by Jilly Cooper
‘And now our finalists in reverse order,’ said James Vereker, batting his dyed eyelashes at the Princess. ‘Lady Appleton will announce the winners.’
‘We’re just waiting for a signal from NTV,’ said Lady Appleton, her round pink face glowing like a harvest moon. ‘I’d just like to remind everyone that we judge the candidates on all three rounds, not just tonight’s nor yesterday’s efforts. All right, James,’ she smiled into the camera. ‘In sixth place, we have Han Chai.’
As the little Korean came dancing down the steps, looking so pretty and happy to be sixth, everyone decided she should have been placed higher and gave her a terrific reception.
‘Fifth from France, Mr Benjamin Basanovich,’ cried Lady Appleton.
Benny was absolutely livid, but he got an even louder cheer because everyone was so relieved he hadn’t won.
‘Fourth,’ Lady Appleton cleared her throat and rustled her notes, ‘our very popular contender from across the Atlantic.’
Still in his plaid jacket, Carl bounded down the steps two at a time, grinning broadly, thrilled to be meeting royalty, taking the Princess’s little hand in his two big ones.
‘Marcus is third,’ whispered an excited Flora to George and Trevor.
Then followed a long pause because the Princess was having such a long chat with Carl.
‘Oh, get on with it,’ yelled Dixie from the gallery.
‘Third prize,’ began Lady Appleton.
Here we go, at least he’s placed, thought Rupert.
‘Is our friend from Russia.’
‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ shouted Anatole, waving his beer mug, bouncing up to the Princess and, charming her just as much as he charmed the crowd, he kissed her hand.
Rannaldini glanced across at Natalia. A tear was trickling down her rosy cheek. Little darling, crying with happiness, he thought complacently. Soon he would be drinking champagne out of her and the cup.
The atmosphere in the hall crackled with excitement. Lady Appleton enjoyed her four-yearly moment of glory. George squeezed Flora’s hand till she winced.
‘I love you, I love you. Oh please God, make it be Marcus,’ she begged.
‘Second, a very worthy contestant, is our charming friend from Czechoslovakia, Natalia—’
But no-one heard her surname as Lady Appleton was drowned by a demented roar of joy that took the roof off, as the crowd realized the home side had won. On the strength of that they could now afford to feel sorry for Natalia as, battling with disappointment, the picture of desolation, she accepted her silver plate and allowed the kind Princess to mop up her tears.
The atmosphere was now a seething cauldron. A cheer rose and fell. Rupert hugged Taggie until her ribs cracked. The orchestra leaning over the gallery were yelling their heads off.
Boris was kissing Deirdre.
‘Zank you, zank you, my darling, you are not bloody bigot after all.’
‘He’s won,’ screamed Flora, holding George even tighter as a somewhat squashed Trevor barked his approval.
Up in the dress circle, a grinning Jennifer barked back.
At last there was silence.
‘And the winner of the 1995 Appleton Piano Competition—’ Lady Appleton smiled round.
‘You don’t need to be Inspector Morse to deduce that,’ bellowed Randy.
Even Lady Appleton laughed.
‘The winner of the 1995 Appleton,’ she repeated shakily, ‘is our own Marcus Campbell-Black.’
The Princess taking both Marcus’s hands had to shout to make herself heard.
‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve been so terribly ill. It’s a wonderful victory. You played so beautifully.’
‘And you look so beautiful,’ Marcus found himself blurting out.
The Princess was so sweet and after that he couldn’t remember anything she said until she handed over the little silver piano, as well as a huge cup.
‘Of course queers get on awfully well with women,’ sniffed Mrs Parker.
‘Oh shut up, you old monster,’ snapped Flora.
‘Speech,’ bellowed the orchestra.
Oh no, thought Taggie in anguish, remembering how Marcus had dried during a debate in front of the whole of Bagley Hall. He had never been able to string a sentence together in public.
But Marcus had taken the microphone and was waiting for a lull. He was whiter than the piano keys. A lock of damp auburn hair had fallen over his freckled forehead, he looked absurdly young. To speak now was far more terrifying than playing the Schumann, but he had to do it. What a beauty, and our own, thought the audience in raptures.
‘Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ gasped Marcus, fighting for breath, ‘I’d like to thank all the judges for giving me this amazing prize —’ he waved the silver piano – ‘and the organizers, particularly Lady Appleton for – er – organizing such a marvellous competition, and Mrs Bateson for looking after me – and baking such terrific cakes and everyone at Northladen General for saving my life—’ There was a burst of cheering.
As he gained in confidence he had a voice just like Rupert’s, thought Flora.
‘I also want to thank my parents,’ Marcus went on steadily, ‘my mother and my stepmother, but, most of all, my father, Rupert Campbell-Black,’ deliberately he emphasized the ‘Campbell’. ‘It isn’t easy for parents to accept their son is a homosexual. And they’ve been absolutely terrific,’ he glanced in Rupert’s direction, ‘particularly my father.’
‘Oooooooh dear,’ mumbled Flora, smearing all her mascara as she wiped her shirtsleeve across her eyes.
Glancing sideways Taggie also saw the wetness of Rupert’s lashes. The silence was total.
‘And most of all,’ Marcus grinned up at the gallery, ‘I’ve got to thank the RSO, for playing so brilliantly today and being such a great orchestra.’
‘Tell that to the Arts Council,’ roared Dixie.
Marcus joined in the laughter. There was a volley of applause which faded because people wanted to listen. Aware that the cameras were rolling, unfazed that he was addressing millions of viewers, Marcus went on.
‘But this may be the last time you hear the RSO because they are being forced to merge with the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra. This means most of them will lose their jobs.’
‘That’s enough,’ snarled Rannaldini, who was already foaming like a pit bull.
‘I agree, Maestro,’ Lady Appleton rose to her feet.
The Princess, however, who was looking madly interested, stayed seated.
‘I’ve almost finished,’ Marcus raised his hand. ‘I only want to say the real heroine of this evening, Abigail Rosen, wasn’t allowed to be here.’ The orchestra gave another great cheer. ‘Because Abby was involved with me, she was sacked and not allowed to conduct her own orchestra today. Although I love her very much, I can’t marry her, because I couldn’t give her the happiness she deserves. No-one has done more to make the RSO the truly great orchestra you heard today.’ Marcus’s voice broke, but he just managed to finish. ‘I hope the ban will be lifted and Abby will get her job back. Thank you.’
The cheers were still echoing in his ears when he finally fought his way back to his dressing-room. A mad party was spilling out into the passage. Everyone was opening champagne bottles and celebrating. Mrs Bateson hugged him.
‘Your little cat really worked,’ Marcus told her.
Lord Leatherhead and Mrs Parker and even awful Miles were all there getting in on the act.
‘Sonny will write you a concerto, Marcus,’ promised Mrs Parker. ‘He says no-one can play the Interruption like you do.’
‘From the first,’ Goatie Gilbert was boasting, ‘I recognized Marcus Black’s talent.’
Rupert couldn’t remember feeling so happy or so proud, it was as though a dam, built of years of irritation, contempt and antagonism, had suddenly burst, and he could feel love for Marcus pouring out of him. Sister Angelica had been right about El Dorado being found in the heart. Thank God, it wasn’t
too late, and he had time ahead to make it up to Marcus.
‘I can smell the fatted calf,’ said Flora slyly.
Rupert laughed. ‘Lousy with cholesterol. At least Taggie knows how to cook it. The downside is I don’t get you as a daughter-in-law. I suppose you couldn’t wait for Xav to grow up?’
‘I’m suited,’ said Flora, blushing slightly, ‘but thanks all the same.’
Then, as George, who was holding out a town-hall teacup of water for Trevor to drink out of, shot Rupert yet another murderous glance, she added hastily: ‘You really must get to know George.’
‘I don’t think George feels that’s strictly necessary,’ said Rupert.
Across the room Helen was in raptures over Marcus’s victory.
‘Oh darling, darling, I’m so proud. Think of all the wonderful concerts ahead. You’ll be in work for the next two years and your speech was so lovely, so assured. I hope Abby heard it.’
‘More importantly, I hope the board did,’ said Marcus glaring at Miles and taking a glass of champagne from Rupert.
‘Do you think you ought to drink after all that medication?’ reproved Helen.
The next moment Howie Denston rushed in and embraced Marcus.
‘Great, kid, great! Always knew you could do it. You’ve talked to James Vereker, OK. In ten minutes there’ll be a press conference. I’ll field any tricky questions about Nemerovsky and then there’s the party. You’ll be sitting near Lady A. and the Princess. Your folks are invited, of course. Tomorrow around ten, we’ll sign the contracts. You’ll be working your fingers off for the next two years.’ He tapped his mobile. ‘I’ve already had two big record producers on to me.’
But Marcus was re-reading Alexei’s note.
‘Fine, Howie.’ Then he looked up. ‘Could you all clear out? I want a word with Mum and Dad.’
Helen’s heart swelled. Marcus had grown so authoritative. In a day, he seemed to have turned into a man, and she was feeling much more cheerful having just met Lord Leatherhead, who’d asked her out to lunch next week.
Rupert, meanwhile, was talking to Czechoslovakia on his mobile.
‘Pridie’s absolutely fine,’ Dizzy was telling him. ‘You’re not to be cross with Lysander. His shoulder’s been set and he’s really sorry he didn’t win.’
‘Doesn’t matter – Marcus did,’ said Rupert jubilantly. ‘Christ, he did brilliantly.’
Taggie snatched the telephone from him.
‘And guess what?’ she told Dizzie, ‘Rupert didn’t fall asleep once.’
As Taggie joined the rest of the revellers drifting out, saying, ‘Absolutely brilliant, see you at the party,’ Marcus shut the door and leant against it looking at his parents squarely.
‘You ought to be in bed,’ chided Helen.
‘I’m going to Moscow,’ said Marcus.
Helen gave a scream. ‘Oh no, you can’t, your career! All those engagements!’
Rupert’s sigh was almost imperceptible and in no way betrayed his desolation at suddenly discovering El Dorado was disappearing into the mists again.
‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ he asked slowly.
Marcus nodded.
‘Moscow’s bloody dangerous at the moment.’
‘I know, but I will come back.’
‘Then I’ll drive you to the airport. We better look up a flight.’
‘I know them all backwards.’
Helen burst into tears.
‘Please don’t go, after all we’ve worked for. Think what you’re throwing away: the Queen Elizabeth, the Festival Hall, the Wigmore, the Barbican. Have you got some sort of death-wish? I wanted Penscombe to be yours and your sons,’ she sobbed, ‘and your sons’ sons. Then you’d never have to worry about money. And now you’re chucking everything away, just when fate’s given you a second chance. You and Abby were so happy. There are counsellors you could talk to.’
‘Mum,’ said Marcus gently as he hugged his mother, ‘you don’t understand. I love Alexei. I can’t hang around this evening. I’ve proved to myself I can play the piano. I don’t want to get into that circus. I want to develop as a soloist in my own time.’
Gently, he pulled away from her, then briefly he put his arms round Rupert.
‘I love you, Dad, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it.’
I don’t understand, thought Helen in despair, why does Rupert always swan in at the last moment and win out?
SEVENTY
When Marcus didn’t show up at the party, it was at first assumed he’d flaked out and gone back to bed. A home win in itself was enough to ensure the most riotous celebrations. Anyway the RSO were too busy getting legless to notice. Cherub, who’d packed in more drinking time because there was no percussion in the Schumann, was absolutely plastered and, by smiling sweetly at Pablo, had joyfully appropriated the Guinness Book of Records.
‘That’s the biggest mole in history,’ he pointed at Hilary’s rigid back, going off into fits of giggles. ‘And here’s the prickliest cactus,’ he pointed at Militant Moll. ‘And he-ah we have the biggest goldfish,’ pausing behind Hermione he started making fish faces and mouthing: ‘I know that my Redeemer.’
His fellow musicians were in stitches.
‘Who’s the biggest rat?’ asked Fat Isobel, who had practically obscured Ninion by sitting on his knee.
‘Him,’ said Cherub, pointing at Carmine who was still trying to reach Cathie on his mobile.
‘I am biggest gooseberry,’ sighed Pablo, who was sitting at a table with a passionately embracing Boris and Deirdre.
‘And there is the coldest fish,’ naughty Cherub pointed at Miles, who, up at the end of the room, was being given the biggest flea in his ear by George.
Not having been to bed for forty hours, George was, in fact, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. He had called an emergency board meeting for one o’clock in the morning, but he was not optimistic. Rannaldini had probably bribed too many of the board for George to be able to overturn their decision to appoint him musical director. If he did, it wouldn’t save the situation. There was no way the RSO could survive even a month longer without a massive injection of cash.
George himself owed twenty million pounds to German banks at the moment, so the money couldn’t come from him. Anyway, he wanted to be with Flora, who, with Sister Rose and Miss Parrott, was now noisily teaching Dimitri and Anatole the hokey-cokey. Glancing round, she smiled at him and George felt his heart melting like a Yorkie Bar in the sun.
Meanwhile the largest plague of locusts, discovered over the Red Sea in 1889, was nothing to the way the RSO were demolishing the cold buffet. Only Julian, still violently shaking after his defiance of Rannaldini, couldn’t eat or drink a thing. Through the sound of revelry, he could hear the cannon’s opening roar of a Rannaldini rabid for vengeance.
The long top table was the only one with a seating plan. Trapped between the Princess and Lady Appleton, Rannaldini was having to be polite, but his darkly tanned face was twitching like treacle toffee coming up to the boil.
Cherub was off again.
‘That’s the biggest toad in the world,’ he said, sticking a pink tongue out at Gilbert.
‘And here comes the sexiest man,’ squeaked Nellie in excitement.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black? He’s already taken,’ said Clare, not bothering to look round.
‘Nope.’
‘Sean Bean?’
‘Nope.’
Clare swung round irritably.
‘Viking,’ she screamed.
‘Viking!’ yelled the RSO, as they joyfully and drunkenly stumbled towards him.
‘Cousin Victor,’ cried Deirdre in amazement, letting go of Boris.
But Viking, poised in the doorway, looked so tall, thin, pale and quivering with menace, that Deirdre almost crossed herself.
‘Hi, kids.’ Almost absent-mindedly, Viking pushed the orchestra out of the way, his eyes, narrowed to black thread, never leaving Rannaldini’s face.
The
next moment, fleeter than any cheetah, he crossed the room to the top table and, reaching over, had grabbed Rannaldini by his suede lapels, dragging him across the white table-cloth, scattering glass, silver, china and flowers, until Rannaldini was standing beside him on the blue carpet.
‘How dare you hurt my Abigail?’ yelled Viking and, to equal cheers and screams of horror, he smashed his fist into Rannaldini’s evil mahogany face, lifting him up in a perfect parabola, so his descent onto the pudding trolley was only cushioned by Gwynneth who was piling her plate with a third helping of bombe surprise.
The interminable, stunned silence was finally broken by Dixie.
‘That’s the only way you’ll ever get Sir Roberto to lie on top of you, Gwynnie,’ he shouted.
The RSO collapsed with laughter.
‘Partners in cream, partners in cream,’ they chorused as Rannaldini and Gwynneth floundered in a sea of chocolate, sticky fruit and meringue.
But the laughter died on their lips, as Rannaldini’s minders, Clive and Nathan, moved in with deadly swiftness.
‘Look out, Viking,’ yelled Julian.
‘Run,’ shrieked Cousin Deirdre.
It was sage advice.
Viking realized he couldn’t take on both Clive and Nathan, particularly as a shiny dark object glinted menacingly in Nathan’s huge hand.
‘Get him,’ hissed Rannaldini, rubbing Black Forest gâteau out of his eyes.
And Viking was off, darting through the little tables, sending a huge vase of bronze chrysanthemums flying, catching Trevor and Jennifer in flagrante behind the carving trolley, out through a side-door, up a flight of stairs.
Shouting voices and footsteps pounding after him sent him hurtling along a corridor. There was no time to catch the lift, the footsteps were getting nearer. At the end of the corridor were stone stairs and, panting down seven flights and sidling across the lounge, Viking found himself in the lobby.
But as he paused to catch his breath, Clive emerged from the lift. Dummying past him, Viking hurled himself into the revolving doors, only to find Nathan leering at him on the other side, still waving the same menacing shiny object.
