Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I love you, Marcus,’ her voice broke. ‘It’s just hit me like one of George’s bulldozers, and if we love each other we only need time. I’ll get you going, there are so many tricks.’

  Marcus’s shivering became a quiver of pleasure as she ran her fingers lingeringly along the cleft between his buttocks.

  ‘All women,’ she went on half-mockingly, ‘want to marry a virgin so they can mould him exactly the way they want.’

  ‘Perhaps Barbara Cartland will make me the hero of one of her novels.’

  ‘You’re my hero anyway. George never stops nagging me to get involved in educational projects. Teaching you about sex is far more rewarding than relating Respighi’s Birds to the Blackmere Woods.’

  As Marcus started to laugh, Abby took his hand, first moving it over her acorn-hard nipples, then burying it in her wiry dark pubic hair.

  ‘Under the fold you can feel a little nipple, that’s the clit, now lick your middle finger and stroke it, very gently, a mild pizzicato, right? Now slide a finger down and inside me in and out, deeper and deeper, testing for wetness, that’s lovely, now back to the clit again.’

  It was rather like being taught fingering by his old music mistress, thought Marcus hazily. Any minute he expected Abby to tell him to use the long fingers for the black notes, and not to turn his whole hand, when he moved the thumb under.

  ‘Oh, wow,’ murmured Abby happily, ‘long fingers aren’t just good for tenths, I’m nearly there.’

  He expected her to scream, shout and thrash about, and was alarmed he’d done something wrong when her body suddenly arched, stiffened, trembled violently all over and seemed to stop breathing.

  ‘Abby, are you OK?’

  ‘Heavenly.’ Her body slumped, but inside he could feel her melting and throbbing. ‘You’re a genius. You made me come.’

  ‘Truly – I thought it would be so noisy.’

  ‘When it’s real, it’s the quietest thing on earth. I love you.’

  She fell asleep at once. Marcus lay awake stunned by the evening’s developments, reliving all the mistakes he’d made, particularly at the beginning of the Rachmaninov, luxuriating in the memory of the applause, and the kind things people had said. He hardly dared think how miraculously it would sort out his problems if he got it together with Abby.

  I’m straight, I’m straight, he made a thumbs-up sign to his reflection in the mirror. All the same, like some lovely little restaurant you stumble on in the Dordogne when you’re pissed, he wondered if he’d ever be able to find the clitoris again. Perhaps Abby would let him bring a magnifying glass into lessons.

  The next day, he had great difficulty keeping his newly straight face when he went back to H.P. Hall to collect his car, and was greeted by an overjoyed Noriko, waving a newspaper.

  ‘Mr Black, Mr Black.’ At last she’d got her ‘L’s’ right. ‘Have you seen your wonderful clit in Lutminster Echo?’

  The Rutshire Butcher had reviewed the encore not the concerto, and written of ‘Marcus Black’s exquisite control and beauty of tone, unhindered by orchestra or conductor.’

  FORTY-EIGHT

  The next day Flora felt very flat after her sighting of Rannaldini, her rows with George and an inexplicable feeling of something going on between Abby and Marcus. She needed a male in her life.

  Having bought an electric blanket she went off to the nearest NCDL kennels. The desperate barking, the pleading faces, the scrabbling paws saddened her immeasurably. Like the Anouilh heroine, how could she ever be happy while there was a single stray dog in the world? But in the end she chose the smallest, ugliest black-and-tan mongrel and called him Trevor. Trevor had been so bored in the kennels, he’d spent all day playing with his own shadow. Realizing his luck, he settled in immediately. Abby was livid when he treed both Scriabin and Sibelius, two chattering magpies up in the chestnut tree again, and then wolfed all their food.

  ‘He’ll be a partner in crime for that bloody Nugent.’

  ‘He’ll be a terrific guard dog,’ beamed Flora. ‘Lady Chisleden had a break-in while she was at the concert last night.’

  Trevor was all of nine inches high and sulked dreadfully when Flora forgot to put on the electric blanket. Although he immediately found his way out through the cat door and went hunting, he howled if Flora left him behind, so she smuggled him into rehearsals and he guarded her coat and her viola case in the women’s changing-room.

  George was not amused by the arrival of Trevor, particularly when he noisily chased John Drummond between two Perspex models on his first morning. Fortunately for Flora, George had been instantly distracted by devastating news: the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra blithely announcing they would be staging their own Opera Gala in the grounds of Cotchester Cathedral starring Rannaldini and Harefield. The main problem was they had picked the same Sunday in early May that the RSO were mounting their All-Star Centenary Gala.

  This would wipe out the RSO’s audience. Georgie Maguire and an increasingly doubtful Dancer Maitland singing Rodgers and Hammerstein could hardly compete with the rerun of the most successful classical record of all time.

  George made out he was furious. Flora, who still had the print-outs under her mattress, suspected he had tipped Rannaldini off about the date of the gala, in order to run the RSO into the ground. The Arts Council, increasingly dismayed by the popularizing of the RSO repertoire, were muttering openly about closing down one orchestra.

  At the beginning of March, El Creepo and Simon Painshaw came to the end of their two-year term as orchestral members of the board. Few players were interested in replacing them, as hatred of the management had reached an all-time high. In the end Hilary and Bill Thackery put themselves forward. Hilary, the orchestra decided, wanted the chance to exchange meaningful glances with Miles. She was a dangerous bitch but Bill would balance her out. Bill was such a nice guy and he’d behaved so well over the re-recording in January of Rachel’s Requiem and Julian repossessing his violin solo, that everyone felt he deserved to be on the board. Bill would see them right.

  Meanwhile as a thank you and twenty-second birthday present, Abby took Marcus to Covent Garden, where the Cossak-Russe, the most dazzling ballet company in the world, were dancing Le Corsair. Tickets had sold out months ago and more touts were hanging round the opera house than pigeons. But the principal soloist, the great Alexei Nemerovsky, known in the Press as ‘The Treat from Moscow’ was both an old friend of Boris’s and a long-time collector of Abby’s records and had sent her two tickets.

  It was heaven to escape from the RSO and all its problems for an evening, thought Abby, as she and Marcus wandered hand in hand through the packed foyer. Marcus had retrieved her orange satin trouser suit from the waste-paper basket and persuaded her to wear it. She was gratified how many people recognized her and nudged their companions, but she noticed the eyes of both sexes then swivelled to Marcus and stayed there in admiration.

  He was wearing a dark suit that had been made for him two years ago by Rupert’s tailor and a lilac-and-white striped shirt and a purple tie, which Flora had given him for his birthday. Success in the Rachmaninov had given him new confidence, he seemed to walk taller. He is a beauty, thought Abby proudly. They had made love constantly since that first night, and although Marcus still hadn’t got it up, he had given her a lot of pleasure, and was about to graduate (B.Clit) in the geography of female sexual anatomy.

  ‘It’ll happen,’ Abby kept telling him, ‘you mustn’t have a hang-up.’

  ‘More of a hang down,’ grumbled Marcus.

  At least they could laugh about it and after a couple of glasses of champagne in the bar, they sat very close together in the dark warmth of the theatre, opening their scarlet programmes, watching the lit-up bald head and waving arms of the conductor, aware that the vast audience could hardly wait for the overture to be over so they could catch a first glimse of their god.

  Nemerovsky was also known as the third ‘N’, because with Nijinsky and Nureyev he made up the tr
iumvirate of greatest male dancers of all time. His leonine dark head, with the sliding black eyes, the cheek-bones at forty-five degrees and the huge pouting mouth, glared haughtily out from poster and programme.

  Back swept the dark red velvet curtains, like labia minor, thought Marcus in his new knowledge. In delight the audience clapped the brilliant set, in which a heaving sailing ship filled with long-legged, wild-haired pirates was wrecked on a rocky shore. The tallest of the pirates, who was wearing a floppy white shirt, black knickerbockers and a red scarf round his forehead, was clearly hurt and was carried ashore by two of his comrades as the ship broke up in a mass of spray and crashing waves.

  ‘That’s Nemerovsky,’ whispered Abby, as the pirates took refuge behind a rock and a lot of scantily dressed maidens swarmed on and jumped about.

  I’m not sure I like ballet, thought Marcus.

  Then Nemerovsky recovered from his concussion and suddenly erupted on to the centre of the stage as glitteringly dominant and beautiful as Orion in the winter sky.

  Nemerovsky’s leaps were legendary – gasp followed collective gasp as the Corsair seemed to fly through the air, to whirl like a dervish to rise and fizzle like a fire cracker, yet his stillness seemed to freeze audience and orchestra as long as he wanted – so that any spontaneous applause, that could have interrupted the action, also froze on people’s hands.

  And watching him, Marcus was lost, totally shipwrecked. He even felt himself groan with despair as the cold, poisoned steel of Cupid’s arrow plunged deep into his heart, routing out any hope of heterosexuality. He realized he was only in love with Abby emotionally and had never really desired a human being before. He looked at Nemerovsky, remembering that Browning poem Flora was always quoting.

  ‘As one who awakes.

  The past was a sleep

  And his life began.’

  Abby was in raptures, half in wonder for the conductor, who must be having a coronary controlling the orchestra in the face of such unpredictability, half-identifying with Nemerovsky’s star quality. She had once held audiences captive, had been the only one on stage they had looked at. She must, must go back to the violin.

  ‘He’s got a butt almost as beautiful as Viking’s,’ she whispered to Marcus.

  Boris, who was still wrestling with King Lear, only made the last act. It seemed sacrilegious to leave a seat empty for so long.

  Afterwards Abby, Marcus and Boris went on to dinner at the Ivy, where they were later joined by Alexei and Evgenia, his stunningly pretty, principal ballerina. The whole restaurant rose and cheered them as they came in, and it was immediately champagne on the dacha.

  Boris and Alexei fell on each other’s necks. When, demanded Alexei, was Boris going to write a ballet for him? Marcus was in a complete daze which went unnoticed as the other four gabbled away in Russian. Alexei seemed far more taken with Abby than Evgenia. Occasionally his black eyes slid speculatively over Marcus, and when Marcus couldn’t eat a thing, Alexei calmly forked up his potatoes announcing he was starving.

  ‘I cannot eat before dancing, I am much too exciting.’

  He reminded Marcus terrifyingly of Rupert. He had the same cool arrogance, the same predatory ability to pick off anything he chose. He was now having a terrrific Russian row with Evgenia, because she’d ordered him a Dover sole, rather than Tournedos Rossini, and when Boris tried to defuse things, turned on him as well. Then Alexei emptied a glass of red wine over Boris, Boris emptied one over Alexei and they both smashed their glasses against the wall. The management were just moving in to break the whole thing up when they saw the two dripping men were laughing uproariously and left them to it.

  Then as instantly they stopped laughing, because Boris asked Alexei about Russia.

  ‘There is no money,’ Alexei’s voice was deeper than the Corsair’s ocean, a thrilling, husky, basso profundo, ‘we are crippled by bureaucracy, the Mafia and chaos. There is no hope internally, eet must come from outside. I am OK, I come and go as I please, because I am beeg star. Everyone else is starving. Democracy does not feed people. So I owe eet to geeve my country spiritual uplift. You must come back, Boris, at least make visit.’

  Boris, mopping his eyes with his table napkin, was so moved he drained both his own and Evgenia’s glass.

  ‘As Chekhov say,’ he sighed, ‘Freedom is destiny we may never reach, but we must squeeze slavery out of ourselves drop by drop,’ which reminded him his glass was empty, so he waved at the waiter to bring more bottles.

  Trying to include Marcus, Abby told the others that he’d just played the Rachmaninov and Howie was trying to wangle him a date with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra playing Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto.

  ‘My father was friend of Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, his glittering eyes trailing round the table.

  ‘Just then a beeg grey wolf did come out of the forest,’ he said softly, and threw back his head and laughed showing off long flaring nostrils and the stubble darkening his beautiful strong neck, which had left make-up on the collar of his white shirt.

  Oh Christ, thought Marcus, what the hell’s going to become of me? He felt dizzy with longing. Misinterpreting his distress, Evgenia said sympathetically that it was very difficult to make it as a pianist.

  ‘Marcus is very shy, too,’ Abby told her in Russian.

  ‘Is he?’ drawled Alexei in English, raising a jet-black eyebrow and staring at Marcus until he went scarlet.

  ‘Then he must make record in Prague. Until you have record you are nuzzing. To managers, engagers, musical directors, record is all.’

  ‘Serena at Megagram liked you a lot, Marcus,’ said Boris encouragingly. ‘She vill pick up production cost of record. I vill conduct for free, you will only need a few grand to pay the orchestra.’

  ‘Great, I’ll help out,’ said Abby eagerly.

  Sensing Marcus would like to get off the subject, Evgenia asked Abby about her orchestra. In no time Abby was telling her about the RSO’s financial plight and Rannaldini’s latest act of vandalism, programming an Opera Gala on the same day as their centenary celebrations.

  ‘Rannaldini is very bad man,’ said Alexei. ‘He conduct in Moscow. Never again, eet was so fast, Swan Lake become Swan Rapids.’

  Abby took a deep breath.

  ‘Oh Alexei, you’re not possibly free on Sunday 7 May to dance at our gala – only for ten minutes or so? It would honestly save us from going belly-up.’

  In order to maintain his glitzy lifestyle, Alexei had been known to dance on a pin if the money was good enough but suddenly he agreed to appear at the gala for next to nothing. He and Evgenia would be in Paris at the time. As the gala was on a Sunday they could just nip over for the evening.

  ‘I would like that,’ smiled Evgenia, ‘I love Vest Country.’

  ‘You always need vest in Eengland,’ mocked Alexei.

  A manic Abby hugged them both.

  ‘Oh thank you. That’ll zap Rannaldini and Harefield at Cotchester. People’ll fly in from all over the world to watch you two. What would you like to dance?’

  ‘Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, shooting a mocking glance at Marcus. ‘Romeo and Juliet. Stony leemits cannot keep love out.’

  The waiters, trying not to yawn, were laying tables for the morrow. As they were leaving, Boris gave Alexei a score of Rachel’s Requiem, which had just been published.

  ‘Who did you dedicate it to, Flora or me or Marcus?’ asked Abby turning the pages. ‘To Astrid,’ she read in outrage.

  Boris shrugged: ‘Someone ‘as to babyseet.’

  The bridges along the Embankment glittered like necklaces on the night, buds thickened against a dun-coloured sky, the park was full of daffodils.

  ‘An ’orse guard, an ’orse guard, my keengdom for an ’orse guard,’ yelled Alexei, as the taxi swung into St James’s Street, dropping off him and Evgenia at the Stafford.

  Abby and Marcus were staying at the Ritz. In the lift up, Abby put an idle hand on Marcus’s cock.

  ‘O
h my God.’ She gave a whoop of joy. Perhaps Marcus was suddenly relaxed because Howie was getting him work, and she and Boris were going to make a record with him. Potency was so allied to success.

  They were hardly inside the door when Abby turned to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, drawing him towards her, not daring to breathe as she felt him rising against her.

  There was no time to wash. She unzipped both their flies and left him to wriggle out of his trousers and boxer shorts as she ripped off the orange trousers of her suit. The next moment they were on the floor and he was inside her.

  ‘Aaah,’ moaned Abby, ‘that feels so good.’

  The sex after that was fantastic. Marcus was so turned on by the thought of Alexei that with eyes shut and in desperate hunger he made love to Abby all night.

  ‘I knew it would come right, if we gave it time,’ sobbed a joyful Abby.

  Marcus was so exhausted he forgot to take his asthma pills and had a bad attack in the morning. Driving back in the afternoon, they agreed not to tell anyone for the moment. Abby, however, couldn’t resist confiding in Flora, who was surprisingly unenthusiastic.

  Abby construed this as jealousy because Flora hadn’t got a man at the moment. But Flora, who’d always suspected Marcus was gay, thought the whole thing would end in tears, and in turn couldn’t resist confiding in Viking, who was equally unenthusiastic and drove Abby crackers referring to the Centenary Concert as the ‘Gayla’ because Dancer Maitland and Alexei were taking part.

  ‘Alexei is not gay,’ yelled Abby, ‘He has a beautiful “partner” called Evgenia.’

  Privately Abby was convinced Alexei had only agreed to dance because he fancied her. At any rate she had scored colossal brownie points with the board for providing Alexei, particularly when Declan O’Hara declared himself horrified by Rannaldini’s and the CCO’s attempts to sabotage Rutminster’s centenary celebration.