by Jilly Cooper
‘Strauss also portrayed his tempestuous relationship with his wife, Pauline,’ went on Abby, ‘who was a coquette and very capricious.’
The First Trombone, who had a complexion like red rock, very blue bloodshot eyes and hair the colour of wet sand, rather like a South of France travel poster, put down his copy of Playboy.
‘You mean she was an absolute bitch,’ he said.
The orchestra giggled. Abby decided to ignore him.
‘As I am sure you all know, Pauline is portrayed by the leader of the orchestra.’ Abby smiled fondly at Hugo.
‘Hope you’re going to wear a pretty frock, Hugo, dearie,’ shouted the First Trombone.
‘And Strauss even portrays himself in the closing pages on the French horn.’ Abby smiled up at Viking, who put down Auto Express and smiled back.
‘After a terrific battle,’ concluded Abby, ‘when the brass and percussion can really play fortissimo, the work ends with the hero and his wife reconciling their differences in one of the loveliest tunes ever written, with the solo violin singing and sobbing and the solo horn — er — weaving round her like a great purring panther.’
‘Grrrrrr,’ growled Viking.
‘Show us your tits again,’ shouted the First Trombone.
Abby blushed crimson.
‘Let’s get started.’
It was like hanging onto the coat-tails of a hurricane, thought Abby, as she opened her raised arms, and whipped the orchestra to a frenzy in the battlescenes, then quietened them for the love duet. Here, she felt Hugo, although a dashing and technically faultless player, lacked passion. If only she could have taken his place, providing Viking with a player up to his weight. As she sang along with them, she realized how unendurable life would be until she could play again. She hadn’t done any physio for weeks.
Confronted by genius, however, Abby was always generous. Passing Viking on her way out as he put his horn back in a battered case, lined with crushed purple velvet, she stammered: ‘You were terrific, I’m not just bullshitting.’
‘It’s like being a racing driver or a test pilot,’ said Viking. ‘You just got to believe you’ll come out the other end.’
Hugo’s right, thought Abby, he does have the sexiest peat-soft voice in the world, and he was a good three inches taller than she was.
TWENTY-ONE
Hugo took her to the Shaven Crown for lunch. The record shop in the High Street had a display of her CDs and a coloured cardboard cut-out taken from an old photograph when she’d been all wild-haired and smouldering.
‘D’you think people will recognize me?’ she asked Hugo in alarm.
‘Of course, the explosive element is still there, the lovely body, the lovely face.’
Was her face lovely? he wondered. The nose was too big, the eyelids, the bottom lip, even the jaw too heavy and yet and yet.
‘Genuflect to our benefactress,’ he added sourly, as they passed a big department store, draped in banners saying: ‘Parker and Parker Welcomes Abigail Rosen.’
There were even windows devoted to men in tails and women in spangled evening dresses playing instruments.
‘You’ll meet Peggy Parker tomorrow night,’ said Hugo. ‘She’s as squat and brick red in the face as the Herbert Parker Hall. She loves to patronize the arts, patronize being the operative word. And she’s not very keen on Rodney because he remembers her when she was a junior in the underwear department with a tape measure hanging from her neck, and he was always nipping in to buy lingerie for his various popsies. That was before Peggy married the boss. She’s now on the RSO board and a Force to be Reckoned With, because she pumps in a lot of dosh.’
‘I hope she doesn’t force the orchestra into those awful dresses,’ shuddered Abby.
The Shaven Crown had a thatched roof kept in place by a wire hairnet and pale pink walls. Inside it was already packed with musicians and full of inglenooks, black beams, barmaids in medieval dresses and a long-suffering landlord, who wore a monk’s habit when the antics of the RSO became too much for him.
Huge orange logs in the fireplace gave the impression of having smouldered for centuries. Having installed Abby in an alcove on a black bench which said, ‘Leader’s Chair’ in gold letters, Hugo went off to order.
Abby was soon distracted by shouts of laughter. Edging along the bench, peering through a pair of hanging lutes, she saw Viking surrounded by cronies including his Second Horn who had bright blue eyes, and the First Trombone who’d acted up during the rehearsal.
‘Absolutely flagrante,’ Viking was saying.
‘What happened?’ asked the First Trombone, draining his pint of beer.
‘I had a bit of a day,’ began Viking, ‘I had lunch with Thin Rosie, went back to her place and did the business, came out and on my way to the Garden bumped into Fat Rosie, so I went back to her place and catered for her.’
‘That’s why she was looking so cheerful this morning,’ said the Second Horn, glancing up from the Independent.
‘Then I gave my considerable all to Tristan and Isolde,’ went on Viking. ‘Three hours of it. I kept falling asleep, Jesus, I was tired. I josst managed to drive home to Rutminster, fell into bed, josst dropped off, when I was woken by an imperious tap on the shoulder. Her indoors saying: “Haven’t you forgotten something?”’ Then over the howls of laughter, added, ‘That’s why I had to re-accommodate her on the glockenspiel this morning, and in barges Priddock, John Drommond and L’Appassionata.’
As Hugo crossed the bar with his bottle of red wine, Viking leant round to see who he was lunching with, and seeing Abby, without any embarrassment, raised his glass to her.
‘All the girls behind the bar want your autograph,’ said Hugo, ‘and Bernie the landlord wants a photograph taken with you.’
She still loves the recognition, he thought as he filled up their glasses.
‘I shouldn’t drink.’
‘Yes you should, to celebrate, and eat. Two steak-and-kidney pies are on the way.’
‘That’s the nucleus of the Celtic Mafia, the wild men of the orchestra,’ said Hugo, after another roar of laughter from Viking’s table.
‘That’s Blue Donovan, reading the Independent. The quiet one, a seriously good guy and usually broke because he sends so much money back to his family in Deny. Always falling asleep because he plays most nights in a jazz club.’
‘Very attractive,’ mused Abby.
‘Very. Blue covers for Viking musically and in real life. Beneath the sang-froid, Viking’s pretty neurotic. First Horn has to have iron in his soul.’
‘Oh wow, this looks great,’ cried Abby as a steak-and-kidney pie with gold pastry billowing out of the little dish, a baked potato and broccoli were put in front of her. ‘I’m starved.’
‘Can we have some mustard, Debbie?’ called out Hugo.
‘French or English?’ asked the pretty barmaid.
Abby smiled sideways under her lashes at Hugo: ‘I always prefer French.’
Feeling encouraged Hugo continued his run down on the Celtic Mafia.
‘Sitting next to Blue is the First Trombone, Dixie Douglas. A brawny fearless Glaswegian, Dixie comes from northern brass band stock — lips of steel — his light duties as a trombone player give him rather too much time to booze, letch and mischief-make. You want to watch him, Abby. He’s trouble.’
‘He already has been,’ said Abby. ‘This is so good. I shouldn’t eat the pastry, but I’m gonna.’
‘Finally, the man with a moustache, who looks like a sandy-haired Clark Gable, is Randy Hamilton, Third Trumpet, another fearless hell-raiser from a barrack-room background. Randy’s energies when not boozing and womanizing are spent improving his golf handicap and loathing the First Trumpet, Charles Jones, nicknamed “Carmine” Jones because he goes bright red during solos.
‘Carmine, you may have noticed, had a go at Juno this morning, just to wind up Viking, because he hates the Celtic Mafia, and he’s been trying to get Juno into bed ever since she joined the orches
tra, and he’s livid Viking got in there first. He always moves in on any pretty girl that comes on trial. “If you sleep with me, darling, I’ll put in a good word, along with my dick.” He’s a very, very nasty piece of work.
‘Both Randy and Dixie are married with wives living in Scotland, whom they go back to sometimes at weekends. Otherwise they live in a house on the lake known as The Bordello, with Blue and until recently, Viking. That’s about it really.’
‘Thank you, Hugo,’ said Abby earnestly, half-watching a pretty waitress carrying a tray of shepherd’s pie across to the Celtic Mafia. ‘It’s crucial for conductors to learn as much as possible about their musicians.’
‘Yeah, yeah.’ Smiling slightly, Hugo undid an oblong pat of butter and dropped it on his potato.
‘When did you leave Canada?’ asked Abby.
Hugo started to tell her, but immediately lost Abby, because a large black collie had jumped onto the bench seat between Viking and Blue, had a red paper napkin tucked into his collar, and started wolfing his own dish of shepherd’s pie, plumey tail wagging as he carefully ate round the cooler edges first.
‘Who’s that?’ asked Abby in amazement.
‘Mr Nugent.’
‘Goddamn silly name.’
‘The fur on the top of his head was too heavy, and kept falling into a middle parting which, together with a slightly unctuous manner, gives him the appearance of a Victorian grocer, hence Mr Nugent. Viking’s had him since he was a pup.’
Filling up an oblivious Abby’s glass, Hugo edged his corduroy thigh within a millimetre of hers.
‘Nugent often sleeps in Viking’s car, which adds to the general stench and mess. He also rounds up the Celtic Mafia after hours, and always gets first place for the horn section in the tea queue during the break.’
Abby didn’t even feel Hugo’s thigh against hers, because Viking had strolled over to the bar to buy another round. She noticed his leather jacket was cut short to emphasize a high jutting bottom and long, muscular legs.
‘He’s in good shape,’ she turned to Hugo. ‘Does he work out?’
‘Only how to get his next lay. That’s how he gets his exercise.’
Mr Nugent crawled across the floor to reach his master’s heels.
‘Surely dogs aren’t allowed in here?’ exclaimed Abby.
‘They’re not, but when Bernie banned Nugent, the entire Celtic Mafia defected to the Old Bell and the bar-takings halved, so Nugent was allowed back again. The bottom line is that Juno can’t stand dogs, that’s what’s going to cause a rift between her and Viking. Talk of the Devil,’ he added as Juno walked in.
She was wearing a fluffy pale pink track suit. Her blond hair was tied back with a pale pink ribbon. Her face was delicately flushed like a wild rose to match. She couldn’t have been prettier.
Having kissed Viking on the mouth, refused a drink and asked if there was any room for a little one, she plonked herself between Blue and Viking.
‘What have you been up to?’ said Dixie snidely. ‘Aerobing or jogging, yoga-ing or yoghurt-ing or aromatheraping?’
Like the rest of the Celtic Mafia, Dixie was torn between jealousy of Viking for having pulled her, and jealousy of Juno for annexing Viking.
‘I’ve been to the gym,’ said Juno, ‘and I went to see my bank manager. He gave me a glass of sherry.’
‘Mine gives me bounced cheques,’ said Randy gloomily.
‘And I bought our tea, someone has to.’ Although Juno had a squeaky little voice like a mouse orchestra, her bluey-green eyes were as cold as distilled fiord water.
‘Nice track suit,’ said Blue the peacemaker.
‘I got it from the Children’s Department of Parker and Parker, and I got us two chops,’ said Juno, looking disapprovingly at the refilled pints of beer.
Dixie ruffled Nugent’s black fur. ‘Good thing the old boy stocked up on that shepherd’s pie.’
‘Dogs only need one meal a day,’ snapped Juno. ‘We ought to go back. I need to pick up a grapefruit and some cottage cheese.’
‘Wow, you are going to have a blow-out,’ mocked Randy.
‘Viking’s eating habits are shocking.’ Juno pursed her pretty lips, then her eyes widened as Marcus rushed through the door. Even deathly pale, black under the eyes and wheezing frantically, he was beautiful.
‘Abby darling,’ he panted, ‘I’m desperately sorry, I crashed out on my hotel bed for five minutes, next thing I knew it was a quarter to two. Are you OK?’
‘Don’t I look it?’ said Abby warmly. ‘It’s been wonderful having someone to discuss the finer points of repertoire.’
And what have I been fucking doing for the last two weeks? thought Marcus.
Feeling she had been a little harsh, Abby added to Hugo: ‘Marcus is a marvellous pianist.’
‘We could use you in the Tchaikovsky tomorrow night,’ grumbled Hugo.
‘Who’s playing?’ said Marcus.
‘Some crumpet of Rodney’s, called Anthea Hislop, known as “Hisloppy” — she’s so slapdash.’ Hugo grinned at Abby. ‘With two of you on the same night, the orchestra was going to paste “Ban the Bimbo” posters all over H.P. Hall.’ Then, seeing Abby’s expression of outrage, hurriedly added, ‘But you’re no bimbo, sweetheart. She did great today,’ he told Marcus.
‘I want to find some truly revolutionary way to do the Tchaikovsky,’ said Abby earnestly.
‘Get the horns to come in in tune at the beginning, instead of splat-two-three,’ suggested Hugo, ‘and you could try to make Hisloppy play occasionally at the same tempo as the orchestra.’
TWENTY-TWO
The run-up to the concert was distinctly fraught. Anthea Hislop turned out to be as curvacious as she was catastrophic as a pianist. This resulted in several spats with Abby which enlivened the rehearsal, but put Abby into the deepest gloom. As An thea was one of Shepherd Denston’s most successful artists, Howie Denston insisted on motoring down from London to take her, Abby, Marcus and Mike Carling, the RSO managing director out to dinner.
Marcus thought that after Rannaldini, Howie was the most dreadful man he had ever met. Allegedly the most cut-throat agent in London, he was short and plump with a white oily face, little black eyes, black hair which fell in a kiss-curl over his low forehead, and very long arms from lugging potted plants to ingratiate himself with large lady artistes. He plainly didn’t give a stuff about music and, like his father, was only turned on by the deal.
Howie’s only redeeming feature during a very sticky evening, when Abby and Anthea completely ignored each other, was that when he wasn’t jabbering into his mobile, he was talking incessantly about himself, which at least kept the conversation going.
‘I have ab-so-lute-ly no private life. I exist only for my clients. My mobile is never switched off.’
He clearly thought it was a huge concession to travel out of London, and seemed to expect wild boars covered in woad to ramraid the restaurant at any second.
Mark Carling, who hardly ate anything, left after the main course to look after a wife who had shingles. Seeing the bill was imminent, Howie jumped thankfully into a hovering limousine and steamed back to London for a breakfast meeting with his most illustrious client, Hermione Harefield.
Howie owned a five-bedroomed house on the canal at Maida Vale and earned at least four hundred thousand pounds year. He was not a day over twenty-three.
Anthea, bored because there was no-one to vamp, disappeared shortly afterwards. Whereupon Marcus lost his temper.
‘Your agent is the most revolting little man I’ve ever met. He’s pig-ignorant and he’s a bloody shirt-lifter.’
‘Marcus,’ said Abby appalled, ‘what has got into you? I’m the one who’s got the big date, right? I don’t want to hear this kinda shit. Howie’s an absolute powerhouse.’
‘Power bungalow you mean, revolting little man.’
Marcus’s attitude didn’t change when he was woken by a call from Howie at six o’clock the following morning.
‘Hi, Pretty Boy, for God’s sake, keep the Daily Mail from Abby.’
Hermione’s rage at Rannaldini marrying Helen had been exacerbated by a piece in The Scorpion about Abby staying at Helen’s house, and therefore being Rannaldini’s protegee. In revenge Hermione had given an interview to Lynda Lee-Potter. How Abby Rosen slashed her wrists because her lover filled my aeroplane seat with yellow roses.
‘Fucking Hermione,’ yelled Marcus. ‘How dare she.’
‘These dames are all the same.’
‘Hermione’s not a bit like Abby, she’s your client, you should bloody well control her.’
But Hermione was a more important client, as was Anthea. Abby might easily bomb this evening.
‘Got to go, Tiger, see you at the press conference, don’t forget, keep the Mail from Abby.’
Abby was too busy rehearsing to see the Mail, but the rest of the media pouring into Rutminster had read the piece. They had all promised not to question Abby about Christopher or her attempted suicide, but within seconds Beattie Johnson from The Scorpion was on her feet.
‘If Christopher Shepherd caused you so much grief, aren’t you getting your own back on him and men in general by becoming a conductor, so you can boss them around?’
Abby had immediately burst into tears and stormed out, leaving the place in an uproar.
At least the programme looked splendid with a lovely new picture of Abby on the front, and, even more lovely to the RSO, eighty pages of expensive advertisements for banks, cars, credit cards, clothes, jewellery and make-up.
It was also a lovely mild night. The birds were still singing, the sun had just set in an orange-and-pink glow, but to combat any symbolism, the moon was rising out of the Blackmere Woods as Abby arrived. She was gratified not to be able to see an inch of the park round the H.P. Hall for spectators with rugs and picnics.
There was an explosion of flash bulbs, police held back the cheering, excited crowds and there, to Abby’s joy and relief, was Rodney, smiling, rubicund, and waiting at the front door with his silver-and-black cummerbund embedded in his vast belly to the width of a snake belt.
