Read Online The Concert Pianist by Conrad Williams - Free Book Online Page B

management would interest her for long.
    John slipped off to the loo for a moment.
    Ursula turned to face him, steering her legs round and flipping her hair back. She smiled uncertainly. She could see he was uneasy and no doubt felt uncomfortable herself.
    â€˜I’m so looking forward to the concert.’
    Philip inhaled deeply.
    â€˜D’you get very nervous?’
    He frowned.
    She seemed to take this as a ‘yes’. ‘It’s such an honour to meet you. I’ve always admired your playing so much.’
    Philip forced himself to sit up a little.
    â€˜Isn’t this place incredible?’
    He nodded.
    She glanced over her shoulder. Her gaze was now very serious. She seemed troubled.
    â€˜I do hope this isn’t an imposition.’
    â€˜Um . . .’
    â€˜If you think it doesn’t work out with me, please say. I’d love to represent you, but your wishes are paramount. I don’t want to come between you and John. I just want to help.’
    She looked at him with sweet sincerity. She had taken a risk in saying this and it seemed impossible not to come to her aid.
    â€˜I’m sure it’ll be fine,’ he nodded.
    Her smile intensified to a new level. The warmth of her expression he found unsettling. She seemed already to have nurturing feelings in reserve for him. He looked awkwardly around, amazed that he had capitulated so easily. Things were happening that he had no control over. Was she very kind, or was she just handling him? Was he just product now, to be stroked and schmoozed by personable executives, or did she really care, and if so, why? What could she possibly want with a crabby bachelor like him, a bespectacled relic, a man of self-defeating self-knowledge and no horizons beyond the ceaseless toil of his trade? Just to look at her was to feel in a glance the immunity of her sparkling youth to his shelved middle age.
    John was back now, rubbing his hands and checking his watch and glancing nervously at Ursula and solidly at Philip. He pointed in the direction of a pair of loudspeakers beyond the piano. ‘You want to hear those guys, Pip. Two hundred grand’s worth of high fidelity. Amazing.’
    He tugged around to look over his shoulder.
    â€˜British designed, God bless us. Bloke called Williams, lives in a shack in Suffolk or something. Total nutter.’
    He nodded, unable to take anything in. Ursula was now looking at him with some concern and he found himself wondering in retaliation what reckless acts of submission she would perform for her lovers, what picturesque pairings she would instigate with the trendy young males whose lust she inspired.
    They heard him first, barking orders in the hall with humorous menace. The grand vestibule took up the sound of his voice, distributing will power to the four corners of the house. Bulmanion entered the room and moved into their midst before anyone had time to stand up.
    â€˜Have you had tea?’
    John smiled appeasingly.
    â€˜God, bloody hell!’
    He swished off back to the door and bellowed down the hallway. ‘Jeremy! Guests! Tea! Music room!’
    He returned quickly, huffing theatrically, his hand already extended in Philip’s direction.
    â€˜It’s a great honour to meet you. I’m so pleased you could come.’
    Philip rose and had his hand shaken.
    Bulmanion nodded quick hellos at Ursula and John and reversed on to a sofa. He ran a finger around his cheek, as if to clear thoughts, and then launched in quickly. ‘I think you are one of the great artists of our time,’ he intoned. ‘I’m immensely grateful that you’ve agreed to see me. I’m wealthy but I take no one for granted. I wanted to meet here because this room is a shrine to the sort of magnificent playing one hears on your records. I’ve sat in that chair and listened more times than I can remember to your Brahms and Liszt and everything else.’
    He seemed to halt