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We fucked over bin liners stuffed with duvets and pillows. Quite a comfortable nest, except the plastic proved noisy and it left my naked skin covered in a sweaty sheen. My inner thighs dripped with his semen and I giggled at my state. Stefan, panting, eased off me and lay across a bag of clothes. After a while, I calmed and pulled out a duvet, wrapping it around my shivering body. He remained on his side, resting on a bag, watching me with his gray eyes.
“I’ve been such a fool,” I said. “You and Magda. I got a little jealous.”
“Understandable. We have a long history. She knows me well. She is happy for me, for us. She admires you, I think.” He leaned over and took my hand. “Welcome to your new home, Mausi.”
* * * *
“We’ll split the bills, yes?” I announced over our first meal together. “I absolutely insist. I’m saving on rent. I shall contribute toward the food and heating.”
“I work at home, so you don’t have to pay for me to keep my feet warm.”
“The matter is closed.” I glared.
He rolled his eyes in defeat.
He had to teach, and, foolishly, I’d assumed he did it while I worked. However, his pupils were at school in the day, or working. Fortunately, five of seven students came after their school day finished and I was either working, or I crept into the house and hid in the mezzanine study. It afforded me the opportunity to observe him at work. The youngsters—his budding protégés—came with a parent in tow. A requirement, even though Stefan had had all the necessary criminal record checks done on him. He preferred that they stayed and ensured his young charges knew exactly what he expected of them as witnessed by their paying parent. After all, Stefan wasn’t cheap.
I listened from above, pretending to read a book. He was the same hard taskmaster persona I knew from conducting. Four of his pupils were training to be singers. The other three he taught the piano. He coaxed them, not bullied. With a snap of his fingers, he stopped them in their tracks when they fluffed the notes or lost the rhythm, correcting each little mistake with a word or two of gentle criticism. Once the music flowed unhindered, he let them perform without interruption. I admired his ability to judge when to intervene and when to let his pupil find his or her own way.
The two adults he taught on Tuesday evenings, one after the other. Again, I sneaked out of sight, not wanting to distract Stefan or his paying clients—a baritone and a soprano. I could hear the raw talent in their voices, waiting to be tamed and turned into professional quality. Just like his younger pupils, Stefan worked them hard and each lesson they progressed.
I tingled when Stefan spoke to them. He used that delicious voice of his, which told them exactly what they had to do with courtesy and German-style directness. By the second lesson, I envied those two, especially when he sang duets with them. My eyes prickled with emotional tears, which I shuttered and kept unshed.
When his last student left, I itched to play Nettie, as if some contagion lurked in the air, telling me to play. I assembled her and Stefan joined me without comment. Now I had my whole repertoire of music to hand, Stefan could accompany me on the piano. I played for pleasure, not to be critiqued, and Stefan demonstrated little interference. If I went wrong, we’d stop and pick up again. He neither tutored me nor played the role of a benign accompanist.
I needed more, but I couldn’t tell him. Living with a fellow musician—watching Stefan play the piano with his eyes closed and a serene expression—had fully awoken the dormant musician in me. With Wi-Fi access, I browsed freely and without constraint. I revisited the websites of colleges and conservatoires, drawn to the syllabuses and entry requirements. The same itch that made me play Nettie now made me want to recapture my forgotten dreams. What had started as a faint idea on a train in Germany took greater shape.
“What are you looking at?” he’d asked one evening.
I’d adopted his iPad as my own.
“Just music courses.” I’d tapped on the screen and kept my gaze on the website.
He’d snorted. “Good.”
That had been it. Nothing else. No curiosity about which, or whether I intended to apply. A dismissive comment with no substance. If my reading material pleased him, he kept it well hidden. He should have been delighted, egging me on, suggesting the best. I glanced across to where he sat, and he buried his face in a book, fidgeting with the pages.
I didn’t want to leave him. Three years of study away from Cambridge and we’d just started our life together. I couldn’t bear the thought of being apart from him. The alternative—I opted for private tuition and took a diploma examination, which involved a recital and a written submission—came with issues. I’d need a good teacher to help me prepare and I had one, sitting right opposite me. Why was it so damn hard to ask? Because I’d told him to back off and my pride kept my lips pressed together.
Another time, another day. When I was ready to have a new armchair critic, I would ask. Maybe.
* * * *
I woke the night before the concert in a suddenly anxious state. I blinked in the darkness, reached out to touch Stefan, but he wasn’t there next to me. I switched on a light then slipped on my robe.
It had been over two weeks since I’d moved in with him and I’d adapted to my new life, the routines built around my work at the florist and his lessons. Occasionally, he’d withdraw from me, sit staring at the garden, tapping a finger on an armrest or humming to himself.
We had sex almost daily. A joint thirst, which we never seemed to quench. I’d learned to be his, to give myself to him willingly. I had donned my miniskirts and removed my underwear, flashed my cleft whenever I bent over near him. He liked my signals, the swagger of my hips when I’d brush next to him.
His dominance in the bedroom had remained steadfast and unyielding, but in other areas of life, he’d remained strangely mute and tight-lipped. If I’d asked for his opinion, he’d provided one, but otherwise, he hadn’t mentioned my career or future plans.
From the top of the staircase, I spied him at the piano, playing silently. His fingers caressed the keys without pressing them down. I stood still, watching him as he noted things on a sheet of manuscript paper. Composing in the dead of night? Why? I didn’t want to disturb him and went back to bed.
I lay for a while thinking about the concert. A sell-out. We would be performing in Great St. Mary’s church in the heart of the city, plenty of room for an orchestra by the choir and the audience in the nave. The program contained sufficiently popular pieces to draw in the crowds. I’d promised myself not to be nervous. It was proving to be a challenge.
Perhaps because of my obvious nerves—the constant pacing and loss of appetite—on the Saturday morning, the day of the concert, Stefan insisted that I run through all my pieces one more time—in the nude. I resisted at first, but succumbed to the idea when he persuaded me it would finish off those last-minute concerns.
It did me good and stripped away the residuals of my performance anxiety During the concert, I played to perfection, focusing on my part, those about me and Stefan’s baton. I bowed with others at the end, proud of my achievement and Stefan’s too. He’d worked wonders with us in such a short space of time.
