Read Night Music for Free Online Page A

her throat ‘. . . to be here. And what I earn with the orchestra has never been enough to cover our household expenses.’
    Mr Cartwright murmured something to himself, flicking backwards and forwards between the pages. ‘There is one possibility,’ he said.
    ‘I knew you’d think of something,’ she said eagerly.
    He ran his finger down his list. ‘I’m afraid there’s nothing financial you can cash in. But to the best of my information, the most valuable asset you hold outside your house is . . . your violin.’
    ‘What?’
    He had reached for his calculator now, was nimbly totting up figures. ‘I understand it is a Guarneri? You have it insured for a six-figure sum. If you sell it for something like that amount, it won’t cover the school fees, but you should be able to keep your house.’ He held out the calculator to her. ‘I’m figuring with commission, but you should still be able to clear your mortage with a little over. It would be a wise course of action.’
    ‘Sell my violin?’
    ‘It’s a lot of money. At a time when you’re in need of it.’
    After he had gone, Isabel went upstairs and lay on her bed. She stared at the ceiling, remembering all those nights she had felt Laurent’s weight on top of her, the evenings spent reading and chatting about nothing much, unaware that such domestic mundanity could be a luxury, the nights they had flanked the sleeping bodies of their newborn babies, gazing at them and at each other, in wonder.
    She let her hand run over the silk coverlet. Such sensual pleasure seemed pointless now. The coverlet itself, its rich reds and ornate embroidery, was overtly sexual, as if it mocked her solitary state. She wrapped her arms round herself, trying to blot out the encroaching grief, the sense of amputation that hit her every time she was alone in the vast bed.
    Through the wall, she could hear the muffled sound of the television, and imagined her son slumped in front of it, probably lost in a computer game. For a while she had hoped that one of her children might be interested in music but, like their father, they had little talent, and even less inclination. Perhaps it’s just as well, she observed. Perhaps there’s only room for one person to follow their dream in this family. Laurent spoiled me. He allowed me to be the lucky one.
    She heard Mary arriving home, and a brief conversation between her and Kitty. Then, knowing she could no longer afford the indulgence of lying there, she got up, straightened the bedclothes, and went slowly downstairs. She found Kitty sitting cross-legged at the coffee-table. In front of her the Pile was divided into separate smaller heaps of brown or handwritten envelopes, subdivided into addressees.
    ‘Mary’s gone to the supermarket.’ Her daughter put down another envelope. ‘I thought we should probably open some of these.’
    ‘I’ll do it. You don’t have to help me, darling.’ Isabel stooped to stroke her daughter’s hair.
    ‘Easier if it’s both of us.’
    There was no rancour in her voice, just the practicality that made Isabel feel a combination of gratitude and guilt. Laurent had called Kitty his ‘ vieille femme ’. Now, Isabel realised, at the tender age of fifteen, her daughter had naturally assumed that role.
    ‘Then I’ll make us some tea,’ she said.
    Mary had been with them since Kitty was a baby. Sometimes Isabel thought the nanny knew her children better than she did. Mary’s air of calm efficiency had held them together these past few months, her stability stitching a thread of normality through what had become surreal. Isabel did not know how she would cope without her. The thought of cooking and ironing, changing bedlinen and the myriad other things Mary did every day filled her with despair.
    I must be strong, she told herself. Worse things happen than this. In a year, perhaps, we will be laughing again.
    When she returned with the two mugs, she kissed her daughter’s head, filled with