face a wasteland of emotional wounds.
Xavier, standing silently in the
doorway, stepped forward and took Tara by the arm. ‘Stop it,’ he told her
softly.
He guided her through into the
sitting room where Tara shook him off and swore under her breath.
‘I want to howl,’ she said. ‘I
want to roar and sob and moan. Right from here.’ She thumped the base of her
stomach.
Hr looked down at her, his eyes
stripped of any readable feeling. ‘Go on then. Initiate a flood. It will
prevent years of painful and futile leaking in the future.’
Even in her rage, Tara saw the
sense in his words. But she had no intention of weeping at his command. ‘Not
here, not now,’ she said coldly.
‘Whilst I’m here?’
‘Yes.’ Tara glared fiercely up at
him.
Xavier, who was invariably
attracted to cool slender blondes, felt a primitive blast of sexual heat
radiating from this small, volatile elf who had eyes like peridots and breasts
as round and firm as peaches.
He stared down at her, commanding
his face to be blank. She would think he scorned her; that he held only
contempt for a young woman who was indulging in a small temper tantrum at her
father’s funeral. Turning away from her he walked over to the fine Bechstein
upright piano that had originally belonged to Tara’s grandfather. Its inlaid
walnut top was submerged under a mass of flowers – gifts of condolence, still
in their cellophane wrappings. Beside them was the battered case in which lay
her father’s latest, most precious, violin. Idly Xavier tapped his fingers on
the battered leather. Slowly he opened the case, took out the instrument and
stroked its gleaming belly thoughtfully.
‘He never made it to a
Stradivarius or a Guarneri,’ Tara remarked bitterly.
Xavier plucked the strings. ‘This
is a very close relation. A most beautiful instrument. Your father was an
excellent player, a true and loyal servant of music.’
‘He played his guts out in that
orchestra,’ Tara said angrily.
Xavier raised his eyebrows. ‘Many
players do. That is what they choose.’
‘They get paid peanuts, slaving
away day after day in rehearsals, night after night at concerts. And what do
you do? Stand in front of them waving a stick, then pick up your great fat fee
and fly off to some far flung corner of the world to bully the next lot of poor
suckers.’
Tara felt enormously pleased to
have got that off her chest. She bitterly resented Xavier’s continued presence.
He should have pushed off with the rest of the guests – or whatever you called
people at a funeral bash. Did he truly believe he was above ordinary human
conventions, that he had no need to observe the social niceties on these
occasions? Scrutinizing his carved aristocratic features she was certain that
he imagined himself to exist in some sort of atmosphere far above ordinary
mortals, breathing rarefied air.
‘The cost of you car would
probably represent double his annual salary,’ Tara continued, unstoppable,
vaguely remembering fragments from a debate in the student’s union concerning
the uneven distribution of wealth in Britain. ‘Whilst my mother will probably
have to sell his violin to cover the costs of this funeral and make ends meet.’
‘Not at all,’ her mother said,
coming into the room and regarding her angry daughter with long-suffering
resignation. ‘Your father left that to you. I shall never sell it, and neither
will you.’
‘If it’s mine then I can do what
I like with it,’ Tara fumed. ‘I’ll sell it and give you the money. And then
I’ll be free.’
‘From what?’
‘Trying to be something I’ll
never be. Never being good enough.’
‘Tara, what is all this about?’
Rachel asked in genuine bewilderment.
‘I don’t know.’ Tara fell silent.
Her throat filled with remorse and grief.
‘So – Richard’s daughter is not
only a singer,’ Xavier commented, looking interested. ‘I meant to compliment
you on your singing in church by the way,’ he told
Xavier, standing silently in the
doorway, stepped forward and took Tara by the arm. ‘Stop it,’ he told her
softly.
He guided her through into the
sitting room where Tara shook him off and swore under her breath.
‘I want to howl,’ she said. ‘I
want to roar and sob and moan. Right from here.’ She thumped the base of her
stomach.
Hr looked down at her, his eyes
stripped of any readable feeling. ‘Go on then. Initiate a flood. It will
prevent years of painful and futile leaking in the future.’
Even in her rage, Tara saw the
sense in his words. But she had no intention of weeping at his command. ‘Not
here, not now,’ she said coldly.
‘Whilst I’m here?’
‘Yes.’ Tara glared fiercely up at
him.
Xavier, who was invariably
attracted to cool slender blondes, felt a primitive blast of sexual heat
radiating from this small, volatile elf who had eyes like peridots and breasts
as round and firm as peaches.
He stared down at her, commanding
his face to be blank. She would think he scorned her; that he held only
contempt for a young woman who was indulging in a small temper tantrum at her
father’s funeral. Turning away from her he walked over to the fine Bechstein
upright piano that had originally belonged to Tara’s grandfather. Its inlaid
walnut top was submerged under a mass of flowers – gifts of condolence, still
in their cellophane wrappings. Beside them was the battered case in which lay
her father’s latest, most precious, violin. Idly Xavier tapped his fingers on
the battered leather. Slowly he opened the case, took out the instrument and
stroked its gleaming belly thoughtfully.
‘He never made it to a
Stradivarius or a Guarneri,’ Tara remarked bitterly.
Xavier plucked the strings. ‘This
is a very close relation. A most beautiful instrument. Your father was an
excellent player, a true and loyal servant of music.’
‘He played his guts out in that
orchestra,’ Tara said angrily.
Xavier raised his eyebrows. ‘Many
players do. That is what they choose.’
‘They get paid peanuts, slaving
away day after day in rehearsals, night after night at concerts. And what do
you do? Stand in front of them waving a stick, then pick up your great fat fee
and fly off to some far flung corner of the world to bully the next lot of poor
suckers.’
Tara felt enormously pleased to
have got that off her chest. She bitterly resented Xavier’s continued presence.
He should have pushed off with the rest of the guests – or whatever you called
people at a funeral bash. Did he truly believe he was above ordinary human
conventions, that he had no need to observe the social niceties on these
occasions? Scrutinizing his carved aristocratic features she was certain that
he imagined himself to exist in some sort of atmosphere far above ordinary
mortals, breathing rarefied air.
‘The cost of you car would
probably represent double his annual salary,’ Tara continued, unstoppable,
vaguely remembering fragments from a debate in the student’s union concerning
the uneven distribution of wealth in Britain. ‘Whilst my mother will probably
have to sell his violin to cover the costs of this funeral and make ends meet.’
‘Not at all,’ her mother said,
coming into the room and regarding her angry daughter with long-suffering
resignation. ‘Your father left that to you. I shall never sell it, and neither
will you.’
‘If it’s mine then I can do what
I like with it,’ Tara fumed. ‘I’ll sell it and give you the money. And then
I’ll be free.’
‘From what?’
‘Trying to be something I’ll
never be. Never being good enough.’
‘Tara, what is all this about?’
Rachel asked in genuine bewilderment.
‘I don’t know.’ Tara fell silent.
Her throat filled with remorse and grief.
‘So – Richard’s daughter is not
only a singer,’ Xavier commented, looking interested. ‘I meant to compliment
you on your singing in church by the way,’ he told
Similar Books
