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Chapter One

Isabeau

Now

I came to say sorry, but it didn’t work out that way

“A cellist?” says the wo between me and ot one cellist on er So you?”

My heart bangs like a ti his name Laszlo Valmary, conductor and musical director of the Royal London Syuardian and e and all, to face the man I haven’t spoken to in three years Now that I’ain I feel him on every street I walk down, in every strain of music I hear, in the very air I breathe But he’s not expectingthis, whatever this is that’s happening today

The wo to say “Never mind The flautist hasn’t turned up so the schedule’s a ives her clipboard a pained look and marches away, and I’m left in the alcove by the stalls asnized

The Mayhew Concert Hall in the West End is a huge, stately venue of plush velvet and gold scrollwork An enors overhead and the auditoriu the balconies The seating goes up and up to the dizzying nosebleed sections where people crowd together for five pounds a head for a gli upwards of three hundred pounds a ticket for a stalls seat every string of the violins is visible, the notes on the sheet e, skilled hands as he conducts It’s a ods the music is just the same The music soars

I breathe in the memory of remembered notes I’ve missed this place

At this time of day on a Thursday I expected to find Laszlo in his office but rehearsals seeer than usual No, not rehearsals Auditions by the looks of things If Laszlo’s lost orchestra members then he’ll be ile o, but curiosity holds me in place What has happened? Has a swathe of the enseain? He’s not the “callow youth” that he was accused of being thirteen years ago when he took over the orchestra He’s aof the British classical music scene The best musicians in the country clamor to be part of his ensemble

I listen to threads of conversations going on around me and try to discover what has happened to the orchestra Then I tellto say to Laszlo; how I’ and effort I’ve ruined un

“Isabeau”

My hand convulsively gripsby the rows of red velvet seats, the ht years old Who taughtI know about music About life Thehi him

I don’t need to get close to know that he’ll shts He looks good, but then he always looks good, tall and lean and smartly dressed in a dark shirt and suit A sultry h facial hair to call it a beard but just enough to scratch your nails through and feel the lovely rasping of the bristles Hazel eyes that always see erowing down to his collar I used to tease hi him that he has conductor’s hair, the careless row so they can toss it about in passion to the raphs I was the only one who could tease him One of the feho could make him smile

Laszlo steps forward, andto fold me in his arms and hold me close like he used to do But when he reaches for me his hand closes around my upper arm, cold and hard, and he leadsa corridor without a word Hopeless tears prickle inand breathe in sharply, a trick that a ht me before a solo student performance, the first one ofSuck those tears right back in, pet Don’t go ruining your face