by Jilly Cooper
‘I never had the life of a normal child,’ she added finally, ‘music was the only thing that mattered.’
‘And Christopher,’ Rupert plunged his knife into his steak, releasing the blood, ‘how long have you been sleeping with him?’
Abby looked up in terror, eyes staring, totally thrown.
‘How’d you know? Please don’t say anything. Christopher’s phobic about scandal. His wife’s been so darling to me. Mind you, she’s a yachneh,’ then, at Rupert’s raised eyebrows, added dismissively, ‘a housewife with large boobs.’
‘I’ve got one of those,’ said Rupert approvingly. ‘Jolly nice too.’
But Abby was too distraught to laugh. Leaving three-quarters of her sole uneaten, ignoring Christopher’s and Hermione’s looks of disapproval, she lit a cigarette.
‘Christopher never sleeps with her,’ she whispered defiantly.
‘A husband,’ said Rupert idly,’ is a man who tells his wife he never sleeps with his mistress, and his mistress he never sleeps with his wife. I used to be like that. I’ve got a past longer than the Bible.’
‘What happened?’ The burning glow of Abby’s cigarette was jumping round like a firefly in her shaking hand.
‘I married an angel,’ said Rupert.
Abby’s pallor was lard-like now. Beads of sweat kept breaking out on her upper lip and her forehead.
‘Why isn’t she with you?’ she said sullenly.
‘She’s in Bogotá, we’re adopting a baby.’
‘How very caring of you,’ Hermione could no longer bear to be excluded from Rupert’s conversation, ‘to take on a disadvantaged youngster,’ she added warmly. ‘If I wasn’t concertizing all year, Bobby, my partner and I have often thought of adopting a little sibling for Cosmo.’
‘Cosmo’d probably eat it,’ muttered Rupert.
Hermione’s son created more havoc than most earthquakes.
‘Of course Cosmo is super-gifted,’ sighed Hermione. ‘He could inhibit a less bright child. He’s such a plucky little horseman, too, Rupert, I thought you might give him some riding lessons.’
Rupert laughed at a scowling Rannaldini.
‘Lysander’d better do that, he’s the brilliant rider.’
Passers-by kept peering in from the street outside, then leaping up and down in ecstasy and pointing as they recognized Abby. In the restaurant, diners kept coming over seeking her autograph, and then noticing Hermione and Rannaldini wanted theirs as well. Hermione kept singing the same doom-laden bars from The Force of Destiny.
Rannaldini sipped white wine very slowly and stared covertly at Rupert. Ironically, until Rupert had got involved with Lysander, Rannaldini had always longed to be friends with him, aware how much they had in common.
Both men were extremely successful, intensely competitive, insanely jealous, spoilt and, ultimately, insecure. Both had had mothers who hadn’t loved them, and had taken it out on women ever since. Except that Rupert had got lucky with Taggie. Deep down Rannaldini was bitterly ashamed of being unable to sustain a relationship.
Now he couldn’t take his eyes off Rupert, searching for grey hairs, red veins, spare tyres, some sign that the peacock feathers were beginning to moult. Maddeningly there was none. He was dying to have a go at Rupert, but didn’t want to betray his longing or the white heat of his animosity in front of Christopher.
Christopher was hopping mad. Everything had gone wrong, he loathed not being in control. He’d wanted Abby to be admiring and respectful to Rannaldini so he could do a number on Hermione, but all either woman could do was to drool over that arrogant, mischief-making Brit., who was now giving Abby his card, and writing the fax number of his hotel in Bogotá on the back.
‘I hear you’ve got Benny Basanovich on your books,’ Rannaldini interrupted his thoughts.
But Christopher didn’t want to talk about Benny. There were many instrumentalists and singers on Shepherd Denston’s books who would profit from an introduction to Rannaldini. That was another reason for signing up the great maestro but that could come later. Tonight all he wanted to talk about was Rannaldini.
As Hermione had gone off to the Ladies in a huff because more people were asking for Abby’s autograph, Christopher said softly to Rannaldini, ‘I want to put the two most explosive talents in the world together.’
Rannaldini glanced at Abby. She was a spoilt brat, and not his type. But he’d always been turned on by indifference. He’d enjoy taming her, making her jump, reducing her to crawling submission.
He also wanted that Mozart CD deal, because he suspected the New World Orchestra were not going to be the push-over he’d expected. The board had refused him the total hiring and firing rights he’d had with his last orchestra. It would be good to have a mega-record contract to bargain with.
He wanted the deal, but not Christopher as an agent. Christopher, he decided, was an avaricious thug.
‘I’ll have a dessert if you will, Christopher.’ Hermione had returned from the Ladies, face repainted, reeking of Arpège.
‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on desserts,’ quipped Christopher gallantly, then whispered, ‘I want to set you free from Rannaldini, I want Harefield to be an even greater name than Callas.’
Hermione bridled. ‘My voice is considered far more lovely than Maria’s.’
‘I said a greater name, Hermione.’
‘I’m not interested in money,’ lied Hermione. ‘My only desire is to bring music to the masses.’
That was a good sign, Christopher thought. She’d just put her hand on his crotch, but he removed it gently with a little squeeze and a tickle of the palm, in case it met Abby’s hand coming the other way.
‘I get as much of a charge if Solti says: “You’re wonderful, Hermione”, as to hear builders on scaffolding shouting: “‘Allo ‘Ermione, loved your last halbum, bort it for the cover, but I loiked the contents”.’ Hermione’s cockney accent was quite frightful. ‘It’s the little things that matter, like the ambassador, this evening, saying you’re even lovelier in the flesh, I hear that so often, I don’t know why.’
Abby caught Rupert’s eyes and giggled, then picked up Christopher’s hand, examining the fingernails, until Christopher snatched it away, asking sharply what she was doing.
‘Look for pastry crumbs, you’ve got fingers in so many pies.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Rupert refilled her glass. Then, dropping his voice, whispered, ‘Christopher wouldn’t do business with me.’
‘He’s so grand, he only talks to God.’
‘And Rannaldini answers, I suppose.’
Abby nodded. ‘Christopher wants me to record all the Mozart concertos with Rannaldini.’
‘I wouldn’t. A beautiful pianist who was recording Beethoven with him topped herself two weeks ago.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Rachel Grant.’
‘I’ve heard her play. She was a wonderful musician.’
‘And Rannaldini was terrible to his wife Kitty.’ For a second Rupert shed his flip manner. ‘Don’t mess with him, sweetheart, he’s evil, he’ll break you.’
Hermione, in between mouthfuls of chocolate mousse, was humming The Force of Destiny again.
‘I had fifteen curtain calls, when I sang Leonora at La Scala. D’you remember, Rannaldini?’
‘We could have a ball if you did Declan,’ murmured Rupert. He’d had far too much to drink. His message was quite unequivocal.
Gazing into his beautiful, predatory, unsmiling face, which for a second seemed unnervingly like Rannaldini’s, Abby thought how impossible it would be to resist him, if he really put on the pressure, and how gorgeous it would be just to take off with him into the Pampas.
Rupert heard himself saying; ‘God, I’d love to sleep with you.’
‘I don’t sleep.’ Abby tossed back her black hair.
‘Well, have insomnia with me then.’
They both jumped as Rannaldini’s mobile rang.
‘Si, si, check eet again, by that time I weel be weeth you.’
Switching it off, Rannaldini smiled round the table.
‘My Leer ees grounded, so I charter Mexican jet, one cannot be too careful. I am so relieved we all escape calamity.’
‘What d’you mean?’ snapped Rupert.
‘There is legend,’ said Rannaldini silkily, ‘that once the great chandelier fall when they perform The Force of Destiny, keeling many, many people-’
‘I can’t remember who was playing Alvaro,’ interrupted Hermione. ‘But they say the Leonora wasn’t nearly as good as me.’
‘Always eet breeng terrible luck,’ continued Rannaldini. ‘Tonight chandelier stay put, but who knows where the ill luck will fall. My orchestra were terrified,’ he nodded coldly at Abby as if to dismiss any complaints of Julian’s. ‘That why they look shell-shocked and thees is why I ’ave jet checked three times just een case.’
Rupert felt icicles dripping down his spine. How could he have left darling Taggie by herself in Bogotá? A handful of nuns was no defence, she might be kidnapped, mugged or raped by some junkie. He should have put her in the hotel safe with the adoption papers.
‘Your car is waiting, Maestro.’ It was the head waiter.
‘Are you coming?’ Rannaldini turned to Christopher, then added to Abby with a sadistic smirk, ‘Christopher hitch a lift weeth me back to New York.’
‘I don’t understand,’ stammered Abby.
Christopher got to his feet.
‘I’ve got a helluva lot on in New York and meetings first thing,’ he said placatingly. ‘I’ll get over to the UK later in the week.’
‘Red Eye flight, Shepherd’s delight,’ said Abby meditatively.
Then she went beserk.
‘You son of a bitch,’ she screamed. ‘You never intended to stop over here, or come with me to England.’ And she hurled her glass of red wine at him so it trickled like blood down his white shirt.
Hermione was suddenly looking very excited. ‘Shall we have a quiet drink in my room?’ she said, turning to Rupert. But Rupert had gone.
Cursing himself for not stopping to recharge his mobile, Rupert raced for the telephone. He was unable to get a squawk out of the Red Parrot. Terrified some ghastly fate had befallen Taggie, he urged his taxi-driver, who drove like the great Ayrton Senna anyway, to go even faster, overtaking Rannaldini deep in conversation with that smug bastard Christopher on the way.
Once at the airport Rupert managed to commandeer Rannaldini’s plane which was revving up on the runway.
Rannaldini had been so gratuitously offensive to the Mexican crew and insulted their honour by insisting on a third security-check, that their swarthy piratical captain was only too happy to accept yet another bribe. I’ll be so broke soon, thought Rupert ruefully, I’ll have to take up conducting.
Turning round, the Mexican captain alerted flight control, and flew off to Bogotá. Seeing Rannaldini and Christopher foaming on the runway, Rupert flicked them another V-sign. Declan could do his own negotiating in future.
Having fretted himself into a frazzle, Rupert reached the Red Parrot as dawn was breaking despairingly over the poverty of the city.
As Alberto, yawning and still wearing his grey greasy vest, unlocked the door, Rupert grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘Is my wife OK?’
‘Si, si.’
Relief fuelled Rupert’s rage.
‘Why the fuck doesn’t your telephone work? I suppose you haven’t paid the bill, you idle sod.’
Alberto shrugged. ‘Possibly small earthquake.’
‘Earthquake!’ Rupert’s fingers bit into Alberto’s plump shoulders until he winced.
‘Only small one, Meesis Campbell-Black want to be near Bianca, so she sleep at convent.’
Rupert was so thankful he gave the rest of his cash to the beggars already out on the streets.
He found Taggie still in yesterday’s jeans and an old black polo-neck. She had spent the night in a chair, with Xavier, still clutching his teddy bear and his racing car, in her arms.
Yesterday Taggie had had a wigging from Maria Immaculata.
‘I have seen many couple here seeking babies and you have very good marriage. Your husband love you, but don’t abuse his generousness and take in every limping duck. He may be jealous of Bianca — try to put him, if not first, at least equal.’
Taggie was utterly mortified and as desperate to see Rupert as he to see her. Laying Xavier down in the armchair, she fell into his arms.
‘I’ve been so worried, I love you, I missed you so, so much,’ they cried in unison.
How could he have propositioned Abby, thought Rupert in horror, when all that was true, good and beautiful in the world was in his arms? He was murmuring endearments and was about to kiss her, when Xav woke and started to cry.
‘He missed you as much as I did,’ said Taggie in a choked voice. ‘He cried himself to sleep.’
She stepped back quickly to stop the child falling off the chair. But suddenly incredulous delight sparked in Xavier’s little face. Jibbering with joy, he slid to the floor, swayed on his feet, then, like a man in space, took the first wobbling steps of his life towards Rupert, who leapt forward to catch him just before he fell.
Appearing in the doorway a drowsy Sister Angelica crossed herself. ‘This is a miracle.’
Taggie burst into tears, she knew she shouldn’t push limping ducks on Rupert, but seeing him dropping the proudest kiss in the world on Xav’s black curls, and rubbing his face against Xav’s cheek, as he normally only did with puppies, she couldn’t stop herself.
‘I know it’s awful after you lost all that money at Lloyd’s,’ she sobbed, ‘and spent fortunes coming out here, and we couldn’t afford for him to go to Harrow, but couldn’t we possibly take Xav home as well?’ She stroked Xav’s little hand now barnacled to Rupert’s lapel.
‘I can’t bear to leave him.’
‘Are you sure you can cope with two babies?’ muttered Rupert when he could trust himself to speak at last. ‘They’ll be a hell of a lot of work, and a hell of a lot more red tape.’
Sister Angelica was tearfully crossing herself over another miracle.
‘D’you think Maria Immaculata will throw Xav in as a job-lot if I restore the chapel as well?’ asked Rupert.
‘Darling,’ giggled Taggie reprovingly.
But Rupert had turned back to Xavier, tossing him screaming with delight in the air.
‘Fasten your seat-belt, Xavier Campbell-Black, you’re coming to England.’
Rupert’s euphoria was complete later in the day, when he found a fax at the Red Parrot from Abby saying she’d like to do the interview with Declan. She’d be back from her tour in three weeks. Could he write to her at her New York apartment, and not say anything to Christopher.
‘I hope you get your baby,’ she had added at the end. ‘And he or she makes you and your angelic wife really happy.’
He and she, thought Rupert, jubilantly, and two fingers to The Force of Destiny.
FIVE
Abby, whose tantrums subsided as quickly as they flared up, was woken at midday by an enraged Christopher, who, after interminable delays, had finally arrived in New York, and who immediately chewed her out for last night’s scene. He had dismissed it to Rannaldini as some schoolgirl crush. But he didn’t trust Rannaldini, and even less Rupert, not to blab about it all over New York.
‘We’ve got to cool it for Beth’s sake.’
‘But I need you,’ pleaded Abby who was still groggy from sleeping-pills. ‘At least answer my letters.’
‘They’ve got to stop, too,’ said Christopher hastily.
He couldn’t man his personal fax at all times, and five letters a week reeking of Amarige, Abby’s sweet musky very distinctive scent, and marked personal, were not easily explained away.
‘Sandra’s beginning to get suspicious.’
Sandra was Christopher’s secretary, a plump, knowing blonde, at whom Abby ha
d shouted too often when she was desperate to get through to Christopher.
‘Why doesn’t she send on my fan mail and my clippings? I need some feedback.’
‘Because it’s all answered in the office. Sandra’s perfected your signature so she can even acknowledge favourable reviews.’
‘She’ll be forging my cheques soon.’
Christopher lost his temper.
‘I cannot understand your attitude. A complete powerhouse at Shepherd Denston is devoted to keeping your particular show on the road, so you can concentrate on music, which was what you said you always wanted, and all you do is winge.’
Howie, Howard Denston’s son, who ran the London office, Christopher continued, would meet her at Heathrow, and drive her up to Birmingham where she was playing the Brahms again with the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.
‘And, for God’s sake, think of the agency’s reputation and wear something long and decorous. The Symphony Hall are generously allowing you to sign CDs in the interval. And remember only sign your name, OK? All those personal inscriptions and “Love from Abigails” just hold up the queue.’
‘You want to excise love from my life. You could fly out to Tokyo. Oh hell,’ she screamed, ‘there’s someone at the door, don’t hang up, please don’t hang up.’
Outside were four smiling waiters, all avid to have a look at Abby, as they wheeled in a massive breakfast for two: champagne, grapefruit topped with strawberries, silver domes over sausages, bacon and eggs, a T-bone for Christopher, croissants and blackcherry jam, which Abby had ordered yesterday, anticipating she and Christopher would be ravenous after a long night of love.
‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Abby, ‘you’ll have to take it away.’
Rootling around in her bag, she gave them two hundred dollars.
But when she picked up the telephone again, Christopher had gone.
Nor did her spirits rise when she found Buenos Aires Airport so upended by Rannaldini’s fury and his attempts to charter a new aeroplane that her own flight to Heathrow had been grounded by a temporary strike. Abby, who was wearing jeans and a purple T-shirt, had scraped her hair back and hidden her reddened eyes behind huge dark glasses, but she never managed to remain anonymous. A ripple of excitement went round the airport, as the Tannoy started belting out her latest hit. Next minute crowds were mobbing her, yelling ‘L’Appassionata, L’Appassionata’ and nearly starting a riot. Abby then ended up on the same flight as Hermione, who despite her big black hat and her white Chanel suit, was deeply miffed not to be mobbed as well.
