Appassionata

the shower, George marvelled yet again that his love seemed to double by the second.

‘And he’s making it so bloody easy for that little tart,’ hissed Flora. ‘We can’t let him take over the RSO.’

‘Be Kwy-et,’ whispered Peggy Parker furiously.

Resplendent in puce velvet to match her face, she was sitting beyond George. She turned even pucer when she saw Trevor’s little furry face emerging from Flora’s dark blue shirt to lick his mistress on the chin.

Mrs Parker, was however, feeling considerable disquiet. Particularly as Natalia reached the end of the second movement, and the cameras panned lovingly on to the snow-white handkerchief with which she wiped both the damp keys and her sweating fingers.

‘More like the Rannaldini and Natalia Show,’ chuntered Lord Leatherhead, who was furious with Miles for cancelling the RSO bottled-water account. ‘When are we going to see some shots of the orchestra?’

‘I agree,’ hissed Mrs Parker, ‘Clare and Candy, Nellie and Juno, Noriko and Hilly are just as pretty as that Czech.’

‘And Cherub’s much prettier than Rannaldini,’ volunteered Flora.

‘Think that chap may be too overbearing for the RSO,’ muttered Lord Leatherhead.

In the row behind them, Gwynneth, who was reviewing the competition for the Guardian, and Gilbert, for the Independent, were busily scribbling. The last time they had heard Rach Three was in Rutminster, when only Marcus’s tenacity and presence of mind had saved Abby and the RSO from total calamity. How different it was tonight!

‘Not since Toscanini,’ wrote Gwynneth, who had a mega-crush on Rannaldini.

‘Not since Eileen Joyce,’ wrote Gilbert, who had his opera-glasses trained on Natalia’s bosom.

They both felt a huge satisfaction that they had been so instrumental in effecting the merger. There would be no more bum surprises on Moulin Rouge.

Canon Airlie, who should have sat next to Gilbert, had flu, so Miles had bagged his seat. Wearing a new DJ specially run up by Rannaldini’s tailors, Miles craned round the piano to gaze at Hilly. She looked so lovely in her new diamond brooch, another present from Rannaldini. He was glad Marcus was playing the Schumann, which had a wonderful clarinet solo.

The last movement of the Rachmaninov was a triumph. It seemed impossible that Natalia’s little hands could possibly cover all the notes. Playing with hardly a pause, probing the depths of hell in the bass, shaking out shoals of silver coins in the treble, she galloped to a triumphant finale which was followed by an even more triumphant burst of applause.

Rannaldini, looking like a cat who’d swallowed the Canary Isles, made sure she got even more call-backs than Anatole. He was not pleased, hurrying her back for a fourth time, when the applause had almost petered out, to go slap into Julian bringing the orchestra off the stage.

The bars were crowded out, but the consensus was that not even the stormy splendour of yesterday’s Russian nor the American who’d played Mozart so heart-warmingly could possibly beat Natalia.

Charlton Handsome and NTV technicians were now reassembling the stage and readjusting microphones for the smaller orchestra needed for the Schumann. Carmine Jones, who wanted to know if he’d won the lottery, was livid not to get Cathie on his mobile.

Marcus had been buoyed up by the sudden miraculous rapprochement with Rupert. But alone with the upright piano in the practice room, he was overwhelmed with the impossibility of his task. His fingers were rigid and inflexible, yet slipping all over the keys. Even though Rupert had made him put his jersey back on again, he couldn’t stop shaking, his body encased in icy sweat. Even worse he was having increasing trouble breathing. He looked at the plaster on the back of his hand where the drip had gone in. How terrible if he had held up the competition for forty minutes only to have a memory lapse, or even worse another asthma attack and let everyone down. The piece seemed hideously unfamiliar and on stage he would have no score to help him. He must relax, make his mind blank, take slow, deep breaths. Sometimes the mind can take the body into impossible terrain. Wasn’t that what Rupert had promised?

The storm of hurrahs and bravos for Natalia’s obviously sensational performance had long since died away. He’d be on soon.

‘Our Father,’ began Marcus, ‘Which art in heaven. What came next? Unable to remember, he started to panic.’Which art in heaven, forgive us our trespasses… Oh Alexei, Alexei.’

For a second, he banged his head against the top of the piano, wiped out with longing. He must concentrate. Frantically he leafed through the score to the last movement. Singing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, in a breathless tenor, he tried to match the frantically syncopated piano part. As he groped for a handkerchief to wipe his hands, Mrs Bateson’s little jet cat fell out. He mustn’t let her down either.

The next moment, he jumped violently as Helen barged in.

‘Marcus darling, you mustn’t go on. Dr Brewster says it would kill you — it’s insanity.’

‘Mum, per-lease! I need to be on my own.’

‘You mustn’t go on.’

‘For God’s sake, fuck off.’ Marcus raised clenched fists to heaven.

‘Even you reject me.’ Helen burst into tears.

Rupert, who’d been guarding the door, had been caught temporarily on the hop, as he tried to get through to Czechoslovakia on his mobile to find out if Pridie was all right. But he immediately took Helen away for a large brandy.

For a second they gazed at each other. Helen’s eyes were dark with resentment.

‘I couldn’t help loving him so much. He was all I had when I was married to you.’

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ said Rupert.

The passage outside his dressing-room was like a herbaceous border. Taggie had lined up all his flowers in vases, so they didn’t trigger off another asthma attack. Inside, Marcus couldn’t see the shelves for cards, one had been signed by every member of the RSO. Taggie had kept back a white carnation for his buttonhole. Now she was pressing his tails.

‘How’re Xav and Bianca?’ Marcus tried to force his trembling lips into a confident smile.

‘OK. I’ve just rung home. Xav’s always asking about his big brother. Oh Marcus, I’m so happy you and Rupert have made it up. He’s so pleased and proud of you for going on.’

Marcus’s hands were shaking so much that when Rupert returned, he had to tie his tie for him.

‘You can use your puffer between movements,’ urged Taggie.

‘That’s the bit when we wait ’til Flora claps,’ said Rupert.

‘Is Flora here?’ asked Marcus in amazed delight.

As he was giving his hands a last wash to remove the sweat, Howie Denston barged in, followed by a chattering retinue of his own sex.

‘Markie baby, why didn’t you tell me you were gay? You’ve no idea the doors I can open for you, now.’

‘Get out,’ said Rupert, slamming the door in all their faces.

A second later Chrissie was knocking discreetly, ‘Are you ready, Martin? You’re on now. And Gay News has asked especially if they can have a brief interview afterwards.’

‘You’re not talking to them,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Charity does not begin at homos.’

As they left the dressing-room, Marcus was nearly sent flying by a gorgon in a caftan.

‘Got to phone my copy through,’ cried Gwynneth bossily. ‘Never heard Rach Three played so well. How little Philipova’s hands stretched that far — must be a clear winner. I’m going to stick my neck out.’

Marcus nearly burst out laughing at the horror on his father’s face.

‘Beware a pale rider on a dark horse,’ hissed Rupert, making a V-sign at Gwynneth’s vast back.

‘Oh, there’s Maestro Rannaldini,’ said Chrissie reverently.

Rupert straightened Marcus’s tie again.

‘Taggie and I better go and find our seats, good luck. Try not to rush things. Remind me to buy you some