‘Oh, I doubt that very much. You know exactly what you’re doing and saying. Every word you utter is precisely thought out, designed to manipulate whoever is on the receiving end. Don’t think for one minute you can fool me, or make me believe that Alastair confided in you willingly.’
‘Why wouldn’t he?’
‘Because he wouldn’t! Because friends don’t do that to each other!’
‘Poor Simon, you so badly want to believe that, don’t you? Does it seem like a betrayal to you to accept that Alastair would confide in me? And is that how you see his love for me, a betrayal of your love for him?’
Simon stared in disgust at this woman whom Alastair had somehow convinced himself he loved. What did he see in her? There was no good in her. None whatsoever.
‘You have no idea what kind of an enemy you have just made in me,’ he said, his voice low and tight as he willed himself to keep a lid on his anger.
‘You were already my enemy, Simon. Nothing has changed.’
‘Oh, but it has. When I tell Alastair of this conversation, he’ll see you for what you are.’
‘What would that be exactly?’
But before he could reply, from across the water came the haunting sound of a violin playing. He recognised the music; it was the theme fromSchindler’s List. It was the only piece of music that had ever had the power to move him to tears. He remembered being in the cinema watching the film and feeling as though his heart was being torn out from his chest. Sorrel had sat beside him completely dry-eyed, while he had blubbed like a baby.
Perhaps it was a reflection of the highly emotional state he was in, but damn it, he could feel the backs of his eyes pricking. His breath ragged, and needing to escape, he marched back up the garden, then took the path to Orla’s studio, where he knew he could be alone.
*
Jenna couldn’t take her eyes off Blake.
She was mesmerised, not just by the heartbreakingly poignant sound he was producing, but by the level of his concentration. His feet apart, and the violin placed on his left shoulder, his chin on the chin-rest, there was something incredibly sensual about the way he held the bow so lightly with his fingers while stroking it across the strings. With his eyes closed as he swayed with the music, he seemed completely lost in what he was doing.
Jenna was glad she was sitting down, because as ridiculous as it felt, her legs had turned to cotton wool. With each exquisite note vibrating through her, she found herself lost in the music too, her throat tightening with an emotion she was unable to put into words. More worryingly, she was fighting the thought of what it might be like to be loved by someone who was capable of feeling such a depth of passion.
In that moment, just as the pale sun broke free from a cloud, light streamed in through the open door and a halo appeared to form over Blake’s head, turning his hair to amber. It madeJenna think he was quite beautiful. Never in her life had she previously thought such a thing of a man. What was happening to her?
When he had played the last note, he stood perfectly still for a very long time, before lowering the violin and bow, and opening his eyes.
‘What were you thinking while you played?’ she asked quietly, afraid to speak too loudly for fear of breaking the spell he had cast.
‘The same as I always do when I play that particular piece. What did John Williams have to give of his heart and soul to be able to write such deeply moving music?’
‘Do you believe that’s what great musicians have to do in order to create at that level?’
Blake nodded, and put the violin back in its case on the table behind him. ‘I do as a matter of fact. I think it’s true of all great artists, whether they be writers, painters or musicians. It’s why I know I could never be any more than average in my playing, I don’t want to make that kind of sacrifice.’
‘I don’t think there was anything average in the way you just played.’
He smiled. ‘You’re being kind.’
‘I’m being honest. And thank you for playing for me.’
‘Perhaps I should have chosen something more upbeat.’
‘No. It was perfect what you chose.’
He held her gaze. Then with a tilt of his head, he indicated they should go outside on the balcony.
Standing next to him, their shoulders almost touching, she stared across the river towards Linston End. It was funny seeing it from this perspective. It looked larger, more imposing, but then it was one of the finest properties on the river. There was nobody in the garden, as far as she could see. The only sign of life was a heron; it was as still as a statue and reminded Jenna of the many bronze pieces Orla had created. She had once said that each and every one of her statues was a part of herself that she gave away. Maybe Blake was right when he said those ofan artistic persuasion had to chip away at their souls in order to produce their finest work.
‘It’s a beautiful house,’ Blake said.
‘Yes,’ she agreed, ‘it is. I’ve known it all my life; I can’t quite believe that this will be my last summer here. It’s like losing a best friend.’
