new evening-shirts.’

Turning, he nearly bumped into Rannaldini. Rupert was six inches taller but, as he glanced down into the cold uncompromising face of his enemy, he dropped his guard.

‘Look after him, please.’

‘Of course,’ Rannaldini smiled like an expectant wolf.

‘Come along, Marcus,’ then, lowering his voice, added nastily, ‘But don’t play too slowly or we’ll overrun the news.’

Brave boys, thought Marcus irrationally, are not afraid of wolves.

Shaking off Rannaldini’s obtrusively guiding hand, he walked out onto the stage. For a second, he halted in panic at the beginning of the First Violins, blinded by the dazzling white camera lights, staggered by the vastness of the audience, an ocean of wary and unsmiling faces. There was a sudden and embarrassed silence. Perhaps they would all boo him for what he had done to Abby. Then he felt a small, warm hand creeping into his.

‘Good ruck, Marcus, good ruck,’ whispered Noriko, and a shove from Rannaldini thrust him forward.

Seeing how desperately pale, shadowed and apprehensive he looked, Flora leapt without thinking to her feet.

‘Bravo, bravo, Marcus, great to see you,’ she yelled, clapping frantically, and a second later the audience had joined in.

Coming down the row, to take up Marcus’s two complimentary tickets, were Rupert and Taggie. Sitting down next to Flora, Rupert kissed her on both cheeks.

‘You are a star in every possible way. Sorry I chewed you out earlier.’

Glancing beyond her, he encountered a murderous glare from the square-shouldered, square-jawed minder beyond her.

‘Rupert, this is my future husband, George Hungerford,’ said Flora hastily.

Marcus was amazed to see how many of the orchestra were smiling at him. There was Quinton in Viking’s place clutching his golden horn, and Candy and Clare clapping wildly, and Dimitri discreetly waving two crossed fingers, and Randy and Davie Buckle cocking their heads and winking, and Barry and all the basses making thumbs-up signs. Hilary, Simon and Peter were too preoccupied with long difficult solos ahead to do more than nod, but Juno gave him a radiant smile. She was feeling very chipper, because James Vereker, the presenter, had just asked her out to dinner.

‘Good on you, Marcus. Go for it.’ Julian stood up and pumped Marcus’s hand as he passed. Then, lowering his voice, added, ‘You’ve got to win, we’ve all got so much money on you.’

Rannaldini mounted the rostrum glaring round, instantly wiping the smiles off everyone’s faces. George would have difficulty over-turning the decision of an entire board. They knew Rannaldini could put them all out of work next week. Once again they wished Viking was here, if only in the audience.

Having lowered the piano-stool, checked if he could reach the pedals comfortably, given his fingers a last wipe on his black trousers, Marcus put his head back with his eyes shut for a moment to compose himself. Then he placed his hands on the keys and was about to nod to Rannaldini, when the down beat descended like an executioner’s axe, and the entire orchestra came in on the first crashing quaver. Caught on the hop, Marcus’s first three bars followed like a mad scramble down the steps to a lake, immediately followed by the woodwind taking off like a great swan across the water’s surface. This gave him eight bars’ respite to catch his breath before echoing the lovely piano expressivo melody, then rippling on in accompaniment to the strings.

But Rannaldini was taking it horrendously fast and Marcus had his work cut out trying to keep up.

It was soon clear that this was a contest not a partnership. With every tutti, Rannaldini whipped up the tempo; with every exquisitely languorous cascade of notes, Marcus tried to slow it down.

He was touched that whenever Simon, Peter and even Hilary had ravishing solos, which he had to accompany, they tried to check their speed, adjusting to his slower tempo. But inevitably this made his performance uneven. Until following a magical andante interchange between woodwind and piano, Rannaldini suddenly accelerated as if he were turning up a mixer to full speed, and Marcus ran away with himself, and came off the rails, and stopped completely.

In the gallery, Dame Edith, Pablo and Boris groaned in despair. But having thoroughly frightened himself, Marcus steadied. Realizing Rannaldini was deliberately bent on sabotage, his terror hardened into cold rage.

At least he looked absolutely beautiful on the monitor, as though Narcissus had wandered into the hall and was gazing at his reflection in the shiny black piano lid. And, as his confidence grew, so did the depth and lyricism of his playing. There was none of Benny’s unrelenting stridency, nor Natalia’s sloppy, splashy lushness. Up in the gallery Pablo even stopped grumbling that Lady Appleton had confiscated his Guinness Book of Records. All round the hall, people began thinking that perhaps the Schumann was the greatest piano concerto of them all.

Even Rannaldini couldn’t rot up the cadenza, although he did his best to distract the audience, adjusting his gardenia, examining his nails and flipping the pages of the score back and forth, and he hardly waited for the final trill to bring the orchestra in at an even faster tempo. But this time Marcus was ready and, like a television camera on top of a car, he somehow managed to keep up with the galloping cheetah right to the end of the movement.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ muttered Clare, as she and Candy tuned their instruments and adjusted the dusters on their shoulders.

‘Even more marvellous,’ muttered back Candy, ‘is the man on Flora’s right. Christ, he’s good looking — how the hell does Flora do it?’

‘That’s Marcus’s father,’ said Clare, ‘I think he once went to bed with Mummy.’

Rupert was tone deaf, but he’d never taken his eyes off Marcus throughout the entire movement.

‘Was that all right?’ he asked anxiously over the coughing and murmer of chat.

‘Sensational,’ whispered Flora. ‘He kept his nerve, despite chronic aggravation from Rannaldini. And Marcus certainly wins on looks. Because of the red hair, everyone says he’s like Helen, but I reckon he’s the image of you.’

‘That’s nice,’ Rupert blushed slightly.

‘I also think he’s up to something,’ observed Flora. ‘I’ve seen that look before.’

Marcus reached for his inhaler, had a puff, and glanced up meditatively at Rannaldini’s impeccably tailored back, wondering what devilries he was plotting now. He has ridden expensively shod over too many people, thought Marcus.

Rannaldini, in fact, was busy polishing his pewter hair and reflecting that the Steel Elf, despite her squeaky sound, was extraordinarily pretty. He must remember to fuck her before he gave her the sack. Determined to observe the niceties this time, he turned graciously to check if Marcus were ready. Timidly Marcus beckoned him. The picture of concern, Rannaldini leapt youthfully down from his rostrum. Perhaps the little wimp had decided to retire. Beckoning him a fraction closer, Marcus hissed: ‘This one’s for Abby, you bastard,’ and giving a quick nod to Julian, he started playing: ta, ta, ta, tum, ta, ta, ta, tum. The orchestra were so astounded they only just came in time. Rannaldini, however, was totally wrong-footed. Tripping over a cable in his built-up shoes, he nearly fell flat on his face and was reduced to scrambling furiously back to his rostrum, frantically flailing in a desperate attempt to regain the ascendancy over the orchestra, who played on with broad grins on their faces. The jury were divided between outrage, ecstasy and helpless laughter.

As the slow movement was merely a short, sweet intermezzo, with the strings, woodwind and piano mournfully echoing one another, there was nothing Rannaldini could do in retaliation except smoulder. But the allegro vivace, graveyard of pianists, lay ahead. That would be the time to show the little faggot who was maestro.

Without a glance in Marcus’s direction, Rannaldini swept the orchestra into the last movement. Marcus had eighty bars of scampering glamorously round the keyboard before the orchestra, like a will-o’-the-wisp leading the unwary traveller into the quicksand, launched into the deceptively simple, jaunty little tune. ‘To the Life Boats, To the Life Boats’, sung Marcus to himself grimly. It was one hell of a pace. He mustn’t panic.

At first the jury and many of the audience thought Julian must be drunk, because he had for once taken off his dark glasses and swayed crazily round his leader’s chair, bloodshot eyes rolling, pale lank hair flying.

Then Deirdre twigged.

‘He’s not dronk,’ she whispered to Boris in admiration. ‘He’s josst making sure that every member of the

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