Appassionata

doorway.

‘The discharge of the heavy brigade,’ said Rupert, bodily removing her from Marcus’s path.

Taggie was hovering in the waiting-room on the way to the lifts with an undrunk cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes were very red. Marcus went straight into her arms.

‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ they cried.

Rupert put his arms round both of them, but just for a second. ‘Come on, we mustn’t be late.’

The only concession the hospital made was to smuggle them out of a side-door.

Panic gripped Marcus the moment he was installed in the back of the car. As they hurtled through the night, rain lashing and clawing at the windscreen, he took great gulps from his puffer and under a pallid overhead light, desperately riffled through the score which seemed terrifyingly unfamiliar. What were all the pitfalls? He hadn’t touched a piano for two days. With Abby, the orchestra would have seemed familiar, but Rannaldini would take everything much slower or much faster, whipping the orchestra up to an unnatural frenzy. Rannaldini also despised Schumann as an over-romantic wimp.

Thank God neither Rupert nor Taggie talked, although Marcus noticed his father’s hand sliding over Taggie’s whenever he entered a straight piece of road. As they reached the outskirts of Appleton, the reflections of the orange street-lights shivered like carp on the shiny black cobbled streets. Breathing in the conflicting wafts of hamburgers, curry and fish and chips, Marcus retched. Rupert’s mobile rang. It was Northern Television.

‘Howyer doing? Can you make it by eight-thirty, then Marcus can warm up during the interval. Everyone’s knocked out he’s coming on.’

Most of the space round the hall had been taken up by the seven OB vans and the cherry-red RSO lorry, but Rupert got them as near the artists’ entrance as possible. The only other stumbling-block was a river of damp press who immediately turned into a frenzied whirlpool.

‘Christ, it’s Rupert,’ shouted the Daily Express. ‘Looks as though he’s made it up with the lad.’

‘Dangerous bugger,’ warned the Mail, ‘watch out.’

‘Spect Rupert forced him to go on,’ said the Mirror. ‘What d’you feel about your son’s affaire with Nemerovsky, Rupert?’

Rupert looked the reporter up and down, about to tell him to get stuffed, then he changed his mind.

‘Shows Nemerovsky’s got extremely good taste.’

‘You don’t mind having a gay son?’ asked the Sun in amazement.

Briefly, Rupert put an arm round Marcus’s shoulders, the rain falling through the rays of the street-lamps, casting a speckled light on his haughty expressionless face.

‘I’ve got a son with enough guts to discharge himself from hospital and face the toughest ordeal of his life,’ he drawled. ‘I’m very proud of him. His sexual preferences, as long as they bring him happiness, are quite immaterial.’

‘What about his engagement to Abby?’

‘Much better they both found out before they got married.’

‘Do you know where Abby is?’

‘No.’

‘Nemerovsky’s got a terrible track-record, aren’t you worried about AIDS?’ asked an evil-looking blonde.

Rupert’s face suddenly betrayed such hatred everyone shrank back.

‘If he’d slept with you, Beattie,’ he said icily, ‘I’d worry about something much worse than AIDS.’

The surrounding journalists laughed nervously.

‘Are you disappointed about the Czech Grand National?’ asked The Times.

Rupert stopped in his tracks — incredible that he’d forgotten all about it in his race from the hospital.

‘It’s a Snip won, not Penscombe Pride,’ said the Telegraph, ‘Lysander broke a shoulder, Pridie fell at the last fence.’

For a second, Rupert’s face clenched in horror, then he said lightly, ‘But Marcus won’t,’ and they were through the swing-doors.

‘I said he was a dangerous bugger,’ grumbled the Mail, trying to make his biro work on a rain-sodden page.

‘It’s his son who’s the bugger,’ hissed BeattieJohnson.

‘Awfully good of you to show up, Martin,’ said an earnest woman in a billowing grey jersey. Brandishing a clipboard as she scuttled up to them on spindly red-stockinged legs, she looked like a turkey.

‘I’m Chrissie,’ she shook Marcus’s hand. ‘Our presenter, James Vereker’s going to announce you’re participating, just before Natalia Philipova goes on. Means the competition’s wide open. Do you need anything ironed? I expect you’d like to see your dressing-room before you warm up, Martin, and then go to make-up, but if James Vereker could have a brief chat first-’

‘James can have it afterwards. Martin needs to distance himself,’ said Rupert firmly, as he relieved her of the dressing-room key. ‘Come on, Martin.’

Marcus’s laughter almost turned to tears as he saw the ‘Save the RSO’ sticker on his door and the hundreds of cards and great banks of flowers waiting for him inside.

‘We were going to send them over to the hospital when we had a mo,’ said Chrissie apologetically.

Marcus suppressed a flare of hope that one might be from Alexei. But there was no time to look.

‘Could you bear to open them?’ he asked Taggie.

As he was pouring with sweat, he tugged off his jersey, then turning to Rupert, said, ‘I don’t mean to be horrible, but could you possibly keep Mum away while I warm up?’

Tripping over cables, climbing round petulant rank-and-file fiddle players, James Vereker, the presenter, reached the rostrum. Having smoothed his streaked blond hair and straightened his peacock-blue tie which exactly matched his eyes, he said he was so very, very pleased to announce that the British contestant, Marcus Campbell- Black, would be taking up his place in the final, after all. Over a burst of applause, he shouted that Marcus would be appearing after a further ten-minute interval, which would take place after Natalia Philipova’s concerto. The jury would then try to reach a decision during the Ten o’clock News, and the scheduled programme on the male menopause of Daniel Deronda would be postponed to a later date.

Like petrol-ignited flames, excitement crackled around the hall. Cherub dropped a cymbal in his excitement, the orchestra gave a great cheer, only half-induced by the fact that this would push them into overtime. Journalists were fighting to use the telephones with members of the audience, frantic to reorganize restaurant bookings and pick-up times, and to check on last buses and trains. The atmosphere had become electric. People were hardly back in their seats when a thunder of applause greeted the arrival of Rannaldini and Natalia on the platform.

With a black-tie audience, an orchestra in their tails and black dresses tend to look less distinctive and blend into one black whole. Nothing therefore could have stood out better than Natalia’s poinsettia-red taffeta dress, which emphasized her small waist, her lovely white arms and shoulders, and her shining dark curls. Showing off her glorious cleavage, she proceeded to bow several times to the judges in the gallery and the jam-packed audience, who were now well oiled by drinks in the interval. Benny had impressed but not entirely captivated.

‘Bet Rannaldini paid an arm and a legover for that dress,’ muttered Dixie.

Marcus and Helen had not been the only people to clock Rannaldini’s preference.

It was plain from the start that the NTV cameras were more besotted with Natalia even than Rannaldini. As she delivered Rachmaninov’s Third with an explosion of romantic passion, the cameras hardly left her beautiful face, whether she was smiling seraphically or whether her big scarlet mouth was drooping and her eyes closing in anguish during the sad bits.

Swinging round fondly, Rannaldini followed her every note, making sure phrases flowed into each other, slowing down if she looked like falling over herself, quietening the orchestra if there was any danger of her being drowned.

‘The brass section have at last learnt the meaning of the word pianissimo,’ whispered Flora in George’s ear. ‘Don’t you absolutely loathe, loathe, loathe Rannaldini.’

George took her hand. His jealousy instantly doused. He had been thinking how satanically handsome the bastard looked, as his hands languorously cupped and stroked the air, and wondering how Flora could possibly not still carry a torch for him. Gazing at her furious freckled profile only slightly softened by red tendrils still damp from