by Brianna Hale
We just look at each other and my eyes grow blurry with tears. Ten years. More than half my life, but it’s gone past in the blink of an eye. I’ve been so happy with Laszlo and once I leave this house I don’t know how I’m going to be happy without him.
Unless…whispers a little voice from deep within my heart. Unless we become lovers on one of my trips home.
It could happen so easily. A late night together, hands drifting closer in the back of a cab, or walking on the heath, so close that we’re touching. A late night supper in Covent Garden after a performance, tucked away in a little candlelit booth. I imagine standing together in the wings at the Mayhew, him kissing me slowly, wonderingly, because he’s seeing me with new eyes. It might even happen the night of the Summer Concert. There’s no reason why not. I’ll be eighteen.
Laszlo looks down at the counter as if he’s trying to remember where he was with our dinner. “So, The Swan. The harp and strings arrangement? Make your conductor proud and the audience cry again?”
I pull myself reluctantly out of my daydream. “Yes. All right, Laszlo. And thank you for scheduling the performance on my eighteenth birthday, it’s the most wonderful present.”
A smile skirts his lips. “The dates happened to match up, that’s all.”
I can’t resist a little teasing and bat my lashes at him. “So it’s not because I’m your favorite?”
He opens a tin of coconut cream and doesn’t look up. “Now, Miss Laurent, you know I don’t have favorites.”
“Yes, maestro. Can we play Vocalise after we eat?”
There’s a millisecond hesitation and then he gives me that quick, not-quite smile again. “Of course, sweetheart. We can play whatever you like.”
A few weeks later Laszlo shows me the printed program and halfway down I see,
The Swan, Saint-Saëns
Isabeau Laurent, cello; strings
He doesn’t say it but I see the unsaid words in his hazel eyes. That this is the way it has to be. That piece should be played properly, beautifully, and for that I needed the orchestra behind me. He’s the conductor. I’m the musician. But I still feel heartsick at the thought that it could be the last time I’ll ever be on stage with him.
It won’t be. I won’t let it be.
Further down the program, right at the bottom, is simply, Be/ethoven. It looks like a typo but it’s actually a visual pun that we’re counting on no one getting. I grin. I can’t wait to see the audiences’ faces when we get to the finale.
On the morning of my eighteenth birthday Laszlo puts a flat red velvet box next to my plate of pancakes and bacon and kisses my cheek, the bristles of his beard rasping gently against my skin.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
I stroke the box with my fingers, enjoy the soft feel of the velvet. I don’t even care what’s inside. It’s a present from Laszlo so I know I’ll always treasure it.
He sits down opposite me and picks up his fork. “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I look up at him, smiling a watery smile. Feeling so happy. So full up with happiness, like the overture from The Marriage of Figaro. “I don’t think I’ll ever be happier than I am right now. Thank you, Laszlo. I don’t know what would have happened to me if you hadn’t talked to me in the street that day.”
Laszlo just looks at me, his eyes full of feeling. He takes a deep breath and I think he’s going to say something else, but he goes back to his seat. “Open your present, sweetheart.”
I do, and inside I find a beautiful silver pendant and earrings. “To go with your dress tonight,” he explains.
They’ll look beautiful with the red satin gown hanging in my wardrobe. As I’m a soloist tonight I don’t have to wear black. “Thank you, Laszlo, they’re perfect.”
He watches me close the box and stroke my fingers over the velvet some more. “You could call your father. You can do anything you want. You’re eighteen now.”
But I don’t want to spoil the day by dredging up that awful part of my life, the time after my mother died and before I met Laszlo. I’ve done such a good job all these years of pretending those months never happened.
One day I’ll see Dad. One day. Just not now.
There’s a full house at the Mayhew for the concert that night and the four of us who are graduating stand out, bright and colorful, against the sea of black as we wait backstage. Laszlo has a white shirt on beneath his black suit, open at the neck. I love seeing him this way. No bowtie and tails for youth orchestra performances. He scratches a hand through his long hair, his eyes bright with excitement as they always are before a performance.
He puts a warm hand on my shoulder before I head upstairs with the others to tune up. “You look beautiful. Happy birthday, sweetheart.”
I go up on tiptoe and kiss his cheek, happiness flushing through me, and his hand clasps me briefly about the waist.
As we play through the program I look up at him often and smile, and he smiles back, just a glimmer each time but so much for a man like Laszlo who is always so focused while he’s working. When we finish The Swan and I open my eyes he smiles properly at me as the applause rolls over us. Hayley’s in the front row of the audience wiping tears from her face and when I catch her eye she waves frantically at me and gives me two thumbs up.
Soon it’s time for the finale. Laszlo has his back to the audience and they can’t see what he’s doing, but we can. We all struggle to keep straight faces as he puts something around his neck and over his face. Behind him, the audience are shifting curiously, trying to see what’s going on. Laszlo raises his hands, as he would before the introduction to any piece, and they settle again. He gives a downbeat, and the first famous eight notes of Symphony No. 5 by Beethoven sound from the string section.
Da-da-da-dunnn. Da-da-da-dunnn.
Laszlo ends the last beat with a flourish, his index finger pointing into the air. There’s a pause, the orchestra silent, and he pivots slowly toward the audience so they can see that he’s wearing a pair of dark glasses with mirror-ball rims. He’s undone two more buttons on his shirt and a gaudy gold medallion is glinting on his chest. He tries not to smile but as the titters break out in the audience he grins, pointed canines showing. Still looking at them, he gives another downbeat and we start to play, but instead of the tense, insistent notes of the famous symphony a disco beat breaks out. Laszlo sweeps back around to us, and the audience begins to cheer and whoop as we play A Fifth of Beethoven from Saturday Night Fever. Laszlo has rearranged it for a full orchestra, giving the synth parts to the woodwinds and the drum machine to the percussion section. The string section is almost the same as the original symphony.
It sounds fantastic. Most of the audience probably know that Laszlo’s in the middle of conducting performances of Beethoven’s original symphony on this very stage and hearing us play the disco version with the same solemn, talented conductor while he’s wearing mirror-ball sunglasses is too much, and they go mad. We do three reprisals. The cello part is delicious to play, all dark, deep notes that build and build beneath the bright woodwinds and steady drums. This is what I love about playing with an orchestra, the way all the parts coalesce into something with a huge force of energy and emotion behind it. This is why I don’t want just to be a soloist.
Laszlo hugs me long and hard when we get off stage and I wrap my arms around him as tight as I can. It’s our last performance together for some time at least and we both know it. He buries his face in my neck, holding me closer than he has in a year, his breath warm against my throat. It brings tears to my eyes how close he is and I realize how much I’ve missed him even though he’s been at my side every day.
“I’m so proud of you,” he whispers fiercely. “Do you know that, sweetheart?” I look up at him, breathless. I want to tell him now, that I love him. That I’ve always loved him. I open my mouth to speak.
Someone calls out to Laszlo and he pulls away. A photographer from one of the daily newspapers has come backstage and wants
a picture of him with the four soloists.
Laszlo puts one arm around me and gathers the other three to us. All the orchestra is there, whistling and yelling out to us as the photographer raises his camera and we can’t stop laughing. I’m looking up at Laszlo as the flash goes off.
“Mr. Valmary, what do you think Beethoven would say if he knew his symphony was being played on the same stage as a disco remix?”
Laszlo starts to laugh at the journalist’s question, but then quashes it. “My orchestra is happy and the audience enjoyed a great show. That’s all I care about.” He turns his back on the photographer and calls out to everyone, saying that it was the most fun he’s ever had onstage at the Mayhew and we did the place proud.
It takes a long time to pack up and get changed as no one seems to be in a hurry to go home. We’re all high on the performance, laughing and giddy. Everyone wants to say goodbye to me and the three others who are leaving the orchestra after tonight. I’m going to miss them so much. Finally I peel myself away and find Laszlo outside by the stage door, talking to the handful of waiting parents. The mirror ball sunglasses are still on top of his head, glinting in the darkness.
I glance at them and grin. “Suits you.”
“Do they now?” he asks with a smile, slinging an arm around my shoulders and giving me a squeeze before hailing a cab. I feel higher than ever. He hasn’t touched me this much in months.
When we get home he flops on the sofa and I make us coffee, my back to him as he talks about the performance. I try to listen but my heart is hammering in my chest. I remember what he said this morning.
I’m eighteen now. I can do whatever I like.
“You performed so well, sweetheart,” he says as I put a cup of coffee next to him and sit down, butterflies rioting in my belly. I need to say something. Do something. By tomorrow morning the magic of tonight will have past and I won’t have the courage to speak up for months. Maybe even years. I can’t let us grow apart while I’m away at university.
I lean closer to him, tucking my feet under myself. “You never say good girl anymore.”
Laszlo frowns and swivels to look at me. “Don’t I?”
I don’t have to hide what I want from Laszlo. I don’t have to call him just Laszlo or Mr. Valmary. I can call him what I’ve heard girls my age call handsome older men. He’s such a daddy. I like the sound of that so much. Such a daddy. Big, strong men with stern faces but sweet smiles, and hands that look like they could caress, could smack, could give pleasure while you sit in their lap. Who would call you sweetheart and baby and little one as you called them daddy. Laszlo already calls me sweetheart. Laszlo is big and strong and stern, and his sweetest smiles are only ever for me. I might be a virgin who’s never been kissed but imagining calling Laszlo daddy makes me so wet and weak.
“No, you don’t. Daddy.”
His face transforms in shock, but I think I see something else flicker in his eyes. Just for a second, and it gives me courage.
“What? Don’t call me that.”
But I liked calling him that. He’s sitting so close to me, his shirt still unbuttoned and I can see his chest, the dark hair there that I want to nuzzle with my nose, run my nails through, press my cheek against. “Why not?”
“Because I’m not your father.”
“I know. I didn’t mean it like that.” I close the foot of space between us, slipping into his lap and pressing my palms against his chest. My knees hug his hips. He feels better than a cello between my legs. I want to hold on tight while he plays me like a musical instrument. Laszlo and his skillful fingers can play anything. His hands go to my waist and I reach up to touch the bristles of his beard, running my nails luxuriously through them, like I’ve always longed to do. Not just for a moment, but for as long as I want, drinking my fill of him. I’ve imagined doing this as I’ve watched him scratch his cheek sleepily in the morning or rub his chin as he pores over a score. He feels as good as I thought he would, soft yet prickly at the same time.
“Do you like that, daddy?”
His eyes are locked on mine and he’s barely breathing. My finger slides over his full lower lip and his mouth parts. Laszlo. My Laszlo. I press my lips to his and it feels so right. I’ve always loved him and he’s always loved me. It took ten long years for me to grow up and for him to see me as a woman. I felt it earlier when he put his arms around me. He knew at last. I’m all grown up.
And he kisses me back. His arms tighten around me and he pulls me close against his chest. I don’t know what I’m doing, but Laszlo does. He deepens the kiss by increments, his tongue flicking out to taste my lips, and I open my mouth to invite him in. My fingers rub through his beard as I kiss him and he bites down gently on my lower lip. Moaning, I arch against him and feel something against my sex. Something hard. He’s hard. He’s hard because of me. He feels the same way I do about him. He wants me. I rub against him, back and forth, and the friction sends wildfire sparks through my body.
He breaks the kiss, watching me with heavy-lidded eyes, and when he speaks his words are roughened with desire. “Good girl,” he murmurs, licking my lip with the tip of his tongue. Those words send as much pleasure through me as rubbing my sex against him does. His hands caress my hips, helping me move back and forth. Coaxing me onwards. I pant against his mouth and my eyes close as I feel an orgasm swiftly approaching. I rub harder against him, my arms locked around his neck. I’m so close. I’m going to come for him. I’m going to show him how much I want him and how good he makes me feel.
But a moment later he pushes me roughly away and I find myself sitting on the cold sofa cushion, his hands gripping my upper arms.
“No. Isabeau. We can’t.”
I don’t understand what he’s saying. He releases me and sits back, pushing a hand through his hair. Powerful emotions are warring in his eyes. But there’s no reason why we shouldn’t make each other feel good. I want to make him feel as good as he makes me feel. “What’s wrong, daddy?”
But he doesn’t seem to hear me. My frustrated orgasm is waiting in the wings and I reach out and touch him, try to get back in his lap where we both feel so good, but he grabs my wrist in a painful grip and growls, “Isabeau, what the fuck are you doing?”
It’s as if he’s slapped me out of a dream. I’ve never seen him look at me as he’s looking at me now, with such naked fury and revulsion.
I revolt him.
A panicked sob rises in my throat and I jump up off the sofa and run from the room, shame and horror pouring through me. I get to my room and slam and lock the door. What have I done?
“Isabeau!” Laszlo pounds up the stairs after me. He tries the handle and then starts knocking on the door. I’m pressed back against it, one hand to my mouth as I shake with silent tears. Laszlo keeps talking through the door but I don’t know what he’s saying. The blood is roaring so loud in my ears. He doesn’t think of me in that way at all. He watched me grow up and he thinks of me of his daughter, and I just kissed him and called him daddy.
What the hell is wrong with me?
Years of hope and love and adoration have warped my brain and I’ve just done the most disgusting thing I could have ever done to Laszlo and now he hates me. I saw it in his eyes. I sink down onto the floor and press my hands over my ears, begging for this all to be a bad dream.
I take it back I take it back I take it back.
Sometime later the knocking stops, but he’s still in the house. I’ll have to face him if not now, then in the morning.
I can’t. I wipe the tears from my face and look around the room. I need to get out of here, just for a while, until he stops being angry with me. Until I figure out how angry he really is. Cello. Overnight bag. There’s nothing else I need. I force my mind into silence as I hastily pack some clothes and sneak downstairs. All is quiet. Laszlo must be in his room. I think about leaving my key on the hall table, like the day I left my father’s house forever. But I clutch it convulsively as I close the front door quietly
behind me. I’m coming back. I’m not going to lose Laszlo.
Three streets away I order a ride with an app on my phone and when it arrives it takes me across London to Hayley’s flat. Several times I try texting her to let her know I’m coming but I don’t know what to say. I just pray that she’s home. She was at the concert tonight, in the audience, and maybe she went on somewhere for drinks afterward.
Twenty minutes later I buzz the flat, and wait. There’s a light on in her living room window and a few seconds later she sees me through the video com and buzzes me up.
Seeing my disheveled appearance and bags her eyes go wide. “Isabeau, what’s happened?”
I don’t know what to say. It’s like a waking nightmare. Did I really kiss Laszlo? Did he really look at me like he’s never been so disgusted in his life? In a choked voice, I manage, “I had a fight with Laszlo.”
Hayley motions me into the flat. “Oh, shit. I’m so sorry. Do you want to talk about it?”
I shake my head, my eyes burning. I just want to be alone. Hayley puts me to bed in her flat mate’s room, as she’s away on holiday.
Automatically, I undress and get into bed and lie there, my eyes wide open in the darkness. Everything’s so surreal. My phone’s silent. If Laszlo’s realized I’m gone by now he’s not calling me, and reality begins to sink in. I’m eighteen and I’m going to university in a few months’ time. I don’t need a mentor or a guardian anymore so there’s no reason for him to come after me. I’m an adult and he can just cut me lose.
Staring at the bedroom ceiling I realize everything’s over between Laszlo and I, forever, and I start to cry.
Chapter Eighteen
Laszlo
Now
Bangkok. Riotous, hectic, filled with flowers and color and spice. Even the occasional wafts of stagnant air from the canals are welcome because they remind me that I’m a world away from stately, quiet Hampstead. I burn my mouth on a curry filled with unidentifiable vegetables and I feel more alive than I have in months; happier too, my shirt clinging to my back in the humidity as I walk down Khaosan Road, eyes grazing the stalls.
