Nicola shuddered. If she’d acted sooner, gone straight to the police, would it have made a difference? Maybe, maybe not. Either way, the past couldn’t be changed. ‘Not that I know of,’ she said. ‘He lives in New York now. He has a wife, a family. They are innocent. I don’t want to mess up their lives. I just want to rebuild mine.’
Kolya nodded. ‘Yes. I asked because sometimes people are set on revenge or justice. They are disappointed to learn that, often, that is not the way of it. Many times, Nicola, there is no justice.’ He sighed. ‘I know this from personal experience.’
‘You?’ she stared at the big man. Beside her, Dmitri clasped her hand more tightly.
‘Yes,’ Kolya said. He stared out at the ever-changing water. ‘As I said, we all have our “one thing”. For me, it was when I was a boy. Doing so-called service for my country. Other boys can be very cruel when the adults choose to look the other way.’
Nicola swallowed hard. Dmitri looked like he was going to be sick.
‘But as you see, I am happy now.’ Kolya smiled. ‘It is possible. To have a good life and a strong relationship. To no longer be a victim but a survivor.’
Nicola reached over and took his hand, clasping it together with Dmitri’s. She felt such a strong sense of… love – for both of them. It was joyous and painful all at the same time. It was real.
‘Now,’ Kolya said, ‘let us talk of something more pleasant. Like Christmas. I’m sure you have other invitations, but Nigel and I would love to have you both over during the holidays, and Tanya and Mark too. I have texted them.’
Nicola smiled as Dmitri gave her a goofy grin. ‘Christmas, Nicola?’
‘Sounds perfect,’ she said.
38
Dmitri spent most of the afternoon after the lunch practising piano in Nicola’s spare room. He liked the Bechstein and the rich sound of the newly tuned strings inside old wood. Earlier in the week when then tuner had come round, it had taken the combined efforts of both of them, plus a jogger commandeered from the path, to move the piano downstairs to one of the bedrooms on the ground floor. He liked knowing Nicola was there, doing her work one floor above. In the late afternoon she brought him tea (a little too sweet) and a sandwich. He had another Messiah performance that night, so at half past six, he kissed her goodbye (the goodbye kiss had started almost an hour earlier and was much more than just a kiss) and then caught the train to Clapham Junction.
On the train, he closed his eyes and had almost fallen asleep. Life with Nicola did not involve much sleep – not that he was complaining. But there was one thing that was niggling below the surface of his shiny, new-found happiness. It had been several days, and he’d had no response to his email.
Opening his eyes, Dmitri checked his phone again, carefully scanning the junk email folder in case he’d missed something. Nothing. He sighed. It had been so difficult baring everything in the email to this man that he’d hoped could help him. Yes, Mikhail Aslanov had been a renowned pianist and now must be a sought-after teacher. And yes, they were complete strangers. But all Dmitri had asked for was ten minutes of his time. Was that so much, one musician to another?
When he got to the church, he was confronted with a disaster: Jenny was apparently sick and wouldn’t be turning up. Dmitri had seen her face last night when Nicola had been there and word had swept through the choir like wildfire that she was his girlfriend. He suspected that in Jenny’s case, ‘sick’ meant ‘would not be returning’.
At literally the last minute, he asked Carole-Ann to step in. Her voice was thinner and reedier than some of the others, but she was the only one whom he could count on to know the part well enough to perform it. As soon as he asked her, Carole-Ann had given the expected ‘oh no, I couldn’t possibly’, but her face was glowing with happiness. Part of it might have been because Phil had texted to say that he was coming to the performance. Dmitri had felt bad for not realising before how much Carole-Ann had wanted to be a soloist. It was something he’d have to look out for in the future – especially now that it was looking like he’d be a choir director for the rest of his life.
The performance went well, though without Nicola in the audience, Dmitri felt a little flat. They got a standing ovation, though, and that lifted his mood considerably.
After the concert, Phil came up to him, along with Tanya. Phil practically smothered Dmitri in a hug, and Dmitri was grateful for his support.
‘I’m sorry for before,’ Dmitri said, remembering how childish and ungrateful he’d been on their last encounter. That now seemed like something from another lifetime.
‘Hey, don’t mention it,’ Phil said. ‘You know I was just worried when I hadn’t seen or heard from you.’
‘Don’t expect to see more of him now, Phil,’ Tanya interrupted. ‘He’s off with his sexy girlfriend.’
Dmitri shot her a black look. ‘I’m sure you’ve told Phil all the details, haven’t you?’
‘Just that you couldn’t keep your hands off each other last night.’ Tanya giggled like a schoolgirl. ‘No wonder Jenny quit.’
To Dmitri’s relief, Mark came up and took Tanya away to meet someone. Last night he might not have minded her joking, but tonight, it grated.
‘I’m so glad it’s worked out for you,’ Phil said. ‘I can’t wait to meet her. It’s Nicola, is that right?’
‘Yes,’ Dmitri said, feeling better just for hearing her name. ‘She’s very special. I really can’t believe it myself.’
‘And you’re happy?’ Phil asked.
‘Yes. With her, I am more than happy. But there is one thing.’ He found himself telling Phil about the email he’d sent, and the lack of a response.
‘I understand,’ Phil said. ‘But you can’t let this set you back. There are other schools, other ways to go about it.’
‘But is it because I’m too old, do you think? Is there really no hope at all?’
‘That’s the conclusion you jumped to about the other thing. And look at you now. You seem grown-up all of a sudden. Maybe I don’t have a right to say this, but your mother would be very proud. And happy.’
‘You have every right to say it, Phil.’ Dmitri smiled. ‘I think I finally understand that now. And one more thing…’ He leaned in closer to Phil as Carole-Ann came towards them, her eyes still shiny from her triumph as a soloist. ‘My mother would want you to be happy too.’
Phil glanced up at Dmitri, looking a little surprised. ‘Thanks,’ he said, ‘I’ll keep that in mind.’ As Carole-Ann came up, Phil turned to her. ‘My dear,’ he said, ‘what a stunning performance.’
‘Yes, it was.’ Dmitri kissed the older woman on the cheek and took her hand, which he placed firmly in Phil’s. ‘And now, please excuse me.’
Maybe it was the good karma of finally making peace with Phil, or maybe it was his mother looking down on him and smiling. Either way, as he sat on the train back to Richmond and read the new message – it had come in during the concert and gone to junk mail – he whispered, ‘thank you,’ to anyone up above that might be listening.
*
The hours they were apart seemed impossible and wrong. As soon as Dmitri had gone, Nicola knew she should have gone to the concert. Been there to support him, just be with him. But she had so much to do – so many things to wrap up at work in only a very short time. Second thoughts rattled through her head about leaving her job and stepping out into the unknown. She tried to silence the doubts and listen to the new voice in her head – the part of her that had changed – that said it was the right decision. It wasn’t easy.
Nicola phoned her sister and had a very brief chat about Christmas. The lunch at Jules’ house was back on. Jules sounded like her old self, going on about seating plans and menus. Their mum, it seemed, had agreed to come early to help out with the cooking. Nicola felt obliged to do the same.
‘Come as early as you like,’ Jules said. ‘Seeing as it’s just you.’
‘Actually, it’s me plus one,’ Nicola said. Just saying the
words, she suddenly felt much better about the whole thing.
‘Oh? And who’s that?’ Jules’ voice was guarded. Nicola thought there might be a ‘Who’s husband now?’ unspoken at the end.
‘His name is Dmitri.’ She explained very briefly to Jules about who Dmitri was, leaving out – most things, really.
‘A Russian pianist?’ Jules said. ‘You’re serious?’
Nicola checked her watch. The concert would only just be starting now. She felt like something inside of her was torn and waiting to be stitched back together. It was painful, but on the other hand, the anticipation – knowing that he would return later – was delicious. It was a very strange and unsettling feeling, and one that she was almost certain she’d never had before this week.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Absolutely.’
Dmitri came home around eleven. She was aching for him by that point. He came in, hungry for her too, but with a strange nervousness about him. He kissed her, pulled her on to his lap, took out his phone, showed her a message, distracted her so she could barely read it, then, sat back, not touching her, raking his fingers through his hair.
‘This is brilliant,’ she said, ‘congratulations. It’s what you wanted, right?’
‘He said to come in on Monday. So soon! How can I be ready?’
‘Hey,’ she said, ‘come on.’ She slid off his lap and turned to him, caressing his face. ‘You said yourself that this was just ten minutes – to get this man’s thoughts on what you should do next. There’s no pressure.’
He stopped her hands. ‘No pressure! This man could be the key for me. I should have waited until after Christmas.’ He shook his head. ‘I don’t know.’
Nicola hadn’t seen him like this before – so full of anguished self-doubt – but there were probably many sides to him that she didn’t know. It scared her a little. Of course relationships were hard work, but she had no experience. Then she remembered what he had done for her that first night, when she had almost thrown it all away.
She got up from the sofa, went to the kitchen and made him a pot of tea and a sandwich. Right now, it was her turn to take care of him. She opened the freezer and took out the ice cream. He’d told her that one of his favourite things as a child was eating ice cream in the park on Sundays with his family in the short Siberian summers. It wasn’t summer, but she’d bought the ice cream anyway. She put some in a bowl for him. It looked so delicious and cold. Nicola almost never ate ice cream or sweets, but just this once, she decided that she was going to have some too. She put a tiny scoop in a bowl for herself and put everything on a tray.
Dmitri seemed to have recovered a little by the time she returned. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, as she came into the room and set the tray on the coffee table.
‘I want you to eat,’ she said. ‘You don’t sleep, you barely eat. You need to keep your strength up.’
He looked at the tray, and his eyes lit up.
‘Ice cream!’ he said.
Ignoring the tea and the sandwich, he took the bowl of ice cream, just like a boy on a hot summer’s day. Nicola laughed at his enthusiasm – of course, he was the just the type who would eat dessert first. But just as he was about to put the spoon to his lips, he stopped.
‘Was I supposed to have the small bowl?’ he asked.
‘No! Of course not.’
‘But it is not fair. You have practically none.’
‘It’s fine.’
‘No, it is not fine. Here.’ He fed her the first bite of ice cream with the spoon. Laughing, she kept her mouth closed until the last second and it got all over her mouth. He leaned in and licked it off. ‘Much better than a spoon,’ he said.
He made sure she had just the same amount as him, kissing her between bites. They laughed, and eventually abandoned the second bowl. When once again, the mischievous seductive look appeared on his face, she gave in fully, in a way she had never done before. This time, when he took charge, laid her down on the sofa and gently held her arms over her head, she didn’t mind at all.
39
21st December
‘I’m… not sure I can do this,’ Dmitri said.
As soon as they had come inside the building and been directed by the receptionist to this room, he’d felt his stomach liquefy. He was used to schools, teachers and students. Used to performances – choir performances, that is. But coming here, he felt so insignificant. And so damn old.
‘You’ll be fine,’ Nicola said. Dmitri looked down at her soft white hand entwined with the twisted skin of his own, and felt worse, not better. But she had told him not to wear the gloves. She had convinced him that if he really wanted this, his past was the building block for his future. He believed her, and it had been he who had sent the email in the first place. He breathed in deeply and tried to clear his mind. Since Saturday night, he’d been practising almost non-stop in Nicola’s spare room. This was what he was born to do, and he was ready. But he still felt nervous.
At first, when they reached the door, he thought there must have been a mistake. Inside, a pianist was playing a passage from Rhapsody on a Theme by Paganini, a virtuoso piece by Rachmaninov. The music was cut off abruptly. Someone was speaking. The passage began again, slower this time.
‘The woman said just to go in,’ Nicola said. Even she looked a little flustered. She was wearing a dark blue suit, a white silk blouse and black patent high heels. He felt a surge of desire as he remembered the look on her face this morning as she’d had to get dressed in that suit twice before they’d finally walked out the door. She looked beautiful and sexy in whatever she wore, but he did like her in a suit. Him and probably every other bastard at her work… The thought did little to improve his mood as he opened the door and they went inside.
The room was set up like a small lecture theatre. At the bottom of the raked seats, instead of a podium, a grand piano stood in the centre. A young man, who looked Chinese or Japanese, was sitting at the piano with beads of sweat on his forehead. There were three other students: two men and a woman, in the seats near the front. All were much younger than he was. On the other side of the piano, a man strode back and forth, talking and beating out time with his hands. He was in his mid- to late-sixties with thinning dark hair combed back from a sharp, well-defined face. Though his website photo was probably taken ten years ago, Dmitri recognised him. Mikhail Aslanov. Dmitri had had professors like him and had attended masterclasses like this many times. Classes designed to tear you down. It was up to you to build yourself back up again… Or not.
Mikhail Aslanov frowned as they entered. The young pianist played the passage a final time and the others in the room clapped.
‘That’s enough for today,’ Mikhail Aslanov said. ‘But next time, Yoshi-san,’ he looked down at the pianist, ‘I will expect perfection.’
The man looked so relieved to be up and away from the piano. Dmitri felt for him, remembering the nerves, and how it felt knowing that the others in the room may not be wishing you entirely well. For him, it was as if all the years since he’d last taken class had melted away, exposing the rawness, the inadequacy. Could he really do this?
‘Well done,’ he whispered to Yoshi, as he and the others left the room. The young pianist smiled gratefully. Compliments could be few and far between in this game.
Dmitri forced himself to walk down the steps of the hall towards the man at the bottom. He was glad that he’d at least had the presence of mind to ask the woman at the desk Mr Aslanov’s patronymic name so that he could address him formally. He was also aware that Nicola had stayed sitting in the top row. Dmitri knew that this was up to him now.
‘Good morning, Mikhail Petrovich,’ Dmitri said in English, ‘I am Dmitri.’ He held out his hand.
The older man looked wary and stern as he took it, frowning down at Dmitri’s hand as he shook it.
‘Thank you for responding to my email,’ Dmitri said.
‘Your email, yes.’ Mikhail Petrovich rubbed his chin thoughtfully. ‘Your story, is…
well, it is not for me to say. There is only one important thing now.’ He gestured to the piano.
‘Yes,’ Dmitri replied.
He set down his bag and went to the piano. He adjusted the stool, feeling the familiar boneless sensation in his fingers, like he had never played a piano before in his life. He took three deep breaths. Then he put his fingers on the keys to warm up. He cleared his mind, finding the place where nothing could reach him; the place inside where the music lived. He finished the warm-up. It was time to show this man what he could do.
With another deep breath, he launched into Chopin’s Fantaisie Impromptu. It was lightning fast, impressive, the treble line flying through the air like restless spirits, battling the complex base notes that anchored the music to the earth. And then, as if reaching an uneasy peace, the music changed into the almost impossibly beautiful and rich melody of the middle section. He gave himself to the billowing chords, lost himself in the magic of each note coming alive and shimmering into the next.
Dmitri was barely aware of the last chord, the sound evaporating into the ether. The room coming back in focus. Nicola, sitting in the back row, Mikhail Petrovich in the front row. His heart was beating so hard, the adrenalin ripping through his body. Had he played well, or had it all been in his mind?
He looked at Mikhail Petrovich, tension tightening across his shoulders as he awaited the verdict. The man was staring down at his own fingers, long and lithe, like Dmitri’s own. His performing days were most likely over. Was he remembering what it was like? Or thinking of a way to let Dmitri down easy? Or not easy at all?
‘That was… interesting,’ he said, finally. ‘You have come here hoping to impress me. Hoping to convince me that the years do not matter.’ He got up from the chair and began to pace back and forth thoughtfully. ‘Chopin,’ he mused.
Moonlight on the Thames Page 26
