Letters Around Midnight (12 page)

“We've been together ever since. He still buys me lingerie but he picks it out for me. He has great taste. We make love in here occasionally when we get the chance amongst the stock. It's our private place, a place we can escape to from the outside world. I love lingerie more now that I have someone to wear it for. He is putting money into the business and we might be able to start a chain. It would be fantastic. But everyone is going to be trained to love lingerie as much as I do.”

“And, all the lingerie he bought?” I asked

“Oh, yes, well surprise, surprise...it fits.”

 

 

Emily had gone to College in America to study music, majoring in the cello. First reports from her were great, she loved the campus, the city and the people. We kept in touch via Facebook; but I was worried. She hardly ever mentioned her cello. A mutual friend summed it up,

“There was a time when you could never get her to shut up about the bloody thing,” she said one day

“Now you can't get her to talk about it at all.”

Things were worse than I feared. Emily called me one day, her voice hoarse from panic and crying. She had flunked her first year, and the College was seriously considering letting her go. She was at her wits' end. But, the thing about Em' is, she is not a quitter; and despite her situation, she soldiered on. Miraculously, in the first term of her retake year, things started to get better. Her grades improved and she was selected to play for the College orchestra. No one had any idea what the reason was. No one wanted to ask. We were simply glad at the turnaround.

Not so long ago, Emily called me. She was in London for few weeks and asked me to pop round to see her. I was only too happy to oblige. It gave me the chance to find out what had happened. Of course, I had my suspicions, and wanted to see if I was right.

I arrived at her house later in the evening and as soon as the taxi rattled away, I could hear the unmistakable strains of Emily's cello. It was achingly beautiful. I hadn't a clue what the piece was but it pulled at your heartstrings.

My knock on the door stopped the music mid-flow. Emily answered, full of life, as if there had never been a problem.

“It was such a shame to make you stop” I said as we embraced,

“That music was something else.”

“You liked it?” She looked pleased.

“A friend of mine wrote it.” It's what Em' didn't say that spoke volumes. The thing about listening to people for a living is you can hear when they are itching to tell you a secret. This one was written in letters of sexual fire six feet high.

“Okay, tell me his name,”

“God, is it obvious?”

“Uh huh.” She bit her lip.

“Do you still collect those stories?” she asked.

“Uh huh.”

She looked at me, then looked to the door of the front room where I guessed her cello was. The look of indecision on her face was intriguing. There was a time when nothing could have stopped her playing. There had been a change in her. She took me past the door to the back kitchen where we could sit and chat. She told me her story.

 

***

 

I was so looking forward to going to the US. It was so far away, so romantic. The College had a great reputation. The problem was when I got there, I hated my professor. He was dry and boring, dusty, like an old book. Technically he was superb but there was no passion, and because of that, I lost mine.

My playing got worse and worse. The worse it got, the less I wanted to play. It was a vicious circle. No matter what I did, I couldn't get my passion back. The professor was literally drying the soul out of me. It was all technique, technique, technique. I ended up flunking my first year and barely scraped a retake.

In the first term of the following year, the professor had to go away but he organised a stand-in, Ben. He played for a well-known orchestra and had been one of the professor's best pupils. I was sure he was going to be as dusty and dry as the prof. The day we first met, the class sat around in a semicircle as we usually do and this young guy walked in. Tall, slim, elegant hands, long quick fingers and this mess of curly brown hair. He was as far from the professor as you could get. I was confused when he played; he was so in love with his cello. How could the dusty old prof turn out a pupil so different to himself?

Ben asked us each to play something for him. I had no idea what to play so I sawed my way through some half-remembered piece or other. After I finished, he didn't say anything. He threw me a look and passed right on over to the next student. Great, I thought. Like master, like pupil. He so obviously hated me. The rest of the lesson was a blur to be honest. I was in a sulk, and could have given up right there and then and gone home. I didn't care anymore.

After the class, Ben pulled me aside.

“You've fallen out of love with the cello.”

He came straight out with it. No one else had said it, up to then, but it was true. I burst out crying. He asked me why so I told him.

“You don't get it do you. The professor was looking forward to teaching you.” He could see I didn't believe him as soon as he said it.

“It's the truth.” He looked me hard in the eyes.

“He said you could be good if your technique improved and he could tell in a year if you had it in you.” I didn't say anything.

“Well, I guess we know then.” It was all he said before he left. It was my lowest point.

I went home and cried my eyes out but found something within me from somewhere. I was damned if I was going to give up. The next few lessons went better but still not great. Ben was the same as the professor. He was this technique monster. They were definitely out of the same mould. I kicked myself for having thought he could be anything else. He walked around behind me during my recital tapping me smartly with his bow, indicating points of tension. There was more relaxation in me when he wasn't there. When he was, I got this big knot of tension in my stomach. I could not let it go.

At one point I snapped,

“God, will you stop having a go.”

“Excuse me?”

“You're always on my back,”

“I'm trying to help,”

“You're not helping, you're making it worse,”

“The hell I am, it's you, you won't relax”

“I am relaxed.” The argument was getting more heated, neither of us wanted to back down.

“You're not relaxed, you're tense, tense, tense,”

“I'm not,”

“You are too. I could pluck you like a string you're so tense.”

It was embarrassing. We were arguing right in front of the other students. When the end of the lesson came, I let the other students pack up ahead of me, in order to apologise, but not in front of the class.

“Sorry Ben. I didn't mean to be rude.” He didn't say anything,

“Can we try again? Please? If I don't pass this year, I'm through, it's over.”

It was the first time I had admitted it to myself.

“Playing the cello is the only thing I've ever done. What else is there for me to do?”

The hot flush of tears started in my cheeks. He was standing there, silent, as if he didn't care.

“Look,” he said eventually,

“Perhaps we can work something out with extra lessons.”

It was a relief, at last I had something to pin my hopes on.

The extra lessons were difficult to work into my schedule, sometimes we met twice a day. Things were better, but something was still missing. I had all of this emotion inside me but didn't have the key to let it out. It was incredibly frustrating. I cried myself to sleep some nights with my cello propped up against the bed. It was the last thing I saw when I went to sleep and the first thing I saw when I woke up.

Then one day, the lesson had to be held at his house. When Ben came to the door to greet me, he was barefoot, wearing jogging pants and nothing else. He had obviously got out of the shower only moments before and stood there towelling his hair dry holding the door open. I hadn't noticed before but he had a great body. Definitely not the pasty white body of a musician. He was slim and toned with skin the colour of burnished walnut. He was more of a surfer. I could feel the heat rising in my face.

“You're early,” he said.

“Well, you said you wanted me keener.” I tried to cover up my blushing and carried my cello into the hall.

It was a fabulous detached house wrapped around in its own garden, New England style decor, and beautiful red mahogany floorboards. There was a rich smell of wax and polish. It must be like living inside a cello I thought and felt at home straight away. Ben took me through to his music studio. It was a huge downstairs room which ran the whole length of one side of the house. Large French windows let in the fragrance and light from the garden. It was a beautiful room for playing music in and right in the centre of it was a chair for me.

“So,” he said

“Get yourself set up.” He padded off to get dressed. When he came back, he was still barefoot in his joggers but had thrown a shirt over his shoulders, leaving the buttons undone. He had this shaft of dark hair running down his tummy and the sharp lines of his hip bones arrowed down at his crotch. I couldn't help but sneak a quick look as I rubbed resin into my bow, working it back and forth with my hand. The movement started to get me aroused, and I did the best I could to put his crotch out of my mind.

“Okay, here you go,” he indicated the chair and backed off a few paces. He put his hands on hips hooking his shirt open. His crotch caught my eye again as I settled down in the chair. I coughed nervously and plucked the strings of my cello tightening the pegs fractionally to make the notes sound sharper. The room lent itself to brighter, happier notes.

The cello scooped my dress up between my knees as I prepared to play, the wood pressing against my thighs. My mind had been so focused on the lesson I hadn't given it a moment's thought on the way over, but playing the cello in a dress isn't the most elegant thing for a girl to do. It was too late, I had to deal with it.

“What shall I play?”

“Anything” he said.

“Get loose first off.”

I gripped the cello between my legs and pulled a few notes from it. No reaction from Ben. I shifted on my seat and played a few more notes. He still didn't say anything, he kept his eyes on his reflection in the polished floorboards, tracing his own outline with his foot. I ran a few scales and snatches of a few songs. He still didn't look at me. After a few minutes, he sat down cross-legged on the floor, his elbows on his knees cradling his head in his hands. My eyes kept drifting to his crotch as I played. The heat which had risen in my face was now rising in me lower down. The moisture between my legs started to grow. I couldn't get comfortable and stopped playing.

“You're too tight” he said. He looked up at me, his legs crossed at the ankles, hugging his knees. I hadn't noticed before how the brown of his eyes matched his hair. A bead of moisture tickled in my crotch.

“I can hear the tension in you.” Without uncrossing his legs, he stood straight up like a ballet dancer. It was an unexpected movement of pure elegance, my heart jumped.

“Why did you start playing the cello?” The question surprised me.

“Because I loved the sound.”

“And your teacher?” I felt uneasy.

“Good looking?” I flushed.

“I thought so,”

“It wasn't like that at all.” I was sure it wasn't. But he had caught me off guard.

“All students have a crush on their teachers.” It blurted out of me catching me by surprise.

“So you had a crush on your previous teacher. You played well because you were pleasing him. Then you come here and you have this old guy. You don't fancy him so your playing suffers, you don't care if you don't please him.”

“No. No, that's not right.” I defended myself.

“You know, the professor said your audition was the best he had ever heard.”

“You're kidding?”

“No, I'm not; but he said your technique sucks.”

“Well, that sounds more like him.” It was a petulant answer that the bite of my lip was too late to catch. Ben huffed.

“He told me your lack of technique was the only thing holding you back.”

“But, he hates me and technique is so, so boring,” I stammered.

“He doesn't hate you at all.” He said it as if he was talking to a child.

“A good teacher knows what we need, more than we do. You were too good too early and your previous teacher didn't want to kill your passion with technique. He didn't want to be the one to risk turning a good musician into a mediocre one. What he didn't see, but which the professor does, is he stopped a good musician becoming a great one.”