Appassionata

Xavier, still clutching his teddy bear and his racing car, in her arms.

Yesterday Taggie had had a wigging from Maria Immaculata.

‘I have seen many couple here seeking babies and you have very good marriage. Your husband love you, but don’t abuse his generousness and take in every limping duck. He may be jealous of Bianca — try to put him, if not first, at least equal.’

Taggie was utterly mortified and as desperate to see Rupert as he to see her. Laying Xavier down in the armchair, she fell into his arms.

‘I’ve been so worried, I love you, I missed you so, so much,’ they cried in unison.

How could he have propositioned Abby, thought Rupert in horror, when all that was true, good and beautiful in the world was in his arms? He was murmuring endearments and was about to kiss her, when Xav woke and started to cry.

‘He missed you as much as I did,’ said Taggie in a choked voice. ‘He cried himself to sleep.’

She stepped back quickly to stop the child falling off the chair. But suddenly incredulous delight sparked in Xavier’s little face. Jibbering with joy, he slid to the floor, swayed on his feet, then, like a man in space, took the first wobbling steps of his life towards Rupert, who leapt forward to catch him just before he fell.

Appearing in the doorway a drowsy Sister Angelica crossed herself. ‘This is a miracle.’

Taggie burst into tears, she knew she shouldn’t push limping ducks on Rupert, but seeing him dropping the proudest kiss in the world on Xav’s black curls, and rubbing his face against Xav’s cheek, as he normally only did with puppies, she couldn’t stop herself.

‘I know it’s awful after you lost all that money at Lloyd’s,’ she sobbed, ‘and spent fortunes coming out here, and we couldn’t afford for him to go to Harrow, but couldn’t we possibly take Xav home as well?’ She stroked Xav’s little hand now barnacled to Rupert’s lapel.

‘I can’t bear to leave him.’

‘Are you sure you can cope with two babies?’ muttered Rupert when he could trust himself to speak at last. ‘They’ll be a hell of a lot of work, and a hell of a lot more red tape.’

Sister Angelica was tearfully crossing herself over another miracle.

‘D’you think Maria Immaculata will throw Xav in as a job-lot if I restore the chapel as well?’ asked Rupert.

‘Darling,’ giggled Taggie reprovingly.

But Rupert had turned back to Xavier, tossing him screaming with delight in the air.

‘Fasten your seat-belt, Xavier Campbell-Black, you’re coming to England.’

Rupert’s euphoria was complete later in the day, when he found a fax at the Red Parrot from Abby saying she’d like to do the interview with Declan. She’d be back from her tour in three weeks. Could he write to her at her New York apartment, and not say anything to Christopher.

‘I hope you get your baby,’ she had added at the end. ‘And he or she makes you and your angelic wife really happy.’

He and she, thought Rupert, jubilantly, and two fingers to The Force of Destiny.

FIVE

Abby, whose tantrums subsided as quickly as they flared up, was woken at midday by an enraged Christopher, who, after interminable delays, had finally arrived in New York, and who immediately chewed her out for last night’s scene. He had dismissed it to Rannaldini as some schoolgirl crush. But he didn’t trust Rannaldini, and even less Rupert, not to blab about it all over New York.

‘We’ve got to cool it for Beth’s sake.’

‘But I need you,’ pleaded Abby who was still groggy from sleeping-pills. ‘At least answer my letters.’

‘They’ve got to stop, too,’ said Christopher hastily.

He couldn’t man his personal fax at all times, and five letters a week reeking of Amarige, Abby’s sweet musky very distinctive scent, and marked personal, were not easily explained away.

‘Sandra’s beginning to get suspicious.’

Sandra was Christopher’s secretary, a plump, knowing blonde, at whom Abby had shouted too often when she was desperate to get through to Christopher.

‘Why doesn’t she send on my fan mail and my clippings? I need some feedback.’

‘Because it’s all answered in the office. Sandra’s perfected your signature so she can even acknowledge favourable reviews.’

‘She’ll be forging my cheques soon.’

Christopher lost his temper.

‘I cannot understand your attitude. A complete powerhouse at Shepherd Denston is devoted to keeping your particular show on the road, so you can concentrate on music, which was what you said you always wanted, and all you do is winge.’

Howie, Howard Denston’s son, who ran the London office, Christopher continued, would meet her at Heathrow, and drive her up to Birmingham where she was playing the Brahms again with the City of Birmingham Symphony Orchestra.

‘And, for God’s sake, think of the agency’s reputation and wear something long and decorous. The Symphony Hall are generously allowing you to sign CDs in the interval. And remember only sign your name, OK? All those personal inscriptions and “Love from Abigails” just hold up the queue.’

‘You want to excise love from my life. You could fly out to Tokyo. Oh hell,’ she screamed, ‘there’s someone at the door, don’t hang up, please don’t hang up.’

Outside were four smiling waiters, all avid to have a look at Abby, as they wheeled in a massive breakfast for two: champagne, grapefruit topped with strawberries, silver domes over sausages, bacon and eggs, a T-bone for Christopher, croissants and blackcherry jam, which Abby had ordered yesterday, anticipating she and Christopher would be ravenous after a long night of love.

‘I’m sorry,’ sobbed Abby, ‘you’ll have to take it away.’

Rootling around in her bag, she gave them two hundred dollars.

But when she picked up the telephone again, Christopher had gone.

Nor did her spirits rise when she found Buenos Aires Airport so upended by Rannaldini’s fury and his attempts to charter a new aeroplane that her own flight to Heathrow had been grounded by a temporary strike. Abby, who was wearing jeans and a purple T-shirt, had scraped her hair back and hidden her reddened eyes behind huge dark glasses, but she never managed to remain anonymous. A ripple of excitement went round the airport, as the Tannoy started belting out her latest hit. Next minute crowds were mobbing her, yelling ‘L’Appassionata, L’Appassionata’ and nearly starting a riot. Abby then ended up on the same flight as Hermione, who despite her big black hat and her white Chanel suit, was deeply miffed not to be mobbed as well.

Looking disapprovingly at Abby’s ripped shirt and wild hair, from which the purple ribbon had been torn, Hermione said, as they climbed the steps to the plane: ‘You come from a different generation, of course, Abigail, who are more concerned with lights and glitter and showbiz. I couldn’t bring myself to pose nearly naked on a record sleeve. Our generation were only interested in the music.’

Abby was about to snap back that nothing mattered more than the music, when she gave a gasp of joy. One of the inside first-class seats in the left-hand row had been packed with hundreds and hundreds of scented yellow roses. Christopher hadn’t forgotten. He had done this in the early days of their affaire, when he occasionally had been unable to travel with her.

Then the Furies moved in as Hermione, too, gave a gasp of joy.

‘Who put those lovely rosebuds beside my seat?’

‘They’re for me.’