Free The Maestro's Mistress by Angela Dracup

about fourteen and a
young woman of her own age. But there was no sign of Xavier.
    Monica welcomed her as though she
were a long lost relative, overwhelming Tara with a huge hug and two kisses,
continental style, which made her instantly uneasy. In fact the moment she
walked into the womb-like room with its plump brocade sofas and heavy silk
curtains Tara wanted to escape.
    Monica, sixtyish, Junoesque and
flamboyantly arrayed in a flowing pink caftan, served coffee and tiny
continental biscuits, whilst in the background her stereo system played a 1959
recording of the Brahms violin concerto.
    ‘Is that you playing?’ Tara
asked, listening intently.
    ‘Naturally. Can you guess the
orchestra, the conductor?’ Monica enquired with a teasing glance.
    Tara frowned. ‘A mid European
orchestra. Not the Vienna Phil, you can’t mistake their elegant mellow sound.
This is a real deep throat sound, a bit on the stern side. So maybe a German
orchestra?’
    Monica’s eyes sharpened. ‘Go on,’
she said.
    ‘The Berlin Philharmonic,’ Tara
decided. ‘My father used to say that if angels had sterling silver harps the
skies would be filled with a sound exactly like the Berlin Phil’s string
section.’
    ‘What a marvellous thought! Now,
what about the conductor?’
    Tara considered. There was not
enough to go on from what she had heard. It was perfectly possible to detect
certain conductor’s styles from an orchestra’s playing. Her father had
demonstrated that to her years ago, both from his unending fund of stories
about conductors and their idiosyncratic styles and also his vast collection of
recordings which he used to invite the young Tara to enjoy with him. But from
this snatch of music, mainly designed as a show case for Monica’s playing, you
just had to guess.
    ‘Herbert von Karajan was the boss
at the Berlin Phil in the late fifties,’ Tara observed. ‘I’ll go for him as the
most likely.’
    Monica handed her the CD sleeve
to check for herself. Her hypothesizing had been entirely correct. ‘I’m
impressed,’ Monica said, raising her eyebrows.
    The other assembled
instrumentalist glanced at Tara with respect. But there was a touch of envious
rivalry in their eyes which made her wish she’d kept her mouth shut.
    Monica gave them an A on the
piano and invited them to tune their instruments. Tara took her father’s
precious violin from its case and settled it under her jawbone. Suddenly the
essence of its previous owner overwhelmed her. For a few seconds she felt her
father as a living presence in the room and then just as suddenly the image
died and she found her eyes brimming with tears.
    ‘A little ice breaker,’ Monica
decreed, taking up her own instrument and plucking the strings provocatively
before launching into the opening theme of the Mendelssohn concerto. ‘Every
aspiring violinist has a go with this one,’ she told her admiring audience. ‘It
is simply too tempting not to have a little try. Such a sinuous, tantalizing
melody.’ She wiggled her ample shoulders to illustrate her comment. She then
beckoned to the boy, inviting him to continue where she had left off.
    He stood up, a pale oriental beanpole
with a curtain of silky black hair.
    As he started to play the door
opened softly and Xavier walked in. Settling himself silently in a far corner
of the room, he gave a brief wave of his hand to indicate that the proceedings
should continue without interruption.
    Tara listened in fascination to
the boy’s playing. His talent was huge, his technical skill awesome, and his
ability to wring emotion from the music equally stunning. She was consumed with
admiration. But despite the intensity of her concentration on the boy’s
phenomenal ability she found herself unable to ignore the still, silent
presence of Xavier. Her eyes flickered constantly across to his, desperate not
to miss any clue as to the nature of the maestro’s response to what he was
hearing.
    Xavier, however, was giving
nothing