The Protege
Fuck.
My hard-on surges anew and I switch the taps to cold and thrust my body under the freezing deluge. The icy needles of water do nothing to drive thoughts of Isabeau out of my mind.
Two hours later I’m showered and suited at the Mayhew. When I come onto the stage I shake Marcus’ hand and talk to him for a moment while the last of the orchestra takes their places. I’m focused squarely on my concertmaster but I can see Isabeau in my peripheral vision, tuning her mother’s cello and straightening her sheet music. Neat and pretty in black with a black velvet bow holding up her half-ponytail.
She’s here. In my orchestra. Mine.
But why she is here? Or, specifically, why is she free to join me on this tour? A cellist like her should be in great demand and yet she was able to accept the place just like that, as if she had no prior engagements. It doesn’t seem right.
As soon as everyone’s settled I walk to the lectern and address the ensemble, thanking them for being on board with the tour at such short notice. “I want to run through five symphonies today. Not every note as there isn’t time, but the most complex and important sections. When we reach Singapore, our first destination, we’ll start practicing the pieces for later in the tour. Southeast Asia has diverse musical tastes so we need a diverse repertoire. As I’ve already said, this isn’t going to be a holiday.” I look slowly around the ensemble, driving my point home. “I know you’re all up to this. You’ve never let me down and I’m proud of you.”
My eyes graze over Isabeau. She sitting very still and looking up at me, her bow laid across her lap. I feel warmth spread through my chest at the sight of her, more beautiful than ever, a glow in her cheeks that wasn’t there yesterday.
“To the new faces in the ensemble, welcome, and thank you. Listen to your section leaders. Listen to me. Play your best. We’re happy to have you, and we couldn’t do this without you.”
There’s a smattering of applause and the string sections tap their bows against their music stands, but I cut it short by announcing the first piece we’re practicing. I raise my baton while relaying the starting measure, and the music begins.
As the strings swell I look to where Isabeau is sitting. She’s second cellist, not necessarily because she’s the second-best cellist—she’s the best—but because it’s my second cellist who’s on leave. That’s how orchestras work, the whole section doesn’t move up because one member is absent. The person filling in simply takes their place. It can make for interesting orchestra politics when the person filling in is much less experienced than the people sitting below them. Or much younger. Or both. I’ll have to keep an eye on the others because even though my orchestra are professionals that doesn’t mean they’re above cattiness and putdowns if their noses get out of joint. I glance over the other cellists, wondering if anyone is getting their nose out of joint over Isabeau. Orchestra tenure is long and most of the musicians have been around long enough to remember ten-year-old Isabeau coming backstage to see me after performances. Fourteen-year-old Isabeau performing her first solo with us. The fact that she’s inordinately talented won’t endear her to the cellists sitting below her and above her. The fact that she was—is, secretly—my protégé won’t either. Ensembles can catch even the slightest whiff of favoritism so I’ll have to be careful. Even so, if anyone upsets her they’ll answer to me and I will be merciless.
She’s not really only my protégé, though, is she? She’s my sub. We just haven’t used that word. My eyes follow the curve of her cheek. Isabeau Laurent is my sub. How I love the way that sounds.
We get though every section of the five symphonies I wanted us to cover and I’m clear about how I want the pieces played. Everyone has dutifully penciled in my instructions on their sheet music. One cello sounded in my ear over the other instruments in the orchestra, every note perfect.
The rehearsal over I glance at Isabeau, and she’s packing up her cello and talking to her stand mate, Domenica, the section leader for the cellos. I’ve got more work to do and Isabeau will be going home. To Hayley’s flat, not my home.
Our home.
I want it to be ours again. While we’re on tour I’m going to ask her to move back in. I need her close to me, always. I was so happy living with her and I think she was, too.
I want to see her alone right now but I don’t have a good excuse. She’s got all the information she needs about the tour and the rehearsal went beautifully.