Free The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams

rhetorically. His eyes were fastened on a point in the air. His mouth ran agape.
    Philip looked at him in amazement. Bulmanion was a rotund and emperor-like figure with a sack of a jaw that slumped on his collar and Humpty Dumpty legs that hung weakly from the sofa. He wore a fleece, tracksuit bottoms and open-toed sandals.
    â€˜I’m interested in artists,’ he announced, ‘not record companies. Recordings, not labels. Music heritage, not marketing. My mission will never be corporate. I aim rather higher, or so I like to think.’
    John and Ursula came nervously to the edge of their seats, as if in support of their patron’s candour.
    â€˜ I want to make possible things that are not possible for conventional record companies.’
    This was his rallying call. This was why they were all here.
    â€˜Forget the balance sheet.’
    Philip was unblinking.
    John nodded wisely.
    â€˜You see’ - Bulmanion cleared his throat oratorically - ‘so many of the great artists have been underserved by the record biz.’
    He had the gravelly voice of a boardroom conquistador, the vowels of a football-club owner. His authority in the realm of classical music was utterly incongruous.
    â€˜You, for example.’ His gaze was unflinching.
    Philip was unsettled. ‘I haven’t been underserved!’
    â€˜ I would say that you have.’
    John leaned forward. ‘Frank isn’t . . .’
    â€˜I’ve done OK.’
    â€˜Yes, of . . .’
    â€˜Grand Prix du Disc. Diapason d’Or.’
    â€˜Very good.’
    â€˜Gramophone Record of the Year.’
    â€˜A magnificent recording!’
    Bulmanion nodded emphatically.
    Philip stared back at him.
    â€˜What are you trying to tell me?’
    â€˜ Given your stature, you’ve been undermarketed, badly positioned, under-released.’
    Philip regarded his host irritably. ‘I’ve been bloody difficult!’
    â€˜You’re entitled to be bloody difficult.’
    â€˜Am I, indeed?’
    Bulmanion calmly smiled.
    John leaned into the conversation. Frank was clearly inexperienced at dealing with artists and somewhat socially abrupt. His own legendary emollience was in order. ‘Frank has spotted something key. You hate recording, but whenever you go into the studio the results are marvellous. You’re brilliant in spite of yourself. The problem is that without forward-planning those recordings are a series of one-offs. The repertoire is fragmented, the portrait of an artist incomplete. Frank’s idea is to provide the most flexible partnership fully responsive to your creative impulses so that, in a completely spontaneous way, you can do yourself justice and your recordings can do you justice.’ He smiled definitively.
    Philip glanced sharply at Ursula. She reciprocated his glance. Her expression was one of humble complicity with whatever he chose to say.
    He stared them both down. ‘I have never done myself justice. That is the condition of my life. Make of it what you will.’
    â€˜You could record whatever you liked, whenever you liked.’
    John was direct. ‘How many record companies would offer that?’
    Philip could not believe he had to go through this meeting for the sake of a deal he would never sign on the eve of a concert he was determined to cancel. He was annoyed about everything now.
    â€˜Very flattering,’ he said voicelessly.
    â€˜I’m not trying to flatter you.’ Bulmanion was level. ‘I’m trying to register my commitment.’
    â€˜Yes.’ He felt like a different person today. ‘Probably I’m not ready.’
    John laughed uneasily and swapped looks with Frank.
    The businessman remained calm. ‘The frequency of releases would be dictated by your timetable, your musical agenda.’
    â€˜I mightn’t be ready for years.’
    â€˜Come on, Philip!’ John was suddenly exasperated.
    â€˜That would be a