Rags to Riches. Nancy Carson
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Название: Rags to Riches
Автор: Nancy Carson
Издательство: HarperCollins
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
isbn: 9780008134839
isbn:
‘He just told me he doesn’t want to see me anymore. He wants to be free to chase other women. Women who’ll let him have his wicked way…He says I’m a cold fish.’
‘Sounds to me like he’s already found another woman, Maxine,’ Will said, looking up from his labours. ‘Sorry to sound so cynical, but I bet it’s true. Otherwise there’d be no point in giving you up, would there? Not till he’d actually found somebody…Just you think about it.’
‘Gosh, Will. Do you think so?’
‘It stands to reason.’
‘The rotter! And he reckons he’s been working hard trying to get his new business off the ground. I bet all the time he’s been off with somebody else.’
‘The crafty monkey,’ Henzey said.
‘The dirty devil,’ Maxine concurred.
‘He’s a dark horse, our Maxine. I always had him marked down as a dark horse. Are you very upset?’
‘I’m surprised more than anything. And disappointed. I’m not upset particularly.’
‘Oh, it’s a terrible thing, infidelity,’ Will remarked. ‘Emotional incontinence, that’s what it is. Anybody who embarks on the ship of infidelity deserves to go down with it.’
Henzey looked up at Will. ‘That’s a bit profound,’ she remarked.
‘It’s true, though, Henzey,’ Maxine said. ‘A sign of moral weakness, isn’t it, Will? I could never do that to anybody. I might think about it, but when it came right down to it, I couldn’t do it. I know I couldn’t.’
‘I’ve seen so many people come to grief over their infidelity,’ Will said. ‘At least you’re not married, Maxine. At least you don’t have the prospect of a ruined marriage ahead of you…Children…Divorce. Thank your lucky stars for that.’
‘But only a few weeks ago he was asking me – begging me to marry him.’
‘Fickle,’ Will said, with great scorn. ‘I’ve got no time for fickle folk. Good job you found out about him now and not later.’
‘I bet the kettle’s boiling,’ Henzey said, getting up from the sofa where she had been wrapping oddments. ‘I’ll go and make the tea. Then I’m off to bed. We have to be up early in the morning.’
‘What are the arrangements for tomorrow, Henzey?’ Maxine enquired. ‘Do you want me to come with you first thing, to help you put the curtains up and that?’
‘No, no,’ Henzey replied. ‘I can cope. I want you to stay here and keep an eye on Aldo while Will takes me to the new house first. I can hang the new curtains and do a last clear up before you and the removal van arrive.’
Maxine listened in awe to Boris Szewinska, the solo violinist who was appearing with the CBO, and his impassioned interpretation of Brahms’s Violin Concerto. In parts she and her cello were unoccupied, and in these quieter moments she marvelled at the soloist’s dexterity. Some of those passages seemed impossible, yet he not only played them with apparent ease, but also eked out emotions that sent shivers up and down her spine. Such fervent emotion. Such staccato fire. And yet, such poignant tenderness. If only she could play like that. If only she could summon passion profound enough to enable her to play like that.
Maxine had been mulling over Stephen’s ditching her a fortnight ago in favour, obviously, of another girl. Why had she been unable to show him any affection? Was she really so frigid that she could feel none of the emotions that other, normal girls, evidently feel? Would ardent love, true desire, elude her forever? Indeed, would she ever recognise it if it stared her in the face?
And then, for no accountable reason, she remembered Howard Quaintance. It was during a quiet passage when the solo violin was soulfully singing a song of lost love, piercing in its plaintiveness, agonising in its intensity. Maybe she could feel these things for Howard Quaintance if she ever met him again, if she was ever blessed with the opportunity – if, indeed, he could even remember her. But she remembered him all right; how she felt when he touched her hands to swap over her ring from one hand to the other. She remembered his closeness, his unassuming geniality, the lovely manly scent of him, and the thrill of it returned bringing a lump to her throat. Maybe she could feel emotion. Maybe she was not such a cold fish after all. Maybe it was just that Stephen had never brought it out in her. Maybe only music could make her feel like this. Maybe she could feel nothing unless potent music was present to urge it on.
Maybe she never would.
With a deft swoop of his baton, Leslie Heward, the conductor, collected the whole orchestra into a rich swell of sound and Maxine was right on cue. The soloist, for a few bars, became just another player intermingling with the other instruments till he soared away again on another flight of extraordinary complexity and fervour. Funny, Maxine thought, how even when you are concentrating on your music your mind still considers other things; funny how Howard Quaintance had sprung to mind.
Before she knew it, Boris Szewinska was taking his bows. He took a beautiful bouquet of summer flowers that somebody handed to him, bowed again, and left the stage, showing no inclination to perform an encore. The applause continued, Boris returned and turned to the orchestra and conductor, happy for them to take a share of the acclaim.
On the way back to the dressing rooms, Maxine stopped when she saw Brent Shackleton barging his way over to her.
‘When you’re ready, Maxine, I’ll give you a lift home,’ he said.
‘Oh, thank you,’ she replied. ‘I only have to change. I’ll be a minute, no more.’
In the ladies’ dressing room, she doffed the black evening dress she wore for concert nights and put on her normal Sunday attire. It was thoughtful of Brent to always give her a lift to and from concerts. To lug her cello all the way to Dudley now, alone on the tram, then walk all the way to Oakham Road and the new house, would be no mean feat especially late at night.
‘Can you manage that?’ Brent asked gallantly as they left the Town Hall. ‘Let me carry it.’
‘I can cope. It’s no weight. Besides, you’d have two instruments to carry.’
‘The piccolo player’s got the best job when it comes to transport,’ he quipped. ‘You should have taken up the piccolo.’
‘Or the triangle.’
He laughed generously. ‘I’m only thankful we don’t have to lug a piano about. At least the jazz club’s got its own…Talking of which, do you fancy going there now for an hour?’
‘But we’re not playing tonight…Are we?’
‘We’re not, but another band is. The Brummagem Hot Stompers. Ever seen them?’
‘No. Are they good?’
‘Not bad. In any case, it’s always good to evaluate the competition occasionally.’
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