Appassionata

Suddenly Noriko started crying and rushed off the stage. Cherub dropped his drumsticks and rushed off to comfort her. Abby felt the implicit blame of the entire orchestra. It was monstrously unfair. Viking had been in the wrong, he’d made the bet.

In the afternoon they rehearsed Mahler’s First Symphony, which had three trumpets playing off stage. Believing Carmine and Randy were deliberately bitching her up, coming in at the wrong moment and much too loud, Abby screamed at them to put socks in it. The next time the passage was so quiet, no-one could hear it. Abby was left flailing in space. Knickers discovered the trumpeters playing darts in the band room.

‘She insisted we play pianissimo, she can’t have heard us,’ protested Randy innocently.

So Abby made them do it again. And Randy played it from his car; everyone could hear him revving up and started to laugh.

Storming out to the car-park, Abby noticed Viking’s empty parking place had been taken by Quinton’s very clean Rover and burst into tears. Desolate, she drove home to find Marcus had lit a fire and left her some melon, chicken Kiev and a note saying he loved her.

Marcus is the one true thing in my life, Abby told herself numbly, I must cling on to him.

She was roused by the doorbell. Standing outside was a raddled but very sexy-looking blonde. Her name was Beatrice, she said, and she was a freelance who fed copy to most of the papers, particularly the music magazines.

‘I only talk to the media if it’s authorized by the RSO press office.’ Abby was about to slam the door.

‘I only wanted to give you this,’ Beatrice smiled winningly. ‘I was in Megagram’s press office and asked what was hot, and guess what they produced?’

A gust of wind seemed to blow her and a shower of leaves into the house. Abby gave a crow of delight as Beatrice handed her a galley of ‘Madly in Love’, the pop tune she and Marcus had recorded without Marcus knowing at the Christmas party. On the sleeve was a picture of Marcus looking wildly romantic at the piano, Abby had her arm round him, her cheek against his, her fiddle in her left hand.

‘I didn’t think Megagram were going to release it till January,’ squeaked Abby in excitment.

‘They’ve brought it forward and they’re very high on it. They want to cash in on the success of Rachel’s Requiem.’

‘How does it sound?’

‘Great,’ said Beatrice, ‘all the clapping and cheering in the background adds to the fun. He’s a fantastic pianist. You sound wonderful, too. Even better than you did in the old days.’ Then, very carefully, she added: ‘Is it true he’s Rupert Campbell-Black’s son?’

‘Oh Christ,’ Abby glanced at the sleeve. ‘Have they put in the “Campbell”? Marcus will go ballistic. He’s crazy to get to the top on his own.’

‘Sell more records,’ said Beatrice cosily, ‘better publicity for the orchestra, and for him.’

After they had played the single, which had colossal charm, Beatrice produced a bottle of champagne.

‘We must toast the new Richard Clayderman.’

‘I ought to give you a drink,’ said Abby.

‘I can put it on expenses.’

Oh why not, thought Abby, Marcus always shied away from publicity, but he wouldn’t be back for hours, and she would at last have a chance to push his career and the record. Unbeknownst to Howie she had made her share of the royalties over to the orchestra.

Nor did Beatrice know that the RSO had been chosen to accompany the finalists in the Appleton, and was so thrilled for Abby. She really was a delightful woman, despite her rather tarty looks, decided Abby, and it was such a relief to meet someone enthusiastic about success. The Brits were generally so carping.

‘D’you mind if I switch on my tape-recorder? I hate not getting the facts right?’ asked Beatrice.

After three-quarters of a bottle and no food all day, Abby forgot to emphasize what was off the record and what on.

‘This is the record that matters,’ said Beatrice, picking up the sleeve of ‘Madly in Love’. ‘I must say Marcus is almost as devasting as his famous father.’

‘More so,’ said Abby, clumsily trying to tug open a drawer in a nearby desk which had expanded because of the damp. Then it gave, and she pulled it out altogether, scattering photographs all over the floor.

‘My God,’ Beatrice dropped to her knees leafing through everything. ‘Pretty girl, who’s that?’

‘Flora Seymour, she shared the cottage with Marcus and me until last week.’

‘And my goodness, look at that.’ It was a topless Abby stretched out on the grass. Marcus, stripped to the waist, lay beside her, his head on her shoulder, his hand trailing across her ribs.

‘What a beautiful picture, pure Calvin Klein,’ Beatrice examined it in rapture.

‘Flora took it one afternoon. Great, isn’t it?’

‘Certainly is and he is gorgeous. What a profile and that gentle passionate mouth. No wonder he wows them on the platform. No wonder Megagram are thrilled to bits.’

She emptied the rest of the champagne into Abby’s glass. ‘How does he get on with Rupert?’

‘When are you hoping to get married?’ Beatrice asked finally. She was now kneeling on the floor with her scarlet dress rucked up, and her thighs wide apart so you could see her black lace panties. Her blond bob fell over her hot brown eyes and she displayed a rift of cleavage where the three top buttons were undone.

Viking would have had her upstairs in five seconds flat, thought Abby in sudden anguish.

‘He only has to say, “Hi, sweetheart” in that peat-soft voice and he’s got them horizontal in the car-park.’ She could hear Hugo’s envious disgruntled voice as though it were only yesterday.

‘You OK?’ said Beatrice.

‘Fine,’ mumbled Abby. ‘Must go to the John. Fine,’ she repeated, cannoning off the doorway. Out in the garden she collapsed against an old apple tree, sobbing her heart out. When would she even see Viking again? By the time she’d splashed her face and wiped away the streaked mascara and pulled herself together, Beatrice had her coat on.

‘Mustn’t take up any more of your time. I’m such a fan, you’re so much prettier in the flesh and look so much younger! I hope to get up to the Appleton. Perhaps you and Marcus would have dinner with me. At least, can I have your autograph on my notebook?’

Abby didn’t tell Marcus about Beatrice’s visit. He had inherited Rupert’s pathological loathing of the Press, and she couldn’t remember which papers Beatrice had said she worked for, but the piece was bound to be friendly. She’d been so excited for Abby. Anyway Abby wanted to surprise Marcus with a lovely boost to his career.

SIXTY-THREE

Beatrice’s story broke in The Scorpion two days before the Appleton. CHIP OFF THE OLD BLACK said the headline.

The photograph taken by Flora had been blown up and cropped just above the waist so Abby and Marcus looked naked in each other’s arms. ‘L’Appassionata’s Madly in Love’, said the caption.

Abby was quoted as saying that she and Marcus were secretly engaged and planning to make the announcement after the Appleton, so people wouldn’t accuse Abby of favouring Marcus if her orchestra had to accompany him in the finals.

‘I sure hope he’s going to win, but naturally we’ll treat all the contestants the same.’

The copy then switched to the record itself which Abby had had secretly made at Christmas as a surprise present for Marcus.

‘“Everyone thinks Marcus is wealthy, but he hasn’t spoken to his snooty dad in two years.”