Preludes, page 2
“Shep?” Sophia called to a forty-something man in a blazer and dark jeans and wielding an iPad and stylus. He spun around and Anne felt his eyes settle on her. Then, in a moment of recognition, he grinned.
“Dr. Elliot! I was hoping to meet you today. Shep Choi, from The Times-Tribune. I can’t get enough of your score from The Butterfly’s Kiss, and I was hoping to do an exclusive on you. Maybe a short series, two or three articles. Your past, your music, where you see yourself going from here. When you got this position as composer-in-residence, I convinced my editor, and he is as excited as I am. No, no, don’t decide now. Well, do decide now if the answer is yes. But perhaps we can talk sometime. Here’s my card. Oh… no pockets. No problem. I’ll email my contact info to Mrs. Croft here, and she can forward it to you.”
He dropped his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Tell me, did you really use ancient Chinese folk melodies for your thematic material in the battle scenes? My mother insists she knows that tune. She’s seen the movie four times, and she hates anything other than Hallmark movies.”
Anne forced a smile, quashing her discomfort at being so openly the object of interest and admiration. “Thank you,” she managed. Why hadn’t the floor swallowed her up yet? “Your mother has good ears. I searched through hundreds of traditional Chinese melodies before finding one that spoke both to the rich culture of the area where the battles occurred, as well as to Western musical expectations. I wanted to incorporate elements that would be true to, and respectful of, both traditions. I hope I succeeded.”
Shep had pressed the button on his tablet and was scribbling away with the stylus. “May I quote you on that?” He looked up with hopeful eyes. “I can keep it for the exposé… let me arrange a time for a first meeting. Okay? Fantastic. I look forward to it. My wife just can’t get enough of your Preludes. She is such a fan.”
It seemed Anne’s actual agreement was not quite necessary. She did not mind; publicity was part of the job, after all. But why did it all have to feel like a rogue bulldozer, relentless and completely unstoppable?
“Anything will have to go by the committee,” Sophia interjected. “If it relates to the orchestra…”
“Yes, of course, of course. Lovely to see you again, Mrs. Croft, and a real pleasure, Dr. Elliot. We’ll talk soon! Gotta get to the front of the crowd for when the speeches start. I see Mr. Croft already making his way to the front of the room.” And with a wink and a quick shake of the hand, the reporter was off, melting into the glittering crowd.
He was correct. The speeches soon began. First Jeremy Croft spoke in his role as president of the orchestra’s Board of Directors. Anne had always admired Jeremy, and not just as her friend’s husband. Jeremy was tall and handsome in a rough sort of way, not the sort of face you’d expect on a tireless supporter of classical music. But he wore a tuxedo as comfortably as most men wear jeans and he spoke with a passion and commitment that left few unmoved. He had been one of Anne’s biggest supporters when she first started her career. It was he who had encouraged her to apply for grants and loans to further her career; it was he who had reached deep into his Rolodex (no matter that it was all electronic these days) and given her the contact information for a friend in the movie industry. That email had ultimately resulted in her being chosen to write the score for The Butterfly’s Kiss, which had made her famous. And it was Jeremy who had proposed she apply for the newly created position of composer-in-residence for the National Philharmonic. He had, of course, taken a leave from his role over the months that the board interviewed and listened and considered applicants—their choice of Anne Elliot was not due to his influence—but it was no secret that he was her biggest fan. She loved him like a brother.
Now she watched him behind the podium, seducing the microphone, making love to the cameras. They loved him and he loved them.
He thanked the board, the executive team, and the press, and made a few opening remarks before continuing. “We are incredibly proud of the success our orchestra has seen these last few years. In an age when so many arts organisations are fighting for scarce resources and recognition, our innovative programming has enabled us to reach out to sections of the community that would not ordinarily find us, and the collaborative results have been astounding. The partnership with the Hip Hop Collective two years ago is still bearing fruit, with youngsters now coming to our concerts on a regular basis and our musicians working with rap artists in their new endeavours. And last year we announced our innovative new composer-in-residence program, which has brought rising star Anne Elliot into our midst.” Heads turned in her direction and a soft wave of applause interrupted Jeremy’s speech.
“You all know Anne, of course,” he beamed as he gazed across to where she stood. Beside her, Sophia gave an excited shimmy that sent her drop earrings dancing and her armful of bracelets jingling. “Anne is that rare, rare creature whose music has captured both the minds of the critics and the hearts of audiences everywhere. Her Preludes have garnered nothing but critical acclaim across the world, and last spring’s blockbuster hit The Butterfly’s Kiss has made her a household name. We are beyond delighted that she will be working with the orchestra for the next three years.
“And now we will add one more brilliant name to our roster. The reason we are all here today. I am beyond thrilled to announce that the National Philharmonic has engaged a new principal conductor. This man is young but not green. He has burned up the stages of Europe, where he has been living for the last eight years, and is adored by musicians and audiences alike. He has recorded over a dozen albums with some of the world’s finest orchestras, and his touring schedule is booked for the next ten years. But he is no stranger, because this is where he comes from, where he grew up. We are delighted to be bringing him back to his hometown. Ladies and gentlemen, our new principal conductor, local boy Frederico Valore!”
The room erupted into gasps and squeals and the hum took a long time to settle. Sophia was all but bouncing in her designer heels and calls of Bravo and Congratulations sounded from all around. Eventually, the buzz settled to a low murmur and Jeremy was able to speak again.
“And we have him with us today—in a way! Please direct your attention to the monitor in the corner,” he gestured to a large television screen that had been linked to an Internet feed. “Here he is, our star of the day, Maestro Valore himself, joining us remotely, all the way from Rome.”
The black square in the centre of the screen dissolved into a clear image, and at last Anne saw, for the first time in eight years, the face that had haunted her dreams every night since that awful day when he left her and broke her heart.
Chapter Three
Doloroso
Anne pulled the throw blanket around her shoulders and nuzzled the warm fleece for a moment with her cheek. The drizzles of late November had ripened into the sleet and snow of February, and there was nowhere she wished to be right now more than deep underneath this warm blanket, with endless hot cocoa at her side. She had even moved her electric kettle to the round table next to the couch and set up a portable desk, so she really never needed to move. At one hand, her mug and hot chocolate powder; at the other, her computer, music manuscript paper, and a selection of writing utensils. All was good with the world.
Damn. The phone. It was all the way across the room on the little table at her front door. She shrugged out of her warm cocoon and shuffled across the cold floor, hoping to get to it before the caller gave up. Then she would have to listen to a message and return a call, and these things filled her with dread.
“Hello?”
“Anne. Phyllis Russell here.”
“Professor Russell!” Anne slipped back beneath her warm throw. “How lovely to hear from you. How have you been?”
“Now, Anne, we have discussed this. It’s been six years since you were my student, and you are by far more famous than me now. Phyllis will do quite well.”
“Yes, er… I’ll try. Old habits.”
The older woman laughed, her alto voice ringing clearly through the mobile phone.
“I just saw the feature Shep Choi wrote about you in the Times-Tribune. Very nice. Very nice indeed. I’ve been meaning to call for a while now, and this made me pick up the phone.”
Of course. Professor Russell always hated technology. She even eschewed the new music notation programs, with all the wonderful bells and whistles that came with them, in favour of musty sheets of paper and a pencil. Still, her music was first rate, and she had been the finest composition teacher Anne had ever had. She had instilled a deep knowledge of the form and theory of music while never crushing Anne’s distinctive voice. She owed so much to this woman. A chat on the phone was a very small price to pay.
“It’s wonderful to hear your voice. And thanks. I was pleased with the article. We spent a great deal of time together, and I wondered what terrible secrets I might have let slip. He’s a nice man. I met his mother and his wife, and they even fed me. I could just imagine the headline: Local composer spills soup.”
She chuckled and Professor Russell laughed with her. “Well, soup or no soup, it was splendid. He clearly likes you a lot and knows his music.”
“He did his undergrad in music performance before switching to journalism. We got on well, even though I hate being interviewed.”
They spoke for a while about the article and other sundry matters: the weather, a planned trip to Spain, their old associates at the music department of the University, the latest popular novel.
Then Professor Russell cleared her throat.
Uh oh. She always did this when she was about to say something she thought Anne might not like.
“I couldn’t help but discover the news from the orchestra. I was in India learning Tabla when the announcement came out, as you know, but it was all over when I got back. Frederico… that’s… news.”
“Yes.” Suddenly, the blanket wasn’t so warm anymore.
“I never did understand what everybody saw in him. He seemed just another maestro-wannabe to me, more than adequate for some provincial orchestra somewhere, or a top community orchestra, but…” She paused. “The top stages of Europe? Does he really merit that? Is he that gifted a conductor? Or is it all about how the cameras love his face?”
Now the blanket was too warm.
“He is a very handsome man.”
“You did the right thing, Anne. If you had gone off with him, you would never have completed your doctorate. You’d never have finished your Preludes. They’re what made you famous.”
“I think…”
“Anne?”
“I might not have written Preludes, but I would have written something else.”
“Surely you don’t regret staying to finish your degree.”
Anne pulled the blanket back around her shoulders. “I don’t regret the degree, but I do have regrets. I made a mistake—we both made mistakes—and I’ve regretted it every day since he left.”
Over the next few weeks, the schedule for the orchestra’s coming season settled into some sort of shape. Frederico mainly dealt with the orchestra’s board of directors, but since he would, by the nature of their respective positions, work closely with Anne, she was often drawn into the meetings. Jeremy Croft, it transpired, knew Frederico well from his first years in Europe when Jeremy had been working with one of the German orchestras for a season, and the two were often found chatting on some video conferencing platform when Anne arrived. Sophia tended to stay out of orchestral management affairs, preferring the music to the politics, but announced over coffee one afternoon that she had joined in some of her husband’s chats with the new conductor and found him more charming than when she last had spoken to him. She referred to him often, Fred this and Fred that. “I knew him just a bit before he left,” she explained, “not so very well, but enough to chat at functions. He was so young then, but he’s really grown into himself.
“You knew him too, of course,” she smiled behind her latte. “I think I remember you two talking at a few events. Did you work much together? This was back when we had just met, you and I. I know you were in different fields, but the doctoral music program must be pretty small, right?”
So she didn’t know. This was a relief.
“Yeah, we knew each other.”
“Were you close?”
How to answer this? Anne took a deep drink of her tea while she scrambled for an answer.
“We all were, in different ways.”
“It must be so exciting to have him back. I wonder if he’s changed much in person. He’s a rather handsome man.”
Handsome was not the beginning of it. From that day of the press conference, when she had seen him for the first time in nearly a decade, his face was all that she saw when she closed her eyes. The years had taken some of the boyishness and left strong masculine lines in their place. But his dark eyes had lost none of their depth and sparkle, and his curly hair looked as thick and black as ever. Would it feel the same now as it did then? Would her fingers remember the spring of his curls as she touched them? Or had the passing of years taken those tactile memories from her, just as they had taken the light from her own eyes?
Sophia was staring at her. Right. It was her turn to speak.
“Yes, he is handsome. He always has been. He is not so different. I would have known him anywhere.” An ache began to grow in her heart. What had she lost?
She took another drink of her tea to disguise her distress. So many memories were lying buried, barricaded behind a wall she had constructed to keep them hidden and away. She could not weaken now. Like a dam holding back a mighty river, the slightest crack—the first recollection—would shatter the entire barricade and she would drown in the deluge.
“Anne?” Oh. Sophia was still speaking.
“Sorry. Daydreaming. I’ve been up late working on the last movement. It was so informative hearing the orchestra play through the first two movements last November; I’ve been reworking some of my ideas to take advantage of some particular strengths. The oboist is absolutely amazing…”
“You can tell me tomorrow night. Jeremy will want to hear it, too. This is what I was saying while you were in La-la-land a moment ago. Come for dinner tomorrow. It’s too long since you’ve been over and Jeremy was saying he hardly sees you outside of board meetings. Seven o’clock?”
“OK. Thanks. That will be nice.”
“And dress up a bit. We have a treat. Guess who else is coming. Frederico! Weren’t we both surprised when he called yesterday to let us know he was on his way. He flew in from Rome only this morning, and Jeremy is running around with him looking at apartments. Isn’t that wonderful?”
The teacup shook in Anne’s hand and the table swam out of focus. Was she about to faint?
Wonderful.
Shit.
Chapter Four
First Theme
He was there. Sitting in the large armchair, one leg thrown casually across the opposite knee, laughing at something Jeremy had said. Anne stood just behind the doorway leading into the sitting room, wanting to see but not to be seen. “Give me a moment,” she had mouthed to Sophia, who shrugged and went to put Anne’s coat and purse away.
Fred, not on the screen, not some dissociated image that she could pretend was no more real than a television character, but there. In person. Larger than life. Anne’s heart pounded and she wiped her damp palms over her thighs. Oh, God - had she stained her skirt? Her eyes flickered to the large mirror above the hall table. There was no colour in her face and the deep blue shirt she had chosen at home now made her look washed out, a black and white sketch in the midst of a rich oil painting. Even her lips, so carefully outlined and coloured in with lipstick, seemed wrong. And her low ponytail, which looked so elegant and understated in her own bedroom, now looked harsh and austere. Even her eyes seemed flat to her gaze. She was a shapeless, styleless mess. Not like him. Like Fred.
He had always dressed beautifully, and time overseas had honed his style. He was wearing slim charcoal trousers and a light turtleneck that shimmered gently like woven silk and he looked very European. If she had not known him, she would expect him to speak with an accent.
Italian, of course. His family was from somewhere near Florence and he had just come from a stint with one of Rome’s leading orchestras, and he spoke the language as fluently as if it were his native tongue. Which, of course, it was. It was the language he spoke with his parents and siblings at home. But he had been born here, in Toronto, and went to school and university here, and was as comfortable in a big modern North American city as he was in an ancient and tradition-steeped city in Europe. He was a man of two worlds. In this intimate setting, he would have to speak to her, but surely he had outgrown her. Her name might be known around the world, but with every new level of fame, she felt her own universe shrink, each new commission sending her further into her mind to coax out the music, pulling her further away from the greater world. For Fred, it was the opposite. Each step upwards for him propelled him further into the world. If she had gone with him, would she have expanded past her cocoon too? Would she have grown wings and learned to sip wine under a Parisian sky?
More memories. More regrets. She slammed the door on her thoughts.
“Anne, darling!” Jeremy glanced up and saw her. He rose from his seat to pull her into the room. “Come, come in. What are you standing there for? Come, you must meet… oh, but you know each other already, don’t you?”
Fred rose as Jeremy stepped out of the way, but his eyes were full of questions, not recognition. Oh God. He didn’t even recognise her. After all they had been to each other, and he didn’t even recognise her face. She tried to smile, to be friendly, and could tell the exact moment he realised who she was. Hadn’t they told him she was coming tonight?
