Appassionata

‘It’s an ode to a mighty hunter, he’s not dead yet, for goodness’ sake.’

Finally, as a mark of respect, the vast audience filed out in silence.

The usual crowd of well-wishers and ghouls were queuing outside Abby’s dressing-room. The Press were massing outside. Nicholas was having great difficulty keeping them at bay. Viking caused chuntering and a lot of raised eyebrows when he barged to the front of the queue. Inside he found Abby in tears again.

‘Oh Viking, I can’t believe it,’ she wailed, as he put his arms round her. ‘D’you think the orchestra’ll ever love me as much as him?’

This made Viking laugh.

‘Not till you leave them, sweetheart. Let’s go and get wasted,’ then when Abby hesitated, ‘we were his favourites, he’d have wanted it.’

‘Give me five minutes to have a shower,’ said Abby, asking as he went towards the door, ‘Was my solo OK?’

‘Brilliant, and the conducting.’

‘I guess I was just the catalyst.’

‘In that case,’ Viking smiled slightly, ‘I’m a member of the Catalyst’s Protection League.’

Abby was shocked she looked so beautiful and as she smothered herself in Amarige, turning herself on by her caresses, she could already feel Rodney’s ghost egging her on.

‘Go on, darling, it’s worth a try.’

‘I love you, Rodney,’ she pleaded, ‘and I love Viking, please forgive me, you always said as long as we played well, you didn’t mind what we got up to below the waist.’

Tiredness hit Flora in the form of the blackest depression. Having bolted in embarrassment when George arrived, she hadn’t seen him to talk to since, because he’d been so busy looking after Rodney and then sorting out the ramifications of his death. All she had to listen to was pesky members of the orchestra speculating as to why he’d come out in the first place. On the coach home from the concert, she found out. Slumped in a seat clutching Foxie, and her black dress, she overheard Hilary and Miss Parrott whispering behind her about Rodney’s death being ‘a merciful release’.

‘Ay will miss him,’ sighed Miss Parrott. ‘Even George seemed upset, and he hardly knew him. Is he stayin’ at our hotel?’

‘No, riveting news.’ Hilary paused, aware of Flora, who pointedly lolled her head on one side and pretended to snore. ‘You’ll never guess — ’ Hilary went on — ‘he’s staying with his wife, Ruth. She’s got a hacienda,’ Hilary prided herself on her pronunciation, ‘near Marbella.’

‘I thought they were divorced.’

‘No, only separated, and only by her choice. He’s mad about her, Miles says, got pictures of her all over his home.’

‘How romantic if they’ve got together again,’ sighed Miss Parrott.

‘Bit of a smack in the eye for Juno,’ said Hilary with satisfaction, ‘she was so certain George was about to pop the question.’

Jumping at the sound of tearing, Flora looked down at the ripped-open bodice of her only black dress. She’d need it, if she was going to spend the rest of her life in mourning.

‘Of course Juno was much too young for him,’ observed Miss Parrott. ‘In his position he’d want someone older and more sophisticated, like that nice Serena who works at Megagram.’

As the coach doors clanged open, Flora leapt up, out of the coach, up the steps of the hotel. Reprieve awaited her. As she collected her key, the receptionist handed her a telephone number and a message to ring George. She couldn’t bear to wait for the lift and could have won the One Thousand Guineas, at the speed she belted up five flights. She then misdialled the number three times only to get through to her mother, Georgie, who was also on tour, in America.

‘Darling, how are you?’

‘Fine, absolutely fine.’ Fighting back the tears, Flora slumped on the bed. ‘Did you ring earlier?’

‘About twenty minutes ago. I’m amazed you got the message. I had to repeat the number about four times. I just wanted to know how it’s all going.’

Flora couldn’t inject a flicker of animation into her voice.

‘I’m OK, Mum. You know tours, up and down, we’re all a bit tired.’ She couldn’t face her mother’s torrent of sympathy if she told her about Rodney. ‘But it’s going well.’

‘How are you enjoying Spain?’

‘Haven’t seen much of it really. There’s so much going on within the orchestra. How was the concert?’

‘Oh terrific, packed out.’

But her mother didn’t want to talk about that. Like Abby, she’d rung home several times in the middle of the night in the last week, but only got herself on the answering-machine.

Flora felt a great weariness.

‘Dad’s probably asleep, Mum, or pulled out the telephone. You know what he’s like.’

I can’t face it, she thought in panic, when her mother finally rang off. There must be someone, good, true, safe and constant in the world. I’m a basket case, she thought, as she gazed at her wan, white face in the mirror. I’ve just transferred the agony of being in love with Rannaldini to the even worse pain of being in love with George.

But a man ‘in his position’ was not likely to be interested in a twenty-one-year-old slut.

When the telephone rang again, she pounced on it in hope, but it was only Nellie saying there was one helluva party going on in Abigail’s suite, the Don Juan, and why didn’t Flora come up.

‘I’ve got a migraine,’ said Flora, and hung up.

FIFTY-EIGHT

It was one helluva party. In death we are in life. The RSO had played their hearts out. Knowing that Rodney would have wanted it, they now felt an hysterical need to hell-raise.

Back and forth, back and forth went the waiters with room service. Carmine, orgasmic at the prospect of drink paid for by someone else, kept ordering his own bottles of Krug.

A splendid sub-party was going on inside Abby’s wardrobe. At least three people, including Simon Painshaw, Ninion and Fat Isobel, had been seen going in. Every so often a hand holding an empty glass would shoot out of the wardrobe. Once it was filled, the door would snap shut again.

In different rooms of the Don Juan Suite, different wirelesses were blaring. Every time ‘Rachel’s Lament’ was played, everyone stopped drinking or dancing and cheered. Cherub kept turning the lights out.

Davie, whose sprained ankle was as puffy as a sumo wrestler’s, was using Abby’s telephone. He was desperately trying to clock in with Brunnhilde to explain he’d fallen off the platform when sober, rather than Abby’s balcony when drunk, before any of the orchestra wives at home told her otherwise. But he was so plastered, he kept dialling wrong numbers and was now through to Australia.

‘Whatsh the wevver like out there?’

Cries of admiration greeted the arrival of Viking in a beautiful sky-blue shirt.

‘Enough to make a sailor’s trousers,’ sighed Miss Parrott.

‘I’d settle for a sailor,’ said Candy sourly. ‘We’re not going to get any joy out of this lot tonight.’

‘That’s my shirt,’ hissed Blue, ‘Cathie saved up months to buy it for me.’

‘My need is greater than yours,’ murmured Viking. ‘You’re not even trying to pull Abby.’

To egg on Abby’s suitors, a mural showed Don Juan plucking guitars under moonlit windows, being admonished by large ladies, and chasing peasant girls round double beds. Getting into the spirit, Chloe, the comely alto soloist in Beethoven’s Ninth was trying to pull Julian, kneeling at his feet, pressing her pretty bosom against his locked knees.