by Jilly Cooper
Watching them from the shadow of a weeping ash, Marcus was once more reminded of Peter and the Wolf. The cat (Viking) was sitting on one branch, the bird (Abby) on another, not too close to the cat, and the wicked wolf (Alexei) walked round and round the tree looking up at them with greedy eyes.
God, he’d shoot himself if Abby got off with Alexei, and, if she didn’t, how could Alexei not fancy Viking? thought Marcus in additional anguish.
Viking was wearingjust his denim shorts and his white evening shirt with all the buttons undone, gold hair ruffled, lazy smile showing the chipped very white teeth. His eyes, however, were cool and calculating, a beach-bum on the hunt for a sugar mummy to bankroll him through a long hot summer.
‘The lads are coming out all over Europe,’ he was telling Declan, as he glared at Nemerovsky ‘I’m so sick of being propositioned by gays in the music business, I’m getting an “I love Pussy” T-shirt printed.’
Then he put Abby’s turban on Mr Nugent which Nugent adored.
‘He’s going to open an Indian restaurant the Celtic Mafia won’t get thrown out of,’ Viking told everyone.
Abby tried to be a good sport about the turban and join in the roars of laughter, but underneath Marcus could see she felt hurt and foolish, which was no doubt Viking’s intention.
He daren’t go over and protect her in case Declan collared him. The ash pollen was tightening the band round his chest, he longed to slope off home but couldn’t tear himself away.
If anyone was unhappier than Marcus that evening it was Flora. From the safety of a little summer-house, she could see her mother getting plastered with Declan.
‘I’m just not trying any more,’ Georgie was yelling, ‘I’m on a permanent fault-finding mission, which doesn’t help my poor husband.’
Declan would make a nice stepfather, decided Flora, but Georgie, looking so good at the moment, made her feel fatter and frumpier than ever. She also knew that she would have been fired if her mother hadn’t diffused the dog fight.
All around her people were crowing about the gala pulling in a bigger crowd than Rannaldini and Harefield. If only people would stop talking about him.
A lamb was bleating persistently for its mother in a nearby field, which made her eyes fill with tears. God, the smell of wild garlic was strong. To stop a bristling Trevor wriggling out of her arms and attacking Nugent, who was still getting too much attention in his turban, Flora retreated to the shelter of a great oak tree, and watched George relentlessly working the room.
She also noticed the Steel Elf had piled up her golden hair and changed into a ravishing sea-green dress, Grecian in style and leaving one shoulder bare. Whenever George came across a restless pocket of bored men, he’d feed her in to bat her long blonde eyelashes and charm them. Watching them drool, Flora realized what an asset Juno was to him.
‘What a little cracker,’ said one of new Labour councillors, as she moved away from them. ‘Wouldn’t mind giving her one. Trust George.’
‘There’s no doubt,’ said his Liberal Democrat friend, ‘if George can mount a do like tonight, he can produce a megaplex with one hand tied behind his back. I think we should back him on that supermarket.’
Seeing Flora, they paused.
‘Lovely show, well done.’
Going through the french windows in search of more beef for Trevor, Flora surprised George eating illicit potato salad. He made some attempt at geniality.
‘How d’you enjoy playing in the pit?’
‘Good training for when we’re a super orchestra.’
George’s face hardened.
‘Hallo, George, great party. God, it’s hot.’ It was Lord Leatherhead mopping his very low brow and in search of strawberries.
‘Moost be nearly in the eighties,’ said George. ‘Look at that butter, it’s completely melted.’
‘Makes it easier for you to grease the palms of all those incoming socialist councillors,’ spat Flora.
‘That is no way to talk to your boss,’ said Lord Leatherhead with unusual sharpness.
‘One wonders how such a lovely warm, beautiful woman as Georgie Maguire can have such a bitch for a daughter,’ said George curtly and stalked out into the garden.
Shaken, Flora went in the opposite direction into the hall where she found Miles, Hilary, Juno, Gwynneth and Gilbert in a huddle with Mrs Parker.
‘She spoilt our concert,’ Hilary was saying, ‘wearing those dreadful Union Jack panties and letting that horrid little dog loose.’
Marcus trailed miserably through the park. The white hawthorn bushes were so like fluffy white sheep and their lambs that Marcus half-expected the smaller bushes to run bleating up to the larger ones as he approached.
Declan cornered him in the summer-house.
‘Darling boy, I’m onotterably sorry about the rift with your father. Are you OK?’
The boy didn’t look it; he was wheezing terribly and was far whiter than the cherry trees which were steadily snowing down their petals.
‘I hear you had a great triumph with Rachmaninov.’
‘It was OK.’
‘Taggie sent special, if surreptitious, love.’
Marcus looked up.
‘She did? D’you think Dad will ever forgive me?’
Declan shrugged his massive shoulders.
‘He blames you for Tabitha’s defection. She’s still in the Rannaldini camp, riding wonderful horses in America. He also thinks Rannaldini masterminded your Rachmaninov concert.’
‘But that was George’s doing,’ stammered Marcus, really agitated, fighting desperately for breath. ‘I haven’t spoken to Rannaldini since he married my mother. He’s destroying her.’
‘Let me talk to Rupert.’
‘No, no,’ Marcus shook his head frantically. ‘It wouldn’t do any good.’
What would Rupert do with a gay son? Marcus thought despairingly.
Cathie Jones leant against a wall, empty glass hidden in the folds of her skirt. Blue stood beside her close enough for the hairs on their arms to touch, neither able to speak. For once she didn’t mind that Carmine was in the bushes with Lindy Cardew. Half a dozen people had drifted over in the last half-hour and praised her solo, giving Blue the perfect opportunity to escape, but he was still there.
As the last person moved on, he said: ‘I ought to get you another drink, but I’m terrified you’ll vanish. I’m going to make sure the programme needs a cor anglais when we go on tour in October, then you can come, too.’
A limousine had arrived to take Georgie home.
‘Thank you for a heavenly evening — can I come back soon?’ she asked George and Miles as, swaying on her high heels, she fell back into the car.
‘Of course you can.’
‘And we’re going to lunch.’ She waved at Declan.
‘Indeed we are.’
Then, seeing Marcus, she called out wistfully: ‘Will you say goodbye to Flora for me? I haven’t seen her all night.’ For a second her face crumpled. ‘I’m afraid I embarrass her,’ then pulling herself together, said, ‘Well, thanks everyone.’
But, as the chauffeur moved forward to close the door, he was knocked sideways by Flora hurtling across the gravel.
‘Oh Mum,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.’
Grabbing Trevor, plonking him down on the seat beside her, Georgie pulled Flora into the car, and took her in her arms.
‘It’s OK baby, it’s all right.’
I’ve got no-one to run to, thought Marcus despairingly as the limo bore them away.
To cap it, Howie, having paid court to Hermione in Cotchester, had beetled over to Rutminster to cash in on Abby’s great triumph. Seeing his newest client, he took Marcus’s arm.
‘How’s Prokofiev Five?’
‘It’s Three actually. I’ve got to go, Howie.’
‘Abby asked me to find you.’
Abby was still on the semicircular seat. Alexei was stretched out, his dark head in her lap, smoking a joint
while Evgenia massaged his bony calloused feet.
Howie rushed forward. ‘Hi there, Alexei, I’m your greatest fan. Wonderful concert.’
‘Vonderful,’ said Alexei sarcastically. ‘The public, they clap even when it’s good.’ Then, peering round Howie at Marcus, murmured, ‘Hallo, little peasant.’
‘Hardly a peasant,’ laughed Abby. ‘Marcus’s father owns most of Gloucestershire.’
Marcus stared at them unable to move, his eyes huge and shadowed, his dinner-jacket slung over his shoulders.
‘He’s the one who should play Romeo,’ mocked Alexei.
‘Theese love is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;
Too like the lightning, which does cease to be
’Ere one can say it lightens.’
Howie, who wasn’t interested in Shakespeare, broke the silence.
‘I want Marcus to enter the Appleton, Alexei,’ he said. ‘Help me persuade him.’
‘Piano competitions are sheet,’ Alexei took a drag on his joint. ‘Rachmaninov greatest pianist ever, Clara Schumann, Liszt, Schnabel, Horowitz, Gilels, Pablo Gonzales, none of them went een for competitions.’
‘John Ogdon did and John Lill and Murray Perahia,’ protested Marcus.
‘Ees media circus,’ said Alexei. ‘If someone ees good he come through anyway. Competition is queek passport. Your priority should be long-term aspect of music.’
‘Marcus has to pay the rent,’ protested Abby.
‘Eef you lose competition,’ Alexei took a slug of vodka from the bottle, ‘you are finished.’
‘Not true,’ said Howie, ‘and if you win, OK, you’re made. Here’s my card, Alexei, let’s lunch anywhere in the world, you name it, what’s your favourite restaurant?’
Alexei glanced up at Howie’s waxy sweating face.
‘One een which you are not.’
Tearing Howie’s card into little pieces, he dropped it on the grass.
‘Don’t be so bloody rude,’ said Marcus furiously and stumbled off into the night.
Abby caught up with him by the car-park:
‘What’s gotten into you? You’re not mad because Alexei’s doing a number? I do believe you’re jealous. Oh Markie, you must know you’re the one I love.’
FIFTY-TWO
In the weeks that followed, as Alexei kept ringing up Woodbine Cottage from all over the world, Abby grew more uppity and convinced he had fallen in love with her. Horrified by the conflict inside him, Marcus lavished even more attention on Abby, but suffered fearful guilt. He could still only get it up when he made love by thinking about Alexei.
By day he concentrated on work. Having dispatched Prokifiev’s Third with credit in Glasgow, he now had another concert playing Bartók’s Second Concerto with the Rutminster Youth Orchestra in the pipeline. Persuaded by Abby, Helen and Howie, deliberately ignoring Alexei’s advice at the gala, he had also entered for the Appleton Piano Competition in October. As competitors came from all over the world seeking the twenty-thousand-pound prize, Marcus didn’t even expect to qualify. But if he did, it would be good experience of playing under pressure.
In a Rutminster jeweller, Abby pointed out a ruby ring in the shape of a heart. Knowing Marcus couldn’t afford it, she suggested she bought it instead. But Marcus was adamant. Any engagement ring would be paid for by him.
On the morning after the gala, Flora found a note from Julian in her pigeon hole, summoning her to the leader’s room at five-fifteen, which meant she had to sweat her way through six hours of rehearsals and a lunch-break before she knew her fate.
‘Has Julian said anything to you?’ she asked Abby.
‘Nothing, I guess he’s going to carpet you for the dog fight, flashing those Union Jack panties, and generally having a bad attitude, rubbishing George, and so on.’
‘George is a bastard.’
‘Just because he lent his house to us, and saved the RSO yet again? I don’t understand you, Flora.’
Flora didn’t understand herself at the moment. ‘I just hate playing for this bloody orchestra,’ she said crossly. ‘Perhaps I should switch to singing.’ She had promised her mother last night that she would start taking lessons again.
When she went quaking into the leader’s room, however, and was faced not just with Julian, but Old Henry, Dimitri and Peter, his grizzled desk partner: the firing squad, the RSO suddenly seemed very, very dear to her.
‘I’m sorry,’ she bleated, ‘I didn’t mean to act up.’
‘Sit down,’ said Julian, pouring her a glass of red wine. ‘We wanted to talk to you; we don’t feel you’re very happy.’
It’s the sack, thought Flora in panic, being held open for me to jump into, then they’ll tie it up and drop me at the bottom of the River Fleet.
‘Sally Briggs is getting married next month,’ Old Henry was saying, ‘so she wants her evenings free.’
Sally Briggs sat on the front desk of the violas beside El Creepo. She was a beautiful player who over the years had somehow withstood his wandering hands. Why’s Old Henry beating about the bush? thought Flora miserably.
‘Megagram vant us to record Schubert’s C Major Quintet,’ said Dimitri.
‘So we wondered if you’d like to join our chamber-music group,’ said Julian diffidently.
Flora choked on her wine.
‘Might seem a bit fuddy-duddy,’ said Old Henry apologetically, ‘probably got better things to do with your evenings.’
Flora gazed at them in bewilderment, fighting back the tears, colour flooding her grey cheeks.
‘You’re asking me? I could try,’ she mumbled ‘Oh, my God, it’s the nicest thing. I’ll have to make time to fit in my singing lessons as well.’
‘Of course,’ said Julian. ‘Just think about it.’
‘I don’t have to, I can’t think of anything I’d like better. But you’re all such wonderful players, I’m not nearly good enough.’
‘We’re the best judges of that.’ said Barry.
‘And we need some muffin for the record sleeve,’ smiled Dimitri.
‘He means crumpet,’ said Julian. ‘If you can get to my place tomorrow evening around six. Luisa will provide some kind of supper around half-eight.’
Flora reeled out of the leader’s room, slap into Viking who’d been hovering outside, also terrified she was going to get the sack. He now bore her off to the Old Bell for a drink. They travelled in convoy, Nugent glaring furiously out of the back window of Viking’s car, and Trevor, with his front paws on the dash board, hysterically yapping on the front seat beside Flora.
‘We are divided by our dogs like Montague and Capulet,’ sighed Viking as, abandoning both animals in their respective vehicles, they went into the pub.
Viking was touchingly pleased at her news.
‘It’s no more than you deserve, darling. Think how it’s going to put the toffee-noses of all those bitches, Hilary, Moll — and even Juno,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘out of joint.’
‘I don’t think Abby’s going to be very pleased, either,’ Flora said nervously.
‘Might get her off her ass and make her start playing the fiddle again,’ said Viking.
Viking was right. Abby tried to be generous, but raging inwardly with jealousy, she did start practising again, constantly dragging in poor Marcus to accompany her.
In June, however, she received the splendid accolade of being asked to conduct the London Met in a Sunday-afternoon concert because their principal guest conductor had been rushed to hospital with appendicitis. Abby was in raptures. Rannaldini’s old orchestra was still regarded as one of the greatest in Europe, and this invitation would certainly keep George and the RSO board on their toes. She was slightly miffed that Marcus refused to come up to London to witness her triumph because he wanted to work on the Bartók, but at least he could look after the cats.
Marcus was exceedingly twitchy. The night before Abby’s concert he had had a terrible dream about Alexei, and his beautiful oiled naked body dancing away from
him. He woke pouring with sweat, sobbing his heart out.
‘I dreamt I lost my car keys,’ he lied.
‘That means frustration,’ reproached Abby.
Marcus hadn’t made love to her for three days. Being uptight about Bartók’s Second Concerto wasn’t a sufficient excuse.
As she was leaving the telephone rang. Smirking, buckling the aerial on the top of the back door, Abby waltzed the cordless into the garden, then returned three minutes later still chattering.
‘I guess I’ve broken through the gender gap, right, people no longer see me as the first woman to do this or that, but want to know what kind of artist I am. No, poor Markie’s battling with Bartók Two. I can’t entice him away. Well, if I see you, OK, I see you. Come backstage afterwards.’
‘That was Alexei.’ Smugly Abby switched off the telephone and then scooped up Scriabin, covering him with kisses, then spitting out his fur. ‘He’s stopping at the Ritz. He wanted to know what I, I mean, we were up to. Oh, there’s the car.’
A large black BMW had skilfully made its way up to the splashing stream scattering elderflower petals to right and left.
‘I must go.’ Kissing Marcus lightly, Abby climbed into the back of the limo so she could spread out the afternoon’s scores. A week ago she would have blown kisses and waved until she was out of sight.
It was such a beautiful day. Although the trees had lost the bright, shiny green of early summer, the field sloping upwards from the gate was streaked silver and gold with ox-eye daisies and buttercups, the limes were in flower luring the bees with their sweet, lemony scent. In a frenzy of jealousy and despair, Marcus washed up Abby’s breakfast and last night’s dinner, hoovered the drawing-room, choking on the dust, watered the pink geraniums falling out of the front windows, loaded the washing-up machine, changed the sheets on his and Abby’s bed. He then made a cup of coffee and, wondering why it tasted so disgusting, realized in his disarray he had added a teabag as well. But anything was better than the loneliness of wrestling with Bartók Two. He’d played the concerto his first year at the Academy, but half-forgotten, it was like dragging up an ancient wreck from the bottom of the sea. He must find his own voice but he had to master the notes first.
