Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘Oh Mum,’ she sobbed, ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a bitch.’

Grabbing Trevor, plonking him down on the seat beside her, Georgie pulled Flora into the car, and took her in her arms.

‘It’s OK baby, it’s all right.’

I’ve got no-one to run to, thought Marcus despairingly as the limo bore them away.

To cap it, Howie, having paid court to Hermione in Cotchester, had beetled over to Rutminster to cash in on Abby’s great triumph. Seeing his newest client, he took Marcus’s arm.

‘How’s Prokofiev Five?’

‘It’s Three actually. I’ve got to go, Howie.’

‘Abby asked me to find you.’

Abby was still on the semicircular seat. Alexei was stretched out, his dark head in her lap, smoking a joint while Evgenia massaged his bony calloused feet.

Howie rushed forward. ‘Hi there, Alexei, I’m your greatest fan. Wonderful concert.’

‘Vonderful,’ said Alexei sarcastically. ‘The public, they clap even when it’s good.’ Then, peering round Howie at Marcus, murmured, ‘Hallo, little peasant.’

‘Hardly a peasant,’ laughed Abby. ‘Marcus’s father owns most of Gloucestershire.’

Marcus stared at them unable to move, his eyes huge and shadowed, his dinner-jacket slung over his shoulders.

‘He’s the one who should play Romeo,’ mocked Alexei.

‘Theese love is too rash, too unadvised, too sudden;

Too like the lightning, which does cease to be

’Ere one can say it lightens.’

Howie, who wasn’t interested in Shakespeare, broke the silence.

‘I want Marcus to enter the Appleton, Alexei,’ he said. ‘Help me persuade him.’

‘Piano competitions are sheet,’ Alexei took a drag on his joint. ‘Rachmaninov greatest pianist ever, Clara Schumann, Liszt, Schnabel, Horowitz, Gilels, Pablo Gonzales, none of them went een for competitions.’

‘John Ogdon did and John Lill and Murray Perahia,’ protested Marcus.

‘Ees media circus,’ said Alexei. ‘If someone ees good he come through anyway. Competition is queek passport. Your priority should be long-term aspect of music.’

‘Marcus has to pay the rent,’ protested Abby.

‘Eef you lose competition,’ Alexei took a slug of vodka from the bottle, ‘you are finished.’

‘Not true,’ said Howie, ‘and if you win, OK, you’re made. Here’s my card, Alexei, let’s lunch anywhere in the world, you name it, what’s your favourite restaurant?’

Alexei glanced up at Howie’s waxy sweating face.

‘One een which you are not.’

Tearing Howie’s card into little pieces, he dropped it on the grass.

‘Don’t be so bloody rude,’ said Marcus furiously and stumbled off into the night.

Abby caught up with him by the car-park:

‘What’s gotten into you? You’re not mad because Alexei’s doing a number? I do believe you’re jealous. Oh Markie, you must know you’re the one I love.’

In the weeks that followed, as Alexei kept ringing up Woodbine Cottage from all over the world, Abby grew more uppity and convinced he had fallen in love with her. Horrified by the conflict inside him, Marcus lavished even more attention on Abby, but suffered fearful guilt. He could still only get it up when he made love by thinking about Alexei.

By day he concentrated on work. Having dispatched Prokifiev’s Third with credit in Glasgow, he now had another concert playing Bartók’s Second Concerto with the Rutminster Youth Orchestra in the pipeline. Persuaded by Abby, Helen and Howie, deliberately ignoring Alexei’s advice at the gala, he had also entered for the Appleton Piano Competition in October. As competitors came from all over the world seeking the twenty-thousand-pound prize, Marcus didn’t even expect to qualify. But if he did, it would be good experience of playing under pressure.

In a Rutminster jeweller, Abby pointed out a ruby ring in the shape of a heart. Knowing Marcus couldn’t afford it, she suggested she bought it instead. But Marcus was adamant. Any engagement ring would be paid for by him.

On the morning after the gala, Flora found a note from Julian in her pigeon hole, summoning her to the leader’s room at five-fifteen, which meant she had to sweat her way through six hours of rehearsals and a lunch-break before she knew her fate.

‘Has Julian said anything to you?’ she asked Abby.

‘Nothing, I guess he’s going to carpet you for the dog fight, flashing those Union Jack panties, and generally having a bad attitude, rubbishing George, and so on.’

‘George is a bastard.’

‘Just because he lent his house to us, and saved the RSO yet again? I don’t understand you, Flora.’

Flora didn’t understand herself at the moment. ‘I just hate playing for this bloody orchestra,’ she said crossly. ‘Perhaps I should switch to singing.’ She had promised her mother last night that she would start taking lessons again.

When she went quaking into the leader’s room, however, and was faced not just with Julian, but Old Henry, Dimitri and Peter, his grizzled desk partner: the firing squad, the RSO suddenly seemed very, very dear to her.

‘I’m sorry,’ she bleated, ‘I didn’t mean to act up.’

‘Sit down,’ said Julian, pouring her a glass of red wine. ‘We wanted to talk to you; we don’t feel you’re very happy.’

It’s the sack, thought Flora in panic, being held open for me to jump into, then they’ll tie it up and drop me at the bottom of the River Fleet.

‘Sally Briggs is getting married next month,’ Old Henry was saying, ‘so she wants her evenings free.’

Sally Briggs sat on the front desk of the violas beside El Creepo. She was a beautiful player who over the years had somehow withstood his wandering hands. Why’s Old Henry beating about the bush? thought Flora miserably.

‘Megagram vant us to record Schubert’s C Major Quintet,’ said Dimitri.

‘So we wondered if you’d like to join our chamber-music group,’ said Julian diffidently.

Flora choked on her wine.

‘Might seem a bit fuddy-duddy,’ said Old Henry apologetically, ‘probably got better things to do with your evenings.’

Flora gazed at them in bewilderment, fighting back the tears, colour flooding her grey cheeks.

‘You’re asking me? I could try,’ she mumbled ‘Oh, my God, it’s the nicest thing. I’ll have to make time to fit in my singing lessons as well.’

‘Of course,’ said Julian. ‘Just think about it.’

‘I don’t have to, I can’t think of anything I’d like better. But you’re all such wonderful players, I’m not nearly good enough.’

‘We’re the best judges of that.’ said Barry.

‘And we need some muffin for the record sleeve,’ smiled Dimitri.

‘He means crumpet,’ said Julian. ‘If you can get to my place tomorrow evening around six. Luisa will provide some kind of supper around half-eight.’

Flora reeled out of the leader’s room, slap into Viking who’d been hovering outside, also terrified she was going to get the sack. He now bore her off to the Old Bell for a drink. They travelled in convoy, Nugent glaring furiously out of the back window of Viking’s car, and Trevor, with his front paws on the dash board, hysterically yapping on the front seat beside Flora.

‘We are divided by our dogs like Montague and Capulet,’ sighed Viking as, abandoning both animals in their respective vehicles, they went into the pub.

Viking was touchingly pleased at her news.

‘It’s no more than you deserve, darling. Think how it’s going to put the toffee-noses of all those bitches, Hilary, Moll — and even Juno,’ he added as an afterthought, ‘out of joint.’

‘I don’t think Abby’s going to be very pleased, either,’ Flora said nervously.

‘Might get her off her ass and make her start playing the fiddle again,’ said Viking.

Viking was right. Abby tried to be generous, but raging inwardly with jealousy, she did start practising again, constantly dragging in poor Marcus to accompany her.

In June, however, she received the splendid accolade of being asked to conduct the London Met in a Sunday-afternoon concert because their principal guest conductor had been rushed to hospital with appendicitis. Abby was in raptures. Rannaldini’s old orchestra was still regarded as one of the greatest in Europe, and this invitation would certainly keep George and the RSO board on their toes. She was slightly miffed that Marcus refused to come up to London to witness her triumph because he wanted to work on the Bartók, but at least he could look after the cats.