The Curtain Rises (Warrender Saga Book 4)

by Mary Burchell

  ‘So far as stepping in at a moment’s notice is concerned, I would be prepared to do that. Who would be conducting, incidentally?’

  ‘Julian Evett.’

  ‘O-oh.’ All at once there was an obvious check. ‘I’m not sure — I don’t like — ’

  ‘Your likes and dislikes don’t enter into it,’ Torelli informed her. ‘If this chance did come it would be a great thing for you. You would be a fool to hesitate.’

  ‘Well — ’ for a moment or two longer the girl’s face looked undecided. Then suddenly she smiled with almost breath-taking loveliness, so that Nicola caught her breath and even Torelli looked surprised. ‘I shouldn’t hesitate, Madame, if such a chance came. I should take it with both hands — and thank you with all my heart.’

  ‘Sensible girl,’ said Torelli. And then — ‘You have a singularly expressive face. If you project well you should be good on a stage.’

  ‘I am,’ replied Michele Laraut simply, and the older woman laughed approvingly. In her view, an unaffected assessment of one’s own worth was better than any false modesty.

  ‘Well, as I said, I promise nothing. But I should like you to be ready if the chance arose. Leave your address with my secretary as you go out.’

  Dismissal was implicit in this. Michele Laraut rose, said a properly respectful farewell and went out into the hall with Nicola. She scribbled down her Brittany address on a slip of paper and, as she handed it over, Nicola said impulsively,

  ‘Are you staying in Paris for a day or two?’

  ‘Only until tomorrow evening.’

  ‘You wouldn’t care to have coffee with me some time tomorrow? at Fouquet’s — or anywhere else you like to suggest.’

  ‘It would be nice.’ Michele smiled, although there was something measuring about her glance, as though she did not know quite what to make of Nicola. ‘Would three o’clock do?’

  ‘Admirably. Provided Madame Torelli doesn’t suddenly want me for something. Would you like to leave a telephone number, just in case I had to cancel?’

  ‘It isn’t necessary,’ Michele told her as she drew on her gloves. ‘I’ll be there anyway. If you turn up we’ll — talk. If not I shall know you couldn’t make it.’

  ‘The same goes for me,’ Nicola said. Then she bade Michele Laraut good-bye and, having let her out of the flat, went back into the music room.

  ‘She’s good,’ observed Torelli. ‘Good enough, that is, and not too good.’

  ‘Not too good?’ Nicola looked enquiring.

  ‘We don’t arrange for someone else to steal the limelight, dear,’ Torelli pointed out a trifle impatiently. ‘At the same time, it is a mistake not to have colleagues worthy of one’s metal.’

  ‘I wonder why she didn’t want to sing under Julian Evett,’ Nicola said musingly. ‘He didn’t want to work with her either, did he? I suppose they quarrelled over something.’

  ‘More likely he made passes at her and she snubbed him,’ retorted Torelli.

  ‘Oh, do you think so?’ For some reason the idea was both surprising and displeasing. ‘I shouldn’t think he is at all inclined to make passes at people.’

  ‘All men make passes at that type of girl,’ replied Torelli knowledgeably. ‘She’s a natural honey-pot.’

  Nicola laughed and looked curiously at her aunt.

  ‘What makes you say that?’

  ‘Long experience in a highly competitive world,’ was the unhesitating reply. ‘Women who look nothing most of the time and startlingly beautiful occasionally are much more dangerous than those who are straightforward beauties. Besides, she has a way of looking out of the corners of her eyes that is far more provocative than any swinging hips or plunging necklines. Depend upon it, she gave Julian that “come-hither” glance. And when he came she snubbed him.’

  Nicola laughed reluctantly again.

  ‘You really think so?’

  ‘Yes, of course. It gives her kind a sense of power. But he wouldn’t take it well, being as proud as Lucifer, as the old-fashioned saying is — only it suits him somehow. No doubt there was quite a showdown. I understand Julian’s not wanting to have her around. But I’m afraid his wishes must give way to mine in this instance. Anyway, I shall keep her in her place. I once had to do so with a Spanish mezzo, a delectable sort of creature who had the impertinence to try to ingratiate herself with Peter.’

  ‘With my uncle?’

  ‘There is no need to stress the relationship,’ Torelli reminded her coldly.

  ‘What did you do?’ enquired Nicola, much intrigued.

  ‘I got rid of her,’ said Torelli, so simply that Nicola with difficulty refrained from asking if she buried the bones in the back garden.

  ‘She went on to make quite a career for herself,’ added Torelli reflectively. ‘But without any help from my husband.’

  Nicola laughed heartily and said, ‘I sometimes think you’re just as remarkable off-stage as on.’

  ‘How nice of you, my dear.’ Torelli looked pleased but faintly puzzled. ‘I don’t know quite what prompted that remark, but I accept it.’ And she inclined her head with an air of graciousness that was entirely natural to her. ‘How would you like to come with me to Maxim’s tonight for dinner?’

  ‘I’d be thrilled!’

  ‘Good! Then you shall come and be thrilled,’ said Torelli, who was evidently in the best of moods. Probably because Michele Laraut’s quality had turned out to be exactly what she wanted.

  It was a delightful evening for Nicola. Her aunt was at her most amusing and charming. Her comments on the famous people who came in and out were knowledgeable, penetrating and often extremely trenchant. Several of them stopped at her table, and in each case she introduced Nicola with an indulgent air as ‘a young friend of mine’. She still refused to be known as Nicola’s aunt. But at least she wanted to indicate that her companion was very much more than a secretary — a situation which Nicola accepted with a touch of affectionate amusement.

  The following morning Nicola’s aunt kept her very busy indeed. But it seemed that after lunch she was going to visit friends who lived outside Paris and that she would not be home until late.

  ‘I’m afraid you will be alone again.’ For once Torelli showed some sort of concern about Nicola. ‘I hope you’re not lonely and bored at times here.’

  ‘I couldn’t possibly be either!’ Nicola assured her. ‘I’m enjoying every minute of my stay.’ And then, with a sudden desire to be completely candid, she added, ‘I’m going to meet Michele Laraut for coffee this afternoon. I hope that’s all right with you?’

  Torelli’s eyebrows shot up and for a moment she looked as though she were going to raise some objection. But then she said indulgently, ‘Quite all right, so long as you don’t give her any inflated ideas of her own importance or any over-rosy hopes for the future.’

  ‘I won’t do either,’ Nicola promised.

  ‘Why do you want to see her?’ Torelli enquired curiously. ‘To pump her about Julian Evett?’

  ‘Certainly not! I couldn’t be less interested in anything to do with him.’ Nicola spoke with quite unnecessary emphasis. ‘It’s just that Michele knew Brian. She said he talked to her about me. I thought I — I should like to hear what he said.’

  ‘Well — ‘ for a moment Torelli’s fine eyes rested on her niece not unkindly — ‘do that if you like. But don’t cling too intensely to the past, Nicola. Nostalgia is a sweet sort of indulgence. But with this, as with everything else, one should not indulge oneself too far, or it becomes a sort of drug against reality. You’re young, child, and most of your life is in front of you. Don’t look behind too often.’

  ‘I — won’t,’ Nicola said, a good deal impressed by her aunt’s words.

  And later, when she set out to keep her appointment with Michele Laraut, she looked about her with even more intense interest and pleasure than usual. The long glorious vista of the Champs Elysées had never looked more beautiful. The trees, the sunshine, each gleaming shop-window,
had an instant appeal which belonged to the golden moment of present time, and as such she savoured it all.

  With every sense deliberately sharpened, she felt that even the unknown people passing her took on a special significance. That girl in the crisp blue and white dress, that beaming baby looking round the side of his pram-hood, that well-set-up, almost graceful man walking in front —

  And then, as a flash of recognition came to her, she gave a slight gasp, her step slowed instinctively, and she made as though to turn off along a side-street, lest she should overtake Julian Evett who was walking in front of her.

  But then she checked the impulse, slowing her step still more, to keep pace with his leisurely one, determined not to catch up with him, but equally determined not to be put off from her original plans, just because he happened to be there.

  What was he doing in Paris, anyway? she wondered resentfully. Paris had been delightfully hers up to now! It was true that international artists could be expected to turn up almost anywhere. Paris, Vienna, Rome were to them what Piccadilly Circus or the Strand might be to most other people. But — just here, and on this afternoon, of all afternoons!

  They were in sight of Fouquet’s now, the pavement outside crowded with people sitting at the small tables, drinking their coffee or chocolate, and Nicola thought she could already detect a splash of sea-green, which was the colour of the dress Michele had worn yesterday. It was to be hoped that Julian would not notice her too!

  And then, as he drew level with the famous café, the girl in the green dress rose to her feet and stood there, as though deliberately attracting attention. From where she was, Nicola could not see if she actually raised her hand. But Julian Evett glanced aside, stopped suddenly and then, more slowly, threaded his way between the tables and chairs until he joined the girl in the green dress.

  Nicola too had stopped now. She stood there, pretending to look into a shop window until, out of the corner of her eye, she could see that the two had sat down together and were absorbed in each other’s conversation. Then she allowed herself to look long enough to establish beyond all doubt that the girl was Michele Laraut. And after that she turned and walked slowly away.

  There was no point in trying to keep her appointment now. An embarrassing three-cornered sort of conversation was inconceivable. And if she did not arrive, Michele — if she thought about her at all — would merely assume that she had not been able to come.

  And yet, against all reason, Nicola felt drawn to the scene. It was only by the exercise of all her will-power that she made herself walk away. She was consumed with a shaming degree of curiosity to know what was happening — what was being said — between those two people who had nothing whatever to do with her.

  It was nothing at all like the casual, amused curiosity of Torelli. It was a fierce, half nervous curiosity. As though, in some inexplicable way, what they were saying to each other was of vital importance to her.

  She told herself not to be ridiculous, as she walked along in sunshine that had lost its radiance, through crowds who no longer looked gay and significant.

  ‘It’s nothing to do with you,’ she admonished herself. ‘Nothing — nothing.’

  But a few moments later she was following a different train of thought. If she walked up one of the side streets to the Avenue Marceau and then round the block, that would consume enough time for him to have taken his leave if the meeting had just been a casual one. She could then re-join Michele, apologizing for being a little late — and perhaps hear something about Julian Evett as well as Brian.

  Even as she worked that out to herself her footsteps were already turning in the direction of the Avenue Marceau. She refused to hurry. That concession at least she made to her pride and common sense. She would just walk in a leisurely way, as though she had in any case intended to take this rather long way round. She might not even go back to Fouquet’s. The choice was quite open to her.

  When she came round in sight of Fouquet’s again, she saw at once that there was no sign of the green dress. The table at which they had been sitting was empty, and she could not have said if the discovery relieved or disappointed her.

  At any rate, the afternoon was hers again, even if she now felt a trifle aimless. She could walk on down the Champs Elysées, or she could sit down and have coffee on her own. She paused, undecided.

  And then, with a sensation which was half dismay and half something she could not quite identify, she realized that she had come exactly level with Julian Evett. He was on his own and had moved to a table nearer the pavement — and he was looking full at her. He got to his feet, as she stared at him, her lips parted, and evidently he was leaving it to her to decide if they were on speaking terms or not.

  Only then did she recall the exact circumstances in which they had parted company, and for a moment she seemed to be standing once more in the hall of Torelli’s flat in London, with that torn photograph lying between them on the table.

  As though drawn irresistibly she went to him. And, to her own surprise, what she said was, ‘I’m sorry.’

  ‘For what?’ Understandably, he looked surprised in his turn.

  ‘For what I said last time we — we parted.’

  ‘You merely quoted Brian, if I remember correctly,’ he said very coldly.

  That was true, of course. But she knew that if she had not wanted deliberately to hurt him she would have kept to herself that casual, half-humorous comment of Brian’s which had later taken on such cruel significance.

  ‘All the same, I shouldn’t have — have repeated what he wrote.’ Suddenly she found she could not meet his eyes. She stood before him, her gaze bent studiously on the ground. And after a moment he said, coolly but not ungently,

  ‘Does this bury the hatchet sufficiently for us to have coffee together?’

  She cleared her throat and nodded. ‘Yes, please.’

  So they sat down and he ordered coffee and they looked at the passing crowds and were rather embarrassedly silent. Then at last, as though the words were forced from her against her will, she said,

  ‘In that same letter, Brian wrote very — warmly about you.’

  ‘Did he, Nicola?’ The conductor bit his lip slightly. ‘I’m glad to hear that.’

  ‘In fact,’ she went on doggedly, ‘the phrase I repeated was only written in joke. It wasn’t until afterwards that it — it acquired a dreadful significance.’

  ‘I assumed that, of course,’ he said quietly. ‘But why are you telling me this?’

  ‘I suppose,’ she admitted reluctantly, ‘I felt I hadn’t been very fair or — or honest. When I told you about Brian’s words I just wanted to hurt you.’

  She paused, and he smiled wryly and said, ‘Well, at least you’re being honest now. You were very angry with me, weren’t you? Not only about — Brian.’ That faint hesitation showed how difficult he found it to speak of Brian. ‘But about Michele Laraut too. Well, you’ll be glad to hear that I reviewed my decision about her. If her name is put forward for the Covent Garden Pamina I shan’t oppose it. Does that satisfy you?’

  ‘Why, yes, of course!’ she said quickly. So quickly that she had no time to examine the fact that, for some reason or other, she felt totally indifferent about the reversed decision. Instead, she looked at him curiously and asked, ‘What made you change your mind?’

  ‘I had a talk with her. Just here, not a quarter of an hour ago. She was sitting here when I walked past.’

  ‘She was waiting to meet me,’ Nicola told him on candid impulse. ‘We had an appointment to see each other.’

  ‘Yes, she told me so.’ He was perfectly cool about that. ‘I gather that Madame Torelli pursued the idea of having Michele for Pamina and, so to speak, held her own audition here in Paris.’

  Nicola nodded, but added earnestly, ‘You mustn’t be angry with her. It’s difficult for Madame Torelli to imagine that any opinion about an artistic project could be better than her own. She wasn’t trying to thwart you. She just wa
nted to hear and see for herself.’

  ‘I accept that.’ He smiled slightly.

  ‘To tell the truth, she was a good deal impressed.’

  ‘I can well believe it. In fact, Michele told me as much herself. She added, incidentally, that after some thought she had decided she was willing to sing under me.’ His smile became somewhat grim at that and, puzzled, Nicola said,

  ‘You seem to have taken that rather well.’

  He made no answer, and something much stronger than idle curiosity prompted her to ask, ‘Did you. Make up whatever quarrel you had had?’

  ‘You might put it that way, I suppose,’ he replied uninformatively.

  ‘I’m glad,’ said Nicola mechanically.

  ‘Why?’ he looked genuinely amused again.

  ‘Because I suppose it means she probably will have her chance now. And since Brian wrote of her so enthusiastically — ’

  She stopped. And with sudden abruptness he asked, ‘What did Brian write about her, exactly?’

  ‘That she was extremely good as Antonia, and that you and he met her later at a party. He described her — rightly, I think — as not quite beautiful but in some way riveting.’

  Julian Evett gave a short laugh at that and looked away down the avenue, to the distant trees shimmering in the heat haze. And the impression of withdrawal was so complete that Nicola was irresistibly tempted to recall him by mild shock tactics.

  ‘Brian also wrote that he thought she was romantically interested in you,’ she said guilelessly.

  ‘In me?’ He glanced back quickly at Nicola, his attention completely recaptured. Then he smiled and gave a shrug. ‘Something else written in joke, I imagine.’

  ‘But with a grain of truth in it?’ she suggested.

  ‘No comment,’ he replied, and looked away again, and this time the sense of withdrawal was so complete that she was curiously piqued by it.

  She stared almost resentfully at his fine-drawn profile and tried to recall how much reason she had to despise and detest him. And as she did so he seemed to become aware of her scrutiny, for he turned full-face suddenly and smiled at her — that dazzling, almost beautiful smile of utter charm which she had once seen him give Torelli.