The Maestro's Mistress

by Angela Dracup

  Tara had been practising it relentlessly in the last few weeks, fitting in her playing schedule around the demands of baby Alessandra, and the rediscovering of the delights of lovemaking with Saul. Following the birth of the twins she had been advised to wait for some weeks before resuming what the doctor called marital relations. She had hungered for him, and he had not disappointed her.

  Her twentieth birthday was rapidly approaching and Saul had master-minded a spectacularly imaginative and wonderful gift to mark the occasion. On that day the Tudor Philharmonic was to give a huge charity concert. The proceeds were to be given to the Great Ormond Street hospital where their son had been given exceptional care throughout the hours of his short life.

  He had put the suggestion to the orchestra’s managing board that they might consider inviting the mother of the child whose memory had sparked off the project to be their soloist. There had been whole-hearted approval.

  Tara had been amazed when Saul told her, had stared at him with incredulous delight and pure terror.

  ‘You can do it,’ he told her softly, pulling her to him and breathing kisses into the skin of her neck.

  ‘You’ll be there on the podium?’ she asked, part mocking, part racked with genuine anxiety. ‘You won’t leave me to the mercy of some rogue guest conductor?’

  He chuckled. ‘I shall be there. So you’d better deliver the performance of a lifetime my sweet, otherwise you’ll be dead meat.’ She tingled – how his menaces turned her on.

  Tara watched him later on playing with their baby daughter; teasing, cajoling, directing, teaching. Alessandra adored him. Her huge shining eyes followed him around, tracking his every move, transparent worship on her features.

  Tara tuned in exactly to that feeling. She herself was still hopelessly in love with him, totally in thrall, utterly bound. He was always near to her, in her blood and in her eyes, waking, sleeping and dreaming. The rest of the world seemed to have fallen back into the distance, the people in it existing in a shadow out of the circle of his light.

  Occasionally she sensed that she was in the grip of some kind of disease, laid low in its attack, helpless to do anything to counteract it and ignorant of the appropriate anecdote.

  She loved his masterfulness, the cutting edge of his opinions, his utter belief in himself. And yet she was not blind to his faults: stern intransigence and ruthless dominance. She waged a constant teasing battle with him in order not to be utterly subjugated to his will. It was hard work, but wildly exciting and all in all she judged that she was managing to keep her head above water.

  Over time she had learned never to take anything he did or said at face value. Saul was a strategist, a shaper and a planner. Although a passionate man he was rarely impulsive. Behind all his deeds and words was a purpose.

  She could not help musing on Saul’s motivation in setting up this awesome opportunity for her to play in public with the great Tudor Philharmonic. Maybe it was a simple desire to give her the most wonderful gift he could think of, but as things were rarely simple with Saul she suspected there was something more subtle behind it.

  She was also well aware that in accepting his gift she took the risk of making a fool of herself: making a total mess of things through her lack of performing experience or hopelessly jangled nerves. Although, she supposed that as the event was for charity, it would not be a total disaster if her performance went no further than basic competence.

  And maybe that was what he was giving her the chance to find out – for once and all – whether she was any good as a top flight solo player. One never knew with Saul, which was why living with him was so endlessly thrilling, like an eternal ride on a dizzy roller coaster.

  He had been deeply moved by the birth of the babies. The death of the baby boy had temporarily stunned him, but Alessandra’s sturdy growth and development had in time become a compensation. Tara saw the three of them now as a tightly entwined unit. Tara, Saul and Alessandra – all interdependent, all needing each other fiercely.

  Alessandra was developing into a beautiful young child. She had the long face and straight nose of her father and the big green eyes of her mother. However, whereas Tara’s irises were green lit with gold, Alessandra’s were heavily flecked with tawny brown, deepening the overall tone of her eyes and forming a startling contrast with her blonde hair – a feature that neither Saul or Tara could trace in their ancestry.

  Tara thought it was curiously ironic that her baby should have this beautiful blonde hair – a childish replica of the mane of Saul’s wife.

  ***

  Georgiana had been deeply puzzled by Xavier’s mistress’s directness, right from those first moments in the spring of the previous year when she had leaned into the car and invited Georgiana to join her for a chat and a cup of tea.

  It was quite simply not the sort of thing that should happen. But it had happened. And she had not been able to see any way of refusing the invitation without seeming graceless. She had found the younger woman curiously compelling.

  Georgiana had never spent much time at the Oxfordshire house, preferring her house in London or the apartments in Florence and the south of France. She did not like the English country house. Its situation was isolated and its décor and furnishings too sparse and simple for her taste.

  Saul had given her a little licence in furnishing the bedrooms, but he had been adamant about having his own way with the reception rooms on the ground floor. It had always been Georgiana’s view that the Oxfordshire house was a man’s place. Maestro Xavier’s place.

  The mistress had encouraged her through the front door, smiling and friendly. She had ushered her into the monk’s cell of a drawing room, giving her tea and afterwards mixing her a very good gin and tonic.

  Whilst Georgiana sipped, desperate for the solace the alcohol would bring, the mistress had apologized to her for stealing her husband and becoming pregnant with his child.

  As Georgiana winced to hear the words spoken out with such brutal nakedness, the mistress had said softly, “I didn’t plan it to be like this for you”. She said it in a way which was almost believable. And then she had said, ‘I wouldn’t blame you for hating my guts.’

  Georgiana had looked at the girl’s ripening bulge, the sickening badge of her triumph. She had looked at her full, heavy breasts and her candid face. She had a vague recollection of having seen her somewhere before. She could not place it. The mistress was like so many girls of her generation – no dress sense, no feeling for jewellery and make-up. No style.

  That was something to be grateful for at least. But as Georgiana listened to the girl talking and saw the life and spirit in her mobile face, she had begun to see why a man might be attracted to her. It was probably nothing more than raw animal sensuality. But then, you could snare a man with that – keep him maybe, at least for a while.

  And of course, the girl was young. There was no competing with that. The years were simply too cruel.

  The girl talked a little about her musician father and her efforts on the violin. ‘Do you play?’ she had asked Georgiana suddenly. She was so open, so quick.

  ‘No, not at all. I used to be a model.’

  ‘Yes, I should have guessed. You’re incredibly beautiful.’

  Georgiana had been caught off balance. Disarmed.

  The mistress had seemed genuinely interested in her. She had asked Georgiana to tell her about her family, her interests and the ups and downs of a career as a model. She virtually invited Georgiana to recount her life story.

  Relaxed and encouraged by the gin, Georgiana had found herself complying with the request, and beginning to enjoy herself. The mistress had listened with such close attention: she had broken in with questions from time to time, clearly fascinated by what she had heard.

  And then, to crown all, as Georgiana eventually got up to leave, she had asked if she would like to visit again sometime. Not when Saul was there if she would rather not.

  ‘You could meet me in town,’ Georgia
na had said after consideration. ‘We could have lunch.’ She had looked at Tara, her fastidious eye seeing in that small figure a desperate need for sartorial guidance. ‘Afterwards we could have a browse round the shops.’

  And so a tentative and unorthodox relationship had begun.

  Xavier had taken the news impassively. ‘You’re free to plan your own social life,’ he had told Tara, his grey eyes cool. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘Fraternizing with the competition,’ Alicia had exclaimed at the end of Georgiana’s story of this first encounter. ‘You must be out of your mind.’

  CHAPTER 17

  The rehearsal was about to begin.

  Tara was already on stage, laughing and joking with members of the orchestra, making a valiant effort to conceal the nerves which had gathered in her stomach in a hard curdled lump.

  Then suddenly Saul was there on the podium, motionless and yet charged with energy. A hush fell over the orchestra and all eyes were trained on the remote, commanding figure before them.

  His eyes took their customary assessing journey across each section of the orchestra, then rested on Tara. ‘Ladies and gentlemen,’ he said, ‘I ask you to welcome Tara Silk.’

  A huge cheer went up, a round of applause, a roll from the kettle drum. Everyone was loving the occasion; welcoming a soloist who was not only the daughter of an old colleague, but now romantically and scandalously shacked up with their charismatic music director.

  Saul smiled, waiting for silence. As he prepared to say something about Elgar’s concerto and the way it should be played, there was a mischievous introduction from the leader of the orchestra, a mild-mannered man affectionately known as the Chief Toreador.

  ‘Maestro – aren’t you going to tell Tara the newcomer’s cautionary story? It’s something she shouldn’t miss.’

  Saul narrowed his eyes and then smiled. ‘Ah, yes.’ He looked down at Tara and she looked back. ‘The initiation story! It’s about a bassoon player I knew once in an orchestra in Munich,’ he explained. ‘A wily old devil. He knew all there was to know about playing great music. He used to sit in darkened beer cellars telling stories about conductors.’

  He paused. ‘Go on,’ Tara said.

  ‘He claimed that when a new man faced the orchestra they knew straight away whether he was the master or they. Before the poor man even picked up his baton they knew whether he or they would call the tune.’

  ‘I think I know who calls the tune with this orchestra,’ Tara interposed sweetly, her eyes sparkling with the thrill of combat. ‘Is this a story with a happy ending?’ she wondered.

  ‘Oh, indeed. As long as all the players are competent and obedient. Including the soloists.’ He arched his brows.

  ‘So anyone with a faint heart, a rebellious spirit or inadequate technique may leave now. Is that the moral of the tale? Well, I’m staying,’ Tara responded smartly, eliciting a roar of delighted approval from the players.

  ‘Good. Now, shall we get down to business?’ Saul was suddenly the indomitable conductor again, his face steely with purpose. ‘The Elgar Violin Concerto, ladies and gentlemen. A great work of art. A silk purse. Let’s not make a sow’s ear of it.’

  He rested his hands on the curved brass rails of the podium. His face had become distant, absorbed and intent. ‘Edward Elgar’s music takes us back to a bygone age where taste and charm mattered. His music has great dignity, great beauty, genuine nobility. It is filled with a nostalgic longing for the past.’

  His words created a picture in Tara’s head: a dreamy June afternoon in an old English garden. She saw elegant slender women in white muslin – an older Alessandra, a younger Georgiana maybe – drifting over silky lawns murmuring companionably to each other.

  Saul was still speaking. ‘The great concerto we are about to bring to life is loved and renowned for its poetry and romanticism.’ He paused and gazed intently at Tara for a moment. ‘I want our audience to feel the spirit of a bygone England as they listen. I want them to experience the same regrets that the composer felt when he wrote this music, contemplating the closing years of his life and the glories of the Edwardian age, an epoch already closed.’

  My God! He’s inspirational, Tara thought, a lump rising in her throat.

  ‘And remember,’ Saul continued, his voice calm and hypnotic, ‘that Edward Elgar was himself an accomplished violinist and would know all too well the pitfalls of this piece.’ Again he looked at Tara.

  Saul! Are you trying to scare me to death, she thought. But she knew he was not playing games now. This was Saul at his most serious, his most intense and genuine. His soul was bared and he would expect every member of the orchestra to be totally devoted to the pursuit of musical excellence, not only technical but spiritual.

  ‘Elgar was well into his fifties when he wrote this piece,’ Saul continued. ‘Tara is still very young. She will need all her skill and sensitivity to capture the emotions of an ageing man.’ He stopped and stared at her with his penetrating, remorseless eyes making her heart sway.

  ‘I’m sure she will do it beautifully,’ he concluded, his voice almost a whisper. As his eyes held hers she was spellbound, utterly magnetized. Even after living with him for all these months he could still work this powerful magic on her.

  She knew that all his wealth of experience and musical perception, all his strength of purpose would be generously put at her disposal in order to draw out the performance of a lifetime.

  Whenever she played for Saul she was always at her peak, going far beyond the abilities she believed herself to possess when she was without him – in the cold light away from the orbit of his sun.

  Play your heart out for him Tara, she murmured to herself, knowing that she had the power under his direction to give the quality of performance which would satisfy even his exacting requirements. And she was sure the orchestra members felt similarly energized and empowered.

  Warm, prickling sensations surged through the veins of her fingers as she placed her violin against the skin of her jaw.

  The following minutes and hours swam unrealistically by, an unbroken dream of playing and listening and preparing to play yet again.

  And then it was time to play for real. The audience had assembled, the overture had reached a climax and swirled to a close. Applause resounded through the auditorium. Tara waited behind the stage, her nerves singing with tension and anticipation. With massive determination she fixed her mind on nothing but the music she was about to play. Her head swam with images of the music and of Saul’s beloved austere features.

  Beyond fear now, she waited for him to leave the orchestra and escort her onto the stage. And suddenly he was there, coming towards her, his face intense with concentration as though he had not yet quite returned to earth after the surging crescendo of the orchestra. In his long tailored jacket and classically plain white shirt he looked every inch an aristocrat: remote, passive, inscrutable.

  How little she really knew about him. And how fascinating that made him seem.

  He extended his hand towards her, taking in the scarlet gown with its tight waist and full skirt. ‘The audience will love you,’ he said with an ironic smile.

  And now they were walking onto the platform together, Saul shepherding her through the ranks of the orchestra to the front of stage. A roar of approval went up. Tara’s heart bucked with mingled exhilaration and terror. She forced herself to smile, giving a brief bow in acknowledgement of the warm reception.

  Planting her feet firmly on the platform, she straightened her back and breathed deeply. Now, at last, the moment had come. A moment dreamed of for years. By her, yes – but most especially by her father. His face swam briefly before her inner eye, that beloved face of the past.

  She took up her bow and looked towards Saul Xavier, the man who now filled her present. His eyes held hers in a long naked stare, making her recall some of their most intimate moments together, the unfettered love-making hovering on the exquisite borders of pleasure and pain. A glow of heat
suffused her body.

  ‘Tara!’ Saul whispered sharply, pulling her away from her inner thoughts. ‘Are you ready?’ His face was urgent and intense. He was thinking only of the performance ahead, of his responsibility to ensure that it went perfectly. Nothing but the music mattered now. She drew her bow across the strings. Energy flew into her fingers.

  In front of her the tall figure of the Maestro bent the orchestra to his will, binding them together in a silken net, drawing Tara into the golden circle. Now they were all breathing wholly pure air, soaring up into the heights and carrying the audience along with them on a carpet of magical sound.

  Sweat began to stream off her. At the end of the first movement Saul paused to look at her. Gravely he reached into his pocket and took out a white cotton handkerchief. ‘I think you need this,’ he said, leaning down to hand it to her. ‘And you’re playing wonderfully.’

  Tara mopped her face and ran the smooth firm cloth around her neck and breast bone. She looked up at Saul, seeing that he was still again, his face a stern mask in preparation fro the next movement.

  This was the most emotionally touching part of the concerto in Tara’s opinion and as she played she felt her heart merge into the music.

  All the fear of anticipation had left her now. With this orchestra – her father’s orchestra – and under the iron guidance of Saul Xavier, her lover, she felt utterly safe. Able to play without restraint from the very depths of her heart and soul.

  An orchestra, a soloist, a great and sensitive conductor all sharing in the task of bringing wonderful music to life – that must be one of the most seductive things on earth Tara thought as she strove to dig out every ounce of energy and emotion to give to this great piece. When at last the final notes of the concerto rang out she felt her mind and body swell with joy.

  The audience reaction was ecstatic. The applause roared and thundered, washing over Tara like warm waves on a tropical beach. She smiled and bowed until her jaw ached and her back felt like that of a puppet jerked on a clockwork string.