Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  Taggie felt utterly helpless on the flight home, as Rupert glared unseeingly out of the window, tension flickering like lightning around his jaws. Only once did she try to tempt him with a large whisky, but he shook his head violently.

  ‘It’s probably just a one-off with Nemerovsky,’ she stammered. ‘He’s so powerful and glamorous, anyone would find him difficult to resist . . . Lots of people have flings.’

  ‘What the fuck do you know about it?’ snarled Rupert, gazing through the dusk down at the white horses flecking the English Channel.

  ‘N-nothing.’

  ‘Well, shut up then.’

  ‘He could be bisexual. One affaire doesn’t mean he’s gay.’

  ‘Course he is . . . always has been.’

  Taggie gave up. Oh dear God, she thought, please don’t let him be horrible to Marcus.

  Back at Appleton Town Hall, the judges, after a jolly rest day visiting Delius’s old haunts in nearby Yorkshire, and enjoying a long lunch at the famous Box Tree Restaurant in Ilkley, were looking forward to a boring, untaxing evening. Although Benny would pull out the stops and wow the audience tonight, most of them had already chosen either Anatole or Natalia as the winner. But with only two contestants this evening, the edge had gone out of the competition. The bleak bulletins from Northladen General had cast a shadow over the proceedings. They all felt poor Marcus had been very shabbily treated. After all, as Dame Edith had pointed out noisily at lunch,

  ‘Everyone knows there are only three types of pianist – Jewish, Gay or Bad.’

  The Scorpion and all the rest of the Press, they agreed, were making a ridiculous fuss.

  ‘Lucky, lucky Nemerovsky,’ sighed Pablo Gonzales.

  ‘Rather nice for Helen to have a gay son,’ said Dame Hermione with her head on one side. ‘They’re always so devoted to their mothers.’

  Seven-fifteen . . . Benny had been to make-up and could be heard by the entire audience warming up in a practice room. The great clock of the town hall had been stopped for two hours to prevent it tolling during performances. Time would stand still, but hopefully the whole contest would be wrapped up by ten o’clock in time for the news.

  As Benny left the practice room, Rupert gave his third police car the slip, hurtling a hired Mercedes through the driving rain towards Northladen General. A white-knuckled Taggie nearly bit her lower lip in half trying not to cry out in terror.

  Meanwhile in Room Twenty-Five on the second floor, Marcus tried not to exhaust himself as, desperately slowly, he put on black evening trousers and the crumpled blue dress-shirt which he had pulled out of his suitcase which his mother had brought him from St Theresa’s.

  He had waited, feigning sleep, until she had left for the town hall. Helen had sat with Marcus through the night and morning until he miraculously regained enough strength in his lungs to come off the ventilator. When the effects of the paralysing drug and sedatives had worn off, and he was able to swallow again, she had even fed him some pale tasteless scrambled eggs. But he was acutely conscious that she couldn’t meet his eyes, and was dreadfully embarrassed to be in the same room with him. No-one had let him see the papers, although Helen had told him Rannaldini had replaced Abby, but her face had said it all.

  For now her ewe lamb wasn’t going to die, the other two nightmares had enveloped her life: her husband was a compulsive womanizer and her son was a homosexual, his career in smithereens. There was also a deep-seated guilt that her obsessive, clinging love might have caused both these things. If only Malise was still alive.

  Rannaldini had been sympathetic, but always at Rupert’s expense.

  ‘If Rupert had not been a sadist, you wouldn’t have had to compensate so much. Marcus never had a father to relate to. You always implied Rupert and Billy Lloyd-Foxe were unnaturally close, and even more so, Rupert and Lysander. It’s in the genes, you mustn’t torment yourself.’

  This situation suited Rannaldini perfectly. Marcus had been the only serious threat to Natalia in the competition and, with Helen cemented to Marcus’s sick-bed and unhinged with worry, he had had all the more opportunity to spend time with Natalia.

  He had virtuously resisted from making love to her after her rehearsal in case it relaxed her muscles too much before the final. But between chatting to Northern Television and escorting Benny onto the platform, Rannaldini found time to slip into Natalia’s dressing-room. How adorable the sweet child looked with her shining hair in rollers.

  ‘Thees is how I warm up,’ he said sliding his soft, newly manicured hands inside her willow-green silk dressing-gown. Oh, the wonder of those large springy young breasts. Helen’s silicone replicas were like two buns on a cake rack since she had fretted away so much weight.

  ‘Good luck, my Maestro,’ whispered Natalia, resting her spiky head against his starched white shirt-front. ‘I am safe when you are ’ere.’

  ‘Tonight,’ promised Rannaldini, ‘we weel drink champagne together from the Appleton Cup.’

  The RSO stopped tuning up and gave a great shout of relieved joy as George walked into the hall with Flora. They both looked very tired from worry about Marcus, but their glow of happiness in each other and in his recovery seemed to light them from inside and set them apart from the black-tied, taffeta and satin audience around them. Neither of them had bothered to pack much when they’d leapt into the helicopter. George was now wearing a blazer, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and no tie, because Flora had borrowed the only one he had brought to belt in his dark blue shirt which she had also annexed.

  ‘Aren’t they glamorous,’ sighed Clare.

  ‘I’m sure Flora’s pregnant,’ hissed Candy. ‘Look how her boobs have grown.’

  The big smile of pride was wiped off George’s face when he saw Miles, Hilary’s mother, Gilbert, Gwynneth, Mrs Parker and Lord Leatherhead all huddled together looking wrong-footed in the stalls.

  ‘You’ve been bluddy busy in my ubsence,’ said George not lowering his voice at all. ‘I’d like to remind you that I’m only taking a sabbatical and I’m still chief executive of the RSO, and you and your fancy piece, Miles,’ Hilary’s mother turned purple, ‘better hop it, as you’re sitting in our seats.’

  To the left of the stage, the flags of the five participating finalists soared to the dark blue vaulted ceiling. If only the Union Jack had been up there as well, thought Helen despairingly as she huddled in dark glasses in the middle of the stalls. Behind the orchestra rose a huge, far from portable, red-and-white organ, flanked by two proud unicorns holding up the red rose of Lancashire. Above them two angels held out a scroll saying: ‘The Truth is Great and Shall Prevail.’

  There were gasps of admiration as Rannaldini in his black-and-white splendour, swept on and mounted a rostrum a foot higher than usual so everyone could see him. The great prevailer, he smiled down at Benny’s shock of dark curls. He knew exactly how to wrong-foot the foolish Frenchman to Natalia’s advantage.

  His two bodyguards, Clive and Nathan, the black basketball player, stood watchful at the back of the hall. Rannaldini was taking no chances.

  As the clock started on the monitor, the vast audience went quiet. Five, four, three, two, one. The camera panned in on the little silver piano, which would be awarded to the winner. The last round of the Appleton Piano Competition, live from the town hall, was under way.

  SIXTY-EIGHT

  The Press swarming round the hospital were thrown into a frenzy by Rupert’s totally unexpected arrival, particularly when he screeched to a halt in a muddy puddle, drenching the lot of them.

  ‘What’s the latest, Rupe? Is the kid going to be OK? Terrible shock for you,’ they closed round him. ‘How’d you feel about him being a woofter?’

  Wrath gave Rupert superhuman strength as he barged a gangway through for himself and Taggie. He had more trouble fighting his way through the barricade of outraged medics. Helen had left tearful instructions that if, in the unlikely event Rupert rolled up, he mustn’t be allowed to see his son.

&nbs
p; ‘It’s the one thing that really triggers off Marcus’s asthma. Rupert’s got a terrible temper. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.’

  ‘He’s not allowed visitors, he must be kept quiet. I’m afraid no-one can see him.’ The pleas, and then orders, fell on deaf ears as Rupert stalked through the lot of them.

  He loathed hospitals, the smell and glaring whiteness instantly brought back poor little Xav’s countless operations and Taggie nearly dying twice when she miscarried. It also took him back twenty-two years to Helen also nearly dying, giving birth to Marcus – a sickly, carroty-haired baby, who, from the start, had never endeared himself to Rupert.

  Finding the lift blocked by a massive matron, Rupert dodged round her and ran up the stairs with Taggie panting after him.

  Three doctors, pretty Sister Rose and two male nurses barred the door to Room Twenty-Five.

  ‘I really must insist you don’t go in there.’

  ‘Fuck off.’ Once more Rupert parted them – a bowling ball through skittles – then he turned on a panting Taggie.

  ‘Stay outside, I want to see him on my own.’

  ‘I’d like to be with you,’ pleaded Taggie.

  ‘This is my problem,’ snarled Rupert.

  ‘That is the handsomest Angel of Death I’ve ever seen,’ sighed Sister Rose.

  Expecting to find Marcus unconscious and a mass of tubes, Rupert was astounded to see him sitting on the bed buttoning up a blue dress-shirt. His red hair hung lank and darkened by sweat to the colour of a copper beach. His deathly pallor was tinged green by the fluorescent lighting, his huge frightened eyes were black caves as though he could see deep into his own tortured soul.

  ‘D-d-dad, I thought you were at the Pardubika,’ Marcus leapt to his feet, cringing against hideous yellow-and-orange curtains, waiting for the firing-squad invective.

  For a second Rupert gazed at him, reminded of the only time he’d gone stag hunting. Appalled by the terrified eyes of a little doe trapped against a huge wall, he had been too late to call hounds off before they ripped her to pieces.

  ‘I’m really, really sorry,’ gasped Marcus.

  Rupert shrugged. ‘It’s the way you’re made. Campbell-Black libido has to come out somewhere, I guess. Sorry I haven’t been any help. Been meaning to ring you for months – ever since you sent Tag that Mothering Sunday card.’

  ‘That was just after I’d met. . . . I wanted to see you. Oh Dad,’ for a minute, Marcus’s lip trembled, then he stumbled forward and, for a brief moment, he and Rupert embraced.

  Passionately relieved the boy was all right, Rupert patted his desperately bony shoulder.

  ‘You poor little sod.’ Then as Marcus half-laughed, added ‘Oh God, that wasn’t very tactful. Get back into bed.’

  Marcus shook his head. ‘I’m going to play.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

  But Marcus stood his ground. ‘You won a gold with a trapped nerve. If I don’t crack it now, I never will. It’s the only way to throw off the stigma of being Abby’s walker, Alexei’s catamite and Rannaldini’s stepson.’

  ‘And my son, too,’ said Rupert wryly. ‘Look, there’ll be other competitions. It’s crazy to risk it, when you’ve just pulled through.’

  ‘That’s why I pulled through. Would you terribly mind ringing the town hall? I don’t think they will let me use the telephone here. Just tell them I want to go on, and I’ll be there in half an hour.’

  Finding it difficult to breathe and talk, he slumped onto the bed.

  ‘Benny’ll just be starting the second movement,’ he smiled slightly and cupped his hand round his ear, ‘I can hear him now. My tail-coat needs a press and a brush, but someone can do that at the other end. And could you get me a taxi, because I don’t think the hospital would do that for me either.’

  ‘I’ll take you if you’re really set on it.’

  Marcus nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed by Rupert’s totally unexpected acceptance. Then he muttered: ‘You’ve missed the Pardubika, I’m terribly sorry.’

  ‘Blood is thicker than water jumps,’ said Rupert, getting out his mobile.

  All hell broke out as the doctors frantically tried to dissuade Marcus.

  ‘It’s insanity,’ they berated Rupert. ‘The pressure could kill him. He’s desperately weak and he needs to go on the nebulizer again in two hours’ time.’

  ‘Sometimes the mind reaches out and the body follows.’

  ‘You’ve pushed him into it.’

  ‘He has not,’ protested Marcus, unearthing the score of the Schumann from the bedside cupboard, and swaying at the sudden rush of blood to his head as he stood up. ‘Someone’s got to fight Abby’s corner. She should never’ve been fired.’

  ‘You realize we’re not responsible if he insists on discharging himself,’ boomed Matron, blocking the entire doorway.

  ‘The discharge of the heavy brigade,’ said Rupert, bodily removing her from Marcus’s path.

  Taggie was hovering in the waiting-room on the way to the lifts with an undrunk cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes were very red. Marcus went straight into her arms.

  ‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ they cried.

  Rupert put his arms round both of them, but just for a second. ‘Come on, we mustn’t be late.’

  The only concession the hospital made was to smuggle them out of a side-door.

  Panic gripped Marcus the moment he was installed in the back of the car. As they hurtled through the night, rain lashing and clawing at the windscreen, he took great gulps from his puffer and under a pallid overhead light, desperately riffled through the score which seemed terrifyingly unfamiliar. What were all the pitfalls? He hadn’t touched a piano for two days. With Abby, the orchestra would have seemed familiar, but Rannaldini would take everything much slower or much faster, whipping the orchestra up to an unnatural frenzy. Rannaldini also despised Schumann as an over-romantic wimp.

  Thank God neither Rupert nor Taggie talked, although Marcus noticed his father’s hand sliding over Taggie’s whenever he entered a straight piece of road. As they reached the outskirts of Appleton, the reflections of the orange street-lights shivered like carp on the shiny black cobbled streets. Breathing in the conflicting wafts of hamburgers, curry and fish and chips, Marcus retched. Rupert’s mobile rang. It was Northern Television.

  ‘Howyer doing? Can you make it by eight-thirty, then Marcus can warm up during the interval. Everyone’s knocked out he’s coming on.’

  Most of the space round the hall had been taken up by the seven OB vans and the cherry-red RSO lorry, but Rupert got them as near the artists’ entrance as possible. The only other stumbling-block was a river of damp press who immediately turned into a frenzied whirlpool.

  ‘Christ, it’s Rupert,’ shouted the Daily Express. ‘Looks as though he’s made it up with the lad.’

  ‘Dangerous bugger,’ warned the Mail, ‘watch out.’

  ‘Spect Rupert forced him to go on,’ said the Mirror. ‘What d’you feel about your son’s affaire with Nemerovsky, Rupert?’

  Rupert looked the reporter up and down, about to tell him to get stuffed, then he changed his mind.

  ‘Shows Nemerovsky’s got extremely good taste.’

  ‘You don’t mind having a gay son?’ asked the Sun in amazement.

  Briefly, Rupert put an arm round Marcus’s shoulders, the rain falling through the rays of the street-lamps, casting a speckled light on his haughty expressionless face.

  ‘I’ve got a son with enough guts to discharge himself from hospital and face the toughest ordeal of his life,’ he drawled. ‘I’m very proud of him. His sexual preferences, as long as they bring him happiness, are quite immaterial.’

  ‘What about his engagement to Abby?’

  ‘Much better they both found out before they got married.’

  ‘Do you know where Abby is?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Nemerovsky’s got a terrible track-record, aren’t you worried about AIDS?’ asked an evil-
looking blonde.

  Rupert’s face suddenly betrayed such hatred everyone shrank back.

  ‘If he’d slept with you, Beattie,’ he said icily, ‘I’d worry about something much worse than AIDS.’

  The surrounding journalists laughed nervously.

  ‘Are you disappointed about the Czech Grand National?’ asked The Times.

  Rupert stopped in his tracks – incredible that he’d forgotten all about it in his race from the hospital.

  ‘It’s a Snip won, not Penscombe Pride,’ said the Telegraph, ‘Lysander broke a shoulder, Pridie fell at the last fence.’

  For a second, Rupert’s face clenched in horror, then he said lightly, ‘But Marcus won’t,’ and they were through the swing-doors.

  ‘I said he was a dangerous bugger,’ grumbled the Mail, trying to make his biro work on a rain-sodden page.

  ‘It’s his son who’s the bugger,’ hissed BeattieJohnson.

  ‘Awfully good of you to show up, Martin,’ said an earnest woman in a billowing grey jersey. Brandishing a clipboard as she scuttled up to them on spindly red-stockinged legs, she looked like a turkey.

  ‘I’m Chrissie,’ she shook Marcus’s hand. ‘Our presenter, James Vereker’s going to announce you’re participating, just before Natalia Philipova goes on. Means the competition’s wide open. Do you need anything ironed? I expect you’d like to see your dressing-room before you warm up, Martin, and then go to make-up, but if James Vereker could have a brief chat first—’

  ‘James can have it afterwards. Martin needs to distance himself,’ said Rupert firmly, as he relieved her of the dressing-room key. ‘Come on, Martin.’

  Marcus’s laughter almost turned to tears as he saw the ‘Save the RSO’ sticker on his door and the hundreds of cards and great banks of flowers waiting for him inside.

  ‘We were going to send them over to the hospital when we had a mo,’ said Chrissie apologetically.

  Marcus suppressed a flare of hope that one might be from Alexei. But there was no time to look.

  ‘Could you bear to open them?’ he asked Taggie.

  As he was pouring with sweat, he tugged off his jersey, then turning to Rupert, said, ‘I don’t mean to be horrible, but could you possibly keep Mum away while I warm up?’