A hush fell on the auditorium. Everyone froze.
The leader of the orchestra looked at Tara with mingled exasperation and mute appeal.
She took a long intake of breath. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said automatically.
The cast began to shift about, a murmuring started. The leader spoke to her softly from the orchestra pit. ‘You take over, Tara. We can’t afford to upset everybody even more.’
The cast partially heard and instantly grasped the sense in the suggestion.
Anton Moll, playing the Dutchman stepped forward and called out to her. ‘We need to get this thing turned round,’ he said. ‘Get some good feelings going around here. Time is marching on. And time is money in this day and age. Help us in our hour of need Tara!’
It was impossible to reject such a plea. Tara stood up. ‘Fair enough.’
She knew the opera’s score inside out. She knew the stage play back to front. She adored the music. She had conducted countless music school and youth orchestras. So be it, she thought grimly, taking her place in the pit and picking up Saul’s baton.
Half an hour before the performance was due to start, the cameras were loaded up, the orchestra present, the audience arriving. Maestro Xavier was nowhere to be found.
Tara, deadly calm with shock and concern as to his safety and whereabouts, was still making phone calls. She had thought it possible that he would have gone to make his peace with Alessandra but Rachel had seen no sign of him.
‘Alessandra’s upstairs doing her homework for once. So if he does turn up she’ll be here safe and sound.’
‘Don’t let her know there’s a problem. There’s no need to worry unnecessarily.’
‘Right, and don’t you worry either, my darling. Conductors are an indestructible breed.’
Feeling sick with anxiety now Tara put in a further call to Roland Grant. It was the fourth of fifth time she had done so in the last few hours.
‘Any news?’ she asked desperately.
‘Nothing.’
‘I can’t believe it, he never misses an engagement.’
‘He’s been driving in the fast lane for an awful long time. Maybe he just needs a break. He’ll be fine Tara. You know Xavier.’
A long shuddering sigh. ‘Yes.’
‘And you can handle the performance tonight with no problem at all.
‘You haven’t found anyone else?’
‘No. And I have to confess I didn’t try too hard. This is quite definitely your baby. Not only can you do it – you’ve earned it.’
‘I just hope that is what he will think when he finds out.’
The audience was seated and the members of the orchestra now taking their places. The camera crew were stationed, their director outwardly calm and relaxed in jeans and T-shirt.
Tara sat in her dressing room taking a last-minute look at the score.
It was five minutes to curtain up. She could hear a distant melody of trills and scales, the magical sound of the orchestra warming up: mournful sighs from the oboes, flitting cadenzas from the violins, deep-throated growls from the double basses. A classic jumble of musical anticipation. Her spine tingled.
She had especially requested that there would be no last minute announcement of her standing in for Xavier, but rather that written notification should be placed in prominent positions in the foyer so that those who wished could choose whether to go or stay and no one would feel cheated.
Two minutes to go. Anticipation mounted in the front of the house. Behind the curtain tension fizzed.
Tara recalled the night at the Golden Hall in Vienna. It seemed like another life. Tonight there was no anxiety about demonstrating brilliance. Simply a job to be done – and done well. And then, please God, a reunion with Saul.
Wearing the simple black dress that had been hurriedly found for her in the costume section, she threaded her way through the crowded pit to the shallow podium.
The members of the audience were hushed. They had not instantly registered her presence. She was slight, modest, smiling. Not yet a heroic figure.
The orchestra welcomed her warmly with a ripple of applause and a gentle stamping of feet. The audience pricked up its ears, craned forward and then broke out into a delighted storm of applause.
Tara turned briefly to acknowledge them. She was more interested in checking that the camera crew were ready, that the orchestra was unified and steady.
Turning back to the stage she raised her hands and gave a barely perceptible nod.
CHAPTER 30
Detached and self-possessed Saul made his way to Georgiana’s apartment in Mayfair. Focusing on nothing more complex than placing one foot in front of the other he arrived at the glass and brass entrance to her block. As he raised his hand to the row of entry buzzers the beginning of his journey and the deserted podium in the orchestra pit flashed momentarily across his mind. I shall get my come-uppance later he thought with a grim smile. But much later.
A disembodied voice came metallically through the entry phone in answer to his terse announcement.
‘Saul! At this time!’
‘Yes. Saul.’
There was a low buzz. ‘Come up.’
The smoke-tinted glass door swung silently open at a touch from his finger and he stepped through into a pale oak and marble foyer. Banks of fresh flowers captured in wire and polished greenery lined the walls.
In Georgiana’s lavishly decorated drawing room preparations were in hand for some imminent entertaining. Tables bearing small savoury delicacies were dotted around, and in the adjoining dining room her Italian manservant Tullio could be seen gliding about with trays of tall champagne flutes.
Georgiana kissed Saul on the cheek. ‘I was expecting you tomorrow. It’s Tuesday today. Are you all right, Saul?’
He sat down on one of her vast, plump sofas and stretched out his legs. ‘I’m sorry to interfere with your schedule. I know Wednesday is my designated calling day. What time are your guests arriving?’
‘Not until six. It doesn’t matter anyway. Why not stay on?’
‘I think not.’ He gave a dry smile.
‘It wouldn’t do to be seen visiting your wife in secret?’ she suggested with a slanting glance.
‘Quite.’ Tara had no idea about his regular visits to Georgiana which had been going on for the past five years. He never spoke her name to Tara and in turn Tara and Alessandra were barred subjects when he was with his wife. He had no idea what Tara’s feelings about Georgiana were these days. The kidnapping incident had receded into the past, but for all he knew she might still retain some of the shock and revulsion she had demonstrated at the time. Whatever was the case he did not think it helpful for her to know.
Georgiana’s black toy poodle emerged from the kitchen and paddled its twiggy paws against Saul’s leg. He bent down and gave it a single pat. Sensing that it was to be ignored the dog went away and lay down in a corner of the room.
Watching Georgiana’s face Saul judged that she was a happier woman now than she had ever been. Now in her forties Georgiana had acquired a sleek look of mature self-assurance. She was a woman of means. She was still beautiful: her hair still long and blonde, her figure still slender, encased in a designer creation of peacock blue silk. In addition to all that she had the potential of the older woman to be unnervingly intimidating if she chose.
And she was still Mrs Saul Xavier. He knew that she would not have survived if he had robbed her of that.
Georgiana passed her days amusing herself with an endless round of socializing: frequenting beauty salons and art galleries, and in recent years becoming very accomplished at playing bridge.
Although she lived alone there was the little dog to keep her company. And more importantly a succession of hired hands. Tullio, her latest, with his showy dark good looks and his sensitivity to her every wish and command was obviously the perfect servant and household companion.
In Saul’s eyes, the combination of Dr Denton’s care together with occasio
nal visits to an exclusive psychotherapy clinic in the north of England had restored Georgiana to the woman she had been prior to the breakdown of their marriage. Saul presumed that she lived a life of dainty celibacy and he recognized that there were many who would describe her as an empty shell. But he judged that she was experiencing a degree of happiness in her life and he need not reproach himself with having destroyed her.
‘I’ve got some splendid 1976 Bollinger,’ Georgiana said. ‘Tullio will open it.’
Commandments were issued.
‘Alicia and I have booked an Indian Ocean cruise,’ Georgiana told him, conscious of a growing silence. ‘We shall be visiting the Seychelles and Mauritius.’
‘I hope you checked on the climate at this time of year. It can be very humid.’
‘Of course we checked. And you could do with a holiday, Saul. It’s long overdue since you took a break.’
‘I’m a workaholic – one of a dying breed,’ he announced abruptly, staring into his glass of leaping bubbles.
‘You are, my dear. The ones coming along now are just pale imitations.’
‘Monkeys dancing to the organ grinder’s tune,’ Saul commented. ‘Hedging their bets between the incompetents on the orchestras’ managing boards, kow-towing to the puffed up prima donnas.’
‘Absolutely,’ Georgiana agreed, never considering for a moment that his view might be distorted or that he might simply be wrong.
‘Idiots the lot of them,’ he growled. ‘I’ve just about had enough.’ Anger smouldered within when he considered the instrumentalists who demanded ever more power in decisions about programming and player selection, singers who thought they knew best how to interpret the great operatic roles. And that was before one started with the administrators.
Even his daughter chose not to listen to him and preferred to direct her attention up a horse’s nose.
‘I walked out of a dress rehearsal for The Flying Dutchman this afternoon,’ he said casually. ‘I don’t think I’ll go back. They can manage without me.’
Georgiana stared at him in horror. ‘Impossible!’
He pressed his lips together. ‘They’ll struggle through.’
‘But how? Who is there to step in?’
‘Tara will probably take over.’ He gave a tight, complex smile. ‘She will most likely do very well.’ After all I’ve set everything up, he thought. All she need do is activate the starter button. His mind ran back through the years, recalling the young Tara, his plump pixie, his rebellious elf. And now she was a poised, svelte and elegant woman in her thirties, making her way very nicely in the world of music. It was hard for a woman in the conducting arena, but she would make a strong mark, he was sure of it.
Georgiana was horrified. It was not so much the sound of Tara’s name on Saul’s lips – although that was bad enough. It was the idea of a mere slip of a young woman usurping the great Xavier’s role. For Georgiana Saul Xavier was a true emperor of music. A god.
Having never earned a penny in her life, and relied always on the wealth generated by men, Georgiana belonged to a sisterhood of women who would defend the superiority of the male to the death.
‘Oh what does it matter,’ Saul declared, suddenly deeply weary. ‘What does anything matter?’
‘She may muddle through,’ Georgiana protested, ignoring the last two ominous statements. ‘But she will never be even mentioned in the same breath as you by true connoisseurs of music. You are the Maestro. The king of all maestros,’ she concluded grandly.
Saul laughed. ‘Thank you for that. But I’m afraid yours might be a lone voice in making such proclamations.’
He stood up in preparation for leaving. In the mirror-walled lobby an infinity of Georgiana’s faces stared into an infinity of his. Looking down at the flesh and blood woman he wondered how long it would be before her beauty melted away. She was quite remarkably youthful, her skin seeming untouched by the unseen finger of time which could sketch out its lines with such cruelty. Maybe she had resorted to the cosmetic surgeon’s knife, but there were none of the usual tell-tale signs.
He bent down and kissed her lightly on her mouth, interested to note that the rosy, firmly plump lips aroused no emotion whatever.
He walked through the London streets, meandering and desultory, detached from the pressures of the present. He found that his earlier anger had abated. But now he had a sense that his perspectives on the outer world, his normal clear analysis of reality, were somehow slightly off balance. He felt himself to be a spectator looking down from a height with the view tilted and misty. A frightening sensation of empty resignation gripped him.
He had said to Georgiana that he was one of a dying breed. So! Maybe that was something to be glad about. He often felt that had no wish to be part of the new order, that the days of his golden glory were gone.
Let them go, he told himself. Simply savour what has been. But it was hard not to indulge in wistful recall of the early days of his youthful brilliance. He was doing it more and more, remembering the young Xavier who had been both talented and wonderfully impetuous. At twenty-five, invited to conduct the Czech Philharmonic in Prague, he had walked out onto the platform having discovered that the solo pianist was seized with a migraine and unable to move from the dressing room. Without turning a hair he had sat down at the piano and played Prokofiev’s notoriously difficult third concerto whilst directing the orchestra from the keyboard.
It had been a sensational experience. Orgasmic. A flame leapt in him at the recollection.
He thought of Tara in her thirties, ready for the world to roll itself out at her feet. Whereas he was a man over halfway through his life, existing in a world all too well explored. Had the hill been crested, he wondered?
He recognized that much had been achieved. But for what? All that struggle and effort, all that giving of oneself. What had it all been for?
He knew that such grossly self-pitying thoughts were to be stamped on hard.
Tullio aimed a mainly harmless kick at the little poodle before bending to wipe up the shiny pool of urine under the dining table.
The dog made a menacing gargle in its throat and nipped at Tullio’s Gucci loafers, succeeding in penetrating the soft leather.
‘Tullio, don’t tease him,’ Georgiana said.
‘You should house-train him,’ Tullio told her, pulling his thick black brows together and looking stern. An expression he knew she liked. ‘And see, he’s made a little prick in my shoe.’
‘I shall buy you another pair,’ Georgiana told him, making her lips pout and twitch. Something which she knew he liked.
Tullio sulked for a moment or two.
The entry phone buzzed. It would be one of her bridge party arriving.
Georgiana glanced with meaning at her servant.
He picked up the receiver and placed his hand over the mouthpiece. Employer and employee stared hard at each other.
‘Will you be wanting me later?’ Tullio asked Georgiana, his brown eyes kindling.
Georgiana turned her head giving the young man a view of her creamy smooth neck. She tilted a glance of girlish coquetry at Tullio. And then arranged her features into a mask of cool severity. ‘My guest is waiting to be let in,’ she told her servant, pointing an accusing finger at the receiver, reminding him of the task to be done. Of his position as a hired hand.
Through the evening Georgiana and Tullio engaged in a tantalizing game of concealed flirtation. Nothing more than the occasional conspiratorial glance, the split second touch of fingers as a glass was offered and taken. But with each tiny connection was an accompanying sizzle of sensation, the brief fizz of short-circuited electricity.
When the guests had left, Tullio stacked all the glasses, plates, dishes and cutlery on a tray and took them into the kitchen. He folded down the legs of the green baize card table and put it in a store cupboard in the hallway. Methodically he loaded the dishwasher, placed left over food in sealed containers in the fridge and opened up the windows to let
in a little fresh air.
With all his tasks completed he combed his hair, splashed on a little cologne and knocked softly at Georgiana’s bedroom drawer.
‘Come.’
She was sitting at the dressing table, tranquil and serene. Tullio saw that the woman gazing back at her from the mirror had the expression of a woman very pleased with what she saw.
He went to stand behind her and placed his slim, tanned fingers on the slippery silk of her negligee. He felt her bones underneath, jagged and brittle. Moving his fingers he slid the fabric away from the stem of her neck until it fell in a shiny pool around her waist. In the mirror he saw her girlish breasts, creamy white like sea pearls with delicate rosy nipples, already hardening with desire.
Tullio, at twenty, found no difficulty in becoming erect himself at the sight of beautiful female nakedness. Even if that nakedness was well in excess of forty years old.
He knelt, laying his cheek against Georgiana’s marble-like back, passing his arms around her. As his hands began to creep upwards from her waist, he took the precaution of asking very politely, ‘Is this permitted tonight?’ In the mirror he saw his fingers approach the faint curve under her breast.
She breathed in deeply.
Instantly Tullio paused. He knew her to be as easily alarmed as a deer. Even now – when he had penetrated her on countless occasions. He must proceed each time with caution. Woo her afresh, never give the impression of presuming, of taking her for granted. He must always assume a reverential gratefulness for whatever was to be bestowed.
It did not irk Tullio to do this. It was an amusing entertainment for him, an intriguing diversion. Learning how to control one’s fellow human beings was endlessly fascinating. And when he had brought her to the slippery point of breathless begging, then he gained his own satisfaction in the easiest and swiftest way imaginable.
Signora Xavier preferred a simple straightforward performance, nothing fancy. Man on top, conventional penetration, the minimum of thrusts. He got his satisfaction with very little effort.
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