Appassionata

‘Three Rottweilers.’

‘Four, counting you,’ said Flora. ‘I like Rottweilers,’ she added, remembering wistfully how she used to romp with Rannaldini’s.

‘You haven’t eaten much,’ George glanced up at the pudding trolley rumbling towards them. ‘You better have an ice, kids like ices.’

Flora shook her head, her red hair splaying out like a marigold. ‘No, no, I don’t like anything that gets in touch with my fillings.’

Then George did smile, lifting his heavy face like a sudden shaft of sunlight on a limestone cliff.

‘Everyone’s having a ball,’ said Flora. ‘Thank you — it’s been a terrific evening.’

But she had reckoned without Gwynneth, whose ethnic crimson skirt was about to pop, and thick pepper- and-salt hair about to escape from its bun, as she washed down her final mouthful of tournedos au foie gras, with her fourth glass of Pouilly-Fume.

‘You are driving, Gilbert.’

Gilbert looked livid, but his mouth was too crammed with monkfish to refuse.

Gwynneth then turned her shiny off-white face to George.

‘Isn’t it bizarre the way you hear a name for the first time and then hear it again and again. Miles has just mentioned Winifred Trapp. Did you know that Rannaldini has just recorded all Winifred Trapp’s Harp Concertos with American Bravo?’

There was a stunned, horrified pause.

‘Lovely shimmering music,’ went on Gwynneth, delighted at the consternation she had caused. ‘An advance copy arrived on my desk this morning. Although Rannaldini, or rather Sir Roberto, tells me he recorded it in Prague very cheaply, the quality is superb. I thought he’d lost his fire, after his last wife left him, but his new partner has regenerated him.’

Watching the colour drain out of Flora’s flushed, happy face, Miles wondered if she’d had anything to do with passing on the information.

‘Of course Rannaldini’s always been innovative,’ went on Gwynneth smugly. ‘And what is more, he and Dame Hermione have just recorded all Fanny Mendelssohn’s songs with Winifrid Trapp’s orchestration. Quite marvellous, don’t you agree, Gilbert?’

‘Indeed,’ said Gilbert, who was trying to scrape hollandaise sauce out of his straggly ginger beard. ‘I think if Fanny and Felix had lived, she would have been the more significant composer, although I agree with the Mendelssohn Society that had Felix lived he would have been greater than Richard Wagner.’

George’s face was limestone again.

‘When did Rannaldini record this?’ he asked bleakly.

‘In September,’ said Gwynneth, who was now leering at the pudding trolley. ‘That gateau does look tasty. They get these things out so quickly these days, but Rannaldini’ll want to give Winifred, it’s pronounced Vinifred actually, a real push, so I doubt if they’ll release it before January or February. Such a slap in the face for folk who say there are no great women composers.’

‘I knew nothing about this,’ said Julian, appalled.

‘Nor did I,’ said Serena Westwood grimly. American Bravo were Megagram’s biggest rivals.

Abby was frantically trying to work out how Rannaldini could have pre-empted her. The brochures, already late because of so many changes, had only been sent out in September. Who else could have told him — Hugo? Lionel? Perhaps unthinkingly Marcus could have said something to Helen. She’d heard Rannaldini was enraged that the RSO had snapped Julian up, but that wouldn’t have given him enough time. Either way she’d been left with Egmont on her face.

THIRTY-EIGHT

As a result of Gwynneth’s revelations, Megagram pulled the plug on Abby. Serena Westwood had been singularly uncharmed by her peremptory behaviour throughout dinner and she and Megagram had no desire to record obscure repertoire they had been led to believe was exclusive, in competition with the mighty Rannaldini and Harefield.

George and Miles were equally uncharmed to be lumbered with a Fanny Mendelssohn and Winifred Trapp series with no recordings to back it up. Viking’s new nickname, ‘Poverty Trapp’, proved to be prophetic. At the first concert, there were more people on the platform than in the audience.

Having worked flat out in September and October, Abby was due for a break in November, and flew to America to see her mother. She spent most of the vacation locked in her bedroom familiarizing herself with the remaining Trapp-Mendelssohn repertoire and Rachel’s Requiem (which was now being recorded in December) — anything to avoid her mother’s constant moaning that Abby would never get off the shelf and provide her with grandchildren.

‘There must be some guy in your life, Abigail.’

For a second Abby’s thoughts flickered towards Viking, then sadly she admitted there was no-one.

November had been so mild, that as she was driven back from the airport, she noticed palest green hazel catkins already blending with the amber leaves still hanging from willow and blackthorn. It was a beautiful day. Reaching the H.P. Hall in the lunch-hour, she found Viking asleep under a horse-chestnut tree. He’d probably been up all night, moonlighting. Like some Victorian personification of autumn, his gold hair was spread out on the bleached grass, and his slumped yet still graceful body was almost entirely covered in kiteshaped orange leaves.

Happy days for him, thought Abby wistfully. Seeing an unusually angelic smile on his face, she was about to wake him. Then she noticed a piece of cardboard, cut in the shape of a tombstone, propped against his feet. On it someone had written:

Here lies Viking,

Very much to all our liking,

Who fucked himself to death.

With a howl of misery, Abby turned and ran inside.

Her mood was not improved when she learnt that George had axed the last two Trapp-Mendelssohn concerts and replaced them with lollipops, and that Megagram were now having cold feet about putting up the money for Rachel’s Requiem. This would be catastrophic for Boris, who had already spent all the advance.

At an emergency board meeting, Peggy Parker said she might bankroll the Requiem, but only if Sonny’s just completed Interruption Serenade could be used as a filler on the CD with a little picture of balding parrot-faced Sonny beside shaggy Boris on the sleeve. The plan was that the Requiem would be recorded in a studio, but the Interruption Serenade would be recorded live at its premiere just before Christmas, then Sonny could include as many interruptions as possible. Peggy Parker was not at all happy about Abby conducting either work, and after a few telephone calls to Serena Westwood at Megagram, who would still be marketing and distributing the record, felt she had discovered an ally and was biding her time.

Abby felt her authority ebbing away. Worse was to come. The RSO were due to play Messiah at the Cotchester Festival in December. At the last moment, Jason, the rackety owner of Macho Motors, ratted on his agreement to sponsor the performance. This was because he’d failed to get Abby into bed, and because the BBC wouldn’t allow one of his flash cars to be parked in the nave during the concert.

‘I can’t see why not,’ grumbled Flora. ‘Triumphal cars are always turning up in Milton’s religious poems.’

‘It’s a Ferrari, not a Triumph,’ said Marcus.