Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘Was that all right?’ he asked anxiously over the coughing and murmer of chat.

‘Sensational,’ whispered Flora. ‘He kept his nerve, despite chronic aggravation from Rannaldini. And Marcus certainly wins on looks. Because of the red hair, everyone says he’s like Helen, but I reckon he’s the image of you.’

‘That’s nice,’ Rupert blushed slightly.

‘I also think he’s up to something,’ observed Flora. ‘I’ve seen that look before.’

Marcus reached for his inhaler, had a puff, and glanced up meditatively at Rannaldini’s impeccably tailored back, wondering what devilries he was plotting now. He has ridden expensively shod over too many people, thought Marcus.

Rannaldini, in fact, was busy polishing his pewter hair and reflecting that the Steel Elf, despite her squeaky sound, was extraordinarily pretty. He must remember to fuck her before he gave her the sack. Determined to observe the niceties this time, he turned graciously to check if Marcus were ready. Timidly Marcus beckoned him. The picture of concern, Rannaldini leapt youthfully down from his rostrum. Perhaps the little wimp had decided to retire. Beckoning him a fraction closer, Marcus hissed: ‘This one’s for Abby, you bastard,’ and giving a quick nod to Julian, he started playing: ta, ta, ta, tum, ta, ta, ta, tum. The orchestra were so astounded they only just came in time. Rannaldini, however, was totally wrong-footed. Tripping over a cable in his built-up shoes, he nearly fell flat on his face and was reduced to scrambling furiously back to his rostrum, frantically flailing in a desperate attempt to regain the ascendancy over the orchestra, who played on with broad grins on their faces. The jury were divided between outrage, ecstasy and helpless laughter.

As the slow movement was merely a short, sweet intermezzo, with the strings, woodwind and piano mournfully echoing one another, there was nothing Rannaldini could do in retaliation except smoulder. But the allegro vivace, graveyard of pianists, lay ahead. That would be the time to show the little faggot who was maestro.

Without a glance in Marcus’s direction, Rannaldini swept the orchestra into the last movement. Marcus had eighty bars of scampering glamorously round the keyboard before the orchestra, like a will-o’-the-wisp leading the unwary traveller into the quicksand, launched into the deceptively simple, jaunty little tune. ‘To the Life Boats, To the Life Boats’, sung Marcus to himself grimly. It was one hell of a pace. He mustn’t panic.

At first the jury and many of the audience thought Julian must be drunk, because he had for once taken off his dark glasses and swayed crazily round his leader’s chair, bloodshot eyes rolling, pale lank hair flying.

Then Deirdre twigged.

‘He’s not dronk,’ she whispered to Boris in admiration. ‘He’s josst making sure that every member of the orchestra can see him.’

Aware that Marcus could never keep up with the terrifying syncopated cross-rhythms if the musicians went at Rannaldini’s pace, Julian was utterly ignoring Rannaldini, playing at a slower tempo, and the RSO stayed with him.

After two days of responding with the docility of dressage horses, they were suddenly raising two hooves to Rannaldini. Abby — very dear because she was now departed — had been sacked unfairly. This was their rebellion.

Overjoyed, astounded, Marcus realized they were doing to the mighty Rannaldini what they had done to Abby in the old days. They were following the soloist. He felt a great surge of confidence. Like shoals of goldfish, released from a tiny tank into a great river, like a door opening and sunlight pouring in on the darkness, the notes were flowing gloriously away from his fingers.

Rannaldini was insane with rage. The leader, whom he’d fired in New York and would certainly fire again the moment the concerto was over, was refusing like an overworked barman to let his eye be caught. But, being on camera, Rannaldini couldn’t betray his fury. Short of thrashing Julian with his baton he could do nothing.

‘I ’ave never seen anything like it,’ murmured Pablo to the other judges. ‘I ’ave waited many, many years for that sheet to meet his Vaterloo. C’est magnifique, mais c’est aussi la guerre.’

To avoid public humiliation, Rannaldini had now readjusted his beat to Marcus’s joyfully dancing fingers.

‘Nearly there,’ murmured Flora to Rupert. ‘Only one more fence to jump.’

And perfectly controlled, but racing faster and faster like a winner on the home straight at Cheltenham, the orchestra launched into the final tutti, followed by Marcus’s last euphoric helter-skelter up the keyboard leading into the last crashing chords, accompanied by Davie Buckle’s tumultuous drumroll, and it was all over.

Marcus bowed his head as if he were in total trance. There was a long, stunned silence, broken by Flora once again leaping to her feet.

‘Bravo, bravo,’ she screamed bringing her hands together in clap almost as noisy as the final chord: a flash of lightning which was followed by the most deafening thunder of applause, as stamping, cheering, yelling, the entire audience rose to their feet.

For a moment, Marcus gazed at them in bewilderment, the colour stealing into his face. Then he smiled more radiantly than any sunrise, and getting unsteadily to his feet, holding the edge of the piano for support, bowed low as the applause grew more and more delirious. Then, giddy, he straightened up, and fell into Julian’s waiting arms.

Unable to speak they hammered each other’s backs, listening to an even sweeter sound: a manic rattling of bows on the backs of chairs.

Unfortunately for Rannaldini, Marcus was blocking his exit, and Rannaldini was forced, because he was on camera, to hold out his hand.

Marcus looked at it for a second. Then, deliberately rejecting it, he said quite distinctly: ‘That was for screwing up Flora and Abby and cuckolding my mother.’ Then he added as an afterthought, ‘And for trying to destroy my father,’ and stalked off the platform.

How could Marcus have rejected Rannaldini’s olive branch? thought Helen in horror. I’m seeing Rupert all over again.

‘That was worth a bloody gold,’ crowed Rupert as he and Taggie fought their way out to Marcus’s dressing-room. ‘Absolutely no doubt who the audience want to win.’

Marcus was waiting for them, smiling apologetically. ‘I’ve probably screwed up my career for ever, but God, I enjoyed that.’

He was so soaked in sweat, yet burning white-hot, that Taggie needed ovengloves to hug him.

‘You were wonderful,’ she said tearfully.

But what really made Marcus’s evening, almost his whole life, was Rupert’s face. He’d only seen that blaze of elation when his father had won big races, or major show-jumping classes in the old days.

‘You were fucking fantastic,’ Rupert told him, then stopped to listen in wonder to the accelerating stamp of feet from the hall. ‘I only got applause like that at the Olympics.’

‘You’ve got to go back again, Marcus,’ an NTV minion popped his head round the door. ‘You took it so fast, we’ve got a couple of minutes to fill before the break.’

Going out of his dressing-room, Marcus collided with an outraged Howie Denston.

‘You’ve blown it, you stupid fucker. How could you screw Rannaldini like that? He controls everything. The jury won’t touch you now — you’re blown out of the water, finished.’

Howie was followed by a tearful Helen.

‘Oh Marcus, how could you do that to Rannaldini? What must he be feeling at this moment?’

‘Natalia’s boobs, probably,’ said Marcus curtly. ‘He’s a bastard, Mum, the sooner you chuck him the better.’

And leaving a frantically mouthing Helen, he went back to face the ecstatic crowds and because Rannaldini had refused to return, bringing the orchestra and then Hilary, Peter and Simon to their feet and even kissing little Noriko’s hand.

‘Hey, lay off,’ yelled Cherub from the gallery and everyone laughed.

‘For God’s sake, get them off the stage,’ an NTV official was yelling to Nicholas, ‘or we’ll be into another hour’s overtime.’

‘That’s your problem,’ said Knickers cheerfully. ‘That was absolutely marvellous, Marcus.’

‘He was always so sweet and polite,’ sobbed Helen.

Taggie put an arm round her shoulders.

‘He’s been under a terrible strain, so have you. Let’s all have a huge drink,’ she added to Rupert, who was already opening bottles from a crate of champagne, which he had magically produced.

When Julian at last brought the orchestra off the platform, he was accosted by a maddened Rannaldini, ‘D’you realize,’ he spat, ‘that you have just lost the chance of leading what will become the greatest orchestra in the world.’

‘I’d far rather work for the happiest,’ said Julian coldly and walked straight past him.

Up in the jurors’ room it was pandemonium.