by Jilly Cooper
The five-minute bell put an end to his brooding. He had never seen a hall so packed. People were tumbling out of boxes, sitting in the aisles and on the edge of the stage, standing four deep along the back and virtually swinging from the chandelier which hovered overhead like some vast lurex air balloon.
The orchestra were already on stage tuning up. The only man in the place blonder than Rupert was the leader of the orchestra, Julian Pellafacini, an albino with a deathly pale skin, almost white hair curling over his collar and bloodshot eyes hidden behind tinted spectacles. Julian was such a brilliant musician, sat so straight in his chair at the front of the first violins and had such a sweet, noble expression on his thin bony face as he smiled reassuringly round at the other musicians, that their only desire was to play their hearts out for him.
But, beneath his air of calm as he chatted idly to the co-leader beside him, Julian was deeply apprehensive that Rannaldini would destroy his beloved orchestra. Now, for example, he was making them even more nervous by deliberately keeping them waiting.
The merry chatter in the audience grew louder as the glamorous bejewelled women tried to identify Rupert. Rupert, however, was scowling at a tall, self-important man with a leonine head and a glossy dark beard, emphasizing firm red lips, who was thanking the row in front in a loud booming voice for letting him in.
Rupert loathed beards and he thought the man looked like one of those ghastly Mormon fathers, photographed in colour magazines surrounded by hoards of adoring wives and children, and probably fiddling with the lot of them. He was affectedly dressed in a frock-coat with a scarf at the neck secured with a big pearl tie-pin. Rupert shuddered. By strange coincidence the man was now smugly and noisily informing the admiring redhead on his right that he was Christopher Shepherd, Abigail Rosen’s agent, and showing her a haughty, head-tossing picture of his artist on the front of Time magazine.
Halting in mid-shudder, Rupert was about to tap Christopher Shepherd on the shoulder and make his number, when the orchestra rose to their feet and in swept Rannaldini to demented applause. For a second, he glared round at his new orchestra and raised his baton. Then the down-beat dropped like a hawk, introducing the first doom-laden octaves of the overture to Verdi’s The Force of Destiny.
Rupert was tone-deaf and bored to tears by music, but he’d had plenty of practice in being bored and deafened in the last fortnight, and he had to admire the way Rannaldini drew his orchestra together. He might be small but he controlled every note, every nuance, every silence. There were also some ravishingly pretty girls in the orchestra, their split black skirts showing a lot of leg, their eyes going down to their music then up to Rannaldini as they bowed and blew with all their might.
Rannaldini, despite his icy exterior, was in a blazing temper. He had not only been vilely humiliated by Kitty leaving him, he had also been vastly inconvenienced. In one swoop, he had lost his whipping boy and his skivvy, who had tolerated his endless ex-wives, children and mistresses, run his four houses and masterminded his multifaceted career with incredible efficiency.
Since Kitty had walked, or rather galloped, The Prince of Darkness out of his life, Rannaldini had gone through three PAs in New York. The fourth, on the verge of a nervous breakdown, had booked him into the BA Hilton, where his mâitresse en titre, the great diva, Hermione Harefield, from whom he was trying to distance himself, was staying, instead of the Plaza in the suite next to Abigail Rosen. Even worse, the new PA had failed to order a white gardenia for his buttonhole, and, worst of all, she had forgotten to pack his tail-coat. Rannaldini had been reduced to pinching one off the Hilton’s very reluctant head waiter, which was far too big, and every time he raised his arm he got a whiff of minestrone.
Rapturous applause greeted the end of the overture, but it was nothing to the uproar of stamping, cheering and wolf-whistles that detonated the hall when Abigail Rosen erupted onto the platform. Rannaldini gave her several lengths’ start and speedily jumped onto his rostrum to disguise the fact that she topped him by at least three inches. He then waited impatiently, baton tapping, as she shook hands with the albino leader, then bowed and smiled at the orchestra before bowing and smiling at the audience.
Her straight, thick black brows above the tigerish yellow eyes, her hooked nose, huge drooping red mouth, wide jaw, thick dark curly hair, only just restrained by a black velvet bow and marvellous sinewy body, made her look almost masculine. But Rupert had never seen such a sexy girl. Her wonderful long legs were shown off by the briefest black-velvet shorts, while a fuschia-red sleeveless body stocking, emphasized strong white arms, a broad rib cage and high, full breasts.
Totally over the top, yet flaunting the fact that she’d earned them, were the huge diamonds that flashed on the bracelet on her left ankle, as though ice flakes had drifted down from the great chandelier overhead.
And she certainly detonated her fiddle. The Brahms concerto is so difficult it was originally described as having been written against the violin. After a very emotional beginning with a heaving ocean of sound, the orchestra plays on for three minutes before the soloist comes in.
During this agonizing wait, Abigail seemed to quiver like a mustang trapped in the starting gates. And when she picked up her bow, even Rupert had never heard anyone play with such raw passion and vitality, her fingers flickering like flames, her bow gouging out sound like a trowel digging for treasure. She played with total concentration and a wild threatening energy, and gave wonderful flourishes of the bow at the end of every important phrase, as she prowled around the stage, scent wafting from her hot body.
There was also something infinitely touching, when she wasn’t playing, in the way she rested her head like a weary child on her two-million-dollar Stradavarius, and so spontaneous when she swung round and grinned at the first oboe, who’d gone quite puce in the face playing the ravishing opening to the slow movement.
Several times, however, she turned to scowl at Rannaldini, his stillness a total contrast to her incessant movement. With his sinister pallor, midnight-black eyes and cloak-like tail-coat, he was a dead ringer for Dracula. Rupert was glad Abigail kept making a cross of bow and fiddle to ward off the bastard’s unrelenting evil.
She had now taken up the first oboe’s luminous, hauntingly beautiful tune. Glancing sideways Rupert saw that tears were trickling down the wrinkles of the old woman beside him.
‘Mon dieu, oh mon dieu.’
As Rupert passed her his handkerchief, his thoughts wandered to Xavier, poor little sod, what chance did he have? Rupert had read that lasers could cure a squint and work wonders with birthmarks. But he mustn’t think like that. Taggie couldn’t cope with two children, particularly one so retarded he couldn’t even walk.
The orchestra were into the last movement now — a manic, joyous gypsy dance with terrifying cross-rhythms. Rupert could see the white glisten of Abigail’s armpits, the dark tendrils glued to her damp forehead. God, she was glorious. There couldn’t be a man in the audience who didn’t want to screw the ass off her.
She was plainly into some horse race with Rannaldini, faster and faster, neither willing to give in, both her bow and his baton a blur. The faster they went the more the great chandelier trembled and shot out glittering rainbows of light.
And at the end when the bellows of applause and the storm of bravoes nearly took off both roof and chandelier, Rupert noticed that although Abigail collapsed into the arms of the albino leader and reached out to shake hands with the principals of the various sections of the orchestra, she snatched her fingers away when Rannaldini tried to kiss them.
This was followed by an insult more pointed, when a pretty little girl in a pink-striped party dress presented her with a bunch of red roses and she promptly handed one to the First Oboe who had played so exquisitely.
‘Viva L’Appassionata,’ roared the audience, until she came back and played a Paganini Caprice as an encore.
The orchestra, who could temporarily forgive a hard time in rehearsal if
the concert was a success, were looking happier and, in homage to Abby, the string players rattled their bows on the backs of the chairs in front, until Julian led them off for the interval.
The only person, surprisingly, who seemed put out was Christopher Shepherd, who’d been making furious notes on the back of his programme, and who promptly disappeared backstage to see his illustrious client.
Deciding also to give Mahler’s Fourth in the second half a miss, Rupert followed him, defusing the heavy security on the stage door with a good wad of the dollars he’d been paid for Taggie’s ticket. Hearing Rannaldini’s screams and seeing smoke coming out of the conductor’s room, Rupert nipped behind a double bass case and nearly bumped into Rannaldini’s mistress, Hermione Harefield, who was waiting to sing the soprano solo in the Mahler. She was wearing a white dress, which looked as though a swan had forgotten to blow dry its feathers, and was making it impossible for a make-up girl to touch up her lipstick as she screeched: ‘Abigail Rosen and I had a no-encore agreement.’
‘Shut up you stupeed beetch,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
And off they went. Hermione got her revenge by making the slowest entrance in musical history, trapping Rannaldini like a car behind a hay wain on a narrow road.
The crowd, who had turned up backstage to congratulate Abigail and get their programmes signed, were disappointed when Christopher Shepherd went grimly into her dressing-room and locked the door.
The manager of the opera house was almost in tears over the vast fees he was having to fork out for Abby, Rannaldini and Hermione. They cost more than the box-office receipts for the whole evening, he moaned, and he hadn’t paid the orchestra yet, nor the marketing people.
‘Rannaldini ees impossible,’ he told Rupert bitterly. ‘He finded out how much L’Appassionata get, and refuse to come out of his room until he get more. He complain about her having too much publicity. Then when I arrange press conference he storm out, because someone ask heem if his wife is coming back. Wise lady to stay away.
‘Hermione is just as ’orrible,’ the manager went on, ‘she see proof of programme and posters, then wait until they are printed to complain they are not OK.’
The poor man was only too happy to accept a further wad of green backs in return for secreting Rupert in the dressing-room next to Abigail’s. On the adjoining balcony Rupert could hear everything that was going on between her and Christopher Shepherd.
Howard Denston and Christopher Shepherd were the most successful agents in New York. Power brokers, they moved conductors, soloists and even entire orchestras around the world like chess pieces. Known as Pimp and Circumspect, they complemented each other perfectly. Howard Denston (also known as Shepherd’s Crook) was a beguiling wide boy from the Bronx who pulled off the shadier deals and lent on unwilling debtors. Totally amoral, he was only turned on by the big deal. Christopher Shepherd, radiating integrity and Old Testament authority, provided the agency’s respectable front.
Christopher had orchestrated Abby’s career from the start, settling fees, monitoring her promotion, providing encouragement and advice. Abby tended to play what he told her to, because unlike most agents, he was musical, playing the piano and possessing a fine tenor voice. Having starred in many amateur productions, he saw himself very much as Rodolfo in La Bohème. Hence the frock-coat and the pearl tie-pin.
Christopher had a parental attitude to his artists. He was aware of the insularity of soloists, the insecurity of conductors. He knew that this resulted in huge egos that needed the public far more than the public needed them, and that they responded as much to bullying as encouragement.
The instant he locked the door of Abby’s dressing-room, she lived up to her L’Appassionata nickname. Dropping the red roses she was putting in the basin, she bounded forward, flinging her arms round his neck, writhing against him, covering his face, that wasn’t obscured by dark brown beard, with kisses.
‘Was I OK? Was I really OK? Omigod, I’ve missed you. How long can you stay on in the UK? Did you like the encore? I need you, oh Christo, I want you so bad.’ She started to fumble with the pearl pin, then changed her mind. ‘No, let’s go back to the Plaza, I can’t be bothered to change.’
Abby had a clear, carrying voice, which had shed most of its Bronx accent and which squeaked endearingly when she got excited. Christopher, however, was in no mood to be charmed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Repelled by her trembling, burning sweatdrenched body, which had once excited him so unbearably, he prised off her hands and shoved her away. ‘How in hell can you expect to be taken seriously, right, when you come onto the platform dressed as a hooker? Those hot pants are so tacky.’
Pulling up a chair and like Rodolfo sitting on it back to front, as if to protect himself from further sexual assault, he asked: ‘Where are those gowns Beth bought for you?’
‘They’re too hot.’ Abby would have added too middle-aged and too frumpy, but she didn’t want to insult Christopher’s wife.
‘And why in hell are you wearing that even tackier diamond bangle round your ankle? We all know you’re coining it. Dressed like that, you’re an insult to Brahms and a brilliant conductor.’
Abby was already prowling round the little room but at the reference to Rannaldini her contrition evaporated.
‘He’s a monster,’ she howled. ‘He screwed me on every tempo, dragging or pushing me on. I nearly unravelled in the last movement.’
‘Has it entered your thick head that he might be right? He only happens to be the greatest interpreter in the world.’
‘Only because he makes the most bucks. That’s all you care about. He’s an asshole.’
‘Don’t be obnoxious,’ exploded Christopher. ‘Why must you always telegraph the fact you come from the gutter, and how dare you snatch your hand away when he was gracious enough to kiss it.’
‘Bloody Judas kiss, right? The orchestra detest him, and he’s only been with them a few days. They were really complimentary,’ she added wistfully. ‘Julian Pellaficini said I reminded him of David Oistrakh and he’s played the concerto loads of times himself.’
Christopher looked at her pityingly.
‘Don’t kid yourself your exquisite sound had anything to do with the ecstatic smiles on the musicians’ faces. They only rattled their bows so joyfully because your ostentatious and unauthorized little encore pushed them into overtime. And all that posturing and writhing is so unnecessary. Give the audience an orgasm if you must, but please don’t have one yourself.’
‘That’s because you’re not giving them to me any more,’ said Abby sulkily.
Like a neglected wife, finding comfort in a child, she picked up her Strad and dusted it down, before putting it lovingly in its case, and tucking it up in a periwinkle-blue silk scarf.
‘Thank you, little fiddle.’ She dropped a kiss on its curved scroll, then turned defiantly towards Christopher. ‘I’m not playing for that son-of-a-bitch again.’
‘Sure you are.’ Christopher opened the fridge. ‘You’re gonna record all the Mozart concertos with him and the New World Symphony Orchestra, for starters.’
‘Like hell I am. Fix me a vodka.’
‘You’re staying sober.’ Christopher poured her a glass of Perrier. ‘C’mon, you don’t want to catch cold. Get showered and changed. And at dinner you will turn on what little charm you have. “Thank you for making music with me, Maestro, I was only acting up because you’re so awesome, Maestro. I’m sorry I broke the no-encore agreement, Miss Harefield.” You cannot afford to make enemies.’
‘Because you want to sign them both up,’ hissed Abby. ‘All right, I’m sorry.’ She was near to tears now. ‘I just want us to be alone.’
But as she peeled off her fuchsia-red body stocking, Christopher reached for her dressing-gown. The size of her breasts no longer turned him on, only her enormous royalties.
‘Please kiss me,’ begged Abby, ‘perlease.’
‘We haven’t got time.�
� He was now flipping through her good-luck cards to see if they were from anyone important.
‘I’ve got a feeling Beth suspects us,’ he added.
On her way to the shower, Abby halted in horror.
‘Oh no, she’s been like a mom to me.’
‘Well, you haven’t behaved like a daughter to Beth,’ said Christopher brutally.
‘How did she find out? Oh my God, this is awful.’
‘People are talking.’
The corniest way of dumping a woman in the world, thought Rupert scornfully. Christopher was even more of a tosser than he looked. Rupert needed a large drink, and he had heard enough.
Emerging from the Artists’ Bar ten minutes later, he found Hermione coming off the platform still screeching. Not only had Abby got higher billing, but her applause had lasted four times as long. Seeing Rupert, however, Hermione halted in mid-screech like a child spying a tube of Smarties.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black, you’ve come all the way from Penscombe to hear me sing.’
‘I have too,’ lied Rupert. ‘You were sensational.’
‘Then you must join us for dinner. Just Rannaldini, me and Christopher Shepherd. He’s charming, and Abigail Rosen, she’s a spoilt brat, but we don’t have to bother with her.
‘There’s an official reception first at the British Embassy, I must look in because they’d be so disappointed,’ she added, as they were both nearly sent flying by musicians, already changed, charging out to find the nearest bar. ‘But you can come too,’ she shouted over the stampede. ‘Then we’re going on to dinner at Wellington’s.’
The official reception, like all the diplomatic parties Rupert had ever been to, was held in a large, high-ceilinged room with sculptured yellow flower arrangements on shiny leggy furniture and frightful oils of elder statesmen on eau-de-nil walls. As April signalled the start of the Argentine autumn, the central heating was on at full blast.
Having spent many years on the show-jumping circuit and as a Tory minister, Rupert discovered he knew plenty of people. Most of the guests, however, knew no-one, so they gravitated to the evening’s two celebrities. Hermione, who was now wearing a wonderbra and a purple Chanel suit, was livid that the crowd round Abby was so much larger.