once I’ve sent it off.
But my mind seems determined to dwell in the past today and my thoughts turn again to my father. Is there anything left f
He never even tried to get better, I think defiantly. He never reached out to me. He didn’t want me. He was probably relieved when Laszlo took me away.
And, I remember, anger racing through me, I tried, once. So if my father and I don’t have a relationship now, it’s not my fault.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Isabeau
Then
The house looks strange after all these years, as though while I wasn’t here it gave up. I almost turn around and leave because if this is what the house looks like what sort of state will my father be in?
But I keep walking right up to the peeling front door and I knock. I at least need to try. I made excuses all throughout my childhood and high school years for not seeing my father. But I’m not a child anymore. I’m nineteen and it’s time I started acting like an adult, and looking difficult things squarely in the face. If I was writing an essay about my journey through my second year of university I would call it, Losing My Virginity and Other Crappy Things.
There’s no answer so I knock again, louder this time. I hear a sound through the door like a snort or a snarl. It’s hard to tell with the road noise behind me.
“Dad?” I hammer on the door then stop and listen. Nothing. Trying the door I find it’s unlocked and I go in. A familiar stale aroma engulfs me, but everything looks different. Worn. Deflated. The hallway has a depression in the middle and the skirting boards are scarred with scrapes. At the other end of the hall I can see the kitchen. The sink is filled with dirty dishes and there are takeout containers open on the table. A fly buzzes indolently around the room.
I call out again and then head into the living because that’s where he slept. The mattress is on the floor with its tangle of sheets. Discarded clothes are draped over the furniture. And dad’s there, asleep on the bed. Or passed out, I can’t tell which. There are needles and a battered, scorched spoon on the carpet, and my heart sinks.
“Dad,” I call, going over to him. “Dad, it’s me. Isabeau.”
He awakens with a snort, his eyes startlingly green. It’s the heroin. It turns your pupils to pinpricks.
Dad looks around the room and then his gaze falls on me.
“Issy?” He sits up and fumbles for a packet of cigarettes and lights one. There’s an overflowing ashtray on the carpet and I nudge it closer with my foot. Then I just stand there, my hands deep in my coat pockets, watching as he smokes.
“Look at you. All grown up.” But he doesn’t say this like it’s a good thing. “Never bothered to come till now, did you, to see your old dad.”
The smoke coils up toward the ceiling. Outside a truck grinds past. “I was afraid.”
“Of what?”
It might sound harsh but it’s the only thing I can say. “You.”
He takes a long, deep drag of his cigarette and exhales slowly. “Bullshit. Ashamed, more like.” Angrily he stubs the cigarette out. “You’ve done your duty and seen me and now you can just piss off. Go on, get out.”
I don’t even know what I want. I feel guilty about leaving him on his own all these years. I feel guilty about what I said to Laszlo. Do you like that, daddy? I flinch and look down. What a gross thing to have said. No wonder Laszlo was angry with me. No wonder he’s never called me.
“I thought we could talk,” I venture. Isn’t he a tiny bit curious about what I’ve been doing all these years?
Dad lights another cigarette, not looking at me. “About what? How I get my hits?”
“About Mum. About what she meant to both of us. About how you’re still my father, even though…” Even though I never looked back and you never tried.
That makes me the angriest. He’s addicted and in pain, but he never tried, ever, to get better, so that we could have some sort of relationship.
“He told you to come see me, didn’t he?” Dad’s voice is hard and bitter. I suppose he hates Laszlo, the man who took me away. The man who never stops trying.
Until now. The pain is as fresh as it was on my eighteenth birthday.
Laszlo wanted me to see my father when it would still have meant something. Now it’s too late. Guilt and shame aren’t a foundation for anything and the absolution I seek isn’t here. It isn’t anywhere. I just have to live with the things I’ve done.
I take a deep, shuddering breath, and leave without another word.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Laszlo
Now
“You’re just so cheerful lately, Laszlo. It’s weird. I don’t like it.”
Marcus hands me a tumbler of whisky. We’re in the hotel bar and it’s gone midnight, but we performed Stravinsky tonight and this particular composer doesn’t lend himself to a relaxed after-show feeling.
I give him a dry smile. “Sorry. Shall I try to be grumpier?” It’s true, I am happy; happier than I think I’ve ever been. How could I not be? Triumph burns brightly in my chest and I gaze around at the people dotted here and there. Everyone in the world is all right by me tonight.
Marcus examines me, eyebrows raised. “What’s caused this change in our famously deadpan conductor? Or rather, who?”
I take a sip of my whisky and shake my head innocently. “Must be the change of scenery. London was getting to me, I suppose.”
He gives me a knowing nod. “Ah, of course.”
I don’t like people prying into my business and Marcus should know that by now. But it seems he can’t help himself because he says, in the same innocent tone, “Isabeau Laurent is a very pretty young woman.”
I set my glass down hard on the bar. “How the fuck did you find out?”
Marcus gives me a withering look. “Laszlo, you idiot. You were kissing her in the street.”
My heart sinks. Of course, in the market on Khaosan Road. I thought everyone was ahead of us but it seems I was wrong. I don’t even remember who kissed whom first. I just remember how perfect it felt, and now our tentative relationship has been thrust out into the open for people to titter about. I pass a hand over my face and sigh. “How many people know?”
“Oh, everyone,” Marcus says cheerfully. “You know orchestras.”
My heart sinks. I do know. Gossip spreads through an orchestra faster than a replicating virus. I want to swear but I clench my jaw on my angry words and knock back the rest of my whisky. The bartender notices and comes over to pour me another measure. I bloody need it.
“You needn’t be angry or worried,” Marcus says, serious now. “From what I understand people think it’s either the juiciest piece of gossip they’ve ever heard or the most romantic thing that can happen in an orchestra.”
I swallow more whisky and glare at him.
Marcus nods. “All right, it’s a shitty way for it to come out. But no harm done, and people respect you, Laszlo. You’re a fair man. And they like Isabeau.”
I tilt my glass, looking into the amber liquid. “I’m a lot older than she is, and there’s her…past. Our past.”
Marcus shakes his head. “That’s your business, old man. If it doesn’t bother you and Isabeau then that’s all that matters.”
It’s good of him to say so but that’s not how the world works. If our jobs weren’t in the public eye things would be different, but I meant it when I told Isabeau there could be a cost that goes beyond being gossiped about. It’s easier for me as my career is solid and I’m a man with a reputation for being intimidating. Isabeau’s just starting out and people can be cruel to women who draw attention to themselves through scandal. The fact that she’s so much younger than me and used to be my ward could disgust people. Their disgust is out of my control and I hate it. I don’t want Isabeau or her career—which hasn’t even begun yet—to be tarnished with this.
After she left my room this morning, cheeks flushed with sex and emotion, I fantasized about getting off that plane with her at Heathrow in a few days’ time and taking her straight home in a cab. To our home. Where I need her. I take another swallow of whisky and try to temper my possessiveness. I have to think about what’s best for Isabeau, not what I want.
“What about that viola player?” I ask, thinking in terms of damage control over the next few days. “She doesn’t like Isabeau and I want to know if we’re going to have a problem with her. The tour’s nearly over but as you said the gossip’s out.”
He raises his eyebrows. “How do you know about that?”
“I caught Isabeau telling viola jokes.”
Marcus grins. “Which ones? Wait, I know a good one. ‘What’s the difference between a viola player and a vacuum cleaner?’”
“You have to plug a vacuum cleaner in before it can suck,” I finish impatiently. “Yes, I know all the viola jokes.”
He snorts with laughter, but when he catches my eye he finishes seriously, “If Isabeau was telling jokes on stage or during rehearsal I can have a word with her about being more professional.”
“I already have. That’s what I was doing on Khaosan Road, telling her off about it.”
Marcus stares at me. “What, when you were kissing her? Bloody hell, she’s got you twisted around her little finger already.”
Despite myself, I smile broadly. I am thoroughly twisted around Isabeau’s little finger. I’ve never been burdened with a soft heart but it’s a delightful affliction to have. It’s wonderful being stern with Isabeau but it’s even better telling her what a sweet little girl she is for daddy. And she is. Fuck me, she is.
Marcus’ eyes widen. “You don’t even mind.”
I don’t, but I realize we’re getting distracted. “I’m serious, Marcus. Are we going to have a problem in the orchestra? Not everyone is going to take this merely as good gossip.”
He muses on this for a moment, tilting his glass back and forth. “I shouldn’t say so. Miss Laurent isn’t staying beyond the tour, is she?” I hesitate, and Marcus’ eyes spark with interest. “Oh?”
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