Appassionata

that surprisingly George had put a question mark beside her name. Then she gave a wail of misery discovering Rannaldini’s next E-mail.

Definitely not, he had written crushingly, Flora is unstable, vindictive and a pernicious influence.

The crumbling H.P. Hall and its surrounding twenty acres were the RSO’s only assets. This was where George came in. He would buy the property for a pittance in a white-knight gesture to get the orchestra out of debt, then lease it back to them. As soon as the orchestra folded he would build a supermarket.

The plot was horribly ingenious. Instead of putting horrid little houses all over Cowslip Hill, which no-one wanted, he would build a festival centre, a megaplex with twenty-four drive-in cinemas, golf-courses, food halls, virtual-reality centres and bouncy castles which would bring employment, tourists, fun and prosperity to Rutminster. In return all he asked was planning permission to knock down the highly dangerous, collapsing Victorian monstrosity, the Herbert Parker Hall and build a supermarket with a new roundabout to hive off traffic. No wonder George had been so reluctant to repair the roof. Cotchester already had a beautiful hall, no distance from Valhalla by helicopter in which the new Super Orchestra would be housed. The only sticking point seemed to be Rannaldini’s insistence on absolute hiring and firing rights.

Flora was about to print out the whole file when she nearly died of heart failure because there was a great hammering on the door.

‘Anyone at home? Come oot, come oot,’ called Dixie’s voice.

‘Priddock must be having a ziz,’ said Randy.

‘Or Jessica a bonk.’

But after a bit more hammering they got bored and wandered off.

Sweat was trickling down Flora’s body. She’d never make a burglar; her hand was shaking so violently she was petrified of pressing the wrong button and wiping all the evidence. But somehow she managed to switch back to the file menu and type in ‘Print’ beside ‘Orchestra South’. Slowly but miraculously fifteen pages rolled out. She had just managed to shove them up her jersey and unlock the door when Jessica staggered in. It would have been hard to decide who looked the more guilty. Jessica’s hair was sopping from the shower. Flora felt sick with misery. Viking had obviously screwed her.

Hearing a thud behind her, she jumped out of her skin but it was only John Drummond crash landing on the carpet, weaving round Jessica’s buckling legs. Flora hoped to God he didn’t speak English.

‘He’s asking for his dinner.’ said Jessica. ‘George is having a black-tie do at home this evening and he wants everything perfect. I’ll have to go out shopping again later, I wasted my entire lunch-hour trying to find scallops. If only there was a Waitrose in Rutminster.’

‘There may be one sooner than you think,’ said Flora grimly as she sidled out.

What the hell was she to do? Viking would have left for London by now to record the Brahms Horn Trio. The only answer, if she were to save Abby and the rest of the orchestra, was to tackle George at once.

Driving down the High Street, she saw a newspaper hoarding: MEGAPLEX FOR COWSLIP HILL.

Screeching to a halt she picked up a paper but it only reported the delighted reaction of councillors and residents.

Alan Cardew, the planning officer, was quoted as saying, ‘This really puts Rutminster on the map.’

It was a bitterly cold evening. After a boiling bath to remove the sweat and a couple of stiff vodkas, Flora slid all over the road as she drove round to George’s splendid house which was situated on the other side of Rutminster as far as possible from both Cowslip Hill and H.P. Hall. George wouldn’t want to spoil his own green hills with megaplexes and supermarkets, thought Flora savagely as her wheel tracks ruined his perfect lawn.

The whole place, she could see, was speedily being wrecked by George’s fearful taste, a man on his own who had no truck with interior designers.

‘Bet he knocked her arms off,’ she muttered, as she passed a huge replica of the Venus de Milo glittering with frost.

The butler told her to hop it. So Flora asked him to tell Mr Hungerford that it was Flora Seymour and he better get rid of his dinner party, because she wanted to talk about Orchestra South.

After two minutes, by which time Flora had practically frozen to the doorstep, she was shown into George’s study.

The room was lit by a large chandelier which the butler promptly dimmed. The autumnal-leaf-patterned carpet was so new, he had great difficulty tugging the door shut over it. Brown leather sofas and armchairs hung about awkwardly, like buffaloes. Repro-Georgian bookshelves on either side of the gas log fire were filled with book-club editions, videos and reference books including Encyclopaedia Britannica by the yard.

One wall was covered by a vast television screen and a stereo, a second by thousands of LPs, tapes and CDs. The third, which faced George’s imposing, incredibly tidy desk, was dominated by a Green Park railing portrait of a beautiful woman with short pale yellow hair and cold hare-bell-blue eyes, whose brilliance was accentuated by the huge sapphires round her neck. She had the disdainful perfection of women behind the beauty counters of big department stores, who want to shame you into spending a fortune on make-up and skin care. This must be Ruth whom George refused to divorce. She didn’t look a bundle of laughs. You could see why George had the hots for Juno. She and Ruth were the same type, ice rather than nice maidens.

Flora’s teeth were rattling like Cherub’s castanets, a glance in the ornate, white gold framed mirror over the fire showed her nose bright red as a clown’s. Ruth would no doubt have recommended green foundation. Flora jumped as she heard voices. Obviously guests were being hastily ejected.

Opening the heavy rust dralon curtains a fraction, she could see Alan and Lindy Cardew (very done up in diamonds and a new full-length mink), two other men she recognized as high-profile local councillors, two bankers from the RSO board and their wives and goodness, the Steel Elf, wrapping herself in a long blue velvet cloak, all going towards their cars.

Then she heard George apologizing for some cock-up in the kitchen.

‘See you in the Hoogry Hoonter in ten minutes.’

‘You’ll be lucky,’ snarled Flora.

Enticing smells of wine, herbs and scallops wafting from the kitchen, belying any cock-up, reminded her she hadn’t eaten all day. Feeling dizzy, she leant against the marble mantelpiece.

A week’s skiing, even if the mobile had gone up the mountain with him, had almost ironed out the bags under George’s eyes. His dark brown shiny face matched his leather sofas and armchairs. The black and white of his dinner jacket softened the rough, rocky features. White teeth chewing a cigar, big suntanned hand clamped round a glass of whisky, obviously trying to bluff it out, he looked almost genial as he shoved open the door:

‘Well, what’s all this about? I haven’t got much time.’

‘You better make it,’ snapped Flora.

Except for her red nose, her face was whiter than the marble fireplace. With the collar of her long black overcoat turned up, she looked like a Victorian waif in the last stages of consumption. George was about to offer her a drink when she said: ‘I know exactly what you’re up to, you bastard. I was busking outside the Archduke in Concert Hall Approach two weeks ago. I saw you and Rannaldini going in and coming out. You must both have needed really long spoons to sup with one another.’

George took a slug of brandy.

‘I was in London for a meeting of the Association of British Orchestras,’ he said flatly. ‘Rannaldini and I were discoosing him guest conducting the orchestra on the occasional date. He does happen to live in the area.’

‘Bollocks,’ shouted Flora, ‘you were discussing his taking over the RSO and firing 90 per cent of the orchestra.’

Then, at George’s look of amused incredulity, she added, ‘And if you don’t renew Abby’s contract for starters, I’m going straight to the Press. My mother has contacts with every newspaper editor in Fleet Street and New York.’

‘This is blackmail,’ said George bleakly and reached for the telephone.

‘The blackest possible,’ said Flora. ‘It’s the only way to cope with shits like you. Buying the hall cheaply in a white-knight gesture, then building supermarkets on the site the moment the orchestra folds. You bloody Waitrosencavalier!’