Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I have to apologize for the ubsence of Dame Hermione, who I’m afraid is indisposed,’ George shouted over a rising surge of disapproval. ‘But I am happy to announce that a local lass has gallantly taken her place, Miss Flora Seymour, who is the daughter—’

  ‘Oh no, poor Mum,’ groaned Flora, appalled.

  ‘Is the daughter of Rutshire’s very own Georgie Maguire.’

  The crowd wasn’t remotely mollified. There was a lot of booing and shouts of ‘Give us our money back’.

  Miles knocked cautiously on Rannaldini’s door. He didn’t want a repeat of Alexei and the gala.

  I’m going to faint, thought Flora.

  Her heart was pounding her ribs, the inside of her knees were black and blue from knocking, her throat as dry as Miles’s drinks cupboard, she’d never be able to sing.

  Out swept Rannaldini, his musky cloying scent nearly anaesthetizing her. She noticed his teeth were whiter than the gardenia in his buttonhole, as he smiled and clapped friendly hands on the shoulders of Alphonso and Walter.

  ‘Good luck, my friends, not that either of you need it,’ followed by little jokey asides in Italian and in German.

  ‘This is Flora Seymour,’ George propelled her forward like a reluctant dog towards the vet. ‘Who is very courageously standing in. I know you’ll give her every assistance, Maestro.’

  ‘We know each other,’ said Rannaldini flatly. Only Flora could read the implacable hatred in the midnight-black eyes.

  ‘Rannaldini was once with me in Paradise,’ she said sadly.

  The orchestra gave her a great cheer when she came on, but a rictus animal grin was frozen on her face.

  As his chief executive collapsed into the seat beside him, Lord Leatherhead noticed that George hadn’t changed and his seersucker jacket was covered in grass stains.

  ‘Hope you know what you’re doing, George.’

  Only then did George pause and realize what he had done in his desperation for the concert to go ahead. There was the poor child looking frightened out of her wits and absolutely tiny beside Walter. How could he have bullied her into it? Suddenly despite the now-stifling heat of the evening he, too, was drenched in icy sweat. As he opened his programme, Hermione’s serene and lovely face smiled up at him. Getting out a biro, George drew a moustache on it. Along the front of the stage, huge regale lilies were scenting the hot evening air.

  ‘I would never have wasted my best blooms if I’d known that trollop was going to sing,’ hissed Peggy Parker.

  Rannaldini had deliberately chosen to wear black tails braided with satin, so he would stand out more dramatically against the white DJs and shocking pink jackets of the RSO. Down whisked his stick introducing Chaos which was portrayed by deafening discordant crashes, interspersed with sweet pianissimo murmurs on the strings followed by woodwind calling to each other across the dark void.

  Flora was dimly aware behind her of Rannaldini’s beautifully manicured hands controlling the orchestra, hands that had once explored every inch of her body and brought her to the ultimate corrupt pleasure.

  Perched on a gold chair, glared at by a vast crowd, she had a fifteen minutes’ wait before her first aria, and what terrible words to start with.

  ‘Astonished Heaven’s happy host gazes upon the wondrous work.’

  Words and notes were a jumble of black. Alphonso and Walter had already sung. The audience were looking slightly less hostile. Here we go. Flora stood up. No-one could miss her frantically trembling legs – that must be why singers wore long dresses. Rannaldini gave her a curt nod.

  ‘Astonished haven’s hippy host,’ sang Flora, her voice coming out breathy and squeaky, ‘gazes on the wondrous wok.’

  Someone laughed, someone booed.

  ‘And from their throats rings out praise,’ croaked Flora.

  As the booing grew to a crescendo, she dropped her red score with a clatter and put her hands over her face.

  ‘I’m sorry, I can’t go on,’ she sobbed.

  The ground fell silent. A police horse neighed.

  George leapt to his feet, trying to climb along the row.

  ‘Sid-down,’ yelled the rows behind, who didn’t want to miss a thing.

  Anyway George had been forestalled. Rannaldini had jumped down from the rostrum putting his arms round Flora, whipping the arctic-white handkerchief from his breast pocket, gently tugging down her hands, so he could dry her eyes.

  ‘Of course she can do eet,’ he shouted to the crowd. ‘She ees verra brave girl.’ Then turning to Flora, smiling at her with such encouragement. ‘We know you ’ave most beautiful voice in the world, carissima,’ he murmured ‘Do you want to go off for a moment?’ he added as Charlton Handsome belted on with a glass of water.

  Flora shook her head. It was all over in a minute, Rannaldini gave her another hug, ruffled her hair causing a collective wince among the make-up girls, and climbed back onto the rostrum.

  Then, on second thoughts, he leapt down handing her back his handkerchief sending a benign rumble of amusement through the crowd.

  Back on the rostrum he raised his stick, turning, smiling dazzlingly: ‘Okkay, Flora?’

  Flora nodded, and the crowd gave a great roar of applause until Rannaldini silenced them.

  ‘How charming,’ hissed Peggy Parker to Gwynneth. ‘Abigail could never have handled that.’

  Even Gilbert came out of mourning for Hermione. Flora Seymour had rather interesting breasts in that silk thingy, he must send her a bottle of parsnip wine.

  Flora’s voice was a little choked and ragged to begin with, but grew in strength and sweetness by the minute. Throughout her first aria, Walter held her small hand. As Alphonso got up to sing he smiled across lovingly. The vast audience felt they were part of some family drama.

  Flora’s next recitative began: ‘And God said let the earth bring forth grass.’ And legalize it, too, thought Flora which made her smile, and the aria that followed about the gentle jewelled charm of the wild flowers and golden fruit was so beautiful, that she suddenly realized the audience were smiling as well.

  Rannaldini still wants me, she thought in rapture, I’m being given another chance. Her next entry was the trio with Alphonso and Walter. Both of them unselfishly held back so that her clear piercing voice could soar lark-like above theirs. There was a deafening applause at the end of part two and once the audience had accepted the fact that there was no interval and they’d have to cross their legs for another hour, they relaxed and enjoyed themselves watching the stars come out, and the houses in the Close light up like Hallowe’en pumpkins.

  Pictures were now coming up on the huge television screens on either side of the platform, first the glitter of a trumpet, the gold of Viking’s mane, the hair on Julian’s bow drawn out like chewing-gum, Rannaldini’s left hand dancing like a blown leaf to the music, but mostly the cameras concentrated on Flora.

  Watching her face growing more distinct as the light faded, George wanted to put her under his arm and warm her into clarity like a polaroid. By comparison, the ladies of the chorus looked like the witches in Macbeth.

  He was increasingly uneasy about the undeniable chemistry between her and Rannaldini. Like one of Dracula’s bats, he could see the shadow of the television microphone on her freckled breast bone. Nor was Viking happy. The last thing he wanted either was for Rannaldini to get off with Flora again. He was extremely curious to see the man for whom Abby had cut her wrist, but noticed in extreme indignation that the seat beside Miles was still empty. Christopher Shepherd hadn’t even bothered to show. Bloody hell! So Abby needn’t have pushed off, after all, and Rannaldini needn’t have taken over and Viking had to admit that the bastard gave off such electricity that the orchestra were playing out of their boots and Abby couldn’t fail to show up unfavourably by comparison. He also had to confess that without Abby’s histrionics the RSO seemed very dull.

  God was now creating Eve.

  ‘Adam’s lovely gracious wife in happy innocence she smile
s,’ sang Alphonso.

  Such was his swelling emotion that his waistcoat button gave up the unequal struggle and flew through the air nearly blacking Goaty Gilbert’s eye. Flora fought the giggles and only sobered up when she caught a glimpse of Helen looking blasted with misery in the fourth row.

  The orchestra had played miraculously for nearly two hours, the strings’ bow-ties were under their ears. But at last they reached the final chorus with soloists.

  ‘To the glory of God, let song with song compete,’ sang Flora joyfully, ‘The glory of the Lord shall last forever, Amen.’

  There was total silence, a dog barked, a car backfired, followed by hysterical screaming applause. The orchestra were all cheering for Flora.

  ‘Well done, darling,’ she could hear Viking yelling.

  At first, very shy, not knowing how to accept such applause, she gradually began to smile and even blow kisses to the rapturous stamping, clapping, shouting throng.

  And how could she not, with Rannaldini beside her lifting her hand to his lips, covering it with kisses, pouring sweet everythings into her ear.

  ‘My little star, my angel child, I knew you could do it. I distance myself, I know suffering produce great art.’

  Flora had wanted to make him crawl, but she couldn’t help herself.

  ‘I love you,’ she whispered, clutching a huge bunch of copper roses to her breast.

  Helen was distraught. That bloody girl, she’d always been after Rannaldini.

  George who had read Paradise Lost at school suddenly remembered Satan like a toad squatting beside Eve, whispering words of temptation into her ear. He’d got to rescue Flora, he was convinced now that something had gone on between her and Rannaldini. But when he fought his way to her dressing-room, she had already been spirited away by Miles and Lord Leather-head to the big celebration dinner for sponsors, soloists and the management at the Rutminster Royale who were giving the RSO a discount. He wasn’t even cheered that he’d saved forty thousand pounds on Hermione’s fee.

  Christopher Shepherd, who’d been delayed at the Barbican signing up a very pretty thirteen-year-old Chinese cellist, was not pleased to find a strange redhead singing the final chorus in Hermione’s place, and Shepherd Denston ten thousand pounds the lighter. He proceeded to jackboot about.

  ‘Where’s Dame Hermione?’

  ‘Never showed up,’ said George.

  ‘Dame Hermione has never been late in her life,’ thundered Christopher, quite untruthfully. ‘What in hell’s happened to her? She may have been kidnapped, right? Why didn’t you provide a body guard. Shepherd Denston will expect full compensation.’

  Arriving at the Royale, however, Christopher and the other guests were relieved but somewhat startled to see Dame Hermione swinging like Guy the Gorilla from a rope of knotted sheets and duvet covers trying to find a foothold on the floodlit balcony of the Bridal Suite.

  Unwilling to admit she’d been tied up and left by Viking and Blue, she had to fabricate a tale about being so upset about the ‘pausa’ row that she had locked herself into the wrong room without a telephone.

  ‘I couldn’t make anyone hear,’ she sobbed into Christopher’s manly chest.

  ‘Don’t worry, we’ll sue the hotel, and Rannaldini and the orchestra,’ Christopher glared at George, ‘for booking you into such a crumby joint.’

  ‘Bollocks,’ exploded George. ‘There’s absolutely no way we’re responsible. Every attempt was made to trace Dame Hermione.’

  What a pompous prat, he decided.

  Although Dame Hermione was hastily reassured by Christopher that she was insured against accident, her squawks increased when she discovered that Flora had stood in for her so triumphantly and, even more so, when she learnt Rannaldini and the little tramp had vanished.

  Even more upset than either Hermione, Helen or Christopher, who was furious not to be able to sign Flora up, or Alphonso, who wanted to jump on her, or Walter, who wanted Marcus’s telephone number, was George. Totally abandoning his duties as host to an ever-willing Miles, in increasing despair he commuted between Rannaldini’s house in Paradise and Woodbine Cottage but both remained in darkness.

  On a third visit to the cottage, which Flora in her haste had left unlocked, George collected a hysterical Trevor and took him back home.

  At two o’clock the storm broke, the first clap of thunder sending the little dog shuddering into George’s arms.

  George was still drinking whisky, stubbing out the umpteenth cigarette, listening to the thunder grumbling in the distance as though it had been evicted from the pub, when the doorbell jangled frantically and Flora staggered in.

  There was an ugly bruise on her cheek. She was soaked to the skin. Abby’s shirt, ripped down the front, was almost transparent. She was clutching Foxie and shaking convulsively.

  ‘I can’t go back to the cottage in case Rannaldini follows me. Oh thank God, you’ve got Trev. You are kind.’ She gathered up the screaming excited little dog, whose scrabbling claws ripped Abby’s shirt even further. ‘Oh Angel, how could I have left you in this storm. Rannaldini has this horrible effect on me.’ Then she glanced up at George. ‘Please please don’t be cross with me. Can I have a bath?’

  She must have slept with Rannaldini, thought George. The pain was horrifying, but he said of course, and poured her a large brandy.

  When she came down wrapped in his huge green-and-blue striped dressing-gown, he gave her another brandy and put her in a leather armchair and turned on the gas logs.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she sobbed, ‘I can’t talk about it,’ and then proceeded to do so for nearly two hours without stopping, telling him how Rannaldini had destroyed her.

  ‘He pursued me and pursued me and when I was sixteen, I didn’t fancy him at all, I was much keener on his son Wolfie, but finally I gave in and got totally hooked. Then he binned me like a mail-order shot because I said Boris was a brilliant conductor, and he promptly seduced Boris’s wife Rachel to punish Boris and me.’

  ‘I’ve behaved dreadfully badly,’ she went on in a whisper, ‘but I wanted to sleep with him one more time tonight, just so he could see how I’d improved – like the RSO —’ tears were streaming down her blanched cheeks – ‘and I was so cross with you and Viking for forcing me to go on.’

  ‘I’m sorry,’ George shook his head, ‘but you were funtastic, ubsolutely woonderful. You saved the orchestra. None of us will ever be able to thank you enoof.’

  ‘I was lucky. Rannaldini was on my side for most of the evening. Anyway I thought you getting him in to conduct was all part of your plot to oust Abby, and infiltrate Rannaldini into the RSO.’

  ‘Happen it was,’ George looked faintly sheepish, ‘but not any more. Working with him at close range, I’ve realized what a shit he is.’

  ‘Bed wasn’t any good tonight.’ Dolefully Flora wiped her nose on the sleeve of George’s dressing-gown. ‘Now I feel empty, I’ve wanted him back for so long. But when he made love to me, I just felt dirty. We were in his tower.’

  George touched the bruise on her cheek.

  ‘He do this.’

  Flora nodded. ‘Because I didn’t want to make a night of it. But the scratches on my legs, those are brambles. I ran out on him through the wood, when I reached the road I hitched a lift.’

  ‘Christ, in that dress.’

  ‘I know it was crazy, I just felt if I got to you I’d be safe.’

  A pale grey triangle between the curtains showed dawn was breaking, so George put her and Trevor to bed in a spare room with a hot-water bottle and a night-light.

  Looking up at his tired turned-down eyes and squashed face, Flora decided he was more like a mastiff than a Rottweiler.

  ‘Why don’t you wear your glasses any more?’

  ‘They were only plain glass to intimidate people.’

  Flora laughed drowsily. ‘Sorry, I screwed up your evening. I misjudged you – you’re a sweet guy.’

  Closing the biggest deal had never given George such a l
urch of happiness. He left her to fall asleep counting glow stars, but when he went in with a cup of tea at nine-thirty, she had fled again. The net curtains were flapping in the open window like a Dracula film. Perhaps Rannaldini had spirited her away. George was shocked at the wave of desolation that overwhelmed him.

  FIFTY-FIVE

  Flora didn’t become a star overnight, because she didn’t want to. She had seen what stardom had done to her parents’ marriage. Instead she told the journalists who clamoured for a story that she preferred to build her singing career slowly and stay with her friends in the orchestra.

  ‘What orchestra?’ snarled Dixie brandishing the Telegraph Appointment page. ‘We’ll be lucky if we’re still in business at Christmas.’

  The Arts Council, meanwhile, with predictable pusillanimity, had set up an independent review body to study the two orchestras. The Rutshire Butcher had not helped by giving The Creation a rave review, saying it showed what a lazy, lacklustre orchestra could do under a great conductor.

  ‘The sooner the CCO and the RSO are closed down and merged into a Super Orchestra,’ he had added, ‘presided over by Rannaldini the better.’

  The review was picked up by all the nationals.

  Rodney was outraged and weighed in from Lucerne in a letter to The Times. Independent review bodies, he wrote, consisted of a lot of old tabby cats and failed politicians guzzling digestive biscuits and exhausting entire rain forests, to produce reports that no-one read, for a sum of money that would keep both orchestras going for the next ten years. The Arts Council, he went on, ought to have their legs and hands tied together and be merged with the biggest tidal wave in history.

  A fuming Miles rang Rodney and bollocked him for muddying the waters. Gilbert and Gwynneth had to be kept sweet.

  ‘Nothing could keep those guzzling pigs sweet except bombe surprise,’ replied Rodney sharply. ‘And don’t you speak to me like that, you little twerp, I’m nearly eighty and I can do exactly what I like.’