I feel a strange, faint desolation. I could have been more gracious last night. I should have, as Niklaus suggested, asked to see Oliver privately to reassure him.
But I was too irritated. The jet lag and then the wine…
“Good morning, my lord,” Daniel murmurs, and helps me plump up the pillows behind me as I sit up. Once I’m settled, he places the breakfast tray across my lap. “I’m honored to be able to serve you this morning, and I hope the food will be to your liking.”
“Thank you.”
“The tea is Irish breakfast, as usual.”
“Very good.”
“Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?”
“That’s all. Wait—the other man. Oliver.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“I was led to believe Niklaus had assigned him to me for my stay.”
“Yes, my lord?”
“Then why is he not serving me this morning?
Daniel hesitates just a fraction. “My lord…Oliver suggestedItake up your breakfast this morning. He wasn’t sure if…”
If I’d want to see him, I finish in my own mind. “I see,” I say, when it becomes clear that Daniel is not going to continue.
“I’ll come back to dress you in an hour, my lord.”
I almost agree, but then I hear Niklaus's plea from last night when he was helping me out of my wine-soaked shirt: to remember that Oliver needs training. “I won’t need you this morning; I must concentrate on my work and want no interruptions. But send Oliver up with luncheon. That’s all, Daniel.”
He leaves as quietly and discreetly as he arrived, and I stare down at my breakfast. The eggs are pretty yellow clouds, the toast golden, the mushrooms perfectly burnished. But my appetite deserts me as my mind strays to Oliver.
I am still wondering something about him that I have never wondered about any other member of staff here before.
Whatdoeshe look like under the mask?
* * *
I bathe and dress, and then I sit down to my work at the baby grand silent piano in the corner of the room. Made for practice or composition, this particular silent piano is top of the line, and as I compare one unsilenced chord with its silenced twin after I plug in the headphones, I give an approving nod. It is like any other baby grand piano, but one press of a button slides a guard between the hammers and the strings, to render the acoustics silent. However, an accurate digital representation of the notes played can be heard through headphones. The headphones are weighty but comfortable.
Engaging the silent mode on the piano means that no one outside the room—or in—will hear my work. The Hollywood conglomerate with which I’m working was insistent that the piece be kept under wraps, since my name is not yet publicly attached to the film. And more importantly, it means I won’t annoy the entire household with either repetition or late-night playing.
At this upcoming meeting, my agent has promised that I’ll play the theme that I’ve composed for the film, based on the brief they’ve provided, for representatives from the studio and the various production companies involved. It’s been an uncomfortable process for me. I’m used to following my own path—in life, work, and sex. The idea of creating a musical experience in line with someone else’s expectations tends to rub me the wrong way.
And yet, that is not the problem.
The problem is, I have barely begun composing the piece. Doubling my problems, everything I’ve attempted so far sounds flat, dull, and derivative. But this morning, as I stare down at the keys and then up at the sheet of music, a new melody begins to play at the very edge of my mind.
At home, I use a tablet and compose using all available digital tools. But since my usual methods haven’t been working for me, I’ve decided to fall back on tradition while I’m here, and compose by hand on staff paper.
I’m quite lost in the work, time passing without my knowledge, so that I look up with a dizzy head when, as the notes in my ears die away, there’s a knock at the door. Twelve-thirty precisely.
I’m surprised at the faint thrill that runs through me.
I remove the headphones and place them carefully to one side, then rake my fingers through my hair in an attempt to tidy it, though I know it’s a lost cause.
“Come,” I call, and Oliver tiptoes into the room.
