Kitty followed her into a kitchen which had just been charmingly redecorated with a cornflower-blue tiled floor, white walls, primrose-yellow surfaces, blue-and-white plates and framed family photographs with blue mounts among Guy’s abstracts on the walls.

‘Ow, it’s so fresh and pretty,’ marvelled Kitty.

‘Guy’s taste,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s awfully clever.’

The kitchen was also surprisingly tidy, except for a large tabby cat with orange eyes, who sprawled most unhygienically, Kitty thought, across a big scrubbed table. She was frightened of animals, particularly of the Rottweilers which guarded Rannaldini, and The Prince of Darkness, the vicious black steeplechaser, who, now the National Hunt Season was over, roamed the fields terrorizing any rambler who ventured on to Rannaldini’s land.

‘What’s he called?’ Kitty tried to be polite, as the cat bopped Georgie with a fat paw as she passed.

‘Charity,’ said Georgie. ‘It’s Guy’s cat. He adores her. Flora chose the name, so we could all say, “Daddy does a tremendous amount for Charity”. And he does. He’s already joined the Best-Kept Village Committee, and he popped down to say hallo to the vicar this morning. He should have been back hours ago.’

‘It all looks lovely.’ Kitty admired the crocus-yellow walls in the hall.

‘And I’ve found a cleaner, thank God, a Mrs Piggot,’ said Georgie. Then, seeing Kitty’s wary look, ‘I’m not sure how hot she is on cleaning, but she’s ace on gossip. She’s already told me the vicar’s a bit of a “puff”.’

She’s so attractive, thought Kitty wistfully, even with her dark red hair going greasy, and last night’s mascara smudged under her eyes, and a split in her jeans where they’d lost a battle with her spreading hips.

Forcing a large Bacardi and Coke on Kitty, Georgie bore her upstairs to a bedroom so large and high that even the massive still-unmade four-poster looked like a child’s cot. Blushing, Kitty averted her eyes from a damp patch on the bottom sheet. Crumpling the duvet was a large basset-hound.

‘This is Dinsdale,’ said Georgie, screwing up the basset’s jowly face, gazing into his bloodshot eyes and kissing him on the nose. ‘The one thing that can be relied on to look worse than me in the morning. Now, let’s look at these curtains. Goodness, you’ve done them well. Although they’re not really bedroomy, I’ve never been very good with flowered chintz. Let’s put them up.’

In no time Kitty found herself standing in her stockinged feet, acutely ashamed of her fat ankles, amid the clutter of Georgie’s dressing table, as she perilously hooked the curtains on to a big brass rail.

‘A bloody girlfriend rang me this morning’ — Georgie gazed moodily at the long blond tresses of the willows lining the lake — ‘saying wasn’t I worried about all those bimbos and separated women in London, waiting to seduce Guy while I’m down here. Guy of all people! He’s so stuffy about people having affaires. Then she said, “Do watch the drink, it gets to you in the country.”’ Georgie took a great slug of her Bacardi.

‘I’m a bit pissed off with Marigold,’ she went on, glancing across at The Grange which was in deep shadow. ‘Apart from flowers when we moved in — some rather awful mauve gladioli — I’ve hardly heard a word. She’s having problems with Larry. Nikki’s proving even more difficult to give up than smoking. He should try Nikki’s hypnotist again, and Nikki intends to take him to the cleaners. Funny when she always forgot to take his suits there when she was living with him. Now she’s never off the telephone screaming abuse at Larry, and dropping the telephone if Marigold answers.

‘And Lysander’s never off the telephone from Cheshire (dropping it natch, when Larry picks it up), offering to fly down and whisk Marigold away, which must be tempting. I didn’t really talk to him at the Rock Star launch, but he was faint-making.’

‘Gorgeous,’ sighed Kitty, remembering how Lysander had come over to kiss her hallo/goodbye as he was leaving the party. ‘There, I fink that’s OK.’

‘Looks marvellous,’ said Georgie drawing the curtains and plunging them into such total darkness that Kitty nearly fell off the dressing table. ‘We must pay you. No, don’t be silly. Let’s have another drink, then I must wash my hair.’

I’m obviously not going to get any lunch, thought Kitty, which was probably a good thing. She’d totally failed to go on a diet for Rannaldini’s return tomorrow.

‘Just as I expected, they look terrific,’ said a deep, carrying voice. ‘Why am I always saying, “You’re a brick, Kitty”?’

Guy looked so handsome that, as he put out a warm, strong hand to help her down, and then kissed her cheek, Kitty wished she looked less shiny from her exertions, and hastily fumbled for her high-heeled shoes.

‘What kept you?’ snapped Georgie, tugging the elastic band out of her hair.

‘Frog-spawn in the village pond, blue-and-white violets on the bank, primroses like day-old chicks. It was such a beautiful day, I walked. I suppose you haven’t remembered to put on the potatoes, Panda?’

‘Hell, I forgot,’ sighed Georgie. ‘I’m sorry, darling, but I’m not really hungry.’

‘Well, Kitty and I are,’ said Guy, ‘which is why I bought smoked salmon, pâté and vine leaves at The Apple Tree. It’s such a sophisticated shop. I arranged for us to have an account there.’

‘Which means Flora will chalk up fags and booze,’ said Georgie.

‘She must be told not to,’ said Guy sharply. ‘There was a list for ordering your hot cross buns. That’s what I call a proper village shop. I can’t believe it’s Easter in a fortnight.’

‘Ow, I love Easter,’ said Kitty. ‘Somehow you can’t wait for Jesus to rise from the dead and walk barefooted in the white dew among the daffodils.’

Then she blushed scarlet as Georgie said rather mockingly: ‘Dinsdale loves Easter, too, because it means chocolate. How was the vicar? Mrs Piggot says he’s gay.’

‘I had coffee with him and his wife,’ said Guy, who disapproved of gossip. ‘They were charming.’

‘Mrs Piggot says he’s a piss-artist,’ went on Georgie.

‘Takes one to know one,’ said Guy dismissively. ‘The gin’s dropped three inches since she’s been cleaning for you.’

‘I must wash my hair,’ said Georgie.

‘You haven’t got time,’ said Guy flatly. ‘You’ve asked Kitty to lunch. It’s already three o’clock and we’ve got to leave by four to get decent seats.’

‘The concert doesn’t start till five.’

‘And the rush-hour starts at four on Fridays in the country, and Flora’s singing a solo. We must be on time, Panda.’

Georgie looked mutinous. She was a celebrity. Everyone would be gazing at her. She couldn’t have dirty hair.

Reading her thoughts, Guy said, ‘You always look lovely, Panda.’

What a wonderful husband, thought Kitty enviously, kind and concerned but so firm like a Danielle Steel hero. ‘I don’t need any din — I mean lunch,’ she stammered.

A certain row was averted by the telephone. Georgie’s work in the last week had been constantly interrupted by the Press ringing up to ask how she was adjusting to the country, or by demands to go on television or the radio, all of which had been turned down by Guy.

‘My wife has shut herself away with a December deadline,’ he was saying briskly. ‘Well, I can answer that one. Dogs mostly.’

‘Who was that? What did they want to know?’ asked Georgie fretfully.

‘The Scorpion. What do you wear in bed?’

‘And you said, “Dogs”?’ Georgie started to laugh. ‘I do love you. People are going to think I’m even more of a slut than I am.’

‘I’ve got an idea,’ said Guy. ‘As we’ve only time for a sandwich now and it’s Flora’s first night in Paradise, I’ll take you all out to The Heavenly Host this evening.’

‘Perfect,’ said Georgie, ‘as a thank-you present for the curtains.’

‘I can’t,’ sighed Kitty, suppressing a simultaneous shiver of terror and longing, ‘Rannaldini’s flying in first fing tomorrow. I must see everyfink’s perfect.’


16



In fact, Rannaldini was already in England, finally having finished his film of Don Giovanni, which he had produced, directed, conducted, edited and, according to the wags of the music world, probably played the part of the Don with every woman on the set as well.

Arriving a day early at Heathrow in his private jet, he drove straight to the recently built Mozart Hall in Holland Park in order to surprise the London Met, who were rehearsing for a televised performance of Mahler’s Fourth, which he was to conduct on Sunday.

Not content with stalking out of the London Met’s performance of Beethoven’s Ninth three weeks earlier, Rannaldini was now outraged to learn from a rather large bird called Hermione that the guest conductor, Oswaldo, had been taking rehearsals with a joint in one hand and a baton in the other — such appalling lack of discipline. The London Met, however, were devoted to Oswaldo. He was gentle, hugely appreciative (Rannaldini had never learnt the English for thank you) and a marvellous musician. He listened to the more experienced members of the orchestra, and sought their advice on how things should be played. He also remembered his musicians’ first names, bought them drinks on their birthday and tried to get them rises.

This was quite unlike Rannaldini, who had the ability to terrorize and hypnotize simultaneously, and who could reduce his entire string section to jelly by raising a jet-black eyebrow. (Telling themselves that the same eyebrow was probably dyed did nothing to reduce their terror.)

As Musical Director of the London Met, Rannaldini’s job was to control the orchestra and staff, choose guest conductors, select the soloists and plan the repertoire for the whole season. But as he was also Musical Director of other orchestras in Germany and mid-America, where the London Met were concerned, he would make a series of snap decisions twice a year over a three-hour lunch with Hermione’s husband, Bob Harefield, his orchestra manager. He then left Bob, and to a larger extent Kitty, to augment these decisions as he whizzed off round the world.