“They’re all that you, your secretary or anyone else will remember of me. Far better that way, wouldn’t you agree?”
“What will you do with the book?”
Oeillet rises to his feet, puts on his hat and lifts his briefcase from the floor. “Its rightful owners will make good use of it. Congratulations, professor, you have shown yourself to be a man of action as well as thought. You have changed the course of history.”
Chapter Eight
Paige has heard it repeatedly: you only get one shot. Now she’s on the train to Manchester to meet Paul Morrow who’s giving a concert there tonight. The famous pianist is sacrificing rehearsal time to listen to an unknown student, thanks to Julian Verrine.
She gets off at Piccadilly station and isn’t sure which exit to head for, she’s standing on the busy concourse looking at the map she printed from the internet when a lady stops to help her, even knows where the music college is, and when Paige thanks and leaves her, stepping outside into grey morning light, she thinks how helplessly lost she must have looked, when she ought to be leaping with excitement.
Doesn’t take her long to walk to the area where the college is situated, Verrine said he’d meet her there at eleven. She’s got time to kill and finds a café, cheap and shabby with fixed plastic chairs and a few customers who look like they’re out of work. She gets tea in a plastic cup and chooses a seat where no one can make eye contact with her, it gives her a view of the street and the small park across the road. While she leaves her drink to cool she taps out passages of Klauer on the table’s chipped edge.
David Conroy sent the whole score, never suspected her offer of safe-keeping was prompted by a hidden motive. It’s in her shoulder bag though she won’t be needing it, all the notes are inside her head, memorised just as Verrine ordered. Could turn out to be her signature piece, he says, her big break.
If Mr Conroy knew what was happening he’d probably see it as some kind of betrayal. But he’s not of sound mind, and even if he were, he’d have no right to feel betrayed, because between himself and Paige there has never been anything except the brief, professional relationship of teacher and student. She has to look after her own interests. Julian Verrine knows the business and he’s the one she must listen to. She checks her phone messages then switches it off since she might forget later, it would be a disaster if it rang during her performance. She sips her tea and the minutes pass until she sees a familiar figure outside, Verrine walking briskly past the park, looking smart in a charcoal-grey suit. She snatches up her bag and hurries out across the road to greet him, but when he sees her he shows no warmth, instead seeming almost annoyed at being accosted before their scheduled appointment.
“I hope you’re well rehearsed,” he says as they walk together to the college. Doesn’t bother asking if she had a pleasant journey, he’s got no time for redundant niceties. Instead he gives Paige instructions for the audition. “Initially you’ll be warming up at the piano while I speak privately with Morrow in another room. I’ll bring him in and do the introductions, then leave you both. All you have to do is play the piece.”
It sounds like a military operation. “What does he know about me?”
“That doesn’t matter. Just play your best. Either he likes it or he doesn’t.”
“What if he doesn’t?”
Verrine’s chin juts forcefully as he walks. “Then we’ve wasted our time, haven’t we?”
The college is large and modern, a slab of glass and steel that could be the façade of an international business. Verrine leads the way inside. Paige waits shyly while he speaks to the receptionist, acting as if he comes here all the time and everybody ought to know him. Perhaps they do, she thinks. He turns from the desk and tells Paige which room to go to. “Take the lift,” he suggests, indicating it with a casual wave of his arm.
“You want me to go there now?”
“Yes,” he says impatiently, “Hurry up.”
She does as he says, feeling like a school kid sent to see the headmaster. Coming out of the lift she finds the room easily enough, a small studio with a piano, a couple of chairs and music stands, some recording equipment, the place sound-proofed and windowless except for a round pane on the thick door. She seats herself at the keyboard and adjusts the stool to the right height, feeling isolated and nervous. A few bars of Bach get her fingers working and let her hear what the instrument sounds like, this relaxes her a little. But she can’t help thinking that Verrine wants her to fail, she can’t understand why he behaved so dismissively towards her.
She doesn’t play the Klauer, she wants to save it for when Morrow arrives. Instead she does random exercises, telling herself all will be fine. Yet the time drags, she expected to wait only a short while, ten minutes go by and she resorts to Schubert as a way of calming herself. She can’t think about the notes, only the door with its round porthole to the corridor and world beyond where everyone appears to have forgotten her. Impossible to enjoy the music this way, it feels more like punishment.
She’s well through the Moments Musicaux when the circle of light fills with a face and she stops. Verrine pushes open the door, Paul Morrow follows him inside, wearing jeans and tee-shirt, not as rugged looking as the PR shot on his website that Paige has visited many times, and he’s had a haircut too, but it’s the same broad smile she recognises, and she rises from the keyboard to accept his handshake.
“Hey, good to meet you,” he says. She feels both star-struck and suddenly at ease.
“Paul, this is Paige. Paige, Paul Morrow.” Verrine has done the introductions, he excuses himself and departs.
Paul sits down and when he crosses his legs Paige sees he’s wearing no socks, his light brown shoes look expensively casual. She returns to the piano stool.
“You’re a pianist, then?” he says. “How long have you known Julian?”
“Not long. And you?”
“We met last year at Wimbledon.”
“Oh.” She wants to ask more, imagining some sort of champagne reception for celebrities.
Instead Paul says, “You’re going to play something?”
She nods.
“Go right ahead.”
Here it is, then, her big moment, but it’s too sudden, doesn’t feel right. There should have been a build-up, a stage for her to walk on, not this cramped room where Paul slouches nonchalantly like a holidaymaker waiting to be brought a cocktail from the bar. This is not how she wanted it.
“Can I ask you something?” she says.
“Sure.”
“What’s Julian told you about me?”
His brow creases with puzzlement. “You mean…?”
“My playing.”
“Right. Your playing.” He weighs it up as if it were a difficult question. “Well. Nothing.”
Like a bird hitting a window, she’s stunned. “Nothing?”
“Should he have?”
“But the meeting. While I’ve been waiting. What were you both talking about for all that time?”
“I never knew we were holding you up, Paige, I’m so sorry. All I knew was that Julian wanted to talk about a possible sponsorship deal, maybe we chatted a little too long.”
The truth of it: this is how Verrine managed to get her a hearing, smuggling her in on the back of more important business.
“Hey, what’s up?” Paul can see her dejection, reaches towards her in a spontaneous gesture of friendship. Being nice to people comes naturally to him, she can tell. “Has there been a misunderstanding? I don’t want to rock any boats.”
“I’m fine.”
“I’d like to hear you play.”
She turns to the keys and readies herself, a little girl on a high board above a dark pool, frightened to jump. Her one real chance and it’s all gone wrong before she even begins. How can she possibly impress him now? Her joints are frozen, the silence is awkward. Paige puts a hand to her forehead. “I don’t know if I can do this.”