The Protege
After, we all stand outside in the marina and look at the lights of the skyscrapers reflected in the water. Isabeau is smiling, looking from one sight to the next and breathing in the heavy, scented air. There are gardens growing in every spare corner in Singapore, even up vertical walls. I think there’s jasmine nearby.
She’s so close that it’s an effort not to look at her beautiful face. So close and I still can’t have her.
Later, back at the hotel, I fall into an exhausted sleep. Sometime around seven am local time I wake up, drink a bottle of water, and go back to sleep. I wake again at two in the afternoon and haul myself out of bed to make a pot of filter coffee. The hotel we’re booked into is a grand colonial affair of white plaster, high ceilings, brass fittings and potted palms. I stand on the balcony overlooking a deep green garden and drink my coffee. And I notice Isabeau pacing up and down the garden, chewing her nail.
Nervous again. This isn’t like her. What’s happened in the last three years to undermine her confidence so much?
That would be you, asshole.
I sigh heavily. My support was yanked out from beneath her and she had to adjust to losing the person she was closest to along with beginning university life. Was I right to let her go without trying to contact her? The question keeps gnawing at me. I thought it was better that way because I wanted her too much and she was so very young. And before? Was I right to keep those secrets about her father from her? Am I still doing the right thing by keeping them? Did I encourage her to go and see him as often as I should have? Did I sound like I meant it when I said it?
I don’t know the answer to any of these questions. All I can do is my best for her now.
Leaning over the balcony I call out, “Isabeau? Are you all right?”
She turns and looks up at me and the lost expression on her face makes my heart hurt.
“Can I talk to you, Laszlo?”
Chapter Fourteen
Isabeau
Now
“Room 305,” Laszlo calls, and disappears back inside his room.
I go inside and climb the stairs to his room, still chewing on my nail, trying to sort my feelings out. The more I worry I will make mistakes tonight the more likely it is that I’ll make them but I can’t make my mind slow down. The violist’s words cycle through my thoughts again and again. But of course you were always going to land on your feet, being Mr. Valmary’s ward.
He opens the door before I can knock and stands back to let me in. In the silent privacy of his suite he puts his hands on my shoulders and asks gently, “Sweetheart, what’s wrong?”
I swallow and look up at him. “It’s tonight. I can’t stop imagining that I’m going to let everyone down.”
“What else?”
I blink, surprised. Isn’t that enough? I take a deep breath and examine my feelings. There is more. Much, much more. “I think I’ve ruined my career,” I say in a rush. “I haven’t done any of the things I thought I would have by now. I should have a reputation as a soloist, any reputation as a musician, but I have nothing except what I get from being associated with you. And on top of all that is the horrible feeling that I’m only here because you took pity on me and that every mistake I make will be a disappointment to you and another reason I should just go home.”
I slide into miserable silence, not looking at Laszlo. He knows everything now and I must be a huge disappointment to him.
“Isabeau. Look at me.” I drag my face off the carpet and watch as he ticks off a list on his fingers. “First of all, you could never disappoint me. Ever. Second of all you’re here because of your talent, and that’s got nothing to do with me. And thirdly, if you played wrong notes all through the concert tonight I’d want to help you, not send you away.”
I study his face, wanting to believe him. “That’s not the Laszlo Valmary everyone knows and is terrified of.”
“No. But it’s your Laszlo Valmary.”
My heart turns over. My Laszlo Valmary. Looking at his face I think he might mean it. But I crave something more from him today. I need that darker side of Laszlo, the part that seethes with strictness and can center me in seconds.
“Can you, um, do something?” He frowns at me, unsure of what I mean. I’m not even sure what I mean. “Can you do something, sir. Please. To help me feel less nervous.”
Order me to go and practice. Tell me you expect the very best from me and nothing else will do. Give me something tangible to pull me back into line and make me focus.