‘For me?’ She stared at him. ‘I don’t understand …’
He laughed. ‘I haven’t explained it yet.’ He paused. ‘But first, a little criticism. You performed the set pieces well, but your own choice was unadventurous, to say the least. That could have lost your first place.’
‘It’s a difficult movement …’
‘Not when your basic technique’s as good as yours. You should have taken a stance—gone for broke, like the guy who won did with the Prokofiev. You’ve been well taught, but now you need more.’ He smiled at her equably. ‘I think it’s time I took you on myself.’
Sandie’s eyes widened in incredulity. ‘You—want to teach—me? But why?’
‘I think it could be rewarding. I also think you deserve another chance, rather than having to rely on this sudden death situation you’ve been in. No one at your level can do her best with that kind of threat hanging over her.’
He scooped the taffeta dress off the chair and on to a hanger in an undoubtedly practised movement. ‘Pity to spoil it, because it’s a good platform dress—catches the light well, but doesn’t take over.’ He pushed the chair towards her. ‘Sit down. You look as if you need to.’
Sandie subsided in limp obedience. She said in a little rush, ‘I’m a junior secretary with a law firm. I don’t know the kind of fees you charge, but I couldn’t afford even half of them.’
‘Well, there’s a way round that.’ Crispin Sinclair seated himself on the dressing stool. ‘My family have taken themselves off for their usual summer break in Connemara, to rest and prepare for the next concert season, but my mother’s regular practice accompanist has just got married, silly bitch, and to an oil man who’s whisked her off to Venezuela. This has left Mama in quite a spot. She’s inclined to be temperamental, but she liked Janet and she was used to her.’ He paused. ‘If you came to Killane, you could take Janet’s place, and—work your passage, as it were.’
‘But I don’t know the first thing about accompanying anyone,’ Sandie protested feverishly. ‘It’s a skilled profession.’
‘You’re talented and intelligent, and you wouldn’t be appearing in public, after all. Magda would soon teach you the ropes.’ He grinned. ‘Blood on the keyboard and all that. Does the thought put you off?’
‘No,’ she denied instantly. Summer, she thought, in a house filled with music. She paused. ‘Did you say—Connemara?’
‘Yes. Magda’s first husband was Irish, and he left her a life interest in the house. He was killed in a hunting accident while Flynn was still a baby. She’s two husbands further on now, but she still spends her summers at Killane, although the damp can’t be good for her throat. The house really belongs to Flynn, my half-brother, of course, but he’s rarely there.’
‘Flynn.’ Sandie tried the name. ‘Is he a musician too?’
‘God, no!’ Crispin’s laugh was faintly derisive. ‘Magda’s always said he’s some kind of changeling. He hasn’t a note of music in his body, even though he spent his formative years touring with her. She’d put her career into cold storage when she married, but took it up again in a hurry when she found herself a penniless young widow. And the rest, as they say, is history.’
‘So what does he do?’
‘My father’s family were merchant bankers, and they lured him into commerce.’ Again Sandie sensed a faint sneer. ‘Now he’s a high-powered financial consultant, dealing mainly with tax advice for the rich and famous. He even keeps my mother on the straight and narrow. God only knows where he gets it from. Neither she nor his father had any head for figures at all,’ he added with a shrug. ‘But that’s enough about Flynn. Are you prepared to give up your summer to a madhouse in the west of Ireland?’
Sandie said, with a catch in her voice, ‘It sounds wonderful. But what will your mother say—having a stranger foisted on her?’
‘You won’t be a stranger. I’ll explain the position, and you’ll arrive with the backing of my warmest recommendation. How’s that?’
‘It can’t be that simple.’
‘Where are the complications?’
‘Well, have you ever had a private pupil before? I mean—won’t your family think it’s odd, if I suddenly appear …?’ She looked away, reddening slightly.
‘I know what you mean, Miss Alexandra Beaumont.’ Crispin sounded amused, then his voice sobered. ‘I’m asking you to Killane because I think you have a worthwhile talent which you won’t otherwise have the opportunity to exploit.’ He paused, then said deliberately, ‘Let’s leave any other considerations in the lap of the gods, shall we? Now, do you accept my proposition?’
Sandie’s heart was thumping swiftly and painfully against her ribs. She could feel other objections crowding in. She was assailed by nervousness and exhilaration at the same time.
She said, ‘Yes, I do. But I don’t know what my parents will say.’
‘Leave them to me,’ he said. ‘I’ll handle them.’ He rose, and so did she. ‘Now, shall we seal our bargain in the time-honoured way?’
He held out his hand, and Sandie put her fingers into his, only to find herself drawn forward to receive Crispin’s light kiss on her mouth.
He said, ‘I’ll be in touch,’ then the dressing room door closed behind him.
Sandie stared after him, her hand lifting involuntarily to touch her lips.
She thought, A summer in Connemara. It sounds like magic—too good to be true. She hesitated. But after the summer—what then?
She shrugged. I’ll wait and see, she told herself, and let the remembrance of Crispin Sinclair’s smile dispel that faint chill of anxiety inside her.
A fortnight later, still dazed at the total upheaval in her life, Sandie found herself descending from the plane at Shannon.
Looking back, she realised she had never thought her parents would agree, and she hadn’t the slightest idea how Crispin had persuaded them. Neither, she thought, had they. But she was aware that he’d accentuated her dubious role as his mother’s accompanist rather than her status as his pupil, and although this wasn’t exactly a deception, it had caused her a slight flicker of uneasiness.
Inside the terminal building, she collected her luggage and made her way to the Aer Lingus desk as Crispin had instructed.
‘Excuse me,’ she addressed the green-clad girl, who looked up smiling at her approach. ‘My name is Beaumont. Someone is meeting me here.’
The girl nodded. ‘Your man was just enquiring for you,’ she said. She looked past Sandie, and beckoned.
Sandie turned to find herself confronted by a short, squat individual. His face was as brown and wrinkled as a walnut, and his greying hair still held a tinge of fierce red. He was staring at Sandie with an expression of incredulity that was too disconcerting to be amusing.
‘It’s you, is it, I’m to take to Killane?’ His
