Night Music Read Online Free PDF

name, although it was possible she knew him. She had never had to know so many people’s names before Laurent died. ‘Just coming,’ she said.
    Cartwright. Mr Cartwright. A businesslike name. Not one of the neighbours. Not one of Laurent’s friends, who still called occasionally, shocked if they had only just heard and who had to be comforted, there on her sofa, as if she were the one who now had to take care of everyone’s feelings.
    Not one of her friends, few of whom had kept in touch since she had had to leave the orchestra.
    Cartwright. She peered into the living room and saw, with vague relief, that the man on the sofa in a dark grey suit and a tie was familiar. He had been at the funeral. She tried to gather her thoughts, and glanced to the kitchen, where Kitty was making tea. ‘Can’t Mary do that?’
    ‘It’s her afternoon off. I told you earlier.’
    ‘Oh.’ She was always forgetting things now. Her daughter carried the tea to Mr Cartwright, who was struggling to climb out of the low sofa and stand, right hand extended. In his polished shoes, with his stiff demeanour, he was out of place amid the room’s gentle chaos. She saw it suddenly through a visitor’s eyes. There were piles of books and magazines on the tables. On the arm of the sofa, someone had left a Hallowe’en mask and a tumbled heap of washing. A pair of her knickers was working its way down the back towards the cushions. Thierry was sitting watching television oblivious to the mess around him.
    ‘Mrs Delancey, I hope I haven’t come at an inconvenient time . . .’
    ‘No, no.’ She waved in a conciliatory manner. ‘How lovely to see you. I was just . . . upstairs.’
    Kitty sat in the red damask chair and curled her legs under her. The seat fabric had become so frayed that the grey stuffing was leaking out – and she watched Kitty attempt to push some back in surreptitiously.
    ‘Mr Cartwright has come to talk about money,’ she said. ‘Your tea’s on the side, Mum.’
    ‘Of course. Thank you.’ Accountant? Financial adviser? Solicitor? Laurent had always dealt with such people. ‘Is there something you need me to sign?’
    Mr Cartwright leaned forward, which wasn’t easy because his rear was a good six inches lower than his knees. ‘Not quite. In fact . . . it might be a good idea to have this conversation . . . somewhere else.’ He glanced meaningfully at Thierry, then at Kitty.
    Thierry turned off the television resentfully.
    ‘You can watch the set in Mary’s room, darling. I’m sure she wouldn’t mind.’
    ‘The remote control’s broken,’ said Kitty.
    ‘Well . . . perhaps . . .’
    But Thierry had gone.
    ‘I’ll stay here,’ said Kitty, calmly. ‘Sometimes it’s easier to remember stuff if there are two of you.’
    ‘My daughter is . . . very efficient for her age.’
    Mr Cartwright seemed uncomfortable, but evidently realised he was stuck with this arrangement. ‘I have tried to reach you for several weeks now,’ he began. ‘I thought you really should have a full picture of your financial situation now that the . . . ah . . . dust has settled.’ He blushed at his choice of words. His briefcase was on his knees and, having flipped open its lid in a way that suggested this might be the most pleasurable moment of his working day, he pulled out sheaves of paper, lining them up in neat rectangles on the coffee-table. He ceased when he got to the Pile.
    ‘Mum doesn’t do post,’ said Kitty, in explanation. ‘We’re waiting until the heap becomes big enough to do her an injury.’
    ‘I will sort out the post, Kitty. I’ve just . . . got a little behind.’ Isabel smiled awkwardly at Mr Cartwright, who was unable to conceal his horror at the sight of the teetering pile of unopened envelopes.
    ‘That’s probably why we didn’t reply to you,’ Kitty added.
    ‘It might be . . . wise to take a look at them,’ he said carefully. ‘There may be bills.’
    ‘Oh,