Appassionata

‘I just wanted to congratulate you on your Fanny Cycle,’ went on Gwynneth reverently, ‘and Rannaldini has never conducted better.’

‘How is Rannaldini?’ asked a man from The Times idly.

Flora, on her way to the 100, stopped in her tracks.

‘Oh, full of beans,’ said Hermione heartily, her small hand creeping surreptitiously into George’s big one.

‘How’s his new marriage?’ asked the Guardian.

‘Excellent,’ said Hermione, her eyes suddenly twinkling. ‘I sometimes think he married her for her packing.’

Flora groaned and ran upstairs. She was desperately tired and near to tears. After admiring the famous musicians, including Rannaldini in arctic profile framed on the wall of Edith’s bathroom, she unlocked the door and came out slap into Carmine.

‘You played brilliantly tonight,’ she stammered, conscious of the lurking menace of the man. ‘I wish all the brass section had been at the concert to hear you.’

Edging along the wall towards the stairs, she was stopped by the iron bar of his arm.

‘Give us a kiss, then.’

Avoiding a vile sour waft of vinous breath which must have corked inside him, Flora pecked him on the cheek. The next moment, Carmine had grabbed her hair, yanking her head back, forcing his sneering mouth on hers with a clash of teeth, scratching her with his horrible moustache. As she writhed with the strength of utter revulsion, his other hand dived under her dark blue jersey, pinching her breasts till she screamed.

‘You bloody little bra-less prick-tease.’

‘Lemme go.’ Flora was desperately trying to knee him in the balls, when a voice said: ‘Ahem. I spy a strugglin’ musician.’

‘Fuck off,’ snarled Carmine, but his grip eased.

Wriggling away, Flora went slap into the scented, medallion-hung bulk of Jack Rodway the receiver.

‘Oh, thank God.’

‘You OK?’

Flora nodded. ‘No fool like a bold fool,’ she said shakily.

Jack turned on Carmine.

‘If you ever lay a finger on this young lidy again, I’ll get George’s boys on you, before he fires you.’

Swearing, snarling, Carmine lurched off upstairs.

Flora was shaking uncontrollably.

‘Poor li-el fing.’ Jack’s arms closed around her. ‘Come and have a jar at the Bar Sinister.’

Out of the landing window, Flora could see musicians streaming out to the waiting coach.

‘I gotta go.’

‘I’ll run you home later, it’s no distance at night. I’ve thought a lot about you, Flora.’

‘My things are still on Edith’s bed.’ Flora shivered, Carmine was still up there somewhere. ‘There’s my leather jacket, and a viola case with my name on, and a green Louis Vuitton bag.’

‘I’ll get them,’ said Jackie.

‘And you might torch Dim Hermione’s fur coat at the same time.’

In the hall, Flora met a happier-looking Marcus.

‘Dame Edith’s just introduced me to George, he was really nice this time.’

Flora looked old-fashioned. ‘Must want something. Look, I’m not coming on the coach — can you or Abby feed the cats if you get home before me?’

‘I shouldn’t be doing this,’ grumbled Flora as Jack aimed the remote control to open huge electric gates. ‘What happens if your wife rolls up?’

‘She’s in Italy,’ said Jack.

They seemed to get upstairs to the bedroom awfully quickly.

‘I’m glad you turned up at the party,’ gabbled Flora. ‘Things were a little flat, before Carmine tried to rape me.’

‘I’ll set you up in a little flat,’ Jack guided her into a bedroom out of a Laura Ashley catalogue.

‘I ought to clean my teeth,’ said Flora, as she collapsed onto a daisy-strewn counterpane. ‘I better fetch my smart new bag to match such a smart bedroom.’

‘Use my toothbrush,’ said Jack, pulling her to her feet. ‘Use anyfing in the bathroom, most of all, use me.’

Flora was woken by Jack marching in with black coffee, croissants and a large jug of Buck’s Fizz.

‘You’re a seriously nice man.’

Jack smirked.

‘And that is a really pretty view.’ Flora reared up in bed to admire a wood and white houses nesting in skewbald hills. People were already tobogganing. ‘And a lovely little village.’

‘Shame the bloody bells wike us up at twenty to eleven every Sunday morning.’

‘Help. Is that the time?’

‘You were very tired. I wish I could still crash out like that.’

Jack was wearing a white towelling dressing-gown and was obviously poised for a replay. He looked much older in daylight with his thatched hair pushed off his lined forehead.

‘Coincidence you going to Verona,’ he went on. ‘Have a Crusoe.’

Croissant’s the one word that always trips them up, Flora was appalled to find herself thinking, and said hastily, ‘I’ve never been to Verona.’

‘Come on, the label’s on your smart ‘old-all.’

Flora was downstairs in a flash. In the Louis Vuitton bag with the Verona label, she found several toots of cocaine, two very hard-porn mags, a year’s supply of condoms, ten grand in cash, some grey silk pyjamas, voluminous enough to make a parachute, Alphonso’s tails, his passport and his tickets to Verona on a plane that had left at eight o’clock that morning.

Flora went beserk.

‘He’s got Foxie,’ she sobbed. ‘I can’t move without Foxie, he’s been with me since I was a baby.’

She was on to Woodbine Cottage in even more of a flash.

‘Dirty stop-out,’ were Abby’s first words.

‘I’ve lost Foxie, and my lovely new case.’

It was several seconds before Abby could make herself heard.

‘It’s OK, Nellie’s got them.’

‘How on earth?’

‘She went back to the Cotchester Hilton with Alphonso.’

‘Omigod.’

Abby couldn’t stop laughing.

‘Nellie said Alphonso burrowed in his case for a line and a condom and discovered Foxie.’

‘Condomingo,’ said Flora, who was reeling with relief. ‘Poor Foxie, where’s he now?’

‘Alphonso gave him and your case to George.’

‘Oh de-ah,’ said Flora wearily, ‘he’s not going to be very happy. I’ve got Alphonso’s case here.’

George had not been able to keep his rendezvous with Dame Hermione. A man of sorrows, acquainted with a whole load of grief, he had instead spent the night with an increasingly hysterical Alphonso, who refused to let him call the police, because of the contents of the case, but insisted George ring every member of the orchestra, which was difficult when the snow had brought down so many telephone lines, to try and locate its whereabouts.

George really roared down the telephone at Flora.

‘Where the fuck have you been? Alphonso’s threatening to sue the orchestra, unless we get his case back and him on the evening plane. He’s got to fly to the States in the morning. I’ll send the helicopter for the case at once. Where are you?’

‘I can’t tell you.’

‘Then you’re fired.’

Flora put a sweating hand over the receiver.