The Maestro's Mistress

by Angela Dracup

  Tara gazed at her shocked, then suddenly unable to resist bursting into laughter.

  Alessandra sprang up and flung herself into Tara’s opened arms. ‘Mummy, I do love him. But he’s so difficult and so…far away.’

  Tara arranged for Alessandra to go up onto the slopes with the American family who were staying in a nearby ski lodge. She swiftly changed out of her walking clothes, brushed her hair, jumped into the Range Rover Xavier had hired for her use and roared off into Salzburg. It was a drive which normally took an hour and a half. But even with the snow chains, on this particular morning, she made it in just under eighty minutes.

  Driving through the streets to the Grosse Festspielhaus it struck her with particular force what a curiously unattractive town Salzburg was. Small, parochial, a shameless prostitute for the pleasure of tourists, it nestled like a squat grey pebble in the bowl of the mountains. Songs from The Sound of Music, jostling with fragments from Mozart’s piano concertos, oozed from a line of loudspeakers on the bridge over the river. And in the cafes close to Mozart’s birthplace one had the dubious privilege of consuming coffee and cake at a price which would buy a full meal in Vienna.

  Tara recalled that the young Mozart had hated the town in the 1770s. She guessed he would smile to see his judgement vindicated if he returned to see it now. Or maybe she was simply seeing things through jaundiced eyes at this juncture.

  She went straight through to the auditorium of the Festspielhaus and found Saul in the orchestra pit with a handful of players and some anxious looking administrators. Behind them a vast and exotic stage set depicting mountains of gold stretched up into the darkness of the roof arch.

  Placing her hand on the long curled railing which separated the pit from the audience Tara called out Saul’s name. Just once. Heads turned towards her. She beamed Saul a steely look that even he could not resist. He left his colleagues and came to stand beside her. She took his arm and guided him away from the curious band of watchful spectators who immediately turned back tactfully to their deliberations.

  ‘Your daughter needs you,’ Tara told him.

  His grey eyes were as hard and shiny as weapons. ‘And I need this.’

  Even after all her years with Saul, Tara still found herself staggered by the diamond–hard purity of his self will. Or was it self preservation? ‘Letting her down like this will drive her away from you,’ she said.

  He raised his eyebrows. ‘Then our relationship is of little worth if it can be damaged so easily.’

  ‘For Christ’s sake, she’s fourteen. She adores you. But you have to bend a little.’

  ‘She has her own life. And I’m not “letting her down”. She and I discussed this. She was very firm that I should step in here if they needed me. She said she was not a baby who needed her father to be a nursemaid.’

  ‘God Almighty! She was heartbroken!’

  ‘No.’

  ‘She was just putting a brave face on things because she knew you would do what you wanted anyway.’ Tara could feel herself flailing about in desperation.

  Saul shook his head. ‘You are always so dramatic about things Tara. It does no good.’ He stared down at her, utterly sure of the rightness of his view. ‘Alessandra and I understand one another.’

  Tara felt her mouth drop open. The progress of this conversation was entirely unexpected, and totally baffling.

  ‘I shall be here rehearsing all day and then for the performance this evening. After that we shall all be together again.’

  ‘But that is not the point,’ she protested, knowing she had already lost the battle. His face was stripped of all emotion. Chilling.

  ‘I have two tickets for tonight’s performance – premier seats. We are doing Das Rheingold, one of the most thrilling operas in the repertoire. Alessandra will love it.’ He held out the long embossed tickets. ‘I hope you will both come,’ he said in formal, courteous tones.

  Tara took his offering. She burned to find some words, make some kind of gesture that would bring her back into living contact with him. She felt it would give her satisfaction to strike him – to slam the back of her hand across his aristocratic features and leave wounding imprints on the flawless olive skin.

  Without warning he leaned down and kissed her mouth very tenderly. An incredible shiver of feeling shot through every vein in her body.

  ‘One more thing,’ she said sharply, reclaiming his attention as he turned back to the small group anxiously waiting for him. ‘The Flying Dutchman video recording is hot-tipped for a Jupiter Music Award. Roland telephoned me this morning.’

  He swung back. His features registered a restrained mixture of speculation and amusement. ‘Well, well. Your slender shoulders are going to have to brace themselves for heavy burden of honours that will be heaped upon them. Congratulations, Tara.’ He stared at her for a long moment, then smiled. ‘So!’ he murmured softly.

  Tara was surprised to find Alessandra in a surprisingly happy frame of mind after her day on the slopes.

  The American family had been very welcoming. The children had been jokey and full of fun and the parents not awesomely proficient at skiing like her own father. They also had a ranch, several hundred acres of land and a racing stud back home in Texas. Alessandra had been told she was welcome to visit whenever she liked. In fact they were insisting she should go in the summer.

  Alessandra settled her mother on the sofa and poured her a glass of white wine. ‘Don’t look so tragic,’ she said.

  ‘Do I look that bad?’ Tara asked.

  ‘Not really. You just look a bit zapped. Have you told Daddy about the Jupiter Award nomination yet?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘He was very pleased.’

  Alessandra flopped down on the floor and tickled Tara’s feet. ‘Of course he was. Honestly Mummy, it’s absolutely fantastic news. I told everyone about it. They were simply knocked out.’

  Tara stroked Alessandra’s hair. How her mood had changed – lightened and softened. Was it because of her new friends? Or the result of one day without the watchful challenge of her father. Was that what had done the trick? A hollow sadness gripped her.

  ‘You know Mummy it’s the best thing that could have happened for you. It’s about time you did something for yourself.’ Having been taciturn and moody for days Alessandra now seemed unstoppable.

  ‘I think Daddy ought to share the prize,’ Tara said. ‘The project was his idea. He did all the planning and the spade work.’

  ‘Don’t forget that you were there digging away with him – as usual. Grandma was forever worrying about how hard you were working. Slaving in the shadows whilst he stood under the spotlight.’

  ‘Really? The cheek of it. You two, chewing me over.’

  ‘Donald joined in. We all agreed.’

  Tara sighed and took a huge gulp of wine.

  ‘Oh, come on, don’t be so saintly,’ Alessandra exclaimed. ‘Daddy would hate to see you brooding like this. And in any case he’d have nothing to do with sharing an award. He’s an all or nothing man.’

  Tara was inclined to agree. She dropped a kiss on Alessandra’s head, proud of her daughter’s emerging shrewdness.

  ‘More wine?’ Alessandra enquired.

  ‘No. I shall be driving later.’

  ‘Oh?’

  Tara drew in a deep breath. She decided now was the time to broach the subject of the performance at the Grosse Festspielhaus that evening. ‘It’s a very exciting opera,’ she ventured. ‘Mermaids and dragons, but no horses as far as I can remember.’ She found herself stiff with tension.

  ‘Live music in Salzburg,’ Alessandra said, with a knowing smile. ‘We’ll be rubbing shoulders with the rich culture-vultures worshipping at the temple of Art.’

  ‘Did you read that somewhere?’ Tara said laughing.

  ‘No, it’s what Daddy said this morning. And it’s OK Mummy, I’m fine about going along to view with the vultures.’ She spoke with cheery irony, as though the m
orning’s bitterness had been nothing more than a sharp frost which had melted away in the sunshine.

  Maybe Saul was right. Maybe I am over-dramatizing the situation, Tara thought.

  ‘Why the tortured face and the big sighs?’ Alessandra demanded.

  ‘You and Daddy,’ Tara said frankly. ‘I sometimes think I’m trapped between the hammer and the anvil.’

  Alessandra leaned her head on Tara’s lap. Her eyes slanted up into her mother’s face. ‘Never mind the Jupiter gong,’ she exclaimed, smiling and whimsical. ‘You deserve the Nobel Peace Prize. For divine tolerance and not committing violence on my father.’

  CHAPTER 32

  Dr Denton stirred cream into his early morning cup of coffee at the same time glancing down the list of names of possible new clients which Celia, his administrative assistant, had printed out and left on the desk.

  One name sprang out at him, causing a slight acceleration of pulse. He walked through into Celia’s office, the list in his hand.

  Celia looked at him smiling. She liked her employer. He was even-tempered, genial and unflappable. She had never seen him irritable or moody. She had been with him for six years, and judged he was the perfect boss.

  ‘This referral – Mrs Georgiana Xavier?’ Denton queried,

  ‘Yes.’ Celia had been rather excited to speak to Mrs Xavier when she had telephoned out of the blue the day before. Being an avid devourer of glossy magazines Celia was well aware of Mrs Xavier’s progress around the fashionable parts of London, forever changing her wardrobe, her furniture and drapes. She was wonderfully elegant and photogenic, and in interviews for magazines always hinted at a possible reconciliation with her famous husband. Celia saw Mrs Xavier as the ever-loving forgiving and tolerant wife. So romantic.

  ‘This isn’t a new referral,’ said Dr Denton. ‘It’s an old case on which I spent a lot of time.’ His tone was a touch on the sharp side.

  ‘Oh dear!’ said Celia becoming concerned she had made some sort of gaff. ‘I simply assumed this was a first time referral. We’ve no records on the data base – I checked.’

  He nodded, recalling wiping the records personally. He wondered how long it had been since his last contact with Georgiana – more than ten years ago, he judged.

  He pushed aside his anxiety at this resurrection of a voice from the past. ‘It’s fine, Celia,’’ he said reassuringly. ‘Go ahead and send out the standard invitation for an initial appointment.’

  Celia watched him walk back into his consulting room. Something was going on, she thought, intrigued and yet again reflecting on her luck in landing such an interesting job.

  Georgiana stood before the full length cheval mirror in her dressing room and took stock of her naked body: the still firm small breasts, the flat stomach, the indent of a small waist and the tautness of toned buttocks.

  She awarded herself top marks. Her body was magnificent for a woman of her age. It had been hard work of course, this constant attention to the details of self-preservation. Even with perfect bones and skin one could never let up on the relentless effort.

  Her eyes still on the mirror, she pulled on white silk underwear; bra, French knickers and sheer hold-up stockings with lacy tops. Her dress was a simple cream sheath, skimming over her figure and giving just a hint of female curves. The matching jacket had a dreamy, drifting quality about it. Perfect.

  She spent some time making up her face so that it appeared not to be made up. The long blonde hair, still worn in a classic bob style, swung and gleamed as she tilted her head.

  Taking her jewellery box from the safe, she took out a pearl necklace and tiny pearl earrings. Staring in the mirror she unfastened the pearls at her neckline and replaced them in the box.

  It was with a feeling of satisfaction that she stepped out of her apartment, delighting in the beauty of perfect simplicity.

  Dr Denton looked at his watch. He had an odd sensation in his stomach, an echo of hollowness he used to feel as a boy when he stood on the high board above the swimming pool and stared into the wobbling turquoise depth of the water below. The sensation was by no means unpleasant, in fact quite the reverse. It was some time since he had experienced any significant emotional turbulence. In fact it had sometimes crossed his mind that the tranquil, unvarying nature of his moods and feelings bordered on the pathological.

  Celia, in the reception office, was in a flutter of anticipation, glancing up at the clock and smoothing her eyebrows with a moistened finger.

  Mrs Xavier did not disappoint her. She glided through the door, as graceful as a prima ballerina, with all the presence of the high born and privileged. Intensely blue eyes fastened on Celia, unnerving her a little, as though the Queen herself had unexpectedly walked in.

  Georgiana’s glance skimmed over Celia’s unremarkable face and small, chubby body. ‘Mrs Saul Xavier,’ she announced with a faint smile.

  Celia escorted her through to Dr Denton’s room and closed the door softly behind her. Breeding, she thought. Class. Quality. She felt no envy or animosity. The world needed magical figures like Mrs Xavier to brighten up the general greyness of things.

  Dr Denton rose from the impressive leather chair behind his vast desk and offered his hand. Georgiana’s fingers rested in his for a moment. For a split second their eyes locked together. He waved her into a chair positioned at the front of his desk.

  ‘Not the chaise-longue!’ she exclaimed, chiding and coquettish.

  ‘Not until I know what you’ve come about.’ He was very much the impartial clinician.

  ‘You’re not angry that I’ve come to you? I didn’t expect you to be angry with me,’ she said with a touch of pathos.

  ‘I’m not angry,’ he told her. But, my God, am I curious he thought.

  ‘You look rather stern,’ she said with a light laugh. The wide blue eyes fastened on him.

  ‘I’m simply considering our need to understand each other and be very clear what is at issue here.’

  ‘I need help,’ she said.

  ‘I appreciate that. But we can’t simply start where we left off.’

  ‘But why not?’

  ‘A considerable time has passed. And perhaps you have had treatment from other consultants, of which I know nothing.’ This was all flannelling. Dr Denton could easily gain information about Georgiana’s other therapists following the kidnap incident. He simply felt a need to tread carefully, mindful that she was still married to the daunting Xavier.

  He wondered how much Georgiana recalled of the nightmarish incident in the Cornish cottage. How much she had managed to block out. His own memories of the incident were certainly uncomfortable. There was a sense of professional failure and of not having been fully in control of his patient. He recalled Xavier taking charge, and his withering scorn of Denton’s efforts.

  And there was another memory also. One which was both fascinating and strictly taboo.

  All of which made him very doubtful of the wisdom and becoming involved again. It was surely safer to let sleeping dogs lie. His mind started to run through a catalogue of alternative clinicians whom he could recommend her to approach.

  ‘I need you,’ Georgiana announced. She said this with such calm simplicity that he was taken aback and instantly disarmed.

  ‘I need you to...’ Here she paused, frowning. ‘I need you to help me explore my feelings,’ she concluded.

  She had learned the appropriate jargon, Denton thought, amused and curiously touched. Poor innocent Georgiana, she would have been exposed to a procession of analysts and therapists during the long months of residential treatment he had arranged for her. They would all have been mouthing jargon at her, and she had obediently swallowed it.

  ‘Georgiana,’ he said softly, causing her eyelids to flicker at the sound of her name on his lips. ‘If you are feeling a need to explore possible routes of getting back to your husband, then I’m afraid I’m not able to help you.’

  He timed the minutes of silence.

  ‘That’s n
ot what I’m wanting.’ She swivelled her eyes to his, locking into his feelings, refusing him the permission to look away. He was startled to find that the sheer visual appeal of the wide, china-blue gaze still had the power to move him.

  He laced his fingers together and forced his mind to move at speed. ‘I’m prepared to offer you five appointments,’ he told her, calm and firm. ‘I suggest we go right back to the beginning, looking once more at the reason you first came to see me. We can examine that a little – then take things from there. At the end of the fifth session I’ll be happy to give you my opinion on the best way forward. How does that sound?’

  ‘I came to you because I was frigid,’ Georgiana said. ‘But that’s no longer a problem.’

  ‘I see.’ He was becoming more and more fascinated. He reminded himself of the need to maintain an expression of kind, but clinical impartiality.

  ‘You cured me,’ she said.

  Dr Denton’s heart gave one violent buck, and then was steady. He would choose to ignore that statement. ‘You’re telling me that you don’t want to go along with my suggestion of going back to the original problem?’

  ‘What would be the point? I’ve had several lovers in the past few years. I’m no longer frigid.’

  Dr Denton was riveted. ‘You enjoyed these sexual encounters?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You reached orgasm?’

  ‘Most times.’

  Dr Denton was beginning to feel a touch breathless.

  ‘Then I got bored,’ Georgiana said. ‘They were all young men, just boys really.’

  Dr Denton swallowed hard. ‘So what is it you need now from a course of therapy?’

  She stared at him, frowning at his obtuseness. ‘I’m not quite sure what it is. That’s the whole point of coming to talk to you.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘You will take me back, won’t you?’ Her eyes were hunted and fearful. ‘You will?’

  What one could read into that, Denton thought, his emotions now thoroughly aroused. ‘Yes, I’ll take you back.’