Appassionata

Mozart, no musician except Abby, could express such sweetness, such caressing tenderness, such extremes of sadness and joy. He watched her breasts and golden arms quivering as her bow darted across the strings, the voluptuous swing of her suede hips, her tossing shining hair, and the rapacious absorption on her proud, hawklike face, and was filled with lust as well as admiration.

Abby was a good conductor, but her heart constantly fought her head, like a swan struggling across land to some destination. But when she played she flew, all heart, totally committed, as bewitched as the nymphs on the wall.

‘We’ll be looking for a new musical director,’ sighed Old Henry, tapping his bow against Francis’s chair-back. ‘Can’t deprive the world of a sound like that.’

As he joined in the rapturous applause, George was shocked to see how Rodney was sweating, and how much brown make-up came off on the lemon-yellow silk handkerchief when he mopped his brow. He was a ghastly colour, but outwardly full of pride and joy for his protegee.

‘I can die happy now,’ he told Abby. ‘The sorrow of that middle movement was almost unbearable. And if I hadn’t known you were the RSO, boys and girls, I could have sworn you were the Berlin Phil.’

‘It’s because you’re back, Sir Rod,’ shouted Dixie, then remembering he was trying to pull Abby, ‘and because we’ve got a great soloist.’

George stepped forward. ‘You must rest, Maestro.’

‘Think I’d better, journey took it out of me. Got a lovely chambermaid as siesta-fodder back at the hotel. Got to be as fresh as a daisy for the party later. Lots of champagne, lovely grub: I can open all my presents, and we’ll all behave as badly as possible, toodle-oo everyone.’

Waving his flag, he adjusted his Beatle cap at a more rakish angle. As he was helped down from the rostrum, the musicians surged forward to shake his hand and show how happy they were he was back.

Clutching the door leading to the stage, he patted the head of his pantomime cow, whose furry black-and- white body was slumped over the rail waiting to take part in the encore.

‘Nice to see my old girl again. Got her a Swiss bell to wear tonight. Connaissez-vous Schoenberg, Madame Vache? No, that’s French, must remember to speak Spanish. Must stop this merger, dear boy, Rannaldini’s such a shit,’ he added, clapping a hand on George’s shoulder, but using it more as a support.

Abby ran after them.

‘I love you, Rodney,’ she stammered.

‘And I you, darling.’

‘Was I really OK?’

‘Better than ever. Utterly breathtaking. Oh, there’s Charlton, how are you?’

‘Great, and great to see you, Sir Rod. Fanks for the Scotch, biggest fucking bottle I’ve ever seen.’

‘You deserve it, dear boy, after flogging all those miles.’

‘Oh, damn you,’ sighed Abby, as a departing Rodney wriggled like an old badger into the back of the waiting limo. ‘Why d’you always have to show me up by being so nice to everyone?’

She never saw him again.

In the men’s changing-room, musicians were combing hair over bald patches, running electric razors over their faces, spraying deodorant on earlier layers, cleaning teeth, fighting for the mirror to tie their ties. Those with good bodies wandered round in their underpants. Those already dressed were warming up in the passage outside the conductor’s room. Viking was playing ‘The Teddy Bears Picnic’ when George arrived, looking grim and very shaken, and dragged him into an empty-dressing room. Just as he was leaving the hotel, Rodney had died of a massive heart attack.

‘He was so excited,’ George’s voice cracked, ‘his last words were, “I moosn’t be late for my dear children.”’

The colour drained from Viking’s face; for a second he clung onto a chair, his eyes closed, fighting back the tears.

‘Oh Jesus, I don’t believe it. Thank God we saw him one last time. This is terrible.’ Then he pulled himself together. ‘Poor little Abby.’

‘I better go and tell her.’

‘I’ll tell her. You tell the orchestra.’

‘Ought we to cancel the concert?’

‘Certainly not, Rodney’s worst thing was disappointing people.’

The orchestra were devastated — most of them in tears.

Steve abandoned his noisy row with Knickers about the musicians not having had long enough between rehearsal and concert.

Abby had just emerged from the shower and was wrapped in a very inadequate olive-green towel, when Viking walked in. At first she didn’t believe him.

‘It’s just another of your obnoxious jokes.’

Then she went into such raving, screaming hysterics that Viking was very reluctantly forced to slap her face before she collapsed sobbing wildly in his arms.

‘I know how you loved him, sweetheart, I know, I know, I’ll look after you.’

Gradually he calmed her down, pouring her a large brandy from Rodney’s cupboard, then saying he hoped he wouldn’t get sacked for hitting the conductor.

‘Cut it out,’ sobbed Abby. ‘Trust you to make jokes.’

‘I loved him, too, sweetheart. What are you doing?’ he demanded as Abby reached for her new suede skirt.

‘Going to Lucerne to take care of Gisela. She’s worked for him for forty years, for chrissake.’

‘You can’t, not yet. You’ve got to go on tonight.’

‘Don’t be insane, George must cancel.’

‘Rodney would expect it.’

‘What about my solo?’

‘Mozart played it and conducted at the same time. If you prefer, Julian could play your solo.’

‘Like hell he will. Oh Viking, I can’t believe it.’ She broke down again.

Hearing weeping coming from the conductor’s room, Hilary turned to Juno.

‘She must have been Rodney’s mistress to be so upset.’

‘Who’s in there?’ asked Carmine.

‘Viking,’ said Hilary.

‘Trust Viking to cash in on some poor guy’s death to win his bloody bet.’

The next moment Blue had Carmine against the wall.

‘You dirty basstard,’ he hissed.

Deathly pale in her short pink chiffon dress, Abby looked like a lost masquerader. She left the rose-and- jasmine-woven rostrum empty and conducted from the soloist’s position, from which she could see the shock and deep distress on the faces in the audience, many of whom had flown in from all over the world.

Cathie Jones brought all her sadness to the solo in Romeo and Juliet. Abby didn’t play the Mozart that followed with as much dash as she had in rehearsal, but even though she had to conduct it at the same time, there was an added depth and sorrow.

She’s playing a requiem, thought Viking. It was so private, so other worldly, that for a second he was so moved he felt he was going to lose it.

Everyone was so distraught about Rodney that few people appreciated that this was Abby’s first time playing in public again.

Mozart was followed by Don Quixote. Tears streamed unashamedly down Dimitri’s face, as he played the part of the Don, Abby nearly broke down, too, as she introduced the piece:

‘In the words of your greatest novel,’ she told the audience in Spanish, “I have battled, I have made mistakes, but I have lived my life the best I can, according to the world as I see it.” That sums up the Rodney we all knew and loved.’

Neither Viking nor Cherub had the heart to get inside the pantomime cow, so the orchestra played ‘Nimrod’, Rodney’s favourite tune. He had always chided the RSO for playing it too slowly.’