Read Time Will Tell for Free Online Page A

well into their second pint.
    A man in his mid-fifties with a moustache like an overused toothbrush pushed towards her.
    â€˜Miss Mitchell,’ he breathed, his voice tight, ‘I have all your CDs. Could you sign them for me?’
    She smiled. ‘Of course.’
    Here they all were, in chronological order. The first,
Beyond Compère
by Beyond Compère, the live recording of their first and only theatrical production, followed by the more refined but, to her mind, rather restrained and too-perfect studio version, issued on EMI. Then came the later releases:
Dufay Defined
and
Josquin Can
, jokey titles that belied the essential seriousness of the projects, but which helped in the current climate of falling CD sales and the dumbing-down of classical music. Both were adorned with stickers proclaiming the prizes that they had won –
Grand Prix du Disque, Diapason D’Or
. If all else failed, thought Emma, they were sure of a welcome in France.
    â€˜And when will your next disc be coming out, Miss Mitchell?’ asked the unctuous man, beads of sweat popping on his bald head.
    Emma bit her tongue. What she really wanted to do was challenge him for calling her
Miss
Mitchell. There was a condescending edge to the sycophancy and she resented being adored and patronised simultaneously. This wasn’t a question of the fan lusting after her (she batted away the thought), but of regarding her with awe mixed with, well, disbelief: there were still some for whom the term ‘female conductor’ was an oxymoron.
    She knew that sometimes she overreacted, that what she took for over-solicitousness was genuine concern, but the press in particular tended to focus on her gender rather than her relative youth: one rather pompous review in
The Times
had put the word ‘conductor’ in inverted commas, as if her role within the group didn’t even qualify her for the title; and a small-scale publication for early music enthusiasts, from which she had expected a modicum of parochial sympathy, had once glided too swiftly from an observation on her gender to a criticism of her interpretation, thereby hinting that the two were interrelated. She had, in any case, given up even using the term ‘conductor’ and latched onto the idea of the
animateur
, a term that referenced her drama background and described her role far more accurately as the person who prepared, commented upon, interpreted and shaped the performances which she herself would introduce and present.
    The fan was standing there, his wet mouth hanging open with anticipation, eager to hear the news about the next CD despite the fact that, with all the pre-publicity, he probably knew all about it anyway.
    â€˜Well, the next CD will be out very soon. It’s Ockeghem year, as you know, and it’ll be called
Ockeghem Gems
. Available in all good record stores,’ she said. Her little joke was acknowledged with a keening laugh, which came just a little too early and a little bit too loudly. Her teeth on edge, she signed the accompanying booklet, then excused herself and moved over to two young students who were obviously eager to speak to her.
    â€˜Could you sign this for us?’ asked one of them, tall, with glasses, the geeky type. Rather than a CD it was a score of
Nymphes des bois
that he proffered, a hand-written edition that he’d obviously made himself. In the top right-hand corner he’d written his name and the occasion for which he’d prepared the edition.
    â€˜Your own edition, I see?’ said Emma. ‘And for a concert you’re giving tomorrow?’
    He giggled slightly, a nervous sound. To announce his presence, his better-looking and clearly more-self-confident friend answered.
    â€˜Yeah. Gig at the University. A celebration of Ockeghem on his death-day,’ he said. ‘I’m Steven and this is Simon. I’m the conductor and he’s the brains.’
    â€˜The two aren’t