by Jilly Cooper
Having given her all to the ecstatic Toledo audience, Abby was on her knees. There had been too much going on to take in Rodney’s death. Now the shock was wearing off, and the pain beginning to hurt. Only to Rodney could she have confessed the agony and utter humiliation of having offered herself to Viking so totally and so trustingly, when all he was after was the macho gratification of winning some bet. She could imagine the guffaws, the sniggering, the slaps on the back.
‘What was the snooty cow like, Viking? What was she really like?’
And it had been so beautiful, so perfect, that was the pity of it.
She wanted to creep into bed and die, but George had to fly back for tomorrow’s RSO board meeting, so she had to take his place at dinner with the Toledo organizers.
Viking, probably for the first time in his career, didn’t go out on an end-of-tour razzle. He was utterly bewildered how depressed and ashamed of himself he felt. Abby had got under his skin and irritated him more than any woman he’d ever met. He had dreamt for so long of wiping the haughty expression off her face and reducing her to grovelling, pleading, adoring submission, and now he had, he loathed himself.
As leader of the pack, his street cred would have been utterly destroyed if he hadn’t won the bet. He also owed it to his backers. As the favourite, there had been a lot of money on him. Now he desperately wanted to explain to Abby that winning the bet had only been part of the incentive, and the actuality had been miraculous. He was certain if he and Abby had spent a week or so together unwatched by the lascivious or disapproving eyes of the orchestra, he could have fucked her out of his system and remained friends. Guilt was not a familiar emotion to Viking, and he didn’t think this time he’d be able to rid himself of it with a few Hail Maries.
He was also miserably aware that the three other people he loved and trusted — Flora, Julian and Blue — were absolutely furious with him.
‘You behaved abominably, Viking,’ Julian had shouted. ‘Rodney was just saying yesterday how you’d swung the RSO behind Abby. Now you’ve let him down. You’re as repulsive as Anatole in War and Peace. Rake Magdalene, he loved much, so much will be forgiven him. You’re nothing but a fucking havoc-maker.’
Blue was even more upset. Cathie, having learnt about the bet, was refusing to have anything to do with him.
‘How could you men all hurt that lovely warm girl?’
Wandering wearily down the hotel landing, Viking could hear the sound of hair-dryers. Orchestra wives washing their hair to be pretty for their husbands tomorrow, leaving doors open so they could chat to one another. Mary, her hair in rollers, was finishing her sampler. One thing Viking hadn’t given Abby was ‘roots and wings’. God, he felt awful. Davie was asleep on a chaise-longue, a plastered Cyril was declaiming ‘Ulysses’ to a large yucca plant:
‘Old age has yet his honour and his toil;
Death closes all, but something ’ere the end
Some work of noble note, may yet be done.’
Viking had only just collapsed into bed wondering whether to ward off suicide or encourage sleep with a large whisky from the mini-bar, when Blue arrived and whispered that he’d finally persuaded Cathie to come back to the room with him.
‘I trapped her in the revolving doors so she couldn’t escape.’
‘Where’s Carmine?’
‘Enjoying a bonk with Nellie, since you bottled out. He left Cathie fast asleep in bed, having taken a Mogadon, or so he thinks.’
‘Bloody risky.’
‘Sure it is, we won’t have long, just bogger off and leave the coast clear.’
‘I won’t watch I promise,’ pleaded Viking, ‘I josst want to crash out.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ hissed Blue, ‘it’s my only chance. Please Viking, or Cathie’ll do a runner — she’s furious with you as it is.’
Wearily, Viking staggered upstairs, wrapped only in a towel, and dragging his duvet and a pillow. He was just banging on the Steel Elf’s door when the lift opened and out stepped Lord and Lady Leatherhead, Knickers and Hilary, all jolly from the official dinner. Trailing after them was a haunted, ghostly-pale Abby.
‘Abby, sweetheart, we mosst talk.’ Viking bounded forward, his only thought to comfort her.
Abby, who’d been on the Fundador on an utterly empty stomach, went beserk.
‘Get out of my life, you fucking son-of-a-bitch,’ she screamed, and slapped him really hard across the face.
With fatal timing, the door behind Viking opened to show the Steel Elf with her hair tied up in a pink bow and wearing a pretty rose-patterned nightgown.
‘Go back to your little prick-teaser, right?’ yelled Abby. ‘Let her put some more beer mats under your elbows, two grand’ll keep up her mortgage for at least six months.’ And with that she lashed her other hand back across Viking’s cheek, cutting it open with Marcus’s ruby.
Lord and Lady Leatherhead and Knickers looked on in horror; Hilary in delight, as Abby ran off down the landing to her suite, slamming the door behind her.
During the sex which took place between Blue and Cathie, which Cathie was far too frightened and ashamed of her body to enjoy, her make-up rubbed off to reveal a dark bruise below her left cheek-bone. She tried to cover up two more on her ribs.
Blue struggled to control his fury.
‘For poorer and poorer, for battered and even more battered, you’ve got to leave him, Cath.’
‘I can’t, I don’t believe in divorce.’
‘I wouldn’t believe in it either if you were married to me.’
Blue tried to kiss her but she jerked her head away. Only that morning Carmine had untruthfully told her her breath smelt, her bottom had dropped and her breasts were like drooping poached eggs.
‘I must go,’ she whispered, but, as she dived for her clothes, so he shouldn’t see her ugly body, Blue caught her wrist pulling her back.
‘I want to tell you a story.’
For a second, Cathie thought he was joking, but his clear blue eyes, the kindest in the world, were completely serious.
‘Once upon a time, there was a beautiful woman, married to a wicked philanderer who constantly diminished her and beat her op. But because she was a good Catholic, who wanted to go to Heaven, she stayed with him for fifty dreadful years.’
Cathie gave a sob.
‘In the end the philanderer died a week before his wife did, and, free of him at last, she arrived on the other side.
‘“Here for all eternity,” said God, welcoming her with open arms, “there’s someone here you know already,” and there on the first fluffy white cloud was her husband shafting an angel.’
There was a long pause. Glancing sideways, Blue saw the bruise getting darker and darker as tears washed away the last vestiges of make-up.
‘Cathie darling, I didn’t mean to hurt you, but you’ve got to leave him. No-one will punish you. I’ll look after you, I promise.’
‘I can’t. He’d come after me and he’d kill us both.’
‘I’ll never turn my mobile off,’ Blue was in tears, too. ‘If ever you want me, just ring and I’ll come and get you.’
Imagining the rest of the orchestra and especially Flora trailing home the following morning with no-one to carry her case, George found it impossible to concentrate on his board meeting. He hoped none of the bitches in the orchestra nor those brutes in the brass section nor any section for that matter were pricking Flora’s bubble or wising her up about his thousand and one deficiencies. God, he missed her.
The board meeting had begun with regrets and a minute’s silence for Rodney’s death. Miss Priddock had sobbed all over her shorthand notebook, which made it difficult for her to use her biro, but she had been cheered up by yet another miniature from one of the brewers. Everyone expressed delight that Sonny’s Interruption had been nominated. Peggy Parker bowed graciously.
Then followed the usual moans about poor houses, insufficient sponsors and the rocketing cost of the latest marketing operations which Ge
orge had introduced.
At least the cat-nip matador he’d brought back from Toledo had been a huge success, thought George. As if to avenge generations of brave bulls, John Drummond was now tossing it up in the air, and pouncing on it.
‘How did the tour go?’ demanded Peggy Parker, noticing George’s total inattention.
‘You better ask Miles — he was there longer than me.’
George was incensed when Miles, after pouring a glass of Lord Leatherhead’s spring water from the silver carafe Hilly had given him for his birthday, rose to his feet and deplored the hooliganism that had poisoned the tour.
‘Although there are still players who know how to act as worthy ambassadors for Rutminster, a crackdown is imperative before the Appleton Piano Competition in ten days’ time,’ emphasized Miles, ‘when the RSO will be scrutinized under the microscope, not only by the music world, but by the international media and the general public.
‘In a word,’ Miles cracked his knuckles, ‘I feel Abigail has lost control of the orchestra.’
‘That was a great many more than one word,’ said George furiously, ‘and your description of the tour is joost as inaccurate. The orchestra played brilliant, made many friends all over Spain and really put Rootminster on the map. They only screwed up on Saturday night because they were choked about Rodney, and that was only after they’d cobbled together the best memorial concert I’ve ever heard. There wasn’t a dry eye in the house when they played Nimrod,’ George’s voice shook slightly. ‘Abby did chumpion. It was the first time she’d played in pooblic and she had to conduct as well. She and Rodney were very close.’
‘How close, one wonders,’ said Mrs Parker sourly, ‘I gather Sir Rodney left her his home on Lake Lucerne.’
‘That’s out of order,’ snapped George.
Mrs Parker went puce.
‘And who’s going to foot the bill for the jacuzzi flooding the Don Hoo-an Suite?’ she spluttered.
‘I am,’ said George.
‘And what about Flora Seymour pulling the communication cord on the train to Madrid?’ chuntered Lady Chisleden.
‘Over the defenestration of some cuddly toy,’ said Canon Airlie. George started to laugh. ‘Perhaps some latterday Zola will leap to our defence in the Rootminster Echo,’ he suggested, ‘and start his letter, “J’acuzzi”.’
Everyone looked at him as though he’d gone off his head.
‘Oh forget it,’ said George, then added grimly, ‘you’ve been sneaking, Miles. The reviews were bloody good. Abby’s emerging as a first class conductor. Rachel’s Requiem’s Number Ten in the charts. We’ve got a big hit on our hands.’
‘What news of the merger?’ asked Canon Airlie earnestly. ‘What was the outcome of your discussions with the Arts Council on Wednesday? Did they provide any guidance?’
‘That lot are about as capable of guidance as a droonken guide-dog.’
Canon Airlie pursed his lips.
‘Lousy for morale,’ said a banker, ‘with so many conflicting rumours flying around.’
‘The RSO need a strong leader who can set a good example,’ Mrs Parker glared at George.
‘Why did the jacuzzi flood?’ asked Lady Chisleden.
‘Not really a matter for ladies,’ said Lord Leatherhead hastily, casting an eye at Miss Priddock who was stolidly taking the minutes.
Abandoning his cat-nip matador, John Drummond jumped onto the window-ledge to chatter angrily at two pigeons copulating on the roof. Cat’s television was much better in the summer, when the house martins and swallows flew in and out of the eaves.
They’ve all gone to warmer climes In the South, thought George. That was the tune Flora had played so beautifully at her audition. He looked at his watch. Her plane would be taking off any minute. If he hurried he could meet her at Heathrow. It had been the longest twelve hours of his life.
‘I agree that leadership must come from the top,’ Miles was saying. ‘If there were a merger, I think Rannaldini is the only man who could pull the orchestra together and save us from financial disaster.’
‘Where is Rannaldini?’ enquired Peggy Parker reverently.
‘Recording in Prague with some brilliant young Czech pianist. He always noses out the talent.’
George stubbed out his cigar and rose to his feet. Flora must have told Abby by now.
‘I’m afraid the only merger I’m remotely interested in at the moment is my own,’ he announced. ‘I’d like the board’s permission to take a three-month sabbatical.’
‘But you never take holidays,’ said Miss Priddock aghast. ‘Even durin’ that week’s skiing you worked in the evenings.’
‘Not this time,’ said George proudly. ‘I’m going to take Miss Flora Seymour, the most wonderful young lady round the world, and as soon as I get a divorce, she’s going to marry me.’
There was an absolutely appalled silence.
‘But she’s a member of the orchestra, and about half your age,’ exploded Mrs Parker.
‘And a baggage,’ chuntered Miles.
‘Well, I certainly didn’t put her outside my door at six o’clock,’ said George with a broad grin.
‘I hope you didn’t abuse your position, Hungerford,’ snorted Canon Airlie.
‘Ooterly,’ said George happily. ‘So would you if you’d been me, you old goat.’
‘But who is going to do your job?’ protested Lord Leatherhead. ‘Have left us in rather a hole yer know.’
‘As Miles is so frantic to run the orchestra, let him have a go. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got a plane to meet.’
After he’d left and the uproar had subsided, Miles moved into George’s chair at the head of the table.
‘It was hard to talk when George was here, but I think it’s important that you all hear exactly how bad things were on tour and why we ought to replace Abigail as soon as possible.’
Flora’s happiness faded like a conker out of its husk as she struggled off the plane weighed down with presents for George, Trevor and Marcus. Having been briefed about the afternoon in the hot air balloon by Hilary and Juno, the orchestra had been mobbing her up about George all the way home. Some of the remarks had been very bitchy, until Flora had lost her temper and snapped that George loved her and was taking her round the world.
Guffaws greeted this.
As they all shuffled through Customs, Nellie turned to Carmine, who had been behaving in a very smug proprietorial way after two nights on the trot, and said: ‘D’you mind if we don’t walk out into the airport together, Carmine, because my husband’s meeting me,’ which caused even louder guffaws.
Carmine was incensed. As the orchestra mothers charged the barrier to hug their children, and Julian fell into Luisa’s arms, Flora’s eyes filled with tears.
‘I see your grand friend hasn’t come to meet you,’ said Carmine nastily, as they made their way out to the coaches. ‘The only reason he’d want to take you round the world would be to have a bit of free crumpet while he was avoiding tax.’
‘I must not cry,’ said Flora through gritted teeth. But her eyes had misted over so much that when the airport doors opened automatically for Viking and Dixie, who were walking out in front of her, and she caught a glimpse of Trevor the mongrel outside, she knew she was imagining things.
All the same, she ran forward. Then the doors opened again and stayed open like her mouth, for there holding an ecstatically wriggling Trevor, blushing like an autumn sunset, stood George.
Dropping her luggage, and her presents, Flora rushed towards them, and George took his rank-and-file viola player in his arms and kissed her on and on in front of his entire orchestra.
‘Oh George,’ gasped Flora.
‘I’m not taking you round the world, I’ve got a better idea,’ said George.
That evening a delirious Flora telephoned her mother from George’s double bed.
‘Mum, Mum, I’m getting married.’
‘You’re far too young,’ wailed Georgie. ‘Who is he? Wh
ere did you meet him? Has he got a job?’
‘He works for the RSO.’
‘I’m not having you throwing yourself away on some penniless musician. I know too many of them.’
‘Mu-um, it’s George Hungerford.’
There was a long pause.
‘The George Hungerford?’
‘None other.’ Giggling, Flora handed the receiver to George so he could hear her mother’s screech of amazement down the telephone.
‘Oh darling, he’ll be able to keep us all in our old age. How lovely, such a sweet man, too. When will you bring him to see us? I suppose he ought to ask Daddy for your hand.’
‘Not until I’ve stopped biting my nails. Actually we thought we’d push off for a holiday first. George wanted to take me round the world, but I said we couldn’t leave Trevor.’
Trevor, who was lying across George’s feet, wiggled his tail.
‘Oh Mum, you’ll never guess what George has done.’
‘What?’
‘You know they don’t allow dogs on beaches any more because of “fouling”. Well, George has bought Trevor a beach all of his own with a sweet little cottage for us thrown in.’
‘Oh, how wonderful,’ said Georgie. ‘Anyone that nice to dogs will make a wonderful husband.’
SIXTY-TWO
The Pellafacini Quintet were very sad to lose their young viola player, but the person totally unhinged by Flora’s whirlwind romance was Abby. Not only was she terribly jealous of Flora’s and George’s almost incandescent happiness, but also how dare Flora land a real man and such a rich, attractive one? How could her singing career not soar with such a back-up? On the other hand, how lucky she was to be able to settle down and play house and have babies. Worst of all, with Rodney dying and George’s departure, Abby felt utterly defenceless.
‘You can’t quit now. There’s the Appleton coming up,’ she railed at George. ‘And I’ve had an enquiry today about taking the orchestra to the States.’
George found he couldn’t give a stuff.