The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

Once the Requiem was under way, however, Rachel’s scorn was reserved for Boris. Why the hell was he wearing red braces? Why hadn’t he cleaned his nails? Look at his hair halfway down his back. That must be Chloe’s doing. Look how it was escaping from its pony-tail. Now he was taking things too fast, now much too slowly — he was so over-emotional — why the hell couldn’t he beat in time?

‘Why don’t you shut up and listen?’ muttered Flora.

‘Boris is conducting marvellously,’ said Lysander at the end of the ‘Dies Irae’, ‘but it’s a bit Inspector Morse for me.’ Kissing Georgie and seeing they were supplied with drinks, he slid off to Rutminster to get a take- away.

‘I’d no idea Cecilia had such a wonderful voice or was so beautiful,’ sighed Georgie.

‘Rannaldini bonks her every time she comes over,’ spat Rachel.

I’ll kill her soon, thought Flora.

‘Oh, there’s Marigold,’ said Georgie as the camera roved over the audience. ‘Doesn’t she look gorgeous?’

‘Anyone can look gorgeous when they spend that kind of money on clothes,’ hissed Rachel, ‘and the way her megalomaniac husband floodlights his house every night — such a waste of energy.’

She was panic-stricken that any minute the cameras would latch on to Chloe looking more blond and beautiful than anyone. There, dominating the screen, was the husband who had left her and who, after the performance, would go back to Chloe’s arms.

The Requiem was drawing to a close. The television crew who’d come to mock were in ecstasies that a new star had been born. Boris had also been helped by Cordelia’s superb lighting, although he had to muddle through the ‘Agnus Dei’ and the ‘Sanctus’ almost in the dark.

Arms stretched out like a young Christ, tears spilled out of his long dark eyes and poured down his wide, pale, tortured face, as he coaxed miracles out of orchestra, chorus and soloists. Even though they’d sung and played their hearts out for well over an hour without a break, both performers and audience wanted it to go on for ever.

After the thunderclaps, the lightning and the soaring brass, Cecilia was singing again, divinely mewing, making up in dramatic effect whatever she lacked in beauty of tone. The whispering nightingales had returned, as like a priestess she intoned, pianissimo, twenty-nine quavers on the same middle C: ‘Lord deliver my soul from the doom of eternal death in the great day of judgement.’

Then, against an ever-softening drum roll, the chorus joined in for the last two Delivera Mes and Boris, his stick like a scimitar, brought the work to a close. As the final brass sounded the last trump, the promenaders gathered themselves up like a great tiger. It seemed impossible that such a hush should be followed by such a deafening roar of applause as the entire audience, musicians, soloists and chorus rose from their seats shouting, screaming and cheering. The hall that had been so still was a churning sea of clapping hands. Richard Baker was so excited he could hardly get the words out.

Then Boris, who seemed in a trance, broke down and sobbed like a wild animal until Monalisa Wilson pulled him comfortingly to her bosom and the bass lent him a red paisley handkerchief to dry his tears as the bravoes rang out.

As he stumbled downstairs for the first time, Bob was waiting. His round, kind, ecstatic face told it all. ‘Didn’t you hear Giuseppi weeping with joy up in heaven? Oh, my dear boy,’ and they were in each other’s arms, frantically clapping each other’s backs — but not for long, Boris was next being smothered in kisses. Cecilia only had time to wipe away her mascara before they were back on stage.

Running on, with a mosaic of red lipstick down the side of his face, clapping all the time like an excited child, Boris shook hands repeatedly with each of the soloists, then brought the section leaders to their feet, with as many of the orchestra as he could reach. To mighty roars of applause and thunderous stampings of feet, he made the entire chorus stand up again and again. Then there were more cheers for the chorus master.

But the applause was for him and when two huge bunches of yellow carnations and lilies arrived for Monalisa and Cecilia, everyone laughed and yelled approval when Cecilia promptly gave hers to Boris with a little curtsy.

‘What are you doing later?’ she murmured.

‘More, more, more,’ yelled the entire Albert Hall, stamping their feet.

‘Vot shall I play? I breeng no music. I no expect,’ said Boris.

Bob smiled. ‘I took the precaution of getting copies run off of one of your songs.’

So Boris mounted the rostrum once more with Cecilia’s flowers still under his arm and the hall fell silent.

‘I no spik good English,’ he said in a choked voice, ‘but I zank you all. I feel the good weel. She carry me. I will have zee orchestra play leetle composition of mine in style of Russian folk-songs. That grass is not more green on other side of fence.’

Despite the orchestra and Cecilia sight-reading, the charm and haunting beauty of the little piece was indisputable and once more Boris was cheered to the rooftops and they were still applauding when Richard Baker regretfully bid goodbye to the viewers.

‘That was the most wonderful programme I’ve ever seen,’ said Georgie wiping her eyes. ‘You really missed something,’ she told Lysander as he came through the door weighed down with carrier bags.

‘I saw a bit in the chip shop,’ said Lysander. Then, turning to Rachel, ‘You must be so thrilled.’

But Rachel was inveighing against Bob for not making Boris play one of his more ambitious compositions as an encore. ‘Instead of that sentimental, derivative crap, and did you see the way Cecilia was pawing him? Talk about cradle-snatching.’

‘That’s a very ageist remark,’ said Flora gently, as she removed a McDonald’s cardboard box out of the nearest carrier bag. ‘Your ex-husband is without doubt one of the sexiest men in the world. All he had to do this evening was stand up and women of both sexes would have swooned all over him. As it was, he produced the most exciting and beautiful Requiem people will probably ever be privileged to hear and Cecilia sang like an angel, too. Unlike you, Boris hears music with his heart, not his ears, and you’re such a bitch, I can see exactly why he left you.’

‘Darling,’ protested Georgie.

‘You have no idea the sacrifices we’ve made,’ went on Flora, getting out a burger and taking a large bite, ‘I haven’t had a cigarette for over an hour. You’ve wrecked my mother’s and my last evening together and poor Lysander’s had to miss EastEnders and The Bill and he can’t even watch it later because we were taping Boris for you.’

‘Oh, shut up, Flora.’ Lysander leant forward to fill up Rachel’s glass. ‘Boris did so well, it’s a pity Richard Baker can’t interview him afterwards like rugger players.’

‘I know.’ Rachel’s stony face crumbled in an avalanche of grief. ‘He was absolutely miraculous, but I can’t ring and tell him because Chloe’ll be there.’

Bob had spread the word before the concert and the green room was absolutely packed with Press.

‘Gimme a ring in the morning,’ said Larry, who’d actually stayed awake throughout, pressing his card on Boris. ‘I’ll record that folk-song and anything else you’ve got at home.’

In the past interviewers had slit their throats because Boris had been so inarticulate, but tonight he had found his tongue.

‘Why haven’t you been discovered earlier?’ asked the Standard.

‘I didn’t know how to beat when I start. The reviews were so terrible they almost depart me. I became Rannaldini’s assistant. Rannaldini never go seek.’

‘What happened to Rannaldini this evening?’ asked the Mail.

Boris grinned. ‘I think he ran into french window.’

‘Why doesn’t he programme more of your music?’

‘He don’t like eet. He no understand avant-garde music.’ Then, as an afterthought, ‘Rannaldini ees a vanker.’

The Press howled with laughter.

‘That’s enough,’ said Bob hastily. ‘Boris has had quite a night, give him a ring tomorrow morning.’

‘I geeve lecture on Mahler in the afternoon.’

‘Be the last you’ll have to give,’ said Bob.

Having extracted Boris rather reluctantly from Cecilia’s clutches he took him out to dinner at The Chanterelle in Old Brompton Road. Boris’s wrist ached so much he could hardly cut up his steak — he wasn’t very hungry