‘Who did you dedicate it to, Flora or me or Marcus?’ asked Abby turning the pages. ‘To Astrid,’ she read in outrage.

Boris shrugged: ‘Someone ‘as to babyseet.’

The bridges along the Embankment glittered like necklaces on the night, buds thickened against a dun-coloured sky, the park was full of daffodils.

‘An ’orse guard, an ’orse guard, my keengdom for an ’orse guard,’ yelled Alexei, as the taxi swung into St James’s Street, dropping off him and Evgenia at the Stafford.

Abby and Marcus were staying at the Ritz. In the lift up, Abby put an idle hand on Marcus’s cock.

‘Oh my God.’ She gave a whoop of joy. Perhaps Marcus was suddenly relaxed because Howie was getting him work, and she and Boris were going to make a record with him. Potency was so allied to success.

They were hardly inside the door when Abby turned to him, putting her hands on his shoulders, drawing him towards her, not daring to breathe as she felt him rising against her.

There was no time to wash. She unzipped both their flies and left him to wriggle out of his trousers and boxer shorts as she ripped off the orange trousers of her suit. The next moment they were on the floor and he was inside her.

‘Aaah,’ moaned Abby, ‘that feels so good.’

The sex after that was fantastic. Marcus was so turned on by the thought of Alexei that with eyes shut and in desperate hunger he made love to Abby all night.

‘I knew it would come right, if we gave it time,’ sobbed a joyful Abby.

Marcus was so exhausted he forgot to take his asthma pills and had a bad attack in the morning. Driving back in the afternoon, they agreed not to tell anyone for the moment. Abby, however, couldn’t resist confiding in Flora, who was surprisingly unenthusiastic.

Abby construed this as jealousy because Flora hadn’t got a man at the moment. But Flora, who’d always suspected Marcus was gay, thought the whole thing would end in tears, and in turn couldn’t resist confiding in Viking, who was equally unenthusiastic and drove Abby crackers referring to the Centenary Concert as the ‘Gayla’ because Dancer Maitland and Alexei were taking part.

‘Alexei is not gay,’ yelled Abby, ‘He has a beautiful “partner” called Evgenia.’

Privately Abby was convinced Alexei had only agreed to dance because he fancied her. At any rate she had scored colossal brownie points with the board for providing Alexei, particularly when Declan O’Hara declared himself horrified by Rannaldini’s and the CCO’s attempts to sabotage Rutminster’s centenary celebration.

‘I’m afraid Edith’s lost any real interest in the orchestra since she shacked up with Monica,’ he told George over the telephone and then offered to read Peter and the Wolf at the gala.

Marcus was still reeling from meeting Alexei. He longed to talk to Flora, but felt it would be disloyal to Abby. If only he could have confided in Taggie. As an olive branch he sent her a Mother’s Day card, but heard nothing back.

FORTY-NINE


Once it became known that Nemerovsky and Ilanova would be dancing, the gala became a total sell-out. Miles was panicking how to pack a tenth of the audience into the H.P. Hall when a gilt fig leaf obligingly fell off one of the cherubs adorning the front of the dress circle, just missing the Lady Mayoress. Restoring the cherub’s modesty the following morning one of George’s sharp builders noticed a huge crack in the ceiling over the stalls. Repairs would be lengthy and cost millions.

GALA IN JEOPARDY, trumpeted the Rutminster Echo.

Overnight George came neatly to the rescue, offering, as an alternative, his beautiful park. The previous owner had been a polo fanatic and had levelled a field behind the house. Here the multitudes could stretch out and be charged a hundred pounds a car. George’s builders were soon at work, knocking up a splendid stage and a pit for the orchestra. Venturer Television were covering the gala because their own chief executive was reading Peter and the Wolf and Classic FM would record it. Stands on either side of the stage would seat a thousand people and, in front of the stage, fold-up chairs stretched back for forty rows to join the masses on the polo field.

With tickets ranging from five hundred to fifty pounds and freebies for anyone George wanted to woo, he and the RSO stood to make a killing. George’s white-knight gesture was much applauded by the nationals and the Rutminster Echo. Readers’ letters, no doubt penned by the recipients of George’s backhanders, poured in condemning the H.P. Hall as a potential death-trap, urging that another smaller venue be found for the RSO.

‘Preferably in Cotchester,’ raged Flora to Viking.

‘George has turned the whole thing to his advantage. I bet his builders made that crack so he can pick up H. P. Hall even cheaper. I hope it pisses with rain on the day.’

But the luck of the devil held. After a beastly cold grey, dry blustery April, a heatwave hit England in the week running up to the gala.

The only thing that cheered Flora up was George’s memo on the notice-board typed by Jessica.

‘As the gala takes place on the eve of the Fiftieth Anniversary of VE Day, please note “God Save the Queer”, will be played.’

On the great day Rutminster Hall was patriotically decked with red, white and blue bunting. In deference to the soloists, Irish and Russian flags also hung motionless in the burning air alongside the Union Jack.

As a sweating, grumbling RSO settled down to an afternoon rehearsal under a white hot sun, caterers in red, white and blue striped marquees tried to keep flies off the food, Venturer Television checked camera angles and George’s minions touched up the balcony, already on stage for Romeo and Juliet.

‘Trust George to use overwrought iron,’ said Flora sourly, ‘that balcony’s more suited to a Weybridge hacienda. Where are the carriage lamps and the window-boxes of petunias?’

At least George’s taste hadn’t ruined the park which was lit by white hawthorn exploding like grenades, clumps of white lilac, foaming cow parsley and the candles of the towering horse chestnuts, whose round curves were echoed by plump sheep and their lambs grazing among the buttercups and big white clouds massing on the horizon. Through a gap in the trees, on the banks of the River Fleet, stood a temple of Flora.

‘Just think he owns all this, like Mr Darcy,’ sighed Candy.

‘Mr Nazi,’ snapped Flora. ‘I’m surprised he hasn’t introduced peacocks yet.’

‘Why bother with our First Horn around?’ said Clare.

Viking, already bronzed and wearing only fraying denim shorts, was squeezing a lemon onto his hair to lighten it in the sun.

Marcus slumped in the stalls. A huge field of yellow rape on the horizon was wafting noxious pollen like chloroform towards him. Willow, birch and oak in the park, as well as all the blossom, were making it almost impossible to breathe. Only the desire to see Alexei had induced him to brave the rehearsal. He was bitterly ashamed that he had been so distracted yesterday, he’d forgotten to play at a wedding and the poor bride had come down the aisle to no music.

He had brought Flora’s Collected Byron with him, and found the original poem of ‘The Corsair’.

‘There was a laughing devil in his sneer,’ read Marcus.

He should have been at home working on Prokofiev’s Third but Abby had slid into her old trick of enlisting his help with the repertoire. The running order today was the Roman Carnival overture which had a beautiful solo for Cathie Jones; Georgie Maguire singing everything from Gluck to Gershwin; Declan reading Peter and the Wolf; the slow movement of Tchaikovsky’s Fifth because it had a beautiful solo for Viking, more songs from Georgie because Dancer Maitland had tonsilitis and finally Romeo and Juliet.

Abby was in a panic about conducting ballet. Rodney had been pragmatic when she called him.

‘They’re never in time, darling. Nemerovsky’s a frightful show-off, he’ll spin everything out as long as possible. Give him a fright occasionally by speeding things up but on the whole it’s best to wait till they land.’

Men were always showing off, thought Abby furiously, look at Viking sitting half-naked on the edge of the stage, making slitty eyes at every passing pretty caterer or waitress.