The Concert Pianist (26 page)

‘There's always hope.'

‘You've got to fight the damn thing.'

‘I don't think the cancer cares about my attitude.'

‘As long as there's a chance' - John was roused - ‘you mustn't give up.'

‘Leave that to me. I need to talk about something else.'

‘
Look, I apologise unreservedly. I behaved like a complete tit. I thought you were jerking me around. I'm ashamed, humiliated, appalled.'

Philip chuckled. ‘You'll live.'

John's grateful smile faded as the remark sank in.

‘That's all water under the bridge,' said Philip.

His agent raised a hand in acknowledgement, wiped a tear from his eye. He inhaled deeply as if to pull himself together. For a moment he could think of nothing to say. He subsided against his chair.

There was a tap on the door and then she came in. Ursula's gaze acknowledged John before resting on Philip. She had not had the chance to prepare for the awkwardness of eye contact. Her look was vulnerable and challenging at the same time.

He had forgotten how tall she was.

‘Shut the door,' said John.

‘You know I've got someone in with me?'

‘So you keep saying.'

She went across to a chair by the sofa and sat down, regarding Philip with a mixture of respect and reserve. She had not expected their next encounter to take place in John's office. She was at a loss and not able to conceal it.

Philip had forgotten how incongruous her beauty seemed amidst the nine-to-five. He was warmed by the sight of her. The advent of Ursula in his life was indeed a kind of miracle.

‘How are you?' she said gently.

‘Sorry I was short with you on the phone.'

This seemed to her inadequate but sincere. She looked cautiously at John, who sat back in his chair biting the edge of his finger.

‘You two have made up?'

Philip admired her directness in asking this.

‘Yes, yes,' said John. ‘I've been a fool and an idiot and Philip has very kindly let me off the hook.'

She gazed at them both with evident relief. After a while she smiled weakly at Philip.

‘Here,' he said, pulling a box of gift-wrapped scent from his case.

She took the present uncertainly. ‘What's this?'

‘I couldn't help noticing.'

She unwrapped it quickly. ‘Oh gosh! Allure.' She was a little put out by the gesture. ‘You shouldn't have done that. Thank you.'

‘
Thanks for putting up with me.'

The three of them sat for a moment in silence. It was Philip's turn to speak but he suddenly lacked the resources or impetus to break the news, as if the news were no longer on his mind in quite the same way now that she was in the room. Ursula's loveliness was restorative.

She waited a little tensely. She had been summoned after all.

John sensed Philip's distraction and was unable to control his unease. ‘Philip has some news, Ursula.'

She looked at him uncomfortably, wary of ‘news' that might impinge on her.

‘Champagne!' called Francesca, coming back in with bottle and glasses.

‘Excellent,' said John. ‘Over there, would you.'

She set the glasses down on John's coffee table and carefully poured the champagne.

‘Enjoy your celebration.' She left with gusto.

John passed the glasses to the others. They sipped and nodded their toasts silently.

Philip turned to address Ursula.

‘John,' she said suddenly. ‘What should I do about Ben Samuelson?'

He looked at her blankly.

Philip drew himself up. It was a way to explain things, not the only way, but the simplest way.

‘I'm quite ill,' he said.

She was alert.

‘Don't let's go into the details . . . but I mayn't have very long.'

She reacted with her whole body as if struck by an electric current. She replaced her champagne glass and leant towards him. He could see the swarming of distress behind her shocked expression. He came towards her and seized the hand that she offered on a reflex, squeezing it tightly.

‘I just wanted to say sorry to both of you for the fiasco over my last concert.'

She shook her head. She was quite distraught. ‘But what . . .'

‘John will tell you. It's boring.'

‘Oh God!' Her eyes were moist. ‘You don't have to say sorry for anything.'

‘
Lots of things have fallen into place since then. This sort of development can be clarifying, actually. I honestly needed to stop playing for a while.' He was firm. He had to stay firm.

She shook her head, as though denying the credibility of this news. ‘How are you feeling now?'

He smiled resolutely. ‘Better than before the concert. Once you know, you can begin to deal with it. I'm not saying it hasn't been grim, but I feel somehow or other back in control. I want to play again.'

‘Oh, Philip!'

‘You know, for a few weeks not a single bar of music came into my head. I haven't actually touched the piano yet, but I know it's going to sound beautiful when I do.'

There were tears in her eyes.

He acknowledged her sympathy with the kindest of looks. ‘Ursula's more of an angel than an agent,' he said to John, smiling. ‘Don't feel sorry for me. I'm lucky in knowing I'll leave something of myself. Through all this I've realised that in every sense I'm a soloist. I already have all I need or could expect. And I've been able to share that. While I've still got the chance to make music for people I have a reason to be happy. How much time any of us have left we can never know.'

John sobbed, pulling his handkerchief from a drawer and blowing his nose with trumpety plangency. He sighed heavily, averting his eyes and scrunching the kerchief in his hand. He levered himself forward in the chair, gazed glassily around.

‘Oh, that reminds me.' Philip dug into his briefcase. ‘I'm all presents today. This is for your boy.'

John looked tearfully at the toy car.

‘Is he OK, John?'

John nodded with difficulty.

‘He's getting better?'

He stood up suddenly, lumbered towards Philip, arms opening. Philip rose to meet the hug; the embrace was strangely healing, genuine emotion seemed to pass between agent and client, as if to confirm that the business premise of their relationship was a structure that housed the full range of human feelings. The driving energies and aspirations of their working lives were entwined. The hug was as heartfelt as John could be about anything - and that was heartfelt enough.

Afterwards
John stood back, raised the champagne glass to his lips, and swigged back the remains.

‘Your meeting,' he said to Ursula.

She sighed, drained by the idea.

‘Don't go,' pleaded Philip.

Ursula glanced at John.

John sat down at his desk, took the phone and dialled reception. He glanced long-sufferingly at Philip. ‘Francesca, hi. Ursula's tied up in here, and I need to speak to the guy in her office. I'll ring her extension. Will you pick up and give it to him?'

He rang off and redialled, preparing his face.

‘Ben, hi. John Sampson. Hi. Sorry to cut into your meeting. We've got a bit of an emergency here and I need Ursula for a moment or two. Would you forgive her if she rescheduled the meeting? We have ways and means of making it up to you. No, she won't be out in a hurry. I won't bore you with the de - Yeah . . . Ben . . . I know, sure, I know. Yup. ‘Preciate that. Yeah, of course. It's important. I wouldn't . . . listen . . . Ben! I'm sure she'll go over that . . . Do me a favour. Please let her reschedule the meeting? Speak to you soon. Thanks. I'll let you go now . . . OK . . . I'm putting the phone down . . . Bye, Ben . . . Good to speak . . . Byee . . .'

He set down the receiver and looked up in frazzled incredulity. ‘Christ! What a prat!'

‘My fault,' said Philip.

Ursula was haggard.

‘I don't understand how some pisswit cellist thinks he can get ahead by wasting my time and trying my patience!'

Philip almost laughed.

‘Another day, another absolute tosser!'

‘John, please!' said Ursula.

‘I have an operation in two or three weeks,' said Philip suddenly. ‘Before then I want to play one concert in as big a venue as possible.'

John frowned, externalising his uncertainty quickly.

Ursula responded with interest. She glanced in John's direction.

‘Short notice, Philip.'

‘I'll pay for the venue, the advertising, everything.'

John nodded more times than was necessary. He bit the edge of his finger.

‘
I want to reprogramme the Great Sonata series into one concert. I've had some ideas.'

‘Could it wait till after the operation?'

Philip responded by saying nothing.

‘We'll do everything we can,' said Ursula. Her hands were unsettled, fidgety.

‘Sorry to inflict this on you.'

John weeded some dust from his eye. He was struggling now. ‘None of the big venues will have a slot.'

‘I know.'

John was trying to grasp what Philip had in mind. ‘Is this . . . what . . . some kind of farewell concert?'

Philip was momentarily overcast. ‘I haven't asked him, but I suppose Vadim might stand down.'

John allowed the irony of this suggestion to colour his expression.

‘Bulmanion would forgive me, I'm sure.'

John nodded slowly in provisional acknowledgement. No point in opposing Philip until he had a better idea. ‘I'm just thinking out loud . . . maybe we could go bigger.'

‘Bigger?'

‘A venue to fit the occasion.'

‘Don't say what you were going to say.'

‘I wasn't . . .'

‘Don't anyway!'

‘What?'

‘Nothing.'

‘Why?'

John raised a hand, framing a thought with sudden emphasis.

‘I don't want to promote the fact that I'm dying,' said Philip.

‘Swan-song recital. BBC 2. You'll hit a couple of million people. That's event scheduling. CD spin-off, Cancer Relief. They can do an obit repeat. Bloody long shot but worth a try.
South Bank Show
did it for Dennis Potter.'

Philip stared at him for a moment. ‘I can't play on my own. I need to play for real people.'

‘Studio audience, no problem.'

Philip sighed heavily.

‘Can you tell us,' said John. ‘Um . . . how long have you been given?'

Philip's
eyes prickled. It was extraordinary to be asked such a thing. For a moment he could not speak.

Ursula scowled at John, deflecting him.

John shook his head. He was suddenly overcome. ‘Christ, Philip!' His voice cracked. ‘What's it like?'

Philip looked as though he was about to respond. He twisted his neck, loosened a shirt button with a single pass of his hand, gazed at the floor, utterly bereft. ‘Can we concentrate on the practicalities?' he said softly.

John leaned forward, scratching the back of his neck. His directness had become a way of dealing with clients' emotional lives. He needed people to know what he understood and what could be done about it, returning always to the limits of his role. The existential side of things he had a bead on, but was too busy to be existential for longer than was necessary to move the point along.

Now he looked bewildered. He had allowed himself to show feelings only to see them brushed aside.

‘Suppose Vadim steps down?' said Philip.

John was slowly recovering. ‘Um . . . not a good idea.'

‘They were
my
concerts.'

John glanced patiently at Ursula. ‘All the ticket holders have been mailed announcing Vadim as your replacement - due to continued indisposition. New programmes have been printed. Hyperion or Teldec are supposed to record the concert. We've just done a press release. Bulmanion's in, thank God. There's a limit to the number of volte-faces a concert-going public can absorb. Let alone promoters.'

‘I'll pay.'

John was suffused with unenthusiasm. Ursula watched on tensely.

‘I'll pay to have everything changed back.'

The agent's face puckered.

‘It's all my fault, but perhaps people will understand.'

John stroked his forehead. ‘Sorry. This is a bit much to take on.'

‘Well, please take it on as quickly as you can. We haven't much time.'

‘What if you're not well on the night?' said Ursula tenderly.

‘I'll play.'

‘Philip . . . it seems . . .'

‘
I know.'

John dealt him a flat look. ‘Might the strain of the concert make things worse?'

‘What have I got to lose?'

‘Oh . . . I don't know, ah . . .' John shrugged. It seemed obvious. ‘Precious time.'

‘To do what? Sit around twiddling my thumbs?'

‘Is it so important? I mean, you've achieved it all anyway.'

‘No, I haven't. I'm at the beginning again.'

‘Even so . . .'

‘Don't write me off! This isn't the end of the story. I may not have much time, but what I have to offer now may be the best I've ever done.'

John nodded. Ursula was listening closely.

‘I need to perform. Before I lose my nerve. I can't endure the idea that a lousy set of reviews and a cancelled concert is my last will and testament. Do you understand?'

Ursula's eyes had a sheen before the tears were released down her cheek. She looked away, hands guarding her face.

John watched her with troubled sympathy before remembering the Kleenex in his drawer. He passed the box over to her.

‘Oh, God, sorry. Ignore me.' She sniffed.

The two men waited patiently as she recovered herself, averting their eyes, but occasionally stealing a glance at the nose-blowing and blinking, and the delicate hand passing its way through ringlets of hair as she tried to compose herself.