Friday's a full and exhilarating day. And Sherlock's contract expires at midnight. ⌛️
When it’s all over, I ask the Orchestra to stay for a moment, as Sherlock had requested. I cock my head to gesture him forward; he takes his time settling his Goffriller in its case, then takes my place at the podium.
He looks out to face the Orchestra. “I learn, somewhat to my surprise, that I’m known as a difficult player to work with.”
He’s a performer, so he knows to pause here for uncomfortable titters, raucous hoots, frozen stares, or whatever the reactions might be; in the event, he gets all of them, it’s a friendly audience.
“Obviously,” he continues straight-faced, “that’s because most orchestras are led by egomaniacs and staffed by idiots.”
*
Chapter 8, Wednesday night and Thursday: nervosamente. In which John is a worrywart, Sherlock is a sly fox, and all will be well;
Chapter 9, Thursday evening: quasi una fantasia
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We enter the Huntington to a delighted gasp from an elegant older woman being welcomed by a fading celebrity, the Library’s (Gawd help us) “brand ambassador.” Introductions all round, in the universal order of importance—the criteria for deciding this are a bit complicated, in this environment. Wealth, fame, institutional relevance, talent, looks: Sherlock, of course, comes out on top everywhere but in the first.
“Mr Holmes! I’d no idea you’d be here! Are you going to play?”
“Oh no, I’m not here to play. I’m John’s date.” That voice. Calling me his date. It feels … fantastic.
“Ooh, lucky man,” she says, looking at me with a smile.
Without missing a beat, Sherlock corrects her: “I am. I know. I’m glad we’ve met again, Mrs Chandler. Amy. The last time we spoke, you were looking for a…” he steers her away, his hand on her elbow, turning up the wattage. I wonder which deserving cause he’s going to hit her up for.
I’ve been lost in a vivid memory of last night when I hear a sweet and very familiar voice, and turn gratefully to see Mrs Hudson, looking floral and ruffly and a bit more bejewelled than usual. (A far cry from the YouTube video I’d stumbled on—by sheer chance, as in her exotic dancing days she used a stage name.)
“Mrs H! I was hoping to have you to myself for a moment. That is, I want to introduce you to this week’s guest artist, Sherlock Holmes. Careful, or he’ll charm the Louboutins off you, for a good cause.”
I got back to my place in a daze of limerence and replayed lust, meaning to collapse into bed and relive every minute of last night until I fell asleep. Instead, damn it, I saw that I’ve been leaving the place an absolute tip all week, and resigned myself to making it at least livable.
Since then I’ve tidied, fantasised, hoovered, daydreamed, done the washing-up, lusted, thrown clothing in the wash (who cares now), sorrowed, showered (again) (alone), wanked, and moped the afternoon away. I think of him reaching LAX in an hour, sitting composed in some exclusive lounge for our phone date. He’ll be focused on Moscow and the next programme, while the night we spent fades into a pleasant memory.
I have to snap out of it. There’s an early gala to attend—on a sodding weekend, and I’m resenting that bit too—so I haul out the white tie rig. Better to be overdressed than under, and if it’s too much, people will assume I’m on my way to perform or attend something somewhere. They won’t know I wish it was Moscow, and I won’t tell them.
*
Ch. 11: Friday night / Saturday morning: con desiderio
“You’re an irresistible menace, you know. Stop flirting and tell me, why me.”
“You’re the exception, more than just in the music. You—I’d have known you anywhere. There’s a light around you. You try to fly under the radar, but you can’t, the light gathers around you.”
I’m still stumped. Humbled. Tall, dark, and handsome is infatuated with me? Ordinary John Watson, ambling toward middle age in a cardigan? How long will that last?
Well sod it, I decide, in for a penny and make the most of it, as my gran would mangle the saying.
