Appassionata

by Jilly Cooper

  He was already cleverly infiltrating CCO players into the RSO instead of extras. One of their fiddlers had replaced Bill Thackery on the front desk of the First Violins.

  Nicholas, when badgered, mumbled something about Bill being off with a frozen shoulder.

  ‘More likely, been frozen out,’ said Dixie. ‘Now L’Appassionata’s been given the push, Rannaldini doesn’t need Bill’s vote any more, nor does he have to put up with Bill’s terrible sound.’

  Quinton had moved up to First Horn, but the entire section was shocked to find the Third Horn seat had been filled by Rowena Godbold, the CCO’s charismatic blond First Horn.

  ‘Couldn’t you and I just merge with each other and forget about orchestras,’ said Quinton with a leer, as he followed Rowena’s tight-jeaned bottom up onto the platform.

  Blue, on the other hand, was totally unmoved, sunk into despair. His mobile had been switched on since the tour, but Cathie hadn’t telephoned.

  Little Han Chai couldn’t stop crying over Marcus and was almost too upset to rehearse Beethoven’s Third, her chosen concerto. At first Rannaldini was moderately accommodating, announcing that Northladen General had his mobile number and would ring if there were any change in Marcus’s condition. But he was soon picking on individual players, and talking sinister notes into a pocket computer.

  ‘That is a strange sound your instrument ees making,’ he sneered at Barry.

  ‘That’s because it didn’t have any time for lunch,’ Barry cuddled the sunburnt Junoesque curves of his double bass defensively.

  ‘What does it eet for lunch?’

  ‘Conductors,’ snarled Barry.

  But the laughter was nervous and uneasy. Never had the orchestra been more in need of Viking to raise their spirits.

  It was during the break that the RSO clapped horrified eyes on The Evening Scorpion and realized that poor Abby had not just been the victim of a coup d’état, but also, since Marcus had been outed, of a homosexual conspiracy. Like many departed conductors, she had suddenly become very dear to them. They had only needed a rehearsal to remind them how much they loathed Rannaldini.

  They were also desperately upset about Marcus, as the bulletins grew increasingly bleak. Nor were they the only ones, even those judges who’d taken bribes and frolicked in the chlorine with Rannaldini were deeply shocked that such an outstanding candidate should have dropped out.

  Nor was Benny very happy as the odds shortened on Natalia.

  ‘I want first prize, Rannaldini.’

  ‘Why?’ mocked Rannaldini. ‘Are the others so bad?’

  ‘I only entered because Howie promised you’d see me right.’

  Benny couldn’t face the humiliation of being beaten by a girl, particularly one he had failed to pull.

  Woken fleetingly by the chorus singing fortissimo on a CD of Mozart’s Requiem, finding he couldn’t move and forgetting he’d been deliberately paralysed, Marcus thought he’d already arrived in hell. Standing at the foot of the bed, wafting Maestro, magnificent in white tie and tails, the Prince of Darkness in person, stood Rannaldini.

  ‘Of course he won’t die,’ he was reassuring a sobbing Helen, but his solicitous air was belied by the implacable hatred twisting his face.

  Seeing the panic in Marcus’s eyes and the reading on the ventilator rising sharply, Sister Rose, who was for once reluctant to go off duty, hastily ushered Rannaldini from the room.

  ‘I know you’re worried, but it’s best if he has one visitor at a time.’

  Emerging from the hospital on his way to the town hall, just when it would make a maximum impact and the morning papers, Rannaldini paused for a second.

  ‘Of course I am standing by my stepson,’ he announced smoothly. ‘Eef by some miracle Marcus pull through, what matter eef he is gay. So are many, many of my closest friends. I weesh I could stay longer, but I cannot let down the three young people who play their concertos at the town ‘all. Now eef you’ll excuse me.’

  And as Clive and a huge black basketball player called Nathan, who’d been roped in as an extra bodyguard, held back the ravening paparazzi, Rannaldini slid into his black limo.

  Meanwhile, on the steps of the town hall, Dame Hermione was giving an interview to Sky Television. ‘As a very close friend of Rupert Campbell-Black, my heart goes out to him at this difficult time.’

  Like horses on the tightest bearing rein, Rannaldini drove the RSO through the packed-out evening performance. Anatole played his Brahms concerto magnificently, and was heavily tipped to take the competition from Natalia, although Carl in his plaid coat had brought warmth and almost folksy charm to the Mozart E Flat Major.

  Far west on the coast of Cornwall in their little cottage under the cliffs, Flora, George and Trevor had taken blissful refuge. They had no telephone, nor television and had read no papers for days. Flora, in the nude, had just sung, ‘Where E’er You Walk’, to George, but had got no further than the second verse, because Trevor had thrown back his head and howled and George had pulled her back into bed.

  Running the three of them up supper of rainbow trout, chips and Dom Perignon, Flora suddenly remembered it was the first night of the finals at Appleton, and turned on the ancient wireless to listen to Abby and her friends in the RSO. She was appalled to learn not only that Abby had been ousted but also, in the news bulletin that followed, that Marcus was sinking fast in Northladen General.

  The abandoned chip pan then caught fire and might have burnt down the cottage if George, hearing Flora’s wails, hadn’t rushed in and put it out.

  ‘Rannaldini’s pulled off that merger,’ sobbed Flora, ‘and Marcus is dying of an asthma attack.’

  ‘We’ll fly oop to Appleton at once.’ George drew her into his great warm bear-hug.

  ‘But you wanted a rest from the orchestra. This is meant to be our honeymoon.’

  ‘With you, honeymoons last for ever.’

  All the papers on Sunday morning ran huge stories about Marcus fighting for his life, Helen keeping an all-night vigil, Rannaldini standing by, and Rupert, Nemerovsky and Abby being untraceable. The reporter who’d caught Marcus on the steps of St Theresa’s was delighted with her scoop: CARING SUNDAY SCORPION IN MERCY DASH, said the headline.

  Back in Rutminster, Cathie Jones couldn’t stop crying. Poor sweet Marcus, who’d always been prepared to accompany her, poor Blue so soon out of a job, poor Abby who’d been so kind. Carmine would probably be fired, too. Rannaldini wouldn’t tolerate such bolshiness. Cathie trembled at the thought of her husband at home all day with no-one to kick but herself.

  As Christmas presents, she was planting some indoor bulbs, laying them out in neat piles on the kitchen floor. White bulbs called Carnegie to remind Julian of Carnegie Hall, pink bulbs for Abby, Blue Delft, of course, for Blue.

  The damp bulb fibre squelched in her hands like chocolate cake mix, as she put it into the blue chinese bowls she had bought for fifty pence each at the local market. Tiger the cat had just strolled up to inspect these impromptu earth boxes. Any moment he’d bound through the piles of bulbs mixing up the colours.

  Gathering up the Blue Delfts, she hid them beneath the damp fibre, like me burying my love for Blue, she thought despairingly.

  There were always things to do in the autumn to make winter bearable. When the bulbs came up, probably not in time for Christmas, their sweet smell would be a reminder of bluebells in the summer. Blue bowls, blue bulbs, bluebells, how would she ever get through the winter without him?

  Boris couldn’t sleep, desperately worried about his little friend Marcus and kept awake by the lorries still rattling down Appleton High Street. Suddenly he was roused by a terrible crash. It must be burglars trying to steal the finally completed Lear. Switching on the light, Boris found that the glass rack had fallen off the wall into the wash basin, smashing everything, including his half-full bottle of whisky and the Aramis Marcus had given him for his birthday. He couldn’t see Lear anywhere, and rushed in panic out into the passage, where
he bumped into Deirdre who had also been woken by the crash.

  Having located the manuscript under his pillow, Deirdre, who was wearing a red satin nightgown, invited Boris back to her room for a night-cap.

  ‘You know I’d never vote for a Brit,’ she told him fiercely, ‘but I’m sorry your friend Marcus can’t make it.’

  For a second Marcus thought he had gone to heaven, when he briefly regained consciousness and found sweet Sister Rose smiling down at him. She’d just returned from the day-shift with a pile of CDs. If anyone could make him heterosexual . . .

  ‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ she whispered.

  The next moment Prokofiev’s introduction to Romeo and Juliet poured into the room. Seeing the tears sliding out of Marcus’s eyes into his hair, Rose realized her mistake.

  ‘Oh help, I’m sorry, Nemerovsky danced that at Rutminster, didn’t he?’ Turning off the CD player, she took Marcus’s hand. ‘I was in the audience. My boyfriend and I took the coach all the way down to Rutminster to watch him. He’s such a hero. I understand why you love him.’ She gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you just need to accept that there isn’t only one way to be in life.’

  SIXTY-SEVEN

  At the start of the afternoon’s rehearsal with Benny and Natalia, the orchestra enraged Rannaldini by waving ‘Save the RSO’ banners and all wearing hastily printed ‘Viva L’Appassionata’ T-shirts.

  Miles rushed up in a frenzy.

  ‘Take those bloody things off.’

  To which Nellie promptly obliged, showing off splendid duo-tanned breasts.

  ‘How could you, Nell?’ stormed Militant Moll.

  ‘I think Rannaldini’s rather sexy,’ pouted Nellie.

  ‘If you collaborate, Nellie Nicholson,’ hissed Candy, ‘we’ll shave all your hair off.’

  By the time they’d changed into less subversive gear, Blue noticed that Cyril, who’d been knocking back Bumpy’s Scrumpy at lunch-time, was missing. Blue was about to send Lincoln to find him, when yet another highly embarrassed French horn player from the CCO slid into the Fourth Horn’s place.

  ‘Where’s Cyril, Knickers?’ shouted Blue.

  Knickers was too distraught to answer. If Rannaldini kept feeding in extras, he’d be out of a job.

  ‘Cyril’s been sacked,’ said Rannaldini coldly.

  ‘For the second day running he was drunk when he arrived at the hall,’ said Miles sanctimoniously.

  Blue rose to his feet.

  ‘I’m going too, then.’

  ‘Sit,’ howled Rannaldini. There were demanding solos for the Second Horn in both the evening’s concertos.

  ‘Don’t talk to me like Barbara Woodhouse,’ snapped Blue, then all the colour ebbed from his face as his mobile rang.

  Only Cathie knew the number. With a trembling hand, he switched it on.

  ‘Blue.’

  ‘My darling.’

  ‘I’m leaving Carmine.’

  She had piled the children, the ducks, the hens, Tiger the cat, and all the bulb bowls into the car.

  ‘Go to The Bordello. Mrs Diggory’s got the key,’ said Blue softly. ‘There’s plenty of whisky and tins in the larder and lots of catfood. The ducks and hens won’t hurt in the kitchen till I get there. I’ll be as quick as possible. I love you. Yippee!’ yelled Blue as he switched off his mobile. ‘Yippee!’

  Momentarily roused out of their despondency, the RSO looked at him in amazement.

  ‘Where are you going?’ screamed Rannaldini.

  ‘Over the hills and as far away as possible,’ said Blue. ‘I’m not playing your fucking concert.’

  ‘Then you’re fired.’

  ‘Good, you can send on my redundancy money.’

  ‘Is Blue drunk, too?’ whispered Cherub in awe to Davie Buckle.

  ‘Only with ‘appiness,’ said Davie.

  Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic forty-eight-hour break in an ancient castle high up in the Czechoslovakian forests had not been a success. Taggie had had a punishing eighteen months anyway looking after Bianca, and coping with Xav undergoing a final and completely successful operation to straighten his eyes. She had then had to keep him quiet and happy during his convalescence. But she had had a far more difficult task trying to soothe Rupert as he became increasingly outraged and miserable over the defection of both Marcus and Tabitha, although he had been far too proud to approach either of them. Abby’s interview with Beattie in The Scorpion had destroyed him, although again he wouldn’t admit it.

  Rupert, on the other hand, was aware that he had been giving his sweet wife a rotten time, and had insisted they went away for a break without Bianca and Xav. He was then appalled how much he missed them.

  ‘They’re bloody well coming with us next time,’ he told Taggie as the helicopter landed on the racecourse at Pardubika.

  ‘And Marcus and Tabitha, too,’ Taggie wanted to plead. But she didn’t want to set Rupert off before a big race.

  The course itself resembled the park of some great house, with massive beech hedges, yew colonnades, long lakes and banks acting as fences. Goodness – they looked massive.

  The off for the Czech Grand National was in an hour and a quarter. Rupert went straight to check on Penscombe Pride, who’d spent the night in his large, luxurious, dark blue lorry. But before he could look at the horse, Dizzy, his head groom, beckoned him up the steps into the living-room area of the lorry.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come.’

  ‘What’s the matter? It’s not Pridie?’

  ‘You better see this. I’m sorry, Rupert, but the Press are everywhere.’

  Rupert took one look at yesterday’s Evening Scorpion. On the front page was a startled wide-eyed photograph of Marcus at his most delicately beautiful: RUPERT’S SON IS GAY said the huge headline.

  It was as though he’d always known it.

  ‘So?’ he turned on Dizzy.

  ‘And Flora Seymour’s just rung from Appleton,’ stammered Dizzy, quailing in the blast of such ice-cold rage. ‘She says Marcus has collapsed with the most dreadful asthma attack. He’s in intensive care at Northladen General. Helen didn’t want you to be “bothered” , but I think he’s really, really ill. He’s been on a ventilator for twenty-four hours. He’s had to pull out of the piano competition,’ Dizzy’s voice cracked. She had known Marcus since he was three. He’d always been such a kind gentle little boy. ‘Flora left a number,’ she added.

  ‘Well, get her, for fuck’s sake.’

  Having taken in the caption ‘Nemerovsky’s Little White Dove’, Rupert skimmed the front-page copy.

  ‘Gay deceiver, Marcus Campbell-Black, pretended to be straight to woo millionaire-maestro Abby Rosen after his super-stud dad, Rupert, cut him off without a penny. But all the time Marcus was cheating on his lovely fiancée with mega-star ballet dancer, Alexei Nemerovsky. (Continued on pages 4-5)’

  Ripping the pages in his fury as he found the place, Rupert discovered other headlines:

  ‘THE STATELY HOMO. L’APPASSIONATA FLEES. RED IN HIS BED. A PRINCIPAL WITH NO PRINCIPLES’ above huge photographs of himself, Abby and Alexei. There was even a picture of Woodbine Cottage with a caption: ‘Fag Cottage’.

  Irrationally, Rupert wondered how Nemerovsky felt about getting fourth billing. His eyes seemed to fill with blood. He felt a thrumming in his head.

  ‘Here’s Flora for you.’ Nervously, Dizzy pulled him back to earth.

  ‘I think he’s dying, Rupert.’ Flora’s voice was shriller than ever with anxiety. ‘The hospital are worried stiff, although they’re keeping up a pretence that his condition is stabilized. I know you’ve had a row, but Marcus really, really loves you. He did everything for your sake. All that mattered to him was you not thinking he’d been an utter failure as a son.’

  ‘I hardly think this latest escapade—’

  ‘Oh shut up, let me finish. He never betrayed you with Rannaldini. He tried to stop Helen marrying him, and he’s refused eve
r to speak to Rannaldini since then, he’s too loyal to you. He’s utterly, utterly honourable. Please go to him.’

  ‘I’m not having anyone dictating—’

  Flora lost her temper.

  ‘People who live in bloody glass historic houses shouldn’t throw stones. If you hadn’t carried on like a rabbit when Marcus was a child – causing scandal after scandal – what did you do in the Circulation War, Daddy? – and given him the tiniest bit of support, he wouldn’t have needed to search out father-figures like Malise or Nemerovsky.’

  ‘Have you finished?’ hissed Rupert.

  ‘Yes . . . but please go to him. It’s the one thing that might save him.’

  ‘What the fuck else do you think I was going to do?’

  ‘It’s Room Twenty-Five on the second floor,’ said Flora, and hung up.

  The dearest and most precious horse Rupert had ever owned and trained was about to run in the most treacherous and demanding race in the world. Most people thought Pridie was past his best, and should not be subjected to such an ordeal. Nor had worry about this helped Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic break.

  Dizzy had told Taggie about Marcus. Rupert was ashen as he came down the steps of the box. Taggie ran to him, holding him in her arms, feeling him rigid with shock.

  ‘Oh darling, poor Marcus, poor you, we must go to him.’

  ‘What else can we do?’ said Rupert bleakly, then, turning to Dizzy: ‘Tell the pilot to refuel.’

  Pridie whickered with relieved delight at the sight of his master and nearly pulled Sandra the stable girl over as he bounded down the ramp. He had been bred at Penscombe and had never run a single race without Rupert. Having given him a couple of Polos, Rupert quickly felt the little horse’s legs, praying he could find some swelling or heat to give him an excuse to pull him. But they were perfect, and Pridie’s coat gleamed in the soft autumn sunshine, redder and brighter than any of the RSO cellos.

  Briefly Rupert hugged his old friend.

  ‘We’re going to have to cope without each other. Pray for me, Pridie.’