Olivia’s Luck (2000) (34 page)

“I loved your music last night,” I lied.

He smiled. “Thank you. Was it your sort of thing? I mean, is that what you like to listen to, as a rule?”

I hesitated, sensing a sure-fire way to ingratiate myself, but could I then bluff my way, musically speaking, for an entire evening? I licked my lips.

“Um, listen, Sebastian, could I possibly retract that last remark? Only, the thing is, it was a bit of a fib. I was so preoccupied last night I didn’t actually listen to a note.”

His eyes widened. “Oh. Right.”

“I mean I’m quite sure it would have been my thing,” I hastened on, “I’m sure I’d have loved it, but the reason I wasn’t listening was because my husband turned up with his girlfriend, and I had trouble concentrating on anything other than taking a pot shot at the pair of them.”

“Dear me,” he stammered, scratching his head. “Yes, that must have been very – difficult.” He reached for the bottle and looked awkward.

Ah, well done, Olivia. You’re embarrassing the socks off him now, airing all your dirty linen in public. But something told me to plough on. Something told me that in order to establish any sort of channel here, any sort of rapport, all small talk had to be banned, even if it meant making a monumental fool of myself in the process. The refined good taste of our surroundings somehow made it all the harder.

“He left me a few months ago, you know.”

“Yes, I had heard. Nanette, you know…” He hastily refilled his glass, eyes lowered.

“Went off with a teacher at Claudia’s school. Of course, that was pretty hard to take, pretty gut-wrenching, but I guess I’m more or less used to it now.” I nodded bravely. “I guess I’m getting over it.” God, I sounded like I was in therapy now, spilling the beans to some New York analyst – and when had I ever said ‘I guess’? Twice!

He smiled, put the bottle down. “From my experience, Olivia, it takes a lot longer than a few months to get over something like that.”

“Your experience?” I pounced. Ah, now we were getting somewhere.

“Oh, very limited,” he said hastily. “We weren’t married, like you are, and no children, so…” he shrugged dismissively.

“But it was serious?”

He paused. “Very.” There was another long pause, but I kept quiet, knowing that was the only way. That he’d go on only if he wanted to.

“We met about five years ago. Quite late to fall in love, I suppose – I mean, properly, for the first time. I’d got to the ripe old age of thirty-two thinking it would never happen.”

I did some quick mental arithmetic and filled up his glass shamelessly, even though it was practically brimming over, keen to hear more. He cradled it and narrowed his eyes, gazing pensively over his green enclosure. Leaves dipped and danced against the high brick walls in the long evening shadows. He turned, looked directly at me.

“It was doomed, right from the start, actually. Madness when I think about it now. We were both too set in our ways, too long in the tooth perhaps, and too attached to our customs, our countries – ”

“Our countries?”

“Lara’s Russian. She plays in the Russian National Orchestra and we met when one of my symphonies was being performed over there. I went across to oversee rehearsals; she was a first violinist.”

“Oh!”

Gosh, how romantic could you get? My mind flew to a rehearsal room somewhere, and in the front row of the orchestra, a beautiful violinist, one arm cradling her instrument, the other bowing beautifully, revealing slim arms, a perfect figure, long blonde hair – I was sure – eyes, full of passion for the music, meeting the dark eyes of the handsome composer over the music stands, as she made his dream, his masterpiece come to life. And Lara! It had to be Lara, didn’t it, Zhivago’s lost love, calling to her desperately as he crawled through the snow – “Lara! Lara! Lara!” No doubt she looked just like Julie Christie too. I sighed.

“How romantic. Didn’t you try to make it work?”

“Oh, sure. I spent two years in Russia and she spent a couple over here, but I hated the place and couldn’t compose there. Musically speaking I dried up completely, and England had pretty much the same effect on Lara. She missed her family, friends, her language – that’s what she missed the most, actually, not being able to chatter away, ever, in her own tongue. It’s not like being French or German and living over here, because there are plenty of other French and Germans too, but not many Russians, and Lara got very lonely. Felt terribly isolated. She stopped playing, stopped going to the orchestra even.”

“Gosh, how sad! So she went back?”

“Fourteen months ago. Precisely. Which is why I say to you, Olivia, don’t expect the scars to fade so quickly. I’ve been at this lark much longer than you have and mine are still there.”

“I know,” I said in a small voice. “I was being flippant when I said I was used to it. Of course I’m not. It’s like getting used to having your arm chopped off. I don’t think I’ll ever be whole again.” I took a big shaky breath. “I miss him so much.” I stared into my lap. Oh God, was I really doing this? I couldn’t believe I was. I concentrated hard on a chipped paving stone.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I know how you feel. And some days are better than others, aren’t they? Some days you can kid yourself you’re all right, that you’re actually staggering from the depths towards dry land, and then just as you reach the beach, a bloody great tidal wave crashes over your head and drags you back in again.”

“That’s it,” I wobbled, “that’s exactly how it is. It’s like I’ll never reach that bloody beach.” To my horror and eternal shame, a great tear ran down my nose and plopped into my lap. I brushed it away furiously, not sure if he saw, but if he did, to his credit, he tactfully pretended not. There was a silence for a while.

“Right,” he said suddenly, standing up, “enough of all that. Goodbye to all that, in fact. Come on, let’s get cracking.” He rubbed his hands together briskly, smiling down at me.

I blinked, nervously. “Cracking?”

“Oh,” he scratched his head sheepishly, “sorry, I do that. Think of things without saying them and then go one step further and carry them out.” He grinned. “Comes from living alone, I think. No, I just thought – well, since you missed out on so much music last night, I’d play you something wonderful tonight. Bach is my big passion at the moment, but I’m open to Schubert on a beautiful evening like this, or perhaps you’d prefer something – I don’t know – more joyous? Scarlatti, perhaps?”

“Oh!” I smiled. “Well, that would be great, but couldn’t we listen to something of yours?”

“Of mine?”

“Yes, since that’s what I missed last night. Has that Abbey thing been recorded yet?”

He grinned. “That ‘Abbey thing’ hasn’t, as yet. It’ll have to be something else, but then again they’re all pretty similar.” He turned and went inside through the French windows, crossing the drawing room to the CD player. “I churn out the same old rubbish, as a rule.”

“What rot,” I said warmly, picking up my glass and following him in. “Everyone says how marvellous you are!”

“Ah, yes, everyone,” he said scanning his CDs, his back to me. “Everyone who’s desperate to embrace modern music, determined not to seem backward-thinking, keen to be progressive and avant-garde. It’s rather like the art world – critics rave about the latest Damien Hirst or whatever, but do they really like it or are they just terrified of not seeming hip?”

“Perhaps they don’t understand it,” I said, making what I considered to be my first intelligent contribution that evening.

He turned abruptly. “D’you know, I really object to that assumption. That’s just the sort of obnoxious, smug, pretentious twaddle the darlings of the creative world like to peddle. Art and music are there to be enjoyed, not understood!”

“Oh, er, yes I quite agree. I was just, um, repeating what someone else said.”

“Oh, right.”

“Yes, um. Ursula Mitchell,” I lied disloyally. “She’s terribly sweet,” I added with a surge of guilt, “it’s just that, well, she longs to be part of that arty milieu.” Oh good
word
, Olivia.

He shrugged. “Well, I don’t really know her, but I can imagine. I know the type. Anyway,” he slipped the CD in, “here goes. Oh, by the way, I’m assuming you’ll stay for supper? Maureen put some sort of casserole in the oven. She’s a disastrous cook but she’s been with me for years now and I haven’t the heart to tell her. Would you care to join me in picking the gristle out of her goat’s bladder stew?”

I giggled. “That’s the most attractive offer I’ve had in a long time. I’d love to, but I might just ring home. I told Nanette I’d only be about an hour or so.”

“Sure. It’s in the hall.”

When I got back from the phone, Sebastian was sitting up rather straight in a high, wing-back chair on one side of the fireplace, remote control in hand, fingers tapping impatiently. He looked up. “Ready?”

“Oh, yes, sure!” I hastened to my chair, realising that this wasn’t background schmaltz we were about to listen to. We weren’t going to chat above it either, or even have it on while we had supper – no, we were going to sit here and listen. I perched rigidly on an identical chair the other side of the marble fireplace and clasped my hands on my knees. What was I supposed to look at, for heaven’s sake. Him? Or should I shut my eyes? Or would that be considered smug and obnoxious again? Christ, I hadn’t really been educated for this. I hoped I wasn’t going to fart in the slow movement or something terrible. His hand went to flick the switch, then abruptly – paused. He frowned.

“I say, this is awfully pretentious of me, isn’t it? Asking you round then foisting my music upon you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You didn’t foist anything on me, I asked!”

“Yes, but if I were an acrobat or something, and suddenly on a whim I rolled back the carpet and performed my double backflip, or – or a plumber insisting you inspect my S-bends, or – ”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Sebastian, just get on with it and put it on!”

“Righto.”

He gave a mock salute and obliged with a grin, but that little exchange had relaxed me. I felt that the somewhat academic atmosphere had been purged. I leant back in my chair and crossed my legs.

“Well, this particular piece is played by the Berlin Philharmonic. It’s called
The Rigorous Judgement
.”

Blimey,
The Rigorous Judgement
. I sat bolt upright again. Perhaps I’d been right about that garden, after all. Perhaps he was into order and control. I braced myself and waited.

The Rigorous Judgement
, however, began sublimely. Breezy flutes and other pleasant windy things piped softly and wistfully and I imagined we were somewhere – oh goodness, somewhere pastoral and sylvan, with a bird perhaps – a piccolo was it? – lifting the melody. I gazed contentedly into the empty grate, letting myself be lulled along, cajoled by gently rising passages until, abruptly, the mood changed. The bird seemed to cry out in alarm, there was a shriek, and suddenly, it seemed the woods were upon us. Dark, base notes sounded ominously, one after the other, coming like footsteps all the time, and simultaneously terrified piping noises whirled overhead, swooping and crying as the strings gathered momentum. The intensity built, and as drums and cymbals joined the violins, there was a sudden sprawling change of key, as horns and trumpets heralded some sort of procession, some kind of parade. I sat up a bit. Braced myself. More and more triumphant waves unfolded until there was a great orchestral wall of sound, and then suddenly – it stopped. A single flute piped on, to a clearing, perhaps, where the strings started up again, softly. They played quietly for a while until, finally, they too faded away, as the picture faded too, leaving nothing behind, but a tantalising afterglow.

I stared at Sebastian in silence for a moment, realising I was actually on the edge of my seat. For a while where I was speechless. I felt my cheeks flush red.

“Good heavens, that was beautiful!” I finally managed.

“Really?”

“God,
really
!” I gasped. “I mean, well, I’ve never sat down and listened properly to that sort of music before so I’m not the best person to ask – a complete philistine, in fact – but I could
see
it, Sebastian, and
feel
it too! I had no idea music could do that to you, had no idea you got pictures with it!”

He laughed. Stood up. “Good.” He rubbed his hands together briskly. “Well, come on, let’s go down and get some supper, before you start reminding me of some of the more pseudy music critics I know.”

He caught my eye and I laughed, but I could tell he was pleased, and as I got up and followed him down the steps to the basement kitchen, it was with a considerably lighter heart. That music, dark and forbidding though it had been in parts, had somehow changed the mood of the evening. All guards were off and all defences down; it was as if he’d said, “OK, this is me. Like me or loathe me,” just as I, I thought suddenly, could walk him round to my back yard, swing my arm towards my intricate beds, paths and borders and say, “OK, well, this is me, too.”

As he struggled to get a huge, red-hot casserole out of the oven, he directed me to a drawer where I found some knives and forks, and I set about laying the table. Uncannily relaxed now – to my amazement he even flicked Capital Radio on – I sat down, as he manoeuvred the heavy Le Creuset across from the stove to the table, and lifted the lid. We stared into it for a moment in silence, then at each other. His mouth twitched. I swear to God, not even a dog, not even a ravenous Labrador, would hoover up that honking, heaving pile of bones.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Sebastian under his breath, and on an impulse, turned and tipped the whole lot in the bin.

He then had a surge of guilt about Maureen’s hurt feelings, and giggling wildly, we had to lift out the steaming bin liner, wrap it in three more, and then take it to the dustbins outside. Whilst Sebastian was getting rid of the evidence, I managed to rustle up a mushroom omelette, find some rather good Brie lurking at the back of the fridge, and Sebastian came back and opened another bottle of wine. Finally, we sat down. The wine and the conversation flowed, barriers were lowered – I knew his past, or the important bits anyway, and he knew mine – and it seemed that we could now get on with the business of discussing friends, family – both subjects complicated – work, children, this single life – anything, in fact, of great, little, or no importance that sprung to mind. It was easy, it was relaxed, and later, as I toyed with the cheese, laughing as he recounted some musical anecdote, I even forgot to answer him.