Rannaldini glanced at Abby. She was a spoilt brat, and not his type. But he’d always been turned on by indifference. He’d enjoy taming her, making her jump, reducing her to crawling submission.
He also wanted that Mozart CD deal, because he suspected the New World Orchestra were not going to be the push-over he’d expected. The board had refused him the total hiring and firing rights he’d had with his last orchestra. It would be good to have a mega-record contract to bargain with.
He wanted the deal, but not Christopher as an agent. Christopher, he decided, was an avaricious thug.
‘I’ll have a dessert if you will, Christopher.’ Hermione had returned from the Ladies, face repainted, reeking of
‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on desserts,’ quipped Christopher gallantly, then whispered, ‘I want to set you free from Rannaldini, I want Harefield to be an even greater name than Callas.’
Hermione bridled. ‘My voice is considered far more lovely than Maria’s.’
‘I said a
‘I’m not interested in money,’ lied Hermione. ‘My only desire is to bring music to the masses.’
That was a good sign, Christopher thought. She’d just put her hand on his crotch, but he removed it gently with a little squeeze and a tickle of the palm, in case it met Abby’s hand coming the other way.
‘I get as much of a charge if Solti says: “You’re wonderful, Hermione”, as to hear builders on scaffolding shouting: “‘Allo ‘Ermione, loved your last halbum, bort it for the cover, but I loiked the contents”.’ Hermione’s cockney accent was quite frightful. ‘It’s the little things that matter, like the ambassador, this evening, saying you’re even lovelier in the flesh, I hear that so often, I don’t know why.’
Abby caught Rupert’s eyes and giggled, then picked up Christopher’s hand, examining the fingernails, until Christopher snatched it away, asking sharply what she was doing.
‘Look for pastry crumbs, you’ve got fingers in so many pies.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Rupert refilled her glass. Then, dropping his voice, whispered, ‘Christopher wouldn’t do business with me.’
‘He’s so grand, he only talks to God.’
‘And Rannaldini answers, I suppose.’
Abby nodded. ‘Christopher wants me to record all the Mozart concertos with Rannaldini.’
‘I wouldn’t. A beautiful pianist who was recording Beethoven with him topped herself two weeks ago.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Rachel Grant.’
‘I’ve heard her play. She was a wonderful musician.’
‘And Rannaldini was terrible to his wife Kitty.’ For a second Rupert shed his flip manner. ‘Don’t mess with him, sweetheart, he’s evil, he’ll break you.’
Hermione, in between mouthfuls of chocolate mousse, was humming
‘I had fifteen curtain calls, when I sang Leonora at La Scala. D’you remember, Rannaldini?’
‘We could have a ball if you did Declan,’ murmured Rupert. He’d had far too much to drink. His message was quite unequivocal.
Gazing into his beautiful, predatory, unsmiling face, which for a second seemed unnervingly like Rannaldini’s, Abby thought how impossible it would be to resist him, if he really put on the pressure, and how gorgeous it would be just to take off with him into the Pampas.
Rupert heard himself saying; ‘God, I’d love to sleep with you.’
‘I don’t sleep.’ Abby tossed back her black hair.
‘Well, have insomnia with me then.’
They both jumped as Rannaldini’s mobile rang.
‘Si, si, check eet again, by that time I weel be weeth you.’
Switching it off, Rannaldini smiled round the table.
‘My Leer ees grounded, so I charter Mexican jet, one cannot be too careful. I am so relieved we all escape calamity.’
‘What d’you mean?’ snapped Rupert.
‘There is legend,’ said Rannaldini silkily, ‘that once the great chandelier fall when they perform
‘I can’t remember who was playing Alvaro,’ interrupted Hermione. ‘But they say the Leonora wasn’t nearly as good as me.’
‘Always eet breeng terrible luck,’ continued Rannaldini. ‘Tonight chandelier stay put, but who knows where the ill luck will fall. My orchestra were terrified,’ he nodded coldly at Abby as if to dismiss any complaints of Julian’s. ‘That why they look shell-shocked and thees is why I ’ave jet checked three times just een case.’
Rupert felt icicles dripping down his spine. How could he have left darling Taggie by herself in Bogota? A handful of nuns was no defence, she might be kidnapped, mugged or raped by some junkie. He should have put her in the hotel safe with the adoption papers.
‘Your car is waiting, Maestro.’ It was the head waiter.
‘Are you coming?’ Rannaldini turned to Christopher, then added to Abby with a sadistic smirk, ‘Christopher hitch a lift weeth me back to New York.’
‘I don’t understand,’ stammered Abby.
Christopher got to his feet.
‘I’ve got a helluva lot on in New York and meetings first thing,’ he said placatingly. ‘I’ll get over to the UK later in the week.’
‘Red Eye flight, Shepherd’s delight,’ said Abby meditatively.
Then she went beserk.
‘You son of a bitch,’ she screamed. ‘You never intended to stop over here, or come with me to England.’ And she hurled her glass of red wine at him so it trickled like blood down his white shirt.
Hermione was suddenly looking very excited. ‘Shall we have a quiet drink in my room?’ she said, turning to Rupert. But Rupert had gone.
Cursing himself for not stopping to recharge his mobile, Rupert raced for the telephone. He was unable to get a squawk out of the Red Parrot. Terrified some ghastly fate had befallen Taggie, he urged his taxi-driver, who drove like the great Ayrton Senna anyway, to go even faster, overtaking Rannaldini deep in conversation with that smug bastard Christopher on the way.
Once at the airport Rupert managed to commandeer Rannaldini’s plane which was revving up on the runway.
Rannaldini had been so gratuitously offensive to the Mexican crew and insulted their honour by insisting on a third security-check, that their swarthy piratical captain was only too happy to accept yet another bribe. I’ll be so broke soon, thought Rupert ruefully, I’ll have to take up conducting.
Turning round, the Mexican captain alerted flight control, and flew off to Bogota. Seeing Rannaldini and Christopher foaming on the runway, Rupert flicked them another V-sign. Declan could do his own negotiating in future.
Having fretted himself into a frazzle, Rupert reached the Red Parrot as dawn was breaking despairingly over the poverty of the city.
As Alberto, yawning and still wearing his grey greasy vest, unlocked the door, Rupert grabbed him by the shoulders.
‘Is my wife OK?’
‘Si, si.’
Relief fuelled Rupert’s rage.
‘Why the fuck doesn’t your telephone work? I suppose you haven’t paid the bill, you idle sod.’
Alberto shrugged. ‘Possibly small earthquake.’
‘Earthquake!’ Rupert’s fingers bit into Alberto’s plump shoulders until he winced.
‘Only small one, Meesis Campbell-Black want to be near Bianca, so she sleep at convent.’
Rupert was so thankful he gave the rest of his cash to the beggars already out on the streets.
He found Taggie still in yesterday’s jeans and an old black polo-neck. She had spent the night in a chair, with
