Appassionata rc-5

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘It’s unlucky to use red-and-white flowers,’ said Miss Parrott in alarm.

  But her concern was drowned in a deafening cheer as Rodney shuffled on, Beatle cap over one eye, leaning heavily on George’s arm. The musicians who’d worked with him in the past were shocked how he’d aged, particularly when they saw what an effort it was for him to climb onto the rostrum and collapse into his chair.

  But as they launched into ‘Happy Birthday’, specially orchestrated by Peter Plumpton, Rodney struggled up from his chair, stretched out his arms, putting his head on one side, and smiling with such sweetness and roguish delight, they were all reassured.

  ‘Oh my dear children — ’ wafting English Fern, he mopped his eyes with a lemon-yellow silk handkerchief — ‘you have no idea how excited I am to see you all again, and some, too, I haven’t met before: great artists.’ He beamed down at Julian and Dimitri. ‘Learning the cello myself has taught me how clever all you string players are.’ Then, glancing at the back of the First Violins, continued, ‘and you, pretty child, must be Noriko, and that lovely little redhead must be Flora.’

  Aware of George watching from the stalls, Flora cringed into the violas with a weak smile.

  Then, to even louder cheers, Rodney whipped out a ‘Save the RSO’ banner, waving it above his head.

  ‘We’ll have no more talk of mergers. I have written to my friend, John Merger — ’ the orchestra giggled in delight — ‘telling him it’s simply not on. What are they going to call this merged orchestra? The RSCCO? — stands for Royal Society for the Continued Cruelty to Orchestras — sums up that gruesome twosome, Gilbert and Gwynneth. I hope their ears are burning because I’m flying back to Rutminster to box them next week.

  ‘You are a symphony orchestra,’ he went on, fierce for a second, ‘and will remain so. As an encore tonight we will play the beginning of the second movement of Tchaik Five, one of the greatest symphonies ever written, with a great horn solo from a great player.’ He blew a kiss at Viking.

  ‘But as you all know that, and the other pieces, Romeo and Juliet and Don Quixote backwards, let’s play the Mozart. Not a day goes by,’ he added in a stage-whisper as Abby strolled in with her fiddle under her arm to a chorus of wolf-whistles, ‘that I don’t envy you having such a gorgeous popsy as musical director. Isn’t she lovely?’

  ‘She certainly is,’ bellowed Abby’s suitors.

  As if she were shrugging off her role as conductor, Abby had abandoned her severe, often deliberately desexing gear, for a clinging orange vest and the shortest, tightest, brown suede skirt, just acquired in a Barcelona boutique. Her newly washed black gypsy curls danced loose down her shoulders. Terror and excitement simultaneously lit her glowing face: the heaven and hell of performance.

  ‘My dear,’ sighed Rodney, ‘what a time to bring those legs out of hiding. I’ll never concentrate. That was a wonderful century you made against the CCO last week, Bill,’ he went on, keeping up the patter, ‘tiddle, om, pom, pom. Did you know carthorse was an anagram of orchestra? Tiddle, om, pom, pom, ready darling?’

  Abby nodded. Surreptitiously, mysteriously, always when a great star is playing, the hall fills up. Stage hands, doormen, cleaners with mops, admin staff were already gathering in the red velvet boxes and creeping into the stalls.

  Rodney raised his baton a couple of inches and brought it down. There was an explosion of sound. Playing the lovely but comparatively undemanding horn accompaniment, Viking listened in wonder. No composer but Mozart, no musician except Abby, could express such sweetness, such caressing tenderness, such extremes of sadness and joy. He watched her breasts and golden arms quivering as her bow darted across the strings, the voluptuous swing of her suede hips, her tossing shining hair, and the rapacious absorption on her proud, hawklike face, and was filled with lust as well as admiration.

  Abby was a good conductor, but her heart constantly fought her head, like a swan struggling across land to some destination. But when she played she flew, all heart, totally committed, as bewitched as the nymphs on the wall.

  ‘We’ll be looking for a new musical director,’ sighed Old Henry, tapping his bow against Francis’s chair-back. ‘Can’t deprive the world of a sound like that.’

  As he joined in the rapturous applause, George was shocked to see how Rodney was sweating, and how much brown make-up came off on the lemon-yellow silk handkerchief when he mopped his brow. He was a ghastly colour, but outwardly full of pride and joy for his protégée.

  ‘I can die happy now,’ he told Abby. ‘The sorrow of that middle movement was almost unbearable. And if I hadn’t known you were the RSO, boys and girls, I could have sworn you were the Berlin Phil.’

  ‘It’s because you’re back, Sir Rod,’ shouted Dixie, then remembering he was trying to pull Abby, ‘and because we’ve got a great soloist.’

  George stepped forward. ‘You must rest, Maestro.’

  ‘Think I’d better, journey took it out of me. Got a lovely chambermaid as siesta-fodder back at the hotel. Got to be as fresh as a daisy for the party later. Lots of champagne, lovely grub: I can open all my presents, and we’ll all behave as badly as possible, toodle-oo everyone.’

  Waving his flag, he adjusted his Beatle cap at a more rakish angle. As he was helped down from the rostrum, the musicians surged forward to shake his hand and show how happy they were he was back.

  Clutching the door leading to the stage, he patted the head of his pantomime cow, whose furry black-and-white body was slumped over the rail waiting to take part in the encore.

  ‘Nice to see my old girl again. Got her a Swiss bell to wear tonight. Connaissez-vous Schoenberg, Madame Vache? No, that’s French, must remember to speak Spanish. Must stop this merger, dear boy, Rannaldini’s such a shit,’ he added, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder, but using it more as a support.

  Abby ran after them.

  ‘I love you, Rodney,’ she stammered.

  ‘And I you, darling.’

  ‘Was I really OK?’

  ‘Better than ever. Utterly breathtaking. Oh, there’s Charlton, how are you?’

  ‘Great, and great to see you, Sir Rod. Fanks for the Scotch, biggest fucking bottle I’ve ever seen.’

  ‘You deserve it, dear boy, after flogging all those miles.’

  ‘Oh, damn you,’ sighed Abby, as a departing Rodney wriggled like an old badger into the back of the waiting limo. ‘Why d’you always have to show me up by being so nice to everyone?’

  She never saw him again.

  In the men’s changing-room, musicians were combing hair over bald patches, running electric razors over their faces, spraying deodorant on earlier layers, cleaning teeth, fighting for the mirror to tie their ties. Those with good bodies wandered round in their underpants. Those already dressed were warming up in the passage outside the conductor’s room. Viking was playing ‘The Teddy Bears Picnic’ when George arrived, looking grim and very shaken, and dragged him into an empty-dressing room. Just as he was leaving the hotel, Rodney had died of a massive heart attack.

  ‘He was so excited,’ George’s voice cracked, ‘his last words were, “I moosn’t be late for my dear children.”’

  The colour drained from Viking’s face; for a second he clung onto a chair, his eyes closed, fighting back the tears.

  ‘Oh Jesus, I don’t believe it. Thank God we saw him one last time. This is terrible.’ Then he pulled himself together. ‘Poor little Abby.’

  ‘I better go and tell her.’

  ‘I’ll tell her. You tell the orchestra.’

  ‘Ought we to cancel the concert?’

  ‘Certainly not, Rodney’s worst thing was disappointing people.’

  The orchestra were devastated — most of them in tears.

  Steve abandoned his noisy row with Knickers about the musicians not having had long enough between rehearsal and concert.

  Abby had just emerged from the shower and was wrapped in a very inadequate olive-green towel, when Viking walked in. At first she
didn’t believe him.

  ‘It’s just another of your obnoxious jokes.’

  Then she went into such raving, screaming hysterics that Viking was very reluctantly forced to slap her face before she collapsed sobbing wildly in his arms.

  ‘I know how you loved him, sweetheart, I know, I know, I’ll look after you.’

  Gradually he calmed her down, pouring her a large brandy from Rodney’s cupboard, then saying he hoped he wouldn’t get sacked for hitting the conductor.

  ‘Cut it out,’ sobbed Abby. ‘Trust you to make jokes.’

  ‘I loved him, too, sweetheart. What are you doing?’ he demanded as Abby reached for her new suede skirt.

  ‘Going to Lucerne to take care of Gisela. She’s worked for him for forty years, for chrissake.’

  ‘You can’t, not yet. You’ve got to go on tonight.’

  ‘Don’t be insane, George must cancel.’

  ‘Rodney would expect it.’

  ‘What about my solo?’

  ‘Mozart played it and conducted at the same time. If you prefer, Julian could play your solo.’

  ‘Like hell he will. Oh Viking, I can’t believe it.’ She broke down again.

  Hearing weeping coming from the conductor’s room, Hilary turned to Juno.

  ‘She must have been Rodney’s mistress to be so upset.’

  ‘Who’s in there?’ asked Carmine.

  ‘Viking,’ said Hilary.

  ‘Trust Viking to cash in on some poor guy’s death to win his bloody bet.’

  The next moment Blue had Carmine against the wall.

  ‘You dirty basstard,’ he hissed.

  Deathly pale in her short pink chiffon dress, Abby looked like a lost masquerader. She left the rose-and-jasmine-woven rostrum empty and conducted from the soloist’s position, from which she could see the shock and deep distress on the faces in the audience, many of whom had flown in from all over the world.

  Cathie Jones brought all her sadness to the solo in Romeo and Juliet. Abby didn’t play the Mozart that followed with as much dash as she had in rehearsal, but even though she had to conduct it at the same time, there was an added depth and sorrow.

  She’s playing a requiem, thought Viking. It was so private, so other worldly, that for a second he was so moved he felt he was going to lose it.

  Everyone was so distraught about Rodney that few people appreciated that this was Abby’s first time playing in public again.

  Mozart was followed by Don Quixote. Tears streamed unashamedly down Dimitri’s face, as he played the part of the Don, Abby nearly broke down, too, as she introduced the piece:

  ‘In the words of your greatest novel,’ she told the audience in Spanish, “I have battled, I have made mistakes, but I have lived my life the best I can, according to the world as I see it.” That sums up the Rodney we all knew and loved.’

  Neither Viking nor Cherub had the heart to get inside the pantomime cow, so the orchestra played ‘Nimrod’, Rodney’s favourite tune. He had always chided the RSO for playing it too slowly.’

  ‘It’s an ode to a mighty hunter, he’s not dead yet, for goodness’ sake.’

  Finally, as a mark of respect, the vast audience filed out in silence.

  The usual crowd of well-wishers and ghouls were queuing outside Abby’s dressing-room. The Press were massing outside. Nicholas was having great difficulty keeping them at bay. Viking caused chuntering and a lot of raised eyebrows when he barged to the front of the queue. Inside he found Abby in tears again.

  ‘Oh Viking, I can’t believe it,’ she wailed, as he put his arms round her. ‘D’you think the orchestra’ll ever love me as much as him?’

  This made Viking laugh.

  ‘Not till you leave them, sweetheart. Let’s go and get wasted,’ then when Abby hesitated, ‘we were his favourites, he’d have wanted it.’

  ‘Give me five minutes to have a shower,’ said Abby, asking as he went towards the door, ‘Was my solo OK?’

  ‘Brilliant, and the conducting.’

  ‘I guess I was just the catalyst.’

  ‘In that case,’ Viking smiled slightly, ‘I’m a member of the Catalyst’s Protection League.’

  Abby was shocked she looked so beautiful and as she smothered herself in Amarige, turning herself on by her caresses, she could already feel Rodney’s ghost egging her on.

  ‘Go on, darling, it’s worth a try.’

  ‘I love you, Rodney,’ she pleaded, ‘and I love Viking, please forgive me, you always said as long as we played well, you didn’t mind what we got up to below the waist.’

  Tiredness hit Flora in the form of the blackest depression. Having bolted in embarrassment when George arrived, she hadn’t seen him to talk to since, because he’d been so busy looking after Rodney and then sorting out the ramifications of his death. All she had to listen to was pesky members of the orchestra speculating as to why he’d come out in the first place. On the coach home from the concert, she found out. Slumped in a seat clutching Foxie, and her black dress, she overheard Hilary and Miss Parrott whispering behind her about Rodney’s death being ‘a merciful release’.

  ‘Ay will miss him,’ sighed Miss Parrott. ‘Even George seemed upset, and he hardly knew him. Is he stayin’ at our hotel?’

  ‘No, riveting news.’ Hilary paused, aware of Flora, who pointedly lolled her head on one side and pretended to snore. ‘You’ll never guess — ’ Hilary went on — ‘he’s staying with his wife, Ruth. She’s got a hacienda,’ Hilary prided herself on her pronunciation, ‘near Marbella.’

  ‘I thought they were divorced.’

  ‘No, only separated, and only by her choice. He’s mad about her, Miles says, got pictures of her all over his home.’

  ‘How romantic if they’ve got together again,’ sighed Miss Parrott.

  ‘Bit of a smack in the eye for Juno,’ said Hilary with satisfaction, ‘she was so certain George was about to pop the question.’

  Jumping at the sound of tearing, Flora looked down at the ripped-open bodice of her only black dress. She’d need it, if she was going to spend the rest of her life in mourning.

  ‘Of course Juno was much too young for him,’ observed Miss Parrott. ‘In his position he’d want someone older and more sophisticated, like that nice Serena who works at Megagram.’

  As the coach doors clanged open, Flora leapt up, out of the coach, up the steps of the hotel. Reprieve awaited her. As she collected her key, the receptionist handed her a telephone number and a message to ring George. She couldn’t bear to wait for the lift and could have won the One Thousand Guineas, at the speed she belted up five flights. She then misdialled the number three times only to get through to her mother, Georgie, who was also on tour, in America.

  ‘Darling, how are you?’

  ‘Fine, absolutely fine.’ Fighting back the tears, Flora slumped on the bed. ‘Did you ring earlier?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago. I’m amazed you got the message. I had to repeat the number about four times. I just wanted to know how it’s all going.’

  Flora couldn’t inject a flicker of animation into her voice.

  ‘I’m OK, Mum. You know tours, up and down, we’re all a bit tired.’ She couldn’t face her mother’s torrent of sympathy if she told her about Rodney. ‘But it’s going well.’

  ‘How are you enjoying Spain?’

  ‘Haven’t seen much of it really. There’s so much going on within the orchestra. How was the concert?’

  ‘Oh terrific, packed out.’

  But her mother didn’t want to talk about that. Like Abby, she’d rung home several times in the middle of the night in the last week, but only got herself on the answering-machine.

  Flora felt a great weariness.

  ‘Dad’s probably asleep, Mum, or pulled out the telephone. You know what he’s like.’

  I can’t face it, she thought in panic, when her mother finally rang off. There must be someone, good, true, safe and constant in the world. I’m a basket case, she thought, as s
he gazed at her wan, white face in the mirror. I’ve just transferred the agony of being in love with Rannaldini to the even worse pain of being in love with George.

  But a man ‘in his position’ was not likely to be interested in a twenty-one-year-old slut.

  When the telephone rang again, she pounced on it in hope, but it was only Nellie saying there was one helluva party going on in Abigail’s suite, the Don Juan, and why didn’t Flora come up.

  ‘I’ve got a migraine,’ said Flora, and hung up.

  FIFTY-EIGHT

  It was one helluva party. In death we are in life. The RSO had played their hearts out. Knowing that Rodney would have wanted it, they now felt an hysterical need to hell-raise.

  Back and forth, back and forth went the waiters with room service. Carmine, orgasmic at the prospect of drink paid for by someone else, kept ordering his own bottles of Krug.

  A splendid sub-party was going on inside Abby’s wardrobe. At least three people, including Simon Painshaw, Ninion and Fat Isobel, had been seen going in. Every so often a hand holding an empty glass would shoot out of the wardrobe. Once it was filled, the door would snap shut again.

  In different rooms of the Don Juan Suite, different wirelesses were blaring. Every time ‘Rachel’s Lament’ was played, everyone stopped drinking or dancing and cheered. Cherub kept turning the lights out.

  Davie, whose sprained ankle was as puffy as a sumo wrestler’s, was using Abby’s telephone. He was desperately trying to clock in with Brünnhilde to explain he’d fallen off the platform when sober, rather than Abby’s balcony when drunk, before any of the orchestra wives at home told her otherwise. But he was so plastered, he kept dialling wrong numbers and was now through to Australia.

  ‘Whatsh the wevver like out there?’

  Cries of admiration greeted the arrival of Viking in a beautiful sky-blue shirt.

  ‘Enough to make a sailor’s trousers,’ sighed Miss Parrott.

  ‘I’d settle for a sailor,’ said Candy sourly. ‘We’re not going to get any joy out of this lot tonight.’