The Maestro's Mistress

by Angela Dracup

  For a year now Tara had been his friend, his lover, critic and ally. His rock. He had allowed her to mould his identity. Without her he would not be the same person.

  Tara spent a miserable day or two trudging round the local restaurants and eventually got herself an evening job waitressing in a small Italian trattoria ten minutes’ walk from her home. It was hard work but better than being unemployed and queuing up with the sad procession of life’s losers every Wednesday morning to argue the toss about state benefits.

  With her earnings and tips she would be able to give her mother a small amount to contribute to the housekeeping bills and just manage to pay for one or two tutoring sessions with a reputable violin tutor. Having broken her father’s heart by rebelling against his lifetime ambition for her in the world of music, now all she wanted to do was play.

  During the day when her mother was at work, she continued to practise non stop. Holding and playing her father’s instrument fulfilled some deep need. There was no clear aim behind her punishing regime. She was simply driven to do it. It was as though in as short a time as possible she had to make up for all the lost time of the past two years.

  She had started with some basic exercises, working on her technique which her father had always claimed should be in perfect working order so as to leave the way clear to concentrate on the interpretation of the piece. After that she had moved on to some solos from Bach, and then fragments from the great violin and piano sonatas of Mozart and Beethoven.

  It was tempting as well to start learning the lead parts of one or two of the big solo concertos in the repertoire, practising against the orchestral background of the vinyl LP records from her father’s vast collection.

  It was while she was engaged on such an undertaking – the work being Elgar’s mighty concerto which was making her sweat with effort – that she was astonished to see the tall figure of Xavier standing outside the window staring at her.

  A coil of shock spun inside her as his eyes made contact with hers. She stared at him blankly for a few moments. He gestured towards the door, requesting that she should open it. He walked straight in and stood in hallway looking down at her. A faint, ironic smile flickered over his features.

  Tara looked back at him, her mind racing with conjecture as to why the hell he had turned up like this, so soon after the disaster with serpent-tongued Monica. ‘What do you want?’ she asked, polite but very direct.

  She was struck afresh by the psychological power of the man, the magnetic, subtly menacing charisma that clung to him like a halo of light illuminating everything around him. As he watched her in calm silence she had the sensation of standing under a spotlight, with all the little human flaws and faults mercilessly revealed.

  ‘Elgar,’ he said, tilting his head towards the sound surging from the stereo.

  ‘I was playing along to the recording,’ she told him. ‘I know it’s not the approved method, but it seems to help.’

  He raised his eyebrows slightly but offered no opinion. ‘I’ve come to make a proposition to you,’ he said, ushering her in front of him into the sitting room and settling himself on the sofa.

  Tara turned the music off. It unnerved her to have been discovered practising in this way. And the recording was not even one of Xavier’s.

  She looked at him. ‘Oh?’

  ‘You have no job at the moment I take it.’

  She told him about the restaurant and he waved a dismissive hand. Clearly that did not count.

  ‘I’ve been approached to take on the role of music director and chief conductor with the Tudor,’ he told her. ‘I’m considering it very carefully.’

  ‘You haven’t been with one particular orchestra recently, have you?’ She stood before him, her face intent and speculative; a small barefoot figure clad in faded old jeans and a well worn Arran jumper.

  ‘There have been links with one or two, but I’ve been mainly guest conducting as I’m sure you know.’

  ‘Jet-setting around the world and picking up the loot,’ Tara suggested mischievously, not being able to stop herself.

  His features registered no response, but his grey eyes pierced her relentlessly, never leaving her face for a second. ‘It will mean settling down in London, making my base there again, taking up the cause of a great orchestra. There are many advantages to consider.’

  ‘Yes, I can see that. And orchestras like it on the whole having one guy at the helm long-term, as long as he isn’t a malevolent despot.’ Her eyes held his. Verbal fencing with Xavier took a lot of nerve but she judged she was up to it.

  ‘Is that your own opinion, or your father’s?’ Xavier enquired.

  ‘His, of course. How else would I know?’

  He paused. ‘For the record Tara, I am indeed a despot. But not, I think, unduly malevolent.’

  She nodded, holding his gaze firmly, refusing to be the first to drop her eyes.

  ‘I think my decision is made,’ he stated evenly. ‘I shall take on the Tudor Philharmonic and shape it into one of the finest orchestras in the world. It will have a repertoire second to none. And the players will be rewarded not only artistically but financially. We shall gain recording contracts which will make them rich enough to drive to rehearsals in Mercedes and when we go on tour they will stay in the best hotels. Because that is what they will have earned, that will be what they are worthy of.’

  ‘And what will you do on the second day?’ Tara interjected wickedly.

  The hint of a smile hovered around his stern medieval features. ‘I’m sure I shall think of something.’

  ‘I’m sure you will. So what is your proposition?’ she demanded.

  ‘I came to say that I’d like you to take over the future publicity and promotion of the orchestra.’

  Tara was astonished. She forced herself to say nothing. Automatic responses such as protests at lack of experience and so on were to be avoided at all costs.

  Xavier was no fool. If he was seriously asking her to do this – and she believed he was – then he must believe her capable of it. And if he believed it then she could believe it too. But did she want to? It was playing that she wanted, not an administrative post, however exciting and prestigious.

  ‘There is no need to give an answer now,’ Xavier said. ‘I merely wanted to introduce the idea to you. You can have time to think it over and I’ll set up a meeting with the orchestra’s management board sometime next week so that you can meet them and find out more.’

  ‘Is it in your power to hire and fire me?’ Tara asked.

  A muscle flickered at Xavier’s temple. ‘You know about the management and politics of orchestras. Of course I don’t have that power. But with your father’s reputation as a backing and with my recommendation there will be no difficulty about securing the post for you if you decide you would like it.’

  Tara frowned. She was hugely flattered – and immensely suspicious. ‘Are you trying to do me some sort of good turn?’

  His eyes became steely. ‘I don’t do “good turns”. I’m surprised you asked me that.’

  ‘Sorry.’ She stared ahead of her. He was right. She needed time to think. But the idea was by no means unattractive; she was not going to reject it out of hand.

  Xavier stood up, unfolding his long frame with athletic grace.

  Tara experienced an unexpected desire to hang on to him. She was hungry for companionship. The full extent of her loneliness hit her with painful force. When she split from Bruno she had imagined she was making a fresh start, cutting herself adrift from all the ties of the last two rebel years. She had thought she would connect with a younger Tara, the child who had shown such musical promise, who had delighted her father with her youthful talent.

  She had wanted to create a space to fulfil that wish. And in some ways she had achieved that. But what she had thought of as a clean slate was beginning to look like a simple void. A few moments of the nerve-jangling Xavier seemed preferable to solitude.

  He made no move to the do
or, however, but walked across to the piano and fingered the keys. ‘How is your mother?’ he asked.

  ‘Surprisingly well.’ There was an edge to Tara’s voice.

  ‘And the widower doctor?’

  ‘The same.’

  ‘And how is your young friend Bruno?’

  Tara held back for a moment, then changed her mind. What was to be gained by concealing what had happened? ‘I don’t know. We’re not seeing each other at the moment.’

  Xavier turned to glance at her and Tara stared resolutely back.

  He drew in a long breath. ‘Ah.’ He turned again to the piano. On the stand in front of him was the score for Cesar Franck’s violin sonata in A major, the paper well thumbed and pencilled all over with handwritten comments and directions. Xavier flicked over the sheets. ‘This piece can be played in so many different ways,’ he mused. ‘A truly astonishing work.’

  ‘I used to play it with my father,’ Tara said. ‘He took the piano part and I wrestled with the rest!’

  ‘You know this first movement takes a gigantic hand to play the piano part,’ Xavier commented. ‘Look at this!’ He played a chord, his long fingers just spanning the notes.

  ‘Yes, Franck must have been a huge chap,’ she chuckled.

  Xavier seated himself at the piano and played the soft opening piano introduction.

  Tara felt a shiver of pure ecstasy creep over the bones of her shoulders and raise the hairs at the back of her neck. Without conscious thought or intent she took up her violin. Over Xavier’s shoulder her eyes followed the score, watching for the entry of the violin.

  ‘Now!’ he commanded softly, giving a brief nod to bring her in with the violin’s first wistful pensive melody.

  Tara drew her bow across the strings. Now the theme passed from his hands to hers, the melody gaining in pace and assertiveness. Soon the piano took over again, Xavier making the music ride boldly along on light chords. Tara hummed when she wasn’t playing, keeping the rhythm flowing through her mind, whilst at the same time her eyes glanced down at Xavier’s flying fingers; fascinated, admiring and awed.

  ‘Do you want me to go on with this?’ he enquired, pausing.

  ‘Yes, but don’t listen to my pathetic attempts!’

  After they had negotiated the climax of the first movement Xavier said evenly, ‘I liked the way you played that. Moving things along, not too reverential. That’s good. Shall we go on?’

  Without waiting for a reply he was plunging into the next section. ‘This should be played very fast,’ he said, ‘a terrible task for the pianist. I don’t know how I’ll manage without a page turner. You will have to be patient.’

  Tara came in once more, the violin beginning on the G-string. ‘Lots of agitation and passion,’ Xavier decreed, making the piano thunder.

  ‘I don’t know if I’m gutsy enough for this bit,’ Tara gasped.

  ‘YES!’

  She lost him a few bars later. He stopped. ‘Should I have slackened the pace there? Did I gallop off?’ He flicked the pages back.

  ‘No, I got lost,’ Tara confessed smiling, her confidence flowering by the second.

  They tried again. Stayed together. Pure happiness began to steal over her as she concentrated on the wonderful task of playing great music with a like-minded and great musician. Playing together like this, the gap in age and experience between them was stripped away. They were on the same wavelength. There was some exciting collective energy being generated between them – a golden thread binding them together in the music.

  The last movement had always struck Tara as intensely touching and as she played she felt her heart merge into the music. All sensations of apprehension, of being put to the test, had left her now. Playing with Xavier she felt no anxiety, no competitiveness; she was able to play without restraint from the very depths of her being. And that must be about the most seductive thing on earth she thought, as the last piano trill rang out and the piece finally came to a close with one long note from her violin.

  She gave a long sigh. Sweat oozed out of her from the sheer physical effort she had expended. ‘Not only a maestro but a virtuoso,’ she told him. ‘You were fantastic!’

  ‘And you were extremely gutsy,’ he commented, spinning round on the stool and shooting her a glance which sent a bolt of electric feeling through her body.

  ‘Playing music,’ she said, closing her eyes. ‘That’s all I want to do now. That’s all there is, really.’

  ‘Really?’ He watched her very carefully.

  ‘And I’ve blown it,’ she mourned.

  ‘Maybe not,’ he told her softly.

  ‘Oh yes. Monica was right. She was horribly brutal – but quite justified.’

  Xavier smiled. ‘Monica was entirely infatuated with that young Japanese boy, who may or may not stand the test of time. I’ve seen plenty of young prodigies all burned out by the time they’re twenty-five.’

  ‘I don’t think I shall even have ignited by then!’

  She longed for him to sprinkle a few more small crumbs of praise on her, but predictably, he kept quiet. He seemed to be pondering some problem, his head angled slightly away from her as though he had forgotten her presence.

  Tara allowed her eyes to move slowly over his profile. She felt she would like to gaze at him forever; he was as exquisitely carved as a Michelangelo statue, as finely drawn as portrait by Leonardo da Vinci. ‘You have beautiful hair,’ she said softly, her eyes lingering over the thick dark strands.

  He stared gravely at her, the streaks of sapphire glimmering in the depths of his cool grey eyes.

  ‘These silver linings here and there,’ she murmured, her eyes moving over his temples, ‘nature couldn’t have arranged them better.’

  He stared at her. A long deep intimate stare. Her blood felt suddenly hot; singing and pulsing in her veins.

  ‘Tara,’ he said, his voice low and even, ‘there are other things to make besides music.’

  Tara froze into stillness, digesting the full significance of his words. She ran her tongue over her lips, momentarily stunned and bewildered, for instead of feeling outraged she had the sense that a great burden had been lifted from her, a wide pathway shown, a licence given to snatch at all manner of previously unconsidered joys.

  The complexities of the recent and more distant past suddenly slipped away from her. There was no sensation of astonishment, no shiver of apprehension. The moment seemed to have arrived in the same inexorable way that the seasons follow one another; serene and inevitable.

  He gazed at her steadily, making no move to reach for her. His still anticipation was more arousing than a whole battalion of breathless embraces.

  Tara placed her hands around his face, tracing the line and angle of every bone. Her heart beat with primitive desire for this austere, ferociously talented man whose hooded eyes burned into hers.

  He pulled her down onto his knee. Everything went into slow motion as Tara’s fingers travelled lingeringly over his face, exploring each detail. The sensitive pads of her fingers touched him with the softness of a sighing breath: his eyelids, his forehead, his cheekbones and down into the silver tendrils of hair she had just admired.

  His face twitched with spasms of pleasure.

  Now she parted her lips softly and took them on the same tender journey that her fingers had just completed. She breathed softly on his skin and allowed her tongue to slither tantalizingly over the tips of his ears, touching and withdrawing with mischievous teasing.

  He linked his hands behind her head and pulled her towards him.

  A violent tremor shook her as their lips joined. She felt herself floating in a warm pool of darkness as her tongue linked with his.

  Long moments slid by. She pulled back a little and looked into his eyes. It was as though she was gazing into the very heart of him. This linking of their eyes was as deep and intimate as any physical caress. She felt herself opening up inside, as though some sensitive wound deep in her hips was throbbing with anticipation. S
he smiled at him. ‘Saul ,’ she breathed softly. ‘Saul .’

  No one ever called him by his first name. He was simply Xavier. But hearing his childhood name on her lips gave him intense pleasure. He sighed. ‘Tara, my bright lovely elf.’ His hands passed tenderly over the wisps of hair framing her face. Tara took his hand and placed it on her throat.

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said softly, making her heart contract. Always before she had seen in his face an awesome and uncompromising iron strength mingled with ruthless determination. She had recognized that a man of calibre, a great musical interpreter, might need to be a cruel taskmaster in his search for excellence. But looking down at him now she saw much more – his great sensitivity, his compassion, his vulnerabilities.

  They stared at each other. There was a shimmer of ultimate fusion and blending between them.

  ‘Where?’ he demanded, masterfulness regained.

  She took him by the hand and led him upstairs into her bedroom.

  They threw off their clothes - Arran jumper, jeans, black silk shirt, girly knickers, expensive

  Italian shoes. They threw themselves into each other’s arms.

  He’s not hungry, Tara thought with astonishment as he began to burrow into her flesh, teasing with his tongue, massaging with his fingers - he’s starving! He’s like a wild creature that hasn’t eaten for days.

  She stared up at him. Stripped of his clothes, desperate with desire, he had lost not one thread of his authority. His body was like a gun; at the same time hard and velvety smooth.

  His hands were all over her, drawing pleasure from every warm crevice. But Tara was not willing to be passive, that was not in her nature. She twisted in his arms, making loving assaults back, wriggling and slippery as a fish. As he touched her she felt her breathing accelerate wildly. Sparks of hot stinging sensation ripped through every nerve. She felt herself rolling and tossing on a sea of ecstasy, almost fainting in the troughs, then riding high on the crests: great curling waves of unimaginable sensation. His dark male presence seemed to engulf her. His hands and lips were everywhere on her skin, the essence of him burrowing deep inside her with punishing insistence.