by Deryn Lake
Changing partners, the family party continued to laugh and enjoy themselves until finally, rather warm from their exertions, they sat down again to watch the fireworks, Ste gasping formidably.
It was a fine night, the pretty twinkling candle lights strung from tree to tree round the circular wooden dance floor illuminating not only the faces of those below but also the leaves and the sky, which was a soft lavender shade, full of dusk. With a sudden spluttering sound followed by a burst of colour, the fireworks began, roaring magnificently into the gentle evening as Sarah shivered with a sudden inexplicable presentiment.
*
Paris was the only bright spot on a particularly grey horizon. Much as Sidonie despised herself for allowing it to happen, she had been plunged into gloom ever since Finnan’s Christmas phone call, the whole idea of which had been to exchange greetings verbally rather than by letter.
The first mistake, as she realised now, had been to cut short her visit to her parents and drive home on Boxing Day in order to speak to him privately. Finnan had written in his Christmas card that he would telephone at two p.m. British time and, accordingly, Sidonie had got home by twelve and then hung about watching television, generally wasting what should have been a jolly day. But when the phone hadn’t rung by four she had started to panic and two more wretched hours had followed during which she simply hadn’t known what to do. Then, at six, Sidonie had finally dialled Finnan’s number, having written to ask for it immediately after his message had been wiped from her answerphone.
A woman had spoken at the other end and Sidonie had stood, receiver in hand, too stunned to say a word. Finally, she had pulled herself together.
“May I talk to Dr O’Neill, please.”
“Sure,” answered the husky assured Canadian voice. “Hey, Finnan honey, there’s a call for you.”
There had been a slight delay and then he had spoken, and Sidonie had known at once that Finnan had been imbibing the Christmas spirit fairly liberally.
“Hello, darling girl, how are you?”
“Hello, Happy Christmas. You sound as if you’re enjoying yourself.”
The words had come out more sarcastically than Sidonie had intended.
“Yes, I’ve a few friends round for drinks,” he had answered somewhat defensively. “What are you up to?”
A mad fit had come over her. “I’m off to Rod’s this evening. He’s entertaining at home. He’s got some Russian musicians over.”
“Anyone you know?”
“Yes, Alexei Orlov. He’s great fun and a brilliant violinist. We really hit it off in Moscow.”
“Good. Did you have a pleasant Christmas Day?”
“Very quiet but very nice. What did you do?”
“One of the medical team has got a log cabin on the lake. A whole crowd of us were invited there for lunch.”
“It sounds blissful.”
For no reason other than her own sense of insecurity, Sidonie could feel herself getting irritated.
“I hope you didn’t come back home just to phone me,” she said sharply. “And by the way, what happened?”
There was a pause. “I’m sorry. The truth is I forgot the time delay. Please forgive me. I just wasn’t thinking.”
There was a faint noise as if someone had just walked past the doctor and Sidonie felt that they might as well have walked on her grave.
“Of course I forgive you. Don’t give it another thought. Happy New Year, Finnan, I’ve got to go. You get back to your friend.”
He didn’t correct her use of the singular. “Happy New Year, darling. Write soon please.”
“I’m off to Paris on the 30th. I’m playing on New Year’s Eve at a private party. I’ll send you a postcard. ’Bye.”
And with that Sidonie put down the receiver, wanting to cry but furiously determined not to be a wimp. Instead she immediately dialled her parents’ number.
“Hello,” Jane’s voice answered.
“Mummy, it’s Sidonie. There’s been a change in my arrangements. I’d like to come back home for a couple of days.”
“Oh, how wonderful, that will be a treat.”
“The only thing is, I daren’t miss practice with a concert so near. Can you phone Silbury Abbas and ask if I can play there?”
“Of course. I’m sure they’ll be delighted.”
“Then I’ll just pop up and beg Jannie to do the cat for a little bit longer.”
And that had been that. She had returned home like a sad child, certain that Finnan had found himself a sleeping partner, convinced that she herself had been little more.
“Put it behind you,” said Jane, seeing her daughter’s face.
“What?”
“You know perfectly well what I mean. You must forget all about your Irishman for the time being. It’s no good conducting a long-distance affair. Lines of communication sometimes get confused.”
Sidonie stared at her mother with narrowed eyes. “Are you suddenly psychic?”
“No, just good at guesswork. The Christmas call went wrong, didn’t it?”
“He had a woman there. She answered the phone.”
“That doesn’t prove a thing. Suppose your young Russian friend had picked up your hotel extension? Finnan could just as easily have jumped to the wrong conclusion.”
Sidonie shrugged her shoulders. “I suppose you’re right. But …”
“My darling, even if I’m wrong there is nothing you can do about it. All I beg is that you don’t take the situation to heart like you did your divorce. You wore yourself to a shadow over that.”
“That was because I was anxious to get it over. I just wanted to be shot of Nigel. This is a bit different,” Sidonie answered defensively.
“Maybe, but take my advice all the same. Wait till the man comes back. You’ll be able to gauge the position as soon as you see him. Then you’ll know what to do about it, won’t you?”
Sidonie smiled at her. “You’re very wise today.”
“Does that irritate you?”
“Only a little. And that’s probably because you can see right through me.”
“Oh no, I can’t,” Jane answered instantly. “You’re too talented for anyone ever to be able to do that. It’s just that I understand certain things. Put Finnan on ice, darling. Concentrate on having some fun. Have a fling with a Frenchman; that would do you good.”
“Are those your instructions, Mother?” asked Sidonie primly.
“You’re too old to order about but I know what I should do.”
“Ought I to tell Father of your terrible ways?”
Jane laughed. “You may if you wish, but it was he who taught me them in the first place, child bride that I was.”
And her mother certainly still looked remarkably young, Sidonie thought, her short dark hair stylish and fashionable, the fight for her figure bravely holding out.
“I’m thirty-four. You were twenty-one when I was born. Not much hope for me then, is there?” Sidonie suddenly felt enormously depressed, full of an urgent nagging need to have a child. “I wish I’d got pregnant by Finnan,” she added, morosely.
Jane looked at her, her expression acute. “Did you tell him that?”
“Of course not.”
“Perhaps you should have done.”
“What makes you say so?”
“He might well regard you as an icon. Someone to be put on a pedestal.”
Sidonie shook her head vigorously. “I had a similar conversation with Rod and the whole thing makes me furious. What am I supposed to do? Wear a label saying, ‘I may be a musician but you strike a chord with me’? Men are utterly pathetic. Bugger the lot of ’em.”
“Even the infant prodigy?”
“Alexei? No, he’s different. He doesn’t give a monkey’s as they say.”
“Then it’s a pity he won’t be in Paris,” her mother answered crisply.
“What do you mean? He’s a child, an infant, hardly out of his Babygro.”
“So what?” said Ja
ne unconventionally, and smiled a rather knowing smile.
*
Even in the biting wind the city was beautiful, Sidonie thought. She stood in the Place de la Concorde, her Russian hat pulled down over her ears, considering the fate of Marie Antoinette who had met her death in this huge and desolate place. The story Sidonie had heard, the story which had brought the Queen’s tragedy home to her more clearly than anything else, was that of the wretched woman being forced to relieve herself publicly in the courtyard of her prison in the Conciergerie when the sight of the awaiting tumbril had moved her to fear. Just like Catherine the Great’s funny little spectacles it was this account of human weakness that had made the French Queen suddenly seem real to the woman from another age.
It was the morning of New Year’s Eve, a hint of snow in the air, yet despite the cold weather Sidonie had arrived in the French capital the day before in order to sightsee on foot. Of all the cities in the world, Paris was her favourite for walking in, and knowing the place as well as she did, Sidonie now strode through the great square just as if she were still a student and headed up the Champs Elysées, stopping for a coffee in a little café held dear in memory.
She had risen at six that morning and had already done three hours’ practice which would be followed by another session later on. But now she was free to explore and without hesitation the musician made her way beyond the Arc de Triomphe and along the Avenue Foch towards the Porte Dauphine. It was through this city gate that Marie Antoinette had arrived in Paris in 1770, a fifteen-year-old bride come to marry the Dauphin. Sarah Lennox would have been twenty-five by then, Sidonie thought, and already disillusioned, a broken marriage behind her. How times appeared to change and yet did they, did anything ever really alter?
Going through the Porte, Sidonie made her way along the Rue de Suresnes into the Bois de Boulogne, singing as she went.
“As I stroll along the Bois Boulong with an independent air, you can hear the girls declare, ‘He must be a millionaire.’ Then I hear them sigh and wish to die, and see them wink the other eye, at the man who broke the bank at Monte Carlo.”
But the words were already dying on her lips as she came round the corner by the lake and saw that a festival was in progress, a pretty pageant with everybody in fancy dress. Smiling at the charm of this delightful crowd, every man, woman and child dressed in period costume, and all from the mid-eighteenth century at that, Sidonie hurried forward to join them.
She saw storybook children running and bowling hoops, saw ladies of high fashion studiously ignoring military men who ogled and smiled and elegantly bowed. The sparkle of candle lamps hung from trees, boats on the lake were lit by lanterns. Dandies and fops jostled both each other and the flower-sellers who wandered amongst them clutching baskets full of their delicate wares. In the air was an indefinable perfume; the combined essence of opulent scent, unwashed skin, carnations, horse chestnut trees and dust. In the distance, fireworks cracked and banged, their luminescence cascading through a sky the colour of lilac. It was a scene of unbelievable gaiety and splendour enhanced by the presence of one particular jewel-bright girl. For sitting in the shadow of the trees and regarding Sidonie with a gravely sweet smile was Sarah Bunbury, born Lennox.
She should have expected it, the musician realised that. Yet the sight and smell of the crowd had seemed so real she had really thought herself to be witnessing some sort of carnival or, perhaps, the making of a historical film. Yet here was Sarah, in Paris, saying “Good evening,” and holding out her hand, recognising at last that Sidonie posed no threat, that be she ghost or living creature she certainly meant no harm. The modern woman would have spoken then, would have gone to cross the barrier of centuries and touch Sarah’s arm, but without warning the vision blurred and faded like a mirage in a desert, then was gone.
It was daytime and it was cold and snow had begun to fall in the Bois de Boulogne. With a shiver deep to her bones, Sidonie snuggled into her coat and went to hail a taxi to take her back to her hotel in the Rue Saint Hyacinthe. Yet even in the comfort of her room it seemed that memories of the past were everywhere. The hotel was a converted eighteenth-century mansion which had belonged to one of Marie Antoinette’s principal ladies-in-waiting. Indeed the Queen and Louis XVI were supposed to have stayed there, rather in the manner of Queen Elizabeth I who had bedded down practically everywhere, Sidonie presumed.
Suddenly feeling lonely and wondering quite how to fill in the next few hours before she was due to practise, Sidonie decided to go down to the bar. But even as she neared reception a familiar voice reached her and she began to hurry, eager with anticipation.
“Madame Brooks, she is here?”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“Please tell her I await her. Orlov. Alexei Orlov.”
“Without knickers,” shrieked Sidonie, and flew to meet the violinist who stood in the small hallway dressed for the cold, his head encased in an enormous fur hat on which he had pinned a badge with the word “Artificiel”.
“You cheat,” she said, pointing to it.
The expressive shoulders rose. “My French is not good enough to give a lecture to protesters on the needs of the Russian economy.”
“What do you mean?”
“I love animals but I love people too. We need to sell hats, we need to sell everything.”
“Enough!” said Sidonie. “I can’t bear to see you serious. It doesn’t suit you.”
Alexei embraced her, kissing her smackingly on both cheeks before brushing her lips with his. “I am always serious. Now, have you eaten? We have lunch, no?”
“Just a snack. I’m playing tonight.”
“Then you should eat plenty. Me, I am a glutton before a concert.”
“When there’s something to glut on.”
“A pun,” answered Alexei. “This I recognise.” He held Sidonie at arm’s length. “I have missed you, Tovarish. I was so happy when Basil told me you would be in Paris at the same time as me. How long can you stay?”
“I’m engaged to play at a charity performance in the Château de Chambord on Twelfth Night. Renault cars are sponsoring it. I’ll be leaving on the 3rd of January.”
“Me too,” said Alexei and grinned. “Rod fixed it.”
“Is this the start of your European tour?”
“You bet. All the big cities of France, then Italy, then Britain. I shall be successful, I think. Rod has got me a Wigmore Hall date by pulling much string.”
“You’ll be a wow,” Sidonie answered and impulsively took his hand. “Are you coming to hear me tonight?”
“Where are you playing?”
“In a private house in the Marais. It’s rather a prestigious party for New Year’s Eve.”
“Can you get me in?”
“I’ll do my best.”
“Then what shall we do afterwards?”
“I’ve been invited to stay on but I suppose I could slip away.”
“It doesn’t matter. As long as we see the New Year in together.”
“I’d like that.”
It was just as if they had only been apart for a few hours.
Their bantering line in chat resumed where they had left off and it was with a light heart that Sidonie went off to practise, having first made sure that it would be possible for Alexei to have a seat at the back of the room.
“The performance begins at nine and the party at eight. It will be dinner jackets, by the way.”
“But, of course.”
“Do you still have the same one?”
“Naturally. I am very fond of that suit.”
“Well, that’s just as well,” said Sidonie and went off laughing into the bitter afternoon.
She dressed extra carefully for this concert, fully aware that the chic of Parisiennes was something to be reckoned with. Layers of chiffon were Sidonie’s choice and scarlet the colour. An expensive French coiffeur worked a miracle with her head so that a style of tousled elegance emerged, one or two curls appearing to escape fro
m a Grecian knot which it had taken him an hour to create. Round her neck Sidonie put a Bedazzle choker of Venetian beads with clustered earrings that would not fly about as she played.
“Not bad,” she said, looking at herself in the hotel mirror, and then ruined the effect by putting on woollen mittens to keep her hands warm until the very last moment before she went to the keyboard.
Tonight Sidonie was to play a Francois Blanchet harpsichord made in Paris in 1756. It had been taken to the house in the Marais that afternoon and tuned, while Sidonie had practised in her old workshop in the Rue de Richelieu not far from the apartment of her teacher Monique Amboise. Dauntingly, Madame Amboise, now in her late sixties, was to attend tonight’s performance.
The Marais had once been an aristocratic district of Paris and still contained stylish mansion houses built in the sixteenth, seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. And it was at one of these in the Rue St Antoine, currently owned by Pierre Sevigne of the French banking family, that Sidonie’s taxi dropped her at exactly seven o’clock that evening. Swishing into the enormous entrance hall from which rose a glorious double staircase, the musician tried not to stare too obviously at all the signs of opulence and high living.
Hovering behind the English butler who had let her in was Sidonie’s host, his idea of a charming New Year’s Eve for his friends obviously being to secure the services of a famed English harpsichord player and pay her agent a great deal of money to do so.
“My dear Madame Brooks,” the Frenchman said now, kissing her mittened hand without any visible sign of surprise. “I am charmed to meet you. The harpsichord is ready in the grand salon but first perhaps you would like to make yourself comfortable.”
And with that Sidonie was whisked into an adjoining reception room, complete with its own bathroom, where a maid waited to take her evening cloak and hang it up, attempting to get at the mittens as she did so.
“I’ll keep those on,” said Sidonie in French. “It’s important to have my hands warm when I play.”
“Certainly, Madame,” said the girl, and curtsied.
‘This is the life,’ thought Sidonie as she made use of the facilities, checked her make-up and hair, and then regally ascended the right hand staircase to the landing where her host awaited her.
