Appassionata (108 page)

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Authors: Jilly Cooper

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BOOK: Appassionata
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Far west on the coast of Cornwall in their little cottage under the cliffs, Flora, George and Trevor had taken blissful refuge. They had no telephone, nor television and had read no papers for days. Flora, in the nude, had just sung, ‘Where E’er You Walk’, to George, but had got no further than the second verse, because Trevor had thrown back his head and howled and George had pulled her back into bed.
Running the three of them up supper of rainbow trout, chips and Dom Perignon, Flora suddenly remembered it was the first night of the finals at Appleton, and turned on the ancient wireless to listen to Abby and her friends in the RSO. She was appalled to learn not only that Abby had been ousted but also, in the news bulletin that followed, that Marcus was sinking fast in Northladen General.
The abandoned chip pan then caught fire and might have burnt down the cottage if George, hearing Flora’s wails, hadn’t rushed in and put it out.
‘Rannaldini’s pulled off that merger,’ sobbed Flora, ‘and Marcus is dying of an asthma attack.’
‘We’ll fly oop to Appleton at once.’ George drew her into his great warm bear-hug.
‘But you wanted a rest from the orchestra. This is meant to be our honeymoon.’
‘With you, honeymoons last for ever.’
All the papers on Sunday morning ran huge stories about Marcus fighting for his life, Helen keeping an all-night vigil, Rannaldini standing by, and Rupert, Nemerovsky and Abby being untraceable. The reporter who’d caught Marcus on the steps of St Theresa’s was delighted with her scoop:
CARING
SUNDAY SCORPION
IN MERCY DASH
, said the headline.
Back in Rutminster, Cathie Jones couldn’t stop crying. Poor sweet Marcus, who’d always been prepared to accompany her, poor Blue so soon out of a job, poor Abby who’d been so kind. Carmine would probably be fired, too. Rannaldini wouldn’t tolerate such bolshiness. Cathie trembled at the thought of her husband at home all day with no-one to kick but herself.
As Christmas presents, she was planting some indoor bulbs, laying them out in neat piles on the kitchen floor. White bulbs called Carnegie to remind Julian of Carnegie Hall, pink bulbs for Abby, Blue Delft, of course, for Blue.
The damp bulb fibre squelched in her hands like chocolate cake mix, as she put it into the blue chinese bowls she had bought for fifty pence each at the local market. Tiger the cat had just strolled up to inspect these impromptu earth boxes. Any moment he’d bound through the piles of bulbs mixing up the colours.
Gathering up the Blue Delfts, she hid them beneath the damp fibre, like me burying my love for Blue, she thought despairingly.
There were always things to do in the autumn to make winter bearable. When the bulbs came up, probably not in time for Christmas, their sweet smell would be a reminder of bluebells in the summer. Blue bowls, blue bulbs, bluebells, how would she ever get through the winter without him?
Boris couldn’t sleep, desperately worried about his little friend Marcus and kept awake by the lorries still rattling down Appleton High Street. Suddenly he was roused by a terrible crash. It must be burglars trying to steal the finally completed
Lear
. Switching on the light, Boris found that the glass rack had fallen off the wall into the wash basin, smashing everything, including his half-full bottle of whisky and the
Aramis
Marcus had given him for his birthday. He couldn’t see
Lear
anywhere, and rushed in panic out into the passage, where he bumped into Deirdre who had also been woken by the crash.
Having located the manuscript under his pillow, Deirdre, who was wearing a red satin nightgown, invited Boris back to her room for a night-cap.
‘You know I’d never vote for a Brit,’ she told him fiercely, ‘but I’m sorry your friend Marcus can’t make it.’
For a second Marcus thought he had gone to heaven, when he briefly regained consciousness and found sweet Sister Rose smiling down at him. She’d just returned from the day-shift with a pile of CDs. If anyone could make him heterosexual . . .
‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ she whispered.
The next moment Prokofiev’s introduction to
Romeo and Juliet
poured into the room. Seeing the tears sliding out of Marcus’s eyes into his hair, Rose realized her mistake.
‘Oh help, I’m sorry, Nemerovsky danced that at Rutminster, didn’t he?’ Turning off the CD player, she took Marcus’s hand. ‘I was in the audience. My boyfriend and I took the coach all the way down to Rutminster to watch him. He’s such a hero. I understand why you love him.’ She gave Marcus’s fingers a squeeze. ‘There’s nothing wrong with being gay, you just need to accept that there isn’t only one way to be in life.’
SIXTY-SEVEN
At the start of the afternoon’s rehearsal with Benny and Natalia, the orchestra enraged Rannaldini by waving ‘Save the RSO’ banners and all wearing hastily printed ‘Viva L’Appassionata’ T-shirts.
Miles rushed up in a frenzy.
‘Take those bloody things off.’
To which Nellie promptly obliged, showing off splendid duo-tanned breasts.
‘How could you, Nell?’ stormed Militant Moll.
‘I think Rannaldini’s rather sexy,’ pouted Nellie.
‘If you collaborate, Nellie Nicholson,’ hissed Candy, ‘we’ll shave all your hair off.’
By the time they’d changed into less subversive gear, Blue noticed that Cyril, who’d been knocking back Bumpy’s Scrumpy at lunch-time, was missing. Blue was about to send Lincoln to find him, when yet another highly embarrassed French horn player from the CCO slid into the Fourth Horn’s place.
‘Where’s Cyril, Knickers?’ shouted Blue.
Knickers was too distraught to answer. If Rannaldini kept feeding in extras, he’d be out of a job.
‘Cyril’s been sacked,’ said Rannaldini coldly.
‘For the second day running he was drunk when he arrived at the hall,’ said Miles sanctimoniously.
Blue rose to his feet.
‘I’m going too, then.’
‘Sit,’ howled Rannaldini. There were demanding solos for the Second Horn in both the evening’s concertos.
‘Don’t talk to me like Barbara Woodhouse,’ snapped Blue, then all the colour ebbed from his face as his mobile rang.
Only Cathie knew the number. With a trembling hand, he switched it on.
‘Blue.’
‘My darling.’
‘I’m leaving Carmine.’
She had piled the children, the ducks, the hens, Tiger the cat, and all the bulb bowls into the car.
‘Go to The Bordello. Mrs Diggory’s got the key,’ said Blue softly. ‘There’s plenty of whisky and tins in the larder and lots of catfood. The ducks and hens won’t hurt in the kitchen till I get there. I’ll be as quick as possible. I love you. Yippee!’ yelled Blue as he switched off his mobile. ‘Yippee!’
Momentarily roused out of their despondency, the RSO looked at him in amazement.
‘Where are you going?’ screamed Rannaldini.
‘Over the hills and as far away as possible,’ said Blue. ‘I’m not playing your fucking concert.’
‘Then you’re fired.’
‘Good, you can send on my redundancy money.’
‘Is Blue drunk, too?’ whispered Cherub in awe to Davie Buckle.
‘Only with ‘appiness,’ said Davie.
Rupert’s and Taggie’s romantic forty-eight-hour break in an ancient castle high up in the Czechoslovakian forests had not been a success. Taggie had had a punishing eighteen months anyway looking after Bianca, and coping with Xav undergoing a final and completely successful operation to straighten his eyes. She had then had to keep him quiet and happy during his convalescence. But she had had a far more difficult task trying to soothe Rupert as he became increasingly outraged and miserable over the defection of both Marcus and Tabitha, although he had been far too proud to approach either of them. Abby’s interview with Beattie in
The Scorpion
had destroyed him, although again he wouldn’t admit it.
Rupert, on the other hand, was aware that he had been giving his sweet wife a rotten time, and had insisted they went away for a break without Bianca and Xav. He was then appalled how much he missed them.
‘They’re bloody well coming with us next time,’ he told Taggie as the helicopter landed on the racecourse at Pardubika.
‘And Marcus and Tabitha, too,’ Taggie wanted to plead. But she didn’t want to set Rupert off before a big race.
The course itself resembled the park of some great house, with massive beech hedges, yew colonnades, long lakes and banks acting as fences. Goodness – they looked massive.
The off for the Czech Grand National was in an hour and a quarter. Rupert went straight to check on Penscombe Pride, who’d spent the night in his large, luxurious, dark blue lorry. But before he could look at the horse, Dizzy, his head groom, beckoned him up the steps into the living-room area of the lorry.
‘Thank God you’ve come.’
‘What’s the matter? It’s not Pridie?’
‘You better see this. I’m sorry, Rupert, but the Press are everywhere.’
Rupert took one look at yesterday’s
Evening Scorpion
. On the front page was a startled wide-eyed photograph of Marcus at his most delicately beautiful:
RUPERT’S SON IS GAY
said the huge headline.
It was as though he’d always known it.
‘So?’ he turned on Dizzy.
‘And Flora Seymour’s just rung from Appleton,’ stammered Dizzy, quailing in the blast of such ice-cold rage. ‘She says Marcus has collapsed with the most dreadful asthma attack. He’s in intensive care at Northladen General. Helen didn’t want you to be “bothered” , but I think he’s really, really ill. He’s been on a ventilator for twenty-four hours. He’s had to pull out of the piano competition,’ Dizzy’s voice cracked. She had known Marcus since he was three. He’d always been such a kind gentle little boy. ‘Flora left a number,’ she added.
‘Well, get her, for fuck’s sake.’
Having taken in the caption ‘
Nemerovsky’s Little White Dove
’, Rupert skimmed the front-page copy.
‘
Gay deceiver, Marcus Campbell-Black, pretended to be straight to woo millionaire-maestro Abby Rosen after his super-stud dad, Rupert, cut him off without a penny. But all the time Marcus was cheating on his lovely fiancée with mega-star ballet dancer, Alexei Nemerovsky. (Continued on pages 4-5)
’
Ripping the pages in his fury as he found the place, Rupert discovered other headlines:
‘THE STATELY HOMO. L’APPASSIONATA FLEES. RED IN HIS BED. A PRINCIPAL WITH NO PRINCIPLES’
above huge photographs of himself, Abby and Alexei. There was even a picture of Woodbine Cottage with a caption: ‘
Fag Cottage
’.
Irrationally, Rupert wondered how Nemerovsky felt about getting fourth billing. His eyes seemed to fill with blood. He felt a thrumming in his head.
‘Here’s Flora for you.’ Nervously, Dizzy pulled him back to earth.
‘I think he’s dying, Rupert.’ Flora’s voice was shriller than ever with anxiety. ‘The hospital are worried stiff, although they’re keeping up a pretence that his condition is stabilized. I know you’ve had a row, but Marcus really, really loves you. He did everything for your sake. All that mattered to him was you not thinking he’d been an utter failure as a son.’
‘I hardly think this latest escapade—’
‘Oh shut up, let me finish. He never betrayed you with Rannaldini. He tried to stop Helen marrying him, and he’s refused ever to speak to Rannaldini since then, he’s
too
loyal to you. He’s utterly, utterly honourable. Please go to him.’
‘I’m not having anyone dictating—’
Flora lost her temper.
‘People who live in bloody glass historic houses shouldn’t throw stones. If you hadn’t carried on like a rabbit when Marcus was a child – causing scandal after scandal – what did you do in the Circulation War, Daddy? – and given him the tiniest bit of support, he wouldn’t have needed to search out father-figures like Malise or Nemerovsky.’
‘Have you finished?’ hissed Rupert.

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