by Jilly Cooper
Miss Chatterbox used to tell Marcus that he must practise as though he was performing, even if it were only for the cat. Tonight, to make up a little for letting him down at the funeral, Marcus played for Malise.
About midnight, he started to worry. Outside he could hear the foxes barking. The central heating had gone off, so he put a hot-water bottle in Helen’s bed and turned on her bedside light. She was only saying yesterday how she dreaded sleeping in a big empty bed, reaching out in the night to find Malise wasn’t there.
To his relief he heard the front door bang. He had never seen his mother look so beautiful. She was wearing a dress of crushed tobacco-brown velvet, which caressed her wonderfully slender figure and brought out the red-gold highlights of her sleek bobbed hair, which seemed to gleam with health for the first time in months. She wore no lipstick, so her slender oval face was dominated by her huge hazel eyes. Marcus didn’t recognize the necklace of amethysts which ringed her throat as softly flattering as violets, nor the long dark fur coat slung around her shoulders, nor the flat, but beautifully cut dark brown shoes, which set off her perfect ankles. Helen had arched insteps and always preferred high heels.
She was so spaced out, she didn’t even notice the new piano. As she hugged Marcus, she reeked of a musky feral scent she had never worn before. Why was he so instantly and disturbingly transported back to that end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall? Then Helen, who drank very little, amazed him by suggesting they open a bottle of Malise’s ancient Sancerre.
‘For your birthday,’ she said tenderly. ‘I can’t believe it’s twenty-one years since I first held you in my arms. You’ve brought me so much joy.’
But as soon as he’d fetched the bottle, which was covered in cobwebs and in no need of being chilled, from the cellar and poured it out, Helen raised her glass, and said she must share her great happiness with him.
‘Oh Markie, I’m going to marry Rannaldini in Chelsea Register Office tomorrow.’
‘You what?’
Then it all came spilling out, the weekend in Prague, the cancelled evenings, her almost suicidal misery at Christmas, and all because Rannaldini had backed off, not sure if he was capable of making a commitment.
Marcus was utterly aghast. Mrs Edwards had dropped some heavy hints that a foreign gentleman had been calling. But Marcus assumed it was Boris. Boris would be heartbroken.
And of course, that explained the kissed-off lipstick, the new fur coat, the amethysts and the flat shoes so she wouldn’t be taller than Rannaldini. Her other great love, Jake Lovell, had been small.
She even smelt of Rannaldini, the same disturbing scent that he had wafted round the hall years ago when he had arrived so late for the school concert.
In despair, Marcus begged his mother not to go ahead with the wedding.
‘Malise has only been dead five months, Mum. Rannaldini’s a monster. You don’t know him. Actually he’s worse than a monster. He’s a cold-blooded sadist who wiped out Rachel, and Flora and made Kitty’s life a nightmare.’
‘You haven’t heard his side,’ said Helen, who was in a pontificating mood, to justify the white heat of extreme sexual passion and the joyous expectation of becoming mega-rich again. Rannaldini, she explained, was so caring. He was going to put on a concert to raise thousands for her branch of the NSPCC, which would attract maximum attention now that he had been awarded his knighthood.
‘He’s specially composed an elegy for sad children. It’s so beautiful. And he’ll buy you your Steinway outright, and help Tabitha in her eventing career. I believe in redemption,’ Helen smiled mistily. ‘Rannaldini came into my life and saved me when I’d reached an all-time low.’
‘So you’ve settled for an all-time gigolo, Lady Rannaldini,’ said Marcus savagely.
‘Don’t be obnoxious, you sound just like your father.’
‘You were nearly destroyed by Dad’s philandering.’
‘And look what happened when Daddy met the right woman?’ reproved Helen, though even now she had a slight edge to her voice. ‘You never stop telling me how blissfully happy Taggie’s made him.’
‘At least warn Dad, it’s only fair,’ begged Marcus.
‘No, no, he’ll do something horrible to sabotage it. I deserve some happiness, Markie, I’ve been so desolate since Malise died.’
If Helen hadn’t wept and begged, Marcus would never have gone to the wedding, but he could never bear to see his mother cry.
Earlier that same day, Tabitha had had another blazing row over the telephone with Rupert because he still refused to buy her The Engineer.
‘You shouldn’t tangle with inferior regiments,’ Rupert had snapped, and Tabitha had hung up on him.
Late the following afternoon, Taggie, in an attempt to heal the breach, had rung Bagley Hall to find out if Tabitha would be coming home for the weekend, only to be told that Tabitha’s mother had taken Tab out of school for a very special occasion. Her house mistress had been very mysterious and refused to let on what it was.
In a rage — how the hell was Tabitha going to pass any exams if she was always being yanked out of school — Rupert telephoned Helen in Warwickshire. Getting no answer, he rang Bagley Hall and left a furious message that Tabitha must ring him the moment she got back.
Tabitha finally telephoned so early the following morning, Rupert was still asleep.
‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’
‘In London. At Mum’s wedding, since you ask.’
‘Wedding!’ thundered Rupert.
‘Yes, at Chelsea Register Office. She really looked gorgeous in pale crimson silk like the Tailor of Gloucester, a big dark crimson hat and some gorgeous garnets. I thought you’d be pleased — she won’t need to ask you for money any more. And you’ll never guess who she’s married.’
‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’
‘Rannaldini. He’s really, really nice.’
For once Rupert was silenced.
‘Are you there, Daddy? We all had lunch at the Ritz afterwards.’
‘We?’ said Rupert ominously.
‘Marcus and Jake Lovell were witnesses. Gosh, he’s attractive,’ said Tabitha blithely. ‘And Rannaldini’s going to buy Marcus a Steinway as a joining-the-family present, and guess what? He’s bought me The Engineer — so nice to have a father who loves me again — and Jake Lovell’s going to train him. Mum’s going to adore being Lady Rannaldini.’
Rupert went ballistic, particularly when he saw the exclusive in the Telegraph.
‘One of the bonuses of marrying the most beautiful woman in the world,’ Rannaldini was quoted as saying, ‘is that I acquire two beautiful step children, Marcus and Tabitha. As a musician and an owner, I intend to help and guide them in their chosen careers. Malise was a brilliant horseman, a flautist, and a wonderful stepfather. I hope they won’t feel his loss too much any more. They have both been delightfully welcoming.’
As well as a picture of the happy couple, there were also photographs of Rannaldini smiling at Tabitha with his arm possessively round her shoulders and, worst of all, of Marcus beside Jake.
The telephone rang. Rupert dived on it.
‘How about your ex marrying Rannaldini?’ said The Scorpion.
Kitty read out the Telegraph piece to Lysander.
‘Wowee, game and first set to Rannaldini,’ he said in horror.
‘He’ll break her,’ shivered Kitty.
Helen had been dreadfully patronizing to her at Christmas, but she couldn’t wish such a fate on anyone.
Kitty jumped as the telephone rang. It was Rupert. Had she got Rannaldini’s telephone number in London?
He was so appalled and enraged at the thought of Rannaldini getting his filthy hands on Tabitha that he rang up at once. Helen and Rannaldini were still in bed, later to fly to Milan, where Rannaldini was conducting Don Carlos at the Scala. Poor Marcus picked up the telephone.
‘Why the fuck didn’t you stop it?’
‘I t-t-tried,’ stammered Marcus.
<
br /> ‘Like hell — and why the fuck didn’t you warn me? Have you considered what that paedophile might do to Tab? Your mother’s a whore, she might as well have married the devil.’
Marcus lost his temper.
‘She did that the first time round. No-one could have made her more miserable than you did.’
‘She’s a parasite,’ howled Rupert. ‘She’s always been greedy, never bothered to earn a penny in her life. Now she’s sold out to the highest bidder, and you’ll never make it either, you’re a parasite, too. Don’t expect to get another penny out of me. Go and sponge off Rannaldini.’
‘I don’t want your bloody money,’ yelled Marcus, ‘I’ll get there on my own.’
And he slammed down the telephone. He was struggling for breath, desperately delving in his pocket for his inhaler, when Rannaldini came smirking out of the bedroom. He was wearing the blue-and-green Paisley dressing-gown which Marcus and Tabitha had clubbed together to give Malise for his seventy-fifth birthday, a month before he died.
‘What’s the matter, dearest boy?’ crooned Rannaldini.
He’s the Erl-King, thought Marcus in terror.
‘You bastard,’ he gasped. ‘How dare you tell the papers I’ve been welcoming, you know I was dead against the wedding, and only came to it because of Mum. If you hurt a hair of her head, I’ll kill you. I don’t want any of your bloody money or your Steinway either.’
Somehow he got himself to Flora’s digs without collapsing, and then had to cope with Flora, for once dropping her guard and sobbing wildly that there was no hope of her getting Rannaldini back any more.
Rupert was so incensed, he proceeded to cancel both Marcus’s and Tab’s allowances, and write them out of his will.
‘It’s Tabitha Rannaldini’s after,’ wept Flora. ‘That’s what’s driving Rupert crazy.’
The only thing that cheered Flora up was the new Dame Hermione’s fury over the marriage.
‘Talk about caterwauling for her demon lover.’
Helen, oblivious of the devastation she had created, returned from her weekend in Milan more in love than ever, and reprimanded Marcus for being horrid.
‘Roberto so longs for everyone to be friends.’
As Rannaldini already had five houses, she also felt magnanimously that she should put the Old Rectory on the market, because it had such unhappy associations for her, and hand half the proceeds over to Malise’s daughter.
‘It’s such a good time to sell in the spring when the tulips, the apple blossom and the crown imperials are all out.’
The final straw for Marcus came when he wanted to listen to Myra Hess playing the Appassionata on Monday evening, and discovered Helen, in a flurry of tidying, had chucked out all Malise’s old 78s. Marcus was on to her at Rannaldini’s London flat in a trice.
‘How could you? They’re irreplaceable.’
‘Don’t be silly. They’re all on CD now — Rannaldini’s getting them for you as a surprise.’
‘I want the 78s. Malise left them to me.’
‘Darling, be reasonable, they were only cluttering up the place.’
‘Like me,’ shouted Marcus, slamming down the telephone.
Outside the window, white daffodils lit up the garden and the dark yew hedges, a little unkempt now, which Malise had planted to divide it. Did Malise’s ghost, astride his old hunter, jump them in the moonlight? Would the new owners cut them down?
Marcus, who had lived here since he was four years old, was now not only penniless, but soon to be homeless. He was surveying the wreckage of his life, when the telephone rang. He couldn’t cope with a reproachful Helen, but it was Abby jibbering with excitement.
‘I’ve got my first gig, conducting the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra. Rodney and Howie squared it for me. Only one problem, right? I’ve gotta learn the repertoire in a fortnight. Will you help me?’ There was a pause. ‘You don’t sound very excited for me, Marcus.’
‘Mum’s just married Rannaldini.’
‘I read it. Not the ideal stepfather — I’m really sorry. But think of the doors he’ll open for you, and at least it’ll get your mom off your back, and you can come back to the Academy. It’s poor Flora who’s been blown out of the water. God, I’m scared about this gig.’
Appassionata. SECOND MOVEMENT
TWENTY
Abby was as driven as a conductor as she had been as a violinist. Sweeping into the Old Rectory, she hardly noticed how ill Marcus was looking.
It was ironic that one of the pieces he had to help her learn was Ein Heldenleben, a Hero’s Life, Richard Strauss’s tone poem, which included a portrait of Pauline, Strauss’s capricious, demanding wife. Abby was a lot like Pauline, thought Marcus. She interrupted him for help whether he was practising or just firing off hundreds of letters to orchestra managers, concert halls and music clubs in a desperate attempt to get work. She had also commandeered Marcus’s CD player and would drag him out of bed in the middle of the night to listen to some rival violinist as she sobbed: ‘I’m better than that, aren’t I?’
This would have been the ideal moment for Marcus to have made a move. But he was haunted by his failure with Rupert’s hooker, so each time he bottled out, lying for hours afterwards twitching with desire.
He was also heartbroken that he couldn’t afford to stay on at the Academy. When Rannaldini and Helen returned from their extended honeymoon, he would have to move into a tiny room in Ealing. He could pay the rent and keep up the instalments on the Steinway, on which fourteen-thousand pounds was still owing, only if he took half a dozen pupils a day. By the time he’d paid off his college debts, the bank had started bouncing cheques. He had torn up all his credit cards. The only card in his pocket was Pablo Gonzales’s, but meeting him now seemed like a dream. Marcus didn’t have the bottle to write to him. His asthma was awful, he couldn’t walk twenty yards without stopping to rest.
If Abby was exhausting, she was also expensive. Seeing such a large, beautiful house (and this was only Marcus’s mother’s place. Flora had already told her about the glories of Penscombe), Abby assumed Marcus was just another trust-fund baby, and Marcus was too proud to tell her otherwise. As she had lived with Rodney, now she would live with Marcus. She was not grasping, her records had left her very well provided for, just thoughtless. Having worked for twelve hours sustained only by Granny Smiths and black coffee, she would emerge at dinner time.
‘I’m exhausted and absolutely starved.’
If dinner wasn’t ready, she would insist they took her scores out to the nearest restaurant where, having wolfed down a couple of baskets of bread, she often found she wasn’t hungry when the two courses she’d ordered arrived, and Marcus, being his father’s son, picked up the bill.
Back at the Old Rectory her mess spread from room to room, and had to be hurriedly tidied away by Marcus each time a buyer arrived to look at the house.
As the concert approached, Abby grew more histrionic, dickering over what to wear on the night — ‘I gotta look dignified and drop-dead gorgeous’ — and having screaming matches with Howie Denston, her agent.
The new Lady Rannaldini, thought Marcus, would go bananas when she saw the telephone bill, but that was Sir Roberto’s problem.
Mrs Edwards was in her element.
‘Lady Rannaldini’s residence,’ she would announce as journalists started ringing up, so they simply assumed Abby was Rannaldini’s protégée.
To keep the tabloids at bay, Howie installed bouncers. As a result the more enterprising reporters disguised themselves as prospective buyers. The man from the Telegraph got so into the part he even put in a bid for the Old Rectory, and was furious to be gazumped later in the week by a girl from the Independent.
Marcus took two days off to hold Abby’s hand. For a start, he drove her down to Rutminster.
‘How far is it?’
‘Malise and I always reckoned it was Beethoven’s Ninth to Rutminster and The Creation to Cotchester.’
‘It would have
been far quicker in the Aston,’ said Abby petulantly.
As a last-ditch measure, to appease the bank manager, Marcus, the day before, had sold his beloved Aston and bought a third-hand, mustard-yellow Maestro, which Abby didn’t feel had sufficient gravitas. She was not even amused by jokes about taking the Maestro down in the Maestro. The next two days were going to be lean on laughs, thought Marcus with a sigh. Still, it was a beautiful day, with primroses fizzing along the bright green verges like sherbert and the cottage gardens still full of daffodils.
After a steep climb, Marcus stopped the car.
‘Get your head out of Richard Strauss for a sec and look at that.’
Abby gasped with joy for down below in a bowl of wooded hills softened by opal-blue mist, rising from the same River Fleet that flowed through Cotchester, lay the ancient town of Rutminster. There was the racecourse where Rupert’s horses battled with Rannaldini’s to win the famous Rutminster Cup. There was the cathedral, its spire soaring into the air like a litter prong trying to catch the tiny, paper-white clouds hurtling across the the bright blue sky. Along the river bank, weeping willows rinsed their blond hair in the glittering aquamarine water.
‘There’s the Herbert Parker Hall, where the gig is,’ said Marcus, pointing out a hulking Victorian monstrosity standing in its own park to the west of the town.
‘How awesome,’ sighed Abby, oblivious of the hideous proportions and the ox-blood walls which clashed vilely with the faded russet of the rest of the High Street.
‘Who was Herbert Parker?’ she asked.
‘Oh, some nineteenth-century haberdasher who made his pile and then built one. His descendants own Parker and Parker, the department store in the High Street. That Queen Anne house, overlooking the river to the east of the town, is the Old Bell Hotel where you’re staying.
‘What you can’t see is the secret passage from H.P. Hall, as it’s known, to the Shaven Crown in the High Street. You’ll be sent flying during the break by stampeding musicians. Goodness, they’ve got portaloos, they must be expecting huge crowds.’
