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Authors: Conrad Williams
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what other people would be thinking of him.
He replaced the magazine and walked in a daze along the aisle, passing out of Classical into Jazz. He was soon standing between display boxes of Oscar Petersen and Dizzy Gillespie. After a momentâs light-headedness,he went to the escalator and ascended to the ground floor.
He halted outside on Oxford Street, registering noise and smell, and then dragged himself back to the underground entrance. One had to get through it. One had to press on, keep going.
Back at home he put the kettle on. While it was boiling he frittered around nervously with sheet music in the living room. An hour later he sat dead still in the armchair, hands clubbed together, staring at the floor.
He was sitting in the same position at 9 p.m., amongst the shadows of a room lit only by lamps in the street outside.
Chapter Six
Ursula caught his eye as she entered the room.
He sat with John Sampson in the Highgate millionaireâs music room, surrounded by abstract paintings on bare brick and art books across coffee tables. Behind him reared a grand piano, white. Before him lay a view of the garden: Monet bridges over lily ponds, cherry blossom and forsythia, glancing light through the still bare limbs of an acacia tree. His hands were tightly clenched, John was handsomely beaming everywhere, and now as she entered in haste, coming through from the hallway (she knew she was late), he could see in a glance why John was so chuffed with her.
Ursulaâs face was flushed and yet she met him with the togetherness of high female confidence, aware of the effect - impossible to disown - of her looks on first-timers. She possessed along-limbed figure of line and buoyancy, a radiant smile, twirling black hair. She stood before him like an unexpected gift or tribute, and was almost amused by the look on his face. For a moment she let Philip adjust to the spectacle, the smell of perfume, the gloss of hair, and readily followed whatever anybody else was saying. As John made introductory jokes about their client, she kept returning her eyes to Philip, looking for her chance to be more than a first impression.
They sat down on white chairs and sofas. John was manfully pleased with everything, particularly the Corot over the grand. Philip combated his unease with interlocked hands and did everything to avoid eye contact. John chatted on, drawing Ursulaâs attention, and Philip stole quick, disbelieving glances at his new agent. She sat forward on her chair, hair trailing in a cloud of curls to the small of her back, which rose from the bulb of her hips and bottom like the stem of an exotic plant. The tapering line of her forearm and wrist followed the long arc of her thigh. Her momentary glances were full of innocent goodwill.
He looked away. This was not what he wanted, not what he could bear. Ursulaâs beauty impaled his privacy. The very look of her appealed to a vitality he could no longer supply. Just to behold her was to experience, in a flash, generational redundancy. What could a perfect young woman know or care to know about the trials and tribulations of a medieval bachelor? He would have to talk to John about this later. He was desperate to be out of here.
All morning Philip had been trying to tell John he would cancel. He tried on the phone: John was too harassed. He tried in the limo: John was too talkative. He tried in the hallway of Bulmanionâs mansion, but John was so urgently positive about this coup of a meeting, so buoyed by the concerts and publicity and the magnificent interior of this splendiferous house that it just seemed impossible. There was no right moment and no reprieve from this headlong charade and Philip knew anyway that John would never recover. Because Philip wasnât ill or dead or injured and John had invested so much time in setting up the concerts, and life was complicated enough without the nervous breakdowns of artists, besides which Philip was British, for
He replaced the magazine and walked in a daze along the aisle, passing out of Classical into Jazz. He was soon standing between display boxes of Oscar Petersen and Dizzy Gillespie. After a momentâs light-headedness,he went to the escalator and ascended to the ground floor.
He halted outside on Oxford Street, registering noise and smell, and then dragged himself back to the underground entrance. One had to get through it. One had to press on, keep going.
Back at home he put the kettle on. While it was boiling he frittered around nervously with sheet music in the living room. An hour later he sat dead still in the armchair, hands clubbed together, staring at the floor.
He was sitting in the same position at 9 p.m., amongst the shadows of a room lit only by lamps in the street outside.
Chapter Six
Ursula caught his eye as she entered the room.
He sat with John Sampson in the Highgate millionaireâs music room, surrounded by abstract paintings on bare brick and art books across coffee tables. Behind him reared a grand piano, white. Before him lay a view of the garden: Monet bridges over lily ponds, cherry blossom and forsythia, glancing light through the still bare limbs of an acacia tree. His hands were tightly clenched, John was handsomely beaming everywhere, and now as she entered in haste, coming through from the hallway (she knew she was late), he could see in a glance why John was so chuffed with her.
Ursulaâs face was flushed and yet she met him with the togetherness of high female confidence, aware of the effect - impossible to disown - of her looks on first-timers. She possessed along-limbed figure of line and buoyancy, a radiant smile, twirling black hair. She stood before him like an unexpected gift or tribute, and was almost amused by the look on his face. For a moment she let Philip adjust to the spectacle, the smell of perfume, the gloss of hair, and readily followed whatever anybody else was saying. As John made introductory jokes about their client, she kept returning her eyes to Philip, looking for her chance to be more than a first impression.
They sat down on white chairs and sofas. John was manfully pleased with everything, particularly the Corot over the grand. Philip combated his unease with interlocked hands and did everything to avoid eye contact. John chatted on, drawing Ursulaâs attention, and Philip stole quick, disbelieving glances at his new agent. She sat forward on her chair, hair trailing in a cloud of curls to the small of her back, which rose from the bulb of her hips and bottom like the stem of an exotic plant. The tapering line of her forearm and wrist followed the long arc of her thigh. Her momentary glances were full of innocent goodwill.
He looked away. This was not what he wanted, not what he could bear. Ursulaâs beauty impaled his privacy. The very look of her appealed to a vitality he could no longer supply. Just to behold her was to experience, in a flash, generational redundancy. What could a perfect young woman know or care to know about the trials and tribulations of a medieval bachelor? He would have to talk to John about this later. He was desperate to be out of here.
All morning Philip had been trying to tell John he would cancel. He tried on the phone: John was too harassed. He tried in the limo: John was too talkative. He tried in the hallway of Bulmanionâs mansion, but John was so urgently positive about this coup of a meeting, so buoyed by the concerts and publicity and the magnificent interior of this splendiferous house that it just seemed impossible. There was no right moment and no reprieve from this headlong charade and Philip knew anyway that John would never recover. Because Philip wasnât ill or dead or injured and John had invested so much time in setting up the concerts, and life was complicated enough without the nervous breakdowns of artists, besides which Philip was British, for
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