Island Of The Heart. Sara Craven

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СКАЧАТЬ parents are doing what they feel is right,’ she said. ‘I can’t argue about their natural concern for you. And they could have a point.’

      Sandie stared at her. ‘But I thought you believed in me,’ she said, biting her lip. ‘Don’t you think I can make it?’

      Mrs Darnley sighed. ‘Sandie, you’re the best pupil I’ve ever had, but that’s all I can say. You’ve outgrown me, my dear. From now on, you need specialist coaching that I’m not qualified to give you—master classes. It all costs money, and if your parents aren’t prepared to make a contribution …’ She left it at that.

      Now, weeks later, Sandie looked under her lashes at her fellow competitors and wondered. They all wanted to win—that went without saying. But did any of them have the compulsive, driving need to come first that she possessed?

      She thought, My whole future depends on this.

      It seemed an eternity before the recall to the platform came. They filed on and stood trying to look nonchalant and modest at the same time. Sandie’s legs were shaking, and her mouth felt dry. She wanted it over with. She wanted to know.

      The judges moved on to the platform, and she studied them unobtrusively, trying to read their faces, to see if they looked longer in one direction than another.

      The tall man standing at the end caught her eye and smiled, and she felt herself blush.

      She knew who he was, of course. They were all musical celebrities, but he was the star. Crispin Sinclair, the youngest of the four, had been a young virtuoso pianist himself some years before, spoken of as a prodigy. He was one of Sandie’s heroes, and she had several of his recordings. But in recent years, he’d turned from the concert platform to composition. He’d written a modern opera based on Sean O’Casey’s Juno and the Paycock, which had been received with acclaim on both sides of the Atlantic, as well as a host of shorter works, many of them commissioned. One of them was to be performed at the end of the festival, and Crispin Sinclair himself was going to conduct.

      It was also rumoured that, under different names, he’d written music for various well-known pop groups.

      But he’d had a head start in the musical world, Sandie thought, staring embarrassedly at the floor. His mother was Magda Sinclair, the world-famous mezzosoprano and opera star, and his sister Jessica was already a noted cellist.

      No one in his family would have ever jibbed at his choice of occupation. He would have been encouraged and nursed along since babyhood, and the first signs of precocious talent.

      Whereas I didn’t even have a piano until I was thirteen, Sandie thought, with a sigh.

      All the same, she couldn’t help wondering if the smile he’d sent her held any significance.

      She tried to concentrate on what the chairman of the judging panel was saying. There were the usual platitudes about the excellent organisation, and thanks to the patrons and sponsors before he turned to ‘the wealth of talent here tonight,’ ‘the distinctive performances’, ‘the difficulty of reaching a decision, although the panel had been unanimous …’

      Oh, get on with it, Sandie prayed silently, her insides knotting with tension.

      ‘The results will be in reverse order,’ he was saying, and paused in anticipation of the laugh. ‘Just like Miss World.’ He consulted the paper in his hand. ‘In third place—Jennifer Greenslade.’

      Applause broke out. Sandie watched the other girl, no more than fourteen, go up to get her prize, her face flushed with pleasure.

      ‘And in second place—’ the chairman paused theatrically, making the most of it, ‘Alexandra Beaumont.’

      More applause. Sandie heard it from a distance—from some limbo of pain and disappointment.

      She had to force herself to move, terrified that her legs would betray her, and that she’d collapse there and then in front of them all. But of course she didn’t. She took her prize envelope, shook hands, and managed to smile and say something polite as she was congratulated.

      She didn’t see or hear who came first. She went back to her place, alone, lost in a little nightmare world of despair and failure.

      She couldn’t look at the audience, at the place where she knew her parents were sitting. They’d be disappointed for her, she knew, but relieved as well. She’d done well, and justified Mrs Darnley’s good opinion, but not quite well enough, so now the whole nonsensical idea could be abandoned, and life return to normal.

      Normality, she thought bleakly. A teachers’ training college, or a solicitors’ office. That was the choice now.

      She was thankful when the ceremony was over and she could escape to the privacy of the small dressingroom she’d been allocated. She pulled off that mockery of a taffeta dress, slinging it carelessly on to a chair in the corner before struggling back into the sweatshirt and jeans she’d worn earlier.

      The tap on the door startled her. She tugged the sweatshirt down into place, scooping her long hair free of its collar. She supposed it would be her father and mother, knocking tactfully in case she was upset. But she was too aching, too stunned to cry. Tears would come later, she thought.

      She called, ‘Yes?’ and the door opened, and Crispin Sinclair walked in.

      ‘So this is the right room.’ When he smiled, his teeth were very white. ‘I came to offer my condolences. It was a very near thing, actually.’

      ‘So near and yet so far,’ Sandie said. She tried to speak lightly, but her voice broke a little in the middle.

      ‘So I understand,’ he said. ‘I’ve been having an illuminating chat with your teacher, and she told me it was make or break for you. That’s really tough.’

      He was one of the most attractive men Sandie had ever encountered, dark-haired and blue-eyed, and his smile was devastating. Suddenly the dressing room seemed tinier than ever.

      She hastily picked up a comb and began to tug it through her hair. ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you win some, you lose some.’

      His brows lifted. ‘Are you really that philosophical about it?’

      ‘No,’ she said baldly. ‘But I’ve no other choice.’

      ‘Maybe you have at that,’ Crispin Sinclair said slowly. ‘That old fool Gregory said we were unanimous, but that was public relations. Actually, I was in there fighting for you. And now that I know how important that win would have been, I have a proposition for you.’

      ‘For me?’ She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand …’

      He laughed. ‘I haven’t explained it yet.’ He paused. ‘But first, a little criticism. You performed the set pieces well, but your own choice was unadventurous, to say the least. That could have lost your first place.’

      ‘It’s a difficult movement …’

      ‘Not when your basic technique’s as good as yours. You should have taken a stance—gone for broke, like the guy who won did with the Prokofiev. You’ve been well taught, but now you need more.’ He smiled at her equably. ‘I think it’s time I took you on myself.’

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