Appassionata

Rupert cut him off after a family tiff and he is too proud to take any money from his multi-millionaire stepdad, Sir Roberto Rannaldini (family motto: I will dump from a great height).

“I admire Marcus more than any boy I know,” enthuses Abby. “He sold the twenty-thousand- pound painting by horse artist Alf Munnings his dad gave him for his twenty-first to buy me a ruby engagement ring and he is a wonderful, caring and tender lover. But I hope one day that he, Rupert and Sir Roberto will be reconciled, perhaps at our wedding.”’

There was a lot of guff about Abby having slashed her wrist four years ago:

‘When she caught her agent and married lover cheating on her with his secretary: but Abby’s certainly turned her career around. Just back from a wildly successful tour of Spain, next week it’s the Appleton, and she still dreams of taking her orchestra on tour to the US. “But Marcus comes first,” sighs L’Appassionata. “His career is more important because we’re madly in love.”’

Abby had never seen Marcus really angry before.

‘How could you, Abby, how fucking could you?’ he yelled. ‘You know I never wanted to get anywhere on Dad’s back, and how could you say I flogged the Munnings? How d’you think Dad’s going to feel, and Mum? And you’ve totally buggered any chance I might have had in the Appleton. Even if I get through the first round they’ll say you pulled strings, or Rannaldini has, and finally that fucking record, you know how I feel about pop music.’

He was blue in the face, gasping for breath, clinging onto the kitchen table.

‘Don’t you remember me warning you. Beattie Johnson was Dad’s mistress between marriages, and his nemesis,’ he went on furiously. ‘She’s been trying to bring him down ever since.’

‘She stitched me up too, right?’ screamed Abby, ‘She never let on she was from The Scorpion, it was all off the record. I thought she was a legit music critic, or Megagram wouldn’t have given her an advance copy. It’s their fault for telling her where I live.’

‘It’s your bloody fault; why d’you always blame everyone else?’

‘I wanted people to know how good you are. Someone’s got to blow your own trumpet. You won’t.’

‘By putting out some fucking pop record. Why the hell didn’t you ask me? Because you knew I’d say no.’

‘Because I knew you needed the money.’ Abby was now hurling insults as if they were crockery. ‘I’m sick of having to pay for everything. I’m sick of you wasting your energy on stupid pupils. I’d quite like to be taken somewhere nice occasionally, get a few flowers and chocolates, the odd pin. If it becomes a hit you’ll make a bomb.’

‘Bombs bloody maim and destroy people. Anyway, why the hell did you give them that photograph?’

‘She stole it without asking. I only wanted to show her how beautiful you were. There must be some reason I’m throwing myself away on a penniless wimp.’

The telephone rang. Abby ran out of the room. Marcus picked it up, so short of breath he could only croak, ‘Hallo.’

It was Helen. Marcus steeled himself. But his mother was surprisingly chipper. Abby had given her a very good press, and had been quoted as saying:

‘Marcus gets his looks from his beautiful mother, she’s very supportive of him and is the only member of his family he can relate to.’

‘After all,’ protested Helen, ‘Abby hasn’t said anything that isn’t true. You and she are madly in love. Rupert has been fiendish to you all his life, and given you no encouragement at all. And everyone will buy the record now. Abby only meant it as a surprise. Everyone will understand it was just a bit of fun at the office Christmas party. And it’s wonderful publicity for both you and the RSO.’

‘I don’t want to be a fucking pop star.’

‘Kiri and Placido cross over — didn’t do them any harm. You’re overreacting — don’t excite yourself before the competition. At least you and Abby really love each other.’ Helen’s voice broke. ‘I’m sure Rannaldini’s got someone else. He was checking his Interflora bill, but when I came into the room yesterday, his hand shot down over it like a guillotine.’

‘You shouldn’t bloody well have married him,’ howled Marcus, slamming down the telephone.

What was happening to him?

Immediately it rang again. It was the Sun and then the Mail, then the Express and then the whole of Fleet Street, and soon the cars were crunching over the conker husks, splashing up the path to Woodbine Cottage.

‘The only time I escape fucking tension is when I walk out onto the platform,’ Marcus yelled at a flabbergasted Abby.

The RSO the next day were almost as hostile. Management, i.e. Miles rewed up by Hilly, were horrified by the picture in The Scorpion.

‘Ghastly vulgar publicity,’ he told Abby furiously, ‘musical directors should not emulate Page Three girls. Any sense of gravitas is totally destroyed and Miss Priddock’s been fielding calls from the tabloids all day.’

‘Then buy her some gloves and a baseball cap,’ snarled Abby.

The Arts Council were also appalled. Gwynneth was particularly disapproving because Gilbert, having bought his own copy of The Scorpion, seemed to spend an unconscionable time reading the headline, the caption and the few lines of text flanking Abby’s naked boobs.

Peggy Parker and Canon Airlie had collective coronaries.

The rehearsals that day were even more acrimonious. When Abby came in to conduct Tchaikovsky’s Sixth every single player except Hilary was hidden behind a copy of The Scorpion, and all started singing ‘Madly in Love’. Abby started yelling at them and things went from bad to worse.

‘If you don’t get your act together after the break I’m walking out,’ shouted Abby.

‘Good,’ said Old Henry to everyone’s amazement.

‘Whaddid you say?’

‘He said, “good”,’ shouted Nellie. ‘Can’t you get it into your thick head, Abby, that without Viking the Pathetique is absolutely pathetic.’

Nor did Abby get any help at home. For a few days the Press hung around like starlings settling noisily on a tree, then just as suddenly they all flew off leaving the tree bare and bereft. Marcus retreated into his studio, practising for ten or eleven hours a day until the pieces held no surprises for him. He found it impossible to relax and kept a score beside him at mealtimes as a wall between him and Abby. Unable to sleep since she’d returned, he had retreated at nights to the studio, but was also getting up at first light to intercept the post in case a letter arrived from Alexei.

The morning after the Press took their departure he had heard Dixie’s springer spaniel barking down at The Bordello, and knew the postman would reach Woodbine Cottage in a couple of minutes.

Leaping out of bed, he had hurtled across the lawn, round the corner of the cottage, slap into Abby, wrapped in a towel, hoping for the miracle of a letter from Viking. Both jumped guiltily.

‘I was hoping to hear from Philadelphia,’ mumbled Abby.

‘I was h-h-hoping to h-h-hear from the record company in Prague,’ stammered Marcus.

But all the postman produced was an ecstatic postcard from. Flora and the telephone bill, which Marcus pocketed instantly. ‘I’ll pay that, you’ve picked up far too many bills recently.’ Anything to stop Abby seeing the itemized calls to Moscow.

‘Come back to bed, Markie,’ pleaded Abby.

Marcus shook his head.

‘Ought to have a bath first, I just fell into bed like a polecat last night.’

‘Oh OK, if you feel like that.’ Abby retreated upstairs banging her bedroom door.

As Marcus soaked in the last of Flora’s bath oil, he noticed a pale sun looking at him from the marble tiles on the right of the bath. The tiles were picking up the sun’s reflection in the mirror opposite. It gave Marcus the creeps that the sun, hovering unseen and in apparent innocence outside, could watch him naked in the bath. Just like the Press, thought Marcus with a shiver. He kept hearing the collective rattle of himself and skeletons coming out of the closet.

He had made heroic attempts to be faithful to Abby, but five weeks ago Alexei had sent him a pair of emerald cuff-links with just one sentence: ‘Here are two green eyes of the monster who is jealous of