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Perhaps Anya’s knock was a little soft accidentally on purpose. The sound-proofing of the room was so good she could hear the music only by putting her head close to the panelled wood but when she quietly opened the door the sound of a Bach ‘Partita’ spilled into her ears in all its exquisite clarity. She stilled when she realised that the superb technical skill and luminous delicacy of emotion wasn’t flowing from any stereo speakers but from the young girl seated at the piano, her face intent on her flying fingers.
Anya stood by the partly open door, not moving until the vibrant humour of the final gigue faded into silence. She didn’t applaud; she was too full of admiration and anger. ‘You’re good.’
Petra quietly put down the lid of the piano. ‘I know.’
Anya moved to sit beside her on the edge of piano stool. ‘No, I’m mean you’re good.’ Her voice carried a gravity that extended beyond mere words. ‘I may not be able to carry a tune myself but I’ve lived amongst musicians; I’ve listened to greatness and I know pure, raw genius when I hear it.’ She took the girl’s restless hands in hers and looked down ste
rnly into the piquant face. ‘Both of us know what it takes to play the way that you do. The dedication it takes, especially in one so young. So what are you doing here, Petra? And I don’t mean that stuff you gave your dad about wanting to know the other half of your heritage. What is it that you really want from him?’
Petra’s grip tightened to the point of pain, her blue eyes dangerously overbright. ‘Mum and Dad can’t afford for me to go overseas to study. They just haven’t got the money—not with Brian and David to provide for, too. Even if I win a scholarship, I’d still need extra money. I could work and save up, but I can’t wait that long. I need to go soon, Miss Adams. I don’t just want to be good, I want to be great. But I’m already fourteen; if I’m going to reach my full potential my teachers say I need to start intensive full-time study now.’
Petra’s face was pale but determined. ‘When I found out about my dad—my real dad—I thought he could help me. You know, if he got to know me first, and like me and everything…’
‘And then you’d spring a guilt trip on him that he owes you the money because he didn’t stick around when you were born,’ said Anya, aware that the child had been hoist by her own petard. She might have come looking for a financial backer for her talent, but she had found so much more. And now she was feeling thoroughly torn by her conflicting feelings.
Petra’s short nails dug into the backs of Anya’s hands. ‘I know he was just a kid back then, but he’s not any more. In spite of what Mum said, he wants to be my dad. He can afford to help me, and I know he would want me to be the best that ever I can be. I know he would!’
‘Yes, he would,’ sighed Anya. ‘But, please, for his sake, try and put it to him diplomatically.’
‘As soon as I found out that Kate Carlyle was your cousin I knew you’d understand!’ Petra burst out, bouncing to her feet. ‘You think he should give me the money, too, don’t you?’
‘For God’s sake, don’t tell your father that!’
‘Don’t tell me what?’
Scott, tall and intimidating in a dark pinstriped suit, had slipped in the door. The man had the most incredibly awful timing. He was always turning up when and where Anya least expected him.
Petra grinned, unable to hide her hyped-up state, and Anya knew she was going to blow the whole thing wide open.
‘That I came over here to ask you to cough up for me to study at the best music school that I can get to accept me as a student!’
Scott’s head whipped around to Anya, still sitting on the piano stool. ‘Is this your idea?’
Petra shook her head emphatically, intercepting his steely look. ‘Nah, she only listened to me play and realised how good I am.’ It was said completely without boastfulness or irony. ‘She didn’t want me to hurt your feelings—like, make you feel all twisted up that the only reason I wanted to meet you is so that I could screw money out of you.’
‘And was it?’
‘Well, yeah,’ she admitted, lifting her pointed chin. ‘But that was before I met you…’
‘God knows why, but I find myself understanding that incredible piece of contorted reasoning,’ he murmured. ‘Ambitious, aren’t you?’
Even though he wasn’t showing the glimmer of a smile, Petra heard the rueful pride in his voice and her cocky smile returned. ‘It’s in the genes.’
‘Like being cunning and conniving.’ He grinned back, and something inside Anya relaxed with a slithery sigh.
He was tough, both inside and out, and, most fortunate of all for Petra, he was a realist and a consummate game-player himself. Conniving and lying he could understand—even respect—if it had an honourable purpose; it was hypocrisy which he despised. And Petra had never pretended to be anything other than what she was—his bold, wilful and outrageously different daughter.
‘I only learned to play the piano as an adult, so it’s impossible to compare any genetic similarity there. Exactly how much of a prodigy are you?’ he quizzed. ‘Whenever I suggested you play for me you acted like you weren’t in the mood or were too shy…’ And he would have been too wary of alienating her to insist, thought Anya, and secretly hurt that his daughter didn’t appear to want to share with him the one area in which she was an achiever at school.
‘Because that would have given the game away,’ Anya told him. ‘You would have instantly realised that she was holding out on you. Her sort of talent would turn “Chopsticks” into a bravura performance.’
Petra immediately sat down and flipped up the keyboard, producing a sizzling set of variations on the simple, plunking rhythm that made them all laugh. She then segued into some Mozart, and her whole attitude changed, her head drooping, her face becoming tense and absorbed as she concentrated on the moving intensity of the difficult passage.
When she at last folded her hands in her lap, Scott turned to Anya with a dazed look that reflected her own feelings when she had first heard Petra play.
‘What do you think?’ he asked thickly.
He already knew. The room was lined with rows of bookcases filled with books, but also an eclectic collection of records, tapes and CDs from country and western to a large block of classical recordings. So either Kate had lied about Scott saying he didn’t like classical music…or he had lied to Kate.
