The Comforts of a Muddy Saturday

contact: unresolved clapping.

Yet the applause was enthusiastic—thunderously so. Isabel looked about her at the faces of her fellow concertgoers; many were smiling enthusiastically. Of course, one had to be careful about reading too much into that; people could smile with relief at the end of an unsatisfactory piece, and even applause could be provoked by sheer joy at being released from something one does not like. But this audience, she thought, meant it.

She did not go into the bar at the interval, as she knew that Jamie liked to socialise with his fellow musicians and she would leave him to do that. So she went the other way, to the front of the hall, and stood outside for a few minutes, enjoying the evening air. Others were doing the same, and she recognised some of them. There was a man she saw in Cat’s delicatessen from time to time; there was a couple with their emaciated, earnest-looking teenagers; there was the young woman who worked in the fund-raising office of the university; and a few others. Isabel listened. Everybody, it seemed, was talking about Melisma for the Return of Persephone. “Really remarkable,” said the man from the delicatessen to the woman standing at his side. “I’ve heard something by him before. He’s going places, I think.”

“Yes,” said the woman. “Very…” She left the word hanging.

Very unfinished, thought Isabel.

The woman finished her sentence. “Very beautiful.”

Oh, really! thought Isabel.

The verdict from others was much the same. Oh well, thought Isabel. Perhaps I’m not sufficiently used to the language he’s using. Music is not an international language, she thought, no matter how frequently that claim is made; some words of that language may be the same, but not all, and one needs to know the rules to understand what is being said. Perhaps I just don’t understand the conventions by which Nick Smart is communicating with his audience.

She returned to her seat. The second half of the concert was very straightforward. Mozart’s Flute Concerto in G and some German Dances from Schubert. At the end of the programme, she waited for a few minutes in her seat until the rush subsided, then made her way through to the bar at the back. She saw Jamie standing at the end, his back to her, talking to a man and a woman. She went over to join him, negotiating her way through the press of people around the bar.

She reached out and touched him on the shoulder. “I see what you mean,” she whispered, “about poor Persephone. Ghastly…”

Nick Smart turned round and stared at her.

In her state of shock, it took a few moments for Isabel to work out what had happened. Jamie was there, but standing opposite the composer, whom she had taken for him.

Isabel thought quickly. “Ghastly fate,” she said hurriedly. “And poor Demeter: What parent could fail to sympathise with her!”

“I’m sorry,” said Nick Smart. “I thought at first that you didn’t like it.”

Isabel laughed. She looked desperately at Jamie, who was smirking. “Heavens no. I thought it very arresting. Remarkable.” The man outside had used that adjective and she reached for it now.

“Yes,” said Jamie, coming to her rescue. “Remarkable.” He paused. “Nick, this is Isabel.”

Nick Smart took Isabel’s hand and shook it. She thought: Anybody could have done that. He looks very like Jamie; so much so, they could be brothers.

The young woman, whom Isabel recognised as one of the violinists and who had been standing next to Jamie, looked at her watch and muttered, “Sorry. Must go. Glasgow train.”

Jamie said, “Fine. I’ll see you next time, whenever that is. Next month, I think.”

Isabel, her poise now recovered, turned to Nick Smart. “I see that you’re composer in residence at the university, Mr. Smart. Do you have to teach?”

Nick Smart turned to her, but only briefly. When he replied, it was as if he were uttering an aside. “A bit. Not much.” He turned back to face Jamie. Isabel noticed that as he did so, he smiled. American teeth, she thought, knocked into shape by expensive orthodontics, but slightly worrying in their regularity.

“So do you play a lot for Scottish Opera?” asked Nick.

“Yes,” said Jamie. “I stand in. Quite a lot.”

“I’ve been working on an opera,” said Nick. “On and off.”

“What’s it about?” asked Isabel.

It was possible, she thought, that Nick did not hear her question; either that, or he ignored it.

“The difficulty with a full-length opera is that there’s just so much music,” said Nick, addressing Jamie. “It’s pretty difficult.”

“So I gather,” said Jamie.

Isabel looked to see if Jamie had noticed her question being ignored, but he did not. She glanced at Nick Smart, at the black linen suit. She noticed an expensive watch on his left wrist and a discreet signet ring. There was an air of expensive grooming about him. But there was something else there, and she could not quite fathom it. Smugness? Narcissism? One thing was clear: he was not the slightest bit interested in talking to her; that had been apparent right at the beginning.

“Jamie,” she began. “It’s getting a bit late. I think…”

Nick moved his head slightly to glance at her; no more than that. Then he turned back to look at Jamie. A smile played about the edge of his mouth, a look of enquiry.

Jamie muttered something and took Isabel aside. “Would you mind?” he asked. “Nick has asked me to have a drink with him. Would you mind if I stayed?”

She thought: I do mind. I mind a great deal. But she said, “No, that’s all right. Will you be in later?”