Appassionata

NINE

Abby worked for nearly two more years in Lucerne before moving to London to take a conducting course at the Royal Academy of Music. A solid roan-and-white Edwardian building, the Academy stands in the Marylebone Road, flanked by plane trees. The autumn term had already begun, but London was enjoying a very hot Indian summer. Few members of the Academy’s orchestra, red-faced from lugging heavy instruments, noticed the ‘Viva L’Appassionata’ poster hanging from the flagpole as they scuttled in through the glass front door.

Inside, anticipation had reached fever pitch. Since her attempted suicide, Abby had achieved cult status among students who collected her old records and pinned up her posters, portraying her in her tempestuous gypsy beauty. In a materialistic world, she had sacrificed all for love.

In the foyer, therefore, an unusual number of students, who should have been at their various classes, pretended to read notices about scholarships and forthcoming concerts. Such was the excitement that one half expected the antique fiddles to break out of their glass case and offer Abby their services, or Sir Henry Wood in his red robes to shout ‘Bravo’ from his portrait in an ante-room.

As the clock edged towards a quarter past ten, and there was no sign of her, the students reluctantly dispersed, except for a tall boy wearing a navy-blue baseball cap to dry his hair flat, and a girl with a dark red bob, who was scornfully reading a letter which had been pinned to the notice-board:

Dear Musicians,

Thank you for making music with me so delightfully. I must congratulate the Academy on a super orchestra.

With great pleasure

Hermione Harefield

‘Stupid cowpat,’ muttered the girl, and getting out a biro she wrote: PS. If David, the hunky First Trombone, wants to pop in to the Old Mill, Paradise, he’ll be most welcome to a bed for the afternoon.

‘Flo-rah, stop it,’ chided the boy. ‘You’re going to be seriously late.’

‘Oh, all right.’ Grabbing her viola case, Flora hop-scotched across the black-and-white checked floor slap into her teacher.

‘Why the hell aren’t you warming up?’ he said furiously. ‘I put my head on the block putting you forward for this, don’t you dare let me down.’

‘Yes Mr French, sorry Mr French, promise to do my best, Mr French.’

Flora scampered off into the Duke’s Hall where gold-framed portraits of illustrious former students looked down from paprika-red walls on to a packed audience of students, parents, teachers and talent scouts.

Two friends had kept a seat in the back row for the boy in the baseball cap. Flora sauntered up onto the stage where the Academy orchestra, grumbling about the cold after the sunshine outside, were tuning up, practising difficult solos and runs in different directions like skaters. Both sexes were huddled in sweaters and trousers, wore clumpy shoes or trainers and no make-up. The only way you could distinguish the girls was by their long flowing undyed hair, which was mostly drawn back from high clear foreheads, although a few, in Abby’s honour, had turned up with wild Appassionata gypsy curls.

The object today was for this year’s student conductors, who sat in a nervous nail-biting row behind the horns, to try out their skills on the Academy orchestra in the first movement of Bartók’s Viola Concerto.

Flora was playing the solo and she and the musicians had endlessly to repeat the same bits as one conductor after another fumblingly attempted to control the orchestra and were repeatedly taken apart by a genial but highly critical professor, who sat in the second desk of the second violins with a score making notes.

The Bartók concerto is extremely difficult, and with all the stopping and starting, the timpanist, the percussion and the brass (including Hermione’s hunky trombone player) had very little to do, except count bars between the occasional flurry of notes, which they often missed because the conductors forgot to bring them in.

‘You’re not keeping the orchestra down enough,’ shouted the professor to a sweating Swede, who was flapping on the rostrum as though he were about to fly through the vaulted roof. ‘We can’t hear Flora.’

‘Just as well,’ Flora grinned at the Japanese leader, who had a lean beautiful body and a face like a Red Indian. ‘It’s the cadenza next. I’ll need scaffolding and oxygen to reach that top A. What the hell’s happened to L’Appassionata?’

To fox any press who had in fact been humiliatingly non-existent, Abby had been smuggled in by a back door. Shivering behind dark glasses, dying of nerves, she was dickering whether to rush out and be sick again. How could she do justice to such a beautiful piece, particularly when the orchestra were only playing it for the first time?

The soloist, Abby decided, was extremely good. She needed to work on her technique; she ground to a halt twice in the cadenza, and burst out laughing when during a really sad bit she’d caught a friend’s eye in the audience, but generally she executed the high notes effortlessly and joyfully and in the lower register the sound was mellow, dark and mysterious.

She was also extremely attractive. Her figure was hidden by baggy black trousers and a thick black cardigan, but she had a clear pale gold skin, merry green eyes, a plump face ending in a pointed chin and her shining bob was the same warm burnt-sienna as her viola.

Above all, she played with total insouciance keeping up a stream of badinage with the orchestra, chewing gum and reading her tattered poetry book every time there was a pause. Now she was sitting on the lean thigh of the Japanese leader awaiting the next victim, a plump Greek called Adonis, who had soft white hands and gold teeth to match his gold corduroy shirt. All his friends trooped round behind the brass section to video him conducting.

‘Like photographing the captain of the Titanic,’ murmured Flora, getting to her feet.

Sweat was glistening on her upper lip, a russet lock had fallen away from the tortoiseshell slide. There was a chorus of wolf-whistles as she took off her black cardigan to reveal a dark green T-shirt embroidered with yellow daisies and tucked into a wide leather belt.

‘Vy d’you have to distract me viz striptease?’ grumbled Adonis. ‘Now don’t vorry, I vill follow you.’

‘I don’t vant you following me, I want you with me,’ said Flora, raising her viola.

Adonis tried very hard, but the orchestra were all over the place. The genial professor sighed. He was going to have his work cut out with this lot.

That soloist is smart, thought Abby wistfully. Adonis was now going much too fast, but she always caught up.

Glancing sideways, she noticed the boy with the baseball cap. Totally still, really listening, he followed every note Flora played. What a beauty, thought Abby, he’s the one who ought to be called Adonis.

A punch-up was narrowly avoided because Adonis skipped another page and missed out the hunky trombonist’s last entry yet again.

Abby, who’d been studying the concerto for the last fortnight, couldn’t bear to hear it so butchered. But would she do any better? The notes of the score swum meaninglessly before her eyes. Oh God, she hoped she wasn’t going to be sick again.

Adonis was followed by Lorenzo, a handsome Italian who made beautiful gestures, but who seemed more interested in ogling Flora and the video cameras.

‘This one’s got two left hands,’ murmured the professor as Lorenzo kept smoothing his hair with his right hand.

‘You’ve occasionally got to beat in time, Lorenzo,’ he called out. ‘No matter how emotional you feel, you’ve got to first and foremost be a traffic policeman so the orchestra can follow and know where they are, particularly in a piece with so many changes of tempo.’

‘I try again.’

This time extravagant waving and fists clenched to heaven were followed by four bars of total silence.

‘Where am I?’ Lorenzo smote his noble brow.

‘In the Duke’s Hall,’ giggled Flora.

‘You’re lost,’ said the professor.

‘But not forgotten.’ Parking her chewing-gum on the side of the rostrum, Flora gave Lorenzo a kiss.

‘That is a disgusting habit, Flora,’ reproved the professor.

‘I don’t know what score you studied, Lorenzo, but I don’t think it was Bartók’s Viola Concerto.’

The orchestra grinned. Lorenzo turned scarlet, and started to argue.

‘Discuss it with me later,’ said the professor firmly. ‘We’ve got time for one more before lunch.’

The rest of the conductors, waiting behind the horns, leapt to their feet like MPs frantic to speak, but the professor had nodded to the back of the hall.

‘Here comes Abby,’ said Flora, sliding off the leader’s knee.

The Japanese boy looked round.

‘That is not her.’

‘Bet you a tenner.’

‘I don’t have your kind of money.’

Few of the audience or musicians recognized Abby. She was so thin and wore black jeans, a Black-Watch tartan shirt, dark glasses and no make-up. Her hair was short and curly like the young Paganini. The scarlet pouting lips, the clinging minis, the wild gypsy voluptuousness had all gone.

‘Car-worker rather than Carmen,’ murmured Flora.

Abby gave nobody any time to give her a cheer. She carried no score, only a baton, as she loped up the hall and jumped up onto the rostrum. As she whipped off her glasses, the orchestra could see the imperiousness in those strange, unblinking yellow eyes, which was belied by the white knuckles and the frantically knocking knees. For a second she was grabbed by utter panic, her mind a snowstorm. How could she have been so stupid as to conduct without a score?

Then she said quietly; ‘This is a beautiful piece, let’s give it some shape and feeling.’

She suggested some small alterations to the strings and woodwind, then turned to the brass and the percussion. ‘I’m afraid you guys don’t have much to do, which makes it easier to goof off. I’ll try and make things as clear as possible for you. Good luck.’

Her hand, as she raised it, was shaking so crazily even Bartók couldn’t have captured the cross-rhythms, but once she brought it down the entire hall realized who she was, because she was in a class of her own.

The beat of her right hand was knife-edge clear and, although her left hand was a little stiff, she still couldn’t splay her fingers or cup her hand, she managed to show the orchestra exactly what she wanted and in addition convey the emotional intensity she needed. The one vestige of the old Abby was the way she swayed to the music like a dancer.

But she had only to glare at the brass to shut them up and she completely enslaved the trombones by bringing them in exactly right and giving them a radiant smile of approval afterwards.

Flora found it nerve-racking having the world’s greatest violinist beside her, but she loved the way Abby glanced round to synchronize orchestra and soloist, and swept aside the orchestral sound so Flora could always be heard.

Are these the same musicians? Is this the same piece? thought the professor in rapture, letting Abby run through the entire movement without stopping, and then leading a whooping, cheering, stamping round of applause.

‘You have all the marks of a great conductor,’ he told Abby. ‘You have nerve but not nerves. It will be a joy to teach you.’

Everyone was longing to congratulate her, but they were too shy and so was she, so they all left her and scampered off to lunch.

Abby was just pulling out her music case from underneath her chair to put away her stick when she heard a voice say: ‘Excuse me.’

Swinging round, Abby found the soloist and the boy who had been sitting at the end of her row. Standing up he was at least two inches taller than Abby, and when he whipped off his baseball cap, he revealed a beautifully shaped, freckled forehead and hair an even darker red than the girl’s. Abby wondered if they were brother and sister. The girl did the talking.

‘I know it sounds corny, but we’ve got every one of your records. That was a fantastic performance. We wondered if we could buy you lunch, just to celebrate.’

Abby longed to accept but she was so near the edge, that she snapped back: ‘I’m far too busy to waste time eating.’ And then stalked out.

Five minutes later, Flora tracked her down in a distant practice room, trying not to be overheard by the pianist bashing out Liszt’s Dante Sonata next door. Abby was huddled against the blue velvet curtains, her shoulders shaking.

Flora had long been haunted by a description of a vivisection clinic where the animals had their vocal chords cut on admission so, however bad the pain became, all you could hear was desperate rasping. This was the sound Abby was making now.

‘You were seriously good,’ stammered Flora. ‘In fact the only thing to cry about is how awful we were. Mind you, you were lucky to find somewhere to cry, practice rooms are harder to get here than tickets for your old concerts.’

Looking up, Abby saw the kindness in the girl’s eyes belying her flip manner.

‘I’m sorry,’ she croaked. ‘The last time I was on a platform I was playing the Brahms concerto with the CBSO.’

‘I know,’ said Flora. ‘Everyone knows everything about you. Although what a brilliant conductor you’d turned into was certainly hidden in the mists of Lake Lucerne.’

‘It was your solo,’ gulped Abby, fishing for another tissue.

‘I can quite understand that.’

‘No, you play real good. You’ve got a fantastically natural sound, I guess you reminded me of myself.’

‘I should do,’ admitted Flora, ‘having based my style entirely on yours. All our generation has, music schools are churning out more little Abbies than an ecclesiastical property developer!’

Abby’s lips twitched.

‘At least come and have a drink.’

Outside in the sunshine the boy was leaning against the railings, his nose in the selected piano works of Chopin, making notes with a pencil.

‘My name’s Flora Seymour, by the way,’ announced the girl. ‘And this is Marcus Campbell-Black.’

Abby perked up. ‘You must be Rupert’s son.’

Marcus waited, never knowing if the next bit was going to hurt or not.

‘Goodness, you’re like him,’ Abby admired the long, dark, curling eyelashes and the exquisite bone structure. ‘It’s just like looking at a fabric sample in a different colour.’ Except Abby couldn’t ever imagine Rupert blushing or being lost for words.

‘Rupert came to see me in the hospital and gave me this.’ Delving in her jeans pocket Abby produced the silver clove of garlic. ‘To ward off evil. Do tell him I take it everywhere and give him my best.’

‘He said he’d met you,’ said Marcus guardedly.

Round the corner he opened the door of his Aston Martin for her.

‘You go in the back,’ said Flora, ‘then you’ll have room for your legs.’

‘Georgie Maguire: New Man.’ Abby picked up a tape on the back seat in excitement. ‘This must be her latest. Oh wow! Christopher, my ex and I, “Rock Star” was our sort of big tune. I know it’s terrible shmaltz and I shouldn’t say so, but I just adore Georgie’s music.’

‘You should,’ said Marcus, starting up the car and ignoring Flora’s kick on the ankle. ‘Georgie’s Flora’s mother.’

‘Omigod!’

‘I’ll tell her you’re a fan,’ said Flora. ‘She’ll be really pleased, she’s a terrific fan of yours.’

Abby looked at Flora with new respect.

‘Gee, I’m sorry I was rude earlier.’

Flora shrugged. ‘Mum’s the same. She can’t bear strangers muscling in, particularly when she’s coming down after a concert. And she goes ballistic if people drop in at home.’

Abby noticed Marcus wheezing as he drove. Petrol fumes were floating on the hot air and the walk to the car had made him breathless. Reaching into the pocket of his shirt he got out his inhaler and squirted a couple of jets into the back of his throat.

‘Marcus is asthmatic,’ explained Flora. ‘Thank God we can forget about that for a bit.’ Pulling the Bartók concerto out of the stereo she threw it in the glove compartment.

‘Put it back in its case,’ grumbled Marcus. ‘And if you must smoke, don’t use the floor as an asthtray.’

Flora grinned. ‘Don’t be a fusspot.’ Then, turning round to Abby, continued, ‘I can’t get over how different you look.’

‘I cut my hair and my losses. Which did you think was the worst of those conductors?’

‘Adonis by a very swollen head,’ announced Flora.

‘I can’t think how you followed him,’ said Marcus.

‘If you learn to follow any idiot, you get more dates later,’ Flora added scornfully. ‘Conductors are so thick. They carry a white stick to tell everyone they’re deaf. Marcus has been wonderful,’ she added to Abby. ‘He’s been playing the piano version for me all week.’ Leaning across him, she chucked some more chewing-gum out of the window which landed on the shiny dark green flanks of the Bentley drawing up beside them.

‘Jesus, when will you learn to behave?’ Marcus accelerated away from the Bentley’s fist-shaking chauffeur. ‘I thought Lorenzo was even more of a talent-free zone than Adonis. He’s got no sense of rhythm.’

‘He has in bed,’ said Flora. ‘Look at that sweet Jack Russell. I wish I could have a dog in London.’

‘When did you go to bed with Lorenzo?’ asked Marcus in surprise.

‘Oh last week, some time. He keeps wanting repeats. I quite fancy Toniko, I’ve never had a Jap.’

‘Where did you two meet?’ asked Abby, wondering what on earth the relationship was between them.

‘We were at school together,’ said Flora.

Marcus and Flora were the star pupils at the Academy. Marcus was a great beauty. He had inherited Rupert’s Greek profile (so vital in a pianist) and his elegant long-legged, broad-shouldered body. But he also had his mother’s glossy dark red hair, freckles and huge startled eyes, which were the same soft acid green as spring moss. Desperately shy, he was, however, unaware of his miraculous looks and, like a fawn or faun, seemed likely to bolt into mythical woods at any moment. In his third year at the Academy, he was destined for a brilliant career as a pianist if he could conquer his asthma and his nerves.

Flora, who was only in her second year, and who was as sexy and self-confident as Marcus was shy and retiring, had a voice even more beautiful than her mother Georgie. She was still taking singing lessons but, despite pressure from her teachers, who liked to feature illustrious ex-pupils in the prospectus, she showed no interest in taking up singing as a career. Instead she was concentrating on the viola.

Her official excuse was that she didn’t want to be tagged as Georgie Maguire’s daughter.

‘I don’t have Mum’s charisma, nor her ability to project.’

In reality she had been totally wiped out by an affaire with Rannaldini when she was sixteen, and had decided singing was too isolated a career. She had deliberately chosen the viola, that lovely but unobtrusive Cinderella of the instruments, because it blended into the orchestral sound like cornflour, was seldom heard on its own and was the butt of endless jokes.

In doing this Flora felt she was putting on a mental hair shirt, submerging her flamboyant personality, in the hope that God would forgive her the affaire with Rannaldini and somehow alleviate her suffering.

With their famous parents and their hefty private incomes, Marcus and Flora, in the current economic climate of vanishing grants, could have been the victims of a lot of envy and flak at college. As they were both exceptionally talented, utterly without side, and it was soon realized that Marcus’s apparent aloofness was only shyness, any prejudice had swiftly evaporated.

TEN

The quick drink turned into a three-hour session. All the tables outside Marcus’s and Flora’s favourite Italian restaurant were taken, so they lunched inside demanding a large carafe of red wine prestissimo, and larding the rest of their order for canelloni and ratatouille with musical terminology, which involved a lot of back-chat and giggling with the waiters.

Despite their age differences, Abby was nearly twenty-eight, Flora nineteen, Marcus twenty, they found they had a huge amount in common. As children of the famous, Marcus and Flora understood the pressures and the sacrifices.

‘One is never centre stage,’ sighed Flora. Like Abby, both Rupert and Georgie had toured extensively and Marcus told Abby how wretched Rupert had been after he gave up show jumping.

A lot of lunch was spent telling Abby how brilliantly she had conducted. Always boastful when she was unsure of new people, with her tongue loosened by unaccustomed drinking on a very empty stomach, she went into an orgy of name-dropping about the famous musicians who had, it seemed, either tried to screw her or screw up her career. Inevitably she eventually launched into a tirade against Rannaldini.

Flora let her run and, although she had downed most of a carafe of red by the time Abby had finished, no flush had invaded her pale cheeks.

‘Did you sleep with Rannaldini?’ she asked idly.

‘Certainly not,’ said Abby pompously. ‘He came between me and my art.’

Flora kneaded her bread into a pellet and lobbed it at the restaurant cat.

‘When I knew him he came between my legs. Whoops, sorry.’ Then, at Abby’s look of incredulity, continued: ‘I had an affaire with him when I was still at school.’

‘You gotta be joking. What happened?’

‘He dumped me, left me behind like an indifferent paperback in the folds of a hotel bed.’ Flora waved to the waiter to bring another carafe.

‘How long did it last?’

‘It’s a long, long time from May to September,’ sighed Flora. ‘Rannaldini’s so promiscuous, that being hopelessly, hopelessly hooked on him has all the exclusivity of a widow in the First World War, but it doesn’t seem to hurt any less; no safety in numbers.’ Her voice was getting faster and faster. ‘It’s like being alive in your coffin, but no-one hears you scrabbling to get out. I know he’s a shit, but not an hour passes when I don’t want him.’

She dropped her head like a broken daffodil, then the next moment had stubbed out her cigarette on Marcus’s untouched ratatouille.

‘Oh Christ, Markie, I’m sorry.’ Her head fell sideways onto his shoulder. As he put up a freckled right hand to stroke her cheek, she clutched it.

‘Heard the latest viola joke?’ said Marcus to cheer her up.

‘What?’

‘What d’you do with a dead viola player?’

‘What?’

‘Move him up a desk.’

Flora’s mouth lifted slightly.

Marcus had eaten, drunk and talked much less than the others. Occasionally his eyes met Abby’s and a shy, helpless smile drifted across his face. He was beautifully dressed in chinos, a dark brown cashmere sweater and a Prussian-blue shirt, which went perfectly with his dark red hair. When he removed his sweater Abby noticed he had a pianist’s physique: breadth of shoulder, arms grooved with muscle, and big hands that could stretch a tenth with ease. A gold signet ring bearing the Campbell-Black crest flashed on his left hand, as he practised on the table snatches of Chopin’s Grande Polonaise which he had to play in a college recital next week.

He’s very appealing, thought Abby, through a haze of wine. Perhaps I need a toyboy, particularly one who could simplify difficult repertoire by transcribing it for the piano. He also picked up the check.

‘I’ll pay you next week, it’s the end of the month,’ Flora called out as Marcus went over to the till. ‘I think I bought the whole of Jigsaw and HMV yesterday morning. Leave it,’ she said as Abby got out her purse, ‘Marcus gets a massive allowance from Rupert.’

‘How did you two meet?’

‘As I said we were at school together. I’d been drinking at lunchtime, comme toujours. I felt sick during a concert and threw up into Marcus’s trumpet. I think that was the moment Rannaldini fell, albeit temporarily, in love with me.’

Out of the window, a horse-chestnut tree, tawny against the palest blue sky, reminded Flora of the same great bell-like trees in Rannaldini’s park.

‘How was he really?’ she asked as she emptied Marcus’s untouched second glass of wine into her own.

‘Being upstaged by Marcus’s father. Rupert had flown out to sign me up for Declan O’Hara’s programme.’ Again Abby couldn’t resist boasting. ‘Rupert came on really strong; if I hadn’t been crazy about Christopher, we’d certainly have ended up in bed.’

‘I wouldn’t tell Marcus that,’ interrupted Flora sharply. ‘He’s bats about his stepmother.’

Abby jumped slightly as Marcus chucked three gold pound coins onto the red-and-white checked tablecloth. As he put a fiver alongside the pile of notes in his wallet, Abby saw a photograph of a very beautiful redhead.

‘Is that your partner?’ she asked archly. ‘D’you go for redheads?’

‘No, it’s my mother,’ said Marcus.

As it was four o’clock there was no point in going back to the Academy so, after Flora had rushed back to fetch her viola, which she’d left under the table, they tottered down the road to Madame Tussauds because Abby had never seen her own waxwork.

‘I went to see it as a pilgrimage my first day at college,’ confided Flora.

On the top floor, they discovered Rupert’s waxwork in red coat, breeches and brown topped boots, gazing moodily into space among the great sporting heroes.

‘Hi, Dad,’ said Marcus.

Ironically Rupert was next to Jake Lovell who was looking equally unfriendly.

‘Isn’t that the guy?’ asked Abby perplexed.

‘Who ran off with Marcus’s mother,’ said Flora, ‘who we don’t talk about in Rupert’s presence. I’m amazed they don’t come alive at night and throttle each other. Hi, Mum.’

There was Georgie Maguire with her long russet hair and sensual smiling face, clutching a microphone among the pop stars. Drifting into Classical Music, they ran slap into Hermione, mouth wide open in song.

‘Queen of the nightmare,’ stormed Flora, ‘ought to be in the chamberpot of horrors.’

Abby liked Flora more and more, particularly when she removed her chewing-gum and stuck it on Hermione’s nose and topped her dark curls with Marcus’s baseball cap.

‘Flor-ah,’ hissed Marcus, retrieving his baseball cap and looking nervously at an ancient dozing assistant.

‘Hope to God she doesn’t come to life like Hermione’s statue in The Winter’s Tale.’ Getting out a Pentel, Flora drew a big black moustache on Hermione’s upper lip.

Abby was clutching her sides and Flora was lighting an illicit cigarette. Then the temperature plummeted as though they had just stepped out of a plane in the Arctic Circle, and they found themselves confronting a fearsome, lifelike Rannaldini, brandishing his baton like a dirk. Everything was in place, the gardenia, the trained grey hair, the three inches of dazzling white cuff.

‘Waving his wand like the wicked fairy,’ said Flora stonily, ‘Good afternoon, Maestro.’ Drawing heavily on her cigarette, she shoved it between Rannaldini’s fingers.

‘If I was wearing a pin, we could stick it into him,’ said Abby.

By now their giggling had roused the attendant. Marcus hastily distracted him by asking where they could find Abigail Rosen’s waxwork. He’s got a beautiful voice, thought Abby, a bit like Prince Charles’s but with a slight break in it.

The attendant hadn’t recognized Abby and, after much head-scratching and consulting of lists, announced that her waxwork had been melted down because she wasn’t considered famous enough any more.

‘I flew too near the sun,’ said Abby tonelessly.

Once they got outside, she crumpled against Marcus.

‘I guess I’m an applause-junkie worse than Hermione,’ she sobbed into his shoulder. ‘I grumbled about the pressures at the time, OK? I complained endlessly about media intrusion, but I just can’t get used to not being famous any more, no fan mail, never being in the paper, not even the classical music press, and now this.’

The rush-hour traffic, crawling towards the Westway where a huge setting sun blazed like a stop sign, looked on fascinated. A trio of workmen crammed into the front of a blue van, seeing Abby so tall, slim and wide-shouldered in Marcus’s arms; lent out and shouted: ‘Fucking poofters.’

‘Fucking homophobes,’ shouted back Flora, making a V-sign.

‘It’s only because your agents have deliberately kept you out of the public eye,’ she comforted Abby. ‘Look how deliriously excited everyone was today. Once the Press twig you’re the new Karajan, they’ll never leave you alone.’

‘And that’s as bad a nightmare,’ wailed Abby. ‘And I miss my Strad. It’s now being played by a bitch called Maria Kusak. I know she won’t look after it.’

‘I expect she’ll leave it in restaurants like I do,’ said Flora, as they rustled through plane leaves unhinged by the day’s great heat. ‘Now we could go to the Planetarium which would put everything in perspective and make us realize how infinitely trivial our lives are, but unfortunately it’s just shut, so we’re going to take you to meet a very glamorous Russian conductor.’

‘All Russian conductors are drunk and incompetent,’ said Abby ungratefully.

‘Boris is often very drunk but he’s a good conductor,’ said Marcus.

‘And a lot of people unaccountably think he’s a terrific composer,’ added Flora, reflecting that it couldn’t have been good for Abby’s ego, that all the people pouring out of offices stared at Marcus rather than at her.

But Abby had stopped in her tracks.

‘Are you talking about Boris Levitsky who married Rachel Grant?’

Flora nodded.

‘That’s weird.’ Abby was really agitated. ‘I read a piece about Rachel’s suicide. It really influenced me, right, that she could drive off a cliff, because she’d caught Boris cheating on her. After I cut my wrist,’ Abby’s voice broke, ‘I wanted to write to Boris and tell him I was sure Rachel didn’t mean to kill herself. It was just a crazy gesture to wipe out the hurt, with an even greater hurt, anything to make the pain go away.’

‘Tell Boris that, I’m sure it would comfort him,’ said Marcus.

‘Boris was very well known in Russia when I was at the Moscow Conservatoire,’ sniffed Abby later, as Marcus edged the Aston Martin through the traffic. ‘We all went to his concerts. It was a great scandal when he fell in love with Rachel and defected to the West. She was a marvellous player.’

‘I wasn’t a fan of hers,’ said Flora with rare coldness. ‘She was an awful bitch. You couldn’t blame Boris for straying. He used to be one of Rannaldini’s assistant conductors, and Rachel so detested the influence Rannaldini had on him that she had an affaire with Rannaldini out of spite. Took him off me to be exact, that’s probably why I hate her.’

‘But I thought Boris and Rachel were reconciled,’ protested Abby.

‘They were,’ said Flora, ‘but Rannaldini and Boris were after the same job, running the New World Symphony Orchestra in New York. Boris looked as though he was going to get it. He was young, brilliant and back with Rachel. The Scorpion caught him coming out of Chloe’s, his ex-mistress’s, flat. I’m sure Rannaldini tipped them off. Typical shitty thing he would do. Rachel saw the photograph in The Scorpion and drove off the road. Hey presto. Rannaldini, crying crocodile tears over the death of the finest pianist of her generation, lands the New York job. Can we get some drink from that off-licence, Marcus?’

‘We can’t stop here.’

‘We’ll have to stop somewhere. Boris’ll have drunk any drink he’s got. Boris was shattered by Rachel’s death,’ Flora turned back to Abby. ‘Particularly because she left him two young children to bring up. Not a great aid to composition. Despite such set-backs, Boris has had loads of women since Rachel died, men get over these things much more quickly than women, because they’re in a buyer’s market, but he still misses Rachel and feels dreadfully guilty about her. People are always giving him money to write things, then he doesn’t deliver. The Rutminster Symphony Orchestra commissioned a requiem to Rachel more than two years ago. An old duck called Sir Rodney Mackintosh-’

‘I’m his protégée,’ said Abby sniffily, ‘I’ve only been stopping at his house for the past two and a half years.’

I can’t be expected to know her entire c.v., thought Flora irritated.

‘Rodney’s so darling,’ added Abby possessively.

‘Darling,’ agreed Flora. ‘So you probably know Rodney felt sorry for Boris, but again Boris has failed to deliver. Every time he picks up his chewed pencil he thinks about Rachel, starts crying and has to have another huge glass of red wine, and the RSO have to keep rescheduling.’

‘Boris was a great conductor,’ mused Abby.

‘But not especially focused. He’s going out with some big boobed Bratislavian bassoonist tonight. So Marcus and I said we’d babysit.’

ELEVEN

‘Don’t mention Rannaldini,’ muttered Flora as, clinking bottles in time to the clanking of the ancient lift, they slowly climbed to the sixth floor, ‘or Boris will foam at the mouth.’

Boris was already foaming at the mouth. Hardly concealing his manhood with a Ninja Turtle face towel, he was waving a toothbrush instead of a baton. Having opened the front door, he dived into a nearby bathroom to spit out the toothpaste. He had just had a bath and was trying to dry a pair of boxer shorts with a hair-dryer.

Despite a sallow skin, deep-set eyes almost entirely concealed by puffiness, dark hair like an unclipped poodle and a chunky, rugger player’s body, there was an undeniable Byronic smoulder about Boris.

Abby took one look at him, realized she was half an inch taller, kicked off her shoes and bolted to the 100 to repair her smudged eyeliner and even put on some lipgloss.

Boris took one look at Abby and decided to give the Bratislavian bassoonist a miss. He and Abby were soon gabbling in Russian about their Moscow days.

‘What have you got for us to drink?’ asked Flora.

‘I cannot drink, I am on vagon.’ Then Boris saw the bottles Flora was taking out of an Oddbins carrier bag, ‘Oh vell, perhaps I am not.’

Abby was even unfazed by the messiest living-room ever. It was very Russian with crimson and scarlet furniture and gold icons on the midnight-blue walls, but every chair was piled high with clothes. The grand piano buckled under scores, covered in drink rings, and upended silver photograph frames. The dark red velvet cloth on the big table could hardly be seen for hamburger boxes and bottles wafting stale remnants of drink. On the bookshelves were half-eaten apples, overflowing ashtrays, tapes and CDs out of their cases.

While the entire family obviously chucked their shoes and boots in one corner, the rest of the floor was littered with orange peel, pencil sharpenings, tissues and crumpled-up pieces of manuscript paper.

‘Oh Boris, you are a slut,’ sighed Flora. ‘Where are the children — hidden under the rubble?’

‘I forget to tell — the kids, they stay with friends.’

‘Good thing, they’ll get bubonic plague if they stay here.’

Flora removed a curling ham sandwich from the mantelpiece.

‘When did you last eat?’

‘I verk since midnight last night,’ said Boris proudly. ‘Nearly twenty hours.’

While Flora chided, Marcus, who was more practical, had found a black dustbin bag in the kitchen and now settled down to clear up the mess.

‘Where’s the stuff you’ve just written?’

‘I put it in the samovar for safety,’ said Boris.

‘Is it numbered?’ asked Marcus, retrieving it.

‘Not that it matters,’ Flora, who was opening bottles, murmured to Abby. ‘Play it back to front, upside-down, it wouldn’t make any difference.’ She blew a kiss at Boris.

‘Let me see,’ said Abby reverently.

Marcus held out a manuscript page covered in a mass of black corrections.

‘Looks as though a lot of centipedes have been doing the Highland Fling after a mud bath,’ said Flora. ‘Why can’t you use a rubber instead of crossing out?’

‘Because eef my first thought was best, eef I rub it out, it is gone.’

‘How can anyone copy that?’ grumbled Flora.

‘I can,’ said Marcus, removing the pages to the safety of his music case.

‘Vot does eet sound like?’

‘I’ll try and play it later when I’ve tidied up this dump.’

‘What a wonderful wife you’ll make someone.’ Flora lobbed some orange peel at Marcus’s black bag and missed. ‘If you want to make yourself useful,’ she said to Abby, ‘go and wash up four glasses. Abby had a dazzling début as a conductor,’ she was telling Boris as Abby returned with an assortment of mugs, cups and even a small vase.

‘Ear is the only theeng that matter,’ said Boris, filling them all up to the top. ’Ear and rhythm, telling the orchestra how and ven to play. A conductor must learn what is possible to ask, then ask the orchestra ten times more. He must also come into a room at any time and command attention.’

‘“You have that in your countenance which I would fain call master,” or rather maestro,’ quoted Flora, settling down to sort out the mountain of newspapers thrown down by the fireplace.

‘What piece did you do?’ asked Boris.

‘Bartók’s Viola Concerto.’

‘Ah,’ Boris gave a theatrical sigh and drained his glass. ‘Bartók is like me. His last Christmas he could never leave hees flat because he was so ashamed he had no money to tip lift man.’

‘Bartók had security till he was eight, then his father died like mine did,’ said Abby, taking a huge gulp of red wine.

‘He was Aries like me,’ said Flora.

‘Like mine, his genius was never recognized.’ Boris was near to tears. ‘He die in poorness like I shall.’

‘If you gave up drink and worked a bit harder, you’d be very rich,’ said Flora, tipping a pile of Guardians into Marcus’s dustbin bag. ‘Oh look, here’s your hairbrush, that must have been missing for months.’

Removing it from the pile, Flora sat down on the arm of Boris’s chair and started to brush his wild curls.

‘My music reflects the chaos of our times.’

‘I don’t know why you don’t save time and programme this flat instead.’

Ignoring her, Boris topped up Abby’s glass. ‘I am sorry about your wrist. I have all your records. Vil you play again?’

‘My physio thinks so, but I still can’t grip the neck of a violin and my fingers can’t get around the strings.’

‘Eet is same, I ’ave music bursting to get out of my head, but I cannot write.’

‘It’s not the same at all,’ reproved Flora. ‘You can still move a pencil. Don’t be a drama queen.’

‘Ouch,’ said Boris, as she tugged at a tangle at the back. ‘What’s got into you?’

‘I am sick of an old passion. Christ, you’ve got chewing-gum here.’

‘I wanted to tell you, Boris.’ Lowering her voice Abby broke into Russian again, obviously talking about Rachel because soon they were both crying and wiping each other’s eyes and pouring out more glasses of red.

‘Summit meeting between the super powers,’ said Flora drily, as Marcus returned with a second dustbin bag.

Beautiful red-and-blue patterned rugs were beginning to emerge on the floor and a gold-and-blue embroidered shawl on the piano where Marcus was righting the silver-framed photographs of the old days in Moscow: children on toboggans, grannies with swept-up hair, the young Boris with Prokofiev and Shostakovich.

‘That vas my Rachel,’ Boris pointed to a photograph of a beautiful but disapproving-looking woman. ‘She vas a saint.’

‘She was a crosspatch,’ said Flora, getting a black velvet toggle out of her trouser pocket to tie back Boris’s curls. Finally she brushed his wild eyebrows.

‘There, Mel Gibson.’ She kissed the tip of his nose.

‘How many voices are you scoring the Requiem for?’ asked Abby.

‘None,’ said Boris flatly. ‘The instruments play the voices. The RSO chorus is full of squawking amateurs and Hermione Harefield wanted to sing soprano part. So I stop them all. I ’ate singers.’

Returning to the pile through which she was making slow progress because she kept stopping to read things, Flora was now brandishing an unstamped postcard with a charging bison on the back.

‘Why are you writing to Edith Spink?’

‘She send tape of concert of my Berlin Vall Symphony she did in Vest Country. It sound so ‘orrible, I write telling her never to play my vork again. I vondered vot happen to that postcard, geeve it to me.’

‘Don’t be silly,’ Flora tore up the postcard and chucked it into Marcus’s black bag. ‘Edith’s a good egg. When Rannaldini blocked my scholarship to the Academy, she put in a good word. You’re stupid to upset her, Boris, she’s on your side.’

‘Not ven she play my music like that. I shall have to go back to teaching.’

‘You can’t, you hated teaching,’ said Flora sensibly. ‘All those staff meetings about handles on lavatory doors, all the fuss when you wanted time off to go to performances, let alone rehearsals. And you can’t compose if you have to write lectures. You’ve got to finish, Rachel’s Requiem.’

‘I never meet a deadline or an honest woman,’ said Boris sulkily.

‘That’s bloody rude when I’ve given you the benefit of my advice. Christ,’ Flora pulled out a sheaf of brown envelopes, ‘don’t you ever pay bills?’

‘Not if I can’t pay them. I cannot buy my kids clothing, I cannot redecorate my flat. Look at the damp.’ Boris pointed to a dark stain above the window.

‘You’ll be able to paper it with brown envelopes,’ said Flora, ‘Here’s one from the Danish National Ballet — surely you don’t owe them any money?’

Opening the envelope Flora triumphantly shook out a cheque for thirty thousand kroners which Boris held up to the light in ecstasy.

‘It’s for ballet they want me to write about Little Mermaid.’

‘That’s terrific,’ said Abby excitedly. ‘You’ll get repeats every time anyone wants to do it and they can sell videos and tapes in the foyer.’

Boris, whose melancholy alternated with raging high spirits, became quite expansive at the prospect of relative riches. Normally he, Flora and Marcus would have played chamber music into the small hours but desisted in deference to Abby.

‘What are your plans?’ he asked her.

‘Take the course at the Academy. I’ve familiarized myself with loads of scores in Lucerne, now I need practise. I’ll take any gig offered.’

Having tidied up as much of the sitting-room as possible, Marcus was wheezing so badly from the dust that he had to retreat to the kitchen, resort to a couple of puffs from his inhaler, and sit down for ten minutes, hunched over the kitchen table to recover his breath. Then he started on supper. There was only a certain amount of his day that he could cope with other people. He needed to be alone now to think about next week’s concert.

Finding a lot of eggs of dubious antiquity, some rockhard Gruyère and some big tomatoes, he decided to make cheese omelettes and tomato salad. There was no vinegar so he used the juice of a wrinkled lime and brought a loaf out of retirement by turning it into garlic bread.

Rubbing the Gruyère up and down the grater until the curls of cheese had overflowed the bowl, he studied the Chopin, humming and making notes.

‘Need a top-up?’ It was Abby with a bottle.

Marcus shook his head.

She looked much better than she had earlier. There was a sparkle in her eyes and colour in her cheeks.

‘My, that’s good,’ Abby pinched a bit of tomato out of the salad bowl. ‘Who taught you to cook?’

‘My stepmother.’

‘The divine Taggie,’ teased Abby. ‘Hermione Harefield said she wasn’t a woman of substance.’

‘She’s the most s-s-ubstantial person I know,’ stammered Marcus furiously. ‘She’s b-b-eautiful and k-kind and she’s the only woman who’s ever made my father happy. That bitch Hermione’s just jealous.’

‘I told you to keep your trap shut, Abby,’ said Flora, appearing in the doorway.

After supper, leaving the others to drink and gossip, Marcus settled down to play the piano. Boris’s flat was on the second floor of a four-sided block which looked out on to a square of garden dominated by a huge golden catalpa.

It was so mild that people in the surrounding flats opened their windows, wrapping their children in duvets, so they could all listen to Marcus until the stars came out, clapping and cheering whenever he stopped and shouting for him to go on.

‘Audience don’t do zat for me,’ grumbled Boris. ‘But he is good boy,’ he confided to Abby, ‘I teach him piano at school. Ven Rachel die he turn up at the house asking what he could do, looking after kids, helping me sort things out. He is gentle, but he is not at all vimp and he play like dream.’

Abby, a bit drunk now, was equally enchanted but also tearful. She must not neglect her physio.

Having dispatched the Grande Polonnaise with a great flourish, Marcus got out more music and launched into a modern piece, explosions of crashing notes, interspersed with a sad, haunting tune.

‘That’s beautiful,’ called out Abby. ‘What is it?’

‘Ees familiar.’ Boris looked perplexed.

‘Bloody well should be,’ said Marcus. ‘It’s part of the “Dies Irae” from Rachel’s Requiem. I finished transcribing it last night.’

‘I wrote that?’ Boris leapt to his feet. ‘Play it again. Where’s my violin?’

‘Under the sofa,’ said Flora.

Impatiently Boris tuned up and began to play the main tune with Marcus accompanying. Marcus’s copying was dark and clear which made it very easy to read.

Having Jewish blood like Abby, Boris tended to soup up the melody, playing very emotionally with great rhetorical gestures.

‘This is very grateful piece,’ he told Abby and Flora in delight.

‘You mean rewarding,’ corrected Flora. ‘Yes, it’s breathtaking. Like Bartók, “full of hitherto undreamed of possibilities”.’

Occasionally stopping to change a note, totally absorbed, they played on.

‘Marcus is seriously good,’ Abby told Flora. ‘Nothing can stop him making it.’

‘Let’s make some coffee,’ Flora led Abby into the kitchen.

‘Marcus is happy and relaxed at the moment,’ she went on, ‘because he’s among friends and he’s had the odd drink but he’s crippled by nerves, throwing up for hours before concerts, and he’s already had to cancel two recitals because of asthma attacks, which doesn’t help in the music world, which hates unreliability.

‘Shall we wash up?’ Flora looked unenthusiastically at the supper plates.

But, as the dish-washer was still working overtime, gurgling away cleaning all the silver and china they’d unearthed from the sitting-room, she decided to leave it.

‘Nothing ever gets clean that I wash by hand.’

After some rootling around she found a tin of Gold Blend in the breadbin and, unable to find a spoon, shook some coffee into four cups.

‘Also,’ she added, switching on the kettle, ‘Marcus has a terrible hang-up about Rupert, who doesn’t see the point of him at all.’

‘But Rupert seemed so caring in BA,’ said Abby perplexed. ‘And when he visited me in the hospital.’

‘Rupert’s dazzling,’ agreed Flora, ‘but the brighter the moon, the darker the shadow it casts and it’s no fun being son of Superstud. Rupert’s always preferred Tabitha, Marcus’s younger sister, and he passionately disapproves of his son and heir taking up anything as drippy as the piano, when he should be at home learning how to run the estate.’

‘How did it turn out with those kids Rupert adopted?’

‘That’s the worst part,’ sighed Flora. ‘I’m afraid there’s no milk. Rupert’s totally besotted with the boy, Xavier, cured his squint and nearly his birthmark, got him racing round on Lysander’s old Shetland pony. Rupert’s got the tearaway he’s always wanted,’ Flora lowered her voice. ‘It’s crucified Marcus.’

Returning to the living-room, Abby heard a voluptuous explosion of notes, and gave a cry of joy. Marcus was playing Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata.

‘It’s so darling, to play that — well — sort of in my honour.’ She went over to the piano.

‘Sort of,’ Marcus blushed, being a truthful boy. ‘Next week I’m also playing it in a recital at college.’

‘I’ll come along,’ said Abby in excitement, making Marcus blush even more darkly. ‘Did you know that to understand the Appassionata, Beethoven said you have to read The Tempest?

This music crept by me upon the waters,

Allaying both their fury, and my passion,

With its sweet air.’

Marcus nodded. ‘My stepfather told me, and quoted the same lines. Sorry,’ as a flurry of wrong notes resulted, ‘I’m no good at talking and playing.’

Abby retreated to the sofa.

‘God, my back aches,’ said Flora, who was plaiting Boris’s hair. ‘Three hours of Bartók takes it out of you.’

‘I’ve got some Ibuleve in the bathroom,’ said Boris.

A smell of bonfires was still drifting in through the open window. Glancing at his watch Marcus saw it was nearly eleven o’clock. They were still clamouring for more in the flats outside. He’d better stop soon or the kids would never get to bed. He launched into Roger Quilter’s Children’s Overture.

‘There was a lady loved a swine,’ sang Flora, as she returned with the Ibuleve.

That’s a stunning voice, too, thought Abby in envy. Goodness they were a talented trio!

Flora slumped between Boris’s knees, calmly pulling off her daisy-embroidered T-shirt and using it to cover high, pointed breasts, as Boris began to rub the gel into her shoulders.

And I wonder what their relationship is, thought Abby.

Glancing across the room as he launched into ‘Baa Baa, Black Sheep’ Marcus met Abby’s eyes, saw the admiration in them and thought how lovely she looked, her strong, proud face softened by the lamplight. She was much more boyish than he’d expected. Sitting on the sofa, her long legs tucked underneath her, she looked like a model for Gentleman’s Quarterly.

Marcus’s timidity with women had been exacerbated two years ago at the stag-party of Basil Baddington, one of his father’s wilder cronies. Rupert, irked by Marcus’s apparent lack of interest in girls (after all, he was supposed to produce an heir one day), had organized a hooker.

Marcus had been quite unable to get it up and had been violently sick. Terror, which makes people take deeper breaths, triggered off a violent asthma attack, which could have been fatal. The whole thing was hushed up by Rupert’s GP, the admirably unflappable James Benson, who got Marcus onto a nebulizer at the local hospital just in time.

Before he’d lost consciousness, miserably aware of regurgitated wine all down his dress-shirt, Marcus had heard James Benson reproving his father.

‘You must be more careful with him, Rupert, you know he’s never been strong.’

By mutual agreement neither Taggie nor Marcus’s mother had been told of this disaster, but Marcus’s relationship with Rupert, always shaky, had inevitably deteriorated.

Reluctant to witness the love he had always craved, so unstintingly lavished on little Xavier, Marcus had avoided Pensombe and concentrated on his career. Girls, except Flora who was more of a pal, were avoided even though they chased him like mad, not least because of his father’s bank balance.

Last night after copying out Boris’s score until long after midnight, Marcus had collapsed into bed, only to be jolted by a terrifyingly erotic dream about Boris, and woken, sobbing his heart out because it could never be possible.

Having dreaded confronting Boris today, he was ecstatic to find himself suddenly so attracted to Abby. His blue shirt was still stiff from the salt of the tears she’d shed outside Madame Tussauds. All this added radiance to his playing.

‘Who did Marcus’s mother marry?’ asked Abby, thinking of the stepfather who had quoted The Tempest.

‘Malise Gordon, thirty years older,’ replied Flora, writhing half in ecstasy, half in pain under Boris’s fingers. ‘He’s been a brilliant stepfather and really encouraged Marcus, but that doesn’t make up for one’s own father not giving a toss.’

Flora suddenly shivered. They had been so wrapped up in talking they hadn’t realized how cold it had become. As she banged down the big sash window the telephone rang. It was Helen, Marcus’s mother, in hysterics. It was a few moments before Boris could get any sense out of her. Malise had had a massive stroke and been rushed to hospital. Marcus must go home at once.

TWELVE

Marcus drove straight home to Warwickshire. He was bitterly ashamed afterwards that his main emotion was despair that he would probably have to duck out of a recital yet again, and disappointment that he would no longer be faced with the terrifying yet magical prospect of Abby in the audience. He wasn’t even very worried about Malise who, never having let him down, seemed unlikely to start now.

In fact Malise never regained consciousness. Marcus was devastated. He had loved his stepfather deeply. Kind, formal, old enough to be his grandfather, Malise had always encouraged him. They had played endless duets together; Malise had explained harmony, taken Marcus to concerts and shared with him his 78s of Myra Hess and Denis Matthews and Solomon. He had also provided him with a role model of total integrity and honour.

But Marcus had to surpress his anguish in order to comfort his mother who, having been adored and wrapped in cotton wool by Malise for sixteen years, was quite incapable of coping with funerals, let alone life, on her own.

The Press, of course, had a field-day dredging up the old story of how Malise as chef d’équipe had held the British Show-Jumping Team together during their golden era, and how during the LA Olympics, when Rupert Campbell-Black’s great rival, Jake Lovell, had run off with Rupert’s wife, Helen, the team had gone on with one man short to win the gold. There was also a lot of guff about how Malise had picked up the pieces, marrying Helen and restoring her self-confidence, which had been shattered by eight years of hell married to Rupert, and a disastrous few weeks with a miserably dispossessed Jake, who couldn’t wait to belt back to his wife.

The funeral was rather like a rerun of Madame Tussauds with all the show-jumping greats rolling up to pay their last respects and Rupert and Jake glaring into space.

As a further insult, Jake had brought along his son Isaac, a brilliant young jockey, who had beaten one of Rupert’s horses earlier that week. The only thing that could have redressed the balance for Rupert would have been if Marcus could have played Malise’s favourite Bach Prelude quite beautifully on the Steinway that Helen had insisted on hiring for the service.

But Marcus’s asthma always grew worse under stress and, in the panic of overseeing all the last-minute arrangements, he forgot to bring his inhaler. He just managed to help carry the coffin the three hundred yards across the village green to the church before collapsing fighting for breath beside his mother.

Helen was still young enough at forty-four to be described as ‘absolutely stunning’ rather than ‘having been absolutely stunning’. She was far too unnerved at seeing Jake again after all those years, and wondering guiltily if she were wearing too much blusher and eyeshadow on the grounds that Malise would have wanted her to look beautiful, to notice Marcus’s plight.

Unfortunately a church filled with flowers and the fumes from the ancient pew, which had recently been treated for woodworm, made the band round Marcus’s chest even tighter.

Rupert’s best friend, Billy Lloyd-Foxe, had reduced everyone to tears, including himself, reading the ‘Dedication to the Horse’, which always brought the house down at the end of the Horse of the Year Show. According to the service sheet Marcus should have been next but, white and sweating, he could only clutch his chest and shake his head, so, after a long agonizingly embarrassed pause, the parson, who had been a family friend for years, twigged what was up and carried on with the service.

Marcus was only aware of the reproach in his mother’s eyes.

‘I didn’t break down, I didn’t fail, Malise,’ she seemed to be saying and such a public failure would only confirm Rupert’s conviction that his son totally lacked big-match temperament.

Marcus had also been incapable of carrying the coffin to the graveside. Staggering back to the beautiful Queen Anne rectory in which Malise had lived all his life, revived by several squirts from his inhaler, he had been able to hand round drinks and sandwiches. There had been a horrible fascination in being introduced by Helen to Jake Lovell. He was amazed his mother could have left his gilded glamorous father for anyone so small and insignificant.

And then Rupert had walked into the room, caught the three of them talking and stalked right out of the house dragging a protesting Taggie and Tabitha with him.

Returning to the kitchen for more sandwiches Marcus had found Malise’s big-boned tactless daughter, who’d been brought up in the Old Rectory and whose eyes were now running over the furniture like beetles, wondering what she could claw back.

‘The boy’s not going to be much support to Helen,’ she was saying to Mrs Edwards, Helen’s daily. ‘Sickly looking fellow. Daddy did so much for him.’

And Marcus had wanted to shout: ‘I loved him, too.’

But the funeral was only the beginning of the nightmare. Malise had left his desk and everything else in order. To quote his favourite writer Montaigne, he had been ‘booted and spurred and ready to depart’. He had also hidden his worries from Helen so well that she’d had no idea how badly he’d been hit by Lloyd’s. He had made the Old Rectory and its twenty acres over to Helen, but not lived the necessary seven years to avoid estate duties. What little money was left would be eaten up paying the Lloyd’s losses.

Helen was so distraught Marcus felt he had to give up his London digs and stay with her at least for the autumn term. Helen managed to justify this sacrifice as not being too great. It would be so much better for Marcus’s asthma living in the country and commuting to London for his weekly lessons, and at least it would get him away from that trampy Flora.

Helen was too self-centred to realize how upset Marcus was by Malise’s death. She had always lacked the gift of intimacy and been admired rather than liked. Now, for the first time in her life, she felt popular and absolutely amazed by everyone’s kindness: the wonderful letters, the solicitous telephone calls, the invitations to stay, the quiches and apple-turnovers left in the porch: Dear Helen you must eat!

But once this stream of sympathy dried up and she no longer had the funeral to plan, Helen sunk into apathy. Terrified of becoming addicted she refused to take tranquillizers or sleeping-pills, or even a stiff drink to get her through the increasingly dark winter evenings.

She had never got on with her daughter Tabitha, who was still at boarding-school, who spent all her time at Penscombe with Rupert and Taggie; Marcus and his career therefore became all she had to live for. Marcus felt the millstone of her dark cloying love weighing him down and once again was ashamed of longing so much for all the fun of his London life with Flora, Boris and now Abby. The piano seemed to be his only refuge.

Meanwhile, over in New York, Rannaldini had not been enjoying the domination over the New World Symphony Orchestra he had hoped for, possibly because his musicians were in revolt that he earned a hundred times more in a night than they did in a week. He was still having gruelling battles with the unions and endless lawsuits had been brought by unfairly sacked musicians. There was also the unread pile of unsolicited manuscripts and far too much contemporary music to programme and no Boris to weed out and translate it for him any more.

Two and a half years on, Rannaldini was also still brooding on how he could get his revenge on Rupert, for orchestrating the break-up of his marriage to Kitty and hijacking his plane in BA.

‘The elm is a patient tree,’ murmured Rannaldini, ‘it hateth and waiteth.’

A few days after Malise’s death Rannaldini was lunching on oysters and seafood salad in his penthouse flat which was papered with platinum discs and photographs of himself with the famous and which overlooked the tawny autumnal beauty of Central Park.

Picking up The Times which was flown out to him every day from London, Rannaldini observed that another wife was standing by her cabinet minister husband. The photograph had been cropped at waist level, but Rannaldini felt sure the wife had a stiletto heel in her husband’s Gucci toe-cap and a knee in his groin despite the linked arms and the frenetically smiling faces. Kitty had not stood by him — the bitch.

Turning the pages, easing a piece of squid out of his back teeth, Rannaldini discovered Malise’s obituary, a glow job describing his brilliant war, his knowledge of paintings, his work on the flute and his skill as a chef d’équipe where he was the only person who could harness the genius of Rupert Campbell-Black.

He is survived by a second wife and one daughter from his first marriage, read Rannaldini, pouring himself another glass of Pouilly-Fumé.

He could remember the exquisite Helen at a school concert, definitely one of Rupert’s finest thoroughbreds, an earnest intellectual snob, thirty years younger than her upright second husband and in need of a little excitement.

Smiling, Rannaldini took out a piece of dove-grey writing-paper, and picked up his jade-green fountain-pen. He wrote in green ink:

My dear Helen, (may I?)

Please forgive my presumption but going through some old newspapers which I hadn’t had time to read, I found The Times obituary of your husband.

What an extraordinary fine-looking, multi-talented man. I had no idea that the M. M. Gordon, who wrote, to my mind, the definitive work on the flute, was married to you. I would so like to have met him.

You won’t remember but we met briefly when your son accompanied my daughter Natasha when she sang ‘Hark, Hark the Lark’ at a Bagley Hall concert a few years ago. He showed immense promise. I hope he has taken up the piano as a career.

You must be utterly desolate but please comfort yourself. As Voltaire wrote-

Rannaldini sighed with pleasure. Helen would love Voltaire, but he decided to translate the poem, Americans weren’t too hot on French.

There are two deaths,

And one is such that all men dread and all abhor.

The one is to be loved no more,

The other’s nothing much.

This is in no way to dismiss the depths of your suffering but at least you are safe in the knowledge you were never betrayed. My young wife left me for a boy her own age two and a half years ago. I cannot say I envy you, but at least Malise’s love for you and yours for him is intact and untarnished.

Does Malise have any unpublished work? I would be so interested to read it and assist its publication.

Perhaps when your heart is a little easier you would have lunch with me. I have a jet or a helicopter that could collect you, perhaps when I am next in London, and we could share our sadness.

Yours ever,

Rannaldini.

‘Hark, Hark the Lark,’ sang Rannaldini as smirking, he sealed the envelope and set the letter aside to be posted in a few weeks’ time when the trickle of consoling letters would have dried up and his would have far more impact.

Helen was utterly charmed. Rannaldini’s letter arrived at the beginning of November at the nadir of her despair. It looked as though she was definitely going to have to sell the Old Rectory and Malise’s daughter, whom she had never liked, although she’d taken on Malise’s two black labradors which Helen had also never liked, was contesting the will and had laid claim to Malise’s prettier pieces because they were family heirlooms.

Of course Helen remembered Rannaldini from the school concert, arriving late and plonking himself next to Hermione Harefield so Helen had been forced to move back a row and sit next to Rupert, who had behaved abominably as usual, whispering to Taggie and even nodding off and snoring in counterpoint to the Mozart concerto Marcus had been playing so beautifully.

Helen was utterly heartbroken over Malise’s death but Rannaldini’s letter comforted her. She wrote back a charming note, littered with quotations, saying lunch would be delightful. After all, she told herself firmly, Rannaldini might well be able to give Marcus a leg-up in his career.

Marcus, meanwhile, with conspicuous gallantry, had tackled his father about giving Helen an allowance. Rupert had replied that he’d think about it but had gazed out of the window at the reddy-gold leaves cascading down from his towering beeches as fast as his money seemed to be pouring into Lloyd’s. Thank God, he hadn’t been too badly hit and had never risked the house or any of the land, but he didn’t see why the hell he should support Helen. It was sixteen years since she’d buggered off and he’d paid every penny to support Marcus and Tabitha and was still giving them both whacking great allowances.

When he’d first met Helen she had been working for a publisher and always pointing out his literary déficiences. She could bloody well get a job now.

Privately Rupert was absolutely livid with Helen for asking Jake Lovell back to the house after the funeral. Jake was doing too bloody well as a trainer and Rupert was consumed by all the ancient jealousy that Malise had loved Jake more than him.

To top it, Taggie had enraged Rupert by asking Helen to stay for Christmas, claiming that she and Marcus couldn’t be all alone the first year after Malise’s death.

‘I suppose you’re going to serve lame duck at Christmas dinner?’ he said nastily.

And Taggie, remembering Sister Angelica’s warning about too many limping ducks, felt a cold chill.

THIRTEEN

Rannaldini planned his first telephone call to catch Helen at a particularily low ebb. She had just returned from Evensong at which Malise should have been reading the lesson. The church had always been full of admiring ladies on such occasions. Tonight they had turned up to see how his widow was coping. Not very well it seemed. Afterwards, as Helen emerged into the drizzle of a chill November evening, feeling them all shying away, she had scuttled off, black-scarfed head bowed, slipping on the yellow leaves concealing the slimy paving stones. She was too distraught to pause and to speak a word of comfort to Malise in his cold bed. Tomorrow she would bring him the pinched remnants of the rose garden.

As Marcus had gone to hear Murray Perahia playing at the Wigmore Hall, Helen had a long night ahead, terrified of sleeping alone since the black labradors had departed, even more terrified of waking to the horrors of life without Malise and a new one hundred thousand pound Lloyd’s bill.

The telephone was ringing as she came through the door. Malise? An instinctive desperate hope, but it was only a friend who’d been in church bossily summoning her to a dinner party.

‘Only ten of us, do you good to get out. Eight for eight-thirty, strictly caszh.’

Helen had never been casual in her life.

‘I’m not up to it, Annabel.’

‘Course you are, I’ve asked Meredith Whalen for you. Such a duck and when one gets to our age, I’m afraid one has to put up with gays.’

‘Why should some poor gay have to put up with me? I’m sorry, I can’t.’

Helen banged down the receiver with such force the roses on the hall table scattered dark red petals all over the flagstones, joining a shoal of leaves which the icy wind had swept in through the still open front door. The drawing-room flowers were dropping. She mustn’t let standards slip. The telephone rang again.

‘I truly can’t, Annabel,’ she shrieked hysterically.

‘Signora Gordon,’ said a deep caressing velvety voice, ‘’Ow are you. Theese ees Rannaldini ’ere.’

He was so gently solicitous that Helen found herself quite able to accept an invitation to lunch on Wednesday, when Rannaldini’s spies had made sure Marcus would be safely at the Academy.

Helen had always prided herself on her homework, but on this occasion she had no need to buy any of Rannaldini’s CDs, Malise had collected most of them, admiring their clarity, colour and controlled passion.

Helen also rewatched Rannaldini’s famous video of Don Giovanni and found it deeply disturbing as the cameras lingered on Hermione Harefield’s rosy romping nudity and even more so on the still cold face and beautifully moving hands of Rannaldini himself.

She was horrified that with Malise only two months dead she should be thrown into such a panic at the prospect of lunching with such a fatally glamorous man, or how resentful she felt towards Malise for leaving her too poor to buy a new dress. She couldn’t find her newish olive-green cashmere anywhere, wretched Tabitha must have whipped it, which meant she had to fall back on the Saint Laurent black suit she’d worn to Rupert’s and Taggie’s wedding. At least its white puritan collar would hide the dandruff which had snowed down since Malise’s death.

Wednesday morning brought more devastating bills. Helen, who’d been up at first light, spent the morning in tears tidying unnecessarily. She had felt her daily woman’s chaperonage when Rannaldini arrived was more important than the gossip Mrs Edwards would later impart round the village.

But as a final straw, Mrs Edwards rolled up, puffing with excited disapproval and brandishing a bad-taste piece in The Scorpion. Who would Helen, the most beautiful widow in England, marry now? Suggestions included Pierce Brosnan, Boris Levitsky, Richard Ingrams, Edward Heath, Julian Clary, Lysander’s father, David Hawkley — a darkly handsome headmaster who was, as The Scorpion pointed out, a dead ringer for Malise; and, horror upon horror: Rannaldini, photographed smouldering on the rostrum.

Helen couldn’t stop blushing, as she told Mrs Edwards, that by extraordinary coincidence Signor Rannaldini would be popping in that morning to look at the colonel’s unpublished work on the flute.

‘I must f-find a f-folder for it,’ she stammered, bolting upstairs.

‘And I should coco,’ muttered Mrs Edwards, taking a hefty slug of the colonel’s sloe gin before strategically positioning herself with the Antiquax in the study off the hall. Not that there was much to polish. The poor little soul couldn’t stop cleaning since the colonel had passed away.

In front of her dressing-table Helen prayed her blushes would not spread to horrible red blotches on her neck. Starting on her face, she plucked a grey hair from her left eyebrow, and five more from her temples, combing lustreless tendrils over her hair line to hide more dandruff. It would be drifting soon.

Taking her hand-mirror to the window she gasped in horror. With a compass, despair and worry had scratched new lines round her pinched mouth and reddened eyes.

Outside, the garden looked horribly untidy, half the trees stripped, half-showing rain-blackened limbs at awkward dislocated angles as they struggled out of their red-and-yellow rags. Then before her eyes a gust of wind covered the lawn with leaves again. Malise had insisted on sweeping them up at once. The leaves would break her in the end.

Glancing in the mirror she saw that tears had left a blob of mascara on her cheek-bone. As she wiped it away the skin stayed pleated. Helen gave a groan. She couldn’t face Rannaldini. Mrs Edwards would have to say she was ill.

But, bang on midday, punctual for the first time in his life, Rannaldini landed his big black helicopter on the lawn sending all the leaves swirling upwards around him as he leapt out; Don Giovanni returning from the eternal bonfire.

‘Blimey,’ said Mrs Edwards, applying Antiquax on top of Antiquax.

For Rannaldini was stained mahogany from ten days studying scores in the Caribbean sun. Wading through the leaves like a surfer he handed Helen a big bunch of tabasco-red freesias. Then he briefly put his arms round her so she could enjoy the muscular springiness of his body and its sauna-warmth as though he had indeed emerged from hell-fire.

‘I know exactly how tired and lonely and cold you feel all the time,’ he murmured, then stepping back and staring deep into her eyes. ‘But nothing dim you great beauty. No wonder autumn ees in retreat when you upstage heem like this.’

Rannaldini had always been able to lay it on with a JCB. Blushing redder than the freesias Helen invited him in while she put them in water.

Better than a film star, thought Mrs Edwards, kicking the study door further open as she rubbed Antiquax into the blue damask arm of a chair.

As Helen belted off to find a vase and slap on another layer of Clinique foundation, Rannaldini explored the charming drawing-room, with its apricot walls, faded grey silk curtains and glass cases containing Helen’s porcelain collection. One would have to break the glass to reach her as well, reflected Rannaldini.

He thought it a particularly beautiful room because of the preponderance of his records and because of a photograph of Tabitha on the piano. Bareback, astride an old grey pony, her hair was in a blond plait and her eyes were as cool and disdainful as Rupert’s.

The elm is a patient tree, it hateth and waiteth, thought Rannaldini lasciviously.

Malise had had a good eye for paintings. Rannaldini admired a Cotman and a little Pisarro, but what had possessed him to hang that frightful oil of poplars against a sunset with a cow which looked more like a warthog in the foreground? Then he read the rather obtrusive signature: Helen Gordon.

On a side table was an open poetry book.

Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

could have recovered greenness? read Rannaldini.

In the desk the green leather blotter wouldn’t close round the sheaf of bills. Flipping through them Rannaldini saw that Helen really was in trouble. The Cotman and the Pisarro would soon be off to Sotheby’s.

Hearing her footsteps as she returned with the freesias in a saxe-blue jug, he turned back to her painting.

‘This is excellent.’

‘Oh, how darling of you. Malise liked it. I didn’t have much time but perhaps now-’ Helen’s voice trailed off, then pulling herself together she picked up a file on a side-table.

‘You said you’d like to see Malise’s unpublished work. Have you really got time?’

‘It is huge honour, I will make time,’ lied Rannaldini.

Mrs Edwards was polishing the hall table now to have a better look. The Colonel had been a real gentleman, although rather frail towards the end, but this fellow looked as though he had three or four more pints of blood pumping round his veins and that lovely Boris Chevalier accent.

‘You help Malise?’ asked Rannaldini.

‘I made suggestions,’ said Helen eagerly.

‘How lucky to have someone to share one’s life work.’

Rannaldini’s deep sigh fluttered the pages as he returned them to the file.

‘It’s fascinating how the flute was given the cold shoulder by musicians in the nineteenth century,’ began Helen earnestly, ‘because it lacked sufficient expressive range.’

‘May I?’ To shut her up, Rannaldini took Malise’s flute out of its case, tuned for a second and started to play.

‘Prokofiev. Malise played that.’ Helen’s eyes filled with tears.

‘I am sorry. I will stop.’

‘No, no, I never dreamt I’d hear it again so soon. Do you play other instruments?’

‘Piano, oboe, trumpet, bassoon, violin, teemps.’

‘Goodness, with so many accomplishments what made you become a conductor?’

Rannaldini laughed.

‘Because at heart every man wants to be a fuhrer. We must go to lunch. I take you home.’ Then seeing the apprehension in Helen’s eyes, added, ‘Don’t worry, my secretaries, my gardener, my ‘ousekeeper and her ‘usband, my driver, Uncle Tom Cobbley and probably his grey mare will all chaperone you.’

As the helicopter circled the Old Rectory before turning south, Helen could see Mrs Edwards belting down the drive twenty minutes early and gave a wail.

‘I forgot to put on the alarm, I’m so scared of being burgled.’

Rannaldini smiled at her. It’s already too late, my darling.

Orange leaves of beech, saffron flames of larch still flickered in the umber woods as they flew over the little village of Paradise up the River Fleet to Rannaldini’s house, Valhalla, lurking pigeon-grey and wrapped in its conspirator’s cloak of trees.

Helen had a heady glimpse of tennis-courts, a swimming-pool, the dark serpentine coils of a yew-tree maze, wonderful gardens, horses out in their rugs in fields sloping down to the river and deep in the wood, the watch-tower, where Rannaldini worked and seduced. Valhalla itself, narrow-windowed and brooding had been built before the Reformation.

‘I’ve been reading a fascinating book on the dissolution of the monasteries,’ began Helen.

Not wanting another lecture, Rannaldini whisked her down dark passages, past suits of armour, tattered banners and tapestries into a red drawing-room.

‘How pretty,’ gasped Helen.

‘Meredith Whalen decorate it and the kitchen when I was married to Keety. You ’ave such exquisite taste, I pay you to theenk up new colour schemes.’

‘Oh, I couldn’t take your money.’

‘My child,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘I know you need eet, as I need your help to exorcize bad memory of my life with Keety. Next week I go to Prague for ten days. By the time I return you must think up something wonderful.’

But Helen was crying again.

‘Malise and I were going to Prague on 21 November for our anniversary. Malise tried to get tickets for a production of Don Giovanni at the Stasis Theatre. Mozart premièred it there in November 1787, you know, and that was where they made Amadeus. But it was sold out.’

‘Because I am conducting,’ smirked Rannaldini.

‘Of course, how stupid of me,’ said Helen appalled. ‘Since Malise died I don’t remember anything.’

‘Eet ees shock. It’ll come back.’ Rannaldini poured her a glass of Pouilly-Fumé. ‘You shall come to Prague with me instead.’

‘But I can’t leave Marcus and I can’t afford it,’ babbled Helen.

‘You will be my guest. I stay in flat. I book you room in nice hotel. I will send you plane ticket and ticket for Don Giovanni just for twenty-four hours, you deserve a treat.’

Putting a warm hand on her neck as comforting as a wool scarf just dried on the radiator, he led her down more passages to the big kitchen whose walls were covered in a glossy green paper, populated by jungle animals and birds.

‘I certainly couldn’t improve on this,’ sighed Helen.

‘I want eet changed,’ said Rannaldini chillingly. ‘Keety loved the parrots and the humming-birds. I want eet out. Sit down. I will make your lunch.’

‘A bowl of soup will do,’ stammered Helen. ‘I can’t eat at the moment.’

‘Then you will start.’

From a next-door office, despite faxes billowing out like smoke, four telephones constantly ringing and the raindrop patter of expensive computors, Rannaldini’s secretaries, who’d all read The Scorpion, kept finding excuses to pop in and gawp at Helen.

Princess Margaret’s office had rung, they said; Domingo wanted advice on an interpretation; Sir Michael Tippett wondered if Rannaldini had had a moment to look at his latest opera; Hermione had rung four times. Rannaldini said he would call them all back later.

As he cooked, checking rice, throwing pink chunks of lobster into sizzling butter, then laying them tenderly on a bed of shallots, tarragon and tomatoes, separating eggs, boiling down fish stock, Helen talked. Her tongue loosened by a second glass of wine, she told him about her money problems, the big house she couldn’t afford to keep up, Marcus’s asthma and her worries about his friendship with Flora. She was delighted when Rannaldini dismissed Flora as ‘an evil little tramp’.

‘We will take Marcus to the mountains,’ he went on warmly, then his voice thickened like the eggs in the double saucepan. ‘How about your daughter?’

‘Quite out of control.’ Helen didn’t want to tell him how incensed she had been about the appropriation of the olive-green cashmere. So she added: ‘At half-term Tabitha borrowed my credit card saying she needed some school books, then used it to buy a pair of jeans and spend the afternoon on a sunbed. I cannot stand such vanity and such lies.’

Rannaldini, who was no stranger to lies and would have been quite out of control on a sunbed with Tabitha, expressed his disapproval. Topping a cloud of white rice with butter and putting it in a slower part of the Aga, he gave the lobster sauce a stir, and started chopping up chives for a salad of lettuce hearts.

‘How can you do so many things at once?’ marvelled Helen.

‘I am conductor.’

Helen wandered over to the screen which Kitty, over the years, had lovingly covered with photographs of Rannaldini and the famous.

‘Everyone’s here,’ she cried, thinking what fascinating people she would meet if Rannaldini became her — er — friend.

‘Why d’you record in Prague?’

‘Because it’s ten times cheaper than London or New York. Not speaking ill of your country, Helen, but I am tired of New York. Last time I record a Haydn symphony the shop steward sit watching second ‘and go round, four seconds to go, eight bars from the end, he leap on to the stage. “All right, you guys, it’s over.” I tried to keel him. I had to be pulled off. Eet takes an act of congress and then of God to get rid of musicians over there.

‘I am almost broken man,’ sighed Rannaldini, belying it by removing his suede jacket to show off his splendid physique. ‘But I must not talk any more, I will burn your lunch.’

Putting a white mountain of rice on each emerald-green plate, he spooned over the sizzling lobster mixture, then poured on the buttery sauce, topping it with a dash of cayenne.

‘Voila!’

‘This is too much,’ protested Helen.

‘You weel eat every bit, even if I have to feed you.’

Rannaldini filled up her glass again.

How wonderfully easy to give dinner parties, if one were living with Rannaldini, mused Helen, and think of the guest list. Her eyes strayed again to Kitty’s screen.

‘It is quite, quite delicious,’ she said in awe.

As he told her his plans for the future Rannaldini’s warm eyes never left her face.

‘The leaves tumbling down remind me of new leaf I must turn over. I am tired of jetting round world. I must settle down in this lovely house, write music and build up a great orchestra of wonderful musicians, who would not be always chasing engagements and money like the London orchestras or threatening strike action like the guys in New York.’

‘You could be another Simon Rattle,’ said Helen warmly.

Rannaldini scowled.

‘The CBSO is second-rate provincial orchestra,’ he said haughtily.

‘You can’t say that. Malise always felt-’

Fortunately Rannaldini’s third secretary popped her head round the door to say the Princess of Wales was on the line.

‘My dear,’ Rannaldini took the telphone, ‘may I ring you back in one hour.’ He’d be leaving for the Albert Hall to conduct Turangalila around five o’clock.

Helen was so speechless with admiration that this great Maestro should find time for her she forgot about Simon Rattle.

‘Why don’t you come with me this evening?’ asked Rannaldini, playfully spooning the last of her lobster into her mouth.

‘I must get back for Marcus.’

‘Eef only I had had a mother like you.’

‘Will Hermione Harefield be singing in Prague?’ asked Helen. ‘This salad is so good.’

‘No, she sing in Aida in Rome, and elephant run away with her. Nellie the Elephant pack her trunk and run away with Hermione,’ sang Rannaldini. His face was expressionless but he gave Helen a wicked side-glance and she burst out laughing.

‘Poor Hermione. I have to confess,’ Helen went on, ‘I do have reservations about Don Giovanni as an opera. The Don reminds me so much of Rupert,’ she gave a shiver, ‘and the way he used to get his best friend Billy Lloyd-Foxe to cover for him like Leporello.’

‘I know,’ Rannaldini slid his hand over hers. ‘Jake Lovell talks of you often, how terribly unhappy Rupert made you.’

‘How kind of Jake,’ said Helen, touched.

‘Jake threw you life-belt when you needed it,’ said Rannaldini. ‘But long term he would have bored you, you are much too bright for him.’

Machiavellian, Rannaldini pressed every organ stop of Helen’s vanity.

‘That’s why he let you go,’ he added, knowing perfectly well that Jake had dumped Helen.

‘Do you think he’s happy with his wife?’

‘Jake dream of you often,’ lied Rannaldini, selecting a ripe peach, caressing its downy curves, ‘And who would not?’ Picking up a knife, he laid bare the gold flesh.

Helen found herself not only sharing the peach with him but, after another glass, agreeing to come to Prague.

Rannaldini’s secretary then brought in a pile of fan mail.

‘Have you sewn that button on my tail-coat?’ he called after her shapely departing back.

‘People think being a conductor,’ he continued as in dark green ink he scribbled his name on each letter, ‘is all helicopters, jets and princesses, but eet consist of worry where you’ll stop long enough to get your laundry done.’

‘Genius shouldn’t have to worry about clean shirts and missing buttons,’ said Helen shocked. ‘Rupert never bothered to answer fan mail,’ she added.

‘That appal me,’ Rannaldini signed a couple of photographs. ‘Eef by writing back to these young people I can lead them on to a lifetime of loving music, it is small thing.’

‘What a genuinely good man you are,’ Helen suppressed a belch. ‘How people have misjudged you.’

‘Come for a walk,’ said Rannaldini, putting his huge wolf coat round her shoulders. ‘How it become you, a leetle lamb in wolf’s clothing.’

As they walked up a path behind the house, the low afternoon sun kept parting the clouds, shining through yellow-and-orange leaves, so they glowed like amber and topaz. Rannaldini picked up a red beech leaf and held it against a soft brown wand of ash leaves.

‘You must always wear brown with your red hair,’ he told her. ‘Black is too hard.’

As they passed a monk’s graveyard, Helen noticed a little pink flower with bright crimson leaves growing out of the wall.

‘What a dear little plant.’

‘It ees called Herb Robert, all the year it flower, the monks used the leaves to staunch flow of blood.’

‘Herb Roberto,’ teased Helen, as they stopped to lean on a mossy gate. ‘Such a beautiful name, why don’t you use it?’

‘My mother, who reject me, call me that.’

‘Roberto,’ repeated Helen softly.

‘Coming from your lips it sound bettair.’ Not wanting to frighten her, Rannaldini decided against a kiss.

As they turned for home, a biblical ray appeared through the clouds spotlighting Valhalla and the saffron larches, as though the place was on fire.

‘Look Helen, it is omen, my past go up in flames like Götterdämmerung. I bring you on this walk,’ Rannaldini took her hand, ‘because the trees at the top of the wood never turn because they only get sunshine in the evening. Oh Helen, let us have some sunshine in the evening of our lives.’

Helen squeezed his hand, so moved that she couldn’t speak.

‘Before you come to Prague,’ said Rannaldini, ‘I must send you my video of Don Giovanni.’

Helen, who prided herself on telling the truth, took a deep breath.

‘We have the video, Roberto, but I must say, neither Malise nor I thought it was your best effort. The music was delightful but all the sexual innuendo and the nudity seemed to trivialize the production.’

‘Go on,’ said Rannaldini icily.

‘And we both felt that the camera rested on your face too much. Although it’s fascinating watching a great conductor at work, it rather distracts from the action.’

‘My Don Giovanni achieve higher rating than EastEnders.’

‘It had popular appeal maybe, Roberto,’ said Helen earnestly, ‘but I think you are capable of greater things.’

‘Do you indeed?’ Rannaldini gazed fixedly ahead.

Realizing she had goofed, Helen said hastily, ‘I guess it’s my fault, as I said the Don is so like Rupert.’

‘How is Rupert’s exquisite wife?’ asked Rannaldini silkily.

Helen’s face tightened; she was wildly jealous of Taggie. Not only had she made Rupert happy, she was also adored by Marcus and Tabitha, and when he was alive, by Malise.

That’ll teach her to slag off my Don Giovanni, thought Rannaldini in amusement.

‘I expect she’s busy chaining herself to some railing to stop lambs and calves being shipped alive to the continent,’ said Helen tartly.

The thought of Taggie Campbell-Black being chained to anything excited Rannaldini unbearably.

‘Peter Maxwell Davies is on the telephone.’ The second secretary greeted Rannaldini and Helen as they entered the house. ‘Have you looked at his symphony yet?’

‘Put it in my briefcase, I do it tonight,’ Rannaldini looked at his watch.

‘Do you admire Boris Levitsky’s Berlin Wall Symphony?’ asked Helen, anxious to keep her end up. ‘Malise and I were overwhelmed by it.’

‘Hopelessly derivative. Boris speak of being divinely inspired by the great composers.’ Sneeringly, Rannaldini pretended to pick up a telephone, ‘’Allo, Beethoven, ’Ow are you? I am ready to receive message, I take it down… and out come chopsteeks.’

‘That’s unfair,’ said Helen reprovingly. ‘Boris is very dear. He’s been so supportive since Malise died, he rings me three or four times a week. I know Marcus would love him as a stepfather,’ she added defiantly, and then felt absolutely miserable.

She is very insecure, decided Rannaldini, Malise had restored her confidence and hung a picture-light over her beauty; now it had gone out.

Changing tack, he said gently: ‘Many men would like to be Marcus’s stepfather. Eef you didn’t like my Don Giovanni, I must give you other records and eef you won’t come to Albert Hall, Clive, my chauffeur, will drive you home.’

Later that evening, Marcus endured a half-hour moan about bills from a restless, sobered-up Helen. He then pointed to Nielsen’s Flute Concerto and Mahler’s Resurrection Symphony lying on the piano.

‘If we’re that broke, why are you buying that bastard’s records?’

Startled, because Marcus was normally so tolerant, hoping Mrs Edwards wouldn’t drop her in it, Helen tried a grey lie.

‘Rannaldini wrote me a delightful letter, admiring Malise’s flute book and sent me the Nielsen and the Mahler because he thought I needed cheering up.’ Helen gave a deep sigh.

‘Sure, Mum, Rannaldini’s still a fiend. He wiped out Flora and he crucified poor Kitty. You ask Lysander.’

‘Lysander stole Rannaldini’s wife,’ said Helen furiously.

‘Because Rannaldini was so unfaithful to her. He’s randier than Dad’s Jack Russells.’ Then, as Helen winced, added, ‘Small man syndrome. Although for a small man he casts a long shadow, and he’s got a repulsive black-leather-clad henchman called Clive, who takes women off the bone for him.’

Helen shuddered.

‘Why does he dislike Boris so much? I read it somewhere,’ she added hastily.

‘Boris is taller,’ said Marcus, ‘and a million times more talented. Rannaldini only admires musicians who are dead.’

‘This article said he could be nice.’

‘Only because it’s such bliss when the electrodes stop.’

FOURTEEN

Helen was appalled. The last thing she wanted was another promiscuous sadist. When Rannaldini called, she’d just refuse politely. But Rannaldini did not call. Expert at fostering addiction, he knew exactly how to give a blue glimpse of Paradise before slamming the skylight shut. Whizzing off abroad, he left Helen to stew for a fortnight until she was diving for the telephone, snatching letters from the postman and scanning the pallid November skies praying one of the circling rooks would grow into a big black helicopter.

Then, on the morning of the opening night, when she had abandoned all hope, Rannaldini rang blithely from Prague.

‘I hope you are coming; a messenger will drop tickets for plane and for Don Giovanni within the hour. Clive will meet you at Prague. I book you into charming discreet hotel, L’Esplanade.’

‘I didn’t know I was expected,’ Helen’s voice scraped down a blackboard of indignation. ‘I can’t make it at such short notice.’

‘I didn’t want to pressure you,’ confessed Rannaldini. ‘An I wasn’t sure of production, but eet come good.’ Then, after a long pause, he whispered, ‘I need you, Helen.’

As Helen arrived at Heathrow, a defiant red sun leaving the western sky aflame had just been sucked below the dark horizon like Don Giovanni.

Never had Helen been less prepared for a trip; normally every local legend would have been memorized, every fine church charted. In anticipation of their own proposed trip, Malise had bought her a guide book to Prague. But she had been too superstitious to open it and once she was on the plane she couldn’t take in a word. She kept panicking about things, including her wits, she had left behind.

To avoid the Bourbon-breathed attentions of a businessman with hairy nostrils in the next seat, she accepted a copy of The Times from the hostess, only to find among the birthdays that international conductor, Rannaldini, was forty-four today — on the cusp of Scorpio and Sagittarius, those two most volatile and darkly virile signs. Rannaldini must want to share his birthday with her and she had brought no present except a first edition of Malise’s book on the flute. How awful.

Although fog symbolizing her confusion delayed the plane by nearly two hours, Rannaldini’s Leporello, the sinister Clive, his light eyes as unblinking and expressionless as a cobra’s, was still waiting. Helen kept as far away from his lean leather-clad body as her seatbelt would allow. She was so thin now, there would be nothing for him to take off the bone.

She was far too uptight to be more than fleetingly aware of empty, ill-lit restaurants, floodlit fortresses and spires, a gleaming river and overcrowded unkempt trees, trying to escape over park railings.

As the Czechs had only recently had mass access to cars, the driving was hair-raising. Clive swore under his breath as somehow avoiding head-on collisions he hurtled Rannaldini’s black Mercedes down the narrowest of streets, rattling over the cobbles as if he would bang the heads of the tall lowering houses together.

The hotel, as Rannaldini predicted, was charming, with a crescent of smiling receptionists.

‘Take your time, we’ve missed the first act,’ Clive called after her, as an ancient, knowing porter drove the rickety tram of a lift up to the fifth floor.

Seeing her pinched, twitching reflection in the lift mirror, Helen was overwhelmed with longing for Malise; he’d always thought she looked beautiful and would have known exactly how many kopeks to tip the porter.

The next moment she was gasping with joy for her entire room was filled with different coloured freesias, embracing her in their sweet heady scent. Beside a blue glass bowl spilling over with persimmons, peaches and passion-fruit was a bottle of Krug on ice and the bathroom was full of soap and bottles containing every permutation of Balmain’s Jolie Madame. How darling of Rannaldini to have realized it was her favourite perfume.

More magical still, on the drab beige bedspread lay a long crushed velvet dress in the same soft umber as the drenched ash wand he had picked up in the wood. On the dressing-table was a red leather case from Cartier’s and a letter.

My darling,

The dress is to go with your beech-leaf hair. In box is small present to echo the stars I will put back in your eyes.

In hope,

Rannaldini.

Collapsing on the bed so hard it nearly broke her back, Helen opened the box. Inside glittered a diamond necklace. The dress was wonderfully becoming, the high neck and long sleeves concealed her jutting collar bones and refugee arms. The ribbed clinging velvet made her look saluki-slender. But what would happen when Rannaldini undressed her and found the skeleton beneath the skin? And how could she not sleep with him after accepting these gifts? She wouldn’t mind so much if her bottom hadn’t dropped and if she didn’t feel so leaden-limbed and out of practice. What would happen if she froze inside as she had done so often with Rupert?

The clasp of the diamonds nearly defeated her shaking hands. She was going home. The telephone rang. Oh, why wasn’t it Malise?

‘Whenever you’re ready,’ lisped Clive’s voice.

As Helen came out of the lift, he was singing to himself.

‘Where’s my master, Don Giovanni?

Making love to youth and beauty

While I stay on sentry duty.’

But there was no admiration in his face. He preferred the more butch male singers from the chorus.

It had been the worst pre-opening week he could remember, he told Helen on the drive to the theatre, Rannaldini’s clashes with singers and orchestra had been epic.

‘Musicians here are used to working for the state and having the same job for life, so it doesn’t matter if they learn the parts or arrive on time. They’re very bolshy. All the singers were in tears at the dress rehearsal. Donna Anna said first-night nerves were a doddle compared with Rannaldini’s rages.’

I’m the one with the first night nerves, thought Helen. Clive shouldn’t discuss his boss like this.

‘It’s incredible to think,’ she said reprovingly, ‘Mozart himself conducting the première of Don Giovanni in this very theatre more than two hundred years ago.’

‘And Casanova was in the audience and wrote some of the libretto,’ leered Clive, thinking Rannaldini would have left both the Don and Casanova standing this week. ‘There’s the theatre.’

Ahead, romantically and softly lit by old-fashioned street-lamps and hung with window-boxes full of clashing red-and-mauve geraniums, rose a square, peppermint-green building. The foyer was flanked with hefty pillars that would have challenged even Sampson.

‘How beautiful,’ sighed Helen. ‘If only we weren’t so late.’

‘In Mozart’s day it was fashionable to be late and not stay the course,’ said Clive as he locked the car doors. ‘The Kings and Princes of Prague used to make a quick exit from the royal box down those,’ he pointed to an outside staircase, ‘so they could rush off to their fancy pieces.’

Helen looked bootfaced. Clive was far too familiar. Then they both jumped at a deafening machine-gun rattle coming from the auditorium: the traditional applause for the conductor at the beginning of the last act.

‘Shit,’ muttered Clive.

Only by brandishing his identity card as Rannaldini’s minion, did he manage to smuggle Helen past the doorman, who had had death threats not to admit latecomers.

‘Does Signor Rannaldini know I’ve arrived?’ asked Helen as they belted up the wide spiral staircase.

‘No,’ lied Clive. ‘Once an opera starts Rannaldini cannot be disturbed. He hates to lose the mood. He paces the conductor’s room like The Prince of Darkness. Sometimes in the interval he has a shower and changes his shirt in a trance, not realizing it.’

‘There are moments when art transcends everything,’ panted Helen.

But, as Clive smuggled her into a box overlooking the pit, the door banged and, in her nervousness, Helen dropped her bag with a clatter. There was a horrified silence. Bows stopped moving, wind and brass players stopped breathing. Rannaldini whipped round in a fury, he was known to scream at latecomers, or worse still, hurl down his baton and storm out.

But, as he caught sight of Helen, huge-eyed in the half-light, diamonds glittering at her graceful neck like the Pleiades, he gave a wonderfully theatrical start and stopped conducting. Donna Elvira languishing on her balcony, Don Giovanni and Leporello swapping clothes in the shadowy garden and all the musicians looked at him incredulously as though a metronome had broken down.

Rannaldini gazed at Helen. Then a smile of such rare sweetness and joy spread across his face that a ripple of laughter went through the orchestra and the nearby boxes and everyone was desperately craning round and leaping to their feet to see the beauty who had stopped the great Maestro in his course.

Hastily Rannaldini pulled himself together.

‘I am sorry.’ Briefly he turned to the audience then back to the musicians and singers, ‘We begin the trio again. Taci injusti core.’

The exquisite music started, Don Giovanni resumed his amorous escapades. Helen was overwhelmed. Clearly, even for Rannaldini, there were times when love was much more important than art. Clive was grinning broadly when, during an exuberant tutti, he slid back into the box bearing a bottle of champagne, a glass and a plate of caviar.

‘With the Maestro’s compliments,’ he whispered. ‘He was worried this afternoon that you might not have had time to eat.’

The toast was still warm — like Rannaldini’s hands. Helen quivered with excitement. Marcus had so misjudged him. She must eat a little but she mustn’t crunch too loudly.

In the dim light she admired Mozart’s theatre. Gold tiers decorated with plump white cherubs rose up and up to a huge unlit chandelier. Oblong gilt mirrors on the inside of each slate-blue velvet box, huge gold tassels on the midnight-blue curtains on either side of the stage, the musicians’ instruments all added to the subdued glitter.

Below her, in a pit bigger than one of the Czech Grand National’s fearsome ditches, the musicians played as if their lives depended on it.

It was also a mark of Rannaldini’s genius that after such an interruption, he immediately got his glamorous cast of unknown singers back on course without any slackening of tension. It was also obvious, except to a dazzled Helen, that after her arrival both Donna Anna and Donna Elvira sang of the pangs of love with even more tearful conviction. Zerlina, exuding snapping sloe-eyed sexiness in a cherry-red peasant’s dress, on the other hand, was glaring at Rannaldini as she defiantly flashed soft white thighs and black stockings, held up by one red and one purple garter, at her stodgy lover, Masetto.

But Helen had only eyes for Rannaldini, bewildered that such energy should come out of such stillness. His hardly moving stick twitched like a cat’s tail. His hair, now raven-black with sweat, was the only evidence of expended energy.

They were into the moonlit graveyard now. As Giovanni vaulted over the wall to boast of more conquests to a terrified Leporello, Helen thought once again, with the anger of too much champagne, how like Rupert he was.

Then she gasped in terror as the gaunt grey statue of the Commendatore on his stone horse came to life and to the doom-laden accompaniment of the trombones uttered the first dreadful greeting to the Don.

‘Your laughter will be silenced before morning.’

‘Who goes there?’ undaunted by any ghost, Giovanni swung his machine-gun round the tombstones.

As the sepulchral voice rang out again ordering him to leave the dead in peace, Helen’s blood ran even colder. The statue looked so like Malise on his deathbed. Malise had rescued her from Rupert, now he seemed to be warning her from the grave to stay away from Rannaldini.

But Helen was most unnerved by the lascivious halfsmile on Rannaldini’s face as the handsome young Don, still raging and unrepentant, was finally sucked down into a quicksand of leaping flame.

‘A-a-a-h!’

It was like watching a great aeroplane crash. The Prussian-blue curtains closed like the gates of hell. There was a stunned pause as the audience realized Rannaldini had scrapped the last moralizing chorus. Then followed a deafening roar of applause. As the lights went up and the vast chandelier glittered like a huge thistle overhead, Helen could see the full beauty of the theatre, its soft blues and golds like a sunlit day at sea. But loveliest to Helen were the tier upon tier of ecstatically cheering people.

Down below the musicians were shaking hands and hugging each other in delight, as the cast trooped onto the stage, elated but slightly bewildered at such an ovation. How pretty the girls were, strong-featured, red-lipped, lusty and displaying such full white breasts as they bent to gather up the carnations raining down.

Rannaldini got the greatest cheer of all. For a man who’d been conducting for two hours forty minutes, who was black under the eyes and whose suntan had faded, he looked magnificent, smaller than any of the men but dwarfing them with his personality. Donna Elvira and Donna Anna, on either side of him, had kicked off their high heels and the audience cheered even louder as he kissed their hands and then reached out for the hand of Zerlina who was sulking down the row.

Then the chorus returned and everyone sang ‘Happy Birthday’ in Czech and Donna Elvira presented Rannaldini with pink roses and a bust of Mozart.

Helen was in despair. Surrounded by such youth and vitality, how could he bother with a scraggy wrinkly like herself? Grabbing her bag she frantically applied blusher then jumped as Clive banged on the door.

‘Time to congratulate the Maestro.’

As he led her down into the dingy catacombs behind the stage, she was reminded of Dante’s Inferno, but was reassured by a glimpse of the Commendatore. Having removed his grey make-up and his white wig to reveal a ruddy complexion and wavy yellow hair, he was now putting on bicycle clips and eating a sausage sandwich.

The conductor’s room was pandemonium. The screaming matches, the fearful bullying had been forgotten in the euphoria of an historic performance. Cast and musicians alike were pouring in to thank Rannaldini, bringing him hastily written cards with their addresses on. Rannaldini, because he could see Helen working her way down the long queue, and he wanted to create an impression of amiability, bothered for once to shake hands with everyone and promised to return as soon as possible.

Still in his tails, he had only had time to remove his white tie and gardenia. He was burning hot, yet wringing with sweat, as he took Helen in his arms.

‘My beautiful child, I ’ave longed for this moment,’ he murmured in English, too fast for the Czechs to understand, then sotto voce to Clive, ‘Get rid of everybody at once.’

‘You will come on to our party, won’t you, Maestro?’ pleaded Donna Elvira.

‘I bake birthday cake for you,’ whispered Donna Anna, pocketing his discarded gardenia.

‘I must have shower, I will see you later,’ said Rannaldini.

Zerlina said nothing, but her mascara was streaked with tears as Clive frogmarched her without any gentleness down the passage.

The moment they had gone Rannaldini locked the door.

‘That was a most exciting p-p-erformance,’ stammered Helen.

Rannaldini smiled evilly.

‘You wait till later, my angel.’

Helen blushed. ‘It was far more erotic without nudity.’

‘I leesten to you,’ said Rannaldini gravely.

‘Oh, if I was some small help,’ Helen was in heaven. ‘And the way you control them all with this tiny stick.’ She picked up his baton, ‘It’s a magic wand.’

‘I weesh I could transform thees room into a bower of bliss,’ said Rannaldini fretfully.

Nothing could have been less seductive than the fluorescent lighting, the ugly brown carpet, the repro desk and hard chair, the fitted cupboards, the pedal dustbin, the fridge and shower behind a dingy beige plastic curtain.

‘You should see my room in New York,’ Rannaldini hastily kicked a purple garter under the desk.

‘But enduring art, not surroundings, are what matters,’ said Helen earnestly. ‘And thank you so much for this wonderful dress, Roberto, and the flowers, and the caviar and champagne and these beautiful diamonds. But it’s not my birthday.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Cutting short her thanks, Rannaldini lifted the diamonds and slowly kissed her collar bone, caressing it with his tongue until she was squirming with desire.

‘I must be the one person in the world who didn’t know it was your birthday,’ she whispered. ‘The only thing I brought you was a first edition of Malise’s book, but it’s at the hotel.’

‘That ees the present I want second most in the world,’ said a delighted Rannaldini. ‘Now I feel Malise geeve us his blessing.’ As he gently fingered her ribs, the ball of his thumb was pressing against the underside of her breast.

‘The present I want you to geeve me most ees yourself.’

But, as he moved into the attack, Helen leapt away.

‘We can’t, people know we’re in here, you ought to change, you’ll catch your death.’

Rannaldini deliberated. Many women were desperately turned on by a burning, sweating après-concert body. Helen was probably too fastidious. The elm is a patient tree. Rannaldini got a bottle of white out of the fridge and filled two glasses.

‘Will you wait while I have a shower?’

Embarrassingly aware, a few seconds later, of Rannaldini naked behind the shower curtain, Helen said she would put his roses in water.

‘They droop already, unlike me,’ Rannaldini shouted over the gush of water. ‘I am so pleased you are here. Kiri and Placido say the same. Everyone pours in and kisses you, saying how wonderful it was, then they drift away.’

‘None of those young women wanted to drift away this evening.’ Helen was unable to keep the edge out of her voice. ‘I am sure everyone felt you should have played the Don. That boy was much too young for the part.’

‘The libretto describe Giovanni as a licentious young nobleman,’ protested Rannaldini. ‘I am neither young nor noble.’

‘Any moment you are going to be ennobled, Sir Roberto,’ said Helen archly, then as Rannaldini emerged from the shower, his sleek still brown body as smooth as butterscotch, a big white towel slung around his hips, she caught her breath.

‘And after Malise,’ she faltered, ‘you seem very, very young to me.’

‘That is kind.’ Rannaldini turned back to the basin to clean his teeth.

‘As I was saying, people drift away after a concert theenking you have more important people to see, so you go back to your hotel, hyped up, totally alone, and you ring home and say, “The applause went on for fifteen minutes,” and they say, “Yeah, yeah, I’ve got this ghastly problem with the deesh washer.”’

‘I’d never bother, I mean, genius should never be bothered with problems like that,’ said Helen aghast, totally forgetting how often she moaned to Rupert when he was show-jumping in the old days.

Rannaldini turned, flashing beautiful clean teeth at her.

‘Come here my darling, stop playing games.’

‘Don’t you want to go to your birthday party?’

‘Certainly not.’ There would be far too many recently pleasured members of the cast wanting repeat feels.

Sliding into a splendid red silk Turnbull and Asser dressing gown, he picked up the bottle and glasses and sang in a rich baritone:

‘You lay your hands in mine, dear

Softly you’ll whisper, yes

Tis not so far to go, dear

Your heart is mine, confess.’

‘You sing beautifully,’ sighed Helen, taking his hand.

‘Come, let me show you Mozart’s theatre.’

‘Where is everyone?’ quavered Helen as he led her up and down steps along pitch-black passages.

‘Gone home,’ said Rannaldini, who’d tipped the night porter more than he earned in a year. ‘Wait ’ere, don’t move.’ He let go of her hand.

Helen was petrified, the darkness was strangling her. Then she heard footsteps.

‘Rannaldini?’

There was no answer.

‘Don’t play games with me.’

Suddenly she saw a flicker ahead, oh thank God, Rannaldini was lighting candles. Stumbling forward she gave a piercing shriek as she found herself looking up into the livid face of the Commendatore’s horse.

‘Over here. You must not be so jumpy.’ Rannaldini drew her over some cables to where candles were flickering merrily on either side of a vast carved bed hung with turquoise-and-white striped curtains and foaming with white linen sheets and laced pillows.

‘Who’s this for?’

‘Giovanni chase Zerlina round eet in Act One. Let’s have some moonlight.’ Rannaldini tugged down the moon from Act Two so it shone dimly into the four-poster.

But as he drew her towards the bed, Helen began to tremble violently.

‘Come.’ Rannaldini stooped to pull her dress over her head. ‘It is time for the butterfly to emerge from her chrysalis.’

Helen burst into tears; it was the same trick she had used to halt the Rake’s progress of Rupert twenty years ago. Rannaldini, too, was all contrition.

‘What ees eet, my darling?’

‘Malise was just so like the Commendatore. Tonight’s our wedding-anniversary, I feel he was trying to warn me off. All those young women drooling over you this evening. Marcus told me you were dreadfully promiscuous.’

‘A good boy to protect his mother,’ said Rannaldini smoothly, vowing to sabotage Marcus’s piano career at the first opportunity.

‘And why didn’t you call me for two weeks?’

Rannaldini sunk to his knees, burying his face in her concave belly.

‘Because I knew I was unworthy. You are so lovely you would have stopped both Casanova and Giovanni on their road to ruin. I, too, have been wicked. Oh Helen, save me from the flames.’

Rannaldini was gratified to feel tears dropping on his forehead. Gotcha!

Leaping to his feet he pushed her back on to the bed.

‘I’m so scared, Rannaldini.’

‘Do not be, we play little game.

Behold, your faithful lover

Lives for you alone,’

sang Rannaldini, really straining to reach the top notes.

‘Think no longer on that appalling moment.

Your father and your husband shall I be.

‘You felt safe with Malise,’ he went on, ‘because he was both father and lover to you, and made you feel like a little girl. Tonight, let us pretend this little girl has sunk into a decline, because she is so sad. Her family is worried so they invite important doctor from London to see her.’

Sitting on the bed, Helen felt a squirming excitement.

‘The doctor geeves her medicine,’ Rannaldini raised a glass of wine to Helen’s lips, stroking her hair with his other hand.

‘Now she must undress — ’ very slowly he drew the brown dress over her head — ‘so the doctor can examine her all over.’

Gently he began to stroke Helen’s freckled shoulders and arms.

‘She is lovely but much too thin.’ Rannaldini peeled off her grey silk petticoat. The next moment her grey silk bra had followed slithering suit.

‘Ah, how sweet.’ In delight Rannaldini gently massaged her breasts. ‘How small they are, but the kind doctor will prescribe injections and a diet to make them full and beautiful again. Look how the nipples shoot out like sycamore buds. The leetle patient is very, very excited,’ he went on, ‘but she is frightened, her mother is downstairs and the doctor seem to be taking a leetle too long. Now he has peeled off her very clean knickers.’

Helen gave a moan of helpless excitement.

‘Look at her little bush, like a damp fox, naughty excited leetle girl.’

Rannaldini’s smile was satanic. The concentration in the heavy-lidded eyes was total. His voice was deep, slow, hypnotic.

‘Eef the doctor suggest an operation, he would have to shave her so she is even more like leetle girl.’

‘That’s perverted.’ Helen leapt to her feet in agitation.

But Rannaldini’s great strength pushed her back.

‘Every bit of her body must be explored.’ He drew a magnifying glass out from under the pile of pillows. ‘See she has sweet little clitoris, quite beeg enough for pleasure, the doctor stroke it to see ifit is in good working order. And it is, see how easily he slides his fingers in, one finger, now two, good little girl.’

Helen arched and groaned too excited to care any more, buckling against the relentlessly stabbing fingers, writhing beneath the delicately stroking thumb.

‘The doctor is excited, too, he knows with loving he can cure all her seekness.’

Just for a moment his fingers emerged and trailed downwards.

‘Shall the doctor examine his little patient in an even more shaming and private place? She will find it so naughty and exciting, she will beg and beg for more.’

‘No.’ Helen was struggling. ‘Please, Rannaldini, no.’

‘Another time.’ His fingers were stabbing again, her breath was coming faster and faster.

Quickly Rannaldini slid out of his dressing-gown, his body dark gold in the flickering candlelight, his splendid cock raised for the down beat.

‘Look, he geeve you standing ovation. This is most awesome steeple you will see in Prague, my darling.’

Helen’s ‘A-a-a-ah’ rivalled the Don’s, but hers was of ecstasy, as Rannaldini blew out the candle, and plunged deep into her and darkness. He had never dreamt he could make her so wildly excited.

‘Nobilmente sed appassionata,’ whispered Rannaldini as he drove on to conquest, and this time the metronome never faltered.

FIFTEEN

Helen was woken by such beautiful music she thought she had fallen asleep with the wireless on at home. Then she took in the gutted candles, the blue-and-white striped curtains, and breathed in a feral waft of Maestro clinging to the wolf-coat which Rannaldini had solicitously laid over her naked body.

Wriggling into the coat she stumbled across the dimly lit stage, to find Rannaldini already dressed. He was holding a score and picking out a tune on the harpsichord. Hearing her, he looked up and smiled.

‘I didn’t wake you.’

‘What time is it?’

Rannaldini glanced at his huge Rolex.

‘Quarter past seven.’

‘I haven’t slept through the night since Malise died.’

‘That’s because you were so tired and so loved.’

‘What’s that tune? I know it so well.’

‘On a different instrument. I conduct Missa solemnis in Berlin tonight. It is very difficult piece so I flip through score, that was violin solo from the “Benedictus”.’

‘Didn’t you sleep?’

‘I was too happy. People say it’s mistake to get your heart’s desire. I’m thoroughly enjoying it.’

Edging through the music-stands he lifted her down from the stage.

‘My leetle lamb in wolf’s clothing.’

Collapsing against him, hoping he’d make love to her again, she whispered: ‘I love you, Roberto.’

‘Good,’ smirked Rannaldini. ‘What is the purpose of the lamb but to feed the wolf?’

Not taking on board what he said, Helen picked up the huge score covered in red-and-blue pencil marks.

‘You work so hard.’

‘Not so hard as Beethoven. In his own words, “You must sacrifice all the little things of social life for the sake of your art.” That’s why you must never fret if I don’t call you, I am only making love to Beethoven.’

Leading her to the harpsichord he picked out the exquisite tune again.

‘The violin ascend to heaven like we did last night. When I conduct Beethoven, I am so proud I am half-German. Because Beethoven had greatest struggle to write the Missa, he thought it his greatest work. A friend drop in when he was composing the “Credo”, he found poor Beethoven, “singing, howling and stamping”. Oh Helen, I dream of composing again, you must be my muse.’

Seizing her hands, he gazed deep, deep into her eyes, then he said playfully: ‘But muse and genius must be fed. Get dressed and ’ave a shower, my darling, I have to listen to some pianist who beg me to hear her.’

The pianist, dark, plump, very young, was playing Chopin’s Fantasie Impromptu quite brilliantly when Helen returned to the auditorium. Instantly Rannaldini halted the girl and introduced her.

‘This is Natalia Philipova. Now what ees it you want to know, Natalia?’

The girl clasped her hands

‘I know I have years of hard work in front of me, Maestro, I am willing to practise eight hours a day and more. All I want to know is if you think I can ever make it as a soloist.’

Rannaldini examined his fingernails.

‘Not in a million years,’ he said smoothly. ‘You will be able to give your friends and your family a lot of pleasure, I advise you to leave eet at that.’

‘You were a bit rough on that poor kid,’ reproved Helen.

‘I save her ten years of wasted time,’ said Rannaldini.

They were sitting in a little café in the main square which looked like an Ideal Home Exhibition of best architecture down the ages. They had breakfasted on croissants, damson jam, slivers of cheese, rolled-up slices of ham with cream billowing out of each end like brandy snaps and black expresso laced with cognac.

‘Usually I go off my food if I’m attracted to a man,’ said Helen, sounding perplexed. ‘But when you’re around I seem to eat like a labrador.’

‘That’s because the strict doctor,’ Rannaldini ran a leisurely hand up her thigh into her groin, ‘has ordered his little patient to start eating again.’

Helen flushed, horrified she should have been so wildly exhilarated by last night’s games.

Rannaldini waved for the bill.

‘Come. I have one hour to show you Prague. Let us go to Charles Bridge which, thank God, is closed to cars.’

As they walked down to the river Helen gave a cry of joy. On the opposite bank the old city stretched itself luxuriously in the first sunshine of the day. All higgledy piggledly, cupolas, turrets, domes, roofs and spires in soft pink, ochre, peppermint-green and drained turquoise, rose like casually stacked stage-sets. Against the blue skyline was a cathedral with a faded sea-green dome topped with a gold star, next to it stood a tawny castle with crenellated battlements like a child’s fort.

‘Who lives there?’

‘Havel,’ said Rannaldini smugly, ‘I dine with heem on Thursday.’

But most breathtaking of all was the river itself. Mist was rising filling the great arches of the bridges, curling in wisps over the icy water. The result was a million shifting shadows. The trees and the houses on the bank cast different shadows on the mist and the moving water. The shadows of the mist, wisps themselves, and the swans and ducks gliding in and out of these wisps, cast and received shadows of their own.

‘Everywhere Zeus is searching for Leda,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘And see how the sooty black statues across the bridge cast the darkest shadows of all.’

Furious not to have mugged up the city and because Malise had always praised her recitations, Helen launched into The Tempest.

‘The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,

The solemn temples, the great globe itself,

Yea, all which it inherit, shall dissolve

And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,

Leave not a rack behind.’

‘This rake is not going to be left behind,’ mocked Rannaldini, putting his arm through hers to lead her over the bridge.

‘You are getting cold. The Russians may have left Prague, but icy wind still blow straight from Moscow.’

Sixties music was belching out of a loud speaker. The people pouring over the bridge, as if to repudiate any accusation of Communist drabness, wore brilliant collars: violet, turquoise, shocking pink, but their bulky anoraks and strap-under-trousers looked very out of date.

As the mist thinned in the sunshine, the river seemed to be strewn with cobwebs. The statues, on the other hand, were covered in real, frozen cobwebs, which glittered on the sad, strong Slav face of Christ on the cross like a veil of tears.

‘I theenk of Prague as Sleeping Beauty that’s only just awaked. Two sleeping beauties,’ Rannaldini turned and kissed Helen’s lips, his dark glasses only an extension of his black impenetrable eyes. ‘And last night you awake.

‘There’s St Christopher.’ Moving on, he pointed to more statues. ‘And St Cyril and St Barbara, patron saint of miners. Kafka wrote story about bridge, describing her beautiful hands. The statues ’ave to be restored and rebuilt every year.’

‘Like a face lift,’ said Helen.

‘You will never need one,’ Rannaldini touched her cheek, ‘You have eternal youth.’

They had reached the centre of the bridge. Upstream the river still steamed like a race horse. Downstream it was as smooth and green as crème de men the with a striped pink pleasure launch chugging towards them, and cafés with their umbrellas down on the bank.

‘Now we come to Prague’s most famous saint, St John of Nepomuk,’ said Rannaldini, ‘who was the Queen’s confessor in fourteenth century. Her husband, King Wenceslas IV, was a thug. The story about him setting out in snow with page boy, wine and pine logs to cheer up some peasant, ees balderdash.’ Rannaldini’s eyes creased up with malicious laughter. ‘This Wenceslas was insanely jealous of his beautiful wife and torture her confessor to reveal her secrets. When Nepomuk refuse, Wenscelas pull out poor man’s tongue and chuck him in river.

‘But,’ Rannaldini pointed to a brass plaque set into the side of the bridge, showing the unfortunate monk being heaved over the side, ‘where he land, five bright gold stars spring out of river, and hover there until Nepomuk’s dead body was fished out.

‘This is spot where he went in.’ Picking up Helen’s hand, Rannaldini placed it on ajagged gold cross on top of the bridge wall. ‘Over centuries lovers come to touch the cross together,’ Rannaldini spread his big hand over hers, ‘in the hope that their love will last and prosper.’

Burying his face in Helen’s neck, he breathed in the last vestiges of Jolie Madame.

‘Now you know why I breeng you here.’

‘What a beautiful story,’ sighed Helen, glancing back at the plaque, ‘the body of the poor monk is bright gold, too.’

‘That is where people have rubbed his body for luck over the centuries.’ Rannaldini stretched out his hand, idly caressing the upside-down Nepomuk.

The plaque also showed the Queen making her confession to Nepomuk through a grill. Nearby her cruel handsome husband idly stroked an adoring lurcher. But the tension in his body showed how hard he was listening. How often during her first marriage had Helen lurked on landings and outside rooms trying to overhear Rupert making assignations?

‘The King even looks like Rupert,’ she was thinking aloud now. ‘He’s got the same Greek nose and long eyes.’

‘He love his dog more than his wife,’ teased Rannaldini.

‘I nearly cited Rupert’s dog Badger as co-respondent,’ said Helen bitterly.

‘I think you are more in mourning for your first marriage than the second,’ mocked Rannaldini.

‘My first one nearly destroyed me. I can’t go back to that again.’

The mist had almost disappeared. Upstream a flotilla of air balloons hung like teardrops. Artists were setting up easels. A street musician playing ‘Lili Marlene’ on the accordian was tipped with unusual generosity by Rannaldini.

‘We could have done with you in the orchestra last night, my friend.’

‘Thank you, Maestro.’

‘How good you are to everyone,’ sighed Helen.

‘One more saint.’ Rannaldini led Helen beyond the bridge and down some stone steps to the water’s edge on which stood a lone statue of a slim young knight with a lion at his feet and a gold sword glittering in his hand.

‘Now listen carefully,’ Rannaldini paused in front of the statue. ‘St Brunswick save the lion from a cruel and wicked dragon. Consequently the lion became Brunswick’s devoted companion and also the symbol of Prague. Brunswick’s job was to guard the city.’

‘The day the Communist walk in in 1949,’ Rannaldini’s beautiful voice flowed on like the river, ‘Brunswick’s gold sword totally vanish. The legend was that it would only return when Prague was freed. The very night Prague was liberated,’ suddenly Rannaldini seemed to have difficulty speaking, ‘the joyful crowds sweeping over the bridge notice the gold sword was back in place in Brunswick’s hand.’

‘A miracle,’ said Helen shakily.

Rannaldini nodded. Removing his dark glasses he drew Helen into the lichened, blackened arch of the bridge and kissed her.

‘Since Keety leave me I have not been able to put my heart into conducting, let alone composing. Last night, with young inexperienced musicians and singers, we produce performance of a lifetime. Later while you sleep, you look so beautiful, I write my first music in fifteen years. I dedicate it to you. You have freed my inspiration and given me back my gold sword so I can protect you.’

‘Oh Rannaldini.’ Tears were glittering on Helen’s face like frozen cobwebs. ‘That’s the dearest thing anyone’s ever told me.’

‘Who would have thought my shrivel’d heart

Could have recovered greenness?’ murmured Rannaldini, remembering the open poetry book on the table at the Old Rectory.

‘That’s my favourite poem,’ said Helen in amazement.

Midges were dancing like mist shadows against the bridge wall. Tourists drifting by gazed down on the beautiful couple.

‘I must go.’ Reluctantly Rannaldini tore himself away. ‘Tonight I will conduct Missa just for you, my darling.’

If he had asked her to follow him to the end of the world, let alone Berlin, Helen would have gone.

As they drove back to the hotel, Rannaldini told Helen he was spending Christmas in his house in Tuscany with his children and two of his ex-wives.

“Ow about you?’ he asked.

‘I shall be staying with Rupert and Taggie and my children,’ said Helen, showing off how well she, too, got on with her ex.

The temperature dropped perceptibly.

‘No doubt you weel have the pleasure of meeting my third wife, Keety and her husband Lysander, Rupert’s leetle catamite.’

Helen looked startled.

‘I’ve always thought Rupert and Billy, his best friend, were unnaturally close, but Rupert’s always been aggressively heterosexual.’

‘Typical homophobic behaviour,’ said Rannaldini dismissively.

‘Not a very intellectual Christmas for you, my dear. At least you can enjoy the sainted Taggie’s cooking.’

SIXTEEN

Helen arrived at Penscombe on Christmas Eve and hadn’t been in the house five minutes before Taggie realized what a dreadful mistake it had been to invite her.

She had put Helen in the most charming spare room, overlooking the lake and the valley and newly decorated with powder-blue walls, daffodil-yellow curtains and a violet-and-pink checked counterpane. Flames danced in the grate, and on the bedside table were a flowered tin of shortbread still warm from the oven and Christmas roses in a silver vase.

Helen immediately pointed out that Taggie was so lucky to be able to afford to redecorate and this was the room she’d so often slept in after fearful rows with Rupert. Then, when Taggie stammeringly offered to move her, Helen sighed that all Penscombe reminded her of how unhappy she had been.

Taggie was also desperately worried about Marcus, who had driven his mother over and who looked absolutely wretched, and was already getting on Rupert’s nerves.

‘Why does he keep saying “Oh, right,” when it plainly isn’t?’

Unlike Helen, who drooped about not helping at all, Marcus, despite his asthma exacerbated by Rupert’s dogs, insisted on carrying in endless baskets of logs, chopping onions until he cried, spending hours peeling potatoes, apples and, most fiddly of all, sweet chestnuts. In return, Taggie had had the ancient yellow toothed piano in the orange drawing-room tuned but every time Marcus tried to practise Rupert’s terriers started howling.

Marcus, in turn, was also desperately worried about Helen.

‘I’m sure she’s having a nervous breakdown,’ he confided to Taggie. ‘She won’t stop crying.’

He felt as ineffectual as the flakes of snow that were drifting down and losing themselves in the rain-drenched lawn and the gleaming wet paving stones.

‘They always say the first Christmas is the worst,’ said Taggie sympathetically.

What neither of them realized was that Helen was only suicidal because Rannaldini hadn’t been in touch since Prague — not a telephone call, not even a Christmas card. She was far too proud to tell anyone that he had dumped her after a one night stand, just because she was spending Christmas with his enemy.

Christmas Day was even more fraught. Among the guests at Penscombe was Rupert’s father, a merry old Lothario, just liberated from his fifth marriage.

Having opened and drunk all the miniature bottles in his stocking before breakfast, he spent the day plastered, pinching bottoms and calling Taggie and Helen by each other’s names.

Opening presents had also been a nightmare because Helen, who seemed to have been given so little, insisted on watching everyone else open their presents.

‘I’m honestly not interested in material possessions,’ she kept saying quite untruthfully.

She was in addition appalled that despite Marcus’s entreaties, Rupert had not used Christmas to slip her a large cheque or announce that in future he would be giving her an allowance.

Tabitha was also acting up dreadully. After two and a half years she still carried a torch for Lysander who with Kitty had been invited to Christmas dinner. She was insanely jealous that Xav and Bianca seemed to have been given many more presents than her.

Finally she was enraged because Rupert had only given her a new car, a dark green Golf convertible, for Christmas when she’d wanted a brilliant young event-horse called The Engineer. Rupert, however, had desisted because Tabitha had ploughed all her GSCE exams in the summer and because the asking price of twenty thousand pounds for the horse was too high.

This omission had triggered off a blazing row which was exacerbated by Tabitha’s refusal to come to Matins.

‘What have I got to thank God for?’ she shouted. ‘He hasn’t given me Lysander or The Engineer and I don’t know why you’re uptight about my GCSEs — your wife’s never passed an exam in her life.’ With that, she stormed out banging the door.

Unable to cope with his first wife at any time Rupert spent most of Christmas Day out of the house. Traditionally the grooms had the day off, so he used it as a marvellous excuse to escape with Lysander to the yard to do the horses.

He was in a twitchy mood anyway because there had been a lot of dropped telephone calls since yesterday. Rupert was only too aware of how beautiful and young his wife was, and he suspected Dr Benson’s handsome new partner and Kevin, the leftie social worker, who’d overseen Xav and Bianca’s adoption, of both being in love with her. Ghastly Kevin had even given Taggie a rose for Christmas which had been planted outside the back door, and which Rupert kicked every time he passed.

And now Kev had had the temerity to drop in — natch at drinks time — bringing Colombian wooden dolls for Xav and Bianca. He had been invited to stay on for smoked salmon and champagne by Taggie, desperate to provide Helen, very frosty from being called ‘Taggie’ and having her bottom pinched by Rupert’s father, with some intelligent conversation. Helen, who was now nose to nose on the sofa talking to Kevin about Nepalese folk music, winced in anticipation of the inevitable upheaval as Rupert swept in followed by Xavier and his usual pack of dogs.

Seeing Rupert’s bootfaced expression Kevin tried to humour him.

‘This little chap’s new,’ he said, pointing to an adorably floppy black labrador puppy with hooded tobacco-brown eyes and vast paws, who was romping with Rupert’s lurcher, Nimrod.

‘He’s mine,’ said Xav, joining both dogs on the floor. ‘Daddy gave him to me for Christmas. He’s called Bogotá.’

‘You never stop nagging me to find Xav a black friend, Kevin,’ drawled Rupert. ‘And now I have.’

‘I didn’t mean-’ began Kev, his Adam’s apple wobbling furiously.

‘Of course you didn’t,’ said Helen in outrage. ‘Why must you trivialize everything, Rupert? One simply cannot underestimate the importance of ethnic origins.’

‘Why aren’t you living in America then?’ snapped Rupert.

‘Rupert,’ said Taggie appalled, which gave Rupert the excuse he needed.

‘I know when I’m not wanted,’ he said and, gathering up Xav, stalked out of the house.

Running after him, but failing to catch him, Taggie returned to the drawing-room.

‘It’s so sad,’ Helen was saying to Kev, ‘that Rupert hasn’t got any easier over the years.’ Then, turning to Taggie, said, ‘I’m afraid I can’t cope with scenes like that, I’m going to lie down.’

There should have been eleven for dinner, five women and six men. As well as Lysander and Kitty, Taggie had invited Lysander’s father, David Hawkley, who, as a handsome widower and a headmaster, would have been perfect for Helen, but unable to face an English winter he had pushed off to Mykenos. Tab’s boyfriend, Damian, whom she tolerated as second best to Lysander, had taken umbrage, after being called a leftie yobbo by Rupert once too often, and ducked out as well. Then, after a mysterious telephone call this morning, Rupert’s father Eddie had asked if he could bring a woman friend, which meant they were two women extra.

Pre-dinner drinks were scheduled for seven-thirty. By seven o’clock Taggie had reached screaming pitch. The geese were sizzling enticingly, the Christmas pudding bubbling, the red cabbage, the celery purée, the crème de marron were warming gently in the left of the Aga and the potatoes cut round and as small as olives only needed frying very fast in clarified butter at the last moment.’

Bianca, however, had been given a maddening Christmas present — a cordless toy telephone which rang when she pressed a button and which everyone, particularly an increasingly jumpy Helen, kept mistaking for the real thing.

In addition, Taggie had been driven crackers all afternoon listening to the chatter of Mrs Bodkin, Rupert’s ancient housekeeper, who was more hindrance than help, and refereeing fights beween dogs and children. These had culminated in a screaming fit from Bianca, because a bored Nimrod had chewed the feet off Kevin’s Colombian doll. This had resulted in Taggie shouting at Bianca and dispatching a disapproving Mrs Bodkin to take her up to bed.

And Rupert wasn’t even here to write out the place names for her; it would be so humiliating if she spelt them all wrong in front of Helen. She couldn’t ask Marcus as he’d gone off to collect Flora, who, to Helen’s irritation, he had invited for moral support.

Taggie was panicking; she hadn’t even changed when there was a knock and a plump, smiling face came round the door.

‘Oh Kitty,’ said Taggie and burst into tears.

‘Whatever’s the matter?’ Kitty dumped brandy butter, winter fruit salad, apple sauce and mince pies down on the kitchen table.

‘Everything,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘Tab’s in a screaming strop. Rupert’s pushed off to the pub and I don’t think he’ll ever speak to me again for giving Ann-Marie Christmas week off and asking Helen to stay. And she’s been just awful. She hasn’t lifted a finger and can’t stop looking at everything and saying, “New picture, new carpet, new sofa,” and it’s years since she b-b-buggered off and Rupert and Lysander have worked so hard and done so well in the last two years, we’re entitled to have something new.’

Kitty patted Taggie’s heaving shoulders; she’d never seen her friend in such a state.

‘I’m sorry,’ sniffed Taggie. ‘And I’ve been vile to poor darling Bianca, and I haven’t said hallo to you, Arthur, are you having a nice Christmas?’

Arthur nodded. A blond, beaming bruiser just two and a quarter and capable of causing considerable havoc, he was clutching a toy trumpet. Having wriggled out of his blue duffle-coat, he was only interested in finding his hero, Xavier.

‘Xavier’s not back yet, darling,’ said Taggie. ‘He’s pushed off with his rotten father.’

‘Go and change,’ said Kitty soothingly. ‘Lysander’s gone to the pub to get some drink. He’ll bring Rupert back. I’ll take care of everything.’

‘If you could keep an eye on the goose and feed the dogs, and put out a bowl of puppy food for Xav’s puppy when he gets back. You do look nice,’ Taggie admired Kitty’s blue wool dress.

‘It’s a bit ’ot,’ admitted Kitty, ‘Lysander gave it to me. I’m ashamed we’ve had such a lovely day. Arfur and I didn’t get up till lunch-time and Lysander came back to bed after he and Rupert had done the ’orses, and you’ve been slaving away.’

Wearily Taggie climbed the stairs to Bianca’s bedroom where there was no lack of ethnic reminders. The yellow walls were covered with posters of Colombian countryside, sweeps of orchids, giant water-lilies and the lake where El Dorado’s gold was hidden which looked like a green yolk in a jagged grey eggshell of rock.

Bianca was never angry for long. Now, wearing new red pyjamas covered in reindeer, her dark curls tied on top of her head to keep them dry in the bath, she was bending over a doll’s pram putting her new footless doll to bed.

‘No, you tut up, Rosie,’ she was saying sternly, ‘I’ve been working my ass off all day for you.’

Giving a gasp of horrified laughter, Taggie gathered up Bianca and covered her with kisses.

‘Oh my angel, I’m sorry I swore at you. I love you so much.’

With her pale coffee-coloured skin flushed from the bath, her big black eyes and her loving smile, Bianca was the most beautiful child in the world, and had the sweetest nature, although spoilt rotten by everyone.

‘Mummy tired, mummy crying,’ said Bianca, then reaching over she pressed her new telephone.

‘Hallo,’ she said, ‘I’m afraid Rupert can’t take your call at the moment.’

Taggie giggled.

‘God knows what he’s up to,’ she took Bianca’s hand. ‘Come and talk to me while I get ready.’

But going into her bedroom, Taggie gave another utterly uncharacteristic howl of rage. Half her wardrobe had been pulled off its hangers and dropped on the floor, or on top of Nimrod, who was stretched out on the bed. He now raised a purple see-through shirt with his waving tail. Taggie’s tights drawer had been ransacked and the only sheer black pair filched. The pale pink camisole top Rupert had given her for Christmas had vanished, as well as her new pale amethyst satin blazer.

Charging into the bathroom she found her make-up box upended, and shampoo, eye-drops, hair dryer and God knows what else, missing.

‘Tabitha,’ she screamed up the stairs, ‘how fucking dare you?’

‘Anything the matter?’ Helen appeared out of the bedroom opposite.

Just your bloody daughter, Taggie wanted to shout.

But, clenching her fists, she managed to control herself. ‘Sorry, I was yelling at one of the dogs.’

There was a pause. Helen was wearing long black velvet with a scooped neckline showing off jutting collar bones. Deciding to look tragic rather than stunning, she had left off her jewellery except Malise’s regimental brooch.

‘What a lovely dress,’ said Taggie dutifully.

‘It’s hanging off me,’ quavered Helen, ‘I’ve lost over a stone since Malise died.’

Shutting the door firmly behind her, she went on, ‘And I don’t have enough shoes to let Rupert’s damn dogs eat them. I suppose he’s not back. No? He was always disappearing like this when I was married to him.’

Going towards the stairs she jumped as the telephone rang.

‘Hallo,’ piped up Bianca. ‘Is that Tabiffa? How fucking, fucking dare you.’

Taggie had no time to do more than wash, tie back her lank hair and put on a peacock-blue dress covered with red poppies, which Rupert loathed but which was the only uncreased thing in her wardrobe.

‘Have a drink,’ she said going into the drawing-room.

‘Oh, champagne,’ sighed Helen, ‘I wish I could afford it at home.’

She was obviously bored with Kitty who, encased in her blue wool, was getting pinker by the minute.

How could Rannaldini have married and been upset by the departure of such a frump? wondered Helen.

Everyone, except Helen, was cheered up by the arrival of Flora who was wearing a grey silk shirt tucked into black velvet knickerbockers. Her red hair, tied back with a black bow, had all the shine and bounce that Helen’s had lost. She was also weighed down with presents: a Body Shop basket for Helen; Beethoven sonatas played by his hero Pablo Gonzales for Marcus; a tape called ‘Let’s Ride to Music’ for Rupert — ‘I thought your father would at least know “The Galloping Major”; and a long clinging silver-grey silk jersey cardigan for Taggie.

‘Oh bliss,’ cried Taggie overjoyed.

‘Marcus said your eyes were silver-grey.’

‘I’ll put it on straightaway. Marcus, darling, can you open another bottle?’

‘Isn’t this room gorgeous?’ Flora looked round, then seeing Helen looking broody and sensing her despair, Flora delved into her carrier bag.

‘I forgot. Boris sent you this, Mrs Gordon.’

‘How very dear of Boris.’

‘It was dear,’ said Flora, ‘cost most of Boris’s last advance from the BBC and it’s the first present he’s ever wrapped up. “I cannot cope with this chello tape,” he kept saying.’

‘Open it, Mum,’ urged Marcus, but Helen had put it on a side-table.

‘Where’s Grandpapa?’ asked Marcus.

‘Gone to collect his mystery guest,’ giggled Kitty. ‘It’s like What’s My Line? Is she in show business? Does she provide a service?’

‘That’s probably them,’ said Helen, as the dogs barked, but soon the barks turned to wimpers of excitement as Lysander weaved in, beautiful in a dinner-jacket and already drunk.

Having kissed Kitty in delight, hugged Flora, who was an old friend, clapped an arm round Marcus’s shoulder and shaken Helen’s hand, he proceeded to tell them what a wonderful time he and Rupert had had in the pub, and how much Xav had won on the fruit machine.

Lysander was a beautiful rider and his sympathy with horses had contributed hugely to Rupert’s successful transition to the flat.

‘Marcus says you’ve done brilliantly,’ Flora told him.

‘I did brilliantly at Christmas,’ giggled Lysander, ‘look what Arthur gave me.’ Raising a leg to show off luminous Father Christmas socks, he nearly fell over.

How could Kitty have left Rannaldini for such a silly boy? thought Helen in amazement.

Lysander nearly fell over again when Taggie walked. in wearing her new silver cardigan. Like Penscombe streams in the winter sunshine, it glittered so radiantly on her long slim body that no-one noticed her lank hair or her laddered tights.

A second later she was followed by Xav storming in on a new motorized tractor, followed by Bogotá and Nimrod, fighting noisily over a chewstik shoe. Xav had a glossy pudding-basin hair-cut these days. His eyes were speculative, arrogant and almost straight. He had been so happy since he moved to Penscombe that he had acquired all the confidence of a young rajah.

‘Where’s your father?’ asked Taggie through gritted teeth.

‘Changing,’ said Xavier.

‘He’s changed.’ Rupert sauntered in doing up his cuff-links, and headed straight for Taggie who ducked her head when he tried to kiss her.

‘You’re an absolute shite,’ she hissed.

‘I am a shite in wining armour.’

‘It is not funny. There are masses of bottles to open and no-one’s done the seating plan.’

‘Good, I can sit next to you, you are so beautiful.’

‘And you are so drunk and late.’

Rupert tried to pull himself together. ‘Go and open the red wine,’ he ordered Marcus. ‘And get some logs. We haven’t met.’ He nodded at Flora, then seeing Kitty, now scarlet in her blue dress, said, ‘Evening, Mrs Hawkley, you’re well rugged up.’

Kitty was terrified of Rupert and he, in turn, didn’t see the point of her at all, but she kept Lysander on the rails and got him up in the morning, even if she did look like boiled bacon.

‘Did you bring me a present?’ Xav asked Flora.

‘I certainly did, but you’ve got to share it with Arthur and Bianca,’ said Flora, handing him a large box of chocolate willies, which triggered off screams of laughter and excitement.

Only Helen looked disapproving. Typical Flora. What with his ex-wife and his cast-off, she was reminded of Rannaldini at every turn. And now Tabitha had stalked in, ravishing in Taggie’s pink camisole top and amethyst blazer, a purple mini round her groin, clean blond hair flopping over her angry blue eyes and flawless skin.

‘Lovely jacket,’ murmured Flora enviously.

‘That’s Taggie’s,’ snapped Rupert.

‘So?’ Tabitha glared at her father.

‘I lent it to her,’ mumbled Taggie. Oh, why was she so wet? Unable to face a showdown she fled to the kitchen where Marcus was opening bottles of Château Latour and had lit all the candles in the dining-room.

‘You are an angel,’ sighed Taggie.

At least the little potatoes were a perfect golden brown as she topped them with chopped parsley. The smell of truffle-flavoured goose was too much for the dogs who formed a slavering crescent round Taggie as she edged them out of the oven.

‘You’re so lucky to be able to escape to the kitchen.’ It was Helen’s shrill voice again. ‘You shouldn’t be humping logs, Marcus. Hi, Mrs Bodkin,’ Helen embraced her old housekeeper. ‘Surely you’re not working on Christmas Day. We used to get village girls in in the old days.’

You are definitely going to get this boiling fat in your face in a minute, vowed Taggie. It was twenty-past eight, everything would be ruined if Eddie didn’t show up soon.

‘Can’t wait to see my father’s latest bimbo.’ Rupert refilled everyone’s glasses.

Then, over more barking, a deep voice cried; ‘Coo-ee, everyone, we’re here.’

‘Oh no.’ Flora looked at Marcus in horror.

‘Timeo Danaos et prima donna ferentes,’ sighed Marcus.

The next moment, Eddie, wearing a dinner-jacket green with age, and leering like Old Steptoe, walked in with Hermione, who was wrapped in a cranberry-red wool cloak with an ermine-lined hood looking as deeply silly as she did stunning.

‘So caring of you to include me in your festivities,’ she said, advancing on a flabbergasted Rupert with outstretched hands.

‘I didn’t know you knew my father.’

‘Eddie and I are old friends,’ said Hermione with a roguish twinkle. ‘Other dear friends begged me to sing at their Christmas Eve soirée, it was so late when I got to bed and the Christmas Day flights are so hopeless, Eddie persuaded me to fly out tomorrow.’

‘Where are you going?’ asked Rupert.

‘To Rannaldini’s, where else? My partner Bobby and little Cosmo are already out there. Rannaldini’s taken a Bohemian castle for the festive season, he likes to have all his children and ex-wives around him.’

‘Not all,’ said Lysander, putting an arm round Kitty.

‘Oh, there you are, Kitty,’ Hermione ignored Lysander. ‘What’s happened to my Merry Widow contract?’

Sliding out of her red cloak and a red-and-white Hermes scarf, she handed them to Eddie.

‘Put them in the hall, dear, and bring in my gifts.’

She was looking wonderful in boned red velvet with a bell skirt which showed off her comparatively small waist and pretty legs. A huge ruby pendant glowed above her big breasts.

I cannot believe this, thought Helen in mounting hysteria, Rannaldini’s ex-wife, his cast-off and now his mistress.

Having handed round CDs of her latest hit, ‘Santa of the Universe’, Hermione was now embracing Taggie before presenting her with a box of last year’s crystallized fruits and the salmon-pink gladioli, wrinkled in their Cellophane, which she’d been presented with the night before.

Barely acknowledging Flora, whom she detested, she turned joyfully on Helen.

‘How are you? How are you? We met many moons ago with Rannaldini at Bagley Hall.’

‘How is he?’ whispered Helen.

‘Oh, full of beans. He was telling me your late husband-’ Hermione bowed her dark head. ‘I’m so sorry, we won’t discuss it — wrote a wonderful book on the flute. I want you to have an advance copy of “Only for Lovers”.’

Helen looked down at the CD case which showed a smirking Rannaldini with his hands on Hermione’s bare shoulders.

‘Thank you,’ she mumbled, then leapt as the telephone rang. Rannaldini must have got the number from Hermione, but Rupert had already picked it up.

‘Cun I speak to Tubitha?’ he said acidly. ‘Can’t you ever find a boyfriend who speaks the Queen’s English?’

Snatching up the telephone, Tabitha flounced out.

Helen was looking round at the Turner of Cotchester Cathedral against a rain dark sky, at the Landseer of mastiffs and the Stubbs of two chestnut mares under an oak tree.

‘That’s new,’ she said, nodding beadily at the Lucian Freud of a whippet and a rather muscular nude.

‘It reminded me of Nimrod,’ Rupert smiled down at his lurcher, who was striped black and brown like a bull’s eye.

Having romped all day with his new friend Bogotá, Nimrod was stretched out on the sofa, fawn belly speckled with mud, paws in the air, chewstik shoe in his mouth, gazing adoringly up at his master out of one shiny onyx eye.

‘What used to hang in its place?’ asked Helen perplexed.

‘The Ingres, I sold it.’

‘How could you?’ said Helen appalled.

‘I hate big dark lard-like women,’ said Rupert, glaring at Hermione, who bored with charming Eddie, came bounding towards him. Rupert was her real prey.

‘What happened to that Colombian lad you were thinking of adopting?’

‘He’s here,’ said Rupert, beckoning Xav.

Getting no reaction from the boy’s impassive, watchful face, Hermione cooed: ‘May I have one of your chocolates?’

As she helped herself, putting her red lips over the knob, Lysander got such giggles he had to hide behind the curtain.

‘I bet you don’t know what my name is,’ Hermione smiled winningly.

‘Yes I do,’ said Xav.

‘Bet you don’t.’

‘Yes I do. It’s Mrs Fat Bum.’

‘Rupert’s father’s brought a bumbo,’ murmured Flora, as a shaking Lysander disappeared again.

‘Dinner,’ announced Taggie.

All Taggie’s efforts to make the dining-room look pretty had paid off. The pale scarlet walls and ivy-green curtains were echoed by a centrepiece of snowdrops, holly and Christmas roses. The only lighting reflected in glass and silver came from the flickering fire, fifty white candles and the picture lights over the family portraits.

‘That was me,’ said Eddie, nodding at a handsome youth in uniform.

‘Oh, what a relief,’ Helen’s voice quavered. ‘You’ve changed nothing here.’

‘Except wives,’ said Rupert. That’ll teach her to be nicer to Taggie, he thought, as Helen brimmed and bit her lip.

Rupert, on the other hand, had taken a shine to Flora and, as there was no seating plan, put her on his left with Hermione as the lesser of three evils on his right, and Helen between her and Eddie, who was on Taggie’s right. Marcus, Tabitha, Lysander and Kitty could sort themselves out.

‘It’s perfect,’ he called out to Taggie as he cut into the goose, dropping the first slice into Nimrod’s waiting jaws.

‘That’s far too much for me,’ whimpered Helen as he handed her the first plate.

‘I’ll have it,’ said Hermione, piling on most of the little brown potatoes.

Having filled up glasses and handed round the vegetables, Marcus found himself sitting next to Kitty. She might have a face like boiled bacon, but she was so adorable and, having worked for Rannaldini, had lots of gossip about soloists, conductors and helpful agents.

She refused red wine, when he tried to fill up her glass, because she was having another baby.

‘Lysander’s coming to the ante-natal classes,’ she said proudly.

‘I love rolling around on the floor with a lot of women,’ yelled a jubilant Lysander down the table.

‘That goose was something else,’ sighed Flora, finally putting her knife and fork together.

‘Have some more,’ said Taggie.

‘Yes please,’ said Eddie.

Tabitha didn’t even bother to toy with a piece of goose as she read Dick Francis under the table.

Please give me Lysander, she prayed.

Please let Rannaldini call, prayed her mother.

‘I think we ought to drink to the cook,’ said Eddie, with his mouth full, ‘To Helen,’ he said, draining his glass.

Everyone, except Helen, howled with laughter.

‘I love you,’ mouthed Rupert down the table at Taggie.

‘I think we ought to drink to absent friends,’ Hermione smiled round, ‘Bobby and Cosmo.’

‘Abby,’ said Flora and Marcus.

‘And Malise,’ said Helen with a sob.

‘Of course,’ said Rupert, ‘Malise!’

After everyone drained their glasses there was an embarrassed pause.

‘And I think we ought to drink to absent fiends,’ said Flora, as Rupert filled her glass again. ‘To Rannaldini!’

SEVENTEEN

The flickering bright blue halo had retreated like a genie into the Christmas pudding. Chateau d’Yquem gleamed topaz in the wine glasses. Gertrude, Taggie’s little mongrel, bristled in a green paper admiral’s hat on her mistress’s lap. Xav, who never seemed to go to bed, was sprawled on his father’s knee, tunelessly singing ‘Cars in the bright sky look down where He lay’ because it made Rupert laugh.

Why doesn’t my father love me a millionth as much as that? thought Marcus wistfully. He was so frantic to practise he was beginning to twitch like a junkie. All the pieces he’d been learning seemed to be sliding away. Across the table his mother looked shell-shocked.

‘I cannot believe you are forty-four,’ Hermione was telling her. ‘I hope I’ll be as lovely as you when I reach your age.’

‘Which is in about two minutes,’ said Flora crossly.

‘Why don’t you take an evening class?’ urged Hermione. ‘There are courses for antique restoration, archery, ball-room dancing — you might find a new chap there. They’ve even got a class for understanding teenagers.’

‘My father would profit from that,’ said Tabitha acidly, glancing up from Dick Francis. ‘Where’s Grandpa?’ she asked Marcus.

‘Ringing my grand-mugger,’ said Xav.

‘I didn’t ask you, smart ass,’ snapped Tabitha.

‘It’s true.’ Rupert came to Xavier’s defence. ‘He proposes to her every Christmas.’

Bored with counselling, Hermione looked sourly at Xav, still on Rupert’s knee, which was exactly where Hermione would like to have been. Rupert had always had a strong head, but he had drunk so much during the day, and Xav’s eyes were so much improved that it was debatable as to which of them was now squinting the most.

‘Very caring to take on a coloured lad,’ observed Hermione.

‘Piss orf,’ drawled Xav in exactly the same bored voice as Rupert.

Lysander got the giggles again.

‘Why don’t you run along to bed,’ suggested Hermione. ‘You could play my cradle song tape, or Mummy could read to you.’

‘Mummy can’t read,’ said Xav. ‘I’ll be reading to her soon.’

‘High time you went to boarding-school, young man,’ said Hermione irritably. ‘Are you going to Harrow?’

‘Eventually,’ said Rupert forking up Christmas pudding at great speed. ‘This is miraculous, Tag.’

‘I suppose King Faisal went there,’ mused Hermione. ‘But I do feel single-sex boarding schools encourage homosexuality.’

‘Not nearly so much as women like you,’ said Rupert coldly.

Hermione burst into merry laughter.

‘You are a tease.’ Then, turning to Marcus, she asked pointedly, ‘Did you go to Harrow?’

‘No, he went to Bagley Hall,’ said Taggie quickly, seeing Marcus go scarlet, ‘As a day-boy because of his asthma.’

‘Have you got a girl friend?’ persisted Hermione.

‘He’s got me,’ piped up Flora, noticing how Helen winced.

Hermione also shot Flora a not-much-cop glance and, mistakenly thinking she would endear herself to Rupert by being good with a miserably squirming Marcus, asked: ‘How long have you had asthma?’

‘All my life, I think.’

‘They say it’s inherited,’ Hermione was determined to keep Rupert’s attention.

‘Must have skipped a generation, then,’ said Rupert, as Eddie returned to the table and pretended to admire Hermione’s ruby pendant in order to gaze down her front. ‘Marcus gets his heavy breathing from my father.’

God, Rupert’s a bitch, thought Flora and, to distract everyone, held her cracker out to Xav. This and subsequent bangs sent all the dogs, including Gertrude, racing out of the room. Xav slid off Rupert’s knee in pursuit of his puppy.

Feeling terribly sorry for Marcus, Kitty, who was wearing a paper crown redder than her face, asked him if he’d had some nice presents.

‘Marvellous, Dad and Taggie gave me some light-weight tails, one gets so hot in concerts.’

‘Now you’ve got to get some work to try them out,’ said Rupert.

‘Hasn’t he told you,’ cried Flora, ‘he’s too flaming modest, he’s got a recital in Cotchester Town Hall on 21 February. You’ve all got to come.’

Marcus smiled deprecatingly at the excited faces, but his moment of glory was short-lived.

‘Talking of special occasions, I’m going on Desert Island Discs on Saturday at seven-thirty,’ announced Hermione. ‘My agent Howie Denston said that at least Sue Lawley and I have lovely legs in common. I hope you’ll all tune in.’

‘Better alert the monkeys to evacuate the island,’ muttered Rupert.

Looking up from the tangerine she was peeling, Taggie hastily asked what records Hermione had chosen.

‘All my own — so fascinating to compare the different accompanists — and conductors. Rather exciting — the programme coincides with a special New Year announcement.’ She beamed at Rupert.

‘Do tell us,’ asked Taggie.

‘My lips are sealed. But I’m dying to see the inside of Buckingham Palace,’ she added roguishly. ‘Have you ever wanted a knighthood, Rupert?’

‘No.’

‘Lady Thatcher offered him one twice,’ said Taggie quickly.

‘Because I have it on good authority that Rannaldini is going to get his K in the New Year’s Honours list.’

‘Sir Roberto,’ said Flora flatly. ‘That should increase his pulling power.’

‘He can have one-Knight stands,’ said Lysander.

Unable to take the roars of drunken laughter, Helen fled the room. Outside she ignored Nimrod and Bogotá, who were engaged in a furiously, growling tug-of-war over Hermione’s Hermes scarf.

Going in search of Helen five minutes later, Taggie found her washing up in the kitchen, rubber-gloved hands whisking round the hot suds, glasses upside down on a tea-towel.

‘Poor Mrs Bodkin looks so tired, I thought I’d give her a hand.’ The reproach was implicit. ‘It’s lovely and cool in here, I always find goose a bit rich.’

‘I’m sorry,’ mumbled Taggie, ‘I’ll take people upstairs, and then we can have coffee.’

I’m being a bitch, thought Helen miserably, but I can’t help it. Taggie’s got everything — youth, looks, children, Rupert’s love and the beautiful house and garden which was once mine.

Although Lysander beamed drunkenly across the table at him, Marcus had never felt more de trop than when left pretending to drink port with the men, who talked non-stop about horses.

Tomorrow, Lysander and Rupert would hunt until two, then the helicopter would take them and Eddie to Kempton in time for Penscombe Pride’s big race at three-thirty.

‘He’ll walk it,’ said Lysander.

Marcus took another surreptitious squirt from his inhaler. The steroids he’d been taking to combat his allergy to dogs and new paint had given him a wretched sore throat.

‘Should be a good crowd out tomorrow,’ said Eddie. ‘Always liked the Boxing Day Meet, mind you hunting’s gone to the dogs since so many people who do their own horses come out.’

Fortunately for Marcus, Flora put on ‘Let’s Ride to Music’, and ‘The Galloping Major’, thundering through the house, soon flushed out the men.

‘Boom, boom, boom,’ went the regimental drums as screaming with drunken laughter Eddie and Flora, cheek to cheek, clasped hands outstretched, trotted up the hall to ‘D’you ken John Peel’, followed by Lysander and Kitty, and Rupert and Taggie, then broke into a canter to ‘Bonny Dundee’ with a pack of dogs barking excitedly behind them.

‘Right wheel, halt, dismount,’ shouted Rupert as the band swung into Aida which had been his and Eddie’s old regimental march.

Unfortunately Hermione, returning from a respray upstairs, couldn’t resist singing very loudly along, so everyone gave up marching and allowed her to put on ‘Santa of the Universe’ jumping out of their skins as ‘Hark the Herald Angels’ filled the house.

‘What with my first wife continually hitting the roof and Hermione taking it off, I’m not going to have a slate over my head soon,’ grumbled Rupert.

Flora, Rupert, Marcus, Kitty and Tabitha, who’d actually put down Dick Francis, were playing consequences. Taggie, who was too slow at writing to play, was handing out liqueurs. Lysander, an even slower writer, was playing chess with Eddie, who was telling him about Rupert’s mother.

‘Played chess together during the first dark days of the war when no-one knew if Hitler was going to strike. Wonderful woman, turned me down again this evening — know we’ll end up together.’

Hermione, meanwhile, had rather startled Rupert by sinking to the floor at his feet, her dark head in danger of being singed by his cigar. He’d go off piste down her cleavage in a minute.

‘Where are we?’ he asked

‘Woman’s name,’ said Flora.

Putting down his cigar, Rupert wrote ‘Hermione’. Handing his turned-over piece of paper to Tabitha, he touched her hand. The rows over The Engineer had upset him very much, he’d probably buy her the damn horse in the end.

Eddie and Lysander were so drunk they couldn’t remember whose move it was.

‘Think I should marry her?’ Eddie nodded in Hermione’s direction.

‘God, no,’ Lysander turned pale. ‘She’s awful.’

‘Damn fine looking, damn rich, sort out my Lloyd’s lorses.’

‘Not worth it, anyway she’s got a husband.’

‘Must be loopy to leave a beautiful woman like that at Christmas.’

‘He’s gay.’

‘Whaddja mean?’

‘Queer.’

‘Good God.’ Eddie’s teeth nearly fell out.

Lysander giggled. ‘Don’t let her get her Santa Claws into you.’

‘Ha, ha, ha, ha, Santa Claws, that’s good,’ Eddie choked on his third glass of port.

‘Good King Wenceslarse looked out,’ sang Hermione on CD and in real life.

I cannot stand it, thought Helen, who was perched on the arm of Marcus’s chair. I’ve seen King Wensceslas’ statue on the Charles Bridge, she wanted to shout, and he wasn’t good at all, and the stupid story about St Agnes’ fountain and the pine logs is garbage. But none of these drunken philistines would be remotely interested unless she told them she had been on the bridge with Rannaldini.

Sensing her anguish, Marcus reached back to retrieve Boris’s present.

‘Please open it, Mum, it’s really nice.’

‘Do have a drink,’ pleaded Taggie.

Helen shook her head violently, sending tears flying out of her eyes.

The group round the fire had finished the first round of their consequences.

‘You start, Tabitha,’ said Flora. Tabitha unrolled her piece of paper. ‘Penscombe Pride,’ she began, in her flat little voice, then starting to smile, ‘met Hermione — on top of the muck heap, Pridie said: Give us a blow job. Hermione said to Pridie: I am about to have my period. Pridie gave her the clap, Hermione gave him a great kick up the ass, and the consequence was…’ Tabitha burst out laughing.

‘Tabitha,’ protested Taggie, ‘that’s enough.’

‘Why must you spoil everything?’ Tabitha turned on her stepmother like a viper.

About to send her to bed, Rupert heard a clip-clop on the flagstones, and cheers and shouts of laughter greeted a grinning Xav, riding into the drawing-room on Tiny, Lysander’s delinquent Shetland pony. Xav had got Tiny’s measure completely and punched her on the nose if she ever tried to bite him, but he couldn’t stop her lashing out at Hermione, sending the discomfited diva scrambling like a camel to her feet. Having vented her spleen, Tiny proceeded to hoover up the straw from Helen’s Body Shop basket, until she encountered a pearl bath drop and curled up her lip.

‘Quick, get a camera,’ Rupert told Marcus.

But Tabitha had flipped.

‘You never let me ride ponies into the house,’ she screamed. ‘That child is spoilt rotten, he got far more presents than Marcus and I put together. It’s bloody unfair, you love him far more than you do us.’

‘Bloody, bloody unfair,’ beamed Bianca, appearing in the doorway with her telephone. ‘Hallo, I’m afraid Tabiffa’s in the bath.’

‘And she’s revoltingly spoilt, too,’ yelled Tab. ‘I was never allowed down at this hour.’ And storming out, she slammed the door shaking every piece of china.

Helen burst into tears.

‘Why is everyone always fighting in this house?’ she sobbed. ‘Why can’t you all be nice to each other?’

You could start off by controlling your daughter, thought Flora mouthing, ‘Don’t worry’ at Marcus.

‘They should bring back National Service, particularly for women,’ said Eddie. ‘Checkmate.’

Appalled that Xav and Bianca could have caused such a terrible row, Taggie leapt forward to comfort Helen who was now wailing: ‘I can’t go on, I can’t go on, oh Malise.’

‘Take that pony back to the stable at once, Xav,’ ordered Rupert.

‘In the bleak mid-winter,’ sang Hermione on the CD, as Mrs Bodkin put her head round the door:

‘Telephone for Mrs Gordon.’

‘Talk about the ungay Gordon,’ grumbled Flora, as Helen shot out of the room, sending Boris’s present flying, ‘And that’s five hundred pounds down the drain, poor Boris. She’s a frightful drip,’ she added.

Rupert agreed. ‘God, I hope you marry Marcus.’

Looking into her eyes, which were the light emerald of the winter barley rampaging over his fields, he picked up the sadness and remembered the gossip.

‘Still hung up on Rannaldini.’

‘I guess so, he recurs like malaria.’

‘You could do better.’

‘And I have to say that when I was at Bagley Hall, you were voted the man to whom we most wanted to lose our virginity.’

Rupert smiled.

‘If I wasn’t bespoke,’ he jerked his head towards Taggie, who was anxiously pouring a glass of Armagnac for Hermione, ‘I couldn’t think of anything nicer.’

‘You will go to Marcus’s concert, won’t you?’ pleaded Flora.

But Rupert had been distracted by the return of Helen suddenly looking radiant, tears dried like raindrops in a heatwave. Bewildered by her mood swings, Marcus sloped off to check with Mrs Bodkin who had telephoned.

‘He wouldn’t give his name, but it was a foreign-sounding gentleman.’

Marcus so hoped it was Boris, who had been screwing up courage to ask Helen out. But when she finally opened his present, the beautiful porcelain nightingale had shattered into a hundred pieces.

Alone in the kitchen Taggie cried and cried. An exhausted Marcus had finally got Helen to bed. Arthur, woken by the din, had been taken home by Lysander and Kitty, who had annexed Flora as well. Tab wasn’t in her room and had probably taken refuge with the grooms over the stables. Eddie had passed out on the sofa, leaving his teeth in one of Hermione’s crystallized greengages. Taggie had put a duvet over him. Hermione’s limo had borne her away to an early flight in the morning.

The dogs had collapsed on their bean bags. The dish-washer swished and swirled round the last consignment of rare glasses and coffee cups. Helen would have been appalled that Taggie hadn’t washed them by hand.

Only Rupert and Gertrude, the mongrel, who had taken umbrage over the new puppy and the crackers, and escaped through the cat door, were missing. Nimrod, the lurcher, brought out a rubber cutlet he had been given for Christmas and squeaked it to make Taggie laugh. But she went on crying so he slunk back to his basket.

‘I’ve lost my dog, my husband and the present list. No-one will know what anyone’s given anybody,’ sobbed Taggie.

She jumped at the crash of the cat door. There was a scampering of claws and in charged Gertrude, wearing Rupert’s black tie, and hurled herself on Taggie.

She was followed by Rupert squinting worse than ever. A blond lock of hair had fallen over his forehead, an empty brandy bottle swung between his fingers.

‘Gertrude and I have been hiding, we don’t want Mrs Fat Bum as a stepmother.’

‘She’s gone,’ sobbed Taggie.

‘Angel, what’s the matter?’

‘I wanted to show I was a better wife than Helen.’

‘Oh, darling,’ Rupert folded her in his arms. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit, but I can’t stand my first wife, and I loathe Hermione and Marcus gets on my tits and Tabitha’s impossible, and all I want to do is screw you stupid.’

‘I’m stupid anyway,’ said Taggie, but she stopped crying.

‘I was such a wreck when I met you,’ mumbled Rupert, ‘Helen just reminds me how vile I was. You’ve taught me to love.’ He kissed her wedding ring finger. ‘You’ve twisted me straight. I’ve got a present for you.’ Rootling in his pocket he produced a silver locket.

Inside were Daisy France-Lynch miniatures of Xav and Bianca.

Taggie nearly started crying again.

‘Oh how lovely, I wish there was room inside for you as well. Oh, thank you.’

‘I want a night inside your shining armour,’ said Rupert, fumbling with the pearl buttons of her silver cardigan. ‘I’m probably past it, but let’s go and try.’

‘Only if you promise to come to Marcus’s concert,’ said Taggie.

Unable to sleep, Marcus heard the two of them come to bed, softly laughing. Outside the clouds had rolled away leaving a pale grey sky so crowded with stars the constellations were indistinguishable. He had just made the agonizing decision that he couldn’t go back to the Academy next term either. Tab would return to Bagley Hall in a fortnight, he couldn’t leave Helen alone in the Old Rectory in this state.

EIGHTEEN

Dame Edith Spink, composer, conductor and musical director of Venturer Television and the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra, had been responsible for Marcus’s recital in Cotchester.

Built like Thomas the Tank Engine, she had leant on Cotchester Musical Society of which she was president.

‘Boy’s extremely talented,’ she boomed, glaring at the wilting committee through her monocle, ‘and incredibly cheap for one hundred pounds.’

This was a considerable plus because the musical society never had any money.

Marcus had already learnt Chopin’s Grande Polonaise, The Bee’s Wedding and Beethoven’s Appassionata Sonata for the concert he’d cancelled because of Malise’s death so he decided to play them again. The Appassionata was fiendishly difficult, but it would be a compliment to Abby, who had dominated his thoughts throughout the long winter in Warwickshire, and who had promised to bring Rodney over from Lucerne for the concert. He would kick off with two Scarlatti sonatas and, then as a compliment to Boris, end the second half with his titanic Siberian Suite.

This had dismayed his piano teacher, Miss Chatterton, known at college as ‘Chatterbox’, when Marcus visited her in her leafy North London suburb the day before the concert.

‘Levitsky isn’t remotely audience-friendly,’ Chatterbox absorbed modern jargon, then flogged it to death. ‘The provinces hate contemporary music, particularly if they can’t pronounce it. You’ll have them leaving in droves. At least end with the Chopin so they’ve got something to look forward to.’

‘The programme’s already printed,’ sighed Marcus. ‘Anyway I can’t let Boris down, he’s so low.’

Boris’s thumping great crush on his mother showed no signs of abating, even though Helen wasn’t responding at all. She had hardly thanked Boris for the porcelain nightingale and, claiming she was too busy with Marcus’s recital to see him, had thrown herself into the role of supportive mother with a vengeance.

The lovely golden walled cathedral town of Cotchester had been a royalist stronghold in the Civil War. After an appalling journey with wind and rain nearly sweeping him off the motorway, Marcus arrived around teatime at the town hall, a splendid baroque edifice two hundred yards down the High Street from Venturer Television.

His hopes of a peaceful couple of hours rehearsing were shattered by Helen who was standing on the steps pointing in horror at his poster and brandishing a programme.

‘How could you bill yourself just as Marcus Black?’

‘I don’t want to cash in on Dad’s name.’

‘It’s the only thing he’s given you.’

‘Except a lot of dosh,’ protested Marcus, getting his dark suit and his music case out of the Aston.

‘And why did you send them that awful photograph?’ moaned Helen, ‘Your hair was longer than his was.’ She pointed disapprovingly at Charles I’s statue in the centre of the Market Square.

‘He was lucky only getting his head cut off.’ Ruefully, Marcus stroked his own short back and sides.

‘Looks much better,’ said Helen, who, because Rupert was expected, had nagged him all week to have a haircut.

Marcus glared at his reflection in the dark mirror in the foyer.

‘Everyone’ll see my ears going bright red with nerves.’

‘I hope you washed them.’

‘Mu-um, they don’t have opera glasses at recitals.’

Picking up the programme he gave a shout of laughter for above his name it said, in large letters: An explosive new talent, Dame Edith Spunk.

But Helen was in no mood for jokes. Last night the Cotswold Hunt, who seemed to epitomize Rupert’s disreputable past, had hired the hall for their annual Hunt Ball.

Apart from a disgusting stench of drink and cigarettes, they had left three broken windows letting in a vicious east wind, a lot of sick in the Ladies, a pair of red knickers and some suspicious-looking stains on the sofa bed in Marcus’s dressing-room. Even worse, there were drink rings, cigarette burns, spilt bourbon and candle-wax all over the keys of a grand piano on which Marcus was expected to play.

Marcus was delighted. His hands sweated dreadfully before a concert and it would be far easier to grip the keys, particularly the black notes, of which there were thousands in the F minor Appassionata, if the piano were sticky and dirty. Alas, Helen then explained virtuously that she had already set to with a flurry of meths and righteous indignation. The keys were now so clean they would slip away from his fingers like minnows.

Soloists have been known to sandpaper down the ivories of concert grands to get a better grip. Rubenstein had even sprayed the keys with hair lacquer. But there was no way Marcus could find lacquer on a late Sunday afternoon.

Just managing not to snap at Helen, he was cheered by the number of cards and presents in his dressing-room, particularly when he found Abby had sent him a beautiful green-leather-bound copy of The Tempest postmarked Lucerne. Inside she had written:

This music crept by me upon the waters,

Allaying both their fury, and my passion, With its

sweet air.

Good luck, Marcus,

Warmest

L’Appassionata.

Marcus trembled with excitement as he smelt the faint trace of her scent on the pages.

Next he opened a silver shamrock from Declan O’Hara and a bottle of Moët from Flora’s mother, both thanking him for the invitation to the recital, but regretting they would be away.

What invitation? Marcus felt a wave of anger. Helen had obviously been at work again. There were other good luck cards from famous friends of his parents he hadn’t seen since he was a child.

As he hung up his suit in the cupboard, he found a pale gold silk dress with an Yves Saint Laurent label, which he hadn’t seen before.

Outside, he could hear Helen saying: ‘We’re expecting Sir Rodney Macintosh, Declan O’Hara, Dame Edith, Boris Levitsky and Georgie Maguire and loads of students and teachers from the Academy. Marcus’s father is flying back specially from the yearling sales in Florida. And, oh, I forgot, Abby Rosen’s coming, yes the violinist, my son has a bit of a reputation as a lady’s man.’

Rushing into the passage before Helen became even more cringe-making, Marcus found her talking to an old biddy in a long grey overcoat, who had the face of a rather over-excited dromedary and a drifting white bun like an icepack on top of her head.

Helen introduced her as Miss Smallwood, the social secretary.

‘Our artist,’ bleated Miss Smallwood eagerly. ‘Are you like your father? Well, perhaps not,’ she sounded slightly disappointed. ‘I was wondering if you could give a little talk to our members before the concert.’

‘A-a-absolutely n-n-not,’ stammered Marcus. ‘And Mum, Georgie and Declan can’t make it.’

All he wanted to do was to get at the piano, slippery keys and all. He found the sound hard and bright in the treble, but after having ‘Lydia Pinker’ and ‘American Pie’ bashed out on it all last night, it was very woolly in the bass. He would have to pound the keys to make the left-hand lines in the Appassionata clear enough.

Nor, unlike the Cotswold Hunt, could the musical society afford to heat the hall which was getting colder by the minute. Marcus couldn’t play if he were cold.

He couldn’t play now. Helen, stationing herself bossily round the hall to test the accoustics, kept snapping his concentration.

‘I can’t hear you from here. You’re very faint from here.’ Then up in the gallery, where she found a white bra with Tabitha’s name-tape inside. ‘You really must project more from here.’

He’d reached screaming pitch when the piano tuner rolled up and proceeded to bang out Chopin’s Grande Polonaise far better than he had, so Marcus retreated to the upright in his dressing-room to run through certain tricky passages only to be interrupted by Helen again.

Venturer Television, BBC Cotchester, The Times and Classical Music all wanted to interview him. Wasn’t it exciting? As he wasn’t prepared to give a little talk, she’d arranged a press conference with sandwiches and glasses of wine.

Marcus was aghast.

‘I can’t, Mum, for Christ’s sake. They’re only here because of Dad. I have to go into myself before a concert and be completely alone with the music.’

‘Uh-uh,’ Helen shook her head playfully. ‘You’re not going to have a moment to feel nervous.’

You mean you’re not risking a re-run of the cock-up at Malise’s funeral, thought Marcus.

‘We’re jolly well going to show Rupert this time,’ said Helen.

Marcus started to shake and wheeze and took a couple of puffs from his inhaler. He’d already used it too much in the last forty-eight hours. His throat was very sore. He had the beginnings of a rash round his mouth.

Out of the window in the dusk, he could see the great shadow of the cathedral like a warning finger, and the wind pleating the flooded water meadows and lashing the trailing twigs of the weeping willows almost horizontal.

Marcus managed to smile at the Press, but he could hardly remember his date of birth. Only when they asked him which pianists he most admired he had no difficulty in saying Emil Gilels, Myra Hess and Solomon and, among the living, Pablo Gonzales. As he suspected, the Press were only interested in him in relation to Rupert.

But was trying to master that big black brute of a piano all that different to getting the best out of a difficult horse? he wondered. As a child Marcus’s worst nightmare had been going into restaurants or to airports with Rupert, who so instantly and effortlessly attracted the limelight. It was ironic that he had chosen a profession entirely dependent on limelight. But it was the only way he could express himself and more recently, the only way he could tell Abby what he felt about her. But it was not to be. As the Press were trailing out, Abby telephoned.

‘I’m so sorry, Marcus, but Rodney’s been hospitalized with bronchitis. I guess it isn’t serious but I daren’t leave him. I know you’ll be great and see you very soon.’

As Marcus put down the telephone almost weeping with disappointment, Miss Smallwood handed him some drooping crimson flowers.

‘Hellebores from Dame Hermione’s own garden,’ she said reverently. ‘Her gardener brought them all the way from Paradise. Dame Hermione wishes you all the luck in the world, but daren’t risk a cold in this weather, such a caring person.’

By seven o’clock the hall was filling up with members of the musical society, variations on Miss Smallwood in flat shoes, long coats with triangles of brightly coloured scarves around their necks, all huddling together for warmth. Any hell fires fanned by the Cotswold Hunt Ball had receded long ago.

Two more telephone apologies came from Rupert’s friend, Basil Baddingham and the Bishop of Cotchester, who both claimed to be laid low by the same bug. As a note of bathos the hunt saboteurs had got the night wrong and rolled up to wave placards saying: ‘Cotswold Butchers’ and ‘Don’t victimize our vixens’ and generally hassle the Hunt Ball. Learning Rupert, who’d hunted with the Cotswold all his life, was expected later, they decided to hang around.

As Marcus changed into his dark suit and had fearful difficulty putting cuff-links into his grey-and-white striped shirt, he noticed the coloured windows of Cotchester Cathedral lit up for Evensong.

He should be the one on his knees praying for his hubris in thinking he could play the Appassionata and the Siberian Suite. Even the Chopin was so clear and linear, it gave you nowhere to hide and the left-hand part was just as challenging as the right.

Having showered and washed her hair, Helen had changed into the gold silk dress and wanted approval.

‘You look stunning, Mum.’

‘You really think so, and it goes with these shoes?’

‘Perfect,’ said Marcus dutifully.

‘I guess I had to have something new. It’s your first professional date.’

She has no idea, thought Marcus in despair, as he put on a crocus-yellow tie, bought for him by Flora to jazz up his whole outfit.

‘Isn’t that rather loud?’ began Helen.

There was a rat-tat-tat on the door.

‘Fifteen minutes, Mr Black,’ cried Miss Smallwood, ‘and Lady Baddingham’s just arrived,’ she added excitedly. ‘But she’s afraid Dame Edith has been struck down by the same dreaded lurgy as our bishop.’

Marcus fought an hysterical desire to laugh.

Monica Baddingham, Basil’s sister-in-law, had caused an uproar last year when she had walked out on her vicious venal husband of nearly twenty-five years’ standing and moved in with Dame Edith.

Such was Monica’s popularity in the area — she had worked endlessly for charity and been kind to everyone and she seemed so blissfully happy with Dame Edith — that the scandal had blown over. Helen would normally have disapproved violently of such bohemian escapades, but realizing how influential Monica had suddenly become in the music world, she scuttled out to say hallo.

She was less amused by the arrival of a very jocund company from the Academy who conga-ed in led by Flora. In order to drink on the way down they had hired a minibus and had now stationed themselves on the left side of the hall so Marcus’s ravishing female fan club could drool over him while he played.

Boris, also on the bus, was in a frightful state of nerves. His hair looked even more electrocuted than usual. He wore a grey track suit, the loose trousers of which kept falling down his chunky body, and his suede feet seemed to curl round each other like bear claws.

‘I don’t want Siberian Suite to be hackled.’

He was longing to sit next to Helen who meanly introduced him to Marcus’s teacher, Miss Chatterton, so they could be nervous together.

‘Do tell Marcus,’ Miss Chatterton begged Helen, ‘that the audience will only enjoy it if Marcus smiles and enjoys it, too.’

Not many people, thought Flora in disappointment. It was crucial to have bums on seats, because anyone who contemplated booking Marcus in future would check with Cotchester Musical Society whether he pulled the crowds.

Oh thank God, here was Taggie looking ravishing as always, in a dark red suit and rather tentatively leading Bianca by the hand. They were followed by Kitty, Mrs Bodkin, all Rupert’s grooms and estate workers and finally, Tabitha, who might have been very jealous of Marcus if she had not received seventeen Valentines and been danced off her feet at the Hunt Ball.

The sight of Bianca, enchanting in a tartan, smocked wool dress with a white collar and dark green tights, gave Helen a legitimate excuse to express her jealousy of Taggie with a burst of anger.

‘Is that wise? It’s a long programme?’

Taggie flushed. ‘Bianca adores Marcus, she’d have been heartbroken if I’d left her behind. If she starts acting up, I’ll take her out, I promise. Hallo, Monica.’ Taggie turned in delight to embrace Lady Baddingham, for whose dinner parties she had often cooked before she was married. ‘Isn’t this exciting? Edith’s been so wonderful to arrange all this for Marcus.’

‘Edith’s hopping mad not to be able to make it,’ said Monica, a big-boned handsome woman, whose red veins clashed merrily with her emerald-green coat, ‘Is this one of your smalls?’

She beamed down at Bianca. ‘Isn’t she adorable? You can’t start them off at concerts too early.’

Helen could have screamed.

‘Where’s Rupert?’ she snapped.

‘He should be here,’ Taggie looked at her watch. ‘I hope the fog isn’t bad.’

‘About a hundred and twenty,’ said Miss Smallwood counting heads. ‘Not bad for a beastly February evening. It’s nearly half-past, we ought to start.’

Marcus was hunched over the table in his dressing-room, panic about an impending asthma attack making him even more breathless. He couldn’t let everyone down again. His reflection glittered silver with sweat in the mirror. Then Helen had burst in in a rage.

‘Absolutely typical, your bloody father’s helicopter’s been grounded by fog. He and Lysander rang from the M4. They won’t make it before the interval, if at all. So, we’re going to start.’

A great calm swept over Marcus. At least Rupert wouldn’t be bored witless or sneer at the low turn-out. Quickly he washed the sweat off his face and straightened his tie.

Nerves overwhelmed him again as he fell up the steps to the platform and sidled towards the piano, hangdog as the last person picked in a team.

‘Please smile, Marcus,’ begged Miss Chatterton.

‘Will you nudge me when I’m meant to clap?’ Taggie whispered to Monica Baddingham.

With a brief shy nod to acknowledge the rattle of applause, Marcus sat down, fiddled with the height of the piano-stool, gave his fingers a last wipe.

‘Hair’s too short,’ muttered a member of his fan club.

‘I like it, more butch,’ said another.

‘He’s utterly gorgeous any way,’ sighed a third.

On her right Flora noticed an old man in a beret getting out a score.

For a second Marcus sat clasping his hands to stop them shaking, then one seemed to escape like a white dove above the keys, then it fell in a skirl of bright notes, a weightless shimmer of sound and the Scarlatti was away.

Forgetting the cold, members of the Cotchester Musical Society smiled in relief. The estate workers and the grooms looked at each other in amazement — was this their sweet diffident Marcus?

At the end of the Scarlatti, Marcus got a splendid round of applause, augmented by the whooping, cheering and stamping feet of his friends from college.

‘Good boy, Marcus,’ piped up Bianca when there was a pause which set everyone laughing and clapping again.

As Marcus came on to play the Appassionata he was smiling. The bass was still woolly but suddenly the sound blossomed, producing such thrilling contrasts of loud and soft, of tender and so fierce that the big black piano shook on its legs.

How could such unleashed forces be contained in such a slender, youthful body, wondered the audience, marvelling, too, at every angelic ripple of sound as Marcus captured not only the nobility but also plumbed the extraordinary depths and dramas of the piece.

Part of the intense pleasure for Marcus’s friends was to see the almost unearthly happiness on his face. Flora clutched herself in ecstasy and looking round noticed a tear like an icicle glittering on the wrinkled cheek of the old man in the beret.

The middle movement was so beautiful as theme and variations chased each other round the keyboard that the tears sprung in Marcus’s eyes, too.

But, as he lingered over the runs and pauses which bridge the second and last movement, he told himself that he must keep something in reserve for the fireworks of the finale.

Allegro non Troppo, Beethoven had warned. He had known the dangers that awaited the unwary pianist, the temptation to show off and run out of puff.

Marcus was usually nervous as the end approached, like the last looming fence in the show-jumping ring. This evening he was utterly confident. But, as he tensed himself to leap into the fray, there was a kerfuffle at the back of the hall.

‘You can’t go in now,’ cried Miss Smallwood.

‘I can do what I fucking like,’ drawled an all-too-familar voice. ‘We’ve come all the way from America to hear this bloody concert.’ And Rupert stalked up the aisle, trailing a red-faced Lysander.

‘Daddy,’ crowed Bianca.

Rupert proceeded to kiss an enraged Taggie, climb over her to his seat and shove Lysander into the one beyond next to Kitty.

Last time Rupert had been to a concert was at the end of term at Bagley Hall, when the auditorium had been packed to bursting because it was compulsory for all four hundred and fifty pupils, their parents and eighty teachers to attend.

A hundred odd people huddled in the stalls, many of them dingily old and plain, didn’t seem a very satisfactory turn-out.

‘Not many people here,’ he muttered to Taggie.

‘Shut up,’ she hissed.

‘Tut up, Daddy,’ reproached Bianca.

Glancing up, Rupert saw Marcus, huddled over the piano staring at him in terror, a baby hare caught in the headlights.

‘Carry on, Marcus,’ he said sharply. Then, turning to Taggie, demanded, ‘Why didn’t you bring Xav, and what’s she doing out of school?’ He glared at Tabitha now engrossed in a new Dick Francis.

From then on it was nightmare. The endless swirling semi-quavers of the last movement escaped in all directions like ants under a jet of boiling water. Marcus’s fingers seemed drunk, had changed shape. Icy cold and sweating they scrabbled and missed Helen’s clean keys.

Then Rupert’s mobile rang and Lysander, who’d been at the brandy on the way down, couldn’t stop laughing and loudly said, ‘Oouch’ when Kitty kicked him on the ankle. Distracted, Marcus played a repeat for the third time, wrong notes clattering down like hailstones.

Surreptitously, Rupert opened a catalogue to check the prices his yearlings had reached. Forgetting himself, Lysander suddenly said: ‘That was a bloody good horse.’

‘Tut up, Lysander,’ said Bianca reprovingly.

Aware of his father’s utter boredom, Marcus lost his place and ground to a halt. There was a dreadful silence. Marcus put his face in his hands.

‘Take your time,’ called out Monica Baddingham kindly.

Somehow Marcus stumbled through the prestissimo and fled to his dressing-room.

Bolting backstage, Flora found him slumped, white and shaking on the sofa bed, his breath coming in great wheezing gasps.

‘I can’t go back, not with Dad there.’

‘It was wonderful — you were playing better than ever before. You can’t let that bastard get to you, you’ve got to remount and finish the course.’

‘Anyone for orange squash or coffee?’ Miss Smallwood popped her white bun round the door.

Marcus clenched his fists.

‘He needs something stronger.’ Flora drew a half-empty brandy bottle out of her pocket.

‘He can’t have alcohol,’ said a horrified Helen who was dripping around like a wet hen.

Flora looked round for a tooth mug.

‘He’s got to relax. This’ll zap the asthma much quicker.’

The Cotchester Musical Society didn’t have a licence, so Rupert, who couldn’t understand why Taggie was so cross when he’d bust a gut to get there, swept Lysander off to the Bar Sinister, Basil Baddingham’s dive in the High Street. Most of Marcus’s fan club followed them in wonder. By the time they returned, Marcus had dispatched the Chopin adequately and was now playing The Bee’s Wedding.

Rupert proceeded to get out his blue silk handkerchief and pretend to be trying to catch the bumble bee, which reduced Lysander to even more helpless laughter.

‘Stop it,’ hissed Taggie over the applause at the end. ‘If Bianca can behave herself, you two bloody well can.’

At the prospect of Boris’s Siberian Suite many of the audience, including four girls who’d come in off the street mistakenly hoping it might be warmer inside, hadn’t bothered to return from the pub.

Cheered by another slug of brandy, ignoring the bewilderment of the audience, Marcus kicked off playing the suite quite beautifully. Boris was in ecstasy, delighted that in sympathy, the rain was rattling the window-panes that weren’t broken and the icy gale, whistling through the ones that were, was billowing out of the dark blue curtains at the back of the platform.

Rupert was reduced to shuffling his feet, sighing and reading Taggie’s programme. His face, quite expressionless as he clocked the Marcus Black, twitched slightly when he spotted the Dame Edith Spunk.

Dame Spunk has put up a Black in more senses than one, he thought sourly. After this fiasco, there was no way the society would ever ask Marcus back. And what the hell was Venturer doing advertising in the programme. The musical society were exactly the kind of old trouts who were always complaining about sex and violence, and television going to the dogs.

The penultimate movement, allegro furioso, in which Marcus had to drag his nails up the strings inside the piano to emulate the shrieks of the Siberian gales, dispatched more musical society members into the night. Even if television was going to the dogs, it was preferable to this din, which you couldn’t even nod off to.

Crash, crash, deliberately bringing down rows of notes at a time, Marcus’s whole arm was now moving up the piano.

‘I’m bored, can we go?’ Rupert whispered to a seething Taggie.

‘Lucky things,’ he sighed enviously, as two more bids scuttled out.

Boris was in despair; soon there would be no-one left to hackle his music. Seeing his father asleep, Marcus lost his place and stopped, and too embarrassed to bow he fled to his dressing-room.

Fortunately the remaining audience, thinking he had finished and blissful it was over, clapped, cheered and stamped their feet to get Marcus and their circulation back, so he returned to take a couple of bows. Monica Baddingham, whose ringing voice was used to calling to labradors across open spaces, then shouted, ‘Bravo’ several times and announced that the composer was in the audience, so everyone clapped Boris, too.

Dreading Helen’s reproaches, Marcus was relieved to pass her on the pay telephone on his way back to his dressing-room.

With trembling hands he put his encore piece, Schumann’s Dreaming, back in his case with the other music and wondered miserably if he’d ever have the guts to play in public again.

The poor professional, however, must always smile after a concert so people may be fooled into thinking it wasn’t too bad.

His friends, crowding in accepting glasses of white, were kind because they loved him.

‘How was the piano?’ asked Flora.

‘Terrible.’

‘What was wrong with it?’

‘Too many wrong notes.’

And his friends giggled in relief that he didn’t seem too cast down.

‘You were dazzling until your bloody father arrived,’ grumbled Flora. ‘Abby’ll be livid she missed it.’

‘You were terrific,’ Tagggie hugged him. ‘We’re all dying of pride. Bianca loved it.’

‘Good boy, Marcus,’ said Bianca, as he gathered her up into his arms.

‘Hallo, darling, you were good. Sorry about the ghastly cock-ups,’ he added to Taggie.

Taggie was too loyal to say she was sorry about Rupert, who had been side-tracked, talking to Monica Baddingham, an old chum whom he hadn’t seen since she had shacked up with Dame Edith. He was amazed how good she looked, and even more so when she insisted Marcus had played very well.

‘I’ve got to whizz home and tuck Edith up with a hot toddy, but I’ll drop him a line. Have you got his address?’

‘He’s living with Helen. That’s most of the trouble. How much would he have made this evening?’

‘Oh, about a hundred pounds, plus expenses.’

And he’s been practising for this concert for months, thought Rupert darkly.

He was overwhelmed by the greyness of the whole occasion. Wandering backstage, he was enraged to find himself at the back of a queue of more old biddies, who wanted their programmes signed, particularly when one, not realizing he was no longer her MP, gave him an earful about the poor dustbin delivery in the area.

He was so fed up that he took it out on Marcus when he finally reached him.

‘At least you got round this time. Monica’sjust told me how much they paid you. I think you should consider another career, something more lucrative, like nursing.’

Marcus’s friends, on the way out, laughed in embarrassment.

‘Rupert,’ reproached Taggie, seeing the brave smile slipping on Marcus’s face. ‘He’s only joking,’ she whispered. Then, relieving Marcus of a sleeping Bianca, added defiantly, ‘Everyone else thought you were marvellous.’

As they all drifted away, Marcus could see Helen was off the telephone and steeled himself to face her bitter disappointment. To his amazement, she was very chipper.

‘I’ve just been talking to the Evening Standard, they want to run a big story tomorrow.’

Marcus had very regretfully refused to go out on the toot with the bus load from the Academy, because he’d promised to have dinner with his mother. Now she suddenly cried off.

‘Janey Lloyd-Foxe is having — er — marriage problems. I promised I’d pop in and see her, so you go out with your friends.’

But as Marcus ran outside, he saw the minibus lurching off down the middle of the High Street.

The musical society were pointedly turning off lights and locking doors. Wearily Marcus returned to his dressing-room. He ought to change, his shirt was still ringing wet. His neck was stiff, his arms and elbows were sore, his back ached as he slumped in the lone chair close to tears. Next month he would be twenty-one and going nowhere. He was roused by a knock on the door and an old man staggered in on crutches. Long white hair trailed out from under his black beret and he was wearing a black belted mac and dark glasses.

‘I am not too late?’

Oh Christ, thought Marcus.

‘Of course not.’ He leapt to his feet. ‘Would you like a chair?’

‘Please.’

‘And a glass of wine?’

‘Please.’ But when Marcus poured it, the old man put the glass shakily on a nearby table and took both Marcus’s pale, strong beautifully-shaped hands in his own which were covered in liver spots and as bent and as arthritic as oak twigs. The contrast could not have been more marked.

For a second the old man gazed at them. Then to Marcus’s horror, he dropped a kiss on each palm. Letting them drop, he took a sip of wine.

‘Those are the hands of a great pianist whom one day the world will know.’

‘Really?’ stammered Marcus. Perhaps the old poofter was harmless, after all.

‘Really. I ’ave never ’ear Appassionata play like that, so beautiful, so eentense.’

‘I had a memory lapse.’

‘Stupid jargon. You stop. So? Eef one takes reesks one makes meestakes. You work ‘ard on piece, no?’

Marcus nodded.

‘You will always have to. Eef you have no originality, it is easy to reach perfection. The Levitsky piece is beautiful, too. But next time put the Chopin at the end so the audience stay because they have some bon-bons to look forward to.’

‘My piano teacher said the same.’

‘I don’t take pupils any more,’ went on the old man, ‘but eef you feel like a week in Spain, I have lovely house, you would be very welcome. I would be ‘appy to geeve you lessons.’

In what? wondered Marcus. He never knew what to do when men made advances, the old ones in particular were much harder to turn down; it seemed so rude. He was also sure he’d seen this man before.

‘You’re seriously kind,’ he mumbled, ‘but my stepfather died and basically I have to look after my mother.’

‘She will recover.’ The old man creaked to his feet, then holding his sticks with one hand, he got a card out of his pocket.

‘Don’t forget. The invitation is always there. But I may not be much longer.’

‘Thank you.’ Marcus pocketed the card.

Then to his intense embarrassment, the old man raised a hand and started stroking his cheek.

‘You have beautiful face which help in our profession.’

Marcus just managed not to leap away in horror. Thank God there was a knock on the door. He never thought he’d be so pleased to see Miss Smallwood, who was anxious to pay him and get off home. She even gave him a fiver for petrol, about enough to get the Aston round the statue of Charles I and back. Only when he’d thanked her and signed the receipt and was letting himself out of a side-door did he bother to glance at the card. He gave a gasp and rushed under a street-light. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t. It was, too. The card said: PABLO GONZALES.

With a whoop of joy, Marcus swung twice round the street-light, then, fighting for breath, tore up a side-street to see if he could catch the old man, his hero, his utter God. But, like the minibus, the huge Bentley had swept off down the High Street towards London.

The only media reference the next day was that as Rupert had been leaving his son Marcus’s concert, he and Lysander Hawkley (the man who made husbands jealous, now married to Kitty Rannaldini, etc.) had got into a fight with the hunt saboteurs.

NINETEEN

Taggie was of such a forgiving nature that Rupert was amazed the following morning when she still only snapped back in monosyllables and crashed his bacon and eggs down in front of him at breakfast.

‘What is the matter?’

‘You should have switched off your mobile.’

‘Not when someone was trying to tell me my best three year old’s been kicked. She’s as lame as a cat this morning. That’s more important than some tin-pot concert.’

‘Not to Marcus, it wasn’t.’

‘Tut up, Daddy,’ beamed Bianca.

‘And you can belt up, you cheeky monkey,’ Rupert turned on her.

‘Stop being horrible to all your children, you great bully,’ shouted Taggie, and Rupert stalked out, kicking Kevin’s rose even harder on the way.

Rupert was as skilled as Stalin at sustaining cold war. But it was such a beautiful day, and the robins and blackbirds were singing. Yellow celandine and coltsfoot exploded on the verges and after yesterday’s downpour, all the little streams, hurtling into his lake had set it glittering like a tiara on the brow of the valley.

Best of all, the vet had reassured Rupert his filly would be fit for the One Thousand Guineas. Returning from lunching with an owner, remembering that Kitty was taking Xav, Bianca and Arthur to a children’s party, Rupert felt suddenly springlike and decided to slope home early.

A great orange sun was filling his rear mirror and warming the lichened trunks of his chestnut avenue as he roared up the drive.

Ringing Taggie to tell her he would check things were all right in the yard, and then be in and she was to get upstairs and out of all her clothes, was met with an extremely icy response. Taggie then hung up. Storming into the kitchen, Rupert found his wife still fully dressed, her face pink and shiny, as she took the skin off a just-boiled ham.

‘Why are you still sulking?’

‘I am not sulking, I’m angry. The only thing I really hate, hate, hate about you is the way you’re so vile to Marcus. It was a good concert. The people who know about music gave him a standing ovation.’

‘All five of them. They were just relieved such a bloody awful din was over.’

‘You’re be-e-e-e-estly,’ screamed Taggie. ‘See pigs jolly well can fly.’

Grabbing the ham, she hurled it at Rupert, who ducked so it crashed into the dresser behind him, breaking two coronation mugs, and smashing the glass on a framed photograph of Gertrude the mongrel, who led the stampede of dogs from the room.

Rupert couldn’t stop laughing which made Taggie crosser than ever.

‘Get out of my life,’ she shrieked.

Having cleared up, chuntering like a squirrel the while, washed the ham, and sprinkled the fat with breadcrumbs, Taggie had cooled down, and went in search of Rupert. She had been turning out the attic and nearly filled up a skip with the contents.

By the time she had searched the house, the huge gold sun had deepened to scarlet, and was flaming the puddles in the yard. Then she saw Rupert, on top of the skip. He was sitting on an ancient sofa, whose springs had gone, sharing a packet of crisps with Nimrod the lurcher, and reading Horse and Hound.

As Taggie burst out laughing, Rupert leapt down, pulling her into his arms, nuzzling at her neck.

‘Let’s go to bed.’

‘Not until you promise to be nicer to Marcus.’

‘That’s blackmail.’

‘I mean it, and we ought to give a twenty-first birthday party for him next month.’

‘And then he can invite all his ghastly bearded musical friends. Oh all right, you can see how badly I want to go to bed with you.’

‘And you’ll be nice at the party.’

‘I promise, and if you don’t come upstairs, I’ll take you here and now in front of all the lads.’ Rupert started to pull Taggie’s jersey over her head, so she scuttled protesting inside.

Marcus, however, quashed the idea. Helen, he said, was still in mourning and not up to a party. Privately, after the horrors of Christmas and his début concert, he couldn’t face a family get-together.

Rupert was relieved he didn’t have to cough up, but, again pestered by Taggie, gave Marcus a beautiful Munnings of one of Eddie’s old steeplechasers, Pylon Peggoty, who’d won a lot of races. Rupert had been trying to track the painting down for years. Marcus wasn’t wild about horses, they gave him asthma, but he was deeply touched, knowing Rupert would have given anything to keep the painting.

Flora, who was broke, but always incredibly generous, had gone busking for three days, and bought Marcus Pablo Gonzales’ recording of all Chopin’s piano music. Marcus listened till he was cross-eared. Abby sent him a crate of champagne, and said they were all missing him in London. While she was in Lucerne with Rodney she’d discovered a fantastic nineteenth-century composer called Winifred Trapp, who’d written among other things a wonderful piano concerto.

‘Perhaps you’ll play it, if I can get a record company interested.’

Helen was delighted Marcus got so many presents, it made her feel less guilty about standing him up again on the night of his birthday. Marcus didn’t mind. On the strength of the cheques he’d been given, he had just bought a second-hand Steinway on the never-never and was dying to try it out. It had arrived late that afternoon after Helen had gone out, and, big, black and shiny, was now dominating the charming porcelain-crammed drawing-room at the Old Rectory, like a bull trying to be good in a china shop. Marcus hoped Helen wouldn’t be too upset by the intrusion.

She’d been so strange lately, ringing up and pleading he came home for supper, sobbing that she couldn’t stand another evening on her own, then he would find a brief note when he arrived, saying that she’d had to go out, after all, leaving him nothing for supper.

Having heated up a tin of tomato soup, and noticed some surprisingly sexy underwear, gold satin french knickers, with a matching bra and suspender belt, clinging to the side of the tumble dryer when he put in his shirts, Marcus settled down to the Bach Preludes. The Steinway was magical, unlike the brute at Cotchester where every note had been like lifting a ton of coal.

He so wished Malise was still alive. Helen pretended to be interested in music, but he and Malise had really been able to dissect pieces together and Malise’s detached, kindly criticism had been such a help and a comfort. Marcus hoped he was OK in heaven, he had been such a courteous man, but strangely shy underneath. Perhaps he was playing duets up there with Boris’s wife, Rachel.

Miss Chatterbox used to tell Marcus that he must practise as though he was performing, even if it were only for the cat. Tonight, to make up a little for letting him down at the funeral, Marcus played for Malise.

About midnight, he started to worry. Outside he could hear the foxes barking. The central heating had gone off, so he put a hot-water bottle in Helen’s bed and turned on her bedside light. She was only saying yesterday how she dreaded sleeping in a big empty bed, reaching out in the night to find Malise wasn’t there.

To his relief he heard the front door bang. He had never seen his mother look so beautiful. She was wearing a dress of crushed tobacco-brown velvet, which caressed her wonderfully slender figure and brought out the red-gold highlights of her sleek bobbed hair, which seemed to gleam with health for the first time in months. She wore no lipstick, so her slender oval face was dominated by her huge hazel eyes. Marcus didn’t recognize the necklace of amethysts which ringed her throat as softly flattering as violets, nor the long dark fur coat slung around her shoulders, nor the flat, but beautifully cut dark brown shoes, which set off her perfect ankles. Helen had arched insteps and always preferred high heels.

She was so spaced out, she didn’t even notice the new piano. As she hugged Marcus, she reeked of a musky feral scent she had never worn before. Why was he so instantly and disturbingly transported back to that end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall? Then Helen, who drank very little, amazed him by suggesting they open a bottle of Malise’s ancient Sancerre.

‘For your birthday,’ she said tenderly. ‘I can’t believe it’s twenty-one years since I first held you in my arms. You’ve brought me so much joy.’

But as soon as he’d fetched the bottle, which was covered in cobwebs and in no need of being chilled, from the cellar and poured it out, Helen raised her glass, and said she must share her great happiness with him.

‘Oh Markie, I’m going to marry Rannaldini in Chelsea Register Office tomorrow.’

‘You what?’

Then it all came spilling out, the weekend in Prague, the cancelled evenings, her almost suicidal misery at Christmas, and all because Rannaldini had backed off, not sure if he was capable of making a commitment.

Marcus was utterly aghast. Mrs Edwards had dropped some heavy hints that a foreign gentleman had been calling. But Marcus assumed it was Boris. Boris would be heartbroken.

And of course, that explained the kissed-off lipstick, the new fur coat, the amethysts and the flat shoes so she wouldn’t be taller than Rannaldini. Her other great love, Jake Lovell, had been small.

She even smelt of Rannaldini, the same disturbing scent that he had wafted round the hall years ago when he had arrived so late for the school concert.

In despair, Marcus begged his mother not to go ahead with the wedding.

‘Malise has only been dead five months, Mum. Rannaldini’s a monster. You don’t know him. Actually he’s worse than a monster. He’s a cold-blooded sadist who wiped out Rachel, and Flora and made Kitty’s life a nightmare.’

‘You haven’t heard his side,’ said Helen, who was in a pontificating mood, to justify the white heat of extreme sexual passion and the joyous expectation of becoming mega-rich again. Rannaldini, she explained, was so caring. He was going to put on a concert to raise thousands for her branch of the NSPCC, which would attract maximum attention now that he had been awarded his knighthood.

‘He’s specially composed an elegy for sad children. It’s so beautiful. And he’ll buy you your Steinway outright, and help Tabitha in her eventing career. I believe in redemption,’ Helen smiled mistily. ‘Rannaldini came into my life and saved me when I’d reached an all-time low.’

‘So you’ve settled for an all-time gigolo, Lady Rannaldini,’ said Marcus savagely.

‘Don’t be obnoxious, you sound just like your father.’

‘You were nearly destroyed by Dad’s philandering.’

‘And look what happened when Daddy met the right woman?’ reproved Helen, though even now she had a slight edge to her voice. ‘You never stop telling me how blissfully happy Taggie’s made him.’

‘At least warn Dad, it’s only fair,’ begged Marcus.

‘No, no, he’ll do something horrible to sabotage it. I deserve some happiness, Markie, I’ve been so desolate since Malise died.’

If Helen hadn’t wept and begged, Marcus would never have gone to the wedding, but he could never bear to see his mother cry.

Earlier that same day, Tabitha had had another blazing row over the telephone with Rupert because he still refused to buy her The Engineer.

‘You shouldn’t tangle with inferior regiments,’ Rupert had snapped, and Tabitha had hung up on him.

Late the following afternoon, Taggie, in an attempt to heal the breach, had rung Bagley Hall to find out if Tabitha would be coming home for the weekend, only to be told that Tabitha’s mother had taken Tab out of school for a very special occasion. Her house mistress had been very mysterious and refused to let on what it was.

In a rage — how the hell was Tabitha going to pass any exams if she was always being yanked out of school — Rupert telephoned Helen in Warwickshire. Getting no answer, he rang Bagley Hall and left a furious message that Tabitha must ring him the moment she got back.

Tabitha finally telephoned so early the following morning, Rupert was still asleep.

‘Where the bloody hell have you been?’

‘In London. At Mum’s wedding, since you ask.’

‘Wedding!’ thundered Rupert.

‘Yes, at Chelsea Register Office. She really looked gorgeous in pale crimson silk like the Tailor of Gloucester, a big dark crimson hat and some gorgeous garnets. I thought you’d be pleased — she won’t need to ask you for money any more. And you’ll never guess who she’s married.’

‘Who, for Christ’s sake?’

‘Rannaldini. He’s really, really nice.’

For once Rupert was silenced.

‘Are you there, Daddy? We all had lunch at the Ritz afterwards.’

‘We?’ said Rupert ominously.

‘Marcus and Jake Lovell were witnesses. Gosh, he’s attractive,’ said Tabitha blithely. ‘And Rannaldini’s going to buy Marcus a Steinway as a joining-the-family present, and guess what? He’s bought me The Engineer — so nice to have a father who loves me again — and Jake Lovell’s going to train him. Mum’s going to adore being Lady Rannaldini.’

Rupert went ballistic, particularly when he saw the exclusive in the Telegraph.

‘One of the bonuses of marrying the most beautiful woman in the world,’ Rannaldini was quoted as saying, ‘is that I acquire two beautiful step children, Marcus and Tabitha. As a musician and an owner, I intend to help and guide them in their chosen careers. Malise was a brilliant horseman, a flautist, and a wonderful stepfather. I hope they won’t feel his loss too much any more. They have both been delightfully welcoming.’

As well as a picture of the happy couple, there were also photographs of Rannaldini smiling at Tabitha with his arm possessively round her shoulders and, worst of all, of Marcus beside Jake.

The telephone rang. Rupert dived on it.

‘How about your ex marrying Rannaldini?’ said The Scorpion.

Kitty read out the Telegraph piece to Lysander.

‘Wowee, game and first set to Rannaldini,’ he said in horror.

‘He’ll break her,’ shivered Kitty.

Helen had been dreadfully patronizing to her at Christmas, but she couldn’t wish such a fate on anyone.

Kitty jumped as the telephone rang. It was Rupert. Had she got Rannaldini’s telephone number in London?

He was so appalled and enraged at the thought of Rannaldini getting his filthy hands on Tabitha that he rang up at once. Helen and Rannaldini were still in bed, later to fly to Milan, where Rannaldini was conducting Don Carlos at the Scala. Poor Marcus picked up the telephone.

‘Why the fuck didn’t you stop it?’

‘I t-t-tried,’ stammered Marcus.

‘Like hell — and why the fuck didn’t you warn me? Have you considered what that paedophile might do to Tab? Your mother’s a whore, she might as well have married the devil.’

Marcus lost his temper.

‘She did that the first time round. No-one could have made her more miserable than you did.’

‘She’s a parasite,’ howled Rupert. ‘She’s always been greedy, never bothered to earn a penny in her life. Now she’s sold out to the highest bidder, and you’ll never make it either, you’re a parasite, too. Don’t expect to get another penny out of me. Go and sponge off Rannaldini.’

‘I don’t want your bloody money,’ yelled Marcus, ‘I’ll get there on my own.’

And he slammed down the telephone. He was struggling for breath, desperately delving in his pocket for his inhaler, when Rannaldini came smirking out of the bedroom. He was wearing the blue-and-green Paisley dressing-gown which Marcus and Tabitha had clubbed together to give Malise for his seventy-fifth birthday, a month before he died.

‘What’s the matter, dearest boy?’ crooned Rannaldini.

He’s the Erl-King, thought Marcus in terror.

‘You bastard,’ he gasped. ‘How dare you tell the papers I’ve been welcoming, you know I was dead against the wedding, and only came to it because of Mum. If you hurt a hair of her head, I’ll kill you. I don’t want any of your bloody money or your Steinway either.’

Somehow he got himself to Flora’s digs without collapsing, and then had to cope with Flora, for once dropping her guard and sobbing wildly that there was no hope of her getting Rannaldini back any more.

Rupert was so incensed, he proceeded to cancel both Marcus’s and Tab’s allowances, and write them out of his will.

‘It’s Tabitha Rannaldini’s after,’ wept Flora. ‘That’s what’s driving Rupert crazy.’

The only thing that cheered Flora up was the new Dame Hermione’s fury over the marriage.

‘Talk about caterwauling for her demon lover.’

Helen, oblivious of the devastation she had created, returned from her weekend in Milan more in love than ever, and reprimanded Marcus for being horrid.

‘Roberto so longs for everyone to be friends.’

As Rannaldini already had five houses, she also felt magnanimously that she should put the Old Rectory on the market, because it had such unhappy associations for her, and hand half the proceeds over to Malise’s daughter.

‘It’s such a good time to sell in the spring when the tulips, the apple blossom and the crown imperials are all out.’

The final straw for Marcus came when he wanted to listen to Myra Hess playing the Appassionata on Monday evening, and discovered Helen, in a flurry of tidying, had chucked out all Malise’s old 78s. Marcus was on to her at Rannaldini’s London flat in a trice.

‘How could you? They’re irreplaceable.’

‘Don’t be silly. They’re all on CD now — Rannaldini’s getting them for you as a surprise.’

‘I want the 78s. Malise left them to me.’

‘Darling, be reasonable, they were only cluttering up the place.’

‘Like me,’ shouted Marcus, slamming down the telephone.

Outside the window, white daffodils lit up the garden and the dark yew hedges, a little unkempt now, which Malise had planted to divide it. Did Malise’s ghost, astride his old hunter, jump them in the moonlight? Would the new owners cut them down?

Marcus, who had lived here since he was four years old, was now not only penniless, but soon to be homeless. He was surveying the wreckage of his life, when the telephone rang. He couldn’t cope with a reproachful Helen, but it was Abby jibbering with excitement.

‘I’ve got my first gig, conducting the Rutminster Symphony Orchestra. Rodney and Howie squared it for me. Only one problem, right? I’ve gotta learn the repertoire in a fortnight. Will you help me?’ There was a pause. ‘You don’t sound very excited for me, Marcus.’

‘Mum’s just married Rannaldini.’

‘I read it. Not the ideal stepfather — I’m really sorry. But think of the doors he’ll open for you, and at least it’ll get your mom off your back, and you can come back to the Academy. It’s poor Flora who’s been blown out of the water. God, I’m scared about this gig.’