‘I don’t think George feels that’s strictly necessary,’ said Rupert.

Across the room Helen was in raptures over Marcus’s victory.

‘Oh darling, darling, I’m so proud. Think of all the wonderful concerts ahead. You’ll be in work for the next two years and your speech was so lovely, so assured. I hope Abby heard it.’

‘More importantly, I hope the board did,’ said Marcus glaring at Miles and taking a glass of champagne from Rupert.

‘Do you think you ought to drink after all that medication?’ reproved Helen.

The next moment Howie Denston rushed in and embraced Marcus.

‘Great, kid, great! Always knew you could do it. You’ve talked to James Vereker, OK. In ten minutes there’ll be a press conference. I’ll field any tricky questions about Nemerovsky and then there’s the party. You’ll be sitting near Lady A. and the Princess. Your folks are invited, of course. Tomorrow around ten, we’ll sign the contracts. You’ll be working your fingers off for the next two years.’ He tapped his mobile. ‘I’ve already had two big record producers on to me.’

But Marcus was re-reading Alexei’s note.

‘Fine, Howie.’ Then he looked up. ‘Could you all clear out? I want a word with Mum and Dad.’

Helen’s heart swelled. Marcus had grown so authoritative. In a day, he seemed to have turned into a man, and she was feeling much more cheerful having just met Lord Leatherhead, who’d asked her out to lunch next week.

Rupert, meanwhile, was talking to Czechoslovakia on his mobile.

‘Pridie’s absolutely fine,’ Dizzy was telling him. ‘You’re not to be cross with Lysander. His shoulder’s been set and he’s really sorry he didn’t win.’

‘Doesn’t matter — Marcus did,’ said Rupert jubilantly. ‘Christ, he did brilliantly.’

Taggie snatched the telephone from him.

‘And guess what?’ she told Dizzie, ‘Rupert didn’t fall asleep once.’

As Taggie joined the rest of the revellers drifting out, saying, ‘Absolutely brilliant, see you at the party,’ Marcus shut the door and leant against it looking at his parents squarely.

‘You ought to be in bed,’ chided Helen.

‘I’m going to Moscow,’ said Marcus.

Helen gave a scream. ‘Oh no, you can’t, your career! All those engagements!’

Rupert’s sigh was almost imperceptible and in no way betrayed his desolation at suddenly discovering El Dorado was disappearing into the mists again.

‘Are you sure that’s what you want?’ he asked slowly.

Marcus nodded.

‘Moscow’s bloody dangerous at the moment.’

‘I know, but I will come back.’

‘Then I’ll drive you to the airport. We better look up a flight.’

‘I know them all backwards.’

Helen burst into tears.

‘Please don’t go, after all we’ve worked for. Think what you’re throwing away: the Queen Elizabeth, the Festival Hall, the Wigmore, the Barbican. Have you got some sort of death-wish? I wanted Penscombe to be yours and your sons,’ she sobbed, ‘and your sons’ sons. Then you’d never have to worry about money. And now you’re chucking everything away, just when fate’s given you a second chance. You and Abby were so happy. There are counsellors you could talk to.’

‘Mum,’ said Marcus gently as he hugged his mother, ‘you don’t understand. I love Alexei. I can’t hang around this evening. I’ve proved to myself I can play the piano. I don’t want to get into that circus. I want to develop as a soloist in my own time.’

Gently, he pulled away from her, then briefly he put his arms round Rupert.

‘I love you, Dad, I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to say it.’

I don’t understand, thought Helen in despair, why does Rupert always swan in at the last moment and win out?

SEVENTY


When Marcus didn’t show up at the party, it was at first assumed he’d flaked out and gone back to bed. A home win in itself was enough to ensure the most riotous celebrations. Anyway the RSO were too busy getting legless to notice. Cherub, who’d packed in more drinking time because there was no percussion in the Schumann, was absolutely plastered and, by smiling sweetly at Pablo, had joyfully appropriated the Guinness Book of Records.

‘That’s the biggest mole in history,’ he pointed at Hilary’s rigid back, going off into fits of giggles. ‘And here’s the prickliest cactus,’ he pointed at Militant Moll. ‘And he-ah we have the biggest goldfish,’ pausing behind Hermione he started making fish faces and mouthing: ‘I know that my Redeemer.’

His fellow musicians were in stitches.

‘Who’s the biggest rat?’ asked Fat Isobel, who had practically obscured Ninion by sitting on his knee.

‘Him,’ said Cherub, pointing at Carmine who was still trying to reach Cathie on his mobile.

‘I am biggest gooseberry,’ sighed Pablo, who was sitting at a table with a passionately embracing Boris and Deirdre.

‘And there is the coldest fish,’ naughty Cherub pointed at Miles, who, up at the end of the room, was being given the biggest flea in his ear by George.

Not having been to bed for forty hours, George was, in fact, suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness. He had called an emergency board meeting for one o’clock in the morning, but he was not optimistic. Rannaldini had probably bribed too many of the board for George to be able to overturn their decision to appoint him musical director. If he did, it wouldn’t save the situation. There was no way the RSO could survive even a month longer without a massive injection of cash.

George himself owed twenty million pounds to German banks at the moment, so the money couldn’t come from him. Anyway, he wanted to be with Flora, who, with Sister Rose and Miss Parrott, was now noisily teaching Dimitri and Anatole the hokey-cokey. Glancing round, she smiled at him and George felt his heart melting like a Yorkie Bar in the sun.

Meanwhile the largest plague of locusts, discovered over the Red Sea in 1889, was nothing to the way the RSO were demolishing the cold buffet. Only Julian, still violently shaking after his defiance of Rannaldini, couldn’t eat or drink a thing. Through the sound of revelry, he could hear the cannon’s opening roar of a Rannaldini rabid for vengeance.

The long top table was the only one with a seating plan. Trapped between the Princess and Lady Appleton, Rannaldini was having to be polite, but his darkly tanned face was twitching like treacle toffee coming up to the boil.

Cherub was off again.

‘That’s the biggest toad in the world,’ he said, sticking a pink tongue out at Gilbert.

‘And here comes the sexiest man,’ squeaked Nellie in excitement.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black? He’s already taken,’ said Clare, not bothering to look round.

‘Nope.’

‘Sean Bean?’

‘Nope.’

Clare swung round irritably.

‘Viking,’ she screamed.

‘Viking!’ yelled the RSO, as they joyfully and drunkenly stumbled towards him.

‘Cousin Victor,’ cried Deirdre in amazement, letting go of Boris.

But Viking, poised in the doorway, looked so tall, thin, pale and quivering with menace, that Deirdre almost crossed herself.

‘Hi, kids.’ Almost absent-mindedly, Viking pushed the orchestra out of the way, his eyes, narrowed to black thread, never leaving Rannaldini’s face.

The next moment, fleeter than any cheetah, he crossed the room to the top table and, reaching over, had grabbed Rannaldini by his suede lapels, dragging him across the white table-cloth, scattering glass, silver, china and flowers, until Rannaldini was standing beside him on the blue carpet.

‘How dare you hurt my Abigail?’ yelled Viking and, to equal cheers and screams of horror, he smashed his fist into Rannaldini’s evil mahogany face, lifting him up in a perfect parabola, so his descent onto the pudding trolley was only cushioned by Gwynneth who was piling her plate with a third helping of bombe surprise.

The interminable, stunned silence was finally broken by Dixie.

‘That’s the only way you’ll ever get Sir Roberto to lie on top of you, Gwynnie,’ he shouted.

The RSO collapsed with laughter.

‘Partners in cream, partners in cream,’ they chorused as Rannaldini and Gwynneth floundered in a sea of chocolate, sticky fruit and meringue.

But the laughter died on their lips, as Rannaldini’s minders, Clive and Nathan, moved in with deadly swiftness.