by Jilly Cooper
And now that George and Viking have gone, Miles will have you out by the end of the week, thought Abby.
Suddenly Noriko started crying and rushed off the stage. Cherub dropped his drumsticks and rushed off to comfort her. Abby felt the implicit blame of the entire orchestra. It was monstrously unfair. Viking had been in the wrong, he’d made the bet.
In the afternoon they rehearsed Mahler’s First Symphony, which had three trumpets playing off stage. Believing Carmine and Randy were deliberately bitching her up, coming in at the wrong moment and much too loud, Abby screamed at them to put socks in it. The next time the passage was so quiet, no-one could hear it. Abby was left flailing in space. Knickers discovered the trumpeters playing darts in the band room.
‘She insisted we play pianissimo, she can’t have heard us,’ protested Randy innocently.
So Abby made them do it again. And Randy played it from his car; everyone could hear him revving up and started to laugh.
Storming out to the car-park, Abby noticed Viking’s empty parking place had been taken by Quinton’s very clean Rover and burst into tears. Desolate, she drove home to find Marcus had lit a fire and left her some melon, chicken Kiev and a note saying he loved her.
Marcus is the one true thing in my life, Abby told herself numbly, I must cling on to him.
She was roused by the doorbell. Standing outside was a raddled but very sexy-looking blonde. Her name was Beatrice, she said, and she was a freelance who fed copy to most of the papers, particularly the music magazines.
‘I only talk to the media if it’s authorized by the RSO press office.’ Abby was about to slam the door.
‘I only wanted to give you this,’ Beatrice smiled winningly. ‘I was in Megagram’s press office and asked what was hot, and guess what they produced?’
A gust of wind seemed to blow her and a shower of leaves into the house. Abby gave a crow of delight as Beatrice handed her a galley of ‘Madly in Love’, the pop tune she and Marcus had recorded without Marcus knowing at the Christmas party. On the sleeve was a picture of Marcus looking wildly romantic at the piano, Abby had her arm round him, her cheek against his, her fiddle in her left hand.
‘I didn’t think Megagram were going to release it till January,’ squeaked Abby in excitment.
‘They’ve brought it forward and they’re very high on it. They want to cash in on the success of Rachel’s Requiem.’
‘How does it sound?’
‘Great,’ said Beatrice, ‘all the clapping and cheering in the background adds to the fun. He’s a fantastic pianist. You sound wonderful, too. Even better than you did in the old days.’ Then, very carefully, she added: ‘Is it true he’s Rupert Campbell-Black’s son?’
‘Oh Christ,’ Abby glanced at the sleeve. ‘Have they put in the “Campbell”? Marcus will go ballistic. He’s crazy to get to the top on his own.’
‘Sell more records,’ said Beatrice cosily, ‘better publicity for the orchestra, and for him.’
After they had played the single, which had colossal charm, Beatrice produced a bottle of champagne.
‘We must toast the new Richard Clayderman.’
‘I ought to give you a drink,’ said Abby.
‘I can put it on expenses.’
Oh why not, thought Abby, Marcus always shied away from publicity, but he wouldn’t be back for hours, and she would at last have a chance to push his career and the record. Unbeknownst to Howie she had made her share of the royalties over to the orchestra.
Nor did Beatrice know that the RSO had been chosen to accompany the finalists in the Appleton, and was so thrilled for Abby. She really was a delightful woman, despite her rather tarty looks, decided Abby, and it was such a relief to meet someone enthusiastic about success. The Brits were generally so carping.
‘D’you mind if I switch on my tape-recorder? I hate not getting the facts right?’ asked Beatrice.
After three-quarters of a bottle and no food all day, Abby forgot to emphasize what was off the record and what on.
‘This is the record that matters,’ said Beatrice, picking up the sleeve of ‘Madly in Love’. ‘I must say Marcus is almost as devasting as his famous father.’
‘More so,’ said Abby, clumsily trying to tug open a drawer in a nearby desk which had expanded because of the damp. Then it gave, and she pulled it out altogether, scattering photographs all over the floor.
‘My God,’ Beatrice dropped to her knees leafing through everything. ‘Pretty girl, who’s that?’
‘Flora Seymour, she shared the cottage with Marcus and me until last week.’
‘And my goodness, look at that.’ It was a topless Abby stretched out on the grass. Marcus, stripped to the waist, lay beside her, his head on her shoulder, his hand trailing across her ribs.
‘What a beautiful picture, pure Calvin Klein,’ Beatrice examined it in rapture.
‘Flora took it one afternoon. Great, isn’t it?’
‘Certainly is and he is gorgeous. What a profile and that gentle passionate mouth. No wonder he wows them on the platform. No wonder Megagram are thrilled to bits.’
She emptied the rest of the champagne into Abby’s glass. ‘How does he get on with Rupert?’
‘When are you hoping to get married?’ Beatrice asked finally. She was now kneeling on the floor with her scarlet dress rucked up, and her thighs wide apart so you could see her black lace panties. Her blond bob fell over her hot brown eyes and she displayed a rift of cleavage where the three top buttons were undone.
Viking would have had her upstairs in five seconds flat, thought Abby in sudden anguish.
‘He only has to say, “Hi, sweetheart” in that peat-soft voice and he’s got them horizontal in the car-park.’ She could hear Hugo’s envious disgruntled voice as though it were only yesterday.
‘You OK?’ said Beatrice.
‘Fine,’ mumbled Abby. ‘Must go to the John. Fine,’ she repeated, cannoning off the doorway. Out in the garden she collapsed against an old apple tree, sobbing her heart out. When would she even see Viking again? By the time she’d splashed her face and wiped away the streaked mascara and pulled herself together, Beatrice had her coat on.
‘Mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’m such a fan, you’re so much prettier in the flesh and look so much younger! I hope to get up to the Appleton. Perhaps you and Marcus would have dinner with me. At least, can I have your autograph on my notebook?’
Abby didn’t tell Marcus about Beatrice’s visit. He had inherited Rupert’s pathological loathing of the Press, and she couldn’t remember which papers Beatrice had said she worked for, but the piece was bound to be friendly. She’d been so excited for Abby. Anyway Abby wanted to surprise Marcus with a lovely boost to his career.
SIXTY-THREE
Beatrice’s story broke in The Scorpion two days before the Appleton. CHIP OFF THE OLD BLACK said the headline.
The photograph taken by Flora had been blown up and cropped just above the waist so Abby and Marcus looked naked in each other’s arms. ‘L’Appassionata’s Madly in Love’, said the caption.
Abby was quoted as saying that she and Marcus were secretly engaged and planning to make the announcement after the Appleton, so people wouldn’t accuse Abby of favouring Marcus if her orchestra had to accompany him in the finals.
‘I sure hope he’s going to win, but naturally we’ll treat all the contestants the same.’
The copy then switched to the record itself which Abby had had secretly made at Christmas as a surprise present for Marcus.
‘“Everyone thinks Marcus is wealthy, but he hasn’t spoken to his snooty dad in two years.” Rupert cut him off after a family tiff and he is too proud to take any money from his multi-millionaire stepdad, Sir Roberto Rannaldini (family motto: I will dump from a great height).
“I admire Marcus more than any boy I know,” enthuses Abby. “He sold the twenty-thousand-pound painting by horse artist Alf Munnings his dad gave him for his twenty-first to buy me a ruby engagement ring and he is a
wonderful, caring and tender lover. But I hope one day that he, Rupert and Sir Roberto will be reconciled, perhaps at our wedding.”’
There was a lot of guff about Abby having slashed her wrist four years ago:
‘When she caught her agent and married lover cheating on her with his secretary: but Abby’s certainly turned her career around. Just back from a wildly successful tour of Spain, next week it’s the Appleton, and she still dreams of taking her orchestra on tour to the US. “But Marcus comes first,” sighs L’Appassionata. “His career is more important because we’re madly in love.”’
Abby had never seen Marcus really angry before.
‘How could you, Abby, how fucking could you?’ he yelled. ‘You know I never wanted to get anywhere on Dad’s back, and how could you say I flogged the Munnings? How d’you think Dad’s going to feel, and Mum? And you’ve totally buggered any chance I might have had in the Appleton. Even if I get through the first round they’ll say you pulled strings, or Rannaldini has, and finally that fucking record, you know how I feel about pop music.’
He was blue in the face, gasping for breath, clinging onto the kitchen table.
‘Don’t you remember me warning you. Beattie Johnson was Dad’s mistress between marriages, and his nemesis,’ he went on furiously. ‘She’s been trying to bring him down ever since.’
‘She stitched me up too, right?’ screamed Abby, ‘She never let on she was from The Scorpion, it was all off the record. I thought she was a legit music critic, or Megagram wouldn’t have given her an advance copy. It’s their fault for telling her where I live.’
‘It’s your bloody fault; why d’you always blame everyone else?’
‘I wanted people to know how good you are. Someone’s got to blow your own trumpet. You won’t.’
‘By putting out some fucking pop record. Why the hell didn’t you ask me? Because you knew I’d say no.’
‘Because I knew you needed the money.’ Abby was now hurling insults as if they were crockery. ‘I’m sick of having to pay for everything. I’m sick of you wasting your energy on stupid pupils. I’d quite like to be taken somewhere nice occasionally, get a few flowers and chocolates, the odd pin. If it becomes a hit you’ll make a bomb.’
‘Bombs bloody maim and destroy people. Anyway, why the hell did you give them that photograph?’
‘She stole it without asking. I only wanted to show her how beautiful you were. There must be some reason I’m throwing myself away on a penniless wimp.’
The telephone rang. Abby ran out of the room. Marcus picked it up, so short of breath he could only croak, ‘Hallo.’
It was Helen. Marcus steeled himself. But his mother was surprisingly chipper. Abby had given her a very good press, and had been quoted as saying:
‘Marcus gets his looks from his beautiful mother, she’s very supportive of him and is the only member of his family he can relate to.’
‘After all,’ protested Helen, ‘Abby hasn’t said anything that isn’t true. You and she are madly in love. Rupert has been fiendish to you all his life, and given you no encouragement at all. And everyone will buy the record now. Abby only meant it as a surprise. Everyone will understand it was just a bit of fun at the office Christmas party. And it’s wonderful publicity for both you and the RSO.’
‘I don’t want to be a fucking pop star.’
‘Kiri and Placido cross over – didn’t do them any harm. You’re overreacting – don’t excite yourself before the competition. At least you and Abby really love each other.’ Helen’s voice broke. ‘I’m sure Rannaldini’s got someone else. He was checking his Interflora bill, but when I came into the room yesterday, his hand shot down over it like a guillotine.’
‘You shouldn’t bloody well have married him,’ howled Marcus, slamming down the telephone.
What was happening to him?
Immediately it rang again. It was the Sun and then the Mail, then the Express and then the whole of Fleet Street, and soon the cars were crunching over the conker husks, splashing up the path to Woodbine Cottage.
‘The only time I escape fucking tension is when I walk out onto the platform,’ Marcus yelled at a flabbergasted Abby.
The RSO the next day were almost as hostile. Management, i.e. Miles rewed up by Hilly, were horrified by the picture in The Scorpion.
‘Ghastly vulgar publicity,’ he told Abby furiously, ‘musical directors should not emulate Page Three girls. Any sense of gravitas is totally destroyed and Miss Priddock’s been fielding calls from the tabloids all day.’
‘Then buy her some gloves and a baseball cap,’ snarled Abby.
The Arts Council were also appalled. Gwynneth was particularly disapproving because Gilbert, having bought his own copy of The Scorpion, seemed to spend an unconscionable time reading the headline, the caption and the few lines of text flanking Abby’s naked boobs.
Peggy Parker and Canon Airlie had collective coronaries.
The rehearsals that day were even more acrimonious. When Abby came in to conduct Tchaikovsky’s Sixth every single player except Hilary was hidden behind a copy of The Scorpion, and all started singing ‘Madly in Love’. Abby started yelling at them and things went from bad to worse.
‘If you don’t get your act together after the break I’m walking out,’ shouted Abby.
‘Good,’ said Old Henry to everyone’s amazement.
‘Whaddid you say?’
‘He said, “good”,’ shouted Nellie. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick head, Abby, that without Viking the Pathétique is absolutely pathetic.’
Nor did Abby get any help at home. For a few days the Press hung around like starlings settling noisily on a tree, then just as suddenly they all flew off leaving the tree bare and bereft. Marcus retreated into his studio, practising for ten or eleven hours a day until the pieces held no surprises for him. He found it impossible to relax and kept a score beside him at mealtimes as a wall between him and Abby. Unable to sleep since she’d returned, he had retreated at nights to the studio, but was also getting up at first light to intercept the post in case a letter arrived from Alexei.
The morning after the Press took their departure he had heard Dixie’s springer spaniel barking down at The Bordello, and knew the postman would reach Woodbine Cottage in a couple of minutes.
Leaping out of bed, he had hurtled across the lawn, round the corner of the cottage, slap into Abby, wrapped in a towel, hoping for the miracle of a letter from Viking. Both jumped guiltily.
‘I was hoping to hear from Philadelphia,’ mumbled Abby.
‘I was h-h-hoping to h-h-hear from the record company in Prague,’ stammered Marcus.
But all the postman produced was an ecstatic postcard from. Flora and the telephone bill, which Marcus pocketed instantly. ‘I’ll pay that, you’ve picked up far too many bills recently.’ Anything to stop Abby seeing the itemized calls to Moscow.
‘Come back to bed, Markie,’ pleaded Abby.
Marcus shook his head.
‘Ought to have a bath first, I just fell into bed like a polecat last night.’
‘Oh OK, if you feel like that.’ Abby retreated upstairs banging her bedroom door.
As Marcus soaked in the last of Flora’s bath oil, he noticed a pale sun looking at him from the marble tiles on the right of the bath. The tiles were picking up the sun’s reflection in the mirror opposite. It gave Marcus the creeps that the sun, hovering unseen and in apparent innocence outside, could watch him naked in the bath. Just like the Press, thought Marcus with a shiver. He kept hearing the collective rattle of himself and skeletons coming out of the closet.
He had made heroic attempts to be faithful to Abby, but five weeks ago Alexei had sent him a pair of emerald cuff-links with just one sentence: ‘Here are two green eyes of the monster who is jealous of anyone you even talk to.’
And Marcus had weakened and written back, and Alexei and he had been ringing up and writing to each other ever since. Finally when the RSO was in Spain, Marcus had flown
out to Prague for four days, on the pretext of looking for a record deal, but instead spending every second with Alexei, growing more and more hopelessly in love. It was as though he had found a part of himself that had always been missing.
There had been a performance of the ballet Don Quixote on the second night. And although Marcus almost expired with desire and pride as he watched Alexei bringing the Prague audience over and over again cheering to their feet in stupified wonder, he realized he loved the man, not just the great star.
In a few years’ time, Alexei would have to give up dancing, probably to become a wonderfully autocratic director, but Marcus wanted to be there to take care of him while he made the adjustment.
Alexei, on the one hand, was still playing word games, insisting art was more important than love and that he and Marcus were owned by the world.
‘Ballet devour your whole life.’
But it didn’t stop him trying to persuade Marcus to leave Abby.
‘It will be perfectly better for you to live in Moscow weeth me.’
But Marcus, wiped out once more by ecstasy and guilt, had returned to England, insisting they must never see each other again and Alexei had stormed off in a fury, accusing Marcus of cowardice and hypocrisy.
It was this guilt that had made Marcus react so strongly to The Scorpion piece: Abby trumpeting fortissimo to the world of their passion for one another, when he was totally fogged with love for Alexei.
As he lay in the cooling water, Marcus noticed a bottle on the side for detangling hair. If only it could detangle his life.
When he settled down to practise he was so tired that he kept making stupid mistakes.
Much later as the light faded he went for a walk. Sibelius and Scriabin followed him, pouncing on gold leaves which were tumbling out of the wood. The sun, which had spied on him earlier, was now huge, orange and warming the slim bare limbs of the trees, so beautiful freed of their clothing of leaves, they reminded him of Alexei.
He hadn’t heard a word from Rupert or Taggie since The Scorpion. They were probably too outraged and saddened to get in touch. How dare Abby say Helen was the only person he related to, when Taggie had always given him so much love and understanding.
