Preludes, page 15
“I don’t want to bore you with the details, but, well, I am not quite myself these days. You see, I was engaged to be married to a wonderful woman. At least, I thought she was wonderful. She was Italian, but had studied in Australia and had perfect English. She was beautiful, intelligent. She was my muse. Was she not lovely, Frederico?”
Fred murmured his agreement. “Indeed. Claudia was very attractive.”
“And smart and witty, and so funny.” Ben gave a great sigh that all but echoed off the coffee shop’s high ceilings. “She travelled with me for some of my assignments, where it was safe. She was everything to me.” He lapsed into silence. Anne could all but see the grey fog gather around his head.
She had to ask. “What happened?”
Another deep, shuddering sigh. “We were engaged to be married, as I said. Everything seemed perfect. Then I accepted a commission for a story in central Africa. It was riskier than anything I had done before, and I told Claudia I wasn’t comfortable with her joining me. She was an artist. I do have a thing for artists, I admit. She could work anywhere, and she begged to come along, but in the end I refused. I could not risk her safety. And so off I went.” The grey clouds above his head intensified with his long sigh.
“But while I was chasing my story, it turned out that she was chasing some new fellow who came into her gallery one day. And when I got back, she had moved out.”
“You poor man. Did you have no idea?”
Ben slumped. “Not the foggiest clue. Her emails were all normal. When we talked, she sounded absolutely like always, right up until the last week. Then she was always out when I called, or busy. I came home to an empty flat and a Dear Ben note.”
Anne tutted and consoled. She really did feel for the Englishman. At least she had some sort of warning when Fred had left so cruelly all those years ago. Ben, on the other hand, had been completely blindsided. As she cooed her empathetic words, she felt Ben warm to her more and more. “And when did this all happen?” she asked at last. “Was it recent?”
“Last spring.” She had to strain to hear the words he all but whispered. “April. Before Frederico left. He was the one true friend I had, and he left, just like Claudia did.”
“Now Ben, that is not quite fair. You seemed to be doing alright.”
“Grief follows no schedule. I pushed through the initial devastation, but after you abandoned me and all Rome, the pain grew greater and greater.” He glanced up as if realising he had an audience. “I do apologise, Anne. I’m baring my soul here and we have hardly met. Forgive me.”
Fred leaned close to Anne to explain, sotto voce, “When I returned to Rome last month to finalise my move, I had quite the shock. I got back to find Ben sleeping on the floor in my empty flat. There was no furniture, just a mattress and an old carpet that I needed to dispose of. He hadn’t showered or eaten in a week. That’s why I stayed so long. I would have come back sooner, but, well, I needed to get him straightened up a bit.”
“I should curse you, Frederico. You should have let me die.”
“Not in that flat! Can you imagine the clean-up fee I would have had to pay? No, Annie, instead of letting him die on my lovely old carpet, I brought him here with me instead.”
“So now I can die on your new carpet.” The hair flopped back over his face, and this time he left it. “Still, this is my first visit to Canada. It’s rather nice. Perhaps it was worth living for.”
“I’m glad to hear it.” Anne reached out to put a hand on Ben’s arm. “I know how painful a heartbreak can be.” She kept her eyes away from Fred. “Time, they say, heals all wounds. Or,” now she could not help but dart a glance to the dark-haired man at her side, “it at least softens them. I hope that it won’t be too long before life is worth living again.”
Ben glanced at her hand, then picked it up with his free one and kissed the back like some gentleman in an old movie. “Thank you. Frederico has spoken of your kindness and empathy. He was not wrong. You are a gentle spirit. Perhaps, if I ever write poetry again, you will inspire my first words.”
She felt, rather than saw, Fred stiffen in his seat beside her.
“Er, thank you.” I think. A pause. “What do you think of Toronto?”
From here, the conversation became lighter. Ben spoke about the things he had seen and the places he still wished to visit. “Niagara Falls, of course, because it is one of those places a person should see if he can possibly manage it. And parts of the city I have heard people talk of. Chinatown—you have three? Remarkable!—and Little India. I thought London was cosmopolitan, but this place is a veritable kaleidoscope. And of course, I would like to see a lot of nothing. Those tracts of empty land of which we have so little in Europe, where there are no villages and no farms and no people, only trees and rivers and wilderness.”
“You will have to travel some distance for that. It’s pretty built up around the city. But if you can rent a car, you should head north to Algonquin Park. It’s only a three-hour drive or so.” Ben snorted out a laugh. “There you can see all trees and lakes and rivers you like, and it’s quite unspoiled. For something a bit closer, and especially if you are an art lover, the McMichael gallery is lovely.
“But if you are a poet, I think you would enjoy some of the material I’ve been working with. I recently completed a commission for choir, and the text I was setting recalled exactly that. Have you heard of Pauline Johnson? Here, let me find some of her poetry. Her words sing to me.” Anne reached into her tote bag to retrieve her tablet, and soon the three were reading the beautiful words that transported them to a time long ago, to a world that had disappeared and yet that was timeless.
Three cups of tea later, they were still engrossed in their conversation when Fred sat upright with a start. “My goodness! The time.” He gestured to his watch. “I have an appointment this evening.” A date with Louisa? What else could it be? “I need to get going. Ben? Coming?”
But his friend shook his shaggy head, that curtain of hair flopping over his face. “If the lovely Anne has no objections, I’ll stay here to talk some more. Or, perhaps, you know of another place we might converse about poetry and nature.” He turned to his friend. “I can find my way back to the flat. You gave me a key. I’ll be alright.”
Fred’s eyes narrowed, and his jaw went tight, but he nodded his acquiescence.
“Okay. Have fun.”
But his glance all but screamed, but not too much fun.
Chapter Sixteen
Concertante
The first performance of the new season was now at hand, and Anne’s Preludes was to open the program.
She had enjoyed her time at rehearsals. Fred’s acclaim as a conductor was not exaggerated. His time in Europe, Anne had to admit, had been very well spent. He had a deft hand with the orchestra, coaxing as much as commanding, and the group had never sounded better. The musicians were all world-class individually. Together, under Frederico Valore’s baton, they were exceptional. When added to his sensitive and nuanced understanding of the music, the result was pure magic. Even Beethoven’s workhorse, the Fifth Symphony, sounded fresh and new, while remaining true to Classical sensibilities.
She had attended all the rehearsals, and twice more had joined Fred and Ben afterwards for tea and sympathy. Ben was ever the gloomy Gus in the room, but Anne had started to think his melancholy was now more a habit than a genuine despair. He was talking about renting a car to see Algonquin Park, and once or twice his eyes almost shone with excitement.
“How long will you be here?” Anne asked. “If you stay a few more weeks, you might time your trip to see the fall colours.”
“Ah, those glorious hues of autumn that I hear so very much about.
October’s orchestra plays softly on
The northern forest with its thousand strings,
And Autumn, the conductor wields anon
The Golden-rod—The baton that he swings.
“Indeed, Anne, I have been making a study of Ms. Johnson’s lyrical poetry. She does sing. I have six months of leisure here before I need to return to the ruins of my life. I’ve let my place in Rome as a holiday rental, so I suppose I shall have to return to my parents in Yorkshire. But I have until February to make that move, by which time, so Frederico tells me, I shall have had my fill of Canadian winter weather and shall be most happy to go back. Is it that dreadful? One hears tales.”
“Our winters are… enjoyed by some.” That was the best Anne could manage. “If you like skiing or skating, there is a lot to do. But you will certainly be here when the leaves change colour, and that is always lovely. I’m sure there’s an app that will suggest the best times to see them.”
And through it all Fred had sat as silent as an old oak, and as disapproving.
William Barnett had also attended a couple of the rehearsals. He found his way through the rows of seats to take his place next to Anne. He was the perfect companion; he knew when to whisper his comments and when to remain silent, and his opinion, when he voiced it, was informed and relevant.
With the coming of September, his calendar had filled up, and he was often busy in the evenings with meetings and business matters, and he had only called Anne once to see if she was free. That was the night, it turned out, that she had already accepted an invitation to Sophia and Jeremy’s place for dinner. These quick and quiet chats, therefore, were all the time they had to spend together for the next while.
“After this concert, maybe we can find a day when you have some time,” he whispered as the orchestra tuned after their break one day. “The Island should be lovely these days. Perhaps we can take the cameras.” He had left this invitation hanging, and while Anne had agreed to the idea, they had yet to settle on a date. For some reason, she had never mentioned the post-rehearsal tea times with Ben and Fred to William; somehow, these little gatherings that tended to extend past tea-time and into dinner somewhere seemed so separate from whatever she had going on with William that she didn’t even think to say anything.
Dinner with Fred and Benjamin, coffee with Jasmine, photography with William, and whatever Sophia had planned, these filled her calendar. For someone who had been all but a hermit for eight years, she was now quite the busiest person she knew. The thought amused her.
At last, it was opening night. There was a reception after the performance for the orchestra and a select group of donors, and Anne was expected to attend. William called the day before asking if he could accompany her, and Ben sent her a text that afternoon saying he would be there as a guest and that he was looking forward to seeing her. Sophia and Jeremy would attend, of course. The only friend who was missing was Jasmine. Anne had another coffee date planned with her in a couple of days to go over the whole event.
The concert itself was wonderful. The orchestra was in top form, the music note-perfect, bringing Fred’s interpretation of the pieces to full glorious life. Anne was pushed up onto the stage at the end of Preludes to take her bow before the raving audience. Waves of applause filled the cavernous space of the theatre, growing even louder and more insistent as she dipped her head and accepted a huge bouquet of flowers from a little girl in a sparkling party dress—the daughter of one the musicians, she presumed.
Calls of Bravo and Encore floated on top of the acclaim and it was several minutes before the audience fell quiet enough for the concert to continue with the Beethoven symphony. Thank heavens Anne had decided on her black dress tonight. From the heat in her face, she must be so red that had she worn the green, she would look like a Christmas tree!
Sophia came to rescue her at intermission, standing sentinel between Anne and the adoring masses who hovered about in hopes of conversing with the great composer. Anne almost feared that someone would try to rub her head for luck, but her friend was an admirable bodyguard. Then came the second half of the program—the Holst—during which she could relax and enjoy the performance, and then, the reception.
The space was crowded. The audience had all departed, leaving only the invited guests to mingle with the orchestra members and staff. White-aproned servers snaked between clusters of chatting donors, bearing trays of nibbles and sweets and glasses of sparkling wine. Coffee and tea flowed from urns set out along a long table by one wall, and the lights of the city twinkled through the glass walls of the reception area in the concert hall.
Anne could not see Fred, but she knew where he was. He was in the middle of a crowd of devotees, hidden from view but nonetheless the star of the evening. Ben was there, standing by himself, just a bit apart from the gaggle of admirers. He had done something with his hair that kept it off his face, and he wore a smart-looking black t-shirt of sorts (was it silk?) under a tailored Italian-styled suit. The look was not formal, but it was very smart and it made his unremarkable face almost handsome.
He held himself very still, all but motionless, with his hands in his trouser pockets and only occasionally shuffling his feet. Anne felt the urge to move to his side to introduce him around, so he wasn’t all alone.
Her eyes scanned the space again. There, to the other side of the galaxy of fans, stood Louisa, her midnight-blue hair blending well with the black dress that was her orchestra outfit. She glared at the mob surrounding Fred, eyes narrow and jaw tight. She was not pleased at what she saw. But really, Anne thought as she rolled her eyes and then hoped no one had seen her, what did Louisa expect? If you travel next to a star, expect to be outshone from time to time.
Her own little circle of admirers had dissolved with the latest offering from the waiters, and she started to move towards Ben.
“There you are!” William’s voice stopped her. She had glimpsed him a while back, when the guests first started to fill the space, but he had been talking to one of the donors and she had not spoken to him since they had arrived at the theatre earlier. He was a busy man, it seemed, always being called over to meet this person and to greet that one, and generally to schmooze. It was part of his role on the board, Anne supposed. She would have been pleased to have someone at her side through all the socialising so as not to feel so much like a spare wheel or an exhibit at a zoo, but she did not require his company specifically.
Still, here he was, apologising for neglecting her and hoping she was enjoying the reception. “Come,” he took her by the elbow with a manicured hand. “You really must meet the Harvilles. They’re old money and have been big donors to the orchestra. Rochelle, in particular, is a huge music lover.” He guided her over to where a pleasant-looking couple stood. They looked to be in their fifties, beautifully dressed in understated fashions, and very well preserved.
“Dr. Elliot,” Rochelle Harville shook Anne’s hand as William performed the introductions. “I am so delighted. I didn’t want to presume by coming over to talk to you uninvited, but now that you’re here, let me gush for a moment.” She did just that, but in so genial a manner that Anne hardly minded it at all. As Rochelle poured out her admiration for Preludes and The Butterfly’s Kiss, Anne heard William talking to Gregory Harville about some real estate, presumably the development up north, or the one in the Caribbean. Oh well, better to be discussing music with this sophisticated woman than trying to make more sense of property development at an orchestra reception.
By now, of course, any thoughts of speaking to Ben James were long since set aside. He would have to make his way through the evening alone. She glanced over to where he had been standing. He was still there, but he was no longer by himself. Louisa, the horn player, had made her way to his side, and the two stood chatting. That was a relief. For some reason, Anne felt responsible for the Englishman, and seeing him engaged like this was a relief, a burden lifted from her.
Before she turned back to Rochelle, however, another sight snared her attention. Fred had emerged from the centre of his nebula of admirers and stood there, a solitary figure, tall and still in the sea of whirling bodies. His eyes caught hers and his face went hard. What was he glowering at? Not the Harvilles, surely…
Then Anne realised that William’s hand was still on the back of her arm, a proprietary gesture. She is mine. As she looked over at Fred, William turned to her and whispered something. She didn’t hear what it was, but he laughed and, as an automatic response, she echoed his laughter. He leaned in closer to her and moved his hand from her elbow to her back. It was all perfectly innocent, all completely decent. But the storm clouds over Fred’s head intensified. Was this what her old lover disapproved of so greatly? Surely he wasn’t… jealous! The notion was laughable, and yet the scowl on Fred’s face was very real.
Before she could excuse herself to go and talk to him, he stiffened his jaw and turned away, stalking through the mist of guests in the direction of the bar. What was that all about?
The reception did not go on too late. It was a weeknight, after all, and many of the guests had work the following morning. William drove Anne home, talking all the while about the people he had met and the connections he had made. This world of constant networking was one which Anne abhorred. It was important, though, this she knew, and it was exactly why William was on the board of directors. It had been a long day and the excitement of the performance of her Preludes, then the stress of the reception, had caught up with her. Anne tried to respond to his monologue, but the words all washed through her mind without sticking long enough to make much sense.
“Wealthy donors… good connections… right sort of people… interest in my developments… support the arts…”
She plastered on a smile and tried to respond with appropriate enthusiasm and non-committal sounds, and William seemed not to notice. Still, she was most relieved when, after what seemed like far too long a drive, they arrived at her building. Never had that cold glass entrance looked so welcoming. The elevator, just past the lobby desk, beckoned to her, a warm invitation, a vertical passageway to long-desired solitude.
