Jolted at last George dropped the telephone back on the hook: ‘How d’you know about that?’
‘You shouldn’t give your stupid secretary, who gets paid twice as much as a rank-and-file viola player, such long-lunch hours. I raided your computer today and printed out the entire
George gave a long sigh. ‘It’s the only way to save the orchestra — at least the good people get to keep their jobs.’
‘Abby doesn’t and she flaming well deserves to. Have you any idea how hard she works, poring over the wretched scores day in day out, till two or three in the morning.’
‘She’s an hysteric.’
‘So — she’s an artist. The orchestra’s getting better and better.’
‘I wish the houses were. We’re haemorrhaging to death, can’t you understand that?’
‘Give her time, look how long it took Simon Rattle to turn the CBSO around.’
‘And now they’ve got a bluddy great deficit,’ said George brutally.
‘Anyway,’ Flora briskly disregarded a point against herself, ‘the RSO doesn’t want to live in Cotchester and play in some horrible opera pit under a little Hitler. It’s like sending ponies down the mine.’
‘You overdramatize everything. They’d be well paid and they’d make great music.’
‘No, they wouldn’t, super orchestras don’t work. There are too many chiefs and not enough Indians for them to boss around. The mix is too rich. Anyway, they’d get sacked if they split a note.
‘Rannaldini’s evil,’ Flora’s voice was rising, ‘He lives near my parents and poisons the air like pesticide and I bet you told him we were about to record Winifred Trapp and Fanny Mendelssohn.’
‘Don’t be fatuous,’ roared George, losing his temper. ‘If you think I want to be landed with the bills for soloists you must be joking.’
Somehow he managed to control himself and sitting down at his desk, got out a cheque book.
‘OK, how much will it take?’
‘I don’t want money,’ said Flora in outrage. ‘I want everyone’s contracts renewed — except Hilary’s, Carmine and the Steel Elf,’ she added as an afterthought.
‘Who?’
‘Juno Meadows. I saw her poncing out of here with her Gstaad tan. How you have the gall to tell Abby she’s losing caste living with me — yes, you did — when you’ve been guzzling
‘Don’t by bluddy childish, Juno was making oop the noombers.’
‘And doing a number of you,
Flora was beginning to feel faint; somehow she reached the door, half-expecting to slip on those autumn leaves. She must keep talking to shut him up: ‘I’ll only tear up that print-out when I’ve got proof everyone’s contracts have been renewed. Rannaldini’s a fiend, remember, he’ll double-cross you the moment he gets the chance.’ And she was out of the door running towards her car.
Fortunately the roads were empty. She felt so lonely she longed to drop off at The Bordello, curl up in Viking’s bed with Nugent and wait for him to come home. Since they split up, however, the rest of the Celtic Mafia, not knowing the reason and sensing Viking’s unhappiness, had become wildly antagonistic.
After a sleepless night and a long unrewarding day of rehearsal with a stupid guest conductor whose beat was impossible to follow, Flora returned to Woodbine Cottage and an equally shattered Marcus. She had refrained from telling him about George’s and Rannaldini’s skulduggery. He didn’t need upsetting. Tomorrow evening he was playing the Rachmaninov. Flora was terrified he’d peaked. He had practically worn out the keys of the Steinway. He had lived the piece, crawled inside it, knew every note, not only his own part, but also the orchestra’s by heart. But would he have enough heart to do it justice?
He and Flora were just commiserating over a cup of tea and slices of cherry cake when Abby floated in brandishing a magnum of champagne.
‘We have got to celebrate, right? George has just summoned me and said the board are going to renew my contract for another year. I’m not sure how pleased Howie will be — he figures I oughta move on, but I expect George will be able to persuade him.
‘And I’ve persuaded George not to cut salaries at the moment to zap all those rumours about a merger between us and the CCO. He and I are going to assess the merits of everyone in the orchestra over the next few weeks and renew as many contracts as possible.’
And George thinks that’ll keep me quiet, fumed Flora.
Abby looked wonderful, the cold weather always whipped up colour in her sallow cheeks.
‘And,’ she went on scrabbling at the gold paper round the top of the bottle, ‘at last I can get rid of El Squeeko and Cyril.’
‘You can’t,’ said Flora appalled. ‘Viking’ll never let you.’
‘And Juno.’
‘You may have lucked out there.’
But Abby was on a roll; she had totally misjudged George.
‘He’s not the philistine I figured he was. It’s kinda gratifying when all one’s hard grind pays off. Now we can build the orchestra together. I guess he is attracted to me,’ she announced happily.
Flora was upset to see the hurt in Marcus’s eyes; she herself was enraged — after all she’d done to save Abby, particularly when Abby smugly announced that Flora’s was one of the contracts George was iffy about renewing.
‘He didn’t know you were only on six months’ trial. He figures you’re not pulling your weight. Says you’ve got an attitude problem.’
‘And he’s got a platitude problem,’ snarled Flora.
‘That is monstrously unfair,’ protested Marcus.
‘Tell him to go and jump in the cement mixer.’
‘I’m just reporting what he said.’ The flying champagne cork sent the cats racing from the kitchen. ‘But I figure I’ve managed to persuade him you’re a worthwhile member of the orchestra.’
Flora suddenly realized she’d eaten the rest of the cherry cake and had to undo her jeans.
Bloody Abby, if only she knew. Flora was tempted to tell her the truth but again didn’t want a scene before Marcus’s concert.
Abby should have spent the evening studying the Rachmaninov but, convinced she knew it, because she’d heard Marcus playing it so often, she got tight instead.
FORTY-SIX
On the wall of Marcus’s dressing-room was a photograph of Clifton Suspension Bridge. He wished he could jump off it. How could he possibly play the most difficult piano concerto ever written when his violently trembling hands wouldn’t tie his white tie or slot in the gold cuff-links bearing the Campbell-Black crest. The rehearsal had been disastrous. Abby had faffed around telling the orchestra Rachmaninov was born on April Fool’s Day, and had lived on Lake Lucerne like Rodney, and that Mahler had conducted the second performance of the concerto in the States, until Dixie had yelled, ‘Come back, Gustav, all is forgiven.’
Marcus had never dreamt the orchestral sound would be so dense, loud and so distracting or that desperately trying to keep up with Abby’s beat he would play so many wrong notes and at one point stop altogether.
The orchestra, totally indifferent to such calamities, only raised the odd eyebrow and carried on reading their newspapers, filling in tax forms and applying for other jobs.
Abby wouldn’t even give him time to rehearse the cadenza.
‘That’s your baby, you know it backwards.’
