The Protégé

by Brianna Hale

  I take her downstairs to where her coat is hanging in the hall, and when it’s clasped in her hands she turns back to me.

  “Does this make you feel strange? Because of who we used to be to each other?”

  Nothing about this feels strange to me and I want to do this for her for so many reasons. For the happiness it brings her most importantly, but the pleasure it brings me as well. Taking on roles that require me to lead and support at the same time is at the very core of who I am, the same as it is for her to feel safe and cherished and watched over so she can flourish. Being able to do this for Isabeau on so intimate a level is all the reward I need. The intense sexual satisfaction that comes from knowing that my words, my instructions make her feel good is something I’ll keep to myself. “Not strange at all. You’re very special to me and knowing that you’re happy is important. I’ll always enjoy looking after you, however you want me to do it.”

  The smile she gives me and the faint flush in her cheeks is like the dawn breaking after a long, dark night. If she’d asked for more… I watch her wind her scarf around her neck, wondering what she’d taste like if I took her in my arms and kissed her. What I’d find if I backed her slowly up against the wall and slipped my hand between her thighs. If she’d be wet if I got my fingers inside her underwear. If she’d come apart in my arms as I rubbed the nub of her clit in firm circles, whispering good girl, Isabeau, come for daddy while she looked up at me with those deep green eyes filled with need. It would be the perfect end to the meeting. Giving her a reward for being so brave and telling me what she needs.

  But she didn’t ask for more. She was very specific about what she wanted from me and so that’s what I’ll give her. I’ve got Isabeau back, and that’s the most important thing in the world.

  Chapter Eight

  Isabeau

  Now

  There’s a knock at the door at eight-thirty and I know without a doubt before I’ve answered it that it’s going to have something to do with Laszlo. He always was an early riser even when he’d been up late conducting. If his habits are still the same, by this hour of the morning he’ll have finished his run around the heath, drunk his coffee and perused the Arts section of the newspaper. I don’t expect it to be Laszlo, and when I open the door, wild-haired, berobed and yawning, I see that my assumption is correct. It’s a delivery person from one of those impossibly gentrified supermarkets in Belsize Park. They pass me a box of groceries and a note, and I read it.

  Good morning, Isabeau

  Something better than the breakfast you had planned

  Laszlo

  I remember what I put on the schedule he asked me to write out for him yesterday. Saturday dinner: pizza. Sunday breakfast: cold pizza. Hayley and I did have pizza for dinner last night, at nearly midnight. She’d been performing and then having drinks with the string section of her orchestra. I got distracted practicing pieces that I know are in the orchestra’s repertoire. Or used to be, at least. When I got back to Hayley’s flat after meeting Laszlo I was gripped with the terrible fear that I could arrive at my first rehearsal and find that all they’ve been playing for the last three years are obscure Bruckner symphonies.

  If I say yes. I don’t know anything about the tour and what expectations he’ll have for me.

  We didn’t get to sleep until late because Hayley opened a bottle of red wine and we talked until nearly three in the morning. It wasn’t good wine but it was a very good talk. Hayley and I were in Laszlo’s youth orchestra together and when I fled Laszlo’s house on my eighteenth birthday it was to this flat I came, unannounced and in tears. She knows everything about what happened between me and Laszlo that night.

  Do you like that, daddy?

  Almost everything.

  It was difficult telling her what I’ve asked Laszlo to do for me, with his words, with his manner, but it didn’t seem to surprise her. Grinning over the top of her wine glass she said, “You always did enjoy being the conductor’s pet. He loved it, too. None of the other girls could get him to smile at them. He never smiled at me and I played that bloody first violin Scheherazade part for him.”

  I thank the delivery person and take the groceries through to the kitchen, remembering what Hayley asked me last night. “How was it seeing him again? Was it really awkward after, you know, kissing him? Do you still want to kiss him?” She let me talk and plied me with the terrible red wine, which I drank because I’ve been so jangled lately and the wine soothed my nerves. I told her that even though it was embarrassing and painful at first I’m happy I went to the Mayhew and then to Laszlo’s house because I value our friendship so much and I want to rebuild it. “And I don’t want to kiss him again. I know he doesn’t want to kiss me.”

  “But you must have thought he was interested in you back then? Otherwise why did you kiss him in the first place?”

  Hayley and I have known each other since I was fourteen and she was fifteen. She saw Laszlo and I together several times a week for three years and knows how I came to be living with Laszlo at the age of eight. If she thinks I was weird or gross for being attracted to my guardian she’s kept that to herself.

  I gave Hayley a pained look over the top of my wine glass. “Thinking? When I was eighteen? Of course I wasn’t thinking, and he was totally disgusted with me.”

  But I remember too the way he kissed me back. The way his hands gripped my hips as I rubbed against what I was sure was his…his hard-on. His gentle words of encouragement.

  Then his furious rejection.

  I woke up this morning with a dry tongue from the bad wine and an uneasy feeling in my belly. Yesterday I told him that the way I want him to talk to me makes me react sexually, and what if that makes him angry with me again?

  But look what he’s sent me. Groceries. Groceries mean not angry, right?

  In the kitchen I unpack the box, smiling to myself because it’s so very Laszlo what he’s chosen but he’s remembered all my favorites, too. Fresh orange and mango juice. Creamy yoghurt from Devon. Bircher muesli. Apples and nut butters. Raspberries and blueberries. A packet of ground coffee that smells heavenly when I open it and hold it up to my nose; I haven’t been able to afford coffee like this in forever. Wholegrain bagels, herb cream cheese and smoked salmon.

  I slice off a piece of apple, stick it straight into the jar of almond and cinnamon butter and immediately hear Laszlo’s disapproving voice in my head. Three years away at university you will have picked up bad habits. I smile and dip the apple into the jar again, because I can’t unlearn every bad habit at once. Besides, I’m hungry.

  This is so sweet of him. I haven’t had anyone do nice things for me since I went to university. Cake on my birthday from friends of course, but no one had the money for posh breakfasts when we had to buy rosin and strings and sheet music, get instruments repaired and buy smart clothes for performances. Music is expensive.

  When I’ve set out the fruit and yoghurt and Bircher, made coffee and toasted the bagels, I call out the door to Hayley that breakfast is ready. She comes sleepily into the kitchen a few minutes later, a fluffy robe on over her pajamas and rubbing last night’s mascara beneath her eyes. “Where did all this come from?”

  “Laszlo.”

  Hayley raises her eyebrows and sits down. “Mr. Valmary sending around breakfast. If I told my orchestra about this they wouldn’t believe me. Not the musicians who’ve actually worked with him, anyway.”

  I hide my smirk behind my coffee cup, remembering what my tutor once told me, that Laszlo was very indulgent with me. It’s not a bad sort of feeling, to be indulged by a man whom everyone sees as so formidable. Maybe all that talk of him being strict with me was bluster and he’s really just going to be sweet. I like when he’s sweet. Maybe he’ll spoil me like his little pet while I play perfect, joyful notes. I could be very happy with that. I take a bite of Bircher and berries and think of the warm look in his eyes when he’d cupped my chin yesterday and said, Beautiful. Oh god, yes, very happy.

&nb
sp; Hayley is watching me, suspicious and amused at the same time. “You’re so transparent. Stop thinking about him.”

  I sit up straighter, plastering an innocent look on my face. “I’m thinking about the tour.”

  “Uh-huh. I’m not going to judge you for what you’re doing and if you sleep with him then godspeed and orgasms to all. But be careful, won’t you? He was your guardian. It’s all kinds of messed up. People might be judgy and cruel or think that he touched you while you were underage. And Mr. Valmary…”

  “Mr. Valmary what?”

  She shrugs, uncomfortable. “He seems decent enough but people can be kind to their friends and family and not so kind to the people they take to bed. You don’t know what he’s really like. You know, as a man.”

  To date. To sleep with. He could be cruel. He could be a womanizer. He could be callous. He could be, but I know he’s not. You don’t live with someone for ten years without getting a good idea of the sort of person they are.

  But none of that is relevant as I don’t plan on sleeping with Laszlo. I’ve set out exactly what I want from him and I’m deciding in my own time whether to accept this arrangement. Nothing can go wrong. “I told you last night that I don’t plan on kissing him again and I meant it. There’s nothing of that sort between us.”

  Hayley mutters into her bagel, “Just some mild to moderate dominance and submission, what could be more ordinary or mentorly than that.”

  “Hayley.”

  She smiles brightly. “Yes, Isabeau?”

  I can’t even be mad at her because she’s right. It’s not strictly mentorly what I’ve asked Laszlo to do for me but I don’t care. I have Laszlo close to me again, the only man I’ve ever wanted and the only man I ever will. Laszlo and music. That’s what I want my life to be.

  I get out my phone and text him. Thank you for breakfast

  His reply comes through almost straight away. You’re welcome. Is the pizza in the bin?

  Yes, Laszlo

  Good girl

  The lower part of my belly clenches. Good girl. Such a simple, innocuous phrase, but so much more than that. I can hear Laszlo voice as if he’s murmuring the words in my ear, like a caress. Good girl. He feels so close to me even though he’s on the other side of London. How different it is from just two days ago when I arrived back from Durham and the memory of him all around me made me want to cry because I missed him so much.

  I take a shower after breakfast and then Hayley and I play the Brahms Double Concerto for violin and cello together. I watch her, envious of the fact that she performed this piece as a soloist in Philadelphia last year. She’s got more dates lined up in this country and in Europe and nearly twenty thousand followers on Instagram. How has she done this? Where did the last three years even go for me?

  A few hours later my phone buzzes and I see I have an email from Laszlo.

  Isabeau,

  I promised you more information about the tour. Normally these are arranged at least six months in advance but this time I’ve had to pull everything together at the last minute. Ten days ago I was contacted by a booking agent looking for an orchestra to fill a series of dates. There was a problem with another orchestra’s insurance and they couldn’t travel, and despite several key members of the ensemble being on leave I agreed. Several, not “half” the orchestra as Marcus Sabal stated yesterday.

  I’m in need of an excellent second cellist. The itinerary is attached. It’s an opportunity that was impossible for me to refuse.

  There isn’t much time for preparation as we leave in two days. It will be a demanding schedule and we will rehearse as we go. I’ve been given a free hand in what we perform due to the orchestra’s excellent reputation and the pieces we play will vary from city to city. Everyone on the tour needs to be one hundred per cent committed to performing at their best. We can’t merely trade on our reputation, we have to deliver world-class performances every night, and that means hard travel, focused rehearsals and devotion to perfection. I need people who can function together, under pressure. This isn’t a holiday.

  I would like you to join the orchestra for the tour and I’ll need your response tonight. Rehearsals begin 12pm at the Mayhew tomorrow.

  Thank you for coming to the house yesterday. It was timely, in more ways than one.

  Laszlo

  After I finish reading Laszlo’s email I read it again. I’ve never heard him sound like this before. Not rude exactly, but abrupt. No, that’s a lie. I’ve heard him be brusque plenty of times, just not with me. It’s clear that if I come along on the tour he’s going to treat me like any other member of his ensemble.

  The last line of Laszlo’s email makes me snort with laughter and indignation. It was timely for me to try and repair our relationship. What does he mean “in more ways than one”? Is that his way of saying he missed me, too?

  I open the attachment and look down the list of city names and my eyes widen.

  Singapore

  Kuala Lumpur

  Hong Kong

  Hanoi

  Taipei

  Phnom Penh

  Manila

  Jakarta

  Bangkok

  The furthest afield the RLSO has been while he’s been conductor is Moscow. I suppose that’s what he meant by this tour being impossible for him to refuse, because of the locations. I can see how he would jump at the chance.

  Going on tour with the RLSO. Butterflies start to beat in my belly, so I do what I always do when I feel nervous: I practice. I spend the afternoon and well into the evening playing my cello, all the pieces that I know Laszlo is fond of or has performed in the past. Before I know it it’s dark outside and very late.

  I eat a few bites of bagel for supper, brush my teeth and get into bed, and then I reach for my phone, trying to decide.

  Laszlo.

  The tour.

  The butterflies are back, stronger than ever, and I don’t know which part is making me more nervous: the thought of going on a long, professional tour or working for Laszlo. I’ve never performed professionally and I’m terrified of screwing up while playing with his prestigious orchestra.

  I’m going to be strict with you. More strict than before, because this is more serious than before. This is my work. You’ll be one of my musicians answering to me. Are you prepared for that?

  Am I? I don’t know, but I went to Laszlo to ask him to push me to develop my career. I open the messaging app on my phone and with shaking fingers I type, It’s yes

  Nothing comes through for several minutes, and then I see, To what?

  To both parts, please. I want to be your protégé, and I want to come on the tour

  He takes his time replying again, leaving me on read for several minutes. I wait, staring at the screen, anxiety churning through my belly. Then my phone buzzes.

  Can you please explain to me why you’re up so late? Your schedule states that you should be asleep by now

  My mouth falls open. That’s why he left me on read, to go and check his notebook? No Thank you? No welcome to the orchestra? The ungrateful… I think of all number of indignant replies, that I was thinking carefully about what he was offering me, like he told me to do in the first place. That if he’s going to be so ungracious then he can just shove the tour up his ass. But he did warn me he’d be strict. I take a deep breath and reply, I was practicing Dvořák’s Ninth, Mr. Valmary

  Laszlo hasn’t told me to call him Mr. Valmary in private conversations but I like the formality of it and I suspect he will, too. He takes his time yet again, and then replies, Please add the Seventh and Eighth to your practice as well

  Yes, Mr. Valmary

  Now, go to sleep, we have rehearsals tomorrow and I need you to be rested

  Yes, Mr. Valmary

  Isabeau?

  Yes?

  It’s good to have you on board

  I’m not letting him get away with just that. This wasn’t just about the tour. On board with what exactly? The tour or being your protégé
?

  Both. Very much both, sweetheart

  My toes curl with pleasure. Sweetheart. How I love it when he calls me that, his endearment only for me since I was eight years old. I put my phone on my bedside table and turn out the light, smiling to myself. Tomorrow I’ll be playing as part of Laszlo’s orchestra again, his proper orchestra, and I feel happier than I have in three years.

  Almost as happy as I was before I turned eighteen.

  I’ll never be that happy again because back then I was whole-heartedly, uncomplicatedly in love with Laszlo, and nothing makes me as happy as loving Laszlo. He understood me as no one ever has, my thoughtful, handsome and clever guardian. I loved him while he was in control of a vast, musical throng, but I loved him most when it was just the two of us, playing together, living together. Being together.

  In the loneliness of the last three years I fell out of love with him. He won’t ever be able to return my feelings. To him I’ll always be that eight-year-old girl he calls sweetheart.

  I think of the rehearsal tomorrow and seeing him in his element, strong and commanding and in charge. A warm sensation fizzes through me, and my hand smooths down my belly and into my underwear. Music and Laszlo. Laszlo and music. One almost can’t exist without the other for me. I haven’t touched myself thinking about him since my second year at university, when I made myself stop because the loneliness was unbearable. I find that I’m slick and swollen merely from my text message exchange with him. I wonder if he’s in bed now, thinking about me. If he’s naked between the sheets. I close my eyes and rub my clit, remembering the way he cupped my cheek and murmured, Beautiful. My hand slides down and I slip a finger inside myself, imagining that it’s his finger, exploring gently, enjoying the tight, slick grip of my flesh. I wonder if he’d like touching me there.