Appassionata

On the morning after the gala, Flora found a note from Julian in her pigeon hole, summoning her to the leader’s room at five-fifteen, which meant she had to sweat her way through six hours of rehearsals and a lunch- break before she knew her fate.

‘Has Julian said anything to you?’ she asked Abby.

‘Nothing, I guess he’s going to carpet you for the dog fight, flashing those Union Jack panties, and generally having a bad attitude, rubbishing George, and so on.’

‘George is a bastard.’

‘Just because he lent his house to us, and saved the RSO yet again? I don’t understand you, Flora.’

Flora didn’t understand herself at the moment. ‘I just hate playing for this bloody orchestra,’ she said crossly. ‘Perhaps I should switch to singing.’ She had promised her mother last night that she would start taking lessons again.

When she went quaking into the leader’s room, however, and was faced not just with Julian, but Old Henry, Dimitri and Peter, his grizzled desk partner: the firing squad, the RSO suddenly seemed very, very dear to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she bleated, ‘I didn’t mean to act up.’

‘Sit down,’ said Julian, pouring her a glass of red wine. ‘We wanted to talk to you; we don’t feel you’re very happy.’

It’s the sack, thought Flora in panic, being held open for me to jump into, then they’ll tie it up and drop me at the bottom of the River Fleet.

‘Sally Briggs is getting married next month,’ Old Henry was saying, ‘so she wants her evenings free.’

Sally Briggs sat on the front desk of the violas beside El Creepo. She was a beautiful player who over the years had somehow withstood his wandering hands. Why’s Old Henry beating about the bush? thought Flora miserably.

‘Megagram vant us to record Schubert’s C Major Quintet,’ said Dimitri.

‘So we wondered if you’d like to join our chamber-music group,’ said Julian diffidently.

Flora choked on her wine.

‘Might seem a bit fuddy-duddy,’ said Old Henry apologetically, ‘probably got better things to do with your evenings.’

Flora gazed at them in bewilderment, fighting back the tears, colour flooding her grey cheeks.

‘You’re asking me? I could try,’ she mumbled ‘Oh, my God, it’s the nicest thing. I’ll have to make time to fit in my singing lessons as well.’

‘Of course,’ said Julian. ‘Just think about it.’

‘I don’t have to, I can’t think of anything I’d like better. But you’re all such wonderful players, I’m not nearly good enough.’

‘We’re the best judges of that.’ said Barry.

‘And we need some muffin for the record sleeve,’ smiled Dimitri.

‘He means crumpet,’ said Julian. ‘If you can get to my place tomorrow evening around six. Luisa will provide some kind of supper around half-eight.’

Flora reeled out of the leader’s room, slap into Viking who’d been hovering outside, also terrified she was going to get the sack. He now bore her off to the Old Bell for a drink. They travelled in convoy, Nugent glaring furiously out of the back window of Viking’s car, and Trevor, with his front paws on the dash board, hysterically yapping on the front seat beside Flora.

‘We are divided by our dogs like Montague and Capulet,’ sighed Viking as, abandoning both animals in their respective vehicles, they went into the pub.

Viking was touchingly pleased at her news.

‘It’s no more than you deserve, darling. Think how it’s going to put the toffee-noses of all those bitches, Hilary, Moll — and even Juno,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘out of joint.’

‘I don’t think Abby’s going to be very pleased, either,’ Flora said nervously.

‘Might get her off her ass and make her start playing the fiddle again,’ said Viking.

Viking was right. Abby tried to be generous, but raging inwardly with jealousy, she did start practising again, constantly dragging in poor Marcus to accompany her.

In June, however, she received the splendid accolade of being asked to conduct the London Met in a Sunday-afternoon concert because their principal guest conductor had been rushed to hospital with appendicitis. Abby was in raptures. Rannaldini’s old orchestra was still regarded as one of the greatest in Europe, and this invitation would certainly keep George and the RSO board on their toes. She was slightly miffed that Marcus refused to come up to London to witness her triumph because he wanted to work on the Bartok, but at least he could look after the cats.

Marcus was exceedingly twitchy. The night before Abby’s concert he had had a terrible dream about Alexei, and his beautiful oiled naked body dancing away from him. He woke pouring with sweat, sobbing his heart out.

‘I dreamt I lost my car keys,’ he lied.

‘That means frustration,’ reproached Abby.

Marcus hadn’t made love to her for three days. Being uptight about Bartok’s Second Concerto wasn’t a sufficient excuse.

As she was leaving the telephone rang. Smirking, buckling the aerial on the top of the back door, Abby waltzed the cordless into the garden, then returned three minutes later still chattering.

‘I guess I’ve broken through the gender gap, right, people no longer see me as the first woman to do this or that, but want to know what kind of artist I am. No, poor Markie’s battling with Bartok Two. I can’t entice him away. Well, if I see you, OK, I see you. Come backstage afterwards.’

‘That was Alexei.’ Smugly Abby switched off the telephone and then scooped up Scriabin, covering him with kisses, then spitting out his fur. ‘He’s stopping at the Ritz. He wanted to know what I, I mean, we were up to. Oh, there’s the car.’

A large black BMW had skilfully made its way up to the splashing stream scattering elderflower petals to right and left.

‘I must go.’ Kissing Marcus lightly, Abby climbed into the back of the limo so she could spread out the afternoon’s scores. A week ago she would have blown kisses and waved until she was out of sight.

It was such a beautiful day. Although the trees had lost the bright, shiny green of early summer, the field sloping upwards from the gate was streaked silver and gold with ox-eye daisies and buttercups, the limes were in flower luring the bees with their sweet, lemony scent. In a frenzy of jealousy and despair, Marcus washed up Abby’s breakfast and last night’s dinner, hoovered the drawing-room, choking on the dust, watered the pink geraniums falling out of the front windows, loaded the washing-up machine, changed the sheets on his and Abby’s bed. He then made a cup of coffee and, wondering why it tasted so disgusting, realized in his disarray he had added a teabag as well. But anything was better than the loneliness of wrestling with Bartok Two. He’d played the concerto his first year at the Academy, but half-forgotten, it was like dragging up an ancient wreck from the bottom of the sea. He must find his own voice but he had to master the notes first.

Oh God, like scrubbing off a tattoo, he tried to wipe out the indelible horror of Abby in Alexei’s arms, the apres-concert euphoria leading on to something more. He loved Abby and she seemed his only hope of keeping out of the quicksand. As he wandered distracted into the garden he noticed the little stream shaking the ferns hanging over its bank as it hurtled towards the lake. Hart’s tongues, the ferns were called — like the tongues that would frantically wag if he were outed. ‘RUPERT’S SON A POOFTER,’ he could imagine the headlines. The papers would have a field-day. Sweating, he imagined his mother’s horror, Rupert’s lip curling in scorn — what else could any father have expected from such a wimp?

He wished Flora were here. He had so wanted to tell her about Alexei, but each time he’d bottled out. She was so busy playing chamber music with Julian and Old Henry and taking singing lessons that he never saw her.

By the front gate he noticed a white scented branch of philadelphus had been bashed down by last night’s downpour. As he broke it off to give it a few more days of life, he heard the telephone ring. Frantic with excitement, slipping on the mossy flagstones, he raced into the house. But it was only Helen, pumping him about Abby. Wasn’t it fascinating that she was conducting Rannaldini’s old orchestra? Rannaldini was kinda put out, said Helen laughing without amusement, but she thought she’d go along anyway.