Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I don’t know what score you studied, Lorenzo, but I don’t think it was Bartók’s Viola Concerto.’

  The orchestra grinned. Lorenzo turned scarlet, and started to argue.

  ‘Discuss it with me later,’ said the professor firmly. ‘We’ve got time for one more before lunch.’

  The rest of the conductors, waiting behind the horns, leapt to their feet like MPs frantic to speak, but the professor had nodded to the back of the hall.

  ‘Here comes Abby,’ said Flora, sliding off the leader’s knee.

  The Japanese boy looked round.

  ‘That is not her.’

  ‘Bet you a tenner.’

  ‘I don’t have your kind of money.’

  Few of the audience or musicians recognized Abby. She was so thin and wore black jeans, a Black-Watch tartan shirt, dark glasses and no make-up. Her hair was short and curly like the young Paganini. The scarlet pouting lips, the clinging minis, the wild gypsy voluptuousness had all gone.

  ‘Car-worker rather than Carmen,’ murmured Flora.

  Abby gave nobody any time to give her a cheer. She carried no score, only a baton, as she loped up the hall and jumped up onto the rostrum. As she whipped off her glasses, the orchestra could see the imperiousness in those strange, unblinking yellow eyes, which was belied by the white knuckles and the frantically knocking knees. For a second she was grabbed by utter panic, her mind a snowstorm. How could she have been so stupid as to conduct without a score?

  Then she said quietly; ‘This is a beautiful piece, let’s give it some shape and feeling.’

  She suggested some small alterations to the strings and woodwind, then turned to the brass and the percussion. ‘I’m afraid you guys don’t have much to do, which makes it easier to goof off. I’ll try and make things as clear as possible for you. Good luck.’

  Her hand, as she raised it, was shaking so crazily even Bartók couldn’t have captured the cross-rhythms, but once she brought it down the entire hall realized who she was, because she was in a class of her own.

  The beat of her right hand was knife-edge clear and, although her left hand was a little stiff, she still couldn’t splay her fingers or cup her hand, she managed to show the orchestra exactly what she wanted and in addition convey the emotional intensity she needed. The one vestige of the old Abby was the way she swayed to the music like a dancer.

  But she had only to glare at the brass to shut them up and she completely enslaved the trombones by bringing them in exactly right and giving them a radiant smile of approval afterwards.

  Flora found it nerve-racking having the world’s greatest violinist beside her, but she loved the way Abby glanced round to synchronize orchestra and soloist, and swept aside the orchestral sound so Flora could always be heard.

  Are these the same musicians? Is this the same piece? thought the professor in rapture, letting Abby run through the entire movement without stopping, and then leading a whooping, cheering, stamping round of applause.

  ‘You have all the marks of a great conductor,’ he told Abby. ‘You have nerve but not nerves. It will be a joy to teach you.’

  Everyone was longing to congratulate her, but they were too shy and so was she, so they all left her and scampered off to lunch.

  Abby was just pulling out her music case from underneath her chair to put away her stick when she heard a voice say: ‘Excuse me.’

  Swinging round, Abby found the soloist and the boy who had been sitting at the end of her row. Standing up he was at least two inches taller than Abby, and when he whipped off his baseball cap, he revealed a beautifully shaped, freckled forehead and hair an even darker red than the girl’s. Abby wondered if they were brother and sister. The girl did the talking.

  ‘I know it sounds corny, but we’ve got every one of your records. That was a fantastic performance. We wondered if we could buy you lunch, just to celebrate.’

  Abby longed to accept but she was so near the edge, that she snapped back: ‘I’m far too busy to waste time eating.’ And then stalked out.

  Five minutes later, Flora tracked her down in a distant practice room, trying not to be overheard by the pianist bashing out Liszt’s Dante Sonata next door. Abby was huddled against the blue velvet curtains, her shoulders shaking.

  Flora had long been haunted by a description of a vivisection clinic where the animals had their vocal chords cut on admission so, however bad the pain became, all you could hear was desperate rasping. This was the sound Abby was making now.

  ‘You were seriously good,’ stammered Flora. ‘In fact the only thing to cry about is how awful we were. Mind you, you were lucky to find somewhere to cry, practice rooms are harder to get here than tickets for your old concerts.’

  Looking up, Abby saw the kindness in the girl’s eyes belying her flip manner.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked. ‘The last time I was on a platform I was playing the Brahms concerto with the CBSO.’

  ‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘Everyone knows everything about you. Although what a brilliant conductor you’d turned into was certainly hidden in the mists of Lake Lucerne.’

  ‘It was your solo,’ gulped Abby, fishing for another tissue.

  ‘I can quite understand that.’

  ‘No, you play real good. You’ve got a fantastically natural sound, I guess you reminded me of myself.’

  ‘I should do,’ admitted Flora, ‘having based my style entirely on yours. All our generation has, music schools are churning out more little Abbies than an ecclesiastical property developer!’

  Abby’s lips twitched.

  ‘At least come and have a drink.’

  Outside in the sunshine the boy was leaning against the railings, his nose in the selected piano works of Chopin, making notes with a pencil.

  ‘My name’s Flora Seymour, by the way,’ announced the girl. ‘And this is Marcus Campbell-Black.’

  Abby perked up. ‘You must be Rupert’s son.’

  Marcus waited, never knowing if the next bit was going to hurt or not.

  ‘Goodness, you’re like him,’ Abby admired the long, dark, curling eyelashes and the exquisite bone structure. ‘It’s just like looking at a fabric sample in a different colour.’ Except Abby couldn’t ever imagine Rupert blushing or being lost for words.

  ‘Rupert came to see me in the hospital and gave me this.’ Delving in her jeans pocket Abby produced the silver clove of garlic. ‘To ward off evil. Do tell him I take it everywhere and give him my best.’

  ‘He said he’d met you,’ said Marcus guardedly.

  Round the corner he opened the door of his Aston Martin for her.

  ‘You go in the back,’ said Flora, ‘then you’ll have room for your legs.’

  ‘Georgie Maguire: New Man.’ Abby picked up a tape on the back seat in excitement. ‘This must be her latest. Oh wow! Christopher, my ex and I, “Rock Star” was our sort of big tune. I know it’s terrible shmaltz and I shouldn’t say so, but I just adore Georgie’s music.’

  ‘You should,’ said Marcus, starting up the car and ignoring Flora’s kick on the ankle. ‘Georgie’s Flora’s mother.’

  ‘Omigod!’

  ‘I’ll tell her you’re a fan,’ said Flora. ‘She’ll be really pleased, she’s a terrific fan of yours.’

  Abby looked at Flora with new respect.

  ‘Gee, I’m sorry I was rude earlier.’

  Flora shrugged. ‘Mum’s the same. She can’t bear strangers muscling in, particularly when she’s coming down after a concert. And she goes ballistic if people drop in at home.’

  Abby noticed Marcus wheezing as he drove. Petrol fumes were floating on the hot air and the walk to the car had made him breathless. Reaching into the pocket of his shirt he got out his inhaler and squirted a couple of jets into the back of his throat.

  ‘Marcus is asthmatic,’ explained Flora. ‘Thank God we can forget about that for a bit.’ Pulling the Bartók concerto out of the stereo she threw it in the glove compartment.

  ‘Put it bac
k in its case,’ grumbled Marcus. ‘And if you must smoke, don’t use the floor as an asthtray.’

  Flora grinned. ‘Don’t be a fusspot.’ Then, turning round to Abby, continued, ‘I can’t get over how different you look.’

  ‘I cut my hair and my losses. Which did you think was the worst of those conductors?’

  ‘Adonis by a very swollen head,’ announced Flora.

  ‘I can’t think how you followed him,’ said Marcus.

  ‘If you learn to follow any idiot, you get more dates later,’ Flora added scornfully. ‘Conductors are so thick. They carry a white stick to tell everyone they’re deaf. Marcus has been wonderful,’ she added to Abby. ‘He’s been playing the piano version for me all week.’ Leaning across him, she chucked some more chewing-gum out of the window which landed on the shiny dark green flanks of the Bentley drawing up beside them.

  ‘Jesus, when will you learn to behave?’ Marcus accelerated away from the Bentley’s fist-shaking chauffeur. ‘I thought Lorenzo was even more of a talent-free zone than Adonis. He’s got no sense of rhythm.’

  ‘He has in bed,’ said Flora. ‘Look at that sweet Jack Russell. I wish I could have a dog in London.’

  ‘When did you go to bed with Lorenzo?’ asked Marcus in surprise.

  ‘Oh last week, some time. He keeps wanting repeats. I quite fancy Toniko, I’ve never had a Jap.’

  ‘Where did you two meet?’ asked Abby, wondering what on earth the relationship was between them.

  ‘We were at school together,’ said Flora.

  Marcus and Flora were the star pupils at the Academy. Marcus was a great beauty. He had inherited Rupert’s Greek profile (so vital in a pianist) and his elegant long-legged, broad-shouldered body. But he also had his mother’s glossy dark red hair, freckles and huge startled eyes, which were the same soft acid green as spring moss. Desperately shy, he was, however, unaware of his miraculous looks and, like a fawn or faun, seemed likely to bolt into mythical woods at any moment. In his third year at the Academy, he was destined for a brilliant career as a pianist if he could conquer his asthma and his nerves.

  Flora, who was only in her second year, and who was as sexy and self-confident as Marcus was shy and retiring, had a voice even more beautiful than her mother Georgie. She was still taking singing lessons but, despite pressure from her teachers, who liked to feature illustrious ex-pupils in the prospectus, she showed no interest in taking up singing as a career. Instead she was concentrating on the viola.

  Her official excuse was that she didn’t want to be tagged as Georgie Maguire’s daughter.

  ‘I don’t have Mum’s charisma, nor her ability to project.’

  In reality she had been totally wiped out by an affaire with Rannaldini when she was sixteen, and had decided singing was too isolated a career. She had deliberately chosen the viola, that lovely but unobtrusive Cinderella of the instruments, because it blended into the orchestral sound like cornflour, was seldom heard on its own and was the butt of endless jokes.

  In doing this Flora felt she was putting on a mental hair shirt, submerging her flamboyant personality, in the hope that God would forgive her the affaire with Rannaldini and somehow alleviate her suffering.

  With their famous parents and their hefty private incomes, Marcus and Flora, in the current economic climate of vanishing grants, could have been the victims of a lot of envy and flak at college. As they were both exceptionally talented, utterly without side, and it was soon realized that Marcus’s apparent aloofness was only shyness, any prejudice had swiftly evaporated.

  TEN

  The quick drink turned into a three-hour session. All the tables outside Marcus’s and Flora’s favourite Italian restaurant were taken, so they lunched inside demanding a large carafe of red wine prestissimo, and larding the rest of their order for canelloni and ratatouille with musical terminology, which involved a lot of back-chat and giggling with the waiters.

  Despite their age differences, Abby was nearly twenty-eight, Flora nineteen, Marcus twenty, they found they had a huge amount in common. As children of the famous, Marcus and Flora understood the pressures and the sacrifices.

  ‘One is never centre stage,’ sighed Flora. Like Abby, both Rupert and Georgie had toured extensively and Marcus told Abby how wretched Rupert had been after he gave up show jumping.

  A lot of lunch was spent telling Abby how brilliantly she had conducted. Always boastful when she was unsure of new people, with her tongue loosened by unaccustomed drinking on a very empty stomach, she went into an orgy of name-dropping about the famous musicians who had, it seemed, either tried to screw her or screw up her career. Inevitably she eventually launched into a tirade against Rannaldini.

  Flora let her run and, although she had downed most of a carafe of red by the time Abby had finished, no flush had invaded her pale cheeks.

  ‘Did you sleep with Rannaldini?’ she asked idly.

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Abby pompously. ‘He came between me and my art.’

  Flora kneaded her bread into a pellet and lobbed it at the restaurant cat.

  ‘When I knew him he came between my legs. Whoops, sorry.’ Then, at Abby’s look of incredulity, continued: ‘I had an affaire with him when I was still at school.’

  ‘You gotta be joking. What happened?’

  ‘He dumped me, left me behind like an indifferent paperback in the folds of a hotel bed.’ Flora waved to the waiter to bring another carafe.

  ‘How long did it last?’

  ‘It’s a long, long time from May to September,’ sighed Flora. ‘Rannaldini’s so promiscuous, that being hopelessly, hopelessly hooked on him has all the exclusivity of a widow in the First World War, but it doesn’t seem to hurt any less; no safety in numbers.’ Her voice was getting faster and faster. ‘It’s like being alive in your coffin, but no-one hears you scrabbling to get out. I know he’s a shit, but not an hour passes when I don’t want him.’

  She dropped her head like a broken daffodil, then the next moment had stubbed out her cigarette on Marcus’s untouched ratatouille.

  ‘Oh Christ, Markie, I’m sorry.’ Her head fell sideways onto his shoulder. As he put up a freckled right hand to stroke her cheek, she clutched it.

  ‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ said Marcus to cheer her up.

  ‘What?’

  ‘What d’you do with a dead viola player?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Move him up a desk.’

  Flora’s mouth lifted slightly.

  Marcus had eaten, drunk and talked much less than the others. Occasionally his eyes met Abby’s and a shy, helpless smile drifted across his face. He was beautifully dressed in chinos, a dark brown cashmere sweater and a Prussian-blue shirt, which went perfectly with his dark red hair. When he removed his sweater Abby noticed he had a pianist’s physique: breadth of shoulder, arms grooved with muscle, and big hands that could stretch a tenth with ease. A gold signet ring bearing the Campbell-Black crest flashed on his left hand, as he practised on the table snatches of Chopin’s Grande Polonaise which he had to play in a college recital next week.

  He’s very appealing, thought Abby, through a haze of wine. Perhaps I need a toyboy, particularly one who could simplify difficult repertoire by transcribing it for the piano. He also picked up the check.

  ‘I’ll pay you next week, it’s the end of the month,’ Flora called out as Marcus went over to the till. ‘I think I bought the whole of Jigsaw and HMV yesterday morning. Leave it,’ she said as Abby got out her purse, ‘Marcus gets a massive allowance from Rupert.’

  ‘How did you two meet?’

  ‘As I said we were at school together. I’d been drinking at lunchtime, comme toujours. I felt sick during a concert and threw up into Marcus’s trumpet. I think that was the moment Rannaldini fell, albeit temporarily, in love with me.’

  Out of the window, a horse-chestnut tree, tawny against the palest blue sky, reminded Flora of the same great bell-like trees in Rannaldini’s park.

  ‘H
ow was he really?’ she asked as she emptied Marcus’s untouched second glass of wine into her own.

  ‘Being upstaged by Marcus’s father. Rupert had flown out to sign me up for Declan O’Hara’s programme.’ Again Abby couldn’t resist boasting. ‘Rupert came on really strong; if I hadn’t been crazy about Christopher, we’d certainly have ended up in bed.’

  ‘I wouldn’t tell Marcus that,’ interrupted Flora sharply. ‘He’s bats about his stepmother.’

  Abby jumped slightly as Marcus chucked three gold pound coins onto the red-and-white checked tablecloth. As he put a fiver alongside the pile of notes in his wallet, Abby saw a photograph of a very beautiful redhead.

  ‘Is that your partner?’ she asked archly. ‘D’you go for redheads?’

  ‘No, it’s my mother,’ said Marcus.

  As it was four o’clock there was no point in going back to the Academy so, after Flora had rushed back to fetch her viola, which she’d left under the table, they tottered down the road to Madame Tussauds because Abby had never seen her own waxwork.

  ‘I went to see it as a pilgrimage my first day at college,’ confided Flora.

  On the top floor, they discovered Rupert’s waxwork in red coat, breeches and brown topped boots, gazing moodily into space among the great sporting heroes.

  ‘Hi, Dad,’ said Marcus.

  Ironically Rupert was next to Jake Lovell who was looking equally unfriendly.

  ‘Isn’t that the guy?’ asked Abby perplexed.

  ‘Who ran off with Marcus’s mother,’ said Flora, ‘who we don’t talk about in Rupert’s presence. I’m amazed they don’t come alive at night and throttle each other. Hi, Mum.’

  There was Georgie Maguire with her long russet hair and sensual smiling face, clutching a microphone among the pop stars. Drifting into Classical Music, they ran slap into Hermione, mouth wide open in song.

  ‘Queen of the nightmare,’ stormed Flora, ‘ought to be in the chamberpot of horrors.’

  Abby liked Flora more and more, particularly when she removed her chewing-gum and stuck it on Hermione’s nose and topped her dark curls with Marcus’s baseball cap.