by Jilly Cooper
‘So looking forward to meeting Abigail,’ they all chorused.
‘Artists don’t like to break the mood in the middle of a concert,’ Mrs Parker was telling them sententiously. ‘You will all have the chance of a few words later.’
‘Hum,’ said Flora, who’d been smuggled into the tent by Viking, ‘I don’t know what sort of mood Abby’ll be in.’
‘It’s a terrible concert,’ Viking shook his head. ‘Acoustics are always dire outside unless you’re up against a brick wall.’
‘Like the management,’ said Dixie, scooping up half a dozen asparagus rolls.
‘Also like the management,’ agreed Viking. ‘The strings get totally lost.’
‘Thank God,’ said Dixie.
‘I don’t know how you lot got in here,’ said Miles beadily, ‘but if you’re going to crash parties and avail yourself of Mrs Parker’s hospitality, you can jolly well stop coffee-housing and mingle with her guests.’
‘George Hungerford is awfully good at mingling,’ observed Flora, as she watched him pressing the flesh, talking to MPs, lawyers, local businessmen, shop owners along the High Street, never stopping long, too shy or too busy to want to get caught, but making each person feel important and welcome:
‘You must come to H.P. Hall and hear the orchestra. I’ll send you a couple of tickets, we’ve got some good dos coming up in the autumn.’
‘He’s sponsor hunting,’ said Dixie.
‘Up to a point,’ said Viking. ‘He’s also bought fifty acres on Cowslip Hill and wants to build on them, my guess is he’s greasing palms.’
Flora was screwing up courage to talk to George. She and Abby had been discussing Marcus’s poverty, and his heartbreakingly slow progress, over supper last night.
‘If I push him, the management’ll resist,’ sighed Abby, ‘they’re still pissed off I smuggled you in.’
‘I’ll try and introduce him to George,’ said Flora. ‘The only problem is that Marcus is so shy and unpushy, he’ll probably bolt.’
Now Marcus had joined her and Flora could see George getting nearer. Like most of the men he’d removed his dinner-jacket showing a roll of fat over his trouser belt. His evening shirt was transparent with sweat, his square face red and shiny. Why on earth did all the women in the orchestra find him sexy? And oh God, here was Benny, black curls soaked from the shower, cream silk shirt unbuttoned to the waist.
Deciding Flora was the most seductive of all the girls he’d propositioned, Benny sidled up.
‘How about a leetle deener at my ’otel, no-one would mees you, if we slope off.’
‘Piss off, you disgusting Frog,’ said Viking coldly.
Benny was about to land Viking one, but was distracted by the arrival of George, Mrs Parker and Lord Leatherhead, who had been boring Mrs Parker’s guests silly rabbiting on about bottled water.
‘Good concert, well done, all of you,’ he said heartily. ‘Peggy, I don’t think you’ve met our latest recruit, Flora Seymour. She plays the viola jolly well.’
Mrs Parker, who was even redder in the face than George, didn’t look remotely interested until Lord Leatherhead added that Flora’s mother was Georgie Maguire.
Oh hell, thought Flora.
‘I’m a large fan of ’ers,’ said Mrs Parker in excitement, ‘I’ve got all her records. Perhaps she’d like to visit the store one day. We could find her something really outstandin’ for her next concert.’
‘That’s sweet.’ Catching Viking’s eye, Flora started to giggle, then seeing George glaring at her, added quickly, ‘I wonder if I could possibly introduce a friend of mine, Marcus Campbell-Black.’
Beautiful boy, thought George. Looks as though he was born in a dinner-jacket, she would go for someone like that.
‘Are you the son of?’ asked Mrs Parker skittishly. ‘Very delighted to receive you.’
Marcus winced as her diamonds dug into him.
‘I’ve shot with your father,’ brayed Lord Leatherhead. ‘A very fine shot.’
‘Marcus is a very fine pianist,’ piped up Flora. ‘No, he is,’ she continued ignoring Marcus’s hands frantically waving for her to stop. ‘He was at the Academy and he plays like an angel. Could he audition for you some time, Mr Hungerford, or we could send you a tape?’
‘Good idea,’ said Lord Leatherhead.
‘Phone me at the office,’ said George then, as the warning bells started, ‘You lot better get back.’
‘I ’ope you will play at one of my soirées at Rutminster Towers, Marcus,’ said Mrs Parker graciously, ‘or come to afternoon tea under the walnut tree. Perhaps your father would like to look in, too. I’m sure he’d appreciate how much the RSO do for young people.’
Marcus, however, had boiled over. ‘I haven’t seen any sign of it,’ he said furiously, ‘or you wouldn’t have humiliated darling Abby by forcing her into that seriously hideous dress.’ Then seeing the horror and fury particularly on Mrs Parker’s face, added, ‘You succeeded in making one of the most beautiful women in the world look like a disgusting old slag-heap. You should be bloody well ashamed of yourselves.’ And, turning on his heel, he stumbled out of the tent.
‘If your friend wants to get to the top as a soloist,’ an enraged George turned on Flora, ‘I don’t think he’s going about it the right way.’
The choir had a good screech and the audience a good chat during the Polovtsian Dances by which time the sun had set, leaving an orange glow on the horizon, so no-one could read their programmes any more. Not that it mattered during the pièce de résistance which was only too easy to resist, Sonny’s Eternal Triangle.
Crash bang wallop, plinkety plonk, catawaul screech, went the orchestra to an increasing crescendo of shifting bottoms and mutterings as people ducked to avoid a night raid of bats.
‘Yodelayayo,’ carolled the plump young man in lederhosen.
Abby’s electric-blue shoes were killing her, her wrists and shoulders were agony, but that was nothing to the ghastly humiliation ahead, being hawked round Peggy Parker’s vulgar friends like one of Tamberlaine’s captured war lords.
Amidst the frightful din, she could hear Cherub ringing cowbells, reminding her that tomorrow she was flying out to Lucerne and Rodney for a month, and this nightmare would be over.
There was only a page left. Cherub had finished his last little solo. Then, during a dramatic pause when the orchestra were completely silent for three bars, Lindy Cardew could be heard saying loudly to her friend: ‘No, no, no, she hasn’t got a black one. She’s got a long furred marmalade one.’
Abby flipped. Swinging round she howled: ‘Will you flaming well shut up,’ which was fortunately drowned out for many of the audience by the final deafening tutti.
Manic that such a frightful din was over, geed up by the claque from soft furnishing who all wanted Cherub’s telephone number, the audience gave the piece a great reception, which gave Sonny plenty of time to run on and take his composer’s bow.
As Abby came off the stage clutching red-and-white gladioli and royal-blue delphiniums, she was accosted by a BBC crew and a horde of Press asking her about her new image.
Exactly on cue, a mallard, no doubt unnerved earlier by Ninion’s duck caller, dumped copiously on Abby’s electric-blue bosom, whereupon Abby laughed for the first time in days and said straight to camera: ‘Well done, duckie, that’s a distinct improvement.’
The next moment, horrified Parker minions charged forward to hurry her into the house and sponge her down. Upstairs Crystelle waited, ready with a respray before Abby met her public: ‘The most important part of your evening.’
‘I’m terribly sorry, I have to distance myself for a few minutes after a concert,’ said Abby and dived into Mrs Parker’s bathroom locking the door.
On the way to the Long Gallery to dump her viola, Flora flexed her aching back and wondered what had become of Marcus. He’d probably cooked all their geese with the management, but how brave and wonderful he had been.
Hearing a kerfuf
fle, Flora edged forward. Round the corner Blue had got hold of Ninion and hung him by his white dinner-jacket on a row of pegs.
‘You snivelling little bastard,’ he hissed, glaring into Ninion’s terrified blinking eyes, then he hit him very hard across the face with the back of his hand.
‘What did you do that for?’ bleated Ninion, swinging helplessly.
‘Don’t you ever do anything like that to Cathie Jones again; you’re not fit to lick her boots.’
Blue was about to hit Ninion again when George arrived, clicking his fingers for two heavies, who pulled him off.
‘That’s enough,’ snapped George. ‘Throw him in the river to cool him down,’ he told the heavies. ‘And I want you in my office first thing on Monday morning, Ninion.’
‘What was all that about?’ whispered Flora to Miss Parrott.
‘Brass have a problem when it’s humid,’ sighed Miss Parrott, righting her mauve beehive in the mirror, then, seeing the sceptical expression on Flora’s face, added, ‘Blue has rather a soft spot for Cathie Jones. And I think he’s upset Carmine, made her go home before the interval.’
Knickers was in a further twist. Retrieving his white dinner-jacket from Francis to wear at the party, he found it covered in black boot polish. Francis would lose his job at this rate.
Benny was even more upset, having decided to plump for second best, he couldn’t find Nellie the Nympho anywhere.
‘Yodellayayo,’ came an ecstatic cry from the shrubbery.
‘Someone’s dropped a pair of lederhosen,’ sniffed Fat Isobel, who was crying because she wouldn’t see Viking for a month.
‘I’m going to miss you, Lady C,’ Dixie was telling Clare in that ghastly Glaswegian accent which had become music to her ears. ‘The moors will be purple with heather.’
‘Daddy’s going up to Scotland for the 12th,’ said Clare, ‘I could go with him, then we could meet.’
‘We certainly could,’ said Dixie looking much happier. ‘Piss off you disgusting Frog,’ he added as Benny slid a too high hand round Clare’s waist.
Peter Plumpton, the First Flute, being small always got drunk very quickly.
‘Putti, putti, putti,’ he cried, as he advanced with an outstretched hand on a group of reconstituted-stone cherubs.
Miss Parrott was sharing a log, a bottle of white and a plate of Dover sole and lobster poached in Sauterne with Dimitri.
‘That opening to William Tell was the loveliest thing Ay’ve ever heard,’ she was telling him.
‘Your solo in Wrist’s Piano Concerto was perfect,’ confided Noriko.
‘Three agents have tried to sign me up, I’m going to be the next Evelyn Glennie,’ giggled Cherub, squeezing her little hand.
Meanwhile favoured customers, who hadn’t heard Abby yelling at Lindy Cardew, were congratulating Peggy Parker, who hadn’t either, on the graciousness of the occasion.
‘Abigail will be de-own shortly,’ promised Mrs Parker regally.
Mrs Parker’s bathroom had a dressing-room mirror with lights going round in a semicircle. Watching the moths helplessly smashing their wings and bodies against the burning bulbs, Abby gave a sob. It was just like her and the RSO. Out of the window she could see members of her orchestra chucking the stuff down their throats no doubt laughing themselves sick to see her so humiliated.
She jumped at a banging on the door.
‘We’re waiting,’ called Crystelle.
‘Just a sec,’ shouted Abby, turning on the shower.
At home having checked her sleeping children and paid the babysitter out of her pathetic housekeeping allowance, Cathie Jones climbed wearily upstairs. She was too tired to eat.
Gazing out of her bedroom at the stars she started to cry, then not wanting to wake the children, fished in her skirt pocket for a tissue and found a piece of paper on which someone had scrawled the words: ‘Darling Cathie, Thou art fairer than the evening air, clad in the beauty of a thousand stars.’
Five minutes later, Abby stalked out into the garden and as usual everyone fell silent. She had changed back into her red vest and bicycle shorts. Her hair was slicked back and still dripping, her make-up totally washed off. There was a long, long pause.
‘What the fuck,’ snarled George.
Huge, menacing, he bore down on her.
‘Get bluddy oopstairs and back into that dress.’
Abby had never seen anyone angrier, except perhaps Mrs Parker.
‘What’s happened to your beautiful ge-own,’ she screeched.
‘I left it and the shoes on your bed.’
‘And what about those rubies.’
‘They’re on your dressing-table,’ said Abby, then waving an ironic hand at the RSO who were now filling their faces with Dover sole and lobster. ‘Why should I need rubies, when my orchestra are my jewels.’
THIRTY-THREE
The month of August was traditionally a holiday for the RSO. All in all, Abby got a rotten end-of-term report. An enraged Mrs Parker was threatening to withdraw her promised one hundred thousand pounds, and in cahoots with Miles and a horrified Canon Airlie, who had both heard Abby shouting at Lindy Cardew, were agitating for her dismissal. George fired off a written warning about consistently subversive behaviour, pointing out that Abby had only seven months left on her contract. Abby promptly tore up his letter. She should have spent August relaxing and, in the light of her disastrous conducting career, seriously attempting to play the violin again. The physio and the London specialist both said there was nothing more they could do. The block was in Abby’s head. But Abby couldn’t bring herself to try, terrified her genius had deserted her, and after her Strad, any violin would be a let-down.
She had hoped to spend August in Lucerne, enjoying Gisela’s cooking and having her feathers unruffled by Rodney. He appeared to have made an excellent recovery from his heart attack and was now teaching himself the cello, playing with great vigour and a lot of wrong notes.
In Lucerne, as in England, the heatwave showed no signs of abating and had already singed the woods around the lake, whose level had dropped more than a foot. Two days after her arrival, Abby stretched out in an orange bikini, lake water drying on her darkening gold body.
Despite the heat she and Rodney had just polished off the palest green avocado mousse and an exquisite fish salad, which Gisela had made for lunch, plus a bottle of Pouilly-Fumé. Abby was now misery-eating her way through a bowl of figs, her big white teeth tearing at the scarlet flesh. From the nearby shadow of a blue striped umbrella, Rodney sat drinking Armagnac, puffing at a large cigar, and listening as he had done since she arrived. He was very distressed to see her so unhappy.
‘Which of my naughty boys is causing you the most bother?’
‘They all hate me,’ moaned Abby. ‘Dixie, Randy, that vile Carmine, Quinton, El Creepo (beneath his smarmy manner), Davie Buckle, Lionel, Viking most of all.’
‘Are you apologizing enough, darling? If you start with the wrong beat, if you show three instead of four, you must say, “It’s my fault”.’
‘That’s weakness,’ stormed Abby. ‘Basically they hate taking orders from a woman, right. And we’ve got such terrific stuff coming up. I told you about Fanny Mendelssohn and Winifred Trapp.’
‘You don’t want too much of that.’ Rodney tipped his ash on the parched yellow grass.
‘Celebrating women in the Arts?’ demanded Abby.
‘Lot better places to celebrate them.’ Then, seeing the outrage on Abby’s face, added hurriedly, ‘You know I adore your sex, but I don’t feel they’re at their best composing music.’
‘That’s because you’ve never bothered to listen to them. Christ it’s hot.’ Angrily, Abby peeled off her bikini top. ‘And I bet they’d have delivered on time, if any one had really appreciated their music, not like Boris Levitsky. We’re recording Rachel’s Requiem next season and not a squeak out of Boris, and I gotta learn the wretched thing. Wasn’t Viking a friend of Boris’s?’
Always she retu
rns to Viking, thought Rodney, feeling his cock stir as he glanced at the beautiful breasts only slightly less golden than the rest of her body.
‘Not really a friend,’ he said ‘Viking’s spoilt — he and Boris were in spiky competition over who could pull the best girls. Lionel’s your main problem. One can’t operate if the leader’s against one — I’m afraid he’ll always be a thorn in your deliciously firm young flesh, darling.’
‘Not so young any more,’ grumbled Abby. ‘I’ll be twenty-nine in October.’
‘And I’m going to be seventy-nine in October, don’t be a silly-billy.’
Abby sat up swinging her legs sideways. ‘I wish all men were like you.’
‘I’m not that different from the rest of them.’ Stretching out a warm hand as though he was testing a peach, Rodney gently fingered her breast.
Abby gasped, amazed at the sudden quivering warmth between her legs.
‘I–I see you as the grandfather I never really had,’ she stammered.
‘Really?’ Rodney raised a mocking eyebrow, as his thumb caressed a rapidly hardening nipple.
‘Where’s Gisela?’ whispered Abby.
‘Making crab-apple jelly. Artists are oblivious when they are in the process of creation.’
Abby shut her eyes as the languid practised caress continued.
‘You’re the one turning me to jelly; d’you really want me, Rodney?’
‘My child, a slow burn doesn’t mean the flame isn’t poised to singe the ceiling.’
‘Oh Christ,’ exploded Abby as, unwelcome as the bones singing in Ezekiel, the white cordless telephone rang.
It was Flora.
‘You’re not the only one in the doghouse, Abby, Hitler Hungerford says he’ll tear up Boris’s contract if he doesn’t deliver on 1 September, and he wants Boris to pay back the two-thousand-pound advance. Boris is in hysterics, he hasn’t got two pence, let alone two grand. I’ve asked him to stay. I hope you don’t mind. Perhaps Marcus and I can prod him into action and at least copy the stuff out for him.’
Abby looked down at Rodney’s hand, wrinkled, covered in liverspots, yet making it almost impossible for her to think rationally: ‘Boris can sleep in the attic bedroom.’ She glanced sideways at Rodney’s watch. ‘I’ll try and get the four o’clock plane.’