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Authors: Lucinda Riley
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tosses and turns next to me, twitches and fidgets – shouts out loud at some imagined foe – will eat up any middle-age spread his hormones care to produce.
And I have loved every millimetre of him, body and soul, since the day I listened to him playing Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B flat major at the Tchaikovsky piano competition in Leningrad.
I won.
He came second.
I look at his beloved face, so familiar to me and yet ever fascinating, because there are so many depths still to explore. I’m so much less complex than he is. I can play the piano, quite brilliantly, so I’m told. Just because I can. Equally, I can walk off the platform and return to being a normal human being. Xavier, however, carries his music with him everywhere, always thinking about how to perfect the next piece.
I truly believe that if they turned all the pianos in the world to firewood, he would throw himself on top of the bonfire.
We have laughed together about the fact that it is me and not him that is famous. But we both know that I look much prettier in a dress than he does, that I play much more photogenically … I am a ‘girl’, and therefore more marketable.
But I know that he is the genius, that he can take the Chopin ‘Études’ and add a touch of magic, a spark, that makes them definitively his own. I also know that one day the world will recognise this. And I will be happy to take second place.
I’m sure my playing has gone from strength to strength because of him.
And I adore him.
He is my piano. He is my bonfire. And if he was no longer there, I would throw myself on top of that fire willingly.
6
Julia found her face was wet with tears. She knew there were many more to come, as she continued to force herself to remember.
‘Xavier.’ She spoke his name out loud for the first time. ‘Xavier, Xavier …’ she repeated the word again, and again, knowing that when she spoke to her housekeeper and her agent, they were sure to speak it too, and she wanted to be practised in controlling her emotions when she heard it.
She went upstairs to take a shower, dressed and sat on the edge of the bath once more, steeling herself to press the numbers that would launch her back into her life.
Agnes, her housekeeper, did not answer her mobile, and Julia was grateful for the stay of execution. She left a message and asked Agnes to call her back.
Next: her agent, Olav. She checked the time on her mobile – it was ten thirty. Olav could be anywhere in the world; he had offices in New York, London and Paris. As she dialled his number, she hoped she would get his voicemail too, but it was rare that he didn’t answer his phone to her, even if it was the middle of the night for him.
The line rang and she waited, holding her breath. He answered after three rings.
‘Julia, honey! How wonderful to hear from you. At last,’ he added pointedly.
‘Where are you?’ she questioned.
‘In NY,’ he answered. ‘I had a client playing with the New York Symphony Orchestra at the Carnegie tonight. Jeeze, it was uninspired. Anyway, honey, let’s talk about you. I’ve a hundred unanswered emails currently sitting on my desk; requests for your presence from the usual suspects in Milan, Paris, London, et al . I’ve told them you’re taking a sabbatical but, Julia, baby, they won’t keep asking forever.’
‘I know, Olav,’ she replied apologetically.
‘These guys are working eighteen months to two years in advance. If we don’t accept a booking soon, it could be three years before you’re back on the platform. Any thoughts as to when you’ll be ready to give me a “yes”?’
Even though Julia was grateful that Olav had not taken the sympathy route and had got straight down to his greatest love – business – it did not give her a solution as to how to respond.
‘No. To be honest, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.’
‘Do you have email there, honey? I can send the requests through to you, you can peruse, and see if any
And I have loved every millimetre of him, body and soul, since the day I listened to him playing Schubert’s Piano Sonata in B flat major at the Tchaikovsky piano competition in Leningrad.
I won.
He came second.
I look at his beloved face, so familiar to me and yet ever fascinating, because there are so many depths still to explore. I’m so much less complex than he is. I can play the piano, quite brilliantly, so I’m told. Just because I can. Equally, I can walk off the platform and return to being a normal human being. Xavier, however, carries his music with him everywhere, always thinking about how to perfect the next piece.
I truly believe that if they turned all the pianos in the world to firewood, he would throw himself on top of the bonfire.
We have laughed together about the fact that it is me and not him that is famous. But we both know that I look much prettier in a dress than he does, that I play much more photogenically … I am a ‘girl’, and therefore more marketable.
But I know that he is the genius, that he can take the Chopin ‘Études’ and add a touch of magic, a spark, that makes them definitively his own. I also know that one day the world will recognise this. And I will be happy to take second place.
I’m sure my playing has gone from strength to strength because of him.
And I adore him.
He is my piano. He is my bonfire. And if he was no longer there, I would throw myself on top of that fire willingly.
6
Julia found her face was wet with tears. She knew there were many more to come, as she continued to force herself to remember.
‘Xavier.’ She spoke his name out loud for the first time. ‘Xavier, Xavier …’ she repeated the word again, and again, knowing that when she spoke to her housekeeper and her agent, they were sure to speak it too, and she wanted to be practised in controlling her emotions when she heard it.
She went upstairs to take a shower, dressed and sat on the edge of the bath once more, steeling herself to press the numbers that would launch her back into her life.
Agnes, her housekeeper, did not answer her mobile, and Julia was grateful for the stay of execution. She left a message and asked Agnes to call her back.
Next: her agent, Olav. She checked the time on her mobile – it was ten thirty. Olav could be anywhere in the world; he had offices in New York, London and Paris. As she dialled his number, she hoped she would get his voicemail too, but it was rare that he didn’t answer his phone to her, even if it was the middle of the night for him.
The line rang and she waited, holding her breath. He answered after three rings.
‘Julia, honey! How wonderful to hear from you. At last,’ he added pointedly.
‘Where are you?’ she questioned.
‘In NY,’ he answered. ‘I had a client playing with the New York Symphony Orchestra at the Carnegie tonight. Jeeze, it was uninspired. Anyway, honey, let’s talk about you. I’ve a hundred unanswered emails currently sitting on my desk; requests for your presence from the usual suspects in Milan, Paris, London, et al . I’ve told them you’re taking a sabbatical but, Julia, baby, they won’t keep asking forever.’
‘I know, Olav,’ she replied apologetically.
‘These guys are working eighteen months to two years in advance. If we don’t accept a booking soon, it could be three years before you’re back on the platform. Any thoughts as to when you’ll be ready to give me a “yes”?’
Even though Julia was grateful that Olav had not taken the sympathy route and had got straight down to his greatest love – business – it did not give her a solution as to how to respond.
‘No. To be honest, I haven’t given it a lot of thought.’
‘Do you have email there, honey? I can send the requests through to you, you can peruse, and see if any
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