‘Work your way through this lot. Practise as much as you can. We can iron out everything at the rehearsal, so don’t get into a panic. We’ve got loads of time.’
Emilia tried to be reassured, and went through as much of the music as she could in the evenings. She was pleased no one could hear her as she stumbled through, and when Sunday came she wasn’t sure if she’d done the right thing, agreeing. She wasn’t nearly as confident in her ability as Marlowe seemed to be.
They were rehearsing in the old church hall at the back of St Nick’s. She walked down with Julius’s cello on her back, not sure whether she was relieved to have something completely different from the book shop to focus her energy on, or whether she should be catching up on all the things she didn’t get a chance to do when the shop was open. Dave had jumped at the chance to man the shop on Sundays for the interim: she’d left him in sole charge, with instructions to phone if it got too hectic.
They’d been really busy. Autumn seemed to bring with it a hunkering down feeling that drew people back to reading, and the town was filled with people indulging in a weekend break in the countryside. With its Cotswold charm and inviting inns and welcoming shops, Peasebrook wore the colder months well and had become quite a hotspot and Emilia and her team were working hard to raise the shop’s profile. Dave had started them a Facebook page and a Twitter account; she’d been talking to several reps about supplementary merchandise; June was starting a monthly book club sponsored by the local wine merchants: for ten pounds you would get a copy of whichever paperback was going to be discussed over two glasses of specially chosen wine.
Of course, the main issue was cash flow. Andrea was still uncovering the extent of the shop’s debts, they were waiting for probate, and in the meantime, the bills and the staff still needed to be paid. There was no shortage of ideas for making Nightingale Books the best book shop in the world, but to do that Emilia needed money. And there were plenty of boring things that needed to be done before the exciting things: the computer system badly needed updating; security was non-existent, and the roof was only held on by a wing and a prayer. The autumn winds were gathering strength and Emilia fully expected to find it no longer there one morning, the contents of the attic exposed for all to see.
In the church hall, four chairs were laid out in a semi-circle in front of four music stands. There was much discussion as to the best seating order, but in the end Marlowe dictated that Emilia and he were best at either end, so that she could see him and vice versa.
Any nerves Emilia had were doubled the moment she saw Delphine. Emilia knew the viola player, Petra, from old, but she had never got to know Delphine properly; only by repute from what Julius had said. She was wearing PVC drainpipes, brothel creepers and a frilly white blouse. She had Paris written all over her, with her asymmetric bob and red lips. Emilia felt dowdy in her jeans and hoody with her hair in plaits.
‘Do you two know each other?’ Marlowe asked, his casual tone not giving anything away.
‘Hello,’ said Emilia, feeling a nasty burning sensation in the pit of her stomach. ‘Thank you so much for playing at the memorial. It meant a lot.’
‘We miss your father very much,’ said Delphine. ‘He was a beautiful player.’
Emilia immediately felt under pressure to be as good as her father, which she knew she wasn’t.
She panicked even more when she heard Delphine play. She picked up her violin and played a snippet of Vivaldi’s ‘Autumn’, in honour of the leaves turning to orange outside the window and the fact the sun had had little warmth in it that day.
It was the musical equivalent of a sketch. The bow barely touched the strings, just danced over them, picking out the few notes she wanted to give an approximation of the piece. The notes were pure and perfect and stunning in their simplicity. Delphine was a player at the top of her game.
Was she showing off? Or did she just feel the need to send Emilia a warning shot? A message to her that said you can never be as good as me, as long as you live, as often as you practise.
She finished the piece with a flourish. Petra clapped in delight. Emilia knew she would look churlish if she didn’t join in. Her face ached as she smiled. Delphine gave a tiny self-deprecating shake of her head and a shrug as if to say ‘it was nothing’. But Emilia knew she knew how good she was.
And then she sauntered over to Marlowe and slid a hand around his neck, stroking the back of it with her thumb. Marlowe was busy tightening his bow and didn’t react, but it was such a familiar gesture, Emilia was left in no doubt: of course they were going out. She could imagine them having sex. French sex. French sex where Delphine was on top with her head thrown back and her eyes half-shut but her lipstick still perfect. Delphine was Juliette Binoche, Béatrice Dalle and Audrey Tautou rolled into one, and a musical prodigy to boot.