‘In time,’ said the chief consultant. ‘If you persevere with the physio. The nerves will take at least a year to regenerate, then we’ll be able to tell more. Whether you’ll ever play to concert standard is doubtful. There’s too much pressure put on young soloists today.’
Abby was devastated. There were fears for her sanity, as she sobbed uncontrollably for hours on end, or gazed blankly into space.
How could she have deliberately destroyed her God-given talent just to break out of Christopher’s boa- constrictor stranglehold, to spite him because he no longer loved her?
Christopher had tried to hush up the story, arrogantly ordering Abby to say nothing, as he passed himself off as the lone boy-scout hero whose tourniquet had saved Abby’s life. Unfortunately, the porter in Abby’s block had noticed Sandra going in and out. Who could forget those knockers in a hurry?
Christopher had also patronized and ridden roughshod over too many people and wriggled out of paying for too many lunches to have many friends in the Press. The result was a monumental scandal, particularly at such a tragic loss of a unique talent.
‘TIGRESS AND CHEATER,’ shouted the headlines over huge pictures of a smouldering Abby and a sanctimonius Christopher. Christopher had also lied about the fact that Beth had found out. She had had no idea and was wiped out by such betrayal, which made Abby feel infinitely worse.
Nor were matters helped by Hermione, who was at first irked by the massive coverage, then, when it showed no signs of abating, decided to cash in and fly to New York.
‘CARING HERMIONE IN MERCY DASH,’ announced
Ignoring the fact that after thirty seconds Abby had rung down in hysterics to have her chucked out, Hermione afterwards told the army of reporters that she had advised Abigail to involve herself in charity work.
‘“Think of the poor people of Rwanda,” I urged her. “At least you are being looked after by wonderfully caring hospital staff.” I hope the sacred message of my latest CD,
Abby, who’d had to be given a massive shot of Valium, wasn’t remotely cheered up five minutes later when Rupert sauntered in. He was in New York to check out laser surgery for Xav’s birthmark, and arrived with a carrier bag over his head.
‘What in hell are you doing?’ snarled Abby.
‘Hiding from Hermione.’
‘She’s only interested in your beautiful hands, and they’re still on show.’
‘Actually she’s far too busy fighting for access to the make-up department with all those consultants, who are becoming television stars, providing bulletins on your progress.’
He removed the carrier bag and smoothed his hair. He was wearing a love-in-the-mist blue shirt which matched his long blue eyes, which in turn matched the patch of blue sky which was all Abby could see through her window. Part of a sunny outside world, which seemed lost for ever.
‘Poor old duck,’ said Rupert, remembering the bleak horror of Taggie’s miscarriages. ‘It must be like losing a baby.’
‘Far, far worse,’ Abby snapped. ‘Like losing a thousand babies. Every time I played a concert, I gave birth.’
Rupert was appalled by her appearance. A forelock of dark hair fell damp and flat to her eyebrows. Her fleshless face was dominated more than ever by the haunted, heavily shadowed yellow eyes. The only plumpness left was in the curve of her lower lip. She had lost twenty pounds. Seeing her huddled, wide-shouldered, long-legged body, Rupert was reminded of some shell-shocked youth fatally wounded in the trenches.
Getting out his fountain-pen, he drew a blue cross on the inside of her right wrist just where it joined her hand.
‘This is the place if you want to top yourself properly. You did it too far up the arm, just means the nerves take longer to grow back.’
‘Will they?’
‘Course they will. I had no feeling for six months after I trapped a nerve at the LA Olympics; Ricky France- Lynch’s arm took nearly three years; my son-in-law Luke’s hand was pulverized by a polo ball. We all got better.’
He had brought her a bunch of lilies of the valley, and a little silver replica of a head of garlic.
‘That’s to ward off evil, you’re to keep it beside you all the time. Taggie’s also made you a tin of fudge. She sent love and said she was dreadfully sorry.’
‘Thanks,’ said Abby listlessly. ‘Did you get your baby?’
‘We got two, Xavier and Bianca. Flew them home last week. The grooms had hung a welcome home banner across the gate and balloons all up the drive. Edith Spink brought the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra over in a bus to play “Congratulations”. All the dogs had bows, it was great. Xavier couldn’t believe his eyes. He’s walking all over the place now. And his first word was Daddy, so he’s obviously going to be a diplomat.’
Rupert gave a big yawn.
‘Sorry, we’re not getting much sleep at the moment. Bianca’s routine’s all out of sync.’
His tearing spirits made Abby feel even more dreadful, particularly as they kept being interrupted by nurses popping in to check Abby’s fingers for gangrene and gaze at Rupert.
‘They never allow me a second to brood,’ groaned Abby. ‘And oh God, the counsellor’s due at three o’clock.’
‘Don’t believe in that crap,’ said Rupert. ‘Only person who can sort you out is yourself. Counsellors are flooding into Penscombe at the moment. There’s a ghastly beard with an Adam’s apple who’s got a crush on Taggie and keeps forecasting disaster because we’ve adopted a black child. He asked me yesterday whether I was going to teach Xav the customs of his country? Did he want me to give Xav a line of coke for breakfast, I said.’
But Abby wasn’t listening, being too wrapped up in her own tragedy.
‘I can’t do Declan’s programme now,’ she said sulkily, ‘if that’s what you’ve come for.’
Rupert’s face softened.
‘I came to see you, because I was dead worried and because I like you a lot. Classical music bores the tits off me, reminds me of my first wife, but you made it as exciting,’ Rupert cast round, ‘as a good Gold Cup.’
Abby started to cry. Rupert took her in his arms.
For a second, Abby clung to him enjoying the muscular warmth, then, as the counsellor came in, she screamed with rage: ‘Is there no peace except beyond the grave?’
‘Don’t talk like that,’ chided the counsellor. ‘She’s doing great,’ she added to Rupert.
‘I must go,’ Rupert got to his feet. ‘The only answer,’ he ruffled Abby’s hair, ‘is to become a conductor. That shit Rannaldini needs some competition.’
Shepherd Denston, who were in turmoil, were fast coming to the same conclusion.
‘If only Abby’d done the job properly,’ grumbled Howard on a conference call to Christopher and young Howie in London, ‘she could have become a cult figure like James Dean or Marilyn Monroe.’
‘Not enough mileage,’ said young Howie. ‘She’s better alive. We gotta find something for her to do.’
Shepherd Denston needed the money. It was not just the houses on Long Island and the old masters and young mistresses, acquired on the expectation of Abby’s massive income. The agency had also extended themselves dangerously, backing concerts throughout Eastern Europe, only to find the newly free populations were hungrier for new cars than culture.
‘What a pity that contract with Rannaldini never got signed,’ said Howard.
‘We better get her Strad back,’ said Christopher briskly. ‘Can’t let it lie idle. Maria needs a decent instrument.’
Maria Kusak was Abby’s bitterest rival, one of the agency’s rising stars.
‘Fact that Abby’s pulled through suicide, like coming off drugs, or cracking anorexia, is gonna evoke public sympathy,’ said Howie, then groaned as his secretary handed him a fax saying that Benny Basanovich had been so drunk in Munich he’d skipped pages of Prokofiev’s
‘The only answer,’ said Howard, ‘is for her to learn to conduct, while we see if her hand’s gonna
