The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

into the ‘Lux Aeterna’, exhorting the Lord to let eternal light shine on them. Hermione, who was not needed in this penultimate section, had retreated to her dressing room venting her rage at Rannaldini’s tardiness on her dressmaker. The poor woman had stayed up night after night finishing a ravishing low-cut dress made of panels of lavender and willow-herb-pink silk, specially for the occasion. Alas, she had not allowed for Hermione’s misery bingeing over the weekend and the zip wouldn’t do up.

‘You’ve skimped on the material!’ Hermione’s screeches rose above the orchestra and other soloists. ‘You cut it too small deliberately, so you’d have some spare for yourself. Those silks cost two hundred pounds a metre. Ouch! That pin stuck into me.’

Trying to appear not to be listening, the television crew wandered about looking for places to put their lights and cameras the following night. The London Met, used to Hermione’s tantrums, were fed up. It was a blistering hot afternoon; outside in the park one could hardly breathe. They’d just returned from an exhausting tour of the Eastern Bloc with Oswaldo. Rannaldini earned three hundred thousand a year as their musical director. They hadn’t seen him for three months and now he’d swanned in to impose his usual rule of divine right and brute force. They had vowed that they’d stand up to him, but now once more they were reduced to quivering jelly.

‘Lux Aeterna’ over, Rannaldini insisted on taking the orchestra without Hermione and the chorus through the final ‘Dies Irae’, with its deafening thunderclaps that came before the skirling descending flashes of lightning. The London Met knew the Requiem backwards, they had made the definitive recording with Rannaldini and Hermione in 1986, but he was determined to show even the oldest hand that their playing had become fuzzy and inaccurate. As he raised his baton, some of the orchestra started and some didn’t and they started to laugh out of nerves, and were yelled at for inattention. But soon the brass fanfares were ringing thrillingly round the hall.

‘Sounds like a completely different orchestra,’ said Cordelia, the BBC’s glamorous blond lighting camera- person.

Calling a halt Rannaldini got into a huddle with her and the director, persuading them to lower all the Albert Hall and television lights during the ‘Sanctus’ and ‘Agnus Dei’, then at the beginning of ‘Lux Aeterna’ at the words, ‘Let everlasting light shine upon them,’ to raise them dramatically.

‘What about Harefield? She’s the star,’ asked Cordelia. ‘She’ll need special lighting.’

‘No, no.’ Rannaldini gave a thin smile. ‘Light her better than Monalisa and the men and you’ll be accused of racism and sexism.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Cordelia, going pale.

‘Not even in Mrs Harefield’s last section, the “Libera Me” for soprano and chorus. In fact,’ Rannaldini leant forward so Cordelia, who had already been mesmerized by his coal-black eyes, caught a whiff of Maestro, ‘it is me who the audience have come to see. Tomorrow you will witness the rerun of the most successful classical record of all times.’

‘Oh, right,’ said Cordelia five minutes later. ‘So we’re really talking about “Rannaldini in Concert” and if the cameras focus on you throughout the evening with total darkness at the end except for your lit-up face, we won’t go far wrong.’

‘Exactly,’ smiled Rannaldini.

‘And we can always concentrate on Harefield’s cleavage in the boring bits.’

‘There will be no boring bits,’ said Rannaldini icily.

The orchestra looked at their watches. In ten minutes they’d be into overtime. Determined to hold up the proceedings but disconcerted because she hadn’t been summoned, Hermione finally emerged from her dressing room. For once she was wearing trousers, which emphasized her large bottom but covered up the bramble scratches on her ankles, caused by trying to force her way down the now unstrimmed path to Rannaldini’s tower. Ignoring him, she took up her position for the final ‘Libera Me’ on his left, with Monalisa Wilson like a great bolster between them.

‘Maestro and Maestress,’ giggled the first flautist.

Breast quivering, eyes shining with unspilt tears, Hermione’s mournful voice was soon soaring above the orchestra and chorus like a full moon above the stars, as she pleaded to be delivered from God’s wrath.

‘God’s maybe — but not Rannaldini’s,’ murmured the leader of the orchestra.

What a beautiful voice, what a beautiful lady, thought Cordelia with a shiver of pleasure, but Rannaldini had called a halt.

‘You’re dragging, Mrs Harefield,’ he said bitchily. ‘We don’t want the promenaders nodding off. There’s nowhere for them to lie down. This is a requiem in memory of the greatest Italian writer since Dante, not a lot of old horses on their way to the knackers.’

But when Hermione opened her mouth to screech a reply, Rannaldini countered by pointing at the brass as though he were plunging a skewer into a well-done turkey and started up the music again. Hermione had a powerful voice, but, supported by the heavy artillery of the orchestra and the aerial bombardment of the chorus, Rannaldini was bound to win.

‘Louder, louder,’ he yelled raising the empty air with splayed fingers. ‘I can steel hear Mrs Harefield.’

The screaming match that followed was so terrifying that the poor little tenor fell into the ferns and Monalisa Wilson snatched up the yellow duster belonging to the leader of the orchestra and tied it under her chin, mistaking it for her new Hermes scarf, before she fled.

The orchestra watched mildly interested and later heard Hermione and Rannaldini squealing in her dressing room like pigs in an abattoir, until Rannaldini stormed out.

When Hermione rang Rannaldini in his flat overlooking Hyde Park to continue the row the London secretary put her on hold so she had to listen to herself singing Donna Anna’s aria from Don Giovanni: ‘All my love on him I lavished’, on the recorded musak which made her crosser than ever.

Rannaldini spent the rest of the afternoon auditioning singers and musicians for Fidelio who had to hump their instruments up eight flights of stairs because the lift wasn’t working. He then read through a letter he had dictated to Rachel’s husband Boris, who, having waded through a mountain of unsolicited scores sent into the London Met, had weeded out half a dozen of merit, putting Boris’s Berlin Wall Symphony, dedicated to his new love Chloe, on top.

Rannaldini needed Boris. He was aware that a great conductor is assessed in part by the new music he brings into being. Boris had been invaluable on a freelance basis, pulling out the good stuff, often presenting it in a simplified form to save Rannaldini time. He didn’t want to upset Boris too much.

‘My dear Boy,’ he wrote in black ink, then reading the typing, ‘Thank you for the latest batch, from which I am returning your symphony. Since we are friends, I know you would prefer me to be frank. When I read your music, I do not hear it. For the enormous orchestra it requires, it is highly complex. No-one could sing the chorus correctly. One would have to hear it a dozen times to begin to understand it. Neither I nor the public have the time nor the inclination. The good news is that I have a series of lectures to do for BBC2 in the autumn. I shall need research done. I will call you. Best to Chloe.’

His London secretary didn’t type as well as Kitty but she was much prettier. As he scribbled ‘Yours ever, Rannaldini,’ he felt he had been very good to Boris.

Showered and scented in a new grey satin dressing-gown, having assembled some exciting sex toys, including a three-fingered vibrator bought in Paris on the way home, and several phials of amyl nitrite, Rannaldini waited for Flora. Clive was collecting her from Heathrow. Outside, the dusty plane trees were past their best and the bleached grass of the park was already covered in curled-up brown leaves and couples in T-shirts and shorts sharing a bottle before tonight’s performance. Tomorrow you wouldn’t see a blade of grass for crowds jostling to gaze at him and Hermione.

While he waited, he flipped through the Requiem. He had conducted it so many times but one must always try and bring something new and exciting to a work. His thoughts strayed to Cordelia, the blond camera-person. She was new and very exciting. Tomorrow Flora had to return to Paradise to get her trunk packed for the autumn term, so he would ask Cordelia out after the performance. Then he could invite her to light his bedroom with its shiny indigo walls and ceiling, its dark mirrors and its rich crimson four-poster. He might even offer her a job on Fidelio. He would have loved a threesome this evening, but Flora, despite her habitual cool, would never wear it. Even so he was roused out of the most erotic fantasy by crashes on the door louder than Verdi’s thunderclaps. Through the spyhole he could see Hermione.