Appassionata

just like Rannaldini. Bird of ill omen: one for sorrow.

‘Oh please, Mr Magpie, where’s your friend?’ begged Marcus, ‘Oh God, let The Scorpion not have printed it.’

‘You don’t want to read that rag,’ chided the newsagent, as Marcus picked up a copy. ‘It’s roobish. Good luck for tomorrow evening.’

‘We recognize you from the Manchester Evening News,’ said his wife. ‘Used to love your Dad when he were show jumping.’

Gasping his thanks, stumbling out of the shop, collapsing against a wall, Marcus fumbled frantically through the pages. There was nothing, thank Christ, maybe it had been some practical joke. Maybe they’d pulled the story… no, that reporter had known too much. He was only in remission.

He tried to act normally, but he was shaking and wheezing so badly when he finally reached St Theresa’s that Natalia persuaded him to take one of Rannaldini’s beta-blockers.

‘They’re terreefic for zee nerves, I had one before both rounds.’

Carl Matheson was worried by tendonitis.

‘I guess I better see a doctor before I rehearse this afternoon.’

Abby had stayed on an extra twenty-four hours in Philadelphia to confirm the American tour, so she could brandish the details as one glorious fait accompli in front of Miles, the board and Shepherd Denston. Nor could they winge about money. The wonderfully generous US cultural committee, coupled with American Bravo Records, had agreed to pick up most of the bill.

‘We figured we’d lost you to the UK for good, Abby,’ the chairman had told her. ‘We all feel it’s high time you brought your orchestra home.’

Abby’s eyes filled with tears every time she repeated his words. Always one track, she had concentrated all her energies on the deal in a desperate attempt to forget Viking. But now it was clinched, surely she could ask him back. The Americans would just adore him.

Appleton looked particularly bleak on such a cold wintery morning, but at least the huge begrimed town hall had been decorated by the flags of the nations in the finals. Abby was delighted an American had made it. She hoped Carl would at least come second.

She reached the Prince of Wales at ten o’clock which would give her a few hours’ zizz before rehearsing Beethoven’s Third with Han Chai at two-thirty.

There was a tray of red poppies for Remembrance Day in reception. Abby couldn’t see her pigeon hole for messages. The first asked her to call Marcus at St Theresa’s urgently. The second wanted her to call The Scorpion. Like hell she would. The third was to call Miles.

The RSO’s greatest coup for years was to be the orchestra chosen to play in the Appleton. Most of the board had flown up to bask in reflected glory. Looking round the splendid suite, for which the orchestra had forked out to enable her to give interviews, Abby decided she better ring Miles first.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was his Miles-below-zero voice. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

‘Can’t it wait,’ protested Abby. ‘I’ve just checked in.’

‘No, I’m coming over.’

Abby kicked off her shoes and unpacked the long slinky purple velvet dress, slit up one side, which she had brought to wear that evening, on the off-chance that among the five million viewers, Viking might be watching. She must get the housekeeper to press it. She’d have to snatch time to wash her hair after the rehearsal. She hoped Miles hadn’t organized some elaborate press conference. God, she was tired, but she mustn’t show it, although with three different concertos to rehearse and perform, it was going to be one helluva marathon. She rang down for some black coffee — ‘at once, please.’

Miles, looking almost svelte in a new beautifully cut pin-stripe suit, was accompanied by a bootfaced Lord Leatherhead. When they both grimly refused breakfast, Abby asked when the orchestra was expected.

‘I can’t wait to see them,’ she crowed. ‘I’ve got such terrific news. I’ve fixed up the most incredible American tour with record backing, OK? It’s gonna put us in the black and on the map,’ then, amazed by their still bleak expressions, she continued, ‘they’re planning to stage a Cotswold fortnight down the East Coast. They’re paying accommodation, travel, subsistence, printing and publicity. And all because they want me, right?’ Abby’s voice broke. ‘I’m gonna take my orchestra home.’

‘You’re not taking them anywhere,’ said Miles brutally. ‘You’re fired.’

They all jumped as the telephone rang. Abby snatched it up.

‘I can’t take any calls.’

But it was Marcus frantically stammering, gasping for breath, on the verge of tears.

‘Abby darling, I wanted to tell you to your face but I had to get to you before the Press do.’

Abby could hear the desperate wheezing.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘I’m g-g-gay, Abby, I’m dreadfully sorry. Alexei and I’ve been having an affaire. The Scorpion have got hold of our letters. They’re going to print them. They’ll probably run it tomorrow. I’m so sorry.’

The colour drained out of Abby’s face. Her legs started to shake so violently she had to collapse onto the bed.

‘I don’t believe it. How long’s this been going on?’

‘About four months, but we’ve only seen each other twice, and it’s over now, I promise.’

‘You son-of-a-bitch,’ screamed Abby, banging her fist down on her bedside table scattering ashtrays and message pads. ‘Two-timing me exactly like Christopher did, only wanting me for the dough. You fucker! Why didn’t you break it off, instead of making a goddamn idiot of me? God, I hate you, hate you, hate you.’ Her voice rose to a hysterical scream.

But Marcus couldn’t breathe and couldn’t answer, so Abby slammed down the telephone, and sat shuddering on the bed, clenching and unclenching her hands, her eyes darting madly round the room.

Lord Leatherhead got a miniature brandy out of the fridge and poured it into a glass. He wasn’t enjoying this at all. When the telephone rang again Miles snatched it up. It was The Scorpion. ‘I’m afraid Miss Rosen has no comment to make,’ said Miles, then ordered the switchboard not to put through any more calls.

‘The Scorpion has already been on to us with the whole story,’ he told Abby bleakly. ‘It reflects disastrously on the orchestra. First their musical director posing naked with a lover to promote a pop record-’

‘Beattie Johnson stitched me up,’ whispered Abby. ‘She stole that photograph.’

‘But you gave her the interview. All that nauseating claptrap about being ma-a-a-dly in love,’ Miles lingered lubriciously over the word.

He’s loving this, thought Abby numbly.

‘Then we learn,’ he added silkily, ‘that you’ve both got other people and are only masquerading as lovers to push the record.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ shouted Abby. ‘I loved Marcus. I’m supposed to be marrying the guy. I didn’t know anything about him being gay.’

‘You’ve hardly been a vestal virgin yourself and your orchestra are so nauseatingly avaricious it can’t be long before one of them sells the story of you and Viking to The Scorpion.’

‘I’m not having an affaire with Viking,’ hissed Abby.

Miles gave her a pained look of utter disbelief. ‘What about the night Rodney died? There are dozens of witnesses.’

‘That was a one-night stand, everyone was plastered. Hilary was there. She probably shopped us to The Scorpion. It only happened once, for Chrissake.’

‘I find that very hard to believe. Anyway, it’s going to be all over The Evening Scorpion this afternoon, and all the other papers will carry the story tomorrow, bringing utter disrepute on the orchestra. The one thing the Press hate is being cynically manipulated.’

‘I didn’t manipulate them, right,’ Abby was hysterical. ‘I genuinely believed Marcus and I were getting married. Look, he gave me this ring,’ she held out her right hand.