by Jilly Cooper
Julian would be fired because he had defied Rannaldini in New York. Viking, Blue, Simon, Dimitri and Peter were among the few players who would join the new Super Orchestra. Between them George and Rannaldini would build it back to double strength with virtuoso players in every department. Running her eye down the list Flora saw that surprisingly George had put a question mark beside her name. Then she gave a wail of misery discovering Rannaldini’s next E-mail.
Definitely not, he had written crushingly, Flora is unstable, vindictive and a pernicious influence.
The crumbling H.P. Hall and its surrounding twenty acres were the RSO’s only assets. This was where George came in. He would buy the property for a pittance in a white-knight gesture to get the orchestra out of debt, then lease it back to them. As soon as the orchestra folded he would build a supermarket.
The plot was horribly ingenious. Instead of putting horrid little houses all over Cowslip Hill, which no-one wanted, he would build a festival centre, a megaplex with twenty-four drive-in cinemas, golf-courses, food halls, virtual-reality centres and bouncy castles which would bring employment, tourists, fun and prosperity to Rutminster. In return all he asked was planning permission to knock down the highly dangerous, collapsing Victorian monstrosity, the Herbert Parker Hall and build a supermarket with a new roundabout to hive off traffic. No wonder George had been so reluctant to repair the roof. Cotchester already had a beautiful hall, no distance from Valhalla by helicopter in which the new Super Orchestra would be housed. The only sticking point seemed to be Rannaldini’s insistence on absolute hiring and firing rights.
Flora was about to print out the whole file when she nearly died of heart failure because there was a great hammering on the door.
‘Anyone at home? Come oot, come oot,’ called Dixie’s voice.
‘Priddock must be having a ziz,’ said Randy.
‘Or Jessica a bonk.’
But after a bit more hammering they got bored and wandered off.
Sweat was trickling down Flora’s body. She’d never make a burglar; her hand was shaking so violently she was petrified of pressing the wrong button and wiping all the evidence. But somehow she managed to switch back to the file menu and type in ‘Print’ beside ‘Orchestra South’. Slowly but miraculously fifteen pages rolled out. She had just managed to shove them up her jersey and unlock the door when Jessica staggered in. It would have been hard to decide who looked the more guilty. Jessica’s hair was sopping from the shower. Flora felt sick with misery. Viking had obviously screwed her.
Hearing a thud behind her, she jumped out of her skin but it was only John Drummond crash landing on the carpet, weaving round Jessica’s buckling legs. Flora hoped to God he didn’t speak English.
‘He’s asking for his dinner.’ said Jessica. ‘George is having a black-tie do at home this evening and he wants everything perfect. I’ll have to go out shopping again later, I wasted my entire lunch-hour trying to find scallops. If only there was a Waitrose in Rutminster.’
‘There may be one sooner than you think,’ said Flora grimly as she sidled out.
What the hell was she to do? Viking would have left for London by now to record the Brahms Horn Trio. The only answer, if she were to save Abby and the rest of the orchestra, was to tackle George at once.
Driving down the High Street, she saw a newspaper hoarding: MEGAPLEX FOR COWSLIP HILL.
Screeching to a halt she picked up a paper but it only reported the delighted reaction of councillors and residents.
Alan Cardew, the planning officer, was quoted as saying, ‘This really puts Rutminster on the map.’
It was a bitterly cold evening. After a boiling bath to remove the sweat and a couple of stiff vodkas, Flora slid all over the road as she drove round to George’s splendid house which was situated on the other side of Rutminster as far as possible from both Cowslip Hill and H.P. Hall. George wouldn’t want to spoil his own green hills with megaplexes and supermarkets, thought Flora savagely as her wheel tracks ruined his perfect lawn.
The whole place, she could see, was speedily being wrecked by George’s fearful taste, a man on his own who had no truck with interior designers.
‘Bet he knocked her arms off,’ she muttered, as she passed a huge replica of the Venus de Milo glittering with frost.
The butler told her to hop it. So Flora asked him to tell Mr Hungerford that it was Flora Seymour and he better get rid of his dinner party, because she wanted to talk about Orchestra South.
After two minutes, by which time Flora had practically frozen to the doorstep, she was shown into George’s study.
The room was lit by a large chandelier which the butler promptly dimmed. The autumnal-leaf-patterned carpet was so new, he had great difficulty tugging the door shut over it. Brown leather sofas and armchairs hung about awkwardly, like buffaloes. Repro-Georgian bookshelves on either side of the gas log fire were filled with book-club editions, videos and reference books including Encyclopaedia Britannica by the yard.
One wall was covered by a vast television screen and a stereo, a second by thousands of LPs, tapes and CDs. The third, which faced George’s imposing, incredibly tidy desk, was dominated by a Green Park railing portrait of a beautiful woman with short pale yellow hair and cold hare-bell-blue eyes, whose brilliance was accentuated by the huge sapphires round her neck. She had the disdainful perfection of women behind the beauty counters of big department stores, who want to shame you into spending a fortune on make-up and skin care. This must be Ruth whom George refused to divorce. She didn’t look a bundle of laughs. You could see why George had the hots for Juno. She and Ruth were the same type, ice rather than nice maidens.
Flora’s teeth were rattling like Cherub’s castanets, a glance in the ornate, white gold framed mirror over the fire showed her nose bright red as a clown’s. Ruth would no doubt have recommended green foundation. Flora jumped as she heard voices. Obviously guests were being hastily ejected.
Opening the heavy rust dralon curtains a fraction, she could see Alan and Lindy Cardew (very done up in diamonds and a new full-length mink), two other men she recognized as high-profile local councillors, two bankers from the RSO board and their wives and goodness, the Steel Elf, wrapping herself in a long blue velvet cloak, all going towards their cars.
Then she heard George apologizing for some cock-up in the kitchen.
‘See you in the Hoogry Hoonter in ten minutes.’
‘You’ll be lucky,’ snarled Flora.
Enticing smells of wine, herbs and scallops wafting from the kitchen, belying any cock-up, reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. Feeling dizzy, she leant against the marble mantelpiece.
A week’s skiing, even if the mobile had gone up the mountain with him, had almost ironed out the bags under George’s eyes. His dark brown shiny face matched his leather sofas and armchairs. The black and white of his dinner jacket softened the rough, rocky features. White teeth chewing a cigar, big suntanned hand clamped round a glass of whisky, obviously trying to bluff it out, he looked almost genial as he shoved open the door:
‘Well, what’s all this about? I haven’t got much time.’
‘You better make it,’ snapped Flora.
Except for her red nose, her face was whiter than the marble fireplace. With the collar of her long black overcoat turned up, she looked like a Victorian waif in the last stages of consumption. George was about to offer her a drink when she said: ‘I know exactly what you’re up to, you bastard. I was busking outside the Archduke in Concert Hall Approach two weeks ago. I saw you and Rannaldini going in and coming out. You must both have needed really long spoons to sup with one another.’
George took a slug of brandy.
‘I was in London for a meeting of the Association of British Orchestras,’ he said flatly. ‘Rannaldini and I were discoosing him guest conducting the orchestra on the occasional date. He does happen to live in the area.’
‘Bollocks,’ shouted Flora, ‘you were discussing his taking over the RSO and firing 90 per ce
nt of the orchestra.’
Then, at George’s look of amused incredulity, she added, ‘And if you don’t renew Abby’s contract for starters, I’m going straight to the Press. My mother has contacts with every newspaper editor in Fleet Street and New York.’
‘This is blackmail,’ said George bleakly and reached for the telephone.
‘The blackest possible,’ said Flora. ‘It’s the only way to cope with shits like you. Buying the hall cheaply in a white-knight gesture, then building supermarkets on the site the moment the orchestra folds. You bloody Waitrosencavalier!’
Jolted at last George dropped the telephone back on the hook: ‘How d’you know about that?’
‘You shouldn’t give your stupid secretary, who gets paid twice as much as a rank-and-file viola player, such long-lunch hours. I raided your computer today and printed out the entire “Orchestra South” file.’
George gave a long sigh. ‘It’s the only way to save the orchestra – at least the good people get to keep their jobs.’
‘Abby doesn’t and she flaming well deserves to. Have you any idea how hard she works, poring over the wretched scores day in day out, till two or three in the morning.’
‘She’s an hysteric.’
‘So – she’s an artist. The orchestra’s getting better and better.’
‘I wish the houses were. We’re haemorrhaging to death, can’t you understand that?’
‘Give her time, look how long it took Simon Rattle to turn the CBSO around.’
‘And now they’ve got a bluddy great deficit,’ said George brutally.
‘Anyway,’ Flora briskly disregarded a point against herself, ‘the RSO doesn’t want to live in Cotchester and play in some horrible opera pit under a little Hitler. It’s like sending ponies down the mine.’
‘You overdramatize everything. They’d be well paid and they’d make great music.’
‘No, they wouldn’t, super orchestras don’t work. There are too many chiefs and not enough Indians for them to boss around. The mix is too rich. Anyway, they’d get sacked if they split a note.
‘Rannaldini’s evil,’ Flora’s voice was rising, ‘He lives near my parents and poisons the air like pesticide and I bet you told him we were about to record Winifred Trapp and Fanny Mendelssohn.’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ roared George, losing his temper. ‘If you think I want to be landed with the bills for soloists you must be joking.’
Somehow he managed to control himself and sitting down at his desk, got out a cheque book.
‘OK, how much will it take?’
‘I don’t want money,’ said Flora in outrage. ‘I want everyone’s contracts renewed – except Hilary’s, Carmine and the Steel Elf,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Who?’
‘Juno Meadows. I saw her poncing out of here with her Gstaad tan. How you have the gall to tell Abby she’s losing caste living with me – yes, you did – when you’ve been guzzling glühwein off piste with Juno.’
‘Don’t by bluddy childish, Juno was making oop the noombers.’
‘And doing a number of you, soixante-neuf, I suppose, although she’d be a bit refined for that. I’m surprised you haven’t built a horrid little chalet on her.’
Flora was beginning to feel faint; somehow she reached the door, half-expecting to slip on those autumn leaves. She must keep talking to shut him up: ‘I’ll only tear up that print-out when I’ve got proof everyone’s contracts have been renewed. Rannaldini’s a fiend, remember, he’ll double-cross you the moment he gets the chance.’ And she was out of the door running towards her car.
Fortunately the roads were empty. She felt so lonely she longed to drop off at The Bordello, curl up in Viking’s bed with Nugent and wait for him to come home. Since they split up, however, the rest of the Celtic Mafia, not knowing the reason and sensing Viking’s unhappiness, had become wildly antagonistic.
After a sleepless night and a long unrewarding day of rehearsal with a stupid guest conductor whose beat was impossible to follow, Flora returned to Woodbine Cottage and an equally shattered Marcus. She had refrained from telling him about George’s and Rannaldini’s skulduggery. He didn’t need upsetting. Tomorrow evening he was playing the Rachmaninov. Flora was terrified he’d peaked. He had practically worn out the keys of the Steinway. He had lived the piece, crawled inside it, knew every note, not only his own part, but also the orchestra’s by heart. But would he have enough heart to do it justice?
He and Flora were just commiserating over a cup of tea and slices of cherry cake when Abby floated in brandishing a magnum of champagne.
‘We have got to celebrate, right? George has just summoned me and said the board are going to renew my contract for another year. I’m not sure how pleased Howie will be – he figures I oughta move on, but I expect George will be able to persuade him.
‘And I’ve persuaded George not to cut salaries at the moment to zap all those rumours about a merger between us and the CCO. He and I are going to assess the merits of everyone in the orchestra over the next few weeks and renew as many contracts as possible.’
And George thinks that’ll keep me quiet, fumed Flora.
Abby looked wonderful, the cold weather always whipped up colour in her sallow cheeks.
‘And,’ she went on scrabbling at the gold paper round the top of the bottle, ‘at last I can get rid of El Squeeko and Cyril.’
‘You can’t,’ said Flora appalled. ‘Viking’ll never let you.’
‘And Juno.’
‘You may have lucked out there.’
But Abby was on a roll; she had totally misjudged George.
‘He’s not the philistine I figured he was. It’s kinda gratifying when all one’s hard grind pays off. Now we can build the orchestra together. I guess he is attracted to me,’ she announced happily.
Flora was upset to see the hurt in Marcus’s eyes; she herself was enraged – after all she’d done to save Abby, particularly when Abby smugly announced that Flora’s was one of the contracts George was iffy about renewing.
‘He didn’t know you were only on six months’ trial. He figures you’re not pulling your weight. Says you’ve got an attitude problem.’
‘And he’s got a platitude problem,’ snarled Flora.
‘That is monstrously unfair,’ protested Marcus.
‘Tell him to go and jump in the cement mixer.’
‘I’m just reporting what he said.’ The flying champagne cork sent the cats racing from the kitchen. ‘But I figure I’ve managed to persuade him you’re a worthwhile member of the orchestra.’
Flora suddenly realized she’d eaten the rest of the cherry cake and had to undo her jeans.
Bloody Abby, if only she knew. Flora was tempted to tell her the truth but again didn’t want a scene before Marcus’s concert.
Abby should have spent the evening studying the Rachmaninov but, convinced she knew it, because she’d heard Marcus playing it so often, she got tight instead.
FORTY-SIX
On the wall of Marcus’s dressing-room was a photograph of Clifton Suspension Bridge. He wished he could jump off it. How could he possibly play the most difficult piano concerto ever written when his violently trembling hands wouldn’t tie his white tie or slot in the gold cuff-links bearing the Campbell-Black crest. The rehearsal had been disastrous. Abby had faffed around telling the orchestra Rachmaninov was born on April Fool’s Day, and had lived on Lake Lucerne like Rodney, and that Mahler had conducted the second performance of the concerto in the States, until Dixie had yelled, ‘Come back, Gustav, all is forgiven.’
Marcus had never dreamt the orchestral sound would be so dense, loud and so distracting or that desperately trying to keep up with Abby’s beat he would play so many wrong notes and at one point stop altogether.
The orchestra, totally indifferent to such calamities, only raised the odd eyebrow and carried on reading their newspapers, filling in tax forms and applying for other jobs.
Abby wouldn’t ev
en give him time to rehearse the cadenza.
‘That’s your baby, you know it backwards.’
And instead of going back over the places where he’d screwed up so he could correct his mistakes she then moved on to Hilary’s and Simon’s solos, and one or two of the more complicated tuttis. She then spent the rest of the rehearsal perfecting the timing of Carmine Jones’s off-stage trumpet solo in the Third Leonora overture.
‘It’s exactly eight minutes before you come in, Carmine, so don’t fall asleep.’
‘Not bloody likely.’
Carmine, in a new butch lumberjack shirt, winked at Lindy Cardew, who, in a tight shocking-pink sweater, was jabbing huge scented pink lilies, no doubt paid for by her husband’s massive backhanders from George, into vases along the front of the stage.
Any flowers or blossom played havoc with Marcus’s asthma. Flora, in a rare act of domesticity, had brushed and washed down his tails to save fumes from dry cleaning. But even worse chemicals were now wafting from the walls of his dressing-room, newly painted a restful green gloss to calm soloists.
Glancing in the mirror, he noticed his face had a sinister blue tinge. In case of any emergency attack he had brought a pre-loaded syringe but he was terrified of letting down Abby, the orchestra and George, who’d engaged him and been so particularly kind. Worried that Marcus was too thin and probably hadn’t eaten all day, George had arranged for lentil soup, grilled plaice and fruit salad to be sent in from the Old Bell, and Marcus had just thrown up the lot, panicking all the while that he might choke. The more he fretted the harder it was to breathe. It was as though someone had held a pillow to his face.
But the greatest terror was the Rachmaninov lurking ahead: dark, fierce, explosive, mysterious as the Russian continent, a huge monster waiting to be captured and tamed by his bare hands.
Passionate relief battled with bitter disappointment that neither Rupert nor Taggie had bothered to come or even send him a good-luck card. Helen, on the other hand, had rolled up an hour before the off and hung around reading his cards and moaning about Rannaldini who was taking a masterclass in Rome, until George barged in and bluntly told her to pack it in, because ‘the lad needs to distance himself.
