The Protege
“And as soon as we go back to London I’m going to see my father,” she says.
Her words catch me by surprise. It’s been nagging at me these past few weeks, the things she doesn’t know, and I’ve wondered if I’ve been right to keep them secret. Maybe I won’t have to break my promise to Isabeau’s father after all. Piers Laurent and I have both wanted to protect her but she’s not a child anymore, and surely the danger of false hopes are long gone. I could tell her myself but I gave my word, and I’m a man of my word. It should come from Laurent.
“Sweetheart, that’s wonderful,” I say. And I mean it.
“But I have a confession to make,” she says, her happiness dimming. “I did something foolish. Bad for my career.”
I study her face and she looks so afraid, as if I’m going to tell her off. “Tell me, baby. It’s all right.”
“An agent emailed me after the Summer Showcase, the day after my eighteenth birthday. She was at the performance and she wanted to offer me representation but in the… Well, I never replied.”
I understand. She was in too much pain to think about auditions and agents.
“I emailed her back yesterday apologizing and asking her if she was still interested in me and she’s replied. She wants to see me when I’m back in London but she also wants me to send her my audition tape.” She chews her lip, still looking worried. “I don’t know if she’ll think I’m too flakey to work with now.”
I kiss her forehead, holding her close. “She’s still interested, baby. That’s what’s important.”
“I hope so. Laszlo, will you please help me make an audition tape? The agent has asked for one and I’d like to get her something as soon as possible.”
This is something concrete I can actually do for her. I dig out my phone. “Let me call the general manager of the symphony hall. We can make the recording on the stage.” The acoustics are perfect and they’ll have all the equipment we need. “You go and change into one of your gowns. Let’s make a proper video. She should see how beautifully you play as well as hear you.”
She smiles excitedly at the suggestion. “All right, but give me forty-five minutes to get ready. I’ll have to put some makeup on as well.”
I kiss her swiftly before she heads back to her room. Once I’m alone I find a recent email from the manager and call the number in her email footer. She speaks excellent English, thankfully, so I’m able to communicate what we need and she readily agrees. Before I hang up she adds, “It’s serendipity that you called me, Mr. Valmary. I was going to call you today. The owner of the concert hall wants your opinion about an idea, something very close to your heart and his.”
“Oh?”
She asks if I can meet with him after tonight’s performance and I agree and end the call, wondering what the owner could possibly have to ask me. Maybe they want my opinion on next season’s program. Maybe they even want the RLSO to be part of the program. That would be very agreeable.
But I push that aside for the moment. My priority right now is Isabeau.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Isabeau
Now
It feels strange to be on the bustling day-lit Bangkok streets in a gown with a face full of makeup. The locals look at me and smile as Laszlo hails a cab. I like the Thai people. They’re friendly and seem to love our music. It’s a pleasure to play for them.
As we’re driving through the city Laszlo points out a construction site. “See those cranes? They’re building a state-of-the-art concert hall, twice as big as the one we’re playing in. It’s going to be quite something.”
Quite something is understating it. Even unfinished the building looks modern and striking, and perched a dozen or so floors up it will command beautiful views of the city.
The concert hall we’re going to record in is quite something itself. I sit down on the stage and tune my cello while Laszlo and the stage manager sort out the lighting and the recording equipment. A few minutes later Laszlo nods at me from the stalls.
“Whenever you’re ready, Miss Laurent.”
“Yes, Mr. Valmary,” I reply innocently, though I’m sure he can see the glimmer in my eyes as I raise my bow. I play my favorite cello pieces by Brahms, Elgar and Bach, and I play them how I feel them and want them to be heard. I forget about the recording equipment, the agent back in London, Laszlo and the stage manager watching me. I don’t think about anything but the music and what it means to me.
Finally, I want to play Vocalise. There’s a grand piano to the side of the stage and I glance at it and hesitate. I see Laszlo shift on his feet, and when I look at him he gives me a nod of understanding. It’s a good thing for a soloist to show that they can play with other instruments as beautifully as they play on their own. But beyond any of that, this piece defines me like no other. Even more than The Swan, because I chose it myself.