Maestro Page 10

  The doorbell was going off its head. Sara let it ring. She had spent the morning thinking of how to change the way things were. She had made her decisions by the time the Maestro arrived.

  Sara opened the door. The Maestro flounced in, something of an air of an aging rock star about him.

  "Praise the Lord! Hallelu--eee---ahhh! Man, Sara! You're back!" he screamed, kissing Sara on both cheeks. "Man, you've got to get that bastard off my back. Day and night, night and day. A fucking tick up my arse...."

  The Maestro walked off towards the kitchen and helped himself to a chair. Sara followed him thinking to herself what an unintegrated twat he was.

  "Thanks for asking if I had a nice holiday." she commented sarcastically.

  "Sure you did, babe. You got any coffee? I need a coffee..."

  Sara prepared the limpid, watery variety he preferred. Like smoking half a cigarette, the Maestro thought that weak coffee was not as bad for him.

  "Right." began the Maestro, lighting a cigarette, "I ain't doing any fucking interviews. Rolling Stone, man I want to be in Rolling Stone. That's fucking it!"

  Sitting across the kitchen table, Sara looked at the Maestro. She resisted an urge to throw him out on his "fucking arse" and interrupted him instead.

  "We've got to talk," she said.

  The Maestro stubbed out his cigarette and lit another.

  "Sure we've got to talk! You've got to get that shit off my back!"

  Sara interrupted him again.

  "I mean, things have got to change."

  The Maestro looked at her, his face screwed up.

  "What are you talking about?"

  "You're rich. Spread it around. I don't want to work like before. Things have to change. I'll give you eight hours a day but nine to five only. No more trips abroad either. I'll work from here, from London. You can hire somebody else to do the foreign gigs."

  The Maestro jumped off his chair.

  "What did you do? Get fucked by a fucking alien?!!!!"

  "Look! Sit down! Listen to me, will you? I've given you enough years of working my tits off. I'm changing. I want something else."

  Sara got up and poured the Maestro another coffee.

  He in turn, sat looking at her, dumbfounded by what he had just heard.

  "What does Madam propose to do?" he asked finally, mimicking a posh accent, "Get fired, perhaps?"

  "Fire me if you want. But it’s do-able, what I'm suggesting." Sara replied, unwavering in her decision.

  The Maestro relented but not without first criticising Sara angrily about the timing of her decision.

  Sara listened to him rage on. She was surprised when she heard the Maestro make a philosophical remark.

  "Nobody has a life in this business. The business IS your fucking life."

  The Maestro conceded to all of Sara's demands and surprised her yet again, by announcing that her salary would remain the same.

  "You're a babe," he concluded, putting his arm around her, "I don't mind having you around."

  *******************

  Five days later, Sara made another decision. Number Two.

  She came home from work to find Carl had returned from his travels. He had dropped his suitcase and briefcase in the hallway, blocking the door.

  Admittedly, it was only five o'clock. Carl would not have been expecting her home so early. But this had happened before. As usual, Carl had not considered that the suitcase, lying where it was, prevented anyone from opening the Goddamn door. Forced to ring the bell, Sara waited on the doorstep, fuming.

  Carl opened the door, a can of beer in one hand.

  "Hello, there," he said, kissing her on the mouth.

  Sara kissed him back reluctantly.

  "When did you get back?" she asked, brushing past him into the hallway.

  She glanced up at the painting which greeted her at the end of each day.

  "Just then. The plane landed at 2.45. Hey! Did you forget something at home?"

  "No. Actually I don't work late anymore. Nine to five only. Let's say, the Maestro and I have a little agreement."

  Carl looked at her grinning. "I don't believe you," he laughed mockingly. "Quick! Tell me how you did it! Workers around the world, unite! Sara's found a way to get us all out the door by five o'clock!"

  "Just say no," Sara responded, quietly, unable to look Carl in the face.

  She slid off her jacket and hung it on the wall behind him. She hadn't finished saying what she wanted.

  "You say no, Carl. That's all."

  Carl gave her a curious look and walked off saying he was going to take a nap.

  Sara went upstairs to her room for a soak in the bath.

  A few minutes later, Carl knocked on the bathroom door and poked his head inside.

  "Sara? Can I treat you to dinner tonight? I'll just shut my eyes for a couple of hours. Seven thirty sound OK?"

  Sara nodded and closed her eyes.

  At seven thirty-five, they were sitting in a taxi on their way to Knightsbridge. Sara was wearing a fuchsia-coloured evening gown. Carl was in suit and tie.

  Sara had gone to great lengths to look glamorous and beautiful. She had pinned her hair up, leaving a few strands loose around her face. Diamond earrings and a glistening solitaire on her right hand.

  Her efforts had not gone unnoticed.

  "You look fabulous, Sara," Carl whispered into her ear, as the taxi turned onto Sloane Street.

  Carl had chosen Chez Georges, a very expensive, not less than two hundred pounds per person, French restaurant.

  The last time they had been there was over a year ago. When Carl had just moved in.

  Inside, they were welcomed warmly by the very pretty maître d'. She checked their reservation and led them to a secluded table for two.

  Sara knew already what she wanted. In every French restaurant. Escargots à la bourguignonne. Carl chose the foie gras.

  Carl suggested a bottle of Chateauneuf du Pape. Sara did not dissuade him. Knowing Carl as she did, this meal qualified as a business expense.

  "So, Sara. What about this holiday of yours?" Carl asked, his index finger navigating the rim of his glass of gin and tonic.

  "Just what I was thinking. The food was awful! Fried everything. I'm going to be a happy woman once those snails arrive."

  "God knows how you can eat those things."

  "Well foie gras is not exactly p.c. They force feed the geese after all."

  "Enough. Let's talk about your holiday. What did you get up to? Where did you go, by the way?"

  "To Glymeer. A small, lonely place. There wasn't much to do, besides take rambling walks and sleep. I rented a cottage. I found it in the Times."

  "Oh, yeah? How much did that set you back?"

  "A thousand pounds well spent." Sara replied mechanically, although there were other thoughts going through her mind.

  Sara was thinking to herself: I had an affair, Carl. No not an affair. I met a man and he made love to me like you never have.

  "I never thought of you that way. You seem more like a shopping-holiday-in-Milan-type of woman."

  "Shopping doesn't really turn me on, Carl. You should know that after all this time."

  More preoccupied with the seared foie gras that had been placed before him, Carl did not reply.

  They ate their first course in silence. Sara relished every morsel of the twelve snails awash in melted butter.

  Carl leant back in his chair, a satisfied smile on his lips.

  "Perfect. Only the French, I am afraid, know how to cook."

  It was the one thing they shared. A love of French food. Sara wracked her brain for others.

  The meal would not last forever. She had made a decision. It was time to communicate it to Carl.

  Carl was handsome. Carl was successful. But these things hadn't mattered to his ex-wife, Deborah. She had let him go. Without a fight.

  The divorce papers filed, Carl was almost a free man.

  Sara thought of all the years she ha
d known Carl. Twenty. He was like a worn, cosy cushion, one she would miss if it were gone. Familiar.

  An era in a life. They had memories, built together, over twenty years.

  That was not entirely true. For fifteen of those years, Carl had been married to another woman.

  A year ago, when he had landed on Sara's doorstep, Carl had not spoken of undying love. Of love lost and regained. You don't regain love. You either love or you don't. He didn't love her twenty years ago. And he didn't now.

  Carl was smiling at her, waving his arm across the table.

  "Haven't you noticed your paupiettes de veau? They're getting cold."

  Sara landed with a crash, back into the present.

  "Er.. I'd forgotten. What are you having?"

  "Osso Buco. Italian rather than French but I thought I'd join you in the veal department."

  Classic Carl. Matter of fact.

  "Carl?"

  "Hmmm?"

  "Are we going anywhere?"

  "Do you mean after the meal? I don't know Sara, I've been flying all day...."

  "As a couple."

  There. It faltered and wavered but it came out.

  Carl put down his knife and fork.

  "Where did that come from?"

  He looked stunned, his voice agitated.

  Sara continued eating her food, conscious that a full blown confrontation was on the way and that she should stay calm.

  "We've known each other for a long time," she continued. "I've been wondering lately, where I stand."

  "Does it matter?" came the brusque reply, "We live in the same house, don't we?"

  "Yes but we're not together. You're never around..."

  "And neither are you, Sara. If I remember correctly...."

  Carl stopped to sample the second bottle of wine that a waiter had brought to the table. He waved the waiter away impatiently and poured the wine himself.

  "Sara, Sara," he resumed, after a mouthful of the new bottle, "What do you want? The ink on my divorce isn't even dry..."

  "I think what I want is for you to go. It’s an old cliché really, but you and I don't want the same thing."

  She spoke to the old friend that he was. In a relaxed, non-accusatory way.

  It was Carl instead who became incensed.

  "If you mean, do I want babies and the whole routine? No. Been there, done that."

  "Carl, there is no need to talk like that. Can we be civilised about this and just go our separate ways?"

  Carl nodded, pushing his plate away. He signalled to the waiter to bring the bill.

  ***********************

  The next day, Carl moved out to a real hotel. His parting words were the standard, "Let's have lunch sometime, OK?" as he piled the last suitcase into the hallway.

  Sara forced a smile. He was not, after all, the enemy.

  Carl gave her a hug and disappeared along with four suitcases and a briefcase, into a waiting taxi.

  Sara shut the door firmly as the taxi drove away. An era had ended.

  She rang her housekeeper to ask if she would mind terribly coming in to do a bit of belated spring-cleaning. Always glad to help, the housekeeper agreed to work the extra day.

  Sara stuck a note on the fridge, telling her to begin with Carl's room. Scrub it from top to bottom.

  She went back upstairs and folded the dress she had worn to dinner. It was going straight to the dry cleaners. On her way out, Sara looked through the room where Carl had stayed.

  "What a pity," she thought, "that we don't get what we want. And what we want, we can't have."

  Chapter Fourteen.

  The house felt no different after Carl had left. Sara sometimes regretted that he had gone too easily; in not putting up a fight, he had made it plain that she was dispensable.

  But she soon grew weary of the very notion of Carl and the space he had occupied in her life. For too long.

  To stretch the days, Sara developed a social life. Anathema to her in the past when it was either the Maestro, work or an ill-fated love affair, Sara now found herself wanting to know people. Talk to them. Be around them. Share an interest in something.

  She joined the Art Society and began attending their monthly lectures, which were followed by cocktails. Through her membership at the Society, she formed a loose network of faces and acquaintances.

  The Society members were an eclectic bunch, mostly professionals and aspiring artists, keen to be recognised by their peers. At every meeting, there were different faces and some of the same. Sara accepted their invitations to tag along on weekend visits to galleries/museums or to meet up after work for drinks.

  She owed her sudden interest in art to Gillane. Being around beautiful works of art made her feel that he was still a part of her life.

  She admired the painting he had given her but confessed it was not a masterpiece. Yet it was beautiful for its meaning and the spirit in which it had been given.

  Sara never stopped thinking of Gillane. Although the memory of him on its own was enough to sustain her, she was dismayed that he had neither called nor written since her return from Glymeer.

  Given the new direction she had chosen in her life, she decided not to dwell on it. There was much to do. She bought more plants for the house and nurtured the surviving ones back to health.

  Next, she thought of rearranging the furniture, to accommodate her new social circle. One of her Art Society friends suggested Feng Shui. A consultant came around and educated her on the potential benefits: remove bad energy and all will flow smoothly in her life.

  Several hundred pounds later in Feng Shui fees, Sara agreed to only a few of the proposed changes. Hang mirrors, yes. Position flowers throughout the house, yes. Always put the toilet seat down, which she already did.

  The good vibes flowing, Sara threw her house open and began entertaining her forgotten and new-found friends. Sunday lunch with her old pals, Jane Fillowbright and Fiona McCartney, who came round with husbands, Tim and Philip, was a great success. Up to the point where all four kept repeating how well Sara had done for herself. Although the comment resonated loudly in her ears, Sara felt genuinely pleased to be reunited with them again. After years of indifference. She even forgave them the indiscretion of suggesting that she must be involved with a married man, to be able to "afford such an extravagant lifestyle".

  Sunday lunch aside, there were the Friday night dinners which she hosted. On these occasions, she would invite six or seven members of the Art Society to dine at her house, each of whom in turn, reciprocated and invited her to theirs.

  In spite of spending her days juggling the Maestro and every other spare minute on the speeding circuit of dinners and cocktails, Sara still found time to wonder. About Gillane.

  Evenings alone were the worst. Late at night, when London is voiceless. She would pull a chair into the hallway and look at the painting. For a sign that Gillane might be thinking of her. An hour or two would pass as she drew herself beyond.

  It had all been a dream. Surreal. Macabre. Glorious. Sacred. Profane.

  She fantasised about seeing him again. Her desire for him had not changed. But she chose not to do anything about it.

  The vision of a woman with red hair in a long white dress and Gillane's enduring silence, compelled her to wait.

  He would know by now of her attempts to expose him as a murderer. He would not come to her.

  Sara consoled herself that she would not be the one to forever be haunted by the memory of Sarah Lunn.

  ***************************

  Sara met a young lawyer at the Art Society whose face beamed into a great smile as he shook her hand. She agreed to dine with him. Although she found his incessant chattering and desire to impress her somewhat nauseating, she felt appreciative of his efforts and his bright smile.

  Frequently, they would dine together. Once or twice per week, where Sara would listen to David describe every last detail of the latest case he was working on.

  Sara enjoyed these one
-sided conversations even though, they revolved entirely around his work. She accepted David's friendship; it filled up a space and helped her pass the time.

  The Ali Baba Restaurant became a favourite haunt. They often met up at eight or eight thirty, on David's way home from the office.

  David had just finished his cumin-spiked lentil soup and Sara her plate of houmous bi tahini. With twenty minutes to spare before the next course, David resumed the description of his day spent in court. Sara poured herself another glass of wine and listened.

  "So, what I'm trying to prove is that the company is registered on paper but it doesn't exist. I mean, they say that the company has assets and is a trading company. I say that the accounts are fudged, any old accountant, devious enough, could whip up false accounts. They maintain that is not so. It is so difficult to get a conviction for money- laundering. That's what the company is used for, it's a transit point to shift money. Where to? And how much? Both are impossible to prove. Somebody on the inside has to crack and spill the beans, otherwise, I think I'm going to lose this case. I tell you Sara, given half the chance, I'm going into mergers and acquisitions. Big deals, big money. All this hopeless stuff takes up too much time. And what for? Its like trying to prove a man is a murderer, without a body. No evidence. The judge is going to throw this case out......"

  Sara choked on the olive she had just popped in her mouth.

  "What did you say?"

  "The judge is going to throw this case out. I'm cooked....."

  "No, you just said something else. About a murderer..."

  David looked at her, reflecting on his words. There had been so many.

  "Oh the murderer bit! That was an analogy I used to describe the mess I'm in..."

  "David! I know it was an analogy but what is a murderer without a body, all about?"

  "Well there have been a couple of cases that I can think of. One in the last century and one in the 1960s. Ummmm. Let me see. The one in the sixties was two West Indians, can't remember their names, convicted of murder, jailed for life. Never found the body. Apparently, they fed it to the pigs. Very nasty stuff. Let's not talk about it..."

  Sara couldn't believe her ears. Something snapped inside of her. The silvery thread that bound her to Gillane.