Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  Tripping over cables, climbing round petulant rank-and-file fiddle players, James Vereker, the presenter, reached the rostrum. Having smoothed his streaked blond hair and straightened his peacock-blue tie which exactly matched his eyes, he said he was so very, very pleased to announce that the British contestant, Marcus Campbell-Black, would be taking up his place in the final, after all. Over a burst of applause, he shouted that Marcus would be appearing after a further ten-minute interval, which would take place after Natalia Philipova’s concerto. The jury would then try to reach a decision during the Ten o’clock News, and the scheduled programme on the male menopause of Daniel Deronda would be postponed to a later date.

  Like petrol-ignited flames, excitement crackled around the hall. Cherub dropped a cymbal in his excitement, the orchestra gave a great cheer, only half-induced by the fact that this would push them into overtime. Journalists were fighting to use the telephones with members of the audience, frantic to reorganize restaurant bookings and pick-up times, and to check on last buses and trains. The atmosphere had become electric. People were hardly back in their seats when a thunder of applause greeted the arrival of Rannaldini and Natalia on the platform.

  With a black-tie audience, an orchestra in their tails and black dresses tend to look less distinctive and blend into one black whole. Nothing therefore could have stood out better than Natalia’s poinsettia-red taffeta dress, which emphasized her small waist, her lovely white arms and shoulders, and her shining dark curls. Showing off her glorious cleavage, she proceeded to bow several times to the judges in the gallery and the jam-packed audience, who were now well oiled by drinks in the interval. Benny had impressed but not entirely captivated.

  ‘Bet Rannaldini paid an arm and a legover for that dress,’ muttered Dixie.

  Marcus and Helen had not been the only people to clock Rannaldini’s preference.

  It was plain from the start that the NTV cameras were more besotted with Natalia even than Rannaldini. As she delivered Rachmaninov’s Third with an explosion of romantic passion, the cameras hardly left her beautiful face, whether she was smiling seraphically or whether her big scarlet mouth was drooping and her eyes closing in anguish during the sad bits.

  Swinging round fondly, Rannaldini followed her every note, making sure phrases flowed into each other, slowing down if she looked like falling over herself, quietening the orchestra if there was any danger of her being drowned.

  ‘The brass section have at last learnt the meaning of the word pianissimo,’ whispered Flora in George’s ear. ‘Don’t you absolutely loathe, loathe, loathe Rannaldini.’

  George took her hand. His jealousy instantly doused. He had been thinking how satanically handsome the bastard looked, as his hands languorously cupped and stroked the air, and wondering how Flora could possibly not still carry a torch for him. Gazing at her furious freckled profile only slightly softened by red tendrils still damp from the shower, George marvelled yet again that his love seemed to double by the second.

  ‘And he’s making it so bloody easy for that little tart,’ hissed Flora. ‘We can’t let him take over the RSO.’

  ‘Be Kwy-et,’ whispered Peggy Parker furiously.

  Resplendent in puce velvet to match her face, she was sitting beyond George. She turned even pucer when she saw Trevor’s little furry face emerging from Flora’s dark blue shirt to lick his mistress on the chin.

  Mrs Parker, was however, feeling considerable disquiet. Particularly as Natalia reached the end of the second movement, and the cameras panned lovingly on to the snow-white handkerchief with which she wiped both the damp keys and her sweating fingers.

  ‘More like the Rannaldini and Natalia Show,’ chuntered Lord Leatherhead, who was furious with Miles for cancelling the RSO bottled-water account. ‘When are we going to see some shots of the orchestra?’

  ‘I agree,’ hissed Mrs Parker, ‘Clare and Candy, Nellie and Juno, Noriko and Hilly are just as pretty as that Czech.’

  ‘And Cherub’s much prettier than Rannaldini,’ volunteered Flora.

  ‘Think that chap may be too overbearing for the RSO,’ muttered Lord Leatherhead.

  In the row behind them, Gwynneth, who was reviewing the competition for the Guardian, and Gilbert, for the Independent, were busily scribbling. The last time they had heard Rach Three was in Rutminster, when only Marcus’s tenacity and presence of mind had saved Abby and the RSO from total calamity. How different it was tonight!

  ‘Not since Toscanini,’ wrote Gwynneth, who had a mega-crush on Rannaldini.

  ‘Not since Eileen Joyce,’ wrote Gilbert, who had his opera-glasses trained on Natalia’s bosom.

  They both felt a huge satisfaction that they had been so instrumental in effecting the merger. There would be no more bum surprises on Moulin Rouge.

  Canon Airlie, who should have sat next to Gilbert, had flu, so Miles had bagged his seat. Wearing a new DJ specially run up by Rannaldini’s tailors, Miles craned round the piano to gaze at Hilly. She looked so lovely in her new diamond brooch, another present from Rannaldini. He was glad Marcus was playing the Schumann, which had a wonderful clarinet solo.

  The last movement of the Rachmaninov was a triumph. It seemed impossible that Natalia’s little hands could possibly cover all the notes. Playing with hardly a pause, probing the depths of hell in the bass, shaking out shoals of silver coins in the treble, she galloped to a triumphant finale which was followed by an even more triumphant burst of applause.

  Rannaldini, looking like a cat who’d swallowed the Canary Isles, made sure she got even more call-backs than Anatole. He was not pleased, hurrying her back for a fourth time, when the applause had almost petered out, to go slap into Julian bringing the orchestra off the stage.

  The bars were crowded out, but the consensus was that not even the stormy splendour of yesterday’s Russian nor the American who’d played Mozart so heart-warmingly could possibly beat Natalia.

  Charlton Handsome and NTV technicians were now reassembling the stage and readjusting microphones for the smaller orchestra needed for the Schumann. Carmine Jones, who wanted to know if he’d won the lottery, was livid not to get Cathie on his mobile.

  Marcus had been buoyed up by the sudden miraculous rapprochement with Rupert. But alone with the upright piano in the practice room, he was overwhelmed with the impossibility of his task. His fingers were rigid and inflexible, yet slipping all over the keys. Even though Rupert had made him put his jersey back on again, he couldn’t stop shaking, his body encased in icy sweat. Even worse he was having increasing trouble breathing. He looked at the plaster on the back of his hand where the drip had gone in. How terrible if he had held up the competition for forty minutes only to have a memory lapse, or even worse another asthma attack and let everyone down. The piece seemed hideously unfamiliar and on stage he would have no score to help him. He must relax, make his mind blank, take slow, deep breaths. Sometimes the mind can take the body into impossible terrain. Wasn’t that what Rupert had promised?

  The storm of hurrahs and bravos for Natalia’s obviously sensational performance had long since died away. He’d be on soon.

  ‘Our Father,’ began Marcus, ‘Which art in heaven. What came next? Unable to remember, he started to panic.’Which art in heaven, forgive us our trespasses . . . Oh Alexei, Alexei.’

  For a second, he banged his head against the top of the piano, wiped out with longing. He must concentrate. Frantically he leafed through the score to the last movement. Singing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, in a breathless tenor, he tried to match the frantically syncopated piano part. As he groped for a handkerchief to wipe his hands, Mrs Bateson’s little jet cat fell out. He mustn’t let her down either.

  The next moment, he jumped violently as Helen barged in.

  ‘Marcus darling, you mustn’t go on. Dr Brewster says it would kill you – it’s insanity.’

  ‘Mum, per-lease! I need to be on my own.’

  ‘You mustn’t go on.’

  ‘
For God’s sake, fuck off.’ Marcus raised clenched fists to heaven.

  ‘Even you reject me.’ Helen burst into tears.

  Rupert, who’d been guarding the door, had been caught temporarily on the hop, as he tried to get through to Czechoslovakia on his mobile to find out if Pridie was all right. But he immediately took Helen away for a large brandy.

  For a second they gazed at each other. Helen’s eyes were dark with resentment.

  ‘I couldn’t help loving him so much. He was all I had when I was married to you.’

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ said Rupert.

  The passage outside his dressing-room was like a herbaceous border. Taggie had lined up all his flowers in vases, so they didn’t trigger off another asthma attack. Inside, Marcus couldn’t see the shelves for cards, one had been signed by every member of the RSO. Taggie had kept back a white carnation for his buttonhole. Now she was pressing his tails.

  ‘How’re Xav and Bianca?’ Marcus tried to force his trembling lips into a confident smile.

  ‘OK. I’ve just rung home. Xav’s always asking about his big brother. Oh Marcus, I’m so happy you and Rupert have made it up. He’s so pleased and proud of you for going on.’

  Marcus’s hands were shaking so much that when Rupert returned, he had to tie his tie for him.

  ‘You can use your puffer between movements,’ urged Taggie.

  ‘That’s the bit when we wait ’til Flora claps,’ said Rupert.

  ‘Is Flora here?’ asked Marcus in amazed delight.

  As he was giving his hands a last wash to remove the sweat, Howie Denston barged in, followed by a chattering retinue of his own sex.

  ‘Markie baby, why didn’t you tell me you were gay? You’ve no idea the doors I can open for you, now.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Rupert, slamming the door in all their faces.

  A second later Chrissie was knocking discreetly, ‘Are you ready, Martin? You’re on now. And Gay News has asked especially if they can have a brief interview afterwards.’

  ‘You’re not talking to them,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Charity does not begin at homos.’

  As they left the dressing-room, Marcus was nearly sent flying by a gorgon in a caftan.

  ‘Got to phone my copy through,’ cried Gwynneth bossily. ‘Never heard Rach Three played so well. How little Philipova’s hands stretched that far – must be a clear winner. I’m going to stick my neck out.’

  Marcus nearly burst out laughing at the horror on his father’s face.

  ‘Beware a pale rider on a dark horse,’ hissed Rupert, making a V-sign at Gwynneth’s vast back.

  ‘Oh, there’s Maestro Rannaldini,’ said Chrissie reverently.

  Rupert straightened Marcus’s tie again.

  ‘Taggie and I better go and find our seats, good luck. Try not to rush things. Remind me to buy you some new evening-shirts.’

  Turning, he nearly bumped into Rannaldini. Rupert was six inches taller but, as he glanced down into the cold uncompromising face of his enemy, he dropped his guard.

  ‘Look after him, please.’

  ‘Of course,’ Rannaldini smiled like an expectant wolf.

  ‘Come along, Marcus,’ then, lowering his voice, added nastily, ‘But don’t play too slowly or we’ll overrun the news.’

  Brave boys, thought Marcus irrationally, are not afraid of wolves.

  Shaking off Rannaldini’s obtrusively guiding hand, he walked out onto the stage. For a second, he halted in panic at the beginning of the First Violins, blinded by the dazzling white camera lights, staggered by the vastness of the audience, an ocean of wary and unsmiling faces. There was a sudden and embarrassed silence. Perhaps they would all boo him for what he had done to Abby. Then he felt a small, warm hand creeping into his.

  ‘Good ruck, Marcus, good ruck,’ whispered Noriko, and a shove from Rannaldini thrust him forward.

  Seeing how desperately pale, shadowed and apprehensive he looked, Flora leapt without thinking to her feet.

  ‘Bravo, bravo, Marcus, great to see you,’ she yelled, clapping frantically, and a second later the audience had joined in.

  Coming down the row, to take up Marcus’s two complimentary tickets, were Rupert and Taggie. Sitting down next to Flora, Rupert kissed her on both cheeks.

  ‘You are a star in every possible way. Sorry I chewed you out earlier.’

  Glancing beyond her, he encountered a murderous glare from the square-shouldered, square-jawed minder beyond her.

  ‘Rupert, this is my future husband, George Hungerford,’ said Flora hastily.

  Marcus was amazed to see how many of the orchestra were smiling at him. There was Quinton in Viking’s place clutching his golden horn, and Candy and Clare clapping wildly, and Dimitri discreetly waving two crossed fingers, and Randy and Davie Buckle cocking their heads and winking, and Barry and all the basses making thumbs-up signs. Hilary, Simon and Peter were too preoccupied with long difficult solos ahead to do more than nod, but Juno gave him a radiant smile. She was feeling very chipper, because James Vereker, the presenter, had just asked her out to dinner.

  ‘Good on you, Marcus. Go for it.’ Julian stood up and pumped Marcus’s hand as he passed. Then, lowering his voice, added, ‘You’ve got to win, we’ve all got so much money on you.’

  Rannaldini mounted the rostrum glaring round, instantly wiping the smiles off everyone’s faces. George would have difficulty over-turning the decision of an entire board. They knew Rannaldini could put them all out of work next week. Once again they wished Viking was here, if only in the audience.

  Having lowered the piano-stool, checked if he could reach the pedals comfortably, given his fingers a last wipe on his black trousers, Marcus put his head back with his eyes shut for a moment to compose himself. Then he placed his hands on the keys and was about to nod to Rannaldini, when the down beat descended like an executioner’s axe, and the entire orchestra came in on the first crashing quaver. Caught on the hop, Marcus’s first three bars followed like a mad scramble down the steps to a lake, immediately followed by the woodwind taking off like a great swan across the water’s surface. This gave him eight bars’ respite to catch his breath before echoing the lovely piano expressivo melody, then rippling on in accompaniment to the strings.

  But Rannaldini was taking it horrendously fast and Marcus had his work cut out trying to keep up.

  It was soon clear that this was a contest not a partnership. With every tutti, Rannaldini whipped up the tempo; with every exquisitely languorous cascade of notes, Marcus tried to slow it down.

  He was touched that whenever Simon, Peter and even Hilary had ravishing solos, which he had to accompany, they tried to check their speed, adjusting to his slower tempo. But inevitably this made his performance uneven. Until following a magical andante interchange between woodwind and piano, Rannaldini suddenly accelerated as if he were turning up a mixer to full speed, and Marcus ran away with himself, and came off the rails, and stopped completely.

  In the gallery, Dame Edith, Pablo and Boris groaned in despair. But having thoroughly frightened himself, Marcus steadied. Realizing Rannaldini was deliberately bent on sabotage, his terror hardened into cold rage.

  At least he looked absolutely beautiful on the monitor, as though Narcissus had wandered into the hall and was gazing at his reflection in the shiny black piano lid. And, as his confidence grew, so did the depth and lyricism of his playing. There was none of Benny’s unrelenting stridency, nor Natalia’s sloppy, splashy lushness. Up in the gallery Pablo even stopped grumbling that Lady Appleton had confiscated his Guinness Book of Records. All round the hall, people began thinking that perhaps the Schumann was the greatest piano concerto of them all.

  Even Rannaldini couldn’t rot up the cadenza, although he did his best to distract the audience, adjusting his gardenia, examining his nails and flipping the pages of the score back and forth, and he hardly waited for the final trill to bring the orchestra in at an even faster tempo. But this time Marcus was ready and, like a telev
ision camera on top of a car, he somehow managed to keep up with the galloping cheetah right to the end of the movement.

  ‘Bloody marvellous,’ muttered Clare, as she and Candy tuned their instruments and adjusted the dusters on their shoulders.

  ‘Even more marvellous,’ muttered back Candy, ‘is the man on Flora’s right. Christ, he’s good looking – how the hell does Flora do it?’

  ‘That’s Marcus’s father,’ said Clare, ‘I think he once went to bed with Mummy.’

  Rupert was tone deaf, but he’d never taken his eyes off Marcus throughout the entire movement.

  ‘Was that all right?’ he asked anxiously over the coughing and murmer of chat.

  ‘Sensational,’ whispered Flora. ‘He kept his nerve, despite chronic aggravation from Rannaldini. And Marcus certainly wins on looks. Because of the red hair, everyone says he’s like Helen, but I reckon he’s the image of you.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ Rupert blushed slightly.

  ‘I also think he’s up to something,’ observed Flora. ‘I’ve seen that look before.’

  Marcus reached for his inhaler, had a puff, and glanced up meditatively at Rannaldini’s impeccably tailored back, wondering what devilries he was plotting now. He has ridden expensively shod over too many people, thought Marcus.

  Rannaldini, in fact, was busy polishing his pewter hair and reflecting that the Steel Elf, despite her squeaky sound, was extraordinarily pretty. He must remember to fuck her before he gave her the sack. Determined to observe the niceties this time, he turned graciously to check if Marcus were ready. Timidly Marcus beckoned him. The picture of concern, Rannaldini leapt youthfully down from his rostrum. Perhaps the little wimp had decided to retire. Beckoning him a fraction closer, Marcus hissed: ‘This one’s for Abby, you bastard,’ and giving a quick nod to Julian, he started playing: ta, ta, ta, tum, ta, ta, ta, tum. The orchestra were so astounded they only just came in time. Rannaldini, however, was totally wrong-footed. Tripping over a cable in his built-up shoes, he nearly fell flat on his face and was reduced to scrambling furiously back to his rostrum, frantically flailing in a desperate attempt to regain the ascendancy over the orchestra, who played on with broad grins on their faces. The jury were divided between outrage, ecstasy and helpless laughter.