Chapter 19
‘You’re right that I was born here,’ Gabriel begins. ‘And you already know that I’m one of six. Grace, my sister who owns the Elixir, is the eldest, then Michael, me, Blessing, who I’ve already told you about, Raphael and Uriel.’
‘Your parents obviously have a thing about boys’ names ending in -el,’ I observe. ‘Uriel is a new one on me though. Is that a common name in Jamaica?’
‘Not especially.’ He smiles. ‘I told you that my mother is a deeply religious woman, and so she named us after the four Archangels from the Bible. I don’t think Uriel thanks her for it. He was teased horribly at school. People used to call him “Urinal”. He shortens it to Uri now.’
‘Poor him. What would have happened if you’d been girls?’
‘I think she would just have kept going until she had the four boys.’
‘I quite like the girls’ names she chose. Grace and Blessing. What’s your mum’s name?’
‘Constance.’
‘Nice, and your dad?’
‘Desmond.’
‘Hm. He doesn’t fit the mould so well, does he. Does he feel left out?’
‘Not any more. He died some years ago.’
‘Oh, Gabriel, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be insensitive.’
‘It’s fine. Anyway, so I was born here, and this was my primary school.’ He points to a white-painted building on the other side of the road. ‘It’s also where I first started to learn the piano. Mrs Brown was my teacher.’
‘You loved her, didn’t you?’
‘How can you tell?’
‘Because of the way you sounded when you said her name.’
He nods. ‘I did. I remember her talking to Mum and Dad at one of those parent–teacher things, after I’d been learning for just under a year. She wasted no time in telling them that she thought I was a talent to watch.’
‘Is she still alive?’
‘She is. She’s ninety-three and sharp as a tack. I always make a point of visiting her every time I come back.’
‘OK. So you’re going to school and learning the piano. Then what?’
‘Are you sure this isn’t boring?’
‘I’m fascinated. Continue, please.’
‘My father worked in the government. He was quite high up and, when I was ten, he was appointed High Commissioner to London.’
‘So you all moved to the UK.’
‘We did, to the Jamaican High Commission, oddly enough.’
‘Whereabouts in London is that?’
‘Round the back of the Science Museum, basically.’
‘Nice.’
‘It was. I loved it. There’s a much bigger music scene there too, so I was able to get into the Purcell School for Young Musicians, and then the Royal College of Music.’
‘Here’s a question. I think I know the answer where Raphael is concerned, but do your other siblings have the ability to switch between accents like you do?’
He looks a little uncomfortable. ‘No, it’s just me.’
‘How come?’
‘One of the things I learned very early on is that most classical pianists tend to come from Europe, the USA or the Far East. Jamaicans are rare. I’m not saying this country doesn’t produce pianists at all, because we do.
But they tend to be jazz or contemporary rather than classical.
In that arena you’ve basically got a guy called Paul Shaw and me. ’
‘Right, but that’s only to be expected, given that Jamaica is a very small country compared to the other places you mentioned. What’s it got to do with your accent?’
‘The truth is that nobody took me seriously all the time I spoke with a Jamaican accent. My classmates would tease me and say things like, “You’re in the wrong place. Reggae is next door.” So I cultivated a British accent.’
‘That’s outrageous!’ I exclaim. ‘It’s blatant racism. Did you raise it with the teachers?’
‘No.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because, deep down, I think they felt the same way. I mean yes, they told the other students off if they heard them say anything, but it was pretty half-hearted. There was an upside though.’
‘Really? What?’
‘It motivated me to work harder than pretty much everyone else, because I had a point to prove.’
‘Are any of the others as successful as you?’
He grins. ‘I’m the only one in my year listed on the “Stellar Alumni” lists.’
‘I bet that grates on them.’
‘I probably take more pleasure in it than I should. Pride is one of the seven deadly sins, as my mother is keen to remind me.’
‘It’s not pride. It sounds to me like you worked your arse off to get where you are, and surely it isn’t wrong to be pleased with the way things have turned out?’
‘Mm. I think the line between being pleased how things have turned out and pride is pretty thin, but thank you.’
‘So, you’re living in the Jamaican High Commission, studying like mad and then what?’
‘Then it all went wrong. Dad had a massive heart attack when I was eighteen, and didn’t survive it. Mum had never liked living in London, so as soon as Dad’s affairs were put in order, she and the rest of the family moved back here.’
‘What about you?’
‘I was at the RCM. I had to choose between being left behind to continue to pursue my dream, or give it all up and move back with them.’
‘Difficult choice.’
‘Not really. I love Jamaica, but I feel at home in London. It probably sounds weird to someone like you, given how the British are seemingly obsessed with complaining about the weather, but I like the different seasons, sometimes all of them in one day. Here, apart from the odd hurricane, it’s pretty much the same all year round.
And, of course, there are more opportunities for someone like me there. ’
‘It’s a crowded scene though, isn’t it? I mean, you’ve already mentioned your classmates as competition, and that’s just one year. How come you got noticed above the others? You’re clearly talented, but there has to be more to it than that.’
‘Boringly, I think it’s just hard slog again.
I took every piece of work going, played concerts in some pretty obscure places, and entered every competition for pianists.
The one that finally got me noticed on the world stage was the International Chopin Piano competition.
It’s only held once every five years, but I won it, and that broke the barrier. ’
‘You were playing Chopin the evening I first met you.’
‘Well remembered. I play a lot of Chopin. Seems only fair really, given it was his music that launched me.’
‘Surely it was the way you played his music that launched you.’
‘Maybe, but I prefer to see it my way. Less risk of pride.’
A thought comes to me. ‘Do you have a rider when you’re doing a concert? Please tell me you do.’
He smiles. ‘Actually, I do. It’s—’
‘Don’t tell me,’ I interrupt. ‘I want to guess. A basket full of Persian kittens.’
‘Allergic to cats.’
‘Some incredibly expensive champagne. Cristal, or Dom Pérignon. Or maybe you get them to fly in that beer you like – the troublesome one.’
‘Trouble’s Brewing?’ He smiles. ‘It’s not generally a good idea to drink alcohol before a concert. Numbs the senses when you need to be fully alert. My rider is actually pretty boring.’
‘Chocolate? Sweets? A dozen white roses?’
‘San Pellegrino bottled water, a lemon and some ice.’
‘Is that it?’
‘I said it was dull.’
‘You seriously need to up your diva levels, Gabriel. I could help with that, for a fee.’
‘What would you put on the rider then?’
‘Champagne for starters. You might not be able to have any, but I could drink it for you. And strawberries. If I’m going to sit through a couple of hours of classical music, I need those things.’
‘I thought you said you didn’t mind classical music.’
‘I don’t,’ I agree, ‘but everything’s better with champagne and strawberries.’
‘Let me guess. You’ve seen Pretty Woman.’
‘It’s an oldie but goodie. Rosie and I still watch it regularly.’
He smiles. ‘Would it surprise you to know that Mum wouldn’t let us watch it? The whole prostitution element upset her.’
‘How do you know about it then?’
‘Another advantage of being in London when she was here.’ He laughs again. ‘She’d be horrified if she knew half the things I got up to. Anyway, the champagne and strawberries would have to be your rider, not mine.’
‘Fair enough.’
‘Have you seen enough here? Ready to move on?’
‘Where are we going next?’
‘You mentioned church. Are you sure you aren’t bored? We could revert to the tourist attractions if you like.’
‘This is much more interesting. Can I ask another question?’
‘Of course.’ He starts the engine and pulls out.
‘Is there a Mrs Gabriel stuck somewhere at home with a batch of delightful children while you’re trotting the globe as Mr Concert Pianist?’
A look crosses his face, but it’s gone before I can work out what it is.
‘No,’ he says eventually. ‘No Mrs Gabriel.’
‘Would you like there to be?’
‘Of course. But my lifestyle makes it difficult.’
I study him for a moment as the penny drops. ‘There was someone, wasn’t there,’ I say softly.
‘Sort of,’ he admits. ‘Francesca. She was a cellist. I thought dating someone from within the industry, who understood the lifestyle, would give us a better chance of success.’
‘What happened, if you don’t mind me asking?’
‘It was great, when we were together.’
I wait for him to elaborate, but I can see he’s losing himself in the memories, so I don’t prod him for more information this time.
We’re in incredibly personal territory now, and I’ve already got much more out of him than I’d hoped.
He glances in the rear-view mirror as he brakes for a traffic light, and then turns to me with a sigh.
‘The problem was that we weren’t together often enough. She was on the road performing, and so was I, so we only saw each other on the rare occasions our schedules aligned. When we did see each other, it was lovely, but that wasn’t enough, ultimately.’
‘Who ended it?’
‘It was kind of mutual. I think we both knew we didn’t have a future.’ The light turns green and he returns his concentration to the road.
‘How long ago?’
‘Six and a half months. I don’t miss her. I wish her all the best, but we could never have worked. That’s actually the bit that hurts, because it made me realise that I’m probably always going to be alone.’
‘Why?’
‘Francesca kind of proved that this life is incompatible with relationships even when you’re both in the same line of work. How would you juggle something as mundane as childcare when both of you have international careers?’
I smile. ‘I think a lot of people in that position hire nannies.’
‘Yes, but what’s the point of having children if you’re never around when they’re growing up? Dad may have been a big shot, work wise, but he always made time for us. Hard to do that when you’re in Japan and your children are in London.’
‘OK, then you marry someone outside the industry. Someone who’s happy to provide that stability while you’re adding plaudits to your Wikipedia page and opening Last Night of the Proms for the seventieth time.’
‘Do you know anyone like that? Who’d be prepared to put up with an absentee husband who locks himself away to practise for hours each day on the occasions that he was home?’
I ponder his question for a while, trying to imagine domestic life with someone like him. ‘I think,’ I say eventually, ‘it’s nothing to do with someone being inside or outside the industry. It’s about the personality of your partner.’
He pulls into the side of the road again and switches off the engine. I can tell we’ve arrived at our destination because the building we’re outside has ‘Church of God’ written on it in large red letters. Gabriel makes no move to get out of the car, however.
‘Go on,’ he says instead.
‘This is going to come as a shock to you, but I don’t think your situation is that different from a lot of the people I work with.
Yes, you travel a lot, but plenty of people have to do that.
Finance people, consultants, company directors, CEOs and so on.
Most of them have wives and families. You just need to meet someone who’s happy to keep the ship afloat while you’re off doing your thing. ’
‘I don’t want a Stepford wife.’
‘I’m not suggesting a Stepford wife. I’m suggesting the opposite, actually. Someone independent, who loves you but has their own life and doesn’t have a problem getting on with things in your absence.’
He laughs. ‘Do you know who I think you’re describing?’
‘No. Who?’
‘You.’
‘Me?’ I can feel a blush starting to spread across my cheeks. If he thinks this whole conversation was me making a play for him, that’s deeply embarrassing. Although…
‘Yes, you,’ Gabriel says firmly. ‘And, before you start trying to deny it, look at the way you’ve handled this holiday so far.
Pretty much everything that could ruin it has happened.
Your room share went wrong; you seem to be locked in a permanent battle with awful Amy, and you can’t even get a proper drink at the bar to make it better.
A lot of people would just sit around moaning about it, but not you.
You’ve embarked on a quest to try to get your roommate rehabilitated with his girlfriend, stood up to Amy and become a regular at Raphael’s bar. ’
‘Technically, that last one was down to you, not me.’
‘OK. You befriended an itinerant pianist who showed you the best bar in the area. Still you being independent and getting on with things, to use your phrase.’
‘An itinerant pianist who turns out to be some bigwig with a Wikipedia page.’
‘Again the obsession. But I have a challenge for you.’
‘Oh, yes? What’s that?’
‘Put your money where your mouth is,’ he says with a wicked grin. ‘We’re outside the church and I know where the pastor lives. What do you say? Shall we pop in and get married?’
I know he’s joking, but I’m now blushing furiously and can’t quite work out whether it’s because he’s just paid me such a lovely compliment or because the idea of a future with him doesn’t horrify me in the way it probably should.
In fact, I think as I study his hands once more to avoid looking him in the eye, the thought of him placing them on me is very nice indeed.