‘He was teaching at St Clement’s — good to see him occupying his time profitably for a change, I cannot understand people who are super-talented and lazy.’
‘I can,’ said Flora, taking a tub of ice-cream out of the freezer.
‘And don’t you get mad at the way he chats up every woman he meets?’
‘No-oh,’ said Flora, seizing a spoon.
‘Viking’s attractive, I’ll grant you that. George chewed me out earlier this morning, but I guess underneath his animosity, he’s kinda attracted to me, like Viking is, or he wouldn’t bully me so much.’
‘That’s a false argument,’ said Flora with her mouth full. ‘Carmine bullies Cathie.’
‘I figure George would be a better bet than Viking,’ reflected Abby.
‘Georgie, Porgie, Black Pudding and Pie,’ Flora took another large spoonful. ‘If it was a choice between Mr Wrong but Romantic O’Neill and Mr Right but Repulsive Hungerford, I know who I’d choose.’
‘It’s weird; George doesn’t like you either,’ said the ever-tactful Abby.
Marcus winced. He wished Abby’s almost pathological jealousy of Flora didn’t make her so bitchy. He knew that she’d regret this conversation later.
‘Oh hell,’ said Flora, miserably, looking down at the empty ice-cream tub and chucking it into the sink. The telephone rang.
‘It’s Mr Wrong but Romantic,’ a returning Marcus gave a faint smirk, ‘for Flora.’
‘I’ve just kissed Abby,’ were Viking’s first words.
‘I guessed,’ said Flora.
‘She was listing my shortcomings.’
‘Your comings are never short.’ Flora was happy to hear Viking’s relieved laughter.
‘I love you and need you,’ he begged, ‘come over at once. I’d come and collect you, but I don’t want any more lectures.’
Abby couldn’t hide her exasperation.
‘Tell Viking to keep that damn dog under control. He’s always round here upending dustbins, just like his master.’
Appassionata. FOURTH MOVEMENT
FORTY-FIVE
Cash crisis followed cash crisis throughout the winter. Bad weather kept audiences away in droves. George told the orchestra they might even have to take cuts in salaries. Two more players had their houses repossessed and moved into awful rented rooms where people banged on the wall if they practised. A bass player, a cellist and one of the Second Violins left and were not replaced.
Even Julian was downcast. ‘We’ll be a string quartet at this rate,’ he said gloomily.
Flora’s answer to her bank manager was to tell Miles she had an appointment with the dentist in Harley Street and to go busking on the South Bank. One of Viking’s mates at the London Philharmonic Orchestra had arranged for her to have a slot.
She chose a horribly cold grey morning and had great difficulty in getting out of bed. Returning to earth after making love, slumped on her back, fingers resting on her forehead, she glanced sideways at the watch on her wrist, worried about missing the train, and saw that instead of figures and hands the dial was filled with roses reflected from the curtains of Viking’s four-poster
‘Time ceases to exist when I’m with you,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It’s turned to roses. You’ve made me terribly happy,’ she added, kissing him, ‘I’m so grateful.’
Viking drove her to Rutminster Station. Then, casually as the train was moving out, he said: ‘How about you and me getting our own place together?’
‘D’you think Nugent could learn to love Scriabin?’
‘Will you ever be serious?’
‘I’d like it, love it,’ stammered Flora. ‘It’s just such a surprise. As long as I can pay my way — I don’t want to be a kept woman.’
‘You can be a capped woman then.’ Removing Rodney’s cap, Viking plonked it on her head. ‘Be careful, if anyone asks you for a drink, say no.’
‘I love you,’ said Flora and, despite the cold, stayed watching him until he was out of sight.
London was much colder than Rutminster. Flora felt so sorry for the shivering sweeps of purply-blue crocuses in the parks and the almond trees whose pink blossom, forced out by a mild January, was already being scattered by a vicious wind.
The newsagents’ windows, scarlet with Valentine Day displays, provided the only cheerful note. She must buy a really gorgeous card for Viking, and a big jokey one for Mr Nugent from Scriabin. She couldn’t believe he’d asked her to move in with him, but allowed her thoughts to wander happily. He was so good with kids, he’d make a brilliant father and Flora O’Neill sounded so much more romantic than Flora Seymour. Oh God, let her not be too presumptuous.
She took up her position in Concert Hall Approach under Hungerford Bridge in a little paved garden with boxes full of trailing ivy and laurel bushes. At first she tried to put up a stand but the wind blew her music all over the place so she played by ear. Soon concert-goers on their way to the Festival Hall and office workers setting off to lunch were enjoying her exquisite sound, feeling sorry for her playing on such a cold day and chucking coins and even notes into her tin.
It was hard to say thank you when you were playing the viola, so Flora made do with smiles and massive nods. After
Then she nearly dropped her viola in the middle of ‘Where E’er You Walk’ as she saw George Hungerford (perhaps he’d come to admire his bridge) jump out of a taxi and dive into the Archduke Wine Bar opposite. He was probably in London for a meeting of the Association of British Orchestras. She’d be sacked if he saw her. Flora pulled Viking’s cap over her nose. The next moment her bow really did skid all over the strings as a sleek dark blue Mercedes drew up, a black-leather-clad chauffeur jumped out and opened the door for Rannaldini. Hearing such discords, Rannaldini immediately swung round, but Flora had dived behind a concrete pillar. Rannaldini was wearing his black overcoat with the Astrakhan collar and looked as fatally glamorous as ever. Flora wanted to race through the traffic, fall at his feet and plead with him to take her back; she wasn’t cured in the slightest.
In horror, she watched him walk quickly towards the Archduke and the manager fling open the door to welcome him, congratulating him no doubt on being the greatest conductor of the year and of all time.
For a second, a 77 bus blotted out her view. A minute later, through a jungle of glossy dark green plants, Flora could see him and George sitting down at a table on the first floor. Rannaldini was unfolding his napkin and laying it across those iron-hard thighs that had gripped her once with such lust. Now he was picking up the wine list. God, he was wearing a wedding-ring. Helen must have far more influence on him than poor Kitty. Please make him look at me, please make him not, prayed Flora launching into ‘Dido’s Lament’. And what the hell was he doing with George?
Frozen but oblivious to the cold because the pain in her heart was so terrible, she watched George and Rannaldini coming out forty minutes later both looking much more cheerful. They stood talking for half a minute, until Rannaldini’s Merc glided up and whisked them both away.
Flora walked off in deep shock forgetting to take her tin of money. What could they be up to? No good, if Rannaldini had anything to do with it. But the RSO was far too small-fry for him.
