'No point them arguing.'
'That won't stop them.'
'I remember when my mother died. Her sisters argued about her watch—never spoke to each other again.' Lilian picked up the carafe. 'Have another of this fine stuff.' She finished off the remains of her pizza and drew a cigar from the slim gold tin. 'What about the divine Franco? Is he taking good care of you?'
Lilian was half in love with Franco, Grace sometimes thought. Perhaps she should know what he was really like.
'We're not getting on so well at the moment.'
'Tsck! Tell him I'll come over and personally chastise him.'
For once Grace couldn't smile at Lilian's humour. 'If only it was as simple as that.'
'Sorry, me and my big gob.' Lilian waved away the waiter who came to clear the table and sat back, the cigar held between her fingers. 'What's the problem?' she asked. 'Tell me to mind my own business, if you like.'
'No, it's fine. We've been arguing about children.'
'I suppose you want them and Franco doesn't?'
'The reverse, actually.'
'Now you have surprised me. I can see you with a brood of exquisite little ones, all long limbs and brown eyes, just like you.'
Grace smiled. 'Maybe one day… but for the moment I want to enjoy life a bit. Before I met Franco, I'd planned to travel.'
'There's nothing as precious as bringing up a child.'
Grace looked at her in surprise. 'Did you want children?'
'I would have loved a baby, but I had an ectopic pregnancy soon after we were married, and I couldn't after that.'
'Lilian, I'm sorry.'
'It's not something I usually talk about.' Lilian shrugged. 'I travelled the world with Nathan, but I still mourn that lost child.'
Eleven
Isabel waited in the entrance hall of Kenwood House. She could see at a glance that he hadn't arrived yet, but even so her eyes searched non-existent corners. Her stomach churned and her hand continually smoothed her hair: it always went fluffy in the rain. Why on earth had she agreed to this? She moved to the back of the hall and fixed her gaze on the entrance.
Kenwood was one of her favourite places. She and Brian used to come to the Saturday concerts in the summer. She would pack a picnic and Brian would produce a bottle of wine. He usually lay back on the picnic rug and dozed off once the concert started, but she preferred to listen to the music without his interruptions anyway, and the setting by the lake was idyllic. When they got home, they would make love, which made him more attentive for the next couple of days.
Isabel blinked back the tears that were never far away. It wouldn't do for her mascara to run. She looked at her watch. He was late. She'd give him another ten minutes and then she was going. It was her friend Sally who'd suggested the blind date.
'I'm not ready to meet anyone new,' Isabel had told her.
'It will do you good. Simon's into music as well. He used to play the violin for the BBC orchestra.'
'But not any more?' Isabel was curious despite herself.
'He had a skiing accident. Lost the top of two fingers,' Sally explained. 'It was his left hand, his fingering hand.'
'Can he still play?'
'He doesn't very often. He could probably teach, but he hasn't got the patience.'
Isabel recalled some of her students' half-hearted attempts on the piano. 'Especially not after playing in a world-class orchestra.'
'He retrained as a counsellor. Specialises in cognitive therapy, if that means anything to you. And his wife's left him, so you'll have lots to talk about.'
'Great! Cry on each other's shoulders, you mean.' But she'd found herself saying yes, when she meant no.
At least it had given her the chance to tell Brian she'd met someone else. Whatever happened today, it was worth it to remember the shock on his face. He was so complacent, so sure he could have his new woman and a bit on the side with her. She'd gone along with it because while they were sleeping together, he couldn't divorce her. And he'd have to come back eventually.
She checked her watch again: another five minutes. She pulled a sheet of paper from her bag: an email from Grace that had arrived as she was leaving the flat. She was missing everyone, Grace wrote. It was getting harder, not easier, to think about Dad being dead.
I'm sorry I was horrible while I was in England. I know I behaved badly. I was stressed, but I shouldn't have taken it out on my big sister! Sorry.
By the way, when you get a chance, can you ask Mum if she knows who Archie Stansfield is. Apparently he was a friend…
'You must be Isabel.' The voice made her jump. 'I'm Simon.'
She looked up to find a short, balding man standing in front of her. He was smiling. 'Sorry I'm late.' He held out his hand. 'Have you been waiting long?'
She stuffed the sheet of paper back in her bag. 'Only a few minutes.'
'I was afraid you'd have given up on me. The traffic was terrible. You'd better lead the way,' he went on. 'I haven't been here before.'
He sounded matter-of-fact and keen to get on with it, as if Sally had coerced him as well.
'Let's start in here.' Isabel turned into the library. 'The view's wonderful.'
'I suppose before those trees grew up, you'd have been able to see St Paul's.' Simon stepped back, turning his gaze upward to stare at the painting on the ceiling.
Isabel read from the guidebook. 'That was painted by Zucchi in 1769. It's Hercules between Glory and the Passions.'
'No contest there,' Simon said. 'Give me the passions every time!'
Isabel laughed. Perhaps the meeting wasn't going to be so bad after all.
They moved on to the dining room. It was a favourite of Isabel's with its deep red wall hangings and curtains. She cast covert glances at Simon. He seemed absorbed in the paintings so it was easy to study him. Sally had said he was about forty, but he looked older. Deep lines ran from his nose to his mouth. What was left of his hair was cropped short so that it was spiky on top. He wore a cream linen suit which rippled with creases. Dark splodges from the heavy rain that morning marked his shoulders.
He stopped in front of a painting. It was Vermeer's The Guitar Player. 'I like this,' he said. 'I didn't realise the original was here. My father had a book of reproductions of old masters, and I first saw this when I was about five.' He took a couple of paces back and studied the painting, his head on one side. 'You can almost see the strings vibrating under her fingers.'
Isabel didn't know whether to look at the painting or Simon. His expression, which had been one of wry amusement, softened. His mouth was fuller, his grey eyes warm.
He turned to her, his lips raised in a smile. 'It makes me long to feel the violin in my hands again.'
'Sally told me about your accident. I'm sorry…' Isabel saw the warmth fade from his eyes.
'Sally has been busy filling us both in.' He moved to stand in front of another painting. 'You play the piano, I gather.'
'Yes, but not to professional standards. I couldn't play in an orchestra like you did.'
'I wouldn't recommend it. All that travelling. Unsociable hours. Not conducive to domestic bliss.'
Isabel remembered Brian complaining if she gave piano lessons after he came home from work. And he'd hated Friday nights when she played for the amateur operatic society. Perhaps it was then he'd started seeing Anita. Perhaps it was all her fault, like he'd said.
She followed Simon through the dining room and into the music room with its pictures of Georgian ladies. He was knowledgeable about the paintings and the few moments of awkwardness about the accident were forgotten.
'Can I tempt you to something to eat or drink?' Simon asked as they returned to the entrance. 'They have refreshments here, I presume?'
They ordered coffee and cakes and chose a table in the corner. It was warm in the cafe and Simon took his jacket off. As he hung it from the back of the chair, Isabel caught sight of his injury. The middle and forefingers of his left hand were only stumps finishing just abo
ve the knuckle. The skin across the top was puckered and lumpy. She looked up and found him watching her. Her eyes slid away from his to the line of musical notes emblazoned in sparkling silver across the front of his black T-shirt.
'I can guess what you're thinking,' he said. 'When a man of my years wears a top like this, it's a cry for help!'
'No… no… of course I wasn't.' Oh God, he must be a mind reader.
'It's okay. You can say what you like.'
Isabel laughed. 'It is eye-catching.'
'All you need is love.'
'Sorry?'
'The music.' He pointed to the notes on his chest. 'It's the opening bar of the old Beatles' tune—All You Need is Love.' He met Isabel's eyes. She couldn't fathom his expression and again was forced to look away.
She searched for a new topic. 'You're a counsellor, aren't you?'
He smiled. 'Our Sal again, I suppose?'
'Yes, but I am interested. What sort of people come to you?'
'Teachers, dentists, plumbers… you name it, I've seen them. It certainly puts your own problems into perspective.' He reached across to his jacket pocket and took out a packet of cigarettes and laid it on the table. He drummed the packet with the fingers of his good hand. The two stumps on his left hand were stained brown with nicotine.
'I can see you don't approve,' he said.
Isabel felt the blush staining her cheeks. 'Is it so obvious?'
'Don't worry. I don't approve myself. Comes from all those years in the orchestra. These…' he tapped the packet '… and a taste for Glenfidditch. Too many late nights. Too many bars after the performance. Didn't do much for my marriage either.'
'What happened?'
'Helen, my wife, had enough of it in the end. I'd got a decorator in to paint the front of the house. She'd wanted it done for months.' He laughed, a harsh bark of sound. 'Silly bugger, I am!'
'What do you mean?'
'I came home one day to find a letter on the table. And she'd taken Edward, my lad.'
'You mean she'd left?'
'Yep. And I was too stupid to see it coming.'
'Where had she gone?
'Scotland. With the bloody decorator!'
She stared at the stumps on his fingers. They looked vulnerable, and she felt an urge to reach over and caress them. 'That was hard to take.'
With his good hand, he caught up the packet of cigarettes and crushed it against his palm. 'Listen, Isabel. I was a shit husband. I deserved shit.'
'I don't believe that,' Isabel said. 'Sometimes you get back more shit than you give.'
'It's funny, isn't it,' he said. 'You live with someone for years, think you know them as well as you know yourself and then…'
'I presume Sally told you my husband's left me?'
'She did, and I'm sorry. I know how much it hurts.'
Isabel shrugged. 'I'm still getting used to it.'
'Would you ever have him back?'
She shook her head. She and Simon weren't on a date exactly, but seemed tactless to tell him that she'd take Brian back tomorrow.
'It's the feeling of betrayal, isn't it?' Simon was saying. 'Once trust's gone…'
Her mother's secret reared up in Isabel's head. What had happened to the trust between her parents? She had never known her father tell a lie, not even the small white ones that everyone tells to get out of a fix. How many times as she was growing up had she heard him say 'honesty is the best policy'? But if it was true what her mother had said, then her parents had told the biggest lie ever.
'… so I dumped the bag of manure over his head.' Simon's voice intruded.
'Sorry. I was miles away.'
'I could see that.'
'What were you saying about manure?'
Simon laughed. 'I was testing you. Wanted to see if something shocking would get your attention.'
His grin was infectious and she couldn't help smiling back.
'I'm sorry,' she said. 'I'm rubbish company at the moment.'
'On the contrary.'
'I was thinking about my dad.'
'And I imagined my charm—'
'He died a few weeks ago.'
Simon frowned. 'Isabel, I had no idea.'
'It's okay.' She felt in her pocket for a tissue. 'I'm being stupid.'
'Stupid? It's tough to lose your dad, especially after your husband and…'
'It was sudden. He had a heart attack.' Isabel examined the surface of the table where some sugar had been spilt. As she pushed the grains to one side, she felt Simon's fingers brush hers.
'Talk if you want to.' His voice was gentle and she looked up. He shrugged in a self-deprecating sort of way. 'Try me.'
'After my dad died, my mother told me something.' Feeling tears coming, she dabbed at her cheeks.
'You don't have to…'
'I want to tell you.' Now she'd begun, she needed to get the story out. 'A few hours after he died, we were back at the house, and I was helping Mum get undressed. We'd been up all night and she was exhausted. She started talking about Dad and how much he'd loved her. They were always billing and cooing over each other. Then she came out with it.'
'Go on.'
'She told me that George, my little brother…'
'Are you sure you want to do this?'
Simon's question, something about the tenderness in his tone, caught at Isabel's throat. But she couldn't stop now. 'Mum said that George has got a different father. George is my half brother.'
There, she'd said it. 'You don't know what a relief that is. Actually to say the words aloud to another person—George is my half brother.'
'And you had no idea until that morning?'
She shook her head. 'They kept it secret all these years. George is thirty-five.'
'Do you think he knows? Perhaps they told him.'
'Mum said no one knows. She made me promise not to tell anyone.'
'Why? If she told you…'
'She said she was distraught or she wouldn't have said anything. She said it was Dad who made her promise never to tell anyone. He was ashamed that she was carrying another man's child.'
'Isabel, don't take this the wrong way, but is it such a big deal? I mean, lots of families these days have half brothers and sisters, or step brothers and sisters.'
'I know. And if they'd told us from the beginning… but, now… I mean, finding now, when Dad's dead… it sort of undermines all the certainties.'
'I know what you mean,' Simon said. 'It's some secret to spill the day he dies.'
'I even wondered if she'd made it up,' Isabel said. 'George is a brilliant pianist, and so was my father, and my grandfather. We assumed he'd inherited the talent.' She stopped. 'But it was Mum who told us that. She made us sit round the piano when George was playing. "George is a natural" she used to say. "Just like his daddy and Grandpa." And all the time she was lying her head off!'
'How do you explain the music then?'
'I don't know. Except I can remember George sitting on Dad's lap, even when he was a baby, and Dad playing to him and tapping out a tune with George's little fingers.'
Simon picked up the cigarette packet and turned it over and over. 'I see so many problems in my work because someone decided it was a good idea to keep something a secret.'
'Ever since I've known I can't seem to look the rest of the family in the eye. I keep thinking—if you knew what I know.'
'Tell your mother how hard this is for you.'
'I've tried, but she clams up. Acts as if it's my fault. Which is a bit rich, seeing as she's the one who screwed around.'
'What about a drink? You look as if you could use one.' Simon stood up. 'Is wine okay?'
'That would be lovely.'
'Excuse me… excuse me.'
Isabel became aware that someone was trying to attract her attention. She'd been so caught up in her thoughts and conversation with Simon that she hadn't noticed the two elderly women at the next table. She glanced round and saw one of them was leaning towards her.
&
nbsp; 'Forgive me for butting in,' the woman said. 'But I couldn't help overhearing what you were saying.'
Her companion looked embarrassed and kept her attention focused on her cream scone.
Oh, no, Isabel thought. What had the woman heard her say? Not about her mother screwing around. Please!
'Last year I found out I've got a half-brother.' The woman beamed.
Isabel looked towards the counter, willing Simon to come back.
'I was adopted, and I found out my birth mother had gone to Australia and she got married and had a son.' The woman started rummaging in her bag. 'Look—everyone says how alike we look.'
Isabel took the photo that was offered across the gap between their tables. A nondescript, white-haired man smiled out of the photo. 'Very nice,' she said, handing the picture back.
'The point is…' the woman leaned closer '…you don't need to worry about having a half-brother. It's wonderful. We email every week—I went to the college to learn how to specially—and talk on the phone once a month, and—'
Isabel spotted Simon carrying two glasses of white wine. Thank goodness! Not a moment too soon.
The woman followed her glance. 'Oh, my dear, here's your husband. He won't want to listen to me prattling on…'
'Sorry, it took a long time.' Simon put the wine down on the table.
'… and don't you worry about that half-brother. I'm sure you'll get on fine and dandy.'
'Thank you,' Isabel said. 'I'm sure we will.'
Simon sat down and raised his eyebrows. Who's your friend? his expression said.
'Don't ask,' Isabel mouthed back.
'Shall we drink to families?'
'To families!' Isabel sipped her wine. 'The horrible thing is… I always thought I liked my family, and now it's all gone wrong.'
'Strange how a death unsettles things. It's as if all those relationships are finely balanced, and then ping! They go off kilter.'
'What I don't understand is why they didn't tell us.'
'Perhaps they had a good reason. Or thought they had.'
'But what?'
'Only your mother can tell you that.'
'And if she won't?'
'You've got a tough decision to make.'
The Piano Player's Son Page 9
