by Jilly Cooper
Dropping the twig in his glass of Perrier, stealing a last glance in the mirror, Alexei touched George’s square blushing face with the back of a careless finger.
‘You are good guy, I will dance for you.’
Evgenia was waiting outside, bent over, arms flopping loosely, as graceful as one of George’s willows.
He’s on his way, a rumble of excitement went round the vast crowd, who were really squashed now as more and more people flowed in from Cotchester. Floodlighting added splendour to the towering trees and the battlements of the house.
Dropping his wolf-coat in the wings as if he were shedding the years, Alexei strutted on, nostrils flaring, dark head thrown back to show off the wondrous slav bone-structure, half-smile playing over the jutting lips, thrust-out chest beneath the floating shirt descending to the flattest belly, above long strong white legs, rippling with muscle. Alexei had no need of the older dancer’s disguise of black tights. There was strength and arrogance in every inch of his lithe youthful body.
‘Oh Christ, help me,’ murmured Marcus.
Never had the RSO strings played with such swooning lyricism. Alexei crept behind the pillar, the lurking lover quivering with anticipation.
Justin woken by the applause, however, had other ideas.
‘Dad, Dad, why isn’t that man wearing any trousers?’
There was a horrified pause.
‘That man’s got no trousers on, Dad.’
‘Expect he’s been playing in the pit,’ said the Labour councillor’s husband with a guffaw.
‘Shut up!’ hissed an anguished Marcus.
‘Dad, Dad, why’s that man got a big willy?’
‘It’s called a codpiece, Justin,’ said Gilbert, who believed in reason.
‘Shut up, you little fucker,’ hissed Marcus, who didn’t.
‘More like an ‘ole cod in there,’ said the Labour councillor’s husband. ‘They cover that bulge in foam padding so you can’t see the meat and two veg.’
A rumble of embarrassed laughter was already sweeping the stalls. Marcus wanted to die. Alexei swung round glaring directly in his direction. The laughter died. Alas Gwynneth had been far too busy chuntering over the dog fight and Alexei’s bad behaviour in the interval to eat anything. In her greed, she had emptied a plate of canapés into her Red Riding Hood basket to eat during Romeo and Juliet. Choking on a Scotch egg, she couldn’t stop coughing.
Alexei waited, then, when Gwynneth, puce as an aubergine, carried on, raised a regal hand and halted both orchestra and Evgenia, who by this time was floating down the staircase, skirts swirling.
‘Weel the old lady who ees bent on destroying thees concert,’ Alexei’s acid drawl echoed round the whole park, ‘please either cough everytheeng up now, or get out.’
The dreadful pause seemed to last for ever as Gwynneth stumbled out, then Alexei turned to Abby: ‘We are ready to dance, Maestro.’
Briefly he looked drained and middle-aged under the spotlight, then as the doom-laden, swooningly romantic music swept through the park, the years disappeared again. Evgenia danced angelically, but it was Alexei’s passion that took the breath away. He didn’t just dance, he became the young lover, awkward, shy, bewildered, reverent, deliriously happy by turns, holding Evgenia so tenderly, then releasing her to dance as if he’d opened a window for a trapped butterfly. Then he would leap into the air, showing off with wild grace. Look what I can do. Watch me touch the stars for love.
Wait till he lands, Abby told herself grimly, but time and again as Alexei hovered over the stage, it seemed he would never come down and the poor strings would run out of bow, and the woodwind and brass out of puff.
But as they danced on through the darkening night until the moon rose huge and pink over Rutminster Cathedral, everyone forgave him the delay and the tantrums.
Oh God, sighed Marcus, if only I were Juliet.
The applause went on for twenty minutes. Stepping over the flowers carpeting the stage, Alexei and Evgenia returned again and again. Pale and drawn, but with eyes glittering with elation, Alexei took up his position on Juliet’s balcony and, with princely wave after princely wave, raised each section of the orchestra to their feet, giving the longest stand-up to the strings, which was much appreciated as they were so often taken for granted.
‘Look at the old queen on the balcony,’ scoffed Viking.
‘He’s not a queen,’ protested Blue. ‘He was really French kissing Evgenia.’
‘I think he’s wonderful. Bravo, bravo, Alexei,’ cried Cherub excitedly.
Indignantly Abby noticed Viking was back on his chair squeezing Evgenia’s little hand every time she passed. But all her indignation was forgotten because of the deafening cheers when Abby joined the others on the platform and Declan kissed one hand and Alexei the other.
I’m with my peers, thought Abby joyfully, as they bowed again and again to the sea of happy ecstatic faces.
Stamp, stamp, stamp, thundered the feet.
Choking from the dust, Marcus thought how boyish Abby looked. She had thrown away her turban and slicked back her hair like Valentino to show off the amazing yellow eyes. Alexei was burying his big mouth in the palm of her hand again. Christ, things were complicated.
‘Encore, encore,’ the great rumble grew louder.
‘I ’ave idea,’ whispered Alexei, sending Abby back to the rostrum.
Once again, he only lifted a hand for a hush to fall.
‘It ees nearly meednight, we must all celebrate the most beautiful words in the twentieth century—’ his voice thrillingly deepened and broke slightly – ‘Veectory in Europe.’
The next moment he and Evgenia had broken into ‘The Lambeth Walk’, up and down the stage they danced so merrily and charmingly, followed like two baby elephants by Georgie and Declan, and the crowd bellowed their approval, and all over the polo field and in the aisles between the seats people jumped to their feet singing and joining in. Even Marcus found himself clamped to Peggy Parker’s maroon bustier.
‘We must finalize a date for my soirée, Sonny’s hard at work on your concerto,’ she shouted over the din, completely disproving the myth that fat women are light on their feet.
At midnight the fireworks went off, red, white and blue soaring into the sooty sky, writing VE Day across the stars.
Seeing Flora crying, Viking leant across and put a hand on her shoulder.
‘Cheer up, darling, you know what VE stands for?’
‘W-w-w-what?’
‘Viola Extinction Day, of course.’
FIFTY-ONE
It was a measure of George’s heavies that they dispersed the multitudes at amazing speed and soon only three hundred guests were left to enjoy Dom Perignon, asparagus, lobster Nemerovsky, cold roast beef, loganberry ice-cream and meringue Evgenia under the stars.
Everyone was desperate to meet Alexei. But, as if to protect himself from boring conversation, he had retreated with a vodka bottle through the cow parsley to a pale green semicircular bench under a big clump of white lilac and proceeded to flirt outrageously in Russian with Abby. Also in the same rowdy over-excited group were Georgie, Declan and Viking, who were all getting plastered and arguing about the peace process, and Evgenia, who seemed content to sit quietly retracing her steps in her head, sipping orange juice and relishing the taut warmth of Viking’s body and his hand on the seat behind her occasionally stroking her hair. Nugent sat beside them, pink tongue hanging out from the great heat and to pull in the pieces of roast beef everyone was giving him.
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 den
im 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 s
hadowed, 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.