Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Why are you so bloody promiscuous?’ She was appalled to hear the petulance in her voice.

  Viking, who was getting a key out of a blue teapot, smiled sweetly.

  ‘Like Marlon Brando, I have to have at least three women a day to prove I’m not gay. I’ve only had two this evening, come here.’

  But, overwhelmed with shyness and longing, Flora had fled upstairs to the bathroom to find more dripping tights and exotic underwear. She had seen those French knickers on Candy, and the camisole top trimmed with blue ribbon on Clare, but whose was the black lacey 34D cup bra and the black suspender belt and the fishnet stockings.

  Oh hell, hell, hell.

  Furiously she cleaned her teeth again, then ripped off her laddered tights and knickers, washing between her legs, then splashing herself over and over again with cold water, in case, as Rannaldini had once grumbled, she tasted of soap. She was just nicking Clare’s body lotion when Nugent barged in, rounded her up and led her back to Viking’s bedroom, curling up on his bean bag with a long sigh.

  Flora looked at the huge brass four-poster hiding in its dark red rose-patterned curtains and shivered. The curtains on either side of the window overlooking the lake were drawn, but Viking had opened the ones overlooking the white wilderness of garden so the moonlight flooded the room.

  ‘Oh please, Nugent,’ begged Flora, ‘give me a few tips, so I can be more exciting than the others.’

  Whipping off her dress, she was about to dive under the dark green duvet, when she was distracted by the squares of moonlight on the bare floorboards.

  Unzipping his jeans, as he came through the door, Viking found Flora, silver-white as a unicorn, hair and small breasts flying, as she hopscotched back and forth on the moonlit squares.

  Her skin was as cool and satiny as new beech leaves, she tasted so sweet and fresh as he kissed her before gathering her up and laying her out on the clean white sheets. Without any hurry, he began to stroke her. Flora tried to be cool as the leisurely caresses crept down her increasingly excited body, but couldn’t help gasping with pleasure as his fingers slid inside her. Viking gasped too.

  ‘Jesus, sweetheart, you really want me.’

  He was still wearing boxer shorts covered in Golden Retrievers carrying the Irish Times.

  As he peeled them off, his cock shot upwards.

  ‘Oh wow cubed,’ Flora stretched out a hand, ‘and you truly want me. Now I know why Yeats kept banging on about Irish towers.’

  ‘Shot op,’ Viking’s big grinning mouth stopped hers, and his infinitely delicate caresses continued until Flora was squirming with ecstasy. She was dying to come, yet some tension, some passionate desire not to bore him, prevented her, so she wriggled out of his grasp, down the bed to go down on him.

  Instantly he pulled her back, burying his head between her legs, a blond haystack at the end of her white sweep of belly, his fingers stroking her nipples.

  ‘Go on, angel,’ he mumbled, ‘go for it – we’ve got for ever. I’ve never tasted anything so delicious.’ His tongue rotated languorously.

  Flora took several quick breaths and came.

  ‘God, you sweet little girl,’ Viking bounded up the bed, pressing his mouth on hers.

  ‘That was bliss,’ sighed Flora. ‘Let me give you pleasure, please.’

  ‘You are,’ Viking slid his cock inside her and began to move.

  ‘Aaaaaah,’ moaned Flora, ‘God, that’s wonderful. Clare was quite wrong about Boléro being better than the real thing.’

  They made love all night, wallowing in pleasure, constantly changing position. Around quarter to five, Flora discovered why Viking had been nervous of her going down on him. As she parted his legs, and bent her head to kiss her way up the inside of one of his wonderfully hard muscular thighs, she discovered in the moonlight a tattoo saying, ‘I love Juno’, and burst out laughing.

  ‘That’s a bit arbitrary.’

  ‘I was pissed,’ said Viking sheepishly.

  ‘What on earth did Juno think?’

  ‘She was terrified I’d start flashing it around like an engagement ring.’

  ‘She’s amazingly pretty, but what made you fall in love with her?’

  Viking shrugged.

  ‘She’s small minded, suburban and terribly cross, but when I held that tiny waist between my hands and watched her ride me, I guess a standing cock has no taste.’

  ‘Yours tastes lovely,’ Flora crouched over him, her tongue was snaking round the rim, searching out pleasure points, probing the top.

  Groaning with pleasure, Viking let her continue until he was about to explode. Then he wriggled out from under her, pointing a long finger at the clock beside the bed, whose red numbers said it was five o’clock.

  ‘That was one of Rodney’s great sayings.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘No sea too rough, no muff too tough, we dive at five.’

  She could feel his shoulders shaking with laughter.

  ‘Please come back and fuck me.’

  Viking slid back inside her, gently stroking her face with the back of his fingers. ‘You are so lovely.’

  ‘And you,’ sighed Flora, ‘are a midwinter night’s dream come true.’

  At eight, Flora staggered out of bed.

  ‘I ought to go home, I’ve got to change and have a bath.’

  ‘Have one here – I’m not letting you out of my sight.’

  As she opened the curtains overlooking the lake, a faint band of orange lay along the horizon. Above, out of a pearly grey sky, shone Venus like a huge glittering snowflake.

  ‘Oh look, the planet of love is smiling at us. Oh Christ!’

  At the crunch of passing car wheels, Flora shut the curtains with a snap. ‘It’s Abby, going to work. She’s not going to be very pleased with us.’

  FORTY-THREE

  Three hours later George barged into the middle of a rehearsal and bawled his musicians out for behaving like hooligans. His fury was fuelled by the sight of Flora, still in last night’s black dress, cowering behind Fat Isobel.

  ‘You’re a bluddy disgrace,’ he thundered. ‘And I want everyone who was in Close Encounters last night to write a personal letter of apology to Gilbert Greenford from the Arts Council whose push-bike you totalled last night. Gilbert has had that bike, Clara, since he was at university.’

  ‘Back in the fifteenth century,’ piped up Cherub.

  ‘Shut ooop,’ roared George, as various musicians started to laugh. Couldn’t the stupid fuckers realize the influence the Arts Council had on their future, and how near the edge they were?

  ‘The cost of a new bike and seven toilet chains will be docked off your salaries.’

  ‘Flora will have to consult her lawyer,’ shouted Randy. ‘Whoops, sorry,’ he added as he received a death-ray scowl from George.

  Abby was also furious. Any delight that she’d been vindicated by the rescheduling of Rachel’s Requiem was wiped out by her misery and excruciating jealousy that Flora had finally got off with Viking.

  Refusing to admit this publicly, she later worked off her rage bellyaching about the state of the cottage and Flora’s tip of a room in particular, until even Marcus told her to shut up.

  ‘Bloody judgemental home,’ grumbled Flora, and promptly moved in with Viking for the weekend, neither emerging from the bedroom except to let Nugent out.

  Every time Abby drove into Rutminster she was sent flying by delivery vans from Oddbins, the Pizza House or the Star of India belting the other way.

  George just managed to forgive the rest of the RSO in time for the staff Christmas party, which also ushered in Centenary Year.

  Miss Priddock supervised the food including a chocolate birthday cake with a hundred candles. The brass players blew up the balloons. Hilary was furious because Randy had taken a photograph of her surreptitiously reading The Scorpion and pinned it on the notice-board – life had been very hard since Lionel left – but with a martyred air she joined forces with Juno in decorating
the band room.

  Romance watchers also were aware that every time Juno put up pale blue paper-chains, George Hungerford seemed to materialize from the fifth floor to hold the ladder and admire her delicate ankles.

  Flora, nervous her job might be in jeopardy, as a peace offering bought George a pair of musical socks decorated with santas and reindeers which played Jingle Bells’ whenever you pulled them up. As George made no comment, he obviously thought Flora was sending him up.

  Hilary tartly refused her offer of help with the decorations so Flora retreated to the park to make a snow-woman waving a stick with Cherub. She didn’t know why she was feeling depressed, tiredness and post-too-many-coituses probably. Underneath she was miserable about hurting Abby and persuaded Dixie to ask Abby to take part in the Christmas party cabaret.

  Abby was touchingly grateful.

  ‘What would you like me to do?’

  ‘What you do best. Play your violin and get young Marcus to accompany you. We’ll put you on late in the evening, give him time to get a bit oiled.’

  The cabaret kicked off with Randy in a dark curly wig, with two melons stuck into the front of Clare’s black dress, coming on as Dame Hermione and screeching: ‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’

  Francis the Good Loser, who didn’t have to dress up at all came on as the drunken tramp who tried to out-sing her.

  Both were caterwauling away and the audience were holding their sides, when in stumped Blue in one of Miss Priddock’s tweed suits, wearing thick tights, brogues, a monocle and a pork-pie hat as Dame Edith. Having driven the tramp off with a hunting-whip she started chatting up Hermione.

  ‘You’re a lovely little filly, what does your DBE stand for?’

  ‘Dame of the Bottom Enormous,’ simpered Hermione. ‘I know that my Redeemer—’

  ‘Oh, cut that crap,’ boomed Edith. ‘I hear the shit’s hit the Fanny Cycle over the RSO. They’ll never get their Arts Council grant now.’

  ‘I’d rather have Hugh Grant,’ sighed Hermione. ‘I know that my—’

  ‘Shut up,’ repeated Edith. ‘Goodo, here come Gilbert and Sillyone to give us the low-down.’

  Bellows of laughter, screams of joy and even tighter lips from Miles and Hilary, who was taking a lot of photographs, greeted the entrance of Viking. He was wearing a mauve-and-orange caftan, a grey wig with a lopsided bun, an even more lopsided bosom, sticking-out teeth from the joke shop and earrings made from school band cymbals which he crashed whenever he was making a point. He also kept greedily taking bites out of an enormous Christmas pudding.

  ‘I must have desserts,’ he announced, exactly capturing Gwynneth’s refined North London whine. ‘A bombe surprise a day keeps Hungerford away.’

  Viking was followed by Dixie, in an identical caftan as goaty Gilbert. He was carrying an urn with the words ‘Clara’ on the side and wiping his eyes with a long ginger beard.

  ‘Hallo Sillyone,’ demanded Edith. ‘What’s in that urn?’

  ‘Don’t upset Gilbert,’ whispered Gwynneth. ‘His cycle, Clara, passed away last Wednesday. We’re off to scatter her ashes on Vinifred Trapp’s grave.’

  ‘I know that my Redeemer—’ squawked Hermione.

  ‘Actually not quite all Clara’s ashes,’ confided Gwynneth, as Gilbert gave a great sob. ‘Gilbert has donated her handlebars to a co-operative for battered push-bikes, so she can be recycled as intristing earrings to enable me to black a few more people’s eyes.’ Viking put down his pudding, stuck out his teeth and gave his cymbal earrings a great crash. Peering from the wings Flora saw that George was crying with laughter.

  ‘He is human, after all,’ she hissed to Abby.

  ‘What happened to Clara?’ enquired Dame Edith.

  ‘Battered to death by the Celtic Mafia,’ sobbed Gilbert. ‘They must be punished.’

  ‘Surely the Celtic Mafia are an ethnic minority and therefore exonerated from all blame,’ asked Hermione.

  ‘Certainly not,’ Gwynneth crashed her cymbals. ‘They are white, male and heterosexual, so it doesn’t count.’

  ‘Gimme their address,’ squealed Hermione.

  ‘Ah, here comes our favourite patron of the arts, Piggy Porker. Good evening to you, Piggy.’

  ‘This has gone too far,’ hissed Miles, to a crescendo of cheering and hysterical laughter, as a heavily padded grotesquely over made-up Flora, teetered on in blue stilettos and a sick-green spangled dress, snorting loudly, and waving a Parker’s carrier bag.

  ‘I quite agree,’ George wiped his eyes, ‘but it is bluddy funny.’

  Somehow Flora achieved a wobbly curtsy.

  ‘Good evening, your dameships,’ she snorted. ‘Ay would so laike to create new looks for you both. Any face is improved by subtle make-up.’ And, reaching into her Parker’s bag, she slammed custard pies in Edith’s and Hermione’s faces.

  ‘I know that my Redeemer—’ screeched Hermione, spitting out cream and pastry.

  ‘Have you got a mirror? I don’t carry one,’ said Dame Edith.

  ‘You both look much younger,’ went on Piggy Parker. ‘I’ve come to invite you all to a brown tre-ouser event at Parker’s next week. My Sonny is . . . oh, here’s Sonny to tell you himself.’

  Despite the yells of approval and laughter, no-one at first recognized the concave fop who minced in in a red tunic and floppy white trousers, because the face was almost entirely concealed by curtains of straggly hair.

  ‘I am the RSO’s composer-in-undesirable residence,’ fluted Sonny, crashing Viking’s earrings, ‘but it’s getting me nowhere because I’ve fallen madly in love with Marcus Black and he won’t return my calls.’

  Marcus gave a gasp of horror and delight.

  ‘Abby, you bitch,’ he said.

  ‘It’s Abby,’ screamed Nellie. ‘That’s brilliant.’

  ‘I want him to play on my portable organ,’ Abby tried to make herself heard over the whistling, stamping and yells of approval.

  But George was on his feet, sprinting out through the exit, round onto the stage, stopping the performance before Jerry could video anything more or Hilary take any more photographs.

  ‘I’m sorry that’s enoof,’ he shouted from the rostrum to equal boos and cheers. ‘Mrs Parker, Sonny, Gilbert and Gwynneth all said they might look in later and I for one don’t want the RSO committing pooblic suicide joost yet. I joost wish all you boogers would put as much creative energy into your music-making. But I have to admit it was bluddy foony.’

  Packing the cast off to seats in the auditorium, he then congratulated the orchestra on some good concerts, but said it was high time they stopped behaving like hooligans.

  ‘We moost capitalize on Centenary Year to put the RSO in the black again.’

  As was customary he then asked them to drink to their musical director.

  Abby had pulled off her wig and her beard and ruffled her dark curls. A week of sleepless nights over Viking and Flora made her look pale and vulnerable.

  ‘You are a great orchestra,’ she said in a choked voice when the drunken cheers had died down. ‘And we’ve always programmed great composers, so if we’ve managed to make great music, I have only been the catalyst. Thank you for putting up with me.’

  ‘God, I feel a cow,’ said Flora, as Viking slid an arm round her shoulders. ‘Abby’s so lovely.’

  ‘She may not be so lovely when we go back to the cottage together later,’ murmured Viking.

  Randy’s wife and his mother-in-law had descended unexpectedly to Christmas shop and intended to spend the night in The Bordello. Great armfuls of female underwear had been hastily chucked in the cellar. Viking had agreed to vacate his bedroom for Randy’s mother-in-law and planned an away fixture. Flora was extremely twitchy about Abby.

  On rolled Miss Priddock’s cake on its trolley. The hundred candles were lit which set off the smoke alarm so five butch firemen suddenly appeared. Everyone was convinced they were a stripagram so they stayed on for the party to Nellie’s delight.

&nbs
p; Rodney had sent six crates of Moët over as a Christmas present so everyone had plenty to drink. Very generously under the circumstances, Peggy Parker had given each member of the orchestra a turkey. Blue didn’t get a chance to speak to Cathie because Carmine was watching her, but he did manage to slip a little sapphire ring into the pocket of her coat hanging up in the Ladies and prayed she’d find it.

  By eleven o’clock Marcus, slightly drunk and happy because he’d felt he’d comforted Abby a little in the last week, had lost his nerves enough to play the piano.

  Not realizing how many people had stopped to listen and started to dance, he meandered through Gershwin and Cole Porter, then launched into a Seventies hit called ‘Madly in Love’ with Abby accompanying him swooningly on the violin.

  What he didn’t realize was that Abby had persuaded Charlton Handsome to slip a recording mike in front of him which also picked up the ecstatic cheering and shouts for more at the end.

  ‘That recording’ll be worth a fortune one day,’ murmured Julian.

  ‘Boy plays like an angel,’ George said proudly to Miles, ‘I’m right glad we booked him.’

  Abby and Marcus left soon afterwards because she was flying back to Philadelphia first thing the following morning. As Flora and Viking tottered out arm in arm several hours later, they found Eldred on the H. P. Hall steps, weeping at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas.

  ‘I’m coming back to Woodbine Cottage on Boxing Day,’ Flora comforted him. ‘I’ll ring you, you must come and try our erratic cooking and Marcus, you and I can play chamber music. We could start off with the Mozart Trio.’

  Flora only stopped crying over Eldred as Viking drove over Rutminster Bridge and pointed out a very drunk Davie Buckle hurling his turkey into the River Fleet, yelling: ‘Go on, you bastard, fly.’

  Trying to creep in without turning on any lights, Flora and Viking knocked over an umbrella stand and fell over Abby’s cases already out on the landing. Abby pulled a pillow over her head in anguish. Would she ever sleep again?

  It seemed only seconds later that she was woken up by horrifying screams. Wrapping her naked body in a towel, tiptoeing onto the landing, she could hear Viking saying, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, I’m here, it’s OK.’