Elegance and Innocence (72 page)

I nod.

‘Prokofiev Three was the one I walked out on.
Rostropovich is conducting tonight. The woman from the Philharmonia said he recommended me himself.’

‘Oh, Piotr!’ I’m bursting with pride on his behalf.

He shakes his head. ‘You don’t understand. Already, the head’s gone! Pogorelich is an enigma; complicated. The audience will be full of musicians and reviewers …’ He’s pacing back and forth, growing more and more agitated.

‘But Rostropovich recommended you,’ I remind him.

‘He remembers a performance from … what? Eight years ago?’

‘But it’s still in your repertoire?’

‘Of course it is!’ He swings round. ‘It’s my obsession! It keeps me awake at night; I can’t close my eyes without hearing it! But that doesn’t mean I can play it!’

‘Piotr …’

He pulls away; sucks hard on the end of the cigarette. ‘The thing is, I’m shallow!’ He sounds appalled. ‘I want to be liked, Evie!’

I can’t help but laugh; this isn’t the response he’s looking for. ‘But it’s only natural …’

He shakes his head, over and over. ‘It’s unbearable! I’m shallow! At the end of the day, I’m just like everyone else!’

‘Piotr.’ I hold out my hand.

He takes it.

Sun filters in through the thick canopy of leaves above us; the air smells of black earth and new grass, fresh and green.

‘Are you going to do this?’ I ask.

He nods mournfully.

‘Well, then. Just stop it.’ I grip his hand harder. ‘I admire you. It doesn’t matter to me if you do this or not. But why not try? Just show up.’

He shakes his head. ‘So easy, huh?’

‘No, not so easy! In fact, the hardest thing of all.’ And then I say something that surprises me. ‘It’s a matter of faith.’

He sighs, rubbing his eyes. ‘And if I don’t believe in God?’

‘Then believe in love,’ I suggest quietly. ‘Love in a random universe.’

Alex races around us; he’s found a large stick he’s waving about like a sword.

‘Hiya!’ he yells, beating on the tree trunk.

Piotr’s face relaxes, his shoulders fall. He throws the cigarette down, grinds it out beneath his heel.

‘It’s been a long time,’ he apologizes. ‘One loses the taste for heights.’

He shoves his hands into his pockets.

‘Come on.’ I slip my arm through his and steer him back towards the house. ‘You need some breakfast; you probably won’t have much of an appetite later on. And I don’t expect your tails have been dry cleaned recently. When’s rehearsal?’

Alex skips ahead of us. ‘I’m going to make you a sandwich,’ he announces, brandishing the stick. ‘You can either have a ham sandwich or a peanut butter sandwich. Or you
can have ham and peanut butter but that’s
disgusting
! And a juice box,’ he adds tantalizingly, a juice box being the most luxurious liquid in his young world.

I push open the kitchen door. ‘Piotr’s playing Prokofiev Three tonight with the Philharmonia!’

Bunny claps her hands. ‘How thrilling!’

‘And’, I continue, ‘he needs a hot bath, mint tea, his suit pressed and a fry-up breakfast before he’s too nervous to swallow it.’

‘I’m not nervous,’ he protests. ‘I’m terrified. And you’ – he eyes me warily – ‘are very bossy!’

I open the refrigerator, piling eggs, butter, bacon and jam onto the counter. ‘Scrambled or fried?’ I grab a frying pan. ‘You’re getting your bacon crispy unless you speak now. Bunny, what are you going to wear?’

‘My black crêpe, of course.’ She forces Piotr into a kitchen chair. ‘Where are those tails? Don’t worry, I’ll find them. I used to press all Harry’s suits. And you need a haircut, young man. I won’t have you stepping on stage before you’ve had a trim. I’m calling Newton. He used to valet for the Prince of Wales. He’s about eighty but still gives the best wet shave in the business.’ She pauses on her way upstairs, adjusting the heat on the stove. ‘The butter should smell like freshly roasted hazelnuts, darling. That’s how you know it’s at the right temperature.’

‘So what time’s rehearsal?’ I switch the kettle on. ‘Shouldn’t you be warming up?’

But Piotr just shakes his head. ‘I live with too many women!’

Alex hands him a juice box. ‘Me too.’

I’m sitting on the edge of my bed in my bathrobe, my hair wrapped in a towel on the top of my head. Hanging from my wardrobe door is an elegant empire-line dress; layers of gathered chiffon the delicate colour of a thumbnail; not quite pink, not quite peach, dangling from two slender shoestring straps. Allyson gave it to me before she left, claiming she didn’t have room for everything and it made her look too gamine anyway. Gamine is just what I need. On my dresser there’s a string of pearls from Bunny and a small golden handbag in the shape of an apple. It’s an incredible, unspeakably extravagant object … ‘You’ll look like Atalanta.’ Bunny handed it to me gently. ‘Be careful, unless you are caught!’ And there it sits, a golden promise, glittering in the early evening sun.

Here, in this moment, nothing’s happened yet. In another minute I’ll start to put on my make-up, to dry my hair, to spray my limbs with a thin, invisible layer of rose-scented perfume … but right now, all is still.

And yet everything’s already done.

I know, as certainly as I sit here, that by this time tomorrow everything will be different.

The Royal Festival Hall is overflowing with people, champagne corks echo to good-natured cheers and the air buzzes with conversation. Standing next to Bunny, I grip her hand tightly, trying to keep my nerves at bay.

It’s a vast hall; cavernous and grand. I look up at the three enormous tiers, filling with people; the staggered boxes, suspended seemingly in midair. It’s a space crackling with anticipation; electric with possibility.

Bunny and I take our seats in the stalls.

A slender man in his forties sits down next to us.

‘It’s exciting news, about the Prokofiev!’ He’s apparently unable to contain his enthusiasm. ‘You know who he is, don’t you?’

We nod.

‘I’ve been with Steinway twelve years,’ he continues. ‘I can remember when he played in Rome, the Chopin first concerto, and in Berlin, the
Diabelli Variations
. It’s been too long! Far too long!’

The orchestra begin to file on stage and for a moment.

The leader violin stands up, pressing A on the piano.

Bunny turns to me. ‘I just thought you should know, darling, I’ve decided to start seeing other men.’

Rostropovich takes the stage amid a roar of applause.

‘What?’ I gape at her. ‘Who?’

She’s clapping, smiling coyly. ‘No one you know. A friend of Belle’s.’

I look at her in amazement. ‘A friend of Belle’s?’

‘I’ve decided it’s time to move on, Evie,’ she says firmly.

Piotr enters, to more applause. He’s striking; incredibly handsome with his haircut and tails. Rostropovich takes his hand.

‘But … I mean … it’s all so sudden!’

She puts her finger to her lips.

Piotr sits down in front of the piano.

He’s holding my hand, pressing me close as we move through the crowd. We can’t go two steps before we’re beset by more congratulations, invitations. A press photographer takes our photo, talking to Rostropovich, who kisses Piotr no fewer than five times on the cheek.

Bunny stops him. ‘Oh! Please, I’d love to have a copy of that picture!’ She writes her address down on a slip of paper. ‘A night to remember!’ She winks at me.

They’re speaking a mixture of Polish, Russian and a bit of French. All I can do is smile inanely, but he won’t let go. And I don’t want him to.

There are two men behind me.

‘What was the encore? Rachmaninov?’

‘Stunning, wasn’t it? The B minor prelude … ‘Le Retour’ – the return. One of the pieces Rachmaninov wrote when his exile from Russia was over.’

I’m radiating pride from every pore.

‘Le Caprice!’ Suddenly, Rostropovich is addressing me. ‘Tell him!’ he urges me emphatically. ‘We’re all going to Le Caprice!’

But Piotr’s shaking his head. ‘I’m taking these ladies home. There’s a peanut butter and ham sandwich waiting for me.’

‘You’re mad!’ Rostropovich laughs, slapping Piotr on the back. ‘Come to Washington! Whatever you want to play! Do you know Franco? Franco Panozzo, the best agent in Europe! Franco!’ he shouts, waving across the room.

Piotr turns to me. ‘You look so beautiful,’ he says, softly. ‘Is it any wonder that I’m in love with you?’

And, smiling, he turns to shake Franco’s hand.

Allyson’s dress lies crumpled in a heap on the floor.

‘Come with me to Paris.’ Piotr stretches out on the bed, dangling his feet over the edge. ‘I want to show you Paris.’

I turn over on my back. ‘All right.’

‘Maybe I’ll move back to Paris.’ He runs his fingers through my hair. ‘Want to come?’

‘Be serious.’

‘I am serious.’

‘What about Alex? And what about me, for that matter? What can I do in Paris?’

He kisses my forehead. ‘I’ll keep you. Like a mistress. I’ll buy you pearls and expect favours in return.’

‘I don’t like pearls …’ I hold his hand out, spreading the fingers wide. ‘And you can have the favours for free.’

‘You are so American!’ he laughs.

‘I’m ignoring that.’ I press my hand against his,
marvelling at the difference in size. ‘I can’t leave London. I mean, I don’t want to.’

He folds his fingers over mine. ‘We could go anywhere, Evie.’

‘We?’ I say it lightly, but I don’t dare look at him.

‘We.’ He pulls me to face him. ‘There is a “we” now.’

‘Yes, but …’

‘But what?’ He smiles, tracing his finger along my lips. ‘O! My America! My new-found land!’

I laugh, delighted. ‘When have you been reading John Donne?’

‘You forget,
mon ange
, I have a library card!’ And he rolls me on my back, peering naughtily underneath the sheet. ‘Now, let’s get back to this business of you being my bored, exquisite little paramour …’

A week later, I’m sitting in a café on Long Acre. My hands are wrapped round a cup of coffee I haven’t touched yet and I’m not likely to.

I’m early, of course. I’m one of those people who always arrive early, even for bad news. If I had an appointment at the guillotine, I’d show up with half an hour to spare. But then, if good news can wait, bad news must be taken quickly, urgently, like medicine.

It’s lunchtime; all around me waiters are rushing plats du jour to hungry diners, tucking into business lunches. But I have no appetite.

I regret it now, with every fibre of my being. When I gave it to her, I wanted change, welcomed it, even. Now all I want is for things to remain the same; to become invisible again. It was a mistake. And now she’s going to sit across from me, smiling, being polite; trying to find the nicest way of telling me my script is a pile of unplayable shit and I should stick to torturing pensioners.

The café doors swing open. I freeze.

Two loud men in suits, slapping each other on the backs, enter.

I exhale.

Right.

I need an escape plan. I’ll say I have an appointment in ten minutes – an unexpected appointment I can’t reschedule. Then at least we can keep it brief.

My coffee’s gone cold.

I push it away from me, find I have nothing to do with my hands, and pull it back.

The doors open again.

I can’t bear to look, so I stare at the thick black liquid.

‘Evie?’

I raise my head.

There are two of them; Rowena and a sharply dressed man who looks to be in his mid thirties with blond cropped hair and glasses. He’s got his hands in his suit pockets and he’s grinning at me.

Two of them?

Oh, God! She’s brought a buffer!

I bolt up, nearly toppling my cold coffee.

‘Hello!’ My voice is far too bright. I extend my hand, even though we haven’t been introduced. ‘So good of you to meet me!’ I’m babbling. I have to stop babbling. ‘Would you like to sit down?’

How can she do this to me?

How can she demolish me in front of a stranger?

I smile even wider. ‘Coffee? Or lunch? It is lunchtime, isn’t it? Would you like to see a menu?’

I search around for a waiter.

‘Evie,’ she begins, pulling out a chair, ‘I’m sorry, I really should have rung you and asked permission.’

Where’s that waiter?

‘But, being a writer myself, I couldn’t resist a bit of drama.’ She exchanges a look with her bespectacled friend.

I might hit her.

‘Anyway, maybe you’ll forgive me when you understand …’

No, I’ll never forgive you.

Where’s that fucking waiter?

‘But I want you to meet Nigel Watts from the Royal Court.’

I stare at her.

She’s glowing with excitement.

‘He’d like to talk to you about your play.’

‘Can you get that for me, please! Oh dear! Where’s my handbag?’ Bunny rushes past me into her bedroom. ‘He’s early! Everyone knows that women are always late … how can he be here so early?’

The doorbell rings again.

‘Please, Evie! My God, my hair looks like a news reader!’

‘I’m on my way,’ I call, heading down the steps. ‘Relax, you look beautiful!’

If I thought Bunny was exacting when she was single, it’s nothing compared with when she’s actually seeing someone. She’s been plucking and preening since noon and it’s only their third date. But I enjoy helping her choose her dress and jewellery; playing the mother hen and opening the door. I toy with taking the old boy into the front room and giving him a grilling. ‘So, where did you meet? What are your job prospects?’ She’d be appalled, of course.

I should do it.

I pause in front of the mirror at the bottom of the steps. Since Bunny decided to put the house on the market, many of the older pieces have already been auctioned. But this mirror, fatally flawed and yet all the more fascinating for it, remains. I’m smiling. And I realize that I like the way I’m able to see beyond myself, not just the careful scrutiny of physical flaws and assets.

And as I cross the hall, it occurs to me that I haven’t
looked at myself in that way for a long time. I’m can see who I am without searching any more.

I turn the handle.