Appassionata

SIXTY-FOUR

Appleton, a dark satanic mill town, lay just west of the Pennines with its grimy houses and factories spilling over the steep hillside as though someone had hurled a pot of black ink against a green wall. The surrounding countryside was dotted with imposing Victorian houses built by the old cotton manufacturers, who found patronizing the arts in the nineteenth century a gratifying way up the social ladder. The most imposing of these houses had belonged to the late Lord Appleton, a great charmer and music lover, who each year had invited a group of friends to play together over a long weekend. On the last day, the musician, who, by popular vote, had pleased his companions the most, was awarded five hundred pounds.

The comely Welsh pianist, Blodwyn Jones, who won the prize at the end of the Fifties, became Lord Appleton’s much younger wife, and when he died she joined forces with his inconsolable friends to found the Appleton Piano Competition in his memory. The Appleton had become as prestigious as the Leeds Piano Competition which took place every four years in August. Indeed Fanny Waterman, the founder of the great Leeds Competition was a friend of Blodwyn Appleton and had advised her in the early stages.

Lady Appleton was well named. She had a face as round, rosy and sweet as a Worcester Pearmain, and a nature to match. Although well into her sixties, she was able to charm distinguished musicians to give their services for almost nothing. This year, the very international jury contained several piano teachers, old trouts of both sexes, including a Romanian, a Latvian, a vast Ukrainian and a Chinese who spent his time writing a biography of Schumann from right to left on a laptop computer. Among the judges who still played in public was Marcus’s ancient admirer Pablo Gonzales, who had arrived without his blond boyfriend. Others included Bruce Kennedy, a cool laconic American, and Sergei Rostrov, a hot-headed voluble Russian, both great and famous pianists who felt they should put something back into music by sitting on the odd jury, but who detested one another.

Ernesto (an Italian who spoke little English) and Lili (a green-eyed German) were less good pianists. Both in their fifties, they preferred to judge rather than be judged and were making a nice living, thank you, sitting on juries all over the world and bonking each other.

Among the non-piano-playing judges were a svelte French feminist who played the harpsichord, and an Irish Contralto called Deirdre O’Neill, who had a winning cosy exterior, which mostly disguised a pathological loathing of the Brits, no doubt exacerbated by a recent divorce from a Weybridge stockbroker.

Completing the pack were Boris, Hermione and Dame Edith, who, because Monica was in Kenya awaiting her first grandchild, had rolled up with Monica’s yellow labrador Jennifer; and surprise, surprise, Rannaldini. All the judges were staying at the Prince of Wales Hotel in Appleton High Street.

The candidates on the other hand were housed at St Theresa’s, a local girls’ boarding-school, situated about three miles out of town on the edge of the moors. As the pupils had gone home for half-term, each contestant was allotted a tiny study/bedroom. Marcus collapsed in hysterical laughter when he found the walls of his room covered in half-naked posters of James Dean and Mel Gibson. Outside in the park, almost obscuring the view from his window, was a magnificent chestnut tree which still held on to its reddy gold leaves.

Across khaki fields, criss-crossed with stone walls and bobbled with sheep, Marcus could see the lights of Appleton. In case by some miracle he reached the final, he had brought his tails and the dress-shirt which Abby had turned pale blue in the washing-machine.

During a rather strained and stilted drinks party, when the contestants stared at each other like cats, Marcus noticed Benny Basanovich, black hair curly as a Jacob’s sheep, surrounded by girls, but paying particular attention to a voluptuous Slav beauty, with long sloe-black eyes, soft, drooping scarlet lips and large breasts. That must be Rannaldini’s protegee Natalia Philipova. Marcus felt a surge of pity for his mother. How could all the silicone implants in the world compete with that, he thought savagely.

Over an excellent dinner of steak and kidney pudding, and a huge pie made from dark blue bilberries picked off the moor, served with big jugs of cream, the level of chat and laughter started to rise.

Everyone then drew for position in the competition. With forty-eight contestants to play, the first round would take four days. Mid-morning or mid-afternoon were best. People who played first thing had to warm up the jury and the audience. Immediately after lunch was dodgy, because half the jury would be sleeping it off. By the end of the day everyone was irritable and tired. Marcus drew the very last number, then had a nail-biting, four-day wait.

On the first morning of the competition, however, all the contestants were expected to turn up at the small concert hall belonging to Appleton University, where the first two rounds were taking place, to be officially welcomed by Lady Appleton.

The jury were already in position in the gallery, including Jennifer the labrador, who was leaving blond hairs all over the shiny dark suit of the Ukrainian judge.

Marcus nearly fainted when he saw Boris, Rannaldini and oh God, Pablo Gonzales, who was raising binoculars with a shaky hand to spy out the better-looking male contestants.

Only after the last winner had accepted her little silver piano, had it been discovered that before the competition she had deliberately taken private lessons with most of the jury then further sucked up by writing them sycophantic thank-you letters.

This year Lady Appleton was taking no chances, and kept the names of the judges under wraps to prevent them being got at before the competition.

After welcoming everyone, and thanking the sponsors, Mr Bumpus of Bumpy’s Scrumpy, she stressed the importance of the jury not having any contact with the contestants.

‘I know many of you know each other, but try and restrict yourselves to a little wave until after the final.’

Monocled and massive in Prince of Wales check, Dame Edith promptly raised Jennifer’s fat yellow paw and waved it at Marcus.

‘Finally,’ went on Lady Appleton charmingly, ‘don’t be frightened or discouraged if you go no further — remember that every member of the jury was once knocked out in the first round of a competition.’

‘I was not,’ said a deep voice in outrage.

‘Sorry, except Dame Hermione,’ laughed Lady Appleton. ‘Now let us welcome our first candidate, Miss Han Chai from Korea.’

On went the jurors’ spectacles, as the prettiest little raven-haired teenager came dancing onto the stage with her pink skirts swirling and played Debussy, Liszt and Mozart with such proficiency and delight that she plunged every other candidate into despair.

Bruce Kennedy, the great American pianist, who always voted against the Eastern bloc only gave her five out of ten.

‘Technically perfect,’ he muttered to Dame Edith, ‘but I don’t figure she’s experienced “Life”.’

‘If you want to see raw emotion,’ whispered back Edith, who’d given her six, ‘look at her teacher in the front row. Don’t you agree, Boris?’

Boris, who was sitting behind them, gave a sulky grunt, and added another semi-quaver to the clarinet’s part in Act Two of King Lear. There was manuscript paper all over the floor and the seats on either side of him. He supposed it would be construed as collusion if he enlisted Marcus’s help to put in the bar lines.

Boris had only fallen under Lady Appleton’s spell and agreed to judge when he was plastered at some reception last year, and was livid to be dragged away from work.

He wasn’t remotely gratified that Rachel’s Requiem had now gone to Number Five, and he was incensed that Rannaldini had been given a suite at the Prince of Wales, with a room next door for Clive, his sinister leather-clad henchman, while he, Boris, had only a dimly lit shoe-box facing a grubby brick wall with no mini-bar.

Hermione was even crosser than Boris. Having promised her his full attention, Rannaldini had rolled up with a beady-eyed Helen, and then spent his time caballing.

For despite Lady Appleton’s strictures, corruption was gloriously rife. Everyone, particularly the Eastern bloc, indulged in tactical voting. All the judges had been tempted by massive bribes. Dame Edith was shocked to be offered three Steinways, a diamond necklace and a week’s holiday for two by the Black Sea, Dame Hermione less so. The only safe unbugged place for intrigue was the heated pool. Rannaldini, who had the advantage of a magnificent Sardinian suntan and fluency in most languages, soon had wrinkled paws from dog-paddling with large lady judges, their long grey hair swept up on top.

A few of the judges argued the whole time, the rest were too terrified of Rannaldini and making fools of themselves to put forward any forceful opinions. This happened particularly after the Italian contestant, whom Dame Edith had described as ‘a fairly good-looking pig who unfortunately sounded as though she was playing with trotters’, turned out to be the daughter of Ernesto, the Italian judge. The strain of listening to music from nine in the morning until eight at night was telling on all of them. The old trouts found it impossible to stay awake, particularly after Bumpy’s Scrumpy and a large lunch.

As contestant followed contestant, however, stars were beginning to emerge. Most of the judges liked Han Chai, none of them liked Benny, who had only entered because both Howie and Rannaldini had persuaded him certain victory would lift a sagging career. Benny, on the other hand, was very famous, and rather good with judges, claiming not only genuine French-Russian parentage, but also aunts from Latvia, Romania, China and Ireland who, when necessary, became ‘my favourite relation’.

Also much fancied was Carl Matheson, a cheery, bouncing Texan with a terrific stage personality, who’d been told by his agent to leave his tails behind. This was an old trick. The contestant would then appear not to have expected to reach the final. If he did and walked onto the platform in his plaid jacket or a too large borrowed DJ, the audience and jury would be touched by his modesty and humility, and the fairy tale element of a rags-to-riches win, and mark him up accordingly.

Dominating the candidates, however, was Natalia Philipova, who’d ‘come a long way, baby’, since two years ago in Prague when Rannaldini had advised her to give up the piano, then relented and financed her private lessons. Now he was determined to make her a big star. Hence his tickling of all the old trouts in the swimming-pool and his waking them with a cattle-prod when it was Natalia’s turn to play.

He had chosen Natalia’s first round pieces well. Liszt’s piano adaptation of Tristran, and a Chopin sonata with a funeral march middle movement reduced everyone to tears. Howie had already signed up Natalia, but he was soft-pedalling the connection, as he and Rannaldini didn’t want Benny to go into drunken orbit. A win from Natalia would be that much more impressive and dramatic if she beat an established talent like Benny’s.

Finally, there was Anatole, a moody handsome Russian, and a marvellous pianist. He was left handed, which made him very strong in the bass and gave his playing a wonderful thunder. His hair was the browny blond of newly laid parquet, and like most eastern bloc players, he wore cheap clothes: shiny brown trousers, plastic shoes and his freckled back could be seen through his thin nylon shirt. But nothing detracted from his eruptive presence. His deadpan face, deep husky voice and occasional bursts of temper reminded Marcus agonizingly of Alexei. Howie, who was gasping to sign him up, had nicknamed him the ‘Prince of Polyester’.

Anatole, like all the other Russians who’d entered, had been playing his first-and second-round repertoire and his chosen concerto in concert halls all round Siberia for the last six months. Although aware he would probably go back to Siberia for good if he didn’t win, Anatole was far more interested in winning the local pub talent competition.

All the contestants reacted to pressure in different ways. Some paced before they played, some took deep breaths or did yoga, others stared into space, some shook and sweated. Anatole kept throwing up, then lighting a cigarette immediately afterwards.

Marcus’s four-day wait would have been a torment if every day a fleet of cars hadn’t arrived to ferry the contestants either to the concert hall or to big houses in the area, where they were offered a grand piano on which to practise. Marcus was sent to a darling old lady called Mrs Bateson who’d been a friend of Thomas Beecham. Deciding Marcus needed fattening up, she baked wonderful cakes for him. All her family rolled up and listened whenever he played, but when they appeared at the hall to cheer him when his turn finally came, they had great difficulty getting seats. The place was packed with Press, chasing more copy on Rupert’s estranged son and Abby’s live-in lover.

Driven crackers by Helen’s moans about Natalia and Rannaldini, Marcus was almost relieved to get onto the platform, then started the Liszt B minor Sonata with an appalling crash of wrong notes.

Helen, Boris, Pablo Gonzales, Edith, Jennifer the labrador, Mrs Bateson and all her family gave a collective groan of dismay. Marcus, on the other hand, thought: sod it. He’d obviously blown it, so he might as well enjoy himself on this wonderful piano, whose tone was as soft and mellow as any burgundy covered in cobwebs in his father’s cellar.

Forgetting the audience, he continued to play the Liszt so beautifully that the entire hall was in floods. He then raced with all the insouciance of an Olympic skier, through Balakirev’s Oriental Fantasy, which because of its racing octaves and chords is supposed to be the hardest piece ever written. He then collapsed in a giggling heap the moment he left the platform.

‘I have never been so scared in my life.’

By this time, he had brought the hall to their feet. To his amazed delight, he went through to the last twenty-four.

The second round was even more of an ordeal for the judges, consisting of long fifty-minute recitals. If any of the candidates overran Lady Appleton was meant to ring a large bell, but was often too kind to do so. Many of the contestants, however, had complained of the soft muddy tone of the piano in the first round, so it was now replaced by one with a harder, brighter sound.

The first day of the second round was also Pablo Gonzales eightieth birthday. Thinking it was a learned work of discography, the big Ukrainian judge brought him a copy of the Guinness Book of Records. Pablo was henceforth so transfixed with interest that he did hardly any judging at all.

All the other jurors fought to sit next to him so they could wile away the tedious hours of Bach and Debussy, reading about the fattest dog, the largest elephant or the heaviest twins in history.

Meanwhile the Irish judge, nicknamed ‘Deirdre of the Drowned Sorrows’ by Dame Edith, was quietly getting through a good litre of red wine a day. Boris was getting through about the same, but was a little happier, having orchestrated a whole act of King Lear. The Chinese judge had reached Schumann’s first signs of madness on his laptop. Jennifer had put on half a stone eating digestive biscuits.

The ancient Latvian judge, who had promised to vote for Natalia after caballing in the pool with Rannaldini, had not fared so well, and was now in bed with a head cold, unlikely to make the final. Rannaldini was so enraged to have wasted so much time on her, and even crosser when a grinning Dame Edith suggested Jennifer should take the Latvian’s place, that he was reduced to bonking Hermione in the lunch-hour.

Once again Marcus was the last to play. This time his agonizing wait was extended because Natalia had insisted on finishing Liszt’s Dante Sonata, despite Lady Appleton’s bell, and then complained bitterly about the brittle tinny sound of the new piano. A piano tuner was subsequently summoned and, after laboriously checking the piano, announced it was in perfect order.

Marcus bore this out by dispatching the Bach Busoni Chaconne with exquisite clarity and warmth, making the allegedly brittle and tinny piano reverberate like an organ. The jury were entranced, particularly by the accompanying drumroll from a lunchless Hermione’s tummy.

‘Even such an intellectual piece becomes audience-friendly under his fingers,’ murmured Bruce Kennedy.

‘No-one looks better in a dark suit than Marcus,’ sighed Pablo.

The Bach was followed by Beethoven’s Waldstein Sonata which was going splendidly until the middle of the slow movement, when Marcus pressed down the soft pedal for the first time to add a little colour. He then discovered to his horror that the pedal had jammed, and as a result only two out of the three strings were being struck in the treble.

He was so thrown he momentarily lost his place and ground to a halt. Throughout the rest of the slow movement, and the ravishing flowing rondo, which was why Marcus had chosen the Waldstein in the first place, he had to bash away like Benny in an attempt to be heard at all by the jury in the dress circle.

Convinced the piano had been got at, Marcus came off the platform in a white-hot rage and immediately complained to the waiting officials. This was regarded as dreadfully unsporting. Natalia kicking up about a tinny sound was quite different to accusations of sabotage. Back came the piano tuner huffing and puffing.

‘When instruments are out of tune in an orchestra,’ he grumbled, ‘everyone blames the musician, when a piano’s out of tune, everyone blames the tuner,’ and having taken the piano apart once more, proved there was nothing wrong with it.

Still utterly unconvinced, Marcus escaped from the uproar and the lurking Press and stormed round the town square until shortness of breath forced him to collapse onto a hard bench. Opposite, against a pinky-yellow evening sky, was the town hall, where he certainly wouldn’t be playing on Sunday.

‘I’m sorry, Alexei,’ he muttered almost in tears, ‘I’ve let you down.’

How could he possibly be a great artist who only belonged to the world, when he couldn’t even make the final of a piddling piano competition?

To his right was a statue of the first Lord Appleton, examining a roll of cloth and with bird lime all over his frock coat and top hat. What was the point of becoming famous anyway? The Press dumped on you when you were alive, and pigeons when you were dead.

‘Oh fuck, fuck, fuck,’ sighed Marcus.

Meanwhile the judges had retreated into the jurors’ room to select the last six, unimpeded by parents, teachers, agents and representatives from the various countries. The contestants had retreated to the bar. The consensus of opinion was that Marcus had blown it.

‘Although they always have a Brit in the last six to pull in the crowds,’ said Benny snidely.

Piano competitions, however, do not end with the presentation of the award and a cheque for twenty thousand pounds. Afterwards the winner is assured a couple of years’ engagements in the greatest concert halls of the world. In the past, winners had often had difficulty coping with this pressure. The reputation of the Appleton worldwide depended on choosing a winner who could.

Reliability was therefore considered even more important than talent; someone who would carry out these engagements without letting them down, someone who wouldn’t make mistakes in recordings.

Rannaldini was soon at work influencing the jury.

‘Regretfully,’ he said winningly, ‘I must abstain from voting for my dear stepson, Marcus, but speaking totally impartially, although it pains me to do so, I feel the boy did not project enough, particularly in the Waldstein, where he gave a very flat two-dimensional performance.’

‘Bollocks,’ thundered Dame Edith. ‘He played exquisitely in the Chaconne, and in the first half of the Waldstein he had something quite beyond the notes.’

‘He had a memory lapse,’ snapped Rannaldini, who now that he had Dame Edith’s job, didn’t need to suck up to her any more.

‘Probably just nerves,’ snapped back Dame Edith.

She felt Marcus should go through. Pablo and Bruce Kennedy agreed. Pablo said he would resign if Marcus didn’t. The Russian, Sergei, deliberately voting against Bruce Kennedy, said he would resign if Marcus did. The Waldstein had no passion. He agreed with Rannaldini the boy was a ‘veemp’. Two of the old bids from Poland and Yugoslavia, who’d been chatted up by Rannaldini, and accepted promises of help from him for several of their pupils, voted against Marcus as well. So did Hermione, because Rannaldini told her to, and Deirdre O’Neill, because she hated the English. So did the vast Ukrainian because he was voting tactically. The ancient Swedish judge, who had only been kept awake after lunch by Benny’s banging, and nodded off afterwards, felt guilty he’d slept through the Chaconne and gave Marcus an amazing ten out of ten. The French judge loathed both Rannaldini and Sergei and had a crush on Dame Edith, so she gave him nine.

Lili voted against him because Rannaldini pinched her bottom in the lift and promised her a concert in New York. Ernesto promptly voted for Marcus because he was jealous of Rannaldini, so did Boris, which tied the score and a casting vote was needed.

‘Blodwyn,’ purred Rannaldini.

Lady Appleton looked up from a long list: Warm-up piano to be delivered, seven outside broadcast vans to be parked, seven microphones… and thought her name had never been pronounced so seductively.

‘Sorry, Maestro?’

‘Do you theenk Marcus Campbell-Black should go through?’ Surely not said those compelling inquisitorial night-black eyes.

‘Yes,’ said Lady Appleton.

Her friend, Mrs Bateson, had said the boy was a genius.

Taking Jennifer for a widdle in the town square, Dame Edith passed Marcus gazing into space with such a look of desolation on his face.

‘You’re through, you chump,’ she yelled. ‘And I agree — that piano was got at.’

All the favoured candidates — Han Chai, Carl the jokey homespun Texan, Anatole the moody Russian, Natalia and Benny — had made it. Marcus was the only outsider. A few tears were shed by the disappointed contestants. Lord Gargrave, on whose piano a brilliant German candidate had practised, was so upset the poor fellow hadn’t gone through that he invited him to stay on for a weekend’s shooting.

Euphoric that they had two days off before the finals, Edith, Irish Deirdre, Boris and Pablo Gonzales, who’d never had Lancashire Hot Pot before, dined together at the Dog and Duck on the edge of the moor.

‘If I see another pair of crossed hands I go cuckoo,’ said Pablo, collapsing into a chair and handing his sticks to the waiter.

‘Bloody awful dump that Prince of Wales,’ said Edith, splashing red wine into everyone’s glasses. ‘Lousy grub, piddling rooms and a fax takes two minutes from Kenya and half a day to get upstairs. How’s Lear?’ she asked Boris.

‘Nearly finished. Now I wonder what to do next.’

‘Wheech is the largest newt in the world?’ asked Pablo who refused to be parted from his Guinness Book of Records.

‘Probably me,’ said Deirdre, who was already well away.

‘Wheech is the fattest cat?’

‘Rannaldini,’ said Dame Edith, smothering a roll with butter. ‘I’m sure he’s rigging the votes. Blodwyn’s such an innocent. I voted for that German boy.’

‘So deed I,’ said Pablo, ‘I even stop reading thees wondairful book when he play the Prokofiev.’

‘So did Deirdre and I,’ said Boris. ‘He still didn’t make it.’

‘At least we all got Marcus through,’ said Dame Edith with satisfaction.

‘I didn’t,’ said Deirdre stonily. ‘God protect me if I ever vote for a Brit.’

‘Don’t be unsporting,’ boomed Edith, waving to the waiter for some more red.

‘You weren’t married to one,’ snapped Deirdre.

I nearly am, thought Edith.

Even though she and Monica were running up massive bills ringing each other every day, she didn’t believe it were possible to miss anyone as much. The fax that had taken so long to get upstairs was Monica’s confirmation of their purchase of a cottage with a stretch of river in the west of Scotland. The prospect of Monica in breast waders made Edith’s mind mist over, and she herself would be able to compose full time. She hadn’t written anything she was really proud of since The Persuaders in 1980.

But she felt dreadfully guilty that like George Hungerford she had sold her orchestra down the river for love. Once she had announced her absolute determination to retire, the CCO had been forced to look for a new musical director and had searched no further than Rannaldini. Both orchestra and management had voted him in unanimously.

‘He’s the only person who could ever take your place, Edith,’ said Hugo.

The bastard had seduced the lot of them with his alarming charm. But if Edith hadn’t wanted Monica and out so desperately, she would have tried harder to dissuade them.

She was brought back to earth by Deirdre’s grumbling.

‘Lancashire Hot Pot is exactly like Irish Stew. Talk about another British rip-off.’

‘Very delicious though,’ said Pablo with his mouth full. ‘Do you know which is most venomous snake in world?’

‘Rannaldini,’ they all said in unison.

SIXTY-FIVE

Marcus was flabbergasted that he’d got so far. He was also ashamed how much he was enjoying himself. The bracing northern winds seemed to have blown away all his worries and obsessions, and more importantly his asthma. He got on very well with all the other finalists, and they had great fun on their two days off before the final, sightseeing, eating fish and chips, playing ping-pong and cheering Anatole on in the pub talent competition.

Marcus was relieved Helen had temporarily shoved off to London. He was also tremendously touched when the huge Ukrainian judge took him aside. As the contestant from the Ukraine had gone out in the last round, he no longer had a vested interest. The majority of the jury, he felt, despite Rannaldini, were, in reality rooting for Marcus.

‘We vant you to vin, but we theenk you must change to heavyveight concerto, Brahms One or Two or Rachmaninov Three, something more explosive, more dramatic. The Schumann may be the graveyard of musicians, but it sound very easy. It ees not theatrical enough to impress jury or bring audience to their foots.’

Marcus’s eyes filled with tears. He felt the kind words had somehow come straight from Alexei. But beyond thanking the big Ukrainian profusely, he explained he’d worked on the Schumann so he’d stay with it.

‘If there ees any chance to win, zee English start to feel sorry for other contestants,’ sighed the Ukrainian.

The finals would take place on Saturday and Sunday, with Carl, Anatole and Han Chai playing their concertos on the first night, and Benny, Natalia and Marcus playing on the second.

Abby had rung Marcus with a change of plan, saying she’d be leaving the States the next night and flying straight to Manchester, arriving in Appleton first thing on Saturday morning to rehearse with the first three finalists in the afternoon.

America, Abby told him, had been terrific, and it was even more terrific he’d made the final.

‘The only problem, I guess, is that Woodbine Cottage has been burglarized. Thank God the cats were in kennels, and they didn’t take anything except the TV and the video, although the cops fingerprinted Flora’s vibrator.’

‘What about my studio?’ said Marcus, who’d gone cold thinking of Alexei’s letters under the floorboards.

‘No, nothing appears to be gone from there.’

Marcus was ashamed how relieved he felt to have another forty-eight hours without Abby. Mrs Bateson, jubilant he had gone through, cooked him roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and apple tart for lunch, and gave him a little jet cat for luck.

‘You must really project on Sunday,’ she begged him, ‘you’ve no idea how absorbent the good people of Appleton are when they crowd into the town hall.’

On Friday morning there was a press conference, where naturally the attention focused on Marcus.

‘I’m so knocked out to make the finals,’ he told the journalists, ‘that as long as I play well on Sunday, I don’t mind too much about winning.’

In the afternoon, the finalists were taken for a drive over the bleak, but ravishing countryside, which now flamed with bracken. They ended up having supper in the Dog and Duck which was a quarter of a mile down the road from St Theresa’s.

Marcus, who’d been asked by Lady Appleton to keep an eye on Anatole, was having great difficulty keeping the Russian sober. He must go to bed early if he were to cope with Brahms’ mighty First Concerto tomorrow. But Anatole had got even deeper into the pub talent competition and wouldn’t stop singing “Knees up Muzzer Brown”, with the landlord. Han Chai had fallen in love with the homespun Carl, who still couldn’t decide whether to play in his plaid jacket or a borrowed DJ. They sat holding hands drinking Coca-Cola in the corner. Benny, who had forty-eight hours to sober up before he played his concerto, was knocking back Bacardi and drunkenly propositioning Natalia, who, looking at her watch, was wondering if Rannaldini was back from London, and would somehow tonight infiltrate himself into her bedroom at St Theresa’s like a cat burglar. She quivered with desire. No-one had ever been so marvellous to her.

Before the competition he had also given her some beta-blockers to calm her nerves.

‘And do see eef you can persuade Marcus to have one before he plays, but don’t say they come from me; sadly my stepson ’ates me, and wouldn’t touch them. But I so long for heem to do well.’

How could anyone hate Rannaldini? wondered Natalia.

Marcus sat ekeing out a glass of red, still stunned at reaching the finals, idly playing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, on the pub table wondering what had happened to the soft pedal on Wednesday, wishing he could feel more enthusiastic about Abby arriving tomorrow. Across the pub he could see Anatole thumping out ‘You are My Sunshine’, his eyes creased with laughter above the high cheek-bones. Marcus felt hollow with longing for Alexei.

It was several seconds before he realized the barman was shouting, ‘Marcus Campbell-Black. Phone for Marcus Campbell-Black’.

Marcus winced. He had insisted on dropping the ‘Campbell’ for the competition. But hearing his famous name, people nudged and stared as he edged through the tables. He had told Alexei he never wanted to hear from him again but always when the telephone rang he prayed it might be him. Equally irrationally he had prayed all week for a good-luck card. The telephone was in an alcove by the stairs. The walls were covered with numbers.

‘Hallo,’ he picked up the receiver, ‘you’ll have to speak up, there’s a hell of a din going on here.’

‘Hi, Marcus. I gather congratulations are in order on your engagement to Abby Rosen. Lucky sod, when are you getting married?’

Hearing the whining, thin, ingratiating, very common, male voice, Marcus started to tremble.

‘Who the hell are you?’

‘It’s The Scorpion.’

‘I’ve nothing to say.’ Marcus was drenched in sweat.

‘We wanted to run a little story about you getting to the finals of the Appleton. Abby must be knocked out. It’ll be hard for her not to favour you.’

Marcus was about to hang up, when the voice thickened and became even oilier, almost lascivious with menace. ‘Another thing. We’ve got in our possession some letters to you written by Alexei Nemerovsky.’

Marcus couldn’t breathe, his crashing heart seemed to have filled his lungs and windpipe.

‘Hallo, are you there? They make very interesting reading. Things were obviously pretty passionate between you, particularly in Prague when you broke the bed.’

‘I don’t know what you’re taking about,’ croaked Marcus. ‘I never wrote any letters to Alexei, he never wrote any to me.’

‘Oh come, come. Some of them are very poetic: “My little white dove lying warm and no longer frightened in my hands”.’

‘They’re fakes,’ wheezed Marcus. ‘P-please burn them, My father and mother… no-one could be interested.’

‘I think they could. It’s very much in the public interest. Two household names like your dad and Nemerovsky, not to mention L’Appassionata, lovely girl, Abby, tried to top herself last time a man cheated on her. Think you’ve been quite fair to her?’

‘No, yes, it must have been you who broke into the cottage.’ Oh Christ, he shouldn’t have said that. ‘You don’t have any right to publish those letters.’

‘That’s a matter for the lawyers. We’re going with the story anyway. We just wanted to give you the chance to put your point of view to us.’ The voice became suddenly cosy, the mental nurse about to hand over the valium. ‘We’re talking six figures, I’m sure you could use the money.’

‘No, no,’ Marcus was frantic. ‘Please burn them. I’m not anyone important.’

‘You’re Rupert’s son, mate,’ said Torquemada chillingly. ‘Does he know you’re gay?’

Marcus gave a sob and dropped the telephone, leaving it clattering against the wall. He was desperately fighting for breath. Perhaps it would be better if he did die.

Choking, sobbing, he stumbled through the night back to St Theresa’s. He kept slipping on wet leaves, and fell over twice. Fortunately the foyer was temporarily deserted. Marcus tried to ring Alexei, but there was no answer. Abby would be on the way to the airport by now. Rupert was at the Czech Grand National. Marcus had read it in The Times that morning. Penscombe Pride was running in the big race on Sunday, just to prove he wasn’t past it.

Where was Helen? Marcus tried to gather his thoughts. Oh Christ, he couldn’t tell Helen.

Crawling into bed, pulling the bedclothes over his head, gasping for breath, fighting an advancing tidal wave of panic, he waited for the dawn and the army of reporters who, like a slavering pack of hounds, would tear him to pieces. How was he going to face Abby, Helen and, worst of all, Rupert?

As soon as it was light, he got up, and staggered into Appleton to get the papers. The temperature had dropped, bringing winter. The glowing horse-chestnut tree outside his room had been stripped in a day. Like a burst pipe in a distant room, he could hear the leaves rustling down in the park. As he passed the lake, there was a dull thud, and a figure leapt up in front of him. Marcus cringed, imagining a lurking reporter, but it was only a heron. Rising with flapping wings like a biplane, it carried a wriggling carp in its mouth.

I’m that fish, but without its innocence, thought Marcus in horror. It would be so much easier for everyone if he topped himself. He had to stop every ten yards to get his breath. He was wheezing like the kind of broken-winded old chaser his father would have dispatched to the knackers.

As he reached a newsagents on the edge of town the gutters were full of beech leaves like rivers of blood. In a garden opposite a large magpie strutted across the lawn. Self-satisfied, rapacious in its white tie and tails, it was just like Rannaldini. Bird of ill omen: one for sorrow.

‘Oh please, Mr Magpie, where’s your friend?’ begged Marcus, ‘Oh God, let The Scorpion not have printed it.’

‘You don’t want to read that rag,’ chided the newsagent, as Marcus picked up a copy. ‘It’s roobish. Good luck for tomorrow evening.’

‘We recognize you from the Manchester Evening News,’ said his wife. ‘Used to love your Dad when he were show jumping.’

Gasping his thanks, stumbling out of the shop, collapsing against a wall, Marcus fumbled frantically through the pages. There was nothing, thank Christ, maybe it had been some practical joke. Maybe they’d pulled the story… no, that reporter had known too much. He was only in remission.

He tried to act normally, but he was shaking and wheezing so badly when he finally reached St Theresa’s that Natalia persuaded him to take one of Rannaldini’s beta-blockers.

‘They’re terreefic for zee nerves, I had one before both rounds.’

Carl Matheson was worried by tendonitis.

‘I guess I better see a doctor before I rehearse this afternoon.’

Abby had stayed on an extra twenty-four hours in Philadelphia to confirm the American tour, so she could brandish the details as one glorious fait accompli in front of Miles, the board and Shepherd Denston. Nor could they winge about money. The wonderfully generous US cultural committee, coupled with American Bravo Records, had agreed to pick up most of the bill.

‘We figured we’d lost you to the UK for good, Abby,’ the chairman had told her. ‘We all feel it’s high time you brought your orchestra home.’

Abby’s eyes filled with tears every time she repeated his words. Always one track, she had concentrated all her energies on the deal in a desperate attempt to forget Viking. But now it was clinched, surely she could ask him back. The Americans would just adore him.

Appleton looked particularly bleak on such a cold wintery morning, but at least the huge begrimed town hall had been decorated by the flags of the nations in the finals. Abby was delighted an American had made it. She hoped Carl would at least come second.

She reached the Prince of Wales at ten o’clock which would give her a few hours’ zizz before rehearsing Beethoven’s Third with Han Chai at two-thirty.

There was a tray of red poppies for Remembrance Day in reception. Abby couldn’t see her pigeon hole for messages. The first asked her to call Marcus at St Theresa’s urgently. The second wanted her to call The Scorpion. Like hell she would. The third was to call Miles.

The RSO’s greatest coup for years was to be the orchestra chosen to play in the Appleton. Most of the board had flown up to bask in reflected glory. Looking round the splendid suite, for which the orchestra had forked out to enable her to give interviews, Abby decided she better ring Miles first.

‘Where the hell have you been?’ It was his Miles-below-zero voice. ‘We’ve got to talk.’

‘Can’t it wait,’ protested Abby. ‘I’ve just checked in.’

‘No, I’m coming over.’

Abby kicked off her shoes and unpacked the long slinky purple velvet dress, slit up one side, which she had brought to wear that evening, on the off-chance that among the five million viewers, Viking might be watching. She must get the housekeeper to press it. She’d have to snatch time to wash her hair after the rehearsal. She hoped Miles hadn’t organized some elaborate press conference. God, she was tired, but she mustn’t show it, although with three different concertos to rehearse and perform, it was going to be one helluva marathon. She rang down for some black coffee — ‘at once, please.’

Miles, looking almost svelte in a new beautifully cut pin-stripe suit, was accompanied by a bootfaced Lord Leatherhead. When they both grimly refused breakfast, Abby asked when the orchestra was expected.

‘I can’t wait to see them,’ she crowed. ‘I’ve got such terrific news. I’ve fixed up the most incredible American tour with record backing, OK? It’s gonna put us in the black and on the map,’ then, amazed by their still bleak expressions, she continued, ‘they’re planning to stage a Cotswold fortnight down the East Coast. They’re paying accommodation, travel, subsistence, printing and publicity. And all because they want me, right?’ Abby’s voice broke. ‘I’m gonna take my orchestra home.’

‘You’re not taking them anywhere,’ said Miles brutally. ‘You’re fired.’

They all jumped as the telephone rang. Abby snatched it up.

‘I can’t take any calls.’

But it was Marcus frantically stammering, gasping for breath, on the verge of tears.

‘Abby darling, I wanted to tell you to your face but I had to get to you before the Press do.’

Abby could hear the desperate wheezing.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’

‘I’m g-g-gay, Abby, I’m dreadfully sorry. Alexei and I’ve been having an affaire. The Scorpion have got hold of our letters. They’re going to print them. They’ll probably run it tomorrow. I’m so sorry.’

The colour drained out of Abby’s face. Her legs started to shake so violently she had to collapse onto the bed.

‘I don’t believe it. How long’s this been going on?’

‘About four months, but we’ve only seen each other twice, and it’s over now, I promise.’

‘You son-of-a-bitch,’ screamed Abby, banging her fist down on her bedside table scattering ashtrays and message pads. ‘Two-timing me exactly like Christopher did, only wanting me for the dough. You fucker! Why didn’t you break it off, instead of making a goddamn idiot of me? God, I hate you, hate you, hate you.’ Her voice rose to a hysterical scream.

But Marcus couldn’t breathe and couldn’t answer, so Abby slammed down the telephone, and sat shuddering on the bed, clenching and unclenching her hands, her eyes darting madly round the room.

Lord Leatherhead got a miniature brandy out of the fridge and poured it into a glass. He wasn’t enjoying this at all. When the telephone rang again Miles snatched it up. It was The Scorpion. ‘I’m afraid Miss Rosen has no comment to make,’ said Miles, then ordered the switchboard not to put through any more calls.

‘The Scorpion has already been on to us with the whole story,’ he told Abby bleakly. ‘It reflects disastrously on the orchestra. First their musical director posing naked with a lover to promote a pop record-’

‘Beattie Johnson stitched me up,’ whispered Abby. ‘She stole that photograph.’

‘But you gave her the interview. All that nauseating claptrap about being ma-a-a-dly in love,’ Miles lingered lubriciously over the word.

He’s loving this, thought Abby numbly.

‘Then we learn,’ he added silkily, ‘that you’ve both got other people and are only masquerading as lovers to push the record.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ shouted Abby. ‘I loved Marcus. I’m supposed to be marrying the guy. I didn’t know anything about him being gay.’

‘You’ve hardly been a vestal virgin yourself and your orchestra are so nauseatingly avaricious it can’t be long before one of them sells the story of you and Viking to The Scorpion.’

‘I’m not having an affaire with Viking,’ hissed Abby.

Miles gave her a pained look of utter disbelief. ‘What about the night Rodney died? There are dozens of witnesses.’

‘That was a one-night stand, everyone was plastered. Hilary was there. She probably shopped us to The Scorpion. It only happened once, for Chrissake.’

‘I find that very hard to believe. Anyway, it’s going to be all over The Evening Scorpion this afternoon, and all the other papers will carry the story tomorrow, bringing utter disrepute on the orchestra. The one thing the Press hate is being cynically manipulated.’

‘I didn’t manipulate them, right,’ Abby was hysterical. ‘I genuinely believed Marcus and I were getting married. Look, he gave me this ring,’ she held out her right hand.

‘A virtuous woman should have a price above rubies,’ said Miles sarcastically, as he selected a Granny Smith from Abby’s fruit bowl. Hilly’s new diet had done wonders for his spots.

‘I was only pushing “Madly in Love”,’ gibbered Abby, ‘because the orchestra got half the royalties.’

‘I’m afraid we don’t want your — er — ill-gotten gains.’

‘We had an emergency board meeting this morning,’ said Lord Leatherhead gently. ‘There was a unanimous vote demanding your resignation.’

‘I can see Hilly voting me out, but not Bill Thackery — Bill’s a good friend.’

‘Not so you would know it,’ Miles bit viciously into the apple. ‘He’s never forgiven you for not making him leader after Lionel left, nor for giving his solo back to Julian.’

‘Oh for Chrissake.’

‘You can’t expect to conduct the orchestra with such a scandal hanging over you,’ added Lord Leatherhead. ‘We’ll honour your contract and pay you up to the end of February.’

‘George is still chief executive. He won’t let you fire me.’

‘Having seduced a member of the orchestra almost half his age,’ said Miles fastidiously, ‘I hardly think George, or his opinion, would carry much weight. I doubt either if he’d be very interested. He hasn’t even had the manners to leave a telephone number.’

‘But I can’t let the orchestra down.’ Leaping forward, Abby clung to Miles’s new lapels. ‘Please, please!’

‘You’ve let them down enough already.’

‘Who’s going to conduct them at such short notice?’

But Abby already knew the answer.

‘Rannaldini has very kindly agreed to step into the breach,’ said Miles triumphantly.

SIXTY-SIX

At St Theresa’s, Marcus came off the telephone in total shock, wheezing in short bursts like a frantically panting dog. Oh poor darling Abby, he must get to her and stop her killing herself. He couldn’t find his puffer, he’d never make it upstairs to inject himself with steroids. No-one was about to help him. Lurching into the common room he found the score of the Schumann concerto open on the upright piano, with all his instructions pencilled in. But where he’d scribbled ‘Ped’ for Pedal, someone in emerald-green ink had turned the word to ‘Pederast’. Giving a choked sob, frantically battling for the tiniest breath, he stumbled into the hall, out through the front door, slap into a cameraman and a girl reporter.

‘It’s him,’ the reporter proffered her tape-recorder as casually as if it had been a packet of fags. ‘How long have you been having an affaire with Nemerovsky?’

But Marcus, blue in the face, could only give desperate little whimpers, stretching out pleading hands for help.

‘You sure it’s him,’ said the photographer snapping away like a jackal, ‘more like some kind of deaf mute.’

‘Probably a ruse to fox us,’ said the girl. ‘Have you told Abby yet, Marcus?’

‘Looks as though he’s having an epi. You OK, mate?’ the photographer lowered his camera.

Ducking round them, Marcus collapsed with a crash on the stone steps.

‘Christ, someone better give him the kiss of life,’ said the reporter.

‘Don’t touch him,’ shouted the doctor, who’d arrived to treat Carl’s tendonitis, then taking one look at Marcus. ‘He’s having a massive asthma attack.’

Fortunately in his car he had a portable nebulizer, a breath mask, which delivered the drug Marcus so desperately needed in tiny drops of damp air. In an attempt to rally him, the doctor also gave him a steroid injection, but Marcus was too far gone, the blue had a purple tinge now, his airways had closed up like one of Simon’s oboe reeds, and he was too weak and exhausted to draw in air through such minuscule holes.

The doctor had to make a lightning decision. It would take too long to summon an ambulance. Appleton’s little cottage hospital only worked skeleton shifts at weekends; Marcus must be rushed the ten miles to Northladen General.

‘You drive,’ he ordered the cameraman, as they laid Marcus down in the back of his estate car, ‘I’ll look after him and direct you. You telephone Northladen Intensive Care, and tell them he’s going to need a ventilator,’ he added to the reporter.

‘Who is he anyway?’ he asked as the cameraman, used to chasing Princess Di round Gloucestershire, hurtled at a steady 80 m.p.h. between high stone walls.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black’s son — what d’you give his chances?’ the reporter had kept on her tape-recorder.

‘Not a lot, he’s not responding at all, poor little sod. I wonder if he’s been taking beta-blockers, a lot of contestants do to calm the nerves. Fatal with asthma.’

Aware that they had a ‘very important patient’, Intensive Care was already all stations go. Within seconds of his arrival, to the accompaniment of bells and flashing lights, a lifeless, unconscious Marcus had been laid on a bed, and given an injection to paralyse him totally. This was so that he couldn’t resist the transparent tube which had been shoved down his throat, and which was now pumping air and oxygen from a huge black box into his lungs.

‘Christ,’ muttered the anaesthetist, glancing at the box to judge the extent of the resistance in Marcus’s lungs, ‘he’s up to eighty.’

‘Is that bad?’ asked the reporter, who, passing herself off as Marcus’s sister, had infiltrated herself into the room.

‘Let’s say a normal person’s between ten and twenty.’ Then catching a flicker of terror in Marcus’s staring eyes, the anaesthetist put on a heartier voice, ‘It’s all right, lad, we’ve had to paralyse you, only temporarily, to keep the tube down your throat. This is to sedate you, so you don’t fight against it.’ And he plunged another injection into Marcus’s arm. ‘Don’t fret yourself, we’ll soon have you breathing on your own.’

They’re lying to me, thought Marcus in panic, I’ve had a stroke, or I’ve broken my back falling over, I’m going to be trapped inside this coffin of a body for the rest of my life. Oh please let me see Alexei once more, and he drifted back into unconsciousness.

Marcus was sinking. Sister Rose, a pretty nurse from Glamorgan sat by his bedside talking to him all the time in case he woke and panicked. Mozart piano concertos were being played to soothe him. They had tried taking him off the ventilator for short spells, but he had showed great distress and no sign of being able to breathe on his own.

‘We better alert his next of kin,’ said the anaesthetist. ‘He doesn’t seem to have any will to live, he must have had some terrible shock.’

What this was became evident when the piece on Marcus and Nemerovsky appeared in The Evening Scorpion, as vicious as it was damaging. Spectacles misted up, grey buns stood on end, as every judge in the lounge of the Prince of Wales read The Scorpion inside their copies of the Daily Telegraph and the The Times.

Although Miles had issued a brief emollient statement that Abby had resigned and been replaced by Rannaldini, it soon leaked out that she’d been fired and had vanished without trace. Both the hospital and the hotel were besieged by reporters. Helen, in a state of mounting horror, sat beside Marcus’s bed, as drips, tubes, catheters, huge black machines and most of Northladen General appeared to be fighting to save his life.

‘I know it’s difficult,’ kindly Sister Rose gave Helen a cup of tea, ‘but try not to show how worried you are, it’s crucial that Marcus is subjected to as little stress as possible.’

To complicate matters, Rupert had taken off for a twenty-four-hour break with Taggie before the Czech Grand National and, leaving no telephone number, could not be traced.

The RSO arrived in Appleton, already hot and bothered because Miles in the latest economy drive had insisted they travel on coaches without air-conditioning. As they hung up their tails and black dresses in the town hall dressing-rooms, they learnt from a distraught Charlton Handsome that Marcus was on the critical list, Abby had been sacked and Rannaldini had taken over — news that both outraged and terrified them. In one maestro stroke, Rannaldini had virtually gained control of both the CCO and the RSO.

He was already cleverly infiltrating CCO players into the RSO instead of extras. One of their fiddlers had replaced Bill Thackery on the front desk of the First Violins.

Nicholas, when badgered, mumbled something about Bill being off with a frozen shoulder.

‘More likely, been frozen out,’ said Dixie. ‘Now L’Appassionata’s been given the push, Rannaldini doesn’t need Bill’s vote any more, nor does he have to put up with Bill’s terrible sound.’

Quinton had moved up to First Horn, but the entire section was shocked to find the Third Horn seat had been filled by Rowena Godbold, the CCO’s charismatic blond First Horn.

‘Couldn’t you and I just merge with each other and forget about orchestras,’ said Quinton with a leer, as he followed Rowena’s tight-jeaned bottom up onto the platform.

Blue, on the other hand, was totally unmoved, sunk into despair. His mobile had been switched on since the tour, but Cathie hadn’t telephoned.

Little Han Chai couldn’t stop crying over Marcus and was almost too upset to rehearse Beethoven’s Third, her chosen concerto. At first Rannaldini was moderately accommodating, announcing that Northladen General had his mobile number and would ring if there were any change in Marcus’s condition. But he was soon picking on individual players, and talking sinister notes into a pocket computer.

‘That is a strange sound your instrument ees making,’ he sneered at Barry.

‘That’s because it didn’t have any time for lunch,’ Barry cuddled the sunburnt Junoesque curves of his double bass defensively.

‘What does it eet for lunch?’

‘Conductors,’ snarled Barry.

But the laughter was nervous and uneasy. Never had the orchestra been more in need of Viking to raise their spirits.

It was during the break that the RSO clapped horrified eyes on The Evening Scorpion and realized that poor Abby had not just been the victim of a coup d’état, but also, since Marcus had been outed, of a homosexual conspiracy. Like many departed conductors, she had suddenly become very dear to them. They had only needed a rehearsal to remind them how much they loathed Rannaldini.

They were also desperately upset about Marcus, as the bulletins grew increasingly bleak. Nor were they the only ones, even those judges who’d taken bribes and frolicked in the chlorine with Rannaldini were deeply shocked that such an outstanding candidate should have dropped out.

Nor was Benny very happy as the odds shortened on Natalia.

‘I want first prize, Rannaldini.’

‘Why?’ mocked Rannaldini. ‘Are the others so bad?’

‘I only entered because Howie promised you’d see me right.’

Benny couldn’t face the humiliation of being beaten by a girl, particularly one he had failed to pull.

Woken fleetingly by the chorus singing fortissimo on a CD of Mozart’s Requiem, finding he couldn’t move and forgetting he’d been deliberately paralysed, Marcus thought he’d already arrived in hell. Standing at the foot of the bed, wafting Maestro, magnificent in white tie and tails, the Prince of Darkness in person, stood Rannaldini.

‘Of course he won’t die,’ he was reassuring a sobbing Helen, but his solicitous air was belied by the implacable hatred twisting his face.

Seeing the panic in Marcus’s eyes and the reading on the ventilator rising sharply, Sister Rose, who was for once reluctant to go off duty, hastily ushered Rannaldini from the room.

‘I know you’re worried, but it’s best if he has one visitor at a time.’

Emerging from the hospital on his way to the town hall, just when it would make a maximum impact and the morning papers, Rannaldini paused for a second.

‘Of course I am standing by my stepson,’ he announced smoothly. ‘Eef by some miracle Marcus pull through, what matter eef he is gay. So are many, many of my closest friends. I weesh I could stay longer, but I cannot let down the three young people who play their concertos at the town ‘all. Now eef you’ll excuse me.’

And as Clive and a huge black basketball player called Nathan, who’d been roped in as an extra bodyguard, held back the ravening paparazzi, Rannaldini slid into his black limo.

Meanwhile, on the steps of the town hall, Dame Hermione was giving an interview to Sky Television. ‘As a very close friend of Rupert Campbell-Black, my heart goes out to him at this difficult time.’

Like horses on the tightest bearing rein, Rannaldini drove the RSO through the packed-out evening performance. Anatole played his Brahms concerto magnificently, and was heavily tipped to take the competition from Natalia, although Carl in his plaid coat had brought warmth and almost folksy charm to the Mozart E Flat Major.

Far west on the coast of Cornwall in their little cottage under the cliffs, Flora, George and Trevor had taken blissful refuge. They had no telephone, nor television and had read no papers for days. Flora, in the nude, had just sung, ‘Where E’er You Walk’, to George, but had got no further than the second verse, because Trevor had thrown back his head and howled and George had pulled her back into bed.

Running the three of them up supper of rainbow trout, chips and Dom Perignon, Flora suddenly remembered it was the first night of the finals at Appleton, and turned on the ancient wireless to listen to Abby and her friends in the RSO. She was appalled to learn not only that Abby had been ousted but also, in the news bulletin that followed, that Marcus was sinking fast in Northladen General.

The abandoned chip pan then caught fire and might have burnt down the cottage if George, hearing Flora’s wails, hadn’t rushed in and put it out.

‘Rannaldini’s pulled off that merger,’ sobbed Flora, ‘and Marcus is dying of an asthma attack.’

‘We’ll fly oop to Appleton at once.’ George drew her into his great warm bear-hug.

‘But you wanted a rest from the orchestra. This is meant to be our honeymoon.’

‘With you, honeymoons last for ever.’

All the papers on Sunday morning ran huge stories about Marcus fighting for his life, Helen keeping an all-night vigil, Rannaldini standing by, and Rupert, Nemerovsky and Abby being untraceable. The reporter who’d caught Marcus on the steps of St Theresa’s was delighted with her scoop: CARING SUNDAY SCORPION IN MERCY DASH, said the headline.

Back in Rutminster, Cathie Jones couldn’t stop crying. Poor sweet Marcus, who’d always been prepared to accompany her, poor Blue so soon out of a job, poor Abby who’d been so kind. Carmine would probably be fired, too. Rannaldini wouldn’t tolerate such bolshiness. Cathie trembled at the thought of her husband at home all day with no-one to kick but herself.

As Christmas presents, she was planting some indoor bulbs, laying them out in neat piles on the kitchen floor. White bulbs called Carnegie to remind Julian of Carnegie Hall, pink bulbs for Abby, Blue Delft, of course, for Blue.

The damp bulb fibre squelched in her hands like chocolate cake mix, as she put it into the blue chinese bowls she had bought for fifty pence each at the local market. Tiger the cat had just strolled up to inspect these impromptu earth boxes. Any moment he’d bound through the piles of bulbs mixing up the colours.

Gathering up the Blue Delfts, she hid them beneath the damp fibre, like me burying my love for Blue, she thought despairingly.

There were always things to do in the autumn to make winter bearable. When the bulbs came up, probably not in time for Christmas, their sweet smell would be a reminder of bluebells in the summer. Blue bowls, blue bulbs, bluebells, how would she ever get through the winter without him?

Boris couldn’t sleep, desperately worried about his little friend Marcus and kept awake by the lorries still rattling down Appleton High Street. Suddenly he was roused by a terrible crash. It must be burglars trying to steal the finally completed Lear. Switching on the light, Boris found that the glass rack had fallen off the wall into the wash basin, smashing everything, including his half-full bottle of whisky and the Aramis Marcus had given him for his birthday. He couldn’t see Lear anywhere, and rushed in panic out into the passage, where he bumped into Deirdre who had also been woken by the crash.

Having located the manuscript under his pillow, Deirdre, who was wearing a red satin nightgown, invited Boris back to her room for a night-cap.

‘You know I’d never vote for a Brit,’ she told him fiercely, ‘but I’m sorry your friend Marcus can’t make it.’

For a second Marcus thought he had gone to heaven, when he briefly regained consciousness and found sweet Sister Rose smiling down at him. She’d just returned from the day-shift with a pile of CDs. If anyone could make him heterosexual…

‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ she whispered.

The next moment Prokofiev’s introduction to Romeo and Juliet poured into the room. Seeing the tears sliding out of Marcus’s eyes into his hair, Rose realized her mistake.

‘Oh help, I’m sorry, Nemerovsky danced that at Rutminster, didn’t he?’ Turning off the CD player, she took Marcus’s hand. ‘I was in the audience. My boyfriend and I took the coach all the way down to Rutminster to watch him. He’s such a hero. I understand why you love him.’ She gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you just need to accept that there isn’t only one way to be in life.’

SIXTY-SEVEN

At the start of the afternoon’s rehearsal with Benny and Natalia, the orchestra enraged Rannaldini by waving ‘Save the RSO’ banners and all wearing hastily printed ‘Viva L’Appassionata’ T-shirts.

Miles rushed up in a frenzy.

‘Take those bloody things off.’

To which Nellie promptly obliged, showing off splendid duo-tanned breasts.

‘How could you, Nell?’ stormed Militant Moll.

‘I think Rannaldini’s rather sexy,’ pouted Nellie.

‘If you collaborate, Nellie Nicholson,’ hissed Candy, ‘we’ll shave all your hair off.’

By the time they’d changed into less subversive gear, Blue noticed that Cyril, who’d been knocking back Bumpy’s Scrumpy at lunch-time, was missing. Blue was about to send Lincoln to find him, when yet another highly embarrassed French horn player from the CCO slid into the Fourth Horn’s place.

‘Where’s Cyril, Knickers?’ shouted Blue.

Knickers was too distraught to answer. If Rannaldini kept feeding in extras, he’d be out of a job.

‘Cyril’s been sacked,’ said Rannaldini coldly.

‘For the second day running he was drunk when he arrived at the hall,’ said Miles sanctimoniously.

Blue rose to his feet.

‘I’m going too, then.’

‘Sit,’ howled Rannaldini. There were demanding solos for the Second Horn in both the evening’s concertos.

‘Don’t talk to me like Barbara Woodhouse,’ snapped Blue, then all the colour ebbed from his face as his mobile rang.

Only Cathie knew the number. With a trembling hand, he switched it on.

‘Blue.’

‘My darling.’

‘I’m leaving Carmine.’

She had piled the children, the ducks, the hens, Tiger the cat, and all the bulb bowls into the car.

‘Go to The Bordello. Mrs Diggory’s got the key,’ said Blue softly. ‘There’s plenty of whisky and tins in the larder and lots of catfood. The ducks and hens won’t hurt in the kitchen till I get there. I’ll be as quick as possible. I love you. Yippee!’ yelled Blue as he switched off his mobile. ‘Yippee!’

Momentarily roused out of their despondency, the RSO looked at him in amazement.

‘Where are you going?’ screamed Rannaldini.

‘Over the hills and as far away as possible,’ said Blue. ‘I’m not playing your fucking concert.’

‘Then you’re fired.’

‘Good, you can send on my redundancy money.’

‘Is Blue drunk, too?’ whispered Cherub in awe to Davie Buckle.

‘Only with ‘appiness,’ said Davie.

Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic forty-eight-hour break in an ancient castle high up in the Czechoslovakian forests had not been a success. Taggie had had a punishing eighteen months anyway looking after Bianca, and coping with Xav undergoing a final and completely successful operation to straighten his eyes. She had then had to keep him quiet and happy during his convalescence. But she had had a far more difficult task trying to soothe Rupert as he became increasingly outraged and miserable over the defection of both Marcus and Tabitha, although he had been far too proud to approach either of them. Abby’s interview with Beattie in The Scorpion had destroyed him, although again he wouldn’t admit it.

Rupert, on the other hand, was aware that he had been giving his sweet wife a rotten time, and had insisted they went away for a break without Bianca and Xav. He was then appalled how much he missed them.

‘They’re bloody well coming with us next time,’ he told Taggie as the helicopter landed on the racecourse at Pardubika.

‘And Marcus and Tabitha, too,’ Taggie wanted to plead. But she didn’t want to set Rupert off before a big race.

The course itself resembled the park of some great house, with massive beech hedges, yew colonnades, long lakes and banks acting as fences. Goodness — they looked massive.

The off for the Czech Grand National was in an hour and a quarter. Rupert went straight to check on Penscombe Pride, who’d spent the night in his large, luxurious, dark blue lorry. But before he could look at the horse, Dizzy, his head groom, beckoned him up the steps into the living-room area of the lorry.

‘Thank God you’ve come.’

‘What’s the matter? It’s not Pridie?’

‘You better see this. I’m sorry, Rupert, but the Press are everywhere.’

Rupert took one look at yesterday’s Evening Scorpion. On the front page was a startled wide-eyed photograph of Marcus at his most delicately beautiful: RUPERT’S SON IS GAY said the huge headline.

It was as though he’d always known it.

‘So?’ he turned on Dizzy.

‘And Flora Seymour’s just rung from Appleton,’ stammered Dizzy, quailing in the blast of such ice-cold rage. ‘She says Marcus has collapsed with the most dreadful asthma attack. He’s in intensive care at Northladen General. Helen didn’t want you to be “bothered”, but I think he’s really, really ill. He’s been on a ventilator for twenty-four hours. He’s had to pull out of the piano competition,’ Dizzy’s voice cracked. She had known Marcus since he was three. He’d always been such a kind gentle little boy. ‘Flora left a number,’ she added.

‘Well, get her, for fuck’s sake.’

Having taken in the caption ‘Nemerovsky’s Little White Dove’, Rupert skimmed the front-page copy.

‘Gay deceiver, Marcus Campbell-Black, pretended to be straight to woo millionaire-maestro Abby Rosen after his super-stud dad, Rupert, cut him off without a penny. But all the time Marcus was cheating on his lovely fiancée with mega-star ballet dancer, Alexei Nemerovsky. (Continued on pages 4–5)’

Ripping the pages in his fury as he found the place, Rupert discovered other headlines:

‘THE STATELY HOMO. L’APPASSIONATA FLEES. RED IN HIS BED. A PRINCIPAL WITH NO PRINCIPLES’ above huge photographs of himself, Abby and Alexei. There was even a picture of Woodbine Cottage with a caption: ‘Fag Cottage’.

Irrationally, Rupert wondered how Nemerovsky felt about getting fourth billing. His eyes seemed to fill with blood. He felt a thrumming in his head.

‘Here’s Flora for you.’ Nervously, Dizzy pulled him back to earth.

‘I think he’s dying, Rupert.’ Flora’s voice was shriller than ever with anxiety. ‘The hospital are worried stiff, although they’re keeping up a pretence that his condition is stabilized. I know you’ve had a row, but Marcus really, really loves you. He did everything for your sake. All that mattered to him was you not thinking he’d been an utter failure as a son.’

‘I hardly think this latest escapade-’

‘Oh shut up, let me finish. He never betrayed you with Rannaldini. He tried to stop Helen marrying him, and he’s refused ever to speak to Rannaldini since then, he’s too loyal to you. He’s utterly, utterly honourable. Please go to him.’

‘I’m not having anyone dictating-’

Flora lost her temper.

‘People who live in bloody glass historic houses shouldn’t throw stones. If you hadn’t carried on like a rabbit when Marcus was a child — causing scandal after scandal — what did you do in the Circulation War, Daddy? — and given him the tiniest bit of support, he wouldn’t have needed to search out father-figures like Malise or Nemerovsky.’

‘Have you finished?’ hissed Rupert.

‘Yes… but please go to him. It’s the one thing that might save him.’

‘What the fuck else do you think I was going to do?’

‘It’s Room Twenty-Five on the second floor,’ said Flora, and hung up.

The dearest and most precious horse Rupert had ever owned and trained was about to run in the most treacherous and demanding race in the world. Most people thought Pridie was past his best, and should not be subjected to such an ordeal. Nor had worry about this helped Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic break.

Dizzy had told Taggie about Marcus. Rupert was ashen as he came down the steps of the box. Taggie ran to him, holding him in her arms, feeling him rigid with shock.

‘Oh darling, poor Marcus, poor you, we must go to him.’

‘What else can we do?’ said Rupert bleakly, then, turning to Dizzy: ‘Tell the pilot to refuel.’

Pridie whickered with relieved delight at the sight of his master and nearly pulled Sandra the stable girl over as he bounded down the ramp. He had been bred at Penscombe and had never run a single race without Rupert. Having given him a couple of Polos, Rupert quickly felt the little horse’s legs, praying he could find some swelling or heat to give him an excuse to pull him. But they were perfect, and Pridie’s coat gleamed in the soft autumn sunshine, redder and brighter than any of the RSO cellos.

Briefly Rupert hugged his old friend.

‘We’re going to have to cope without each other. Pray for me, Pridie.’

Taggie felt utterly helpless on the flight home, as Rupert glared unseeingly out of the window, tension flickering like lightning around his jaws. Only once did she try to tempt him with a large whisky, but he shook his head violently.

‘It’s probably just a one-off with Nemerovsky,’ she stammered. ‘He’s so powerful and glamorous, anyone would find him difficult to resist… Lots of people have flings.’

‘What the fuck do you know about it?’ snarled Rupert, gazing through the dusk down at the white horses flecking the English Channel.

‘N-nothing.’

‘Well, shut up then.’

‘He could be bisexual. One affaire doesn’t mean he’s gay.’

‘Course he is… always has been.’

Taggie gave up. Oh dear God, she thought, please don’t let him be horrible to Marcus.

Back at Appleton Town Hall, the judges, after a jolly rest day visiting Delius’s old haunts in nearby Yorkshire, and enjoying a long lunch at the famous Box Tree Restaurant in Ilkley, were looking forward to a boring, untaxing evening. Although Benny would pull out the stops and wow the audience tonight, most of them had already chosen either Anatole or Natalia as the winner. But with only two contestants this evening, the edge had gone out of the competition. The bleak bulletins from Northladen General had cast a shadow over the proceedings. They all felt poor Marcus had been very shabbily treated. After all, as Dame Edith had pointed out noisily at lunch,

‘Everyone knows there are only three types of pianist — Jewish, Gay or Bad.’

The Scorpion and all the rest of the Press, they agreed, were making a ridiculous fuss.

‘Lucky, lucky Nemerovsky,’ sighed Pablo Gonzales.

‘Rather nice for Helen to have a gay son,’ said Dame Hermione with her head on one side. ‘They’re always so devoted to their mothers.’

Seven-fifteen… Benny had been to make-up and could be heard by the entire audience warming up in a practice room. The great clock of the town hall had been stopped for two hours to prevent it tolling during performances. Time would stand still, but hopefully the whole contest would be wrapped up by ten o’clock in time for the news.

As Benny left the practice room, Rupert gave his third police car the slip, hurtling a hired Mercedes through the driving rain towards Northladen General. A white-knuckled Taggie nearly bit her lower lip in half trying not to cry out in terror.

Meanwhile in Room Twenty-Five on the second floor, Marcus tried not to exhaust himself as, desperately slowly, he put on black evening trousers and the crumpled blue dress-shirt which he had pulled out of his suitcase which his mother had brought him from St Theresa’s.

He had waited, feigning sleep, until she had left for the town hall. Helen had sat with Marcus through the night and morning until he miraculously regained enough strength in his lungs to come off the ventilator. When the effects of the paralysing drug and sedatives had worn off, and he was able to swallow again, she had even fed him some pale tasteless scrambled eggs. But he was acutely conscious that she couldn’t meet his eyes, and was dreadfully embarrassed to be in the same room with him. No-one had let him see the papers, although Helen had told him Rannaldini had replaced Abby, but her face had said it all.

For now her ewe lamb wasn’t going to die, the other two nightmares had enveloped her life: her husband was a compulsive womanizer and her son was a homosexual, his career in smithereens. There was also a deep-seated guilt that her obsessive, clinging love might have caused both these things. If only Malise was still alive.

Rannaldini had been sympathetic, but always at Rupert’s expense.

‘If Rupert had not been a sadist, you wouldn’t have had to compensate so much. Marcus never had a father to relate to. You always implied Rupert and Billy Lloyd-Foxe were unnaturally close, and even more so, Rupert and Lysander. It’s in the genes, you mustn’t torment yourself.’

This situation suited Rannaldini perfectly. Marcus had been the only serious threat to Natalia in the competition and, with Helen cemented to Marcus’s sick-bed and unhinged with worry, he had had all the more opportunity to spend time with Natalia.

He had virtuously resisted from making love to her after her rehearsal in case it relaxed her muscles too much before the final. But between chatting to Northern Television and escorting Benny onto the platform, Rannaldini found time to slip into Natalia’s dressing-room. How adorable the sweet child looked with her shining hair in rollers.

‘Thees is how I warm up,’ he said sliding his soft, newly manicured hands inside her willow-green silk dressing-gown. Oh, the wonder of those large springy young breasts. Helen’s silicone replicas were like two buns on a cake rack since she had fretted away so much weight.

‘Good luck, my Maestro,’ whispered Natalia, resting her spiky head against his starched white shirt-front. ‘I am safe when you are ’ere.’

‘Tonight,’ promised Rannaldini, ‘we weel drink champagne together from the Appleton Cup.’

The RSO stopped tuning up and gave a great shout of relieved joy as George walked into the hall with Flora. They both looked very tired from worry about Marcus, but their glow of happiness in each other and in his recovery seemed to light them from inside and set them apart from the black-tied, taffeta and satin audience around them. Neither of them had bothered to pack much when they’d leapt into the helicopter. George was now wearing a blazer, a blue-and-white-striped shirt, and no tie, because Flora had borrowed the only one he had brought to belt in his dark blue shirt which she had also annexed.

‘Aren’t they glamorous,’ sighed Clare.

‘I’m sure Flora’s pregnant,’ hissed Candy. ‘Look how her boobs have grown.’

The big smile of pride was wiped off George’s face when he saw Miles, Hilary’s mother, Gilbert, Gwynneth, Mrs Parker and Lord Leatherhead all huddled together looking wrong-footed in the stalls.

‘You’ve been bluddy busy in my ubsence,’ said George not lowering his voice at all. ‘I’d like to remind you that I’m only taking a sabbatical and I’m still chief executive of the RSO, and you and your fancy piece, Miles,’ Hilary’s mother turned purple, ‘better hop it, as you’re sitting in our seats.’

To the left of the stage, the flags of the five participating finalists soared to the dark blue vaulted ceiling. If only the Union Jack had been up there as well, thought Helen despairingly as she huddled in dark glasses in the middle of the stalls. Behind the orchestra rose a huge, far from portable, red-and-white organ, flanked by two proud unicorns holding up the red rose of Lancashire. Above them two angels held out a scroll saying: ‘The Truth is Great and Shall Prevail.’

There were gasps of admiration as Rannaldini in his black-and-white splendour, swept on and mounted a rostrum a foot higher than usual so everyone could see him. The great prevailer, he smiled down at Benny’s shock of dark curls. He knew exactly how to wrong-foot the foolish Frenchman to Natalia’s advantage.

His two bodyguards, Clive and Nathan, the black basketball player, stood watchful at the back of the hall. Rannaldini was taking no chances.

As the clock started on the monitor, the vast audience went quiet. Five, four, three, two, one. The camera panned in on the little silver piano, which would be awarded to the winner. The last round of the Appleton Piano Competition, live from the town hall, was under way.

SIXTY-EIGHT

The Press swarming round the hospital were thrown into a frenzy by Rupert’s totally unexpected arrival, particularly when he screeched to a halt in a muddy puddle, drenching the lot of them.

‘What’s the latest, Rupe? Is the kid going to be OK? Terrible shock for you,’ they closed round him. ‘How’d you feel about him being a woofter?’

Wrath gave Rupert superhuman strength as he barged a gangway through for himself and Taggie. He had more trouble fighting his way through the barricade of outraged medics. Helen had left tearful instructions that if, in the unlikely event Rupert rolled up, he mustn’t be allowed to see his son.

‘It’s the one thing that really triggers off Marcus’s asthma. Rupert’s got a terrible temper. I’ll only be gone a couple of hours.’

‘He’s not allowed visitors, he must be kept quiet. I’m afraid no-one can see him.’ The pleas, and then orders, fell on deaf ears as Rupert stalked through the lot of them.

He loathed hospitals, the smell and glaring whiteness instantly brought back poor little Xav’s countless operations and Taggie nearly dying twice when she miscarried. It also took him back twenty-two years to Helen also nearly dying, giving birth to Marcus — a sickly, carroty-haired baby, who, from the start, had never endeared himself to Rupert.

Finding the lift blocked by a massive matron, Rupert dodged round her and ran up the stairs with Taggie panting after him.

Three doctors, pretty Sister Rose and two male nurses barred the door to Room Twenty-Five.

‘I really must insist you don’t go in there.’

‘Fuck off.’ Once more Rupert parted them — a bowling ball through skittles — then he turned on a panting Taggie.

‘Stay outside, I want to see him on my own.’

‘I’d like to be with you,’ pleaded Taggie.

‘This is my problem,’ snarled Rupert.

‘That is the handsomest Angel of Death I’ve ever seen,’ sighed Sister Rose.

Expecting to find Marcus unconscious and a mass of tubes, Rupert was astounded to see him sitting on the bed buttoning up a blue dress-shirt. His red hair hung lank and darkened by sweat to the colour of a copper beach. His deathly pallor was tinged green by the fluorescent lighting, his huge frightened eyes were black caves as though he could see deep into his own tortured soul.

‘D-d-dad, I thought you were at the Pardubika,’ Marcus leapt to his feet, cringing against hideous yellow-and-orange curtains, waiting for the firing-squad invective.

For a second Rupert gazed at him, reminded of the only time he’d gone stag hunting. Appalled by the terrified eyes of a little doe trapped against a huge wall, he had been too late to call hounds off before they ripped her to pieces.

‘I’m really, really sorry,’ gasped Marcus.

Rupert shrugged. ‘It’s the way you’re made. Campbell-Black libido has to come out somewhere, I guess. Sorry I haven’t been any help. Been meaning to ring you for months — ever since you sent Tag that Mothering Sunday card.’

‘That was just after I’d met… I wanted to see you. Oh Dad,’ for a minute, Marcus’s lip trembled, then he stumbled forward and, for a brief moment, he and Rupert embraced.

Passionately relieved the boy was all right, Rupert patted his desperately bony shoulder.

‘You poor little sod.’ Then as Marcus half-laughed, added ‘Oh God, that wasn’t very tactful. Get back into bed.’

Marcus shook his head. ‘I’m going to play.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous.’

But Marcus stood his ground. ‘You won a gold with a trapped nerve. If I don’t crack it now, I never will. It’s the only way to throw off the stigma of being Abby’s walker, Alexei’s catamite and Rannaldini’s stepson.’

‘And my son, too,’ said Rupert wryly. ‘Look, there’ll be other competitions. It’s crazy to risk it, when you’ve just pulled through.’

‘That’s why I pulled through. Would you terribly mind ringing the town hall? I don’t think they will let me use the telephone here. Just tell them I want to go on, and I’ll be there in half an hour.’

Finding it difficult to breathe and talk, he slumped onto the bed.

‘Benny’ll just be starting the second movement,’ he smiled slightly and cupped his hand round his ear, ‘I can hear him now. My tail-coat needs a press and a brush, but someone can do that at the other end. And could you get me a taxi, because I don’t think the hospital would do that for me either.’

‘I’ll take you if you’re really set on it.’

Marcus nodded, unable to speak, overwhelmed by Rupert’s totally unexpected acceptance. Then he muttered: ‘You’ve missed the Pardubika, I’m terribly sorry.’

‘Blood is thicker than water jumps,’ said Rupert, getting out his mobile.

All hell broke out as the doctors frantically tried to dissuade Marcus.

‘It’s insanity,’ they berated Rupert. ‘The pressure could kill him. He’s desperately weak and he needs to go on the nebulizer again in two hours’ time.’

‘Sometimes the mind reaches out and the body follows.’

‘You’ve pushed him into it.’

‘He has not,’ protested Marcus, unearthing the score of the Schumann from the bedside cupboard, and swaying at the sudden rush of blood to his head as he stood up. ‘Someone’s got to fight Abby’s corner. She should never’ve been fired.’

‘You realize we’re not responsible if he insists on discharging himself,’ boomed Matron, blocking the entire doorway.

‘The discharge of the heavy brigade,’ said Rupert, bodily removing her from Marcus’s path.

Taggie was hovering in the waiting-room on the way to the lifts with an undrunk cup of tea in her hands. Her eyes were very red. Marcus went straight into her arms.

‘It’s so lovely to see you,’ they cried.

Rupert put his arms round both of them, but just for a second. ‘Come on, we mustn’t be late.’

The only concession the hospital made was to smuggle them out of a side-door.

Panic gripped Marcus the moment he was installed in the back of the car. As they hurtled through the night, rain lashing and clawing at the windscreen, he took great gulps from his puffer and under a pallid overhead light, desperately riffled through the score which seemed terrifyingly unfamiliar. What were all the pitfalls? He hadn’t touched a piano for two days. With Abby, the orchestra would have seemed familiar, but Rannaldini would take everything much slower or much faster, whipping the orchestra up to an unnatural frenzy. Rannaldini also despised Schumann as an over-romantic wimp.

Thank God neither Rupert nor Taggie talked, although Marcus noticed his father’s hand sliding over Taggie’s whenever he entered a straight piece of road. As they reached the outskirts of Appleton, the reflections of the orange street-lights shivered like carp on the shiny black cobbled streets. Breathing in the conflicting wafts of hamburgers, curry and fish and chips, Marcus retched. Rupert’s mobile rang. It was Northern Television.

‘Howyer doing? Can you make it by eight-thirty, then Marcus can warm up during the interval. Everyone’s knocked out he’s coming on.’

Most of the space round the hall had been taken up by the seven OB vans and the cherry-red RSO lorry, but Rupert got them as near the artists’ entrance as possible. The only other stumbling-block was a river of damp press who immediately turned into a frenzied whirlpool.

‘Christ, it’s Rupert,’ shouted the Daily Express. ‘Looks as though he’s made it up with the lad.’

‘Dangerous bugger,’ warned the Mail, ‘watch out.’

‘Spect Rupert forced him to go on,’ said the Mirror. ‘What d’you feel about your son’s affaire with Nemerovsky, Rupert?’

Rupert looked the reporter up and down, about to tell him to get stuffed, then he changed his mind.

‘Shows Nemerovsky’s got extremely good taste.’

‘You don’t mind having a gay son?’ asked the Sun in amazement.

Briefly, Rupert put an arm round Marcus’s shoulders, the rain falling through the rays of the street-lamps, casting a speckled light on his haughty expressionless face.

‘I’ve got a son with enough guts to discharge himself from hospital and face the toughest ordeal of his life,’ he drawled. ‘I’m very proud of him. His sexual preferences, as long as they bring him happiness, are quite immaterial.’

‘What about his engagement to Abby?’

‘Much better they both found out before they got married.’

‘Do you know where Abby is?’

‘No.’

‘Nemerovsky’s got a terrible track-record, aren’t you worried about AIDS?’ asked an evil-looking blonde.

Rupert’s face suddenly betrayed such hatred everyone shrank back.

‘If he’d slept with you, Beattie,’ he said icily, ‘I’d worry about something much worse than AIDS.’

The surrounding journalists laughed nervously.

‘Are you disappointed about the Czech Grand National?’ asked The Times.

Rupert stopped in his tracks — incredible that he’d forgotten all about it in his race from the hospital.

‘It’s a Snip won, not Penscombe Pride,’ said the Telegraph, ‘Lysander broke a shoulder, Pridie fell at the last fence.’

For a second, Rupert’s face clenched in horror, then he said lightly, ‘But Marcus won’t,’ and they were through the swing-doors.

‘I said he was a dangerous bugger,’ grumbled the Mail, trying to make his biro work on a rain-sodden page.

‘It’s his son who’s the bugger,’ hissed BeattieJohnson.

‘Awfully good of you to show up, Martin,’ said an earnest woman in a billowing grey jersey. Brandishing a clipboard as she scuttled up to them on spindly red-stockinged legs, she looked like a turkey.

‘I’m Chrissie,’ she shook Marcus’s hand. ‘Our presenter, James Vereker’s going to announce you’re participating, just before Natalia Philipova goes on. Means the competition’s wide open. Do you need anything ironed? I expect you’d like to see your dressing-room before you warm up, Martin, and then go to make-up, but if James Vereker could have a brief chat first-’

‘James can have it afterwards. Martin needs to distance himself,’ said Rupert firmly, as he relieved her of the dressing-room key. ‘Come on, Martin.’

Marcus’s laughter almost turned to tears as he saw the ‘Save the RSO’ sticker on his door and the hundreds of cards and great banks of flowers waiting for him inside.

‘We were going to send them over to the hospital when we had a mo,’ said Chrissie apologetically.

Marcus suppressed a flare of hope that one might be from Alexei. But there was no time to look.

‘Could you bear to open them?’ he asked Taggie.

As he was pouring with sweat, he tugged off his jersey, then turning to Rupert, said, ‘I don’t mean to be horrible, but could you possibly keep Mum away while I warm up?’

Tripping over cables, climbing round petulant rank-and-file fiddle players, James Vereker, the presenter, reached the rostrum. Having smoothed his streaked blond hair and straightened his peacock-blue tie which exactly matched his eyes, he said he was so very, very pleased to announce that the British contestant, Marcus Campbell-Black, would be taking up his place in the final, after all. Over a burst of applause, he shouted that Marcus would be appearing after a further ten-minute interval, which would take place after Natalia Philipova’s concerto. The jury would then try to reach a decision during the Ten o’clock News, and the scheduled programme on the male menopause of Daniel Deronda would be postponed to a later date.

Like petrol-ignited flames, excitement crackled around the hall. Cherub dropped a cymbal in his excitement, the orchestra gave a great cheer, only half-induced by the fact that this would push them into overtime. Journalists were fighting to use the telephones with members of the audience, frantic to reorganize restaurant bookings and pick-up times, and to check on last buses and trains. The atmosphere had become electric. People were hardly back in their seats when a thunder of applause greeted the arrival of Rannaldini and Natalia on the platform.

With a black-tie audience, an orchestra in their tails and black dresses tend to look less distinctive and blend into one black whole. Nothing therefore could have stood out better than Natalia’s poinsettia-red taffeta dress, which emphasized her small waist, her lovely white arms and shoulders, and her shining dark curls. Showing off her glorious cleavage, she proceeded to bow several times to the judges in the gallery and the jam-packed audience, who were now well oiled by drinks in the interval. Benny had impressed but not entirely captivated.

‘Bet Rannaldini paid an arm and a legover for that dress,’ muttered Dixie.

Marcus and Helen had not been the only people to clock Rannaldini’s preference.

It was plain from the start that the NTV cameras were more besotted with Natalia even than Rannaldini. As she delivered Rachmaninov’s Third with an explosion of romantic passion, the cameras hardly left her beautiful face, whether she was smiling seraphically or whether her big scarlet mouth was drooping and her eyes closing in anguish during the sad bits.

Swinging round fondly, Rannaldini followed her every note, making sure phrases flowed into each other, slowing down if she looked like falling over herself, quietening the orchestra if there was any danger of her being drowned.

‘The brass section have at last learnt the meaning of the word pianissimo,’ whispered Flora in George’s ear. ‘Don’t you absolutely loathe, loathe, loathe Rannaldini.’

George took her hand. His jealousy instantly doused. He had been thinking how satanically handsome the bastard looked, as his hands languorously cupped and stroked the air, and wondering how Flora could possibly not still carry a torch for him. Gazing at her furious freckled profile only slightly softened by red tendrils still damp from the shower, George marvelled yet again that his love seemed to double by the second.

‘And he’s making it so bloody easy for that little tart,’ hissed Flora. ‘We can’t let him take over the RSO.’

‘Be Kwy-et,’ whispered Peggy Parker furiously.

Resplendent in puce velvet to match her face, she was sitting beyond George. She turned even pucer when she saw Trevor’s little furry face emerging from Flora’s dark blue shirt to lick his mistress on the chin.

Mrs Parker, was however, feeling considerable disquiet. Particularly as Natalia reached the end of the second movement, and the cameras panned lovingly on to the snow-white handkerchief with which she wiped both the damp keys and her sweating fingers.

‘More like the Rannaldini and Natalia Show,’ chuntered Lord Leatherhead, who was furious with Miles for cancelling the RSO bottled-water account. ‘When are we going to see some shots of the orchestra?’

‘I agree,’ hissed Mrs Parker, ‘Clare and Candy, Nellie and Juno, Noriko and Hilly are just as pretty as that Czech.’

‘And Cherub’s much prettier than Rannaldini,’ volunteered Flora.

‘Think that chap may be too overbearing for the RSO,’ muttered Lord Leatherhead.

In the row behind them, Gwynneth, who was reviewing the competition for the Guardian, and Gilbert, for the Independent, were busily scribbling. The last time they had heard Rach Three was in Rutminster, when only Marcus’s tenacity and presence of mind had saved Abby and the RSO from total calamity. How different it was tonight!

‘Not since Toscanini,’ wrote Gwynneth, who had a mega-crush on Rannaldini.

‘Not since Eileen Joyce,’ wrote Gilbert, who had his opera-glasses trained on Natalia’s bosom.

They both felt a huge satisfaction that they had been so instrumental in effecting the merger. There would be no more bum surprises on Moulin Rouge.

Canon Airlie, who should have sat next to Gilbert, had flu, so Miles had bagged his seat. Wearing a new DJ specially run up by Rannaldini’s tailors, Miles craned round the piano to gaze at Hilly. She looked so lovely in her new diamond brooch, another present from Rannaldini. He was glad Marcus was playing the Schumann, which had a wonderful clarinet solo.

The last movement of the Rachmaninov was a triumph. It seemed impossible that Natalia’s little hands could possibly cover all the notes. Playing with hardly a pause, probing the depths of hell in the bass, shaking out shoals of silver coins in the treble, she galloped to a triumphant finale which was followed by an even more triumphant burst of applause.

Rannaldini, looking like a cat who’d swallowed the Canary Isles, made sure she got even more call-backs than Anatole. He was not pleased, hurrying her back for a fourth time, when the applause had almost petered out, to go slap into Julian bringing the orchestra off the stage.

The bars were crowded out, but the consensus was that not even the stormy splendour of yesterday’s Russian nor the American who’d played Mozart so heart-warmingly could possibly beat Natalia.

Charlton Handsome and NTV technicians were now reassembling the stage and readjusting microphones for the smaller orchestra needed for the Schumann. Carmine Jones, who wanted to know if he’d won the lottery, was livid not to get Cathie on his mobile.

Marcus had been buoyed up by the sudden miraculous rapprochement with Rupert. But alone with the upright piano in the practice room, he was overwhelmed with the impossibility of his task. His fingers were rigid and inflexible, yet slipping all over the keys. Even though Rupert had made him put his jersey back on again, he couldn’t stop shaking, his body encased in icy sweat. Even worse he was having increasing trouble breathing. He looked at the plaster on the back of his hand where the drip had gone in. How terrible if he had held up the competition for forty minutes only to have a memory lapse, or even worse another asthma attack and let everyone down. The piece seemed hideously unfamiliar and on stage he would have no score to help him. He must relax, make his mind blank, take slow, deep breaths. Sometimes the mind can take the body into impossible terrain. Wasn’t that what Rupert had promised?

The storm of hurrahs and bravos for Natalia’s obviously sensational performance had long since died away. He’d be on soon.

‘Our Father,’ began Marcus, ‘Which art in heaven. What came next? Unable to remember, he started to panic.’Which art in heaven, forgive us our trespasses… Oh Alexei, Alexei.’

For a second, he banged his head against the top of the piano, wiped out with longing. He must concentrate. Frantically he leafed through the score to the last movement. Singing ‘To the Life Boats, to the Life Boats’, in a breathless tenor, he tried to match the frantically syncopated piano part. As he groped for a handkerchief to wipe his hands, Mrs Bateson’s little jet cat fell out. He mustn’t let her down either.

The next moment, he jumped violently as Helen barged in.

‘Marcus darling, you mustn’t go on. Dr Brewster says it would kill you — it’s insanity.’

‘Mum, per-lease! I need to be on my own.’

‘You mustn’t go on.’

‘For God’s sake, fuck off.’ Marcus raised clenched fists to heaven.

‘Even you reject me.’ Helen burst into tears.

Rupert, who’d been guarding the door, had been caught temporarily on the hop, as he tried to get through to Czechoslovakia on his mobile to find out if Pridie was all right. But he immediately took Helen away for a large brandy.

For a second they gazed at each other. Helen’s eyes were dark with resentment.

‘I couldn’t help loving him so much. He was all I had when I was married to you.’

‘I know, I’m sorry,’ said Rupert.

The passage outside his dressing-room was like a herbaceous border. Taggie had lined up all his flowers in vases, so they didn’t trigger off another asthma attack. Inside, Marcus couldn’t see the shelves for cards, one had been signed by every member of the RSO. Taggie had kept back a white carnation for his buttonhole. Now she was pressing his tails.

‘How’re Xav and Bianca?’ Marcus tried to force his trembling lips into a confident smile.

‘OK. I’ve just rung home. Xav’s always asking about his big brother. Oh Marcus, I’m so happy you and Rupert have made it up. He’s so pleased and proud of you for going on.’

Marcus’s hands were shaking so much that when Rupert returned, he had to tie his tie for him.

‘You can use your puffer between movements,’ urged Taggie.

‘That’s the bit when we wait ’til Flora claps,’ said Rupert.

‘Is Flora here?’ asked Marcus in amazed delight.

As he was giving his hands a last wash to remove the sweat, Howie Denston barged in, followed by a chattering retinue of his own sex.

‘Markie baby, why didn’t you tell me you were gay? You’ve no idea the doors I can open for you, now.’

‘Get out,’ said Rupert, slamming the door in all their faces.

A second later Chrissie was knocking discreetly, ‘Are you ready, Martin? You’re on now. And Gay News has asked especially if they can have a brief interview afterwards.’

‘You’re not talking to them,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Charity does not begin at homos.’

As they left the dressing-room, Marcus was nearly sent flying by a gorgon in a caftan.

‘Got to phone my copy through,’ cried Gwynneth bossily. ‘Never heard Rach Three played so well. How little Philipova’s hands stretched that far — must be a clear winner. I’m going to stick my neck out.’

Marcus nearly burst out laughing at the horror on his father’s face.

‘Beware a pale rider on a dark horse,’ hissed Rupert, making a V-sign at Gwynneth’s vast back.

‘Oh, there’s Maestro Rannaldini,’ said Chrissie reverently.

Rupert straightened Marcus’s tie again.

‘Taggie and I better go and find our seats, good luck. Try not to rush things. Remind me to buy you some new evening-shirts.’

Turning, he nearly bumped into Rannaldini. Rupert was six inches taller but, as he glanced down into the cold uncompromising face of his enemy, he dropped his guard.

‘Look after him, please.’

‘Of course,’ Rannaldini smiled like an expectant wolf.

‘Come along, Marcus,’ then, lowering his voice, added nastily, ‘But don’t play too slowly or we’ll overrun the news.’

Brave boys, thought Marcus irrationally, are not afraid of wolves.

Shaking off Rannaldini’s obtrusively guiding hand, he walked out onto the stage. For a second, he halted in panic at the beginning of the First Violins, blinded by the dazzling white camera lights, staggered by the vastness of the audience, an ocean of wary and unsmiling faces. There was a sudden and embarrassed silence. Perhaps they would all boo him for what he had done to Abby. Then he felt a small, warm hand creeping into his.

‘Good ruck, Marcus, good ruck,’ whispered Noriko, and a shove from Rannaldini thrust him forward.

Seeing how desperately pale, shadowed and apprehensive he looked, Flora leapt without thinking to her feet.

‘Bravo, bravo, Marcus, great to see you,’ she yelled, clapping frantically, and a second later the audience had joined in.

Coming down the row, to take up Marcus’s two complimentary tickets, were Rupert and Taggie. Sitting down next to Flora, Rupert kissed her on both cheeks.

‘You are a star in every possible way. Sorry I chewed you out earlier.’

Glancing beyond her, he encountered a murderous glare from the square-shouldered, square-jawed minder beyond her.

‘Rupert, this is my future husband, George Hungerford,’ said Flora hastily.

Marcus was amazed to see how many of the orchestra were smiling at him. There was Quinton in Viking’s place clutching his golden horn, and Candy and Clare clapping wildly, and Dimitri discreetly waving two crossed fingers, and Randy and Davie Buckle cocking their heads and winking, and Barry and all the basses making thumbs-up signs. Hilary, Simon and Peter were too preoccupied with long difficult solos ahead to do more than nod, but Juno gave him a radiant smile. She was feeling very chipper, because James Vereker, the presenter, had just asked her out to dinner.

‘Good on you, Marcus. Go for it.’ Julian stood up and pumped Marcus’s hand as he passed. Then, lowering his voice, added, ‘You’ve got to win, we’ve all got so much money on you.’

Rannaldini mounted the rostrum glaring round, instantly wiping the smiles off everyone’s faces. George would have difficulty over-turning the decision of an entire board. They knew Rannaldini could put them all out of work next week. Once again they wished Viking was here, if only in the audience.

Having lowered the piano-stool, checked if he could reach the pedals comfortably, given his fingers a last wipe on his black trousers, Marcus put his head back with his eyes shut for a moment to compose himself. Then he placed his hands on the keys and was about to nod to Rannaldini, when the down beat descended like an executioner’s axe, and the entire orchestra came in on the first crashing quaver. Caught on the hop, Marcus’s first three bars followed like a mad scramble down the steps to a lake, immediately followed by the woodwind taking off like a great swan across the water’s surface. This gave him eight bars’ respite to catch his breath before echoing the lovely piano expressivo melody, then rippling on in accompaniment to the strings.

But Rannaldini was taking it horrendously fast and Marcus had his work cut out trying to keep up.

It was soon clear that this was a contest not a partnership. With every tutti, Rannaldini whipped up the tempo; with every exquisitely languorous cascade of notes, Marcus tried to slow it down.

He was touched that whenever Simon, Peter and even Hilary had ravishing solos, which he had to accompany, they tried to check their speed, adjusting to his slower tempo. But inevitably this made his performance uneven. Until following a magical andante interchange between woodwind and piano, Rannaldini suddenly accelerated as if he were turning up a mixer to full speed, and Marcus ran away with himself, and came off the rails, and stopped completely.

In the gallery, Dame Edith, Pablo and Boris groaned in despair. But having thoroughly frightened himself, Marcus steadied. Realizing Rannaldini was deliberately bent on sabotage, his terror hardened into cold rage.

At least he looked absolutely beautiful on the monitor, as though Narcissus had wandered into the hall and was gazing at his reflection in the shiny black piano lid. And, as his confidence grew, so did the depth and lyricism of his playing. There was none of Benny’s unrelenting stridency, nor Natalia’s sloppy, splashy lushness. Up in the gallery Pablo even stopped grumbling that Lady Appleton had confiscated his Guinness Book of Records. All round the hall, people began thinking that perhaps the Schumann was the greatest piano concerto of them all.

Even Rannaldini couldn’t rot up the cadenza, although he did his best to distract the audience, adjusting his gardenia, examining his nails and flipping the pages of the score back and forth, and he hardly waited for the final trill to bring the orchestra in at an even faster tempo. But this time Marcus was ready and, like a television camera on top of a car, he somehow managed to keep up with the galloping cheetah right to the end of the movement.

‘Bloody marvellous,’ muttered Clare, as she and Candy tuned their instruments and adjusted the dusters on their shoulders.

‘Even more marvellous,’ muttered back Candy, ‘is the man on Flora’s right. Christ, he’s good looking — how the hell does Flora do it?’

‘That’s Marcus’s father,’ said Clare, ‘I think he once went to bed with Mummy.’

Rupert was tone deaf, but he’d never taken his eyes off Marcus throughout the entire movement.

‘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.

SIXTY-NINE

Up in the jurors’ room it was pandemonium.

‘He had a memory lapse in the first movement,’ intoned the Chinese judge who still had hopes of Han Chai.

‘The boy’s a genius. I never heard it so well played, he has a delicateness and a strongness the others have not,’ said the big Ukrainian.

‘The last two movements were impeccable, and so lyrical,’ said the French feminist, ‘Rannaldini sabotage Marcus the whole time.’

‘His manners to Rannaldini were most disrespectful,’ snapped Lili, seeing her Steinway, and her promised concert with the new super orchestra sliding away. ‘He wouldn’t even shake the Maestro’s hand.’

‘I prefer Natalia,’ agreed Ernesto, who had changed sides after Rannaldini offered him a Cartier watch and trials for all his pupils. ‘She and Rannaldini interacted so charmingly together.’

‘That’s because she has beeg teets,’ said Pablo, who was still sulkily searching for his Guinness Book of Records.

‘Can’t we have a serious drink, Blodwyn?’ grumbled Bruce Kennedy.

‘Not till you’ve finished judging,’ said Lady Appleton, pouring him a glass of Evian. ‘What d’you feel, Hermione?’

‘I would prefer Natalia,’ urged Hermione in her deep voice. ‘And it would be more politically correct to give it to a woman.’

This support had been drummed up by Rannaldini. While Natalia had been resting that afternoon, he had found half an hour to administer so much unpolitical correction to Hermione that she could hardly sit down.

Marcus’s supporters gazed at her stonily.

‘I thought it was jolly funny,’ snorted Dame Edith, blowing cigar smoke in Hermione’s pained face. ‘Rannaldini tried to scupper Marcus, and the boy rose magnificently to the occasion, just like his father always did. Boy’s a genius, and brave as a lion, nothing more to be said.’

Lady Appleton, however, had a lot more: the reputation of the competition was at stake.

‘Can one rely on Marcus to perform all those concerts?’ she asked cautiously.

‘Oh well, if you’re going for the safe candidate,’ boomed Edith, ‘we might as well settle on the American and go and get blotto.’

Jennifer, sitting in the next armchair, her mouth full of crisps, wagged in agreement.

The jury, however, bridled. They’d all read a piece in the Daily Telegraph by Norman Lebrecht last Monday which accused today’s juries of rejecting genius, passion and true individuality in favour of reliability and predictability.

‘Marcus ’as a voice all his own, a radiance beyond the notes,’ sighed Pablo. ‘What emotion, what power, what eenocence, what wiseness, what love.’

‘He had a memory lapse,’ repeated the Chinese judge, who was busy rewriting the chapter on the Schumann concerto on his laptop.

‘I still think Natalia has the — ouch!’ screamed Dame Hermione, as Ernesto surreptitiously pinched her on her pained bottom. ‘Just a twinge of neuralgia,’ she added hastily.

‘I shall resign if Marcus doesn’t ween,’ said Boris, taking his hand out of Deirdre’s, and speaking for the first time.

‘I, too,’ said Pablo.

‘And I shall resign if he does,’ said Rannaldini, sweeping in in such icy rage that everyone wilted. The ladies, who’d dog-paddled with him in the deep end, felt their resolve weakening.

‘We cannot let soloist deectate,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘We must eradicate thees kind of hooliganism. I geeve heem every courtesy, every encouragement, see what he does in the middle movement, see ’Ow he reject my proffered hand? Never ’ave I been treated like that. It is all part of grudge match,’ he went on. ‘Marcus’s father ’ate me for marrying his ex-wife. The boy worsheep his mother — like many homosexuals he is wildly jealous of anyone she love. He is seek, he is unbalanced.’

‘Marcus is unbalanced?’ said Boris in amazement.

No-one dared laugh. Rannaldini’s rage was so controlled, yet so venomous.

How could I have let that man take over my orchestra? thought Dame Edith in horror.

‘Marcus is seek in body, too,’ went on Rannaldini. ‘Constantly ’e pull out of concert at the last moment because of asthma.’

‘We certainly must have a healthy candidate,’ said a worried Lady Appleton, ‘with all those wonderful engagements lined up.’

‘Under that kind of pressure, he will crack,’ said Rannaldini dismissively. ‘You see him go to pieces in the first movement. How boring he play Waldstein in early round. You make terrible mistake.’

Pablo Gonzalez could see the jury sliding away from him.

‘Marcus was zee most chivalrous accompanist,’ he pleaded. ‘Whenever the orchestra ’ave big solo, he just drop gently out of the limelight, that seem balanced to me. He get up from his deathbed, and all that scandal with Nemerovsky.’

‘I agree with Pablo. I never see finer example of grace under pressure,’ said the burly Ukrainian stubbornly.

‘Yes, I thought you found him attractive,’ said Rannaldini bitchily. ‘I saw you having a clandestine dreenk with him the other night.’

‘Gentlemen, gentlemen,’ Lady Appleton glanced at the clock. ‘The news will be over in a minute or two, we must vote.’

There was a knock on the door of Marcus’s dressing-room. Outside stood a grey-faced piano tuner.

‘We’re busy,’ snapped Rupert.

‘I must have a private word with Mr Black,’ then, as Marcus went outside with him, the tuner stammered: ‘I know it’s too late to change anything, but I’ve got to tell you what I did to the piano on Wednesday.’

He then explained how he had slid a ball-bearing on top of the two concealed blocks of wood at the bass end of the keyboard, which divide when the soft pedal is pressed.

‘The ball-bearing just slipped down between the blocks, holding them apart,’ mumbled the tuner, ‘jamming the soft pedal for the rest of the Waldstein. When they called me back because you’d kicked up a fuss, all I had to do was roll out the ball-bearing with a long screwdriver when no-one was looking.’

‘How very ingenious,’ said Marcus, fascinated. ‘I couldn’t think what had happened. Could you do it to Benny next time?’

The piano tuner was shattered.

‘I can’t believe you’re taking it like this,’ he muttered. ‘I’m sorry I can’t tell you who bribed me, but I’m going to pay back every penny of the money.’

‘I wouldn’t,’ advised Marcus. ‘Rannaldini can afford it. Thanks for telling me.’

Marcus couldn’t be bothered to say anything when he went back to his dressing-room. The whole confession had been a welcome interruption. He had been interviewed by the frightful James Vereker and now found the strain of waiting in a crowded dressing-room intolerable. People, including half of the orchestra, seemed to have poured in to congratulate him and drink Rupert’s drink.

A still furious Howie, and a still tearful Helen, who’d been bawled out by a foaming Rannaldini and banished from the conductor’s room, were the only dissenting voices.

Seeing Marcus whitening near to death, the shadows deepening under his eyes, Rupert kicked everyone out.

‘You OK?’

Marcus nodded. ‘It’s crazy. On the drive here, all that mattered was that I got through it,’ he blushed. ‘Now I seriously want to win.’

‘That’s my boy, you’re learning.’

‘Course you’ll win, you’re a star now,’ said Taggie.

Suddenly Marcus remembered Alexei warning him that stars could never belong to each other, that the true artist could only belong to the world, and the pain came roaring back. What did winning matter without Alexei? There was a knock on the door.

Chrissie had put on some crimson lipstick to match her turkey legs.

‘Ready, Martin? They are going to tell you the results beforehand in the green room.’

Rupert got to his feet, and straightened Marcus’s tie again. Taggie brushed down his tail-coat.

‘Good luck,’ said Helen in a tight, trembling voice. ‘I’ll see you later.’

‘By the way,’ murmured Rupert, then waiting till Helen had left, he drew a cellophane box containing a white flower out from behind the curtain. The envelope attached to it had been opened.

‘Someone chucked this in the bin.’ He handed the box to Marcus.

Ripping it open, Marcus nearly fainted, as he breathed in the sweet apple smell of philadelphus, instantly bringing back that baking hot June afternoon. There were only two lines on the card.

‘I was wrong. With love all is possible. I am very jealous of the world. Alexei.’

Seeing the incredulous joy on the boy’s face, Rupert removed the carnation from Marcus’s buttonhole and replaced it with the philadelphus.

‘Come on, Martin,’ grumbled Chrissie. ‘We can’t keep the Princess waiting. Although Lady Appleton will have told you the order beforehand do try not to show your disappointment when you file onto the platform as it spoils it for the audience. Anyway,’ she added, seeing Marcus’s face fall, ‘you’re way ahead in the NTV viewers’ poll.’

As he walked into the Green Room, Anatole greeted him in ecstasy.

‘I ween pub competition, I ween thees,’ he brandished a huge beer mug. ‘Knees up Muzzer Brown.’ He did a little dance.

‘Hush,’ chorused the NTV minions.

A strip of black velvet had been pinned to one of the Green Room walls. In front was a huge arrangement of lilies and chrysanthemums. On the table was a note saying:

‘James Vereker to interview winner in front of black velvet immediately after results.’

‘I dropped those flowers three times,’ observed a passing technician.

‘Hush,’ said Chrissie.

Lady Appleton cleared her throat.

‘I’ll give you the order back to front,’ she told the contestants, ‘starting with the lowest.’

‘Don’t forget to curtsy, Marcus, when you shake hands with the Princess,’ said Benny nastily.

Natalia was perfectly calm. She knew she had won. Rannaldini had told her so.

‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ sang Anatole.

As the six contestants filed onto the platform, sitting high up on the chairs that had earlier been occupied by the brass players, Marcus looked so white and stunned, Rupert knew with a terrible lurch of pity and disappointment he hadn’t won.

‘I’m so sorry,’ whispered Taggie.

‘It’s OK.’

Rupert took her hand. ‘What matters somehow is that for the first time he’s miraculously mine. I’m sorry I’ve been so vile today. I can always be relied upon to be a tower of gelignite in a crisis.’

‘I love you.’

‘Doesn’t Her Royal Highness look dignified? ‘sighed Peggy Parker, as the Princess, resplendent in Listermint-green taffeta and lots of diamonds, led a trail of local dignitaries in robes and furry burghers’ hats slowly up the centre aisle to take their seats on the platform.

‘And now our finalists in reverse order,’ said James Vereker, batting his dyed eyelashes at the Princess. ‘Lady Appleton will announce the winners.’

‘We’re just waiting for a signal from NTV,’ said Lady Appleton, her round pink face glowing like a harvest moon. ‘I’d just like to remind everyone that we judge the candidates on all three rounds, not just tonight’s nor yesterday’s efforts. All right, James,’ she smiled into the camera. ‘In sixth place, we have Han Chai.’

As the little Korean came dancing down the steps, looking so pretty and happy to be sixth, everyone decided she should have been placed higher and gave her a terrific reception.

‘Fifth from France, Mr Benjamin Basanovich,’ cried Lady Appleton.

Benny was absolutely livid, but he got an even louder cheer because everyone was so relieved he hadn’t won.

‘Fourth,’ Lady Appleton cleared her throat and rustled her notes, ‘our very popular contender from across the Atlantic.’

Still in his plaid jacket, Carl bounded down the steps two at a time, grinning broadly, thrilled to be meeting royalty, taking the Princess’s little hand in his two big ones.

‘Marcus is third,’ whispered an excited Flora to George and Trevor.

Then followed a long pause because the Princess was having such a long chat with Carl.

‘Oh, get on with it,’ yelled Dixie from the gallery.

‘Third prize,’ began Lady Appleton.

Here we go, at least he’s placed, thought Rupert.

‘Is our friend from Russia.’

‘Knees up Muzzer Brown,’ shouted Anatole, waving his beer mug, bouncing up to the Princess and, charming her just as much as he charmed the crowd, he kissed her hand.

Rannaldini glanced across at Natalia. A tear was trickling down her rosy cheek. Little darling, crying with happiness, he thought complacently. Soon he would be drinking champagne out of her and the cup.

The atmosphere in the hall crackled with excitement. Lady Appleton enjoyed her four-yearly moment of glory. George squeezed Flora’s hand till she winced.

‘I love you, I love you. Oh please God, make it be Marcus,’ she begged.

‘Second, a very worthy contestant, is our charming friend from Czechoslovakia, Natalia-’

But no-one heard her surname as Lady Appleton was drowned by a demented roar of joy that took the roof off, as the crowd realized the home side had won. On the strength of that they could now afford to feel sorry for Natalia as, battling with disappointment, the picture of desolation, she accepted her silver plate and allowed the kind Princess to mop up her tears.

The atmosphere was now a seething cauldron. A cheer rose and fell. Rupert hugged Taggie until her ribs cracked. The orchestra leaning over the gallery were yelling their heads off.

Boris was kissing Deirdre.

‘Zank you, zank you, my darling, you are not bloody bigot after all.’

‘He’s won,’ screamed Flora, holding George even tighter as a somewhat squashed Trevor barked his approval.

Up in the dress circle, a grinning Jennifer barked back.

At last there was silence.

‘And the winner of the 1995 Appleton Piano Competition-’ Lady Appleton smiled round.

‘You don’t need to be Inspector Morse to deduce that,’ bellowed Randy.

Even Lady Appleton laughed.

‘The winner of the 1995 Appleton,’ she repeated shakily, ‘is our own Marcus Campbell-Black.’

The Princess taking both Marcus’s hands had to shout to make herself heard.

‘Are you sure you’re all right? You’ve been so terribly ill. It’s a wonderful victory. You played so beautifully.’

‘And you look so beautiful,’ Marcus found himself blurting out.

The Princess was so sweet and after that he couldn’t remember anything she said until she handed over the little silver piano, as well as a huge cup.

‘Of course queers get on awfully well with women,’ sniffed Mrs Parker.

‘Oh shut up, you old monster,’ snapped Flora.

‘Speech,’ bellowed the orchestra.

Oh no, thought Taggie in anguish, remembering how Marcus had dried during a debate in front of the whole of Bagley Hall. He had never been able to string a sentence together in public.

But Marcus had taken the microphone and was waiting for a lull. He was whiter than the piano keys. A lock of damp auburn hair had fallen over his freckled forehead, he looked absurdly young. To speak now was far more terrifying than playing the Schumann, but he had to do it. What a beauty, and our own, thought the audience in raptures.

‘Your Royal Highness, Ladies and Gentlemen,’ gasped Marcus, fighting for breath, ‘I’d like to thank all the judges for giving me this amazing prize — ’ he waved the silver piano — ‘and the organizers, particularly Lady Appleton for — er — organizing such a marvellous competition, and Mrs Bateson for looking after me — and baking such terrific cakes and everyone at Northladen General for saving my life-’ There was a burst of cheering.

As he gained in confidence he had a voice just like Rupert’s, thought Flora.

‘I also want to thank my parents,’ Marcus went on steadily, ‘my mother and my stepmother, but, most of all, my father, Rupert Campbell-Black,’ deliberately he emphasized the ‘Campbell’. ‘It isn’t easy for parents to accept their son is a homosexual. And they’ve been absolutely terrific,’ he glanced in Rupert’s direction, ‘particularly my father.’

‘Oooooooh dear,’ mumbled Flora, smearing all her mascara as she wiped her shirtsleeve across her eyes.

Glancing sideways Taggie also saw the wetness of Rupert’s lashes. The silence was total.

‘And most of all,’ Marcus grinned up at the gallery, ‘I’ve got to thank the RSO, for playing so brilliantly today and being such a great orchestra.’

‘Tell that to the Arts Council,’ roared Dixie.

Marcus joined in the laughter. There was a volley of applause which faded because people wanted to listen. Aware that the cameras were rolling, unfazed that he was addressing millions of viewers, Marcus went on.

‘But this may be the last time you hear the RSO because they are being forced to merge with the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra. This means most of them will lose their jobs.’

‘That’s enough,’ snarled Rannaldini, who was already foaming like a pit bull.

‘I agree, Maestro,’ Lady Appleton rose to her feet.

The Princess, however, who was looking madly interested, stayed seated.

‘I’ve almost finished,’ Marcus raised his hand. ‘I only want to say the real heroine of this evening, Abigail Rosen, wasn’t allowed to be here.’ The orchestra gave another great cheer. ‘Because Abby was involved with me, she was sacked and not allowed to conduct her own orchestra today. Although I love her very much, I can’t marry her, because I couldn’t give her the happiness she deserves. No-one has done more to make the RSO the truly great orchestra you heard today.’ Marcus’s voice broke, but he just managed to finish. ‘I hope the ban will be lifted and Abby will get her job back. Thank you.’

The cheers were still echoing in his ears when he finally fought his way back to his dressing-room. A mad party was spilling out into the passage. Everyone was opening champagne bottles and celebrating. Mrs Bateson hugged him.

‘Your little cat really worked,’ Marcus told her.

Lord Leatherhead and Mrs Parker and even awful Miles were all there getting in on the act.

‘Sonny will write you a concerto, Marcus,’ promised Mrs Parker. ‘He says no-one can play the Interruption like you do.’

‘From the first,’ Goatie Gilbert was boasting, ‘I recognized Marcus Black’s talent.’

Rupert couldn’t remember feeling so happy or so proud, it was as though a dam, built of years of irritation, contempt and antagonism, had suddenly burst, and he could feel love for Marcus pouring out of him. Sister Angelica had been right about El Dorado being found in the heart. Thank God, it wasn’t too late, and he had time ahead to make it up to Marcus.

‘I can smell the fatted calf,’ said Flora slyly.

Rupert laughed. ‘Lousy with cholesterol. At least Taggie knows how to cook it. The downside is I don’t get you as a daughter-in-law. I suppose you couldn’t wait for Xav to grow up?’

‘I’m suited,’ said Flora, blushing slightly, ‘but thanks all the same.’

Then, as George, who was holding out a town-hall teacup of water for Trevor to drink out of, shot Rupert yet another murderous glance, she added hastily: ‘You really must get to know George.’

‘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.

‘Look out, Viking,’ yelled Julian.

‘Run,’ shrieked Cousin Deirdre.

It was sage advice.

Viking realized he couldn’t take on both Clive and Nathan, particularly as a shiny dark object glinted menacingly in Nathan’s huge hand.

‘Get him,’ hissed Rannaldini, rubbing Black Forest gâteau out of his eyes.

And Viking was off, darting through the little tables, sending a huge vase of bronze chrysanthemums flying, catching Trevor and Jennifer in flagrante behind the carving trolley, out through a side-door, up a flight of stairs.

Shouting voices and footsteps pounding after him sent him hurtling along a corridor. There was no time to catch the lift, the footsteps were getting nearer. At the end of the corridor were stone stairs and, panting down seven flights and sidling across the lounge, Viking found himself in the lobby.

But as he paused to catch his breath, Clive emerged from the lift. Dummying past him, Viking hurled himself into the revolving doors, only to find Nathan leering at him on the other side, still waving the same menacing shiny object.

With huge yuccas to left and right of the door, there was no escape. Wincing as Clive grabbed his arm, Viking turned, looking into the vicious, unpitying face of Death.

‘The basstard had it coming,’ muttered Viking.

For a second or two, Death stared at him, then suddenly warmed up and smiled almost affectionately.

‘Couldn’t agree with you more, dear,’ lisped Clive. ‘Been waiting ten years for someone to give Rannaldini his comeuppance. May I shake you by the hand?’

Then, as Viking’s jaw dropped, Nathan bounded in through the revolving doors with a grin as wide as the keys on a Steinway, and thrust the menacing object into Viking’s hand.

‘You dropped your wallet, man.’

‘We’d very much like to buy you a drink,’ said Clive.

‘It’s very generous of you both,’ Viking started to shake, not entirely with laughter.

Through the revolving doors, he could see his taxi-driver polishing off a pork pie and a can of lager to sustain him after the first leg of the journey from Holyhead.

‘I’m on my way to Heathrow,’ said Viking, ‘but perhaps I’ve josst got time for a quick one.’

Rannaldini, swearing vengeance, had disappeared to wash crême brulée out of his pewter hair before the emergency board meeting, when the bellboy walked in with a telephone.

‘Call for you, Mr Hungerford.’

As George lifted the receiver, everyone around him could hear the frantic squawking as if a hen had just laid a dinosaur’s egg.

‘Mr Hungerford,’ cried Miss Priddock, ‘Ay saw you in the audience. Thank goodness you’re back. An amazin’ thing has happened. I don’t know quaite how to tell you.’

‘Try,’ said George unhelpfully.

But as he listened, his I-don’t-want-to-be-bothered-with-paper-clips scowl creased into a huge smile.

‘That is amazing, Miss P. Woonderful in fact. Are you at home? I’ll call you later. Yes, it was great — Marcus won.’

As he switched off the telephone, he turned to Flora: ‘Well done, John Droommond.’

‘He’s caught the biggest rat in the world?’ giggled Flora.

Cherub had reached the prehistoric chapter, his finger moving shakily along the line: ‘The largessht exshtinct animal in the world wash the two hundred and fifty ton supersaurus,’ he informed his audience.

‘And the most extinct ensemble in the world,’ said George draining his glass of brandy, ‘is Rannaldini’s Super Orchestra.’