No-one could work out whether he was acting up because he was going to be hidden in the pit all evening or whether it was the creeping closeness of George and Juno.

Yesterday Abby had bawled him out for cracking three notes in the Tchaikovsky. Viking had proceeded to wake her up at the cottage at four o’clock in the morning to tell her he’d just finished practising, which was belied by howls of drunken laughter in the background. Then to top it, bloody Trevor, the mongrel, had chewed up her new black T-strap sandals bought to wear at the après-gala party and Flora had hardly apologized. She didn’t know what had got into Flora either. She was so ratty. Thank God for Marcus, who was always so sweet.

Declan hadn’t arrived and, as Marcus only had his nose in a book, Abby dragged him unwillingly onto the stage to act as the narrator in Peter and the Wolf.

‘“What kind of bird are you, if you can’t fly?” said the little bird,’ read Marcus sulkily, activating a joyous flurry on the flute from Peter Plumpton.

‘“What kind of bird are you if you can’t swim?” said the duck, and dived into the pond’ and in came Simon with a ripple of notes on the oboe.

‘You’re flat, Simon,’ said Abby.

‘It’s the bloody reed,’ said Simon shrilly.

‘Very appropriate,’ giggled Cherub who was wearing a Christopher Robin sunhat. ‘Ducks live in reeds.’

As Abby moved on to another tricky bit, Marcus felt his blue-denim shirt clinging wetly to his body. He wished he could take it off but the sun would torch his fair skin in seconds.

‘No matter how hard the duck tried to run,’ read Marcus, ‘the wolf was getting nearer and nearer and nearer.’

‘And then he caught ’er,’ said an unmistakable bitchy, deep, husky, foreign voice, ‘an’ weeth one gulp, swallow ’er.’

Marcus dropped the score, for there piratically grinning up at him, ‘a laughing devil in his sneer’ stood Alexei, smothered in a great wolf-coat, despite the punishing heat. With him were Evgenia, ravishing in a green sleeveless mini dress, with a white shawl slung round her hips and George looking big and suntanned after a week outside organizing things and as proud as hell.

The orchestra put down their instruments and gave them a clap. Abby jumped down falling on their necks, somewhat ostentatiously gabbling away in Russian, introducing Julian and Dimitri who would translate if they needed him.

‘Hi Marcus, how’s Prokofiev Three going?’ shouted Evgenia, holding up a little white hand.

Marcus blushed furiously to be singled out, particularly when Dixie shouted: ‘Go for it Marcus, you might get lucky,’ and even more so when Alexei reached up, squeezed the back of his leg, and with a sly smile handed him back the score, murmuring: ‘Hi, baby boy.’

Saying he and Evgenia would rehearse when they’d warmed up, George was about to whisk them off to their dressing-rooms which had been built under the beech trees when Miles bustled up.

‘I’ve got your schedule here, Mr Nemerovsky.’ Then he added unctuously, ‘After the rehearsal we know you’d like a steak and French fries, and then a rest but at six I’ve arranged for the The Times, the Independent, the Guardian and the Telegraph to have half an hour each with you.’

‘Niet,’ said Alexi firmly. ‘Thees is private visit.’

‘But you’ve got loads of time, you won’t be on before half-past ten.’

‘I have to lose fifteen year at least to become Romeo, I need till ten-thirty to prepare myself.’

‘It’s taken weeks to arrange,’ spluttered Miles.

‘Unarrange eet then.’

‘They may write very uncomplimentary things.’

‘Ees any different?’ shrugged Alexei and stalked off to his dressing-room.

‘Disgusting yob,’ said Hilary furiously.

‘What a star,’ sighed Flora.

‘He’s brought a portable barre,’ said Tommy Stainforth knowledgeably.

‘I didn’t know he was a boozer,’ said Cherub.

‘No, to practise ballet on, dickhead.’

Leaving poorjessica to cancel the Press, Miles turned his officiousness on the musicians. Mounting the stage with a large cardboard box, he handed over brilliant crimson silk jackets to the women in the orchestra. They were to wear them with black midi skirts to standardize their appearance, to match the RSO lorry, which had been newly painted crimson, and to curb such excesses as Nellie’s plunges and Flora’s ribbon straps.

‘That colour will clash with my sunburn,’ said Candy in outrage.

‘Silk’s so hot,’ moaned poor Mary, who was not enjoying pregnancy in such stifling heat.

‘And it’s got a polyester lining,’ said Clare in horror. ‘I can’t wear man-made fibres.’

‘I’m not wearing it at all,’ said Flora, ‘I’ll look like a blood orange.’

‘Not the most becomin’ shade for overheated orchestral complexions,’ observed Miss Parrott, retrieving a dropped stitch.

‘Well, I think they’re lovely,’ protested Juno, who never flushed pinker than a wild rose.

‘So do I, thank you, Miles,’ said Hilary, who was pale with dark hair and had also chosen the colour.

‘They’ll give the orchestra an identity,’ fluted Miles. ‘And look most dramatic beside the white-dinner jackets and while I’ve got you I want a word about protocol. Tonight’s as good a time to start as any when we’re anticipating a huge crowd of first-time concert goers. I want you all to come onto the stage together, five mintues before the off and not all straggle on in your own time, and more important, I want you to look cheerful.’

‘On our salary?’ scoffed Randy

Despite the heat the musicians laughed.

‘And to smile — ’ Miles glared at Randy — ‘both at the audience and each other. You are performers, not just musicians and at the end of a piece or in a lull, it would be rather nice if you exchanged little smiling conversations like newsreaders.’

‘Cuckoo, cuckoo,’ the angelic third floated out from the saffron depths of an oak tree.

‘You’re right, birdie, he is cuckoo,’ shouted Dixie in disgust. ‘What’s the point of smiling if you’re hidden in the pit.’

‘Can we get on with Romeo and Juliet, Miles?’ demanded Abby, who was getting increasingly jumpy at the prospect of conducting Alexei.

‘What d’you want us to be today, too fast or too loud?’ drawled Viking sarcastically.

Abby’s lips tightened.

‘As you know,’ she began, ‘Juliet on the night of the ball, from being an under-aged schoolgirl, who wants to stay home and play with her dolls, changes into a young woman swept by deepest passion. This is the greatest love scene ever written in literature or music and tonight it is to be danced by the greatest dancer. As someone said of Nureyev, he only had to walk onto the stage, raise his arm, and the lake would be filled with swans. With Nemerovsky, he has-’

‘Only to raise a stand and the polo field will be swarming with under-aged schoolboys,’ shouted Viking. ‘God Save the Queer.’

‘Will you shut up?’ screamed Abby to more guffaws. ‘You’re just jealous because Alexei’s a big star and you’re nothing but a big fish in a very small polluted pool.’

‘In this country they pronounce it p’lyooted,’ said Viking.

The row was only postponed because George returned with Evgenia, pretty as a lily in a white unitard, and Alexei, flaunting everything in clinging black Lycra shorts. Most dancers are well past their prime at thirty-seven, but Alexei’s golden body, oiled and rippling with muscle seemed to glow like old ivory in the white hot sun.

‘Look at that huge bulge,’ said Cherub in awe.

‘He’s got two pairs of legwarmers shoved down there,’ said Viking dismissively.

The Russians like their Romeo and Juliet majestic and imposing. Alexei was soon jackbooting around, changing tempi and criticizing the set.

‘That’s wrong,’ said Viking disapprovingly, as the music grew more and more funereal. ‘Romeo and Juliet aren’t dead yet and who wrote this music anyway, Prokofiev or Nemerovksy?’

Now Alexei was complaining about the pillar, behind which he had to await Juliet and the height of the balcony.

‘The balcony is fine, Alexei,’ said Evgenia running down the steps, ‘last time I dance Juliet, it nearly collapse beneath me.’

‘Up two three four, down two three four,’ called out Alexei, hoisting her into the air as if she was no heavier than a kitten. ‘Eet’s still too quick, Abby.’

‘Eef we could have pas de chat a bit slower too, Abby,’ begged Evgenia.

Knowing every man in the place was lusting after Evgenia, Alexei seemed to take a perverse pleasure in playing the scene for real but such was his presence that the bright burning afternoon became as filled with passion and dark lurking menace as night-time Verona.

Marcus was bitterly disappointed to miss Alexei’s rehearsal but quite relieved to be dragged inside because Georgie Maguire, with whom he’d spent Christmas, wanted a piano rehearsal. Like Flora, she had rolled up weighed down with presents, a copy of her latest album for Abby, a huge bottle of Joy for Flora, chewstiks for Trevor the mongrel, a biography of Pablo Gonzales for Marcus and a huge box of Belgian chocolates for George.

‘Miss Priddock said you had a sweet tooth.’

‘George’ll have to ration them to one a day,’ muttered Juno.

Juno was not the only one enraged. How could her mother treat with the enemy, thought Flora furiously, when George’s only aim was to build supermarkets and sack 95 per cent of the RSO.

Georgie had also brought several crates of iced beer for the orchestra and was so warm and friendly that Marcus longed to pour all his troubles out to her.