fourth note, then more slowly with
the accent coming on the second note.
As she sang Tara understood in a
moment why Xavier had this power over orchestras. Watching his moving,
mesmerising finger she had the growing sensation that a steel belt had been
placed around her waist, a slightly flexible steel belt which allowed her to be
held on the point of that finger, making it impossible for her singing to
deviate more than the tiniest fraction within the sparse amount of liberty he
was permitting.
The sensation of intense control
brought an equally intense excitement. She found herself wanting to be free and
at the same time longing to be held more firmly.
She wondered if Bruno felt the
same, but they were not able to compare notes as Bruno gratefully accepted
Xavier’s offer of a lift back to London, anxious to make preparations for his
nine o’clock tutorial the next morning.
Tara accompanied the two men out
into the road, where she embraced Bruno lovingly. As she listened to the high
whine of the Porsche’s engine accelerating into the distance she let her
fingers move over the stiff white card which Xavier had unobtrusively placed in
her hand as he stepped outside the door. She considered tearing it up without
even looking to see what it said.
Having dropped the younger man
off at his college, Xavier turned his car towards home and Georgiana.
He felt deeply satisfied. He had
done the young man a good turn: the meeting which had been set up with the
timpanist at the Tudor would most likely turn out favourably, and anyway the
young man had a career in law all mapped out. Xavier need not concern himself
with him further.
It was that small fireball of
green-eyed rebellion which interested him.
Ah yes, there was much to be
mulled over in respect of that feisty nymph; delightful manoeuvres to
contemplate. And he judged he had already set the ball rolling very nicely.
As he navigated the night-time
streets of London he felt himself energized and revitalised, his spirits
surging with a sense of anticipatory exhilaration which he had begun to despair
of ever recapturing.
CHAPTER
6
Georgiana lay on the chaise
longue, her body and limbs tension free as she looked out of the window of her
therapist’s consulting room to the line of cherry trees beyond. Their few
remaining leaves had turned to vivid lime gold.
‘I had such a beautiful sleep
last night,’ she told him. ‘Ten whole hours. There were no dreams, just perfect
peace. It was the kind of sleep I used to have when I was a child.’
Dr Denton – MBChb, Member of the
Institute of Psychoanalysis – who was sitting just behind her head, made no
immediate response, giving Georgiana the time to reflect on her statement, the
opportunity to make some analysis of her own – even though he seriously doubted
her capacity to do so. His eyes rested on her narrow feet and her gazelle-slim
ankles before moving slowly over her body, alluringly draped in a cunningly
fitting dress of some soft jersey fabric which clung to every contour.
After a short interval of silence
he asked, ‘You have not slept like that since you were a child?’
Her eyes stared unseeingly ahead.
Ignoring the question she continued with her own thoughts. ‘After I lost the
baby I had these terrible nightmares. They were full of blood and pain –
ghastly, horrible. I used to force myself to like awake so they wouldn’t come
again.
Yes, she had told him that
before. She had been coming to him for some weeks now, at first once a week and
now twice. She raked constantly over the ashes of her miscarriage. In fact she
was reluctant to talk of much else. He had to admit that he was not making much
progress with her. But it was early days yet. There was time – weeks and months
of it stretching ahead. And the prospect of sitting quietly just out of her
view, with all the freedom in the world to let his eyes linger over her
delicious person was distinctly pleasing.
‘Tell me about
the accent coming on the second note.
As she sang Tara understood in a
moment why Xavier had this power over orchestras. Watching his moving,
mesmerising finger she had the growing sensation that a steel belt had been
placed around her waist, a slightly flexible steel belt which allowed her to be
held on the point of that finger, making it impossible for her singing to
deviate more than the tiniest fraction within the sparse amount of liberty he
was permitting.
The sensation of intense control
brought an equally intense excitement. She found herself wanting to be free and
at the same time longing to be held more firmly.
She wondered if Bruno felt the
same, but they were not able to compare notes as Bruno gratefully accepted
Xavier’s offer of a lift back to London, anxious to make preparations for his
nine o’clock tutorial the next morning.
Tara accompanied the two men out
into the road, where she embraced Bruno lovingly. As she listened to the high
whine of the Porsche’s engine accelerating into the distance she let her
fingers move over the stiff white card which Xavier had unobtrusively placed in
her hand as he stepped outside the door. She considered tearing it up without
even looking to see what it said.
Having dropped the younger man
off at his college, Xavier turned his car towards home and Georgiana.
He felt deeply satisfied. He had
done the young man a good turn: the meeting which had been set up with the
timpanist at the Tudor would most likely turn out favourably, and anyway the
young man had a career in law all mapped out. Xavier need not concern himself
with him further.
It was that small fireball of
green-eyed rebellion which interested him.
Ah yes, there was much to be
mulled over in respect of that feisty nymph; delightful manoeuvres to
contemplate. And he judged he had already set the ball rolling very nicely.
As he navigated the night-time
streets of London he felt himself energized and revitalised, his spirits
surging with a sense of anticipatory exhilaration which he had begun to despair
of ever recapturing.
CHAPTER
6
Georgiana lay on the chaise
longue, her body and limbs tension free as she looked out of the window of her
therapist’s consulting room to the line of cherry trees beyond. Their few
remaining leaves had turned to vivid lime gold.
‘I had such a beautiful sleep
last night,’ she told him. ‘Ten whole hours. There were no dreams, just perfect
peace. It was the kind of sleep I used to have when I was a child.’
Dr Denton – MBChb, Member of the
Institute of Psychoanalysis – who was sitting just behind her head, made no
immediate response, giving Georgiana the time to reflect on her statement, the
opportunity to make some analysis of her own – even though he seriously doubted
her capacity to do so. His eyes rested on her narrow feet and her gazelle-slim
ankles before moving slowly over her body, alluringly draped in a cunningly
fitting dress of some soft jersey fabric which clung to every contour.
After a short interval of silence
he asked, ‘You have not slept like that since you were a child?’
Her eyes stared unseeingly ahead.
Ignoring the question she continued with her own thoughts. ‘After I lost the
baby I had these terrible nightmares. They were full of blood and pain –
ghastly, horrible. I used to force myself to like awake so they wouldn’t come
again.
Yes, she had told him that
before. She had been coming to him for some weeks now, at first once a week and
now twice. She raked constantly over the ashes of her miscarriage. In fact she
was reluctant to talk of much else. He had to admit that he was not making much
progress with her. But it was early days yet. There was time – weeks and months
of it stretching ahead. And the prospect of sitting quietly just out of her
view, with all the freedom in the world to let his eyes linger over her
delicious person was distinctly pleasing.
‘Tell me about
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