And Marcus had weakened and written back, and Alexei and he had been ringing up and writing to each other ever since. Finally when the RSO was in Spain, Marcus had flown out to Prague for four days, on the pretext of looking for a record deal, but instead spending every second with Alexei, growing more and more hopelessly in love. It was as though he had found a part of himself that had always been missing.
There had been a performance of the ballet
In a few years’ time, Alexei would have to give up dancing, probably to become a wonderfully autocratic director, but Marcus wanted to be there to take care of him while he made the adjustment.
Alexei, on the one hand, was still playing word games, insisting art was more important than love and that he and Marcus were owned by the world.
‘Ballet devour your whole life.’
But it didn’t stop him trying to persuade Marcus to leave Abby.
‘It will be perfectly better for you to live in Moscow weeth me.’
But Marcus, wiped out once more by ecstasy and guilt, had returned to England, insisting they must never see each other again and Alexei had stormed off in a fury, accusing Marcus of cowardice and hypocrisy.
It was this guilt that had made Marcus react so strongly to
As he lay in the cooling water, Marcus noticed a bottle on the side for detangling hair. If only it could detangle his life.
When he settled down to practise he was so tired that he kept making stupid mistakes.
Much later as the light faded he went for a walk. Sibelius and Scriabin followed him, pouncing on gold leaves which were tumbling out of the wood. The sun, which had spied on him earlier, was now huge, orange and warming the slim bare limbs of the trees, so beautiful freed of their clothing of leaves, they reminded him of Alexei.
He hadn’t heard a word from Rupert or Taggie since
Ahead Marcus could see the lights of the cottage. Abby must have come home early. He found her still in her overcoat, gazing hopelessly at a burnt-out kettle. Sobbing hysterically, she collapsed against him.
‘I’m desperately sorry, Markie. My foot’s like a colander I’ve shot myself in it so often. I’ve just turned your evening-shirt blue putting it in the same wash as my scarf.’
The Fat Controller was guesting at the RSO for the next week, she continued, so she was pushing off to Philadelphia to clinch the American tour.
‘I lied to Miles that I was going to see Mom. He’d be so fucking smug if the tour didn’t come off, and if it does I guess it’s the only way the orchestra’ll forgive me. You’d think it was me sacked Viking. Anyway it’ll get me out of your hair and theirs. You all need a break.’
‘I need you to tell me what to do in the first round,’ protested Marcus, but only to comfort her.
Abby gulped. ‘You’re the sweetest liar. You’ll be far better on your own. I’ll fly back on Thursday morning and come straight up to Appleton for the finals the next day.’
‘Aren’t you cutting it a bit fine?’ said Marcus in alarm. Abby was going to have to conduct six concertos. ‘It’s a hell of a marathon.’
‘It won’t give me time to be scared. Imagine five million viewers.’
She was so tired it took her ages to pack, dragging out her power suits with shoulder pads to impress the conservative and sometimes stuffy American cultural committees. The cats kept getting into her cases; she loathed the idea of them going to a cattery, but at least they’d be together.
When, at last, she wandered across the moonlit lawn to Marcus’s studio, the crowded stars were listening enraptured to the last joyful tumultuous bars of the Schumann concerto.
‘You and I are going to play that together in the finals,’ said Abby, massaging his shoulders.
‘Some hope. It’s tempting fate to work on it when I know I won’t get that far. Did you know Benny’s entered, and a mass of other seriously good people.’
‘You’ll zap the lot of them. You know Rodney always sang “To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats”, during that bit in the last movement, when every pianist wants to jump ship because it’s so difficult to cope with the cross- rhythms. Play it again. I’ll be the orchestra.’
‘Promise to sing it slowly,’ Marcus flipped back the pages.
‘I promise. “To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats, to the Life Boats,”’ sang Abby, faster and faster, with Marcus frantically scurrying to keep up, until they collapsed in hysterical laughter for the first time in days until Abby’s laughter turned once more to tears.
‘Make love to me, Marcus. It’s been so long, I need it so badly.’
Falling on each other, they tried to eradicate the memories of Viking and Alexei. For Marcus, it was as if he were attempting to quench a frantic thirst with great gulps of sea water. At least he hoped he had satisfied Abby. She fell asleep in his arms immediately. The studio was flooded with moonlight. On her right hand, clutching the pillow, Marcus’s ruby glowed like a drop of blood. Burning through the floorboards, under the bed, were Alexei’s hidden love letters, his Rolex and the emerald cuff-links.
White in the moon the long road lies
As Abby slept, he stole out of the studio and across the dewy lawn, his heart pounding. He didn’t even have to memorize the code for Moscow. But there was no answer. Alexei must have found other arms.
Appassionata. SIXTH MOVEMENT
SIXTY-FOUR
Appleton, a dark satanic mill town, lay just west of the Pennines with its grimy houses and factories spilling over the steep hillside as though someone had hurled a pot of black ink against a green wall. The surrounding countryside was dotted with imposing Victorian houses built by the old cotton manufacturers, who found patronizing the arts in the nineteenth century a gratifying way up the social ladder. The most imposing of these houses had belonged to the late Lord Appleton, a great charmer and music lover, who each year had invited a group of friends to play together over a long weekend. On the last day, the musician, who, by popular vote, had pleased his companions the most, was awarded five hundred pounds.
The comely Welsh pianist, Blodwyn Jones, who won the prize at the end of the Fifties, became Lord Appleton’s much younger wife, and when he died she joined forces with his inconsolable friends to found the Appleton Piano Competition in his memory. The Appleton had become as prestigious as the Leeds Piano Competition which took place every four years in August. Indeed Fanny Waterman, the founder of the great Leeds Competition was a friend of Blodwyn Appleton and had advised her in the early stages.
Lady Appleton was well named. She had a face as round, rosy and sweet as a Worcester Pearmain, and a nature to match. Although well into her sixties, she was able to charm distinguished musicians to give their services for almost nothing. This year, the very international jury contained several piano teachers, old trouts of both sexes, including a Romanian, a Latvian, a vast Ukrainian and a Chinese who spent his time writing a biography of Schumann from right to left on a laptop computer. Among the judges who still played in public was Marcus’s ancient admirer Pablo Gonzales, who had arrived without his blond boyfriend. Others included Bruce Kennedy, a cool laconic
