by Jilly Cooper
Euphoric that they had two days off before the finals, Edith, Irish Deirdre, Boris and Pablo Gonzales, who’d never had Lancashire Hot Pot before, dined together at the Dog and Duck on the edge of the moor.
‘If I see another pair of crossed hands I go cuckoo,’ said Pablo, collapsing into a chair and handing his sticks to the waiter.
‘Bloody awful dump that Prince of Wales,’ said Edith, splashing red wine into everyone’s glasses. ‘Lousy grub, piddling rooms and a fax takes two minutes from Kenya and half a day to get upstairs. How’s Lear?’ she asked Boris.
‘Nearly finished. Now I wonder what to do next.’
‘Wheech is the largest newt in the world?’ asked Pablo who refused to be parted from his Guinness Book of Records.
‘Probably me,’ said Deirdre, who was already well away.
‘Wheech is the fattest cat?’
‘Rannaldini,’ said Dame Edith, smothering a roll with butter. ‘I’m sure he’s rigging the votes. Blodwyn’s such an innocent. I voted for that German boy.’
‘So deed I,’ said Pablo, ‘I even stop reading thees wondairful book when he play the Prokofiev.’
‘So did Deirdre and I,’ said Boris. ‘He still didn’t make it.’
‘At least we all got Marcus through,’ said Dame Edith with satisfaction.
‘I didn’t,’ said Deirdre stonily. ‘God protect me if I ever vote for a Brit.’
‘Don’t be unsporting,’ boomed Edith, waving to the waiter for some more red.
‘You weren’t married to one,’ snapped Deirdre.
I nearly am, thought Edith.
Even though she and Monica were running up massive bills ringing each other every day, she didn’t believe it were possible to miss anyone as much. The fax that had taken so long to get upstairs was Monica’s confirmation of their purchase of a cottage with a stretch of river in the west of Scotland. The prospect of Monica in breast waders made Edith’s mind mist over, and she herself would be able to compose full time. She hadn’t written anything she was really proud of since The Persuaders in 1980.
But she felt dreadfully guilty that like George Hungerford she had sold her orchestra down the river for love. Once she had announced her absolute determination to retire, the CCO had been forced to look for a new musical director and had searched no further than Rannaldini. Both orchestra and management had voted him in unanimously.
‘He’s the only person who could ever take your place, Edith,’ said Hugo.
The bastard had seduced the lot of them with his alarming charm. But if Edith hadn’t wanted Monica and out so desperately, she would have tried harder to dissuade them.
She was brought back to earth by Deirdre’s grumbling.
‘Lancashire Hot Pot is exactly like Irish Stew. Talk about another British rip-off.’
‘Very delicious though,’ said Pablo with his mouth full. ‘Do you know which is most venomous snake in world?’
‘Rannaldini,’ they all said in unison.
SIXTY-FIVE
Marcus was flabbergasted that he’d got so far. He was also ashamed how much he was enjoying himself. The bracing northern winds seemed to have blown away all his worries and obsessions, and more importantly his asthma. He got on very well with all the other finalists, and they had great fun on their two days off before the final, sightseeing, eating fish and chips, playing ping-pong and cheering Anatole on in the pub talent competition.
Marcus was relieved Helen had temporarily shoved off to London. He was also tremendously touched when the huge Ukrainian judge took him aside. As the contestant from the Ukraine had gone out in the last round, he no longer had a vested interest. The majority of the jury, he felt, despite Rannaldini, were, in reality rooting for Marcus.
‘We vant you to vin, but we theenk you must change to heavyveight concerto, Brahms One or Two or Rachmaninov Three, something more explosive, more dramatic. The Schumann may be the graveyard of musicians, but it sound very easy. It ees not theatrical enough to impress jury or bring audience to their foots.’
Marcus’s eyes filled with tears. He felt the kind words had somehow come straight from Alexei. But beyond thanking the big Ukrainian profusely, he explained he’d worked on the Schumann so he’d stay with it.
‘If there ees any chance to win, zee English start to feel sorry for other contestants,’ sighed the Ukrainian.
The finals would take place on Saturday and Sunday, with Carl, Anatole and Han Chai playing their concertos on the first night, and Benny, Natalia and Marcus playing on the second.
Abby had rung Marcus with a change of plan, saying she’d be leaving the States the next night and flying straight to Manchester, arriving in Appleton first thing on Saturday morning to rehearse with the first three finalists in the afternoon.
America, Abby told him, had been terrific, and it was even more terrific he’d made the final.
‘The only problem, I guess, is that Woodbine Cottage has been burglarized. Thank God the cats were in kennels, and they didn’t take anything except the TV and the video, although the cops fingerprinted Flora’s vibrator.’
‘What about my studio?’ said Marcus, who’d gone cold thinking of Alexei’s letters under the floorboards.
‘No, nothing appears to be gone from there.’
Marcus was ashamed how relieved he felt to have another forty-eight hours without Abby. Mrs Bateson, jubilant he had gone through, cooked him roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple tart for lunch, and gave him a little jet cat for luck.
‘You must really project on Sunday,’ she begged him, ‘you’ve no idea how absorbent the good people of Appleton are when they crowd into the town hall.’
On Friday morning there was a press conference, where naturally the attention focused on Marcus.
‘I’m so knocked out to make the finals,’ he told the journalists, ‘that as long as I play well on Sunday, I don’t mind too much about winning.’
In the afternoon, the finalists were taken for a drive over the bleak, but ravishing countryside, which now flamed with bracken. They ended up having supper in the Dog and Duck which was a quarter of a mile down the road from St Theresa’s.
Marcus, who’d been asked by Lady Appleton to keep an eye on Anatole, was having great difficulty keeping the Russian sober. He must go to bed early if he were to cope with Brahms’ mighty First Concerto tomorrow. But Anatole had got even deeper into the pub talent competition and wouldn’t stop singing “Knees up Muzzer Brown”, with the landlord. Han Chai had fallen in love with the homespun Carl, who still couldn’t decide whether to play in his plaid jacket or a borrowed DJ. They sat holding hands drinking Coca-Cola in the corner. Benny, who had forty-eight hours to sober up before he played his concerto, was knocking back Bacardi and drunkenly propositioning Natalia, who, looking at her watch, was wondering if Rannaldini was back from London, and would somehow tonight infiltrate himself into her bedroom at St Theresa’s like a cat burglar. She quivered with desire. No-one had ever been so marvellous to her.
Before the competition he had also given her some beta-blockers to calm her nerves.
‘And do see eef you can persuade Marcus to have one before he plays, but don’t say they come from me; sadly my stepson ’ates me, and wouldn’t touch them. But I so long for heem to do well.’
How could anyone hate Rannaldini? wondered Natalia.
Marcus sat ekeing out a glass of red, still stunned at reaching the finals, idly playing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, on the pub table wondering what had happened to the soft pedal on Wednesday, wishing he could feel more enthusiastic about Abby arriving tomorrow. Across the pub he could see Anatole thumping out ‘You are My Sunshine’, his eyes creased with laughter above the high cheek-bones. Marcus felt hollow with longing for Alexei.
It was several seconds before he realized the barman was shouting, ‘Marcus Campbell-Black. Phone for Marcus Campbell-Black’.
Marcus winced. He had insisted on dropping the ‘Campbell’ for the competition. But
hearing his famous name, people nudged and stared as he edged through the tables. He had told Alexei he never wanted to hear from him again but always when the telephone rang he prayed it might be him. Equally irrationally he had prayed all week for a good-luck card. The telephone was in an alcove by the stairs. The walls were covered with numbers.
‘Hallo,’ he picked up the receiver, ‘you’ll have to speak up, there’s a hell of a din going on here.’
‘Hi, Marcus. I gather congratulations are in order on your engagement to Abby Rosen. Lucky sod, when are you getting married?’
Hearing the whining, thin, ingratiating, very common, male voice, Marcus started to tremble.
‘Who the hell are you?’
‘It’s The Scorpion.’
‘I’ve nothing to say.’ Marcus was drenched in sweat.
‘We wanted to run a little story about you getting to the finals of the Appleton. Abby must be knocked out. It’ll be hard for her not to favour you.’
Marcus was about to hang up, when the voice thickened and became even oilier, almost lascivious with menace. ‘Another thing. We’ve got in our possession some letters to you written by Alexei Nemerovsky.’
Marcus couldn’t breathe, his crashing heart seemed to have filled his lungs and windpipe.
‘Hallo, are you there? They make very interesting reading. Things were obviously pretty passionate between you, particularly in Prague when you broke the bed.’
‘I don’t know what you’re taking about,’ croaked Marcus. ‘I never wrote any letters to Alexei, he never wrote any to me.’
‘Oh come, come. Some of them are very poetic: “My little white dove lying warm and no longer frightened in my hands”.’
‘They’re fakes,’ wheezed Marcus. ‘P-please burn them, My father and mother… no-one could be interested.’
‘I think they could. It’s very much in the public interest. Two household names like your dad and Nemerovsky, not to mention L’Appassionata, lovely girl, Abby, tried to top herself last time a man cheated on her. Think you’ve been quite fair to her?’
‘No, yes, it must have been you who broke into the cottage.’ Oh Christ, he shouldn’t have said that. ‘You don’t have any right to publish those letters.’
‘That’s a matter for the lawyers. We’re going with the story anyway. We just wanted to give you the chance to put your point of view to us.’ The voice became suddenly cosy, the mental nurse about to hand over the valium. ‘We’re talking six figures, I’m sure you could use the money.’
‘No, no,’ Marcus was frantic. ‘Please burn them. I’m not anyone important.’
‘You’re Rupert’s son, mate,’ said Torquemada chillingly. ‘Does he know you’re gay?’
Marcus gave a sob and dropped the telephone, leaving it clattering against the wall. He was desperately fighting for breath. Perhaps it would be better if he did die.
Choking, sobbing, he stumbled through the night back to St Theresa’s. He kept slipping on wet leaves, and fell over twice. Fortunately the foyer was temporarily deserted. Marcus tried to ring Alexei, but there was no answer. Abby would be on the way to the airport by now. Rupert was at the Czech Grand National. Marcus had read it in The Times that morning. Penscombe Pride was running in the big race on Sunday, just to prove he wasn’t past it.
Where was Helen? Marcus tried to gather his thoughts. Oh Christ, he couldn’t tell Helen.
Crawling into bed, pulling the bedclothes over his head, gasping for breath, fighting an advancing tidal wave of panic, he waited for the dawn and the army of reporters who, like a slavering pack of hounds, would tear him to pieces. How was he going to face Abby, Helen and, worst of all, Rupert?
As soon as it was light, he got up, and staggered into Appleton to get the papers. The temperature had dropped, bringing winter. The glowing horse-chestnut tree outside his room had been stripped in a day. Like a burst pipe in a distant room, he could hear the leaves rustling down in the park. As he passed the lake, there was a dull thud, and a figure leapt up in front of him. Marcus cringed, imagining a lurking reporter, but it was only a heron. Rising with flapping wings like a biplane, it carried a wriggling carp in its mouth.
I’m that fish, but without its innocence, thought Marcus in horror. It would be so much easier for everyone if he topped himself. He had to stop every ten yards to get his breath. He was wheezing like the kind of broken-winded old chaser his father would have dispatched to the knackers.
As he reached a newsagents on the edge of town the gutters were full of beech leaves like rivers of blood. In a garden opposite a large magpie strutted across the lawn. Self-satisfied, rapacious in its white tie and tails, it was just like Rannaldini. Bird of ill omen: one for sorrow.
‘Oh please, Mr Magpie, where’s your friend?’ begged Marcus, ‘Oh God, let The Scorpion not have printed it.’
‘You don’t want to read that rag,’ chided the newsagent, as Marcus picked up a copy. ‘It’s roobish. Good luck for tomorrow evening.’
‘We recognize you from the Manchester Evening News,’ said his wife. ‘Used to love your Dad when he were show jumping.’
Gasping his thanks, stumbling out of the shop, collapsing against a wall, Marcus fumbled frantically through the pages. There was nothing, thank Christ, maybe it had been some practical joke. Maybe they’d pulled the story… no, that reporter had known too much. He was only in remission.
He tried to act normally, but he was shaking and wheezing so badly when he finally reached St Theresa’s that Natalia persuaded him to take one of Rannaldini’s beta-blockers.
‘They’re terreefic for zee nerves, I had one before both rounds.’
Carl Matheson was worried by tendonitis.
‘I guess I better see a doctor before I rehearse this afternoon.’
Abby had stayed on an extra twenty-four hours in Philadelphia to confirm the American tour, so she could brandish the details as one glorious fait accompli in front of Miles, the board and Shepherd Denston. Nor could they winge about money. The wonderfully generous US cultural committee, coupled with American Bravo Records, had agreed to pick up most of the bill.
‘We figured we’d lost you to the UK for good, Abby,’ the chairman had told her. ‘We all feel it’s high time you brought your orchestra home.’
Abby’s eyes filled with tears every time she repeated his words. Always one track, she had concentrated all her energies on the deal in a desperate attempt to forget Viking. But now it was clinched, surely she could ask him back. The Americans would just adore him.
Appleton looked particularly bleak on such a cold wintery morning, but at least the huge begrimed town hall had been decorated by the flags of the nations in the finals. Abby was delighted an American had made it. She hoped Carl would at least come second.
She reached the Prince of Wales at ten o’clock which would give her a few hours’ zizz before rehearsing Beethoven’s Third with Han Chai at two-thirty.
There was a tray of red poppies for Remembrance Day in reception. Abby couldn’t see her pigeon hole for messages. The first asked her to call Marcus at St Theresa’s urgently. The second wanted her to call The Scorpion. Like hell she would. The third was to call Miles.
The RSO’s greatest coup for years was to be the orchestra chosen to play in the Appleton. Most of the board had flown up to bask in reflected glory. Looking round the splendid suite, for which the orchestra had forked out to enable her to give interviews, Abby decided she better ring Miles first.
‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was his Miles-below-zero voice. ‘We’ve got to talk.’
‘Can’t it wait,’ protested Abby. ‘I’ve just checked in.’
‘No, I’m coming over.’
Abby kicked off her shoes and unpacked the long slinky purple velvet dress, slit up one side, which she had brought to wear that evening, on the off-chance that among the five million viewers, Viking might be watching. She must get the housekeeper to press it. She’d have to snatch time to wash her hair after the re
hearsal. She hoped Miles hadn’t organized some elaborate press conference. God, she was tired, but she mustn’t show it, although with three different concertos to rehearse and perform, it was going to be one helluva marathon. She rang down for some black coffee — ‘at once, please.’
Miles, looking almost svelte in a new beautifully cut pin-stripe suit, was accompanied by a bootfaced Lord Leatherhead. When they both grimly refused breakfast, Abby asked when the orchestra was expected.
‘I can’t wait to see them,’ she crowed. ‘I’ve got such terrific news. I’ve fixed up the most incredible American tour with record backing, OK? It’s gonna put us in the black and on the map,’ then, amazed by their still bleak expressions, she continued, ‘they’re planning to stage a Cotswold fortnight down the East Coast. They’re paying accommodation, travel, subsistence, printing and publicity. And all because they want me, right?’ Abby’s voice broke. ‘I’m gonna take my orchestra home.’
‘You’re not taking them anywhere,’ said Miles brutally. ‘You’re fired.’
They all jumped as the telephone rang. Abby snatched it up.
‘I can’t take any calls.’
But it was Marcus frantically stammering, gasping for breath, on the verge of tears.
‘Abby darling, I wanted to tell you to your face but I had to get to you before the Press do.’
Abby could hear the desperate wheezing.
‘Whatever’s the matter?’
‘I’m g-g-gay, Abby, I’m dreadfully sorry. Alexei and I’ve been having an affaire. The Scorpion have got hold of our letters. They’re going to print them. They’ll probably run it tomorrow. I’m so sorry.’
The colour drained out of Abby’s face. Her legs started to shake so violently she had to collapse onto the bed.
‘I don’t believe it. How long’s this been going on?’