prodigy.
‘Why should it mean anything to my career?’ she askednow, although the question had little interest for her. At that moment, her career hardly mattered.
‘It doesn’t help your image to be known as a party girl,’ Andrew said after a moment.
‘A party girl?’ Abby turned around. ‘A party girl? ’ she repeated in disbelief. Her life was so far from that—from either the party or the girl. She’d never done anything, anything that earned such a statement, such a judgement…until last night.
Last night she’d thrown everything to the winds—her reputation, her career, her life—in order to spend an evening with a man. A man who wanted nothing more to do with her, who hadn’t even wanted her enough in the first place.
‘Abigail,’ Andrew said in a voice of strained patience. ‘We have worked very hard to get where we are now. We’ve guarded your reputation, nurtured it as a woman of singular devotion and talent.’
Abby didn’t miss the use of the plural pronoun ‘we’. Everything she’d done, her father felt he’d done. It had always been so. Her career was a joint enterprise, and her father had just as much, or perhaps far more, invested in it as she did. He felt any rumour or speculation, any threat, keenly.
Yet he didn’t feel the betrayal of last night.
Only she felt that.
Abby turned back to the window and gazed once more at the bleak boulevard. A light, misting drizzle had begun to fall once more. She stiffened in surprise when she felt her father’s hand on her shoulder.
‘Abby—whatever happened last night…’ Her father trailed off, and Abby knew that was the best he could manage. It was his brand of sympathy, and from somewhere she dredged up a smile.
‘It’s all right.’
‘You’ll just have to play your heart out tonight,’ Andrew continued briskly. ‘A stellar performance erases all sins.’
Sins. An apt word, Abby thought, and somehow she managed to nod, as if she were agreeing with him.
She didn’t play her heart out that night; perhaps she had no more heart. She felt cold and numb, and in fact she didn’t play very well at all. She stumbled during the Apassionata badly enough for people to notice, and she heard the collective little gasp. She didn’t even care. She continued playing, vaguely aware that the music was as flat as her feelings, her heart. Numb, lifeless.
At the intermission her father, waiting in the wings, tensely told her to relax. Abby could see the worry in his eyes, and she wondered if it was for herself or her career. Had there been any self? she wondered now, gazing in the mirror at her own pale, drawn face. Or had there simply been the music?
Always the music, her father’s joy and passion. But had it been hers? For the first time in twenty-four years, Abby felt like answering ‘no’, and the realization made a wave of fresh sorrow break over her and recede so that only the numbness was left.
The second half of the concert was as listless and unfocused as the first. No one came back with the requests for autographs her father would deny; no one came back at all. Perhaps they were confused. Perhaps they didn’t care.
In any case, Abby and her father remained alone backstage, Abby changing while her father paced outside her dressing room, talking tersely on his mobile to her agent.
‘Isn’t the saying “no publicity is bad publicity”? I know , Randall, but this will pass…We have six concerts left on this tour…She can do it.’
But I can’t do it , Abby thought suddenly as she stared in the mirror and listened to her father’s increasingly desperate pleas. And, even if I could, I don’t want to. For twenty-four years she’d lived for the music. Now she wanted to live for herself.
When Abby came out of the dressing room, Andrew was slipping the phone into his pocket. He gave her a tired smile. ‘I know tonight wasn’t the best we’ve ever played, Abby, but we have a couple of days until we need to be in
‘Why should it mean anything to my career?’ she askednow, although the question had little interest for her. At that moment, her career hardly mattered.
‘It doesn’t help your image to be known as a party girl,’ Andrew said after a moment.
‘A party girl?’ Abby turned around. ‘A party girl? ’ she repeated in disbelief. Her life was so far from that—from either the party or the girl. She’d never done anything, anything that earned such a statement, such a judgement…until last night.
Last night she’d thrown everything to the winds—her reputation, her career, her life—in order to spend an evening with a man. A man who wanted nothing more to do with her, who hadn’t even wanted her enough in the first place.
‘Abigail,’ Andrew said in a voice of strained patience. ‘We have worked very hard to get where we are now. We’ve guarded your reputation, nurtured it as a woman of singular devotion and talent.’
Abby didn’t miss the use of the plural pronoun ‘we’. Everything she’d done, her father felt he’d done. It had always been so. Her career was a joint enterprise, and her father had just as much, or perhaps far more, invested in it as she did. He felt any rumour or speculation, any threat, keenly.
Yet he didn’t feel the betrayal of last night.
Only she felt that.
Abby turned back to the window and gazed once more at the bleak boulevard. A light, misting drizzle had begun to fall once more. She stiffened in surprise when she felt her father’s hand on her shoulder.
‘Abby—whatever happened last night…’ Her father trailed off, and Abby knew that was the best he could manage. It was his brand of sympathy, and from somewhere she dredged up a smile.
‘It’s all right.’
‘You’ll just have to play your heart out tonight,’ Andrew continued briskly. ‘A stellar performance erases all sins.’
Sins. An apt word, Abby thought, and somehow she managed to nod, as if she were agreeing with him.
She didn’t play her heart out that night; perhaps she had no more heart. She felt cold and numb, and in fact she didn’t play very well at all. She stumbled during the Apassionata badly enough for people to notice, and she heard the collective little gasp. She didn’t even care. She continued playing, vaguely aware that the music was as flat as her feelings, her heart. Numb, lifeless.
At the intermission her father, waiting in the wings, tensely told her to relax. Abby could see the worry in his eyes, and she wondered if it was for herself or her career. Had there been any self? she wondered now, gazing in the mirror at her own pale, drawn face. Or had there simply been the music?
Always the music, her father’s joy and passion. But had it been hers? For the first time in twenty-four years, Abby felt like answering ‘no’, and the realization made a wave of fresh sorrow break over her and recede so that only the numbness was left.
The second half of the concert was as listless and unfocused as the first. No one came back with the requests for autographs her father would deny; no one came back at all. Perhaps they were confused. Perhaps they didn’t care.
In any case, Abby and her father remained alone backstage, Abby changing while her father paced outside her dressing room, talking tersely on his mobile to her agent.
‘Isn’t the saying “no publicity is bad publicity”? I know , Randall, but this will pass…We have six concerts left on this tour…She can do it.’
But I can’t do it , Abby thought suddenly as she stared in the mirror and listened to her father’s increasingly desperate pleas. And, even if I could, I don’t want to. For twenty-four years she’d lived for the music. Now she wanted to live for herself.
When Abby came out of the dressing room, Andrew was slipping the phone into his pocket. He gave her a tired smile. ‘I know tonight wasn’t the best we’ve ever played, Abby, but we have a couple of days until we need to be in
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