‘Oh wow,’ murmured the leader of the orchestra to a neighbouring oboist, ’eat your stony heart out, Hermione.’

They had reached the part when the Angel Gabriel appeared to the shepherds abiding in the fields.

‘You ready, Perce?’ called Bob to the vicar in the gallery.

‘Ready,’ called the vicar, adjusting his halo in the window.

Outside it was snowing. How very appropriate in the bleak midwinter. He was glad he was wearing his thermals under his nightgown.

‘Chat amongst yourselves, shepherds,’ said Bob consulting his script.

‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve, Reuben?’ asked Meredith who, as second shepherd, was holding Maggie.

‘That’s not in the script,’ hissed Georgie, burnous askew as she clung for grim death on to a terrified ewe.

Suddenly, like sulphur and brimstone, a waft of Maestro swept through the great hall, far stronger than frankincense or droppings of sheep or donkey.

Instantly the nearest flautist whipped the curly blond wig off Rannaldini’s bust. Georgie let go of her ewe, which bolted into the wings sending a peeping Mr Brimscombe flying. The star fused again.

Rannaldini, the astrakhan collar of his black coat turned up, framing a face white with barely controlled fury, strolled towards the stage.

‘I thought I told you all to be word and note perfect by the time I came back.’

‘My fault.’ Ferdie stubbed out his cigar and stood up in the stalls. ‘I was standing in for Larry and thought I’d jazz things up a bit.’

‘Well, don’t,’ said Rannaldini witheringly. ‘Hermione?’

‘Maestro?’ Hermione smiled at him, awaiting praise.

‘Piano, for God’s sake,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘That lullaby would have woken every bambino in Judea and babies are fed every four hours not every four minutes, so put those boobs away. You’re playing the Virgin not Delilah.’

Then, not giving Hermione time to scream at him, he turned on Guy who was eating a flapjack in the stalls.

‘You’re even more wooden than that ludicrously overdecorated manger, Joseph. Your young wife’s having a baby, then everyone rolls up bringing him presents and ignoring you. Show some pride or some jealousy, and as for you, Percy,’ he looked up at the vicar who was still swaying helplessly from his beam, ‘talk about Fat Tum of the Opera.

‘Your belly’s too large and your voice too small. You’re being drowned by Hermione and Georgie and you couldn’t instil mighty dread into any mind, troubled or otherwise. I’m afraid you’ll have to join the angelic choir instead.’

Normally suntanned, Rannaldini’s extreme pallor was infinitely more sinister. The jet-black eyes glittered like holes into hell, but there was an air of purring satisfaction about him, not just due to the pleasure of bawling people out. Ignoring the equal hysterics of the vicar and Hermione, Rannaldini picked up Cameron Cook’s mobile and punched out long distance.

‘Carissima,’ he launched into a flood of Italian, only the occasional word like ‘network’ being comprehensible. Then, with a vicious smile, he changed to English so everyone could hear over Hermione’s squawking.

‘It only means arriving a day early for Chreestmas. The script? Eees excellent. I’ll get Keety to fax you a copy so you can learn it tonight. Ciao.’

Switching off his telephone, he turned evilly to face the cast. ‘Cecilia arrive tomorrow to take over Gabriel.’

Artistic integrity overcoming terror, Georgie tore off her head-dress.

‘The script is not excellent, Rannaldini,’ she protested. ‘We’ll be a laughing stock. Rachel’s wrecked it, Cameron Cook agrees with me. Someone’s got to tell Rachel.’

‘I will, my dear Georgie,’ said Rannaldini gently. ‘To me the scripts are much improved, more topical, more relevant, less trite.’ He turned to the back of the hall. ‘Well done, Rachel.’

Everyone, particularly Georgie who thought Rachel was miles away, jumped out of their skins as Rachel drifted through the door.

She was wearing a very new-looking, pale fawn cashmere jersey, softer than the belly of a Persian kitten and she looked absolutely beautiful, as though all her anger had been ironed out.

‘Christ,’ murmured Meredith, letting Maggie off her lead so she shot back to Lysander, ‘if Rannaldini likes that script, he must be hooked.’

‘I shall be working late in the tower,’ Rannaldini called to Kitty who, up on her ladder, was now filling the window-ledge with big branches of yew. ‘I do not weesh to be disturbed.’

As he walked past Rachel, like a bat in his black coat, he shielded her from the others’ view. Only Flora, stiller than a shadow in the window-seat, saw him reach out for Rachel’s breast as Rachel put a quick hand on his crotch.

‘My leetle Quaker,’ whispered Rannaldini, ‘my leetle earthquaker. You will come soon to the tower?’

‘The moment I’ve found a babysitter.’

And he was gone.

The best-laying plans of maestros and men, however, can go astray. Wandering into the kitchen to make Arthur a bowl of coffee, Lysander found Rachel writing a note.

‘Where’s Kitty?’ she demanded.

Picking up the note, Lysander scrumpled it up.

‘She can’t babysit,’ he said flatly.

‘Why ever not? What else has she got to do?’

‘She’s taking Christmas presents over to her mother.’

‘Oh, right — well, perhaps you could? The kids adore you so much.’

‘I couldn’t.’ Lysander’s sweet face hardened like wet clay cast in bronze. ‘I’m not looking after your kids so you can get fucked by Rannaldini.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel gave a gasp of horror. ‘I’ve been celibate for nine months.’

‘Not with Rannaldini, you haven’t. December 9th, wasn’t it? I was driving home from Kitty’s, Rannaldini was kissing you on the doorstep. Your towel was slipping. And you told Kitty you’d gone to see your solicitors — soliciting more likely.’

‘We were discussing cadenzas,’ said Rachel, frantically casting round for excuses.

‘Cad’s a better word,’ said Lysander bleakly. ‘Kitty was so bloody tired that night.’

Rachel was shattered by his anger.

‘Come and have a drink this evening. I’ll explain.’

‘No thanks, and don’t ever do that to Kitty again.’

Poor Rannaldini. Hermione was so livid she decided temporarily to emulate the purity of the Virgin that night. Kitty was in Sidcup and Rachel was confined to barracks minding her own children. Faced with the appalling prospect of a loveless evening, Rannaldini decided to forgive Flora. Ringing up Guy and Georgie, he suggested he dropped by after supper to show them the video of the dress rehearsal and have a last-minute script conference.

‘Maybe Rachel make it a leetle too green.’

It was snowing heavily by the time he arrived at Angel’s Reach. Shivering in the icy wind like a slaughtered ostrich, a large Christmas tree lay on its side.

Rannaldini was livid to discover that Flora had gone out to a party. Georgie was livid because the video showed Guy’s hand disappearing more than once into the billowing blue depths of Hermione’s robes.

‘It’s good acting,’ protested Guy. ‘A pat on the bottom is just the kind of friendly gesture a wife receives from any husband.’

‘Particularly someone else’s,’ snapped Georgie.

Guy had been twitchy all evening because wretched Flora had pinched the car without asking and there was no way he could escape.

They worked in the kitchen because it was warm by the Aga and by the time they’d gone through the script and toned down Rachel’s worst excesses, Rannaldini had drunk enough red wine to risk dropping in on her on the way home. He had just picked up his car keys when Flora walked in. She betrayed no trace of surprise at seeing him. Her red hair, darkened by snow, had grown since last summer. A thick strand had blown round her white neck like a leather strap.

She was wearing a black leather jacket over a gunmetal-grey satin camisole top and black velvet shorts above black-stockinged legs that had lost any trace of puppy fat.

‘We were worried about you, darling,’ said Georgie. ‘The roads must be hell. Was it a good party?’

‘Great.’ Flora crouched down beside Dinsdale, giving him a crumbling sausage roll out of her pocket.

‘Ask, next time you borrow the car,’ said Guy angrily. ‘I can now get some more red.’

‘We’ve got some,’ said Georgie, ‘there’s a crate in the utility room.’

Guy jumped as the telephone rang.

‘I’ll take it next door,’ said Flora, running across the hall into the drawing room to answer it. There was something stark and unwelcoming about her parents’ house, not a coloured ball nor a string of tinsel yet in sight.

Hearing the happy Tennyson’s brook sound of continuous laughter, Guy reflected that at least he wasn’t paying for the call.

‘It’s Melanie,’ said Flora, a quarter of an hour later. Then, smiling sweetly at her father, ‘She’s reversing the charges from a Perth call-box.’

Somehow Guy kept his temper and when Georgie rushed off and because Rannaldini showed no sign suddenly of leaving, he went off to get another bottle.

Bidding a tearful farewell to her adored elder daughter five minutes later, Georgie noticed the copy of Catullus David Hawkley had sent her and pulled it out of the bookshelf.

‘It is hard to put aside long-standing love,’ she read sadly.

If only she could see David — he was so straight compared with Guy. A bad sleeper, he’d probably be awake now. His number was engraved on her heart. Surreptitiously she picked up the second telephone and heard Guy’s voice saying: ‘I couldn’t get away, Ju Ju. Flora took the car without asking and Georgie suddenly remembered a crate of booze, so I had no excuse. I daren’t risk it, sweetheart. I’m really sorry, I’ll ring you first thing. Sleep well, my darling.’