Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’m afraid Edith’s lost any real interest in the orchestra since she shacked up with Monica,’ he told George over the telephone and then offered to read Peter and the Wolf at the gala.

  Marcus was still reeling from meeting Alexei. He longed to talk to Flora, but felt it would be disloyal to Abby. If only he could have confided in Taggie. As an olive branch he sent her a Mother’s Day card, but heard nothing back.

  FORTY-NINE

  Once it became known that Nemerovsky and Ilanova would be dancing, the gala became a total sell-out. Miles was panicking how to pack a tenth of the audience into the H.P. Hall when a gilt fig leaf obligingly fell off one of the cherubs adorning the front of the dress circle, just missing the Lady Mayoress. Restoring the cherub’s modesty the following morning one of George’s sharp builders noticed a huge crack in the ceiling over the stalls. Repairs would be lengthy and cost millions.

  GALA IN JEOPARDY, trumpeted the Rutminster Echo.

  Overnight George came neatly to the rescue, offering, as an alternative, his beautiful park. The previous owner had been a polo fanatic and had levelled a field behind the house. Here the multitudes could stretch out and be charged a hundred pounds a car. George’s builders were soon at work, knocking up a splendid stage and a pit for the orchestra. Venturer Television were covering the gala because their own chief executive was reading Peter and the Wolf and Classic FM would record it. Stands on either side of the stage would seat a thousand people and, in front of the stage, fold-up chairs stretched back for forty rows to join the masses on the polo field.

  With tickets ranging from five hundred to fifty pounds and freebies for anyone George wanted to woo, he and the RSO stood to make a killing. George’s white-knight gesture was much applauded by the nationals and the Rutminster Echo. Readers’ letters, no doubt penned by the recipients of George’s backhanders, poured in condemning the H.P. Hall as a potential death-trap, urging that another smaller venue be found for the RSO.

  ‘Preferably in Cotchester,’ raged Flora to Viking.

  ‘George has turned the whole thing to his advantage. I bet his builders made that crack so he can pick up H. P. Hall even cheaper. I hope it pisses with rain on the day.’

  But the luck of the devil held. After a beastly cold grey, dry blustery April, a heatwave hit England in the week running up to the gala.

  The only thing that cheered Flora up was George’s memo on the notice-board typed by Jessica.

  ‘As the gala takes place on the eve of the Fiftieth Anniversary of VE Day, please note “God Save the Queer”, will be played.’

  On the great day Rutminster Hall was patriotically decked with red, white and blue bunting. In deference to the soloists, Irish and Russian flags also hung motionless in the burning air alongside the Union Jack.

  As a sweating, grumbling RSO settled down to an afternoon rehearsal under a white hot sun, caterers in red, white and blue striped marquees tried to keep flies off the food, Venturer Television checked camera angles and George’s minions touched up the balcony, already on stage for Romeo and Juliet.

  ‘Trust George to use overwrought iron,’ said Flora sourly, ‘that balcony’s more suited to a Weybridge hacienda. Where are the carriage lamps and the window-boxes of petunias?’

  At least George’s taste hadn’t ruined the park which was lit by white hawthorn exploding like grenades, clumps of white lilac, foaming cow parsley and the candles of the towering horse chestnuts, whose round curves were echoed by plump sheep and their lambs grazing among the buttercups and big white clouds massing on the horizon. Through a gap in the trees, on the banks of the River Fleet, stood a temple of Flora.

  ‘Just think he owns all this, like Mr Darcy,’ sighed Candy.

  ‘Mr Nazi,’ snapped Flora. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t introduced peacocks yet.’

  ‘Why bother with our First Horn around?’ said Clare.

  Viking, already bronzed and wearing only fraying denim shorts, was squeezing a lemon onto his hair to lighten it in the sun.

  Marcus slumped in the stalls. A huge field of yellow rape on the horizon was wafting noxious pollen like chloroform towards him. Willow, birch and oak in the park, as well as all the blossom, were making it almost impossible to breathe. Only the desire to see Alexei had induced him to brave the rehearsal. He was bitterly ashamed that he had been so distracted yesterday, he’d forgotten to play at a wedding and the poor bride had come down the aisle to no music.

  He had brought Flora’s Collected Byron with him, and found the original poem of ‘The Corsair’.

  ‘There was a laughing devil in his sneer,’ read Marcus.

  He should have been at home working on Prokofiev’s Third but Abby had slid into her old trick of enlisting his help with the repertoire. The running order today was the Roman Carnival overture which had a beautiful solo for Cathie Jones; Georgie Maguire singing everything from Gluck to Gershwin; Declan reading Peter and the Wolf; the slow movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth because it had a beautiful solo for Viking, more songs from Georgie because Dancer Maitland had tonsilitis and finally Romeo and Juliet.

  Abby was in a panic about conducting ballet. Rodney had been pragmatic when she called him.

  ‘They’re never in time, darling. Nemerovsky’s a frightful show-off, he’ll spin everything out as long as possible. Give him a fright occasionally by speeding things up but on the whole it’s best to wait till they land.’

  Men were always showing off, thought Abby furiously, look at Viking sitting half-naked on the edge of the stage, making slitty eyes at every passing pretty caterer or waitress.

  No-one could work out whether he was acting up because he was going to be hidden in the pit all evening or whether it was the creeping closeness of George and Juno.

  Yesterday Abby had bawled him out for cracking three notes in the Tchaikovsky. Viking had proceeded to wake her up at the cottage at four o’clock in the morning to tell her he’d just finished practising, which was belied by howls of drunken laughter in the background. Then to top it, bloody Trevor, the mongrel, had chewed up her new black T-strap sandals bought to wear at the après-gala party and Flora had hardly apologized. She didn’t know what had got into Flora either. She was so ratty. Thank God for Marcus, who was always so sweet.

  Declan hadn’t arrived and, as Marcus only had his nose in a book, Abby dragged him unwillingly onto the stage to act as the narrator in Peter and the Wolf.

  ‘“What kind of bird are you, if you can’t fly?” said the little bird,’ read Marcus sulkily, activating a joyous flurry on the flute from Peter Plumpton.

  ‘“What kind of bird are you if you can’t swim?” said the duck, and dived into the pond’ and in came Simon with a ripple of notes on the oboe.

  ‘You’re flat, Simon,’ said Abby.

  ‘It’s the bloody reed,’ said Simon shrilly.

  ‘Very appropriate,’ giggled Cherub who was wearing a Christopher Robin sunhat. ‘Ducks live in reeds.’

  As Abby moved on to another tricky bit, Marcus felt his blue-denim shirt clinging wetly to his body. He wished he could take it off but the sun would torch his fair skin in seconds.

  ‘No matter how hard the duck tried to run,’ read Marcus, ‘the wolf was getting nearer and nearer and nearer.’

  ‘And then he caught ’er,’ said an unmistakable bitchy, deep, husky, foreign voice, ‘an’ weeth one gulp, swallow ’er.’

  Marcus dropped the score, for there piratically grinning up at him, ‘a laughing devil in his sneer’ stood Alexei, smothered in a great wolf-coat, despite the punishing heat. With him were Evgenia, ravishing in a green sleeveless mini dress, with a white shawl slung round her hips and George looking big and suntanned after a week outside organizing things and as proud as hell.

  The orchestra put down their instruments and gave them a clap. Abby jumped down falling on their necks, somewhat ostentatiously gabbling away in Russian, introducing Julian and Dimitri who would translate if they needed him.

  ‘Hi Marcus, ho
w’s Prokofiev Three going?’ shouted Evgenia, holding up a little white hand.

  Marcus blushed furiously to be singled out, particularly when Dixie shouted: ‘Go for it Marcus, you might get lucky,’ and even more so when Alexei reached up, squeezed the back of his leg, and with a sly smile handed him back the score, murmuring: ‘Hi, baby boy.’

  Saying he and Evgenia would rehearse when they’d warmed up, George was about to whisk them off to their dressing-rooms which had been built under the beech trees when Miles bustled up.

  ‘I’ve got your schedule here, Mr Nemerovsky.’ Then he added unctuously, ‘After the rehearsal we know you’d like a steak and French fries, and then a rest but at six I’ve arranged for the The Times, the Independent, the Guardian and the Telegraph to have half an hour each with you.’

  ‘Niet,’ said Alexi firmly. ‘Thees is private visit.’

  ‘But you’ve got loads of time, you won’t be on before half-past ten.’

  ‘I have to lose fifteen year at least to become Romeo, I need till ten-thirty to prepare myself.’

  ‘It’s taken weeks to arrange,’ spluttered Miles.

  ‘Unarrange eet then.’

  ‘They may write very uncomplimentary things.’

  ‘Ees any different?’ shrugged Alexei and stalked off to his dressing-room.

  ‘Disgusting yob,’ said Hilary furiously.

  ‘What a star,’ sighed Flora.

  ‘He’s brought a portable barre,’ said Tommy Stainforth knowledgeably.

  ‘I didn’t know he was a boozer,’ said Cherub.

  ‘No, to practise ballet on, dickhead.’

  Leaving poorjessica to cancel the Press, Miles turned his officiousness on the musicians. Mounting the stage with a large cardboard box, he handed over brilliant crimson silk jackets to the women in the orchestra. They were to wear them with black midi skirts to standardize their appearance, to match the RSO lorry, which had been newly painted crimson, and to curb such excesses as Nellie’s plunges and Flora’s ribbon straps.

  ‘That colour will clash with my sunburn,’ said Candy in outrage.

  ‘Silk’s so hot,’ moaned poor Mary, who was not enjoying pregnancy in such stifling heat.

  ‘And it’s got a polyester lining,’ said Clare in horror. ‘I can’t wear man-made fibres.’

  ‘I’m not wearing it at all,’ said Flora, ‘I’ll look like a blood orange.’

  ‘Not the most becomin’ shade for overheated orchestral complexions,’ observed Miss Parrott, retrieving a dropped stitch.

  ‘Well, I think they’re lovely,’ protested Juno, who never flushed pinker than a wild rose.

  ‘So do I, thank you, Miles,’ said Hilary, who was pale with dark hair and had also chosen the colour.

  ‘They’ll give the orchestra an identity,’ fluted Miles. ‘And look most dramatic beside the white-dinner jackets and while I’ve got you I want a word about protocol. Tonight’s as good a time to start as any when we’re anticipating a huge crowd of first-time concert goers. I want you all to come onto the stage together, five mintues before the off and not all straggle on in your own time, and more important, I want you to look cheerful.’

  ‘On our salary?’ scoffed Randy

  Despite the heat the musicians laughed.

  ‘And to smile —’ Miles glared at Randy – ‘both at the audience and each other. You are performers, not just musicians and at the end of a piece or in a lull, it would be rather nice if you exchanged little smiling conversations like newsreaders.’

  ‘Cuckoo, cuckoo,’ the angelic third floated out from the saffron depths of an oak tree.

  ‘You’re right, birdie, he is cuckoo,’ shouted Dixie in disgust. ‘What’s the point of smiling if you’re hidden in the pit.’

  ‘Can we get on with Romeo and Juliet, Miles?’ demanded Abby, who was getting increasingly jumpy at the prospect of conducting Alexei.

  ‘What d’you want us to be today, too fast or too loud?’ drawled Viking sarcastically.

  Abby’s lips tightened.

  ‘As you know,’ she began, ‘Juliet on the night of the ball, from being an under-aged schoolgirl, who wants to stay home and play with her dolls, changes into a young woman swept by deepest passion. This is the greatest love scene ever written in literature or music and tonight it is to be danced by the greatest dancer. As someone said of Nureyev, he only had to walk onto the stage, raise his arm, and the lake would be filled with swans. With Nemerovsky, he has—’

  ‘Only to raise a stand and the polo field will be swarming with under-aged schoolboys,’ shouted Viking. ‘God Save the Queer.’

  ‘Will you shut up?’ screamed Abby to more guffaws. ‘You’re just jealous because Alexei’s a big star and you’re nothing but a big fish in a very small polluted pool.’

  ‘In this country they pronounce it p’lyooted,’ said Viking.

  The row was only postponed because George returned with Evgenia, pretty as a lily in a white unitard, and Alexei, flaunting everything in clinging black Lycra shorts. Most dancers are well past their prime at thirty-seven, but Alexei’s golden body, oiled and rippling with muscle seemed to glow like old ivory in the white hot sun.

  ‘Look at that huge bulge,’ said Cherub in awe.

  ‘He’s got two pairs of legwarmers shoved down there,’ said Viking dismissively.

  The Russians like their Romeo and Juliet majestic and imposing. Alexei was soon jackbooting around, changing tempi and criticizing the set.

  ‘That’s wrong,’ said Viking disapprovingly, as the music grew more and more funereal. ‘Romeo and Juliet aren’t dead yet and who wrote this music anyway, Prokofiev or Nemerovksy?’

  Now Alexei was complaining about the pillar, behind which he had to await Juliet and the height of the balcony.

  ‘The balcony is fine, Alexei,’ said Evgenia running down the steps, ‘last time I dance Juliet, it nearly collapse beneath me.’

  ‘Up two three four, down two three four,’ called out Alexei, hoisting her into the air as if she was no heavier than a kitten. ‘Eet’s still too quick, Abby.’

  ‘Eef we could have pas de chat a bit slower too, Abby,’ begged Evgenia.

  Knowing every man in the place was lusting after Evgenia, Alexei seemed to take a perverse pleasure in playing the scene for real but such was his presence that the bright burning afternoon became as filled with passion and dark lurking menace as night-time Verona.

  Marcus was bitterly disappointed to miss Alexei’s rehearsal but quite relieved to be dragged inside because Georgie Maguire, with whom he’d spent Christmas, wanted a piano rehearsal. Like Flora, she had rolled up weighed down with presents, a copy of her latest album for Abby, a huge bottle of Joy for Flora, chewstiks for Trevor the mongrel, a biography of Pablo Gonzales for Marcus and a huge box of Belgian chocolates for George.

  ‘Miss Priddock said you had a sweet tooth.’

  ‘George’ll have to ration them to one a day,’ muttered Juno.

  Juno was not the only one enraged. How could her mother treat with the enemy, thought Flora furiously, when George’s only aim was to build supermarkets and sack 95 per cent of the RSO.

  Georgie had also brought several crates of iced beer for the orchestra and was so warm and friendly that Marcus longed to pour all his troubles out to her.

  Singing half-voice because she didn’t want to tire her vocal cords, Georgie whizzed through Mozart, Puccini, Gershwin, Rodgers and Hammerstein, some VE Day songs and finally two of Strauss’s Four Last Songs because she wanted to raise two fingers to Dame Hermione who regarded them as her speciality.

  Georgie then decided she and Marcus needed a drink but they found there wasn’t a maid in the house nor a waiter in the hospitality tent because they’d all sloped off to gaze at Nemerovsky. Over the hawthorn and lilac-scented air drifted the sweet doomed notes of the balcony scene.

  ‘Too slow,’ said Marcus with a frown. ‘Abby’ll have to divide.’

  ‘Lovely,’ sighed Georgie. ‘Let’s raid the frid
ge, I’m starving.’

  The fridge, however, under Juno’s influence was disappointingly full of plain yoghurt, undressed lettuce, bean sprouts, carrots cut into strips to fend off George’s hunger pangs and plates of cold chicken and beef covered with cling film and marked ‘Lunch’ and ‘Dinner’.

  Worse still, there was absolutely no drink so they had to do with Perrier. Georgie lit a cigarette and wanted to gossip.

  ‘Are you OK, Marcus? You look dreadfully pale. I suppose the pollen count’s gone through the ozone layer in this heat. You ought to get some concealer for those dark rings.’

  Ought to get concealer for my feelings, thought Marcus wearily.

  ‘I saw Nemerovsky in New York.’ It was as though Georgie had read his thoughts. ‘He’s so cool you burn yourself, like ice trays out of the freezer. Is Flora OK? She’s been so off-hand, and she wasn’t a bit pleased with the bottle of Joy. I hoped it might prove symbolic. And she’s put on weight.’

  ‘That’s because she’s given up smoking, very nobly, because it gives me asthma.’

  ‘God, I wish I could. What happened to that nice Irish man who kept ringing her over Christmas?’

  ‘It petered out. He’s a seriously good bloke, he’s playing your horn solo in the Strauss.’

  ‘I guess she’s still hooked on Rannaldini,’ sighed Georgie. ‘He’s such a shit. Oh sorry, I forgot he was your stepfather.’

  Opening the fridge again Georgie removed a cling-filmed plate of cold beef.

  ‘Shall we take that for Trevor? He’s such a duck. My elder daughter Melanie’s having a baby in November – I do hope I like it as much as Trevor.’

  As the temperature rose so did tempers. Abby got even angrier with Viking. Not only had he stood on his chair when he was playing so he could watch Evgenia and later Georgie, who, being Irish, of course, took to him immediately, but now she’d caught him coming out of Evgenia’s dressing-room, ostentatiously wiping off lipstick.

  ‘Why must you always rock boats?’ stormed Abby. ‘Alexei’s antsy enough without you jumping on his girlfriend.’