by Jilly Cooper
He was wearing a dark suit that had been made for him two years ago by Rupert’s tailor and a lilac-and-white striped shirt and a purple tie, which Flora had given him for his birthday. Success in the Rachmaninov had given him new confidence, he seemed to walk taller. He is a beauty, thought Abby proudly. They had made love constantly since that first night, and although Marcus still hadn’t got it up, he had given her a lot of pleasure, and was about to graduate (B.Clit) in the geography of female sexual anatomy.
‘It’ll happen,’ Abby kept telling him, ‘you mustn’t have a hang-up.’
‘More of a hang down,’ grumbled Marcus.
At least they could laugh about it and after a couple of glasses of champagne in the bar, they sat very close together in the dark warmth of the theatre, opening their scarlet programmes, watching the lit-up bald head and waving arms of the conductor, aware that the vast audience could hardly wait for the overture to be over so they could catch a first glimse of their god.
Nemerovsky was also known as the third ‘N’, because with Nijinsky and Nureyev he made up the triumvirate of greatest male dancers of all time. His leonine dark head, with the sliding black eyes, the cheek-bones at forty-five degrees and the huge pouting mouth, glared haughtily out from poster and programme.
Back swept the dark red velvet curtains, like labia minor, thought Marcus in his new knowledge. In delight the audience clapped the brilliant set, in which a heaving sailing ship filled with long-legged, wild-haired pirates was wrecked on a rocky shore. The tallest of the pirates, who was wearing a floppy white shirt, black knickerbockers and a red scarf round his forehead, was clearly hurt and was carried ashore by two of his comrades as the ship broke up in a mass of spray and crashing waves.
‘That’s Nemerovsky,’ whispered Abby, as the pirates took refuge behind a rock and a lot of scantily dressed maidens swarmed on and jumped about.
I’m not sure I like ballet, thought Marcus.
Then Nemerovsky recovered from his concussion and suddenly erupted on to the centre of the stage as glitteringly dominant and beautiful as Orion in the winter sky.
Nemerovsky’s leaps were legendary — gasp followed collective gasp as the Corsair seemed to fly through the air, to whirl like a dervish to rise and fizzle like a fire cracker, yet his stillness seemed to freeze audience and orchestra as long as he wanted — so that any spontaneous applause, that could have interrupted the action, also froze on people’s hands.
And watching him, Marcus was lost, totally shipwrecked. He even felt himself groan with despair as the cold, poisoned steel of Cupid’s arrow plunged deep into his heart, routing out any hope of heterosexuality. He realized he was only in love with Abby emotionally and had never really desired a human being before. He looked at Nemerovsky, remembering that Browning poem Flora was always quoting.
‘As one who awakes.
The past was a sleep
And his life began.’
Abby was in raptures, half in wonder for the conductor, who must be having a coronary controlling the orchestra in the face of such unpredictability, half-identifying with Nemerovsky’s star quality. She had once held audiences captive, had been the only one on stage they had looked at. She must, must go back to the violin.
‘He’s got a butt almost as beautiful as Viking’s,’ she whispered to Marcus.
Boris, who was still wrestling with King Lear, only made the last act. It seemed sacrilegious to leave a seat empty for so long.
Afterwards Abby, Marcus and Boris went on to dinner at the Ivy, where they were later joined by Alexei and Evgenia, his stunningly pretty, principal ballerina. The whole restaurant rose and cheered them as they came in, and it was immediately champagne on the dacha.
Boris and Alexei fell on each other’s necks. When, demanded Alexei, was Boris going to write a ballet for him? Marcus was in a complete daze which went unnoticed as the other four gabbled away in Russian. Alexei seemed far more taken with Abby than Evgenia. Occasionally his black eyes slid speculatively over Marcus, and when Marcus couldn’t eat a thing, Alexei calmly forked up his potatoes announcing he was starving.
‘I cannot eat before dancing, I am much too exciting.’
He reminded Marcus terrifyingly of Rupert. He had the same cool arrogance, the same predatory ability to pick off anything he chose. He was now having a terrrific Russian row with Evgenia, because she’d ordered him a Dover sole, rather than Tournedos Rossini, and when Boris tried to defuse things, turned on him as well. Then Alexei emptied a glass of red wine over Boris, Boris emptied one over Alexei and they both smashed their glasses against the wall. The management were just moving in to break the whole thing up when they saw the two dripping men were laughing uproariously and left them to it.
Then as instantly they stopped laughing, because Boris asked Alexei about Russia.
‘There is no money,’ Alexei’s voice was deeper than the Corsair’s ocean, a thrilling, husky, basso profundo, ‘we are crippled by bureaucracy, the Mafia and chaos. There is no hope internally, eet must come from outside. I am OK, I come and go as I please, because I am beeg star. Everyone else is starving. Democracy does not feed people. So I owe eet to geeve my country spiritual uplift. You must come back, Boris, at least make visit.’
Boris, mopping his eyes with his table napkin, was so moved he drained both his own and Evgenia’s glass.
‘As Chekhov say,’ he sighed, ‘Freedom is destiny we may never reach, but we must squeeze slavery out of ourselves drop by drop,’ which reminded him his glass was empty, so he waved at the waiter to bring more bottles.
Trying to include Marcus, Abby told the others that he’d just played the Rachmaninov and Howie was trying to wangle him a date with the Royal Scottish National Orchestra playing Prokofiev’s Third Piano Concerto.
‘My father was friend of Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, his glittering eyes trailing round the table.
‘Just then a beeg grey wolf did come out of the forest,’ he said softly, and threw back his head and laughed showing off long flaring nostrils and the stubble darkening his beautiful strong neck, which had left make-up on the collar of his white shirt.
Oh Christ, thought Marcus, what the hell’s going to become of me? He felt dizzy with longing. Misinterpreting his distress, Evgenia said sympathetically that it was very difficult to make it as a pianist.
‘Marcus is very shy, too,’ Abby told her in Russian.
‘Is he?’ drawled Alexei in English, raising a jet-black eyebrow and staring at Marcus until he went scarlet.
‘Then he must make record in Prague. Until you have record you are nuzzing. To managers, engagers, musical directors, record is all.’
‘Serena at Megagram liked you a lot, Marcus,’ said Boris encouragingly. ‘She vill pick up production cost of record. I vill conduct for free, you will only need a few grand to pay the orchestra.’
‘Great, I’ll help out,’ said Abby eagerly.
Sensing Marcus would like to get off the subject, Evgenia asked Abby about her orchestra. In no time Abby was telling her about the RSO’s financial plight and Rannaldini’s latest act of vandalism, programming an Opera Gala on the same day as their centenary celebrations.
‘Rannaldini is very bad man,’ said Alexei. ‘He conduct in Moscow. Never again, eet was so fast, Swan Lake become Swan Rapids.’
Abby took a deep breath.
‘Oh Alexei, you’re not possibly free on Sunday 7 May to dance at our gala — only for ten minutes or so? It would honestly save us from going belly-up.’
In order to maintain his glitzy lifestyle, Alexei had been known to dance on a pin if the money was good enough but suddenly he agreed to appear at the gala for next to nothing. He and Evgenia would be in Paris at the time. As the gala was on a Sunday they could just nip over for the evening.
‘I would like that,’ smiled Evgenia, ‘I love Vest Country.’
‘You always need vest in Eengland,’ mocked Alexei.
A manic Abby hugged them both.
�
�Oh thank you. That’ll zap Rannaldini and Harefield at Cotchester. People’ll fly in from all over the world to watch you two. What would you like to dance?’
‘Prokofiev,’ said Alexei, shooting a mocking glance at Marcus. ‘Romeo and Juliet. Stony leemits cannot keep love out.’
The waiters, trying not to yawn, were laying tables for the morrow. As they were leaving, Boris gave Alexei a score of Rachel’s Requiem, which had just been published.
‘Who did you dedicate it to, Flora or me or Marcus?’ asked Abby turning the pages. ‘To Astrid,’ she read in outrage.
Boris shrugged: ‘Someone ‘as to babyseet.’
The bridges along the Embankment glittered like necklaces on the night, buds thickened against a dun-coloured sky, the park was full of daffodils.
‘An ’orse guard, an ’orse guard, my keengdom for an ’orse guard,’ yelled Alexei, as the taxi swung into St James’s Street, dropping off him and Evgenia at the Stafford.
Abby and Marcus were staying at the Ritz. In the lift up, Abby put an idle hand on Marcus’s cock.
‘Oh my God.’ She gave a whoop of joy. Perhaps Marcus was suddenly relaxed because Howie was getting him work, and she and Boris were going to make a record with him. Potency was so allied to success.
They were hardly inside the door when Abby turned to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, drawing him towards her, not daring to breathe as she felt him rising against her.
There was no time to wash. She unzipped both their flies and left him to wriggle out of his trousers and boxer shorts as she ripped off the orange trousers of her suit. The next moment they were on the floor and he was inside her.
‘Aaah,’ moaned Abby, ‘that feels so good.’
The sex after that was fantastic. Marcus was so turned on by the thought of Alexei that with eyes shut and in desperate hunger he made love to Abby all night.
‘I knew it would come right, if we gave it time,’ sobbed a joyful Abby.
Marcus was so exhausted he forgot to take his asthma pills and had a bad attack in the morning. Driving back in the afternoon, they agreed not to tell anyone for the moment. Abby, however, couldn’t resist confiding in Flora, who was surprisingly unenthusiastic.
Abby construed this as jealousy because Flora hadn’t got a man at the moment. But Flora, who’d always suspected Marcus was gay, thought the whole thing would end in tears, and in turn couldn’t resist confiding in Viking, who was equally unenthusiastic and drove Abby crackers referring to the Centenary Concert as the ‘Gayla’ because Dancer Maitland and Alexei were taking part.
‘Alexei is not gay,’ yelled Abby, ‘He has a beautiful “partner” called Evgenia.’
Privately Abby was convinced Alexei had only agreed to dance because he fancied her. At any rate she had scored colossal brownie points with the board for providing Alexei, particularly when Declan O’Hara declared himself horrified by Rannaldini’s and the CCO’s attempts to sabotage Rutminster’s centenary celebration.
‘I’m afraid Edith’s lost any real interest in the orchestra since she shacked up with Monica,’ he told George over the telephone and then offered to read Peter and the Wolf at the gala.
Marcus was still reeling from meeting Alexei. He longed to talk to Flora, but felt it would be disloyal to Abby. If only he could have confided in Taggie. As an olive branch he sent her a Mother’s Day card, but heard nothing back.
FORTY-NINE
Once it became known that Nemerovsky and Ilanova would be dancing, the gala became a total sell-out. Miles was panicking how to pack a tenth of the audience into the H.P. Hall when a gilt fig leaf obligingly fell off one of the cherubs adorning the front of the dress circle, just missing the Lady Mayoress. Restoring the cherub’s modesty the following morning one of George’s sharp builders noticed a huge crack in the ceiling over the stalls. Repairs would be lengthy and cost millions.
GALA IN JEOPARDY, trumpeted the Rutminster Echo.
Overnight George came neatly to the rescue, offering, as an alternative, his beautiful park. The previous owner had been a polo fanatic and had levelled a field behind the house. Here the multitudes could stretch out and be charged a hundred pounds a car. George’s builders were soon at work, knocking up a splendid stage and a pit for the orchestra. Venturer Television were covering the gala because their own chief executive was reading Peter and the Wolf and Classic FM would record it. Stands on either side of the stage would seat a thousand people and, in front of the stage, fold-up chairs stretched back for forty rows to join the masses on the polo field.
With tickets ranging from five hundred to fifty pounds and freebies for anyone George wanted to woo, he and the RSO stood to make a killing. George’s white-knight gesture was much applauded by the nationals and the Rutminster Echo. Readers’ letters, no doubt penned by the recipients of George’s backhanders, poured in condemning the H.P. Hall as a potential death-trap, urging that another smaller venue be found for the RSO.
‘Preferably in Cotchester,’ raged Flora to Viking.
‘George has turned the whole thing to his advantage. I bet his builders made that crack so he can pick up H. P. Hall even cheaper. I hope it pisses with rain on the day.’
But the luck of the devil held. After a beastly cold grey, dry blustery April, a heatwave hit England in the week running up to the gala.
The only thing that cheered Flora up was George’s memo on the notice-board typed by Jessica.
‘As the gala takes place on the eve of the Fiftieth Anniversary of VE Day, please note “God Save the Queer”, will be played.’
On the great day Rutminster Hall was patriotically decked with red, white and blue bunting. In deference to the soloists, Irish and Russian flags also hung motionless in the burning air alongside the Union Jack.
As a sweating, grumbling RSO settled down to an afternoon rehearsal under a white hot sun, caterers in red, white and blue striped marquees tried to keep flies off the food, Venturer Television checked camera angles and George’s minions touched up the balcony, already on stage for Romeo and Juliet.
‘Trust George to use overwrought iron,’ said Flora sourly, ‘that balcony’s more suited to a Weybridge hacienda. Where are the carriage lamps and the window-boxes of petunias?’
At least George’s taste hadn’t ruined the park which was lit by white hawthorn exploding like grenades, clumps of white lilac, foaming cow parsley and the candles of the towering horse chestnuts, whose round curves were echoed by plump sheep and their lambs grazing among the buttercups and big white clouds massing on the horizon. Through a gap in the trees, on the banks of the River Fleet, stood a temple of Flora.
‘Just think he owns all this, like Mr Darcy,’ sighed Candy.
‘Mr Nazi,’ snapped Flora. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t introduced peacocks yet.’
‘Why bother with our First Horn around?’ said Clare.
Viking, already bronzed and wearing only fraying denim shorts, was squeezing a lemon onto his hair to lighten it in the sun.
Marcus slumped in the stalls. A huge field of yellow rape on the horizon was wafting noxious pollen like chloroform towards him. Willow, birch and oak in the park, as well as all the blossom, were making it almost impossible to breathe. Only the desire to see Alexei had induced him to brave the rehearsal. He was bitterly ashamed that he had been so distracted yesterday, he’d forgotten to play at a wedding and the poor bride had come down the aisle to no music.
He had brought Flora’s Collected Byron with him, and found the original poem of ‘The Corsair’.
‘There was a laughing devil in his sneer,’ read Marcus.
He should have been at home working on Prokofiev’s Third but Abby had slid into her old trick of enlisting his help with the repertoire. The running order today was the Roman Carnival overture which had a beautiful solo for Cathie Jones; Georgie Maguire singing everything from Gluck to Gershwin; Declan reading Peter and the Wolf; the slow movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth because it had a beautiful solo for Viking, more
songs from Georgie because Dancer Maitland had tonsilitis and finally Romeo and Juliet.
Abby was in a panic about conducting ballet. Rodney had been pragmatic when she called him.
‘They’re never in time, darling. Nemerovsky’s a frightful show-off, he’ll spin everything out as long as possible. Give him a fright occasionally by speeding things up but on the whole it’s best to wait till they land.’
Men were always showing off, thought Abby furiously, look at Viking sitting half-naked on the edge of the stage, making slitty eyes at every passing pretty caterer or waitress.
No-one could work out whether he was acting up because he was going to be hidden in the pit all evening or whether it was the creeping closeness of George and Juno.
Yesterday Abby had bawled him out for cracking three notes in the Tchaikovsky. Viking had proceeded to wake her up at the cottage at four o’clock in the morning to tell her he’d just finished practising, which was belied by howls of drunken laughter in the background. Then to top it, bloody Trevor, the mongrel, had chewed up her new black T-strap sandals bought to wear at the après-gala party and Flora had hardly apologized. She didn’t know what had got into Flora either. She was so ratty. Thank God for Marcus, who was always so sweet.
Declan hadn’t arrived and, as Marcus only had his nose in a book, Abby dragged him unwillingly onto the stage to act as the narrator in Peter and the Wolf.
‘“What kind of bird are you, if you can’t fly?” said the little bird,’ read Marcus sulkily, activating a joyous flurry on the flute from Peter Plumpton.
‘“What kind of bird are you if you can’t swim?” said the duck, and dived into the pond’ and in came Simon with a ripple of notes on the oboe.
‘You’re flat, Simon,’ said Abby.
‘It’s the bloody reed,’ said Simon shrilly.
‘Very appropriate,’ giggled Cherub who was wearing a Christopher Robin sunhat. ‘Ducks live in reeds.’
As Abby moved on to another tricky bit, Marcus felt his blue-denim shirt clinging wetly to his body. He wished he could take it off but the sun would torch his fair skin in seconds.
