£7.99
Published by Turner Maxwell Books
First published 2008.
Copyright © Peter Taylor 2009.All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, transmitted or stored in a retrieval system in any form or by any means without permission in writing by Peter Taylor or Turner Maxwell Books.
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Warning: May contain explicit material, which is not intentionally offensive. Not suitable for children
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental and may be more the work of your own imagination. Why not write a book yourself? Turner Maxwell Books are an alternative co-operative of new writers, working towards publishing inspirational literature.
Printed and bound in the United Kingdom for Turner Maxwell Books.
THE NAKED VIOLINIST
by Peter Taylor
An extract from CHAPTER ONE
It was a relief to find that his wife had taken an instant dislike to Gordon Craigie. At least, Paul said to himself, that was one one less to worry about. The trouble with being married to a beautiful woman was that every red-blooded man in the world seemed to regard one’s wife as fair game. This even applied, on occasions, to Paul’s best friends. Miranda usually rejected these propositions with good humour, and nobody seemed to take offence, but it added an interesting quality to their marriage, a sense of walking a tightrope over an abyss. Paul regarded himself as a modern man, neither possessive nor jealous, but he kept a wary eye on any presentable man who crossed their path.
And Gordon Craigie was certainly presentable – handsome, even, with those twinkly blue eyes that women are supposed to find irresistible. He dressed well, but without ostentation. The gaze was steady and the handshake firm. The face seemed destined to gaze out confidently from the pages of the Financial Times. A Scottish face that made one proud to be British.
It was odd that Miranda did not like him. She had only met the man once, during one of her rare appearances at Paul’s office. She normally avoided any involvement in her husband’s business, because she thought all commerce was slightly dishonest, and advertising worse than most, but she had been persuaded to attend on this occasion. It was a cocktail party with slide show, or alternatively a seminar with drinks. Whichever way you looked at it, the objective was to fraternise with potential clients and lead them gently towards the signing of a contract. Miranda refused to take part in this process but consented to mingle with the guests in a friendly way, complaining afterwards that it made her feel like a bimbo. She had been immediately subjected to the Craigie charm. He was undoubtedly a skilful operator, Paul had observed with mounting alarm, as he moved into his routine with practised ease. Most women would have been bowled over, but Miranda had remained uncharmed. Perhaps it was because she was a musician that she had detected a dissonant note in the confident voice, and something not quite right about the disarming smile.
Paul should have been pleased. But thinking about it afterwards, he found her unfavourable opinion of the man vaguely irritating, as if it were a criticism of his own judgement. Throughout his career he had met a number of plausible rogues, but he had convinced himself that Gordon Craigie was not one of them. He might be the sort who would try to steal your wife, and would certainly cheat on his own, but in Paul’s experience that did not disqualify anyone from being potentially an honest and reliable business partner.
Nevertheless Miranda had an annoying habit of being right about people. So when it came to the first formal negotiations between their two companies, Paul was cautious, trying not to seem too enthusiastic about the exciting prospects which were being laid before him like a sumptuous feast.
“What I need,” said Gordon Craigie, “is one hundred per cent commitment. That’s why I’ve come to a small agency like yours. I want your team to be part of our team, to be thoroughly involved in what we are doing. Need I say we’ll be a major client for you?”
They were sitting in the lounge of a smart hotel on the north side of the Park. The agency’s policy was always to have the initial meeting on neutral territory. However, Gordon Craigie gave the impression of being perfectly at home. The waiter was deferential, graciously condescending to accept his generous tip. At the far end of the room, surrounded by potted palms, a rather beautiful young man was playing Stella by Starlight on a white Bechstein grand.
With an effort Paul focused his attention on the man opposite. The room was rather overheated and a pleasant mellow feeling seemed to be overcoming him. Must concentrate on the matter in hand. “I picked you out,” Gordon Craigie was saying, “because you are a musician yourself. Isn’t that right?”
Paul admitted that, a long time ago, he had studied music, had even had ideas of becoming a concert pianist. Just like the young man at the Bechstein, who was probably a final year student at the Guildhall or Trinity. (Would this one make it to the concert platform? It’s more likely that he would opt out, like Paul, for reasons that seemed good at the time.)
“So what led you into advertising?” asked Craigie.
“I had to make a living,” said Paul. “To make a career in music you need first of all to be brilliant, and then you need to be lucky. I wasn’t either. I suppose I was no better than average.”
“I’m sure you’re being modest. But you have a musical background – that’s essential if you are going to work on our product.”
“That goes without saying.”
“Your wife was a musician too, she told me. We had a long chat,” said Craigie in a slightly suggestive way, reminding Paul of his anxieties at the cocktail party. He had been so relieved when it became clear that Miranda was not going to allow herself to be reeled in like a salmon.
“Yes, we met as students,” Paul said, “She studied violin. She was the one with the talent. She had the potential to get to the top, but she married me and had a baby instead.”
“What a waste. Does she still play?”
“She gives lessons. And she’s recently formed a quartet with some old college friends.”
“Any good?”
“They’re really very good, but it isn’t easy to get worthwhile bookings. She’s been out of things for too long”
“And the child must be a problem.”
“No, our son grew up and left home some time ago. He’s a computer consultant.”
“Good heavens, I thought she was much younger than that,” said Craigie. “Well, maybe we can involve her in some way. Help her to get back in the limelight. You know, I’m very excited about this.” Was he talking about Miranda or the project as a whole? “We have got a really winning idea here.”