Appassionata (13 page)
Although Rodney dozed off twice in the first movement, he managed to wake up and bring the orchestra in after the cadenza. The audience sat spellbound by the beauty of Abby’s sound and the sadness on her face. Abby always felt the last moments of the concerto were the saddest, as the Hungarian gypsy seemed to romp down the hill, her feet, coloured skirts, earrings and dark curls flying, then suddenly to break down like a mechanical toy, and as the whole orchestra went quiet, limp stumbling through the last two bars, before the three final thunderous chords.
Invariably when Abby played, there was a long stunned silence at the end, as though it were intrusive to interrupt such sorrow and depth of emotion. Then the audience went wild, breaking into deafening rioting applause. Rodney turned, his plump hands apart, his head on one side – ‘What can I say?’ – before enfolding her in a warm, scented bear-hug.
The audience, crazy for an encore, would have gone on clapping for ages. Abby longed to oblige them, then to unwind slowly, savouring her triumph. But Rosalie Brandon, having spent twenty-four hours humouring Hermione, was back in martinet form, waiting in Abby’s dressing-room.
‘You haven’t time for an encore, you’ve got to sign CDs in the foyer, and then I’ve arranged for an interview with the
Guardian
, and then we’re having supper with the
Independent
.’
Guardian
, and then we’re having supper with the
Independent
.’
Abby loathed Rosalie being present at interviews. It had been the same when she was a kid, and her mother had insisted on staying in the room when the doctor examined her.
‘I’m having supper with Sir Rodney,’ she said firmly, ‘Christopher never stops chewing me out for not brown-nosing conductors.’
Christopher’s right, thought Rosalie beadily, Abby was definitely getting above herself.
Rodney, steaming like a pink pig in the conductor’s room as he changed into a clean shirt for the second half, gave Abby a jaunty wave as she passed by on her way to the foyer.
‘See you later, Abbygator.’
SIX
Abby regarded Rodney as far too old and gay to try anything, so she was relieved when he suggested supper in the apartment in which the orchestra put up visiting conductors.
‘You’ve been stared at quite enough,’ he announced as he emerged from the conductor’s room, wearing a big black cloak and a beatle cap tipped rakishly over one eye. He was clutching a clanking carrier bag, ‘Just a few little extras from Tesco’s,’ and singing a snatch from
La Bohème
. ‘Come along Musetta, devourer of all hearts.’
La Bohème
. ‘Come along Musetta, devourer of all hearts.’
As they toddled across the square arm in arm, passing cafés, boutiques, pigeons huddling in the eaves and a glittering canal, the moon, slimmer than two days ago, but still sporting a rust halo, was sailing through silvery wisps of cloud.
‘Ring round the moon means trouble,’ sighed Rodney. ‘I do hope I don’t get a tax bill in the morning.’
The apartment was blissfully warm, with a gas log-fire which Rodney immediately turned on. Looking down from the moss-green walls were portraits of music’s giants: Alfred Brendel, André Previn, Rannaldini, Giulini, Jessye Norman, Simon Rattle.
‘You’ll be up there soon,’ said Rodney, pouring her a large glass of Dom Perignon, then sitting down at the big grand piano.
‘What’s your favourite tune?’
Abby’s mind went blank.
Rodney strummed a few chords and began to sing.
‘I love Abby in the springtime
,I love Abby in the Fall
,I love Abby in the summer when it sizzles,’
then changing key and putting on a French accent:
‘Thank ‘eavens for Abigail
.For Abigail get beeger every day
.Thank heavens for Abigail
.She’s grown up in the most exciting way.’
He looked so sweet and naughty, Abby kissed him on the top of his shiny bald head.
Having installed her on a dark, gold damask sofa, with the latest copy of
Classical Music
, which had her picture on the front, he toddled off to rustle her up some scrambled eggs. Abby felt herself unwinding for the first time in weeks. Oh, why were all the sweetest guys gay?
Classical Music
, which had her picture on the front, he toddled off to rustle her up some scrambled eggs. Abby felt herself unwinding for the first time in weeks. Oh, why were all the sweetest guys gay?
When Rodney returned five minutes later, however, he was brandishing the nearly empty bottle, reeking of English Fern, and wearing nothing but a blue-and-white striped butcher’s apron. Rodney’s down beat may have been wavery, but nothing could have been more emphatic than his upbeat, which was relentlessly lifting the striped apron like a shop blind.
‘My lovely child.’ Putting the bottle on the mantelpiece, Rodney advanced briskly.
‘Omigod,’ screamed Abby.
Flight to both doors was cut off, so she took the only possible way out, and went off into peals of laughter. After a second, Rodney joined in and they collapsed on the sofa, until the tears were running down their cheeks.
‘I thought you were gay, because you kissed the leader and you were so sympatico,’ said Abby, wiping her eyes.
‘Oh my dear, four wives to vouch to the contrary. Oh well, it was worth a try. You shouldn’t be so beautiful and so tall. Those stunning breasts at eye-level are beyond all temptation.’
‘What happened to your last wife?’
‘She died, three years ago, bless her. Wonderful old girl, used to play concertos in her nightie so she could go straight to bed afterwards.’
‘You must be so lonely.’
‘Not terribly darling, one’s always had a few little friends.’
‘Well, put on a bathrobe and I’ll make the scrambled eggs.’
After that they had a riotous evening, with Rodney regaling her with stories of the Great.
‘Henry Wood gave me my first concert after I came out of the Navy, and my first cigar. He was a charmer. You should do a prom, darling. You’d love it.’
‘They asked me,’ said Abby wistfully, ‘Christopher wanted too much money.’
Rodney frowned and topped up his glass of brandy.
‘I’ve heard that concerto so often, but tonight you made me listen to it completely afresh. I felt that strange excitement we all long for. Like the first time I saw David Gower pick up a bat, or the first time I heard Jacqueline du Pré pick up a bow. You have two matchless qualities, the ability to hold an audience captive and a unique sound that can never be mistaken for anyone else’s. But you’re dreadfully unhappy, aren’t you, darling.’ Gently he massaged her aching neck.
So Abby told him about Christopher.
‘We call him Chris-too-far over here,’ observed Rodney. ‘He’s avaricious, always pushes his artists too hard, gets as much money out of them as quickly as possible before they burn out. You ought to have been allowed to unwind after that exquisite concerto, or at least have tomorrow off, so you can have some fun, and do other things.’
‘I want to have a go at conducting.’
‘Don’t know how ready the world is for women conductors,’ mused Rodney. ‘Women in power are often unnecessarily brutal to their subordinates. Thatcher crushing her cabinet, who reacted with appalling spite. Musically you’re quite good enough, darling, you’ve got the authority too, but concert tickets tend to be bought by women and queers.’ He gave Abby a foxy nudge in the ribs. ‘And they prefer a glamorous bloke at the helm, and orchestras are very tricky, you’d only get by if they loved you.’
‘What about Edith Spink?’ protested Abby.
‘Edith’s a chap, and she’s got her composing, although her last symphony sounded as though a lot of drunken bears were having a saucepan fight.’
‘I must go,’ Abby leapt to her feet, as she suddenly noticed how old and tired he looked.
As he led her to the door, he begged her to come and stay in his house in Lucerne.
‘It’s on the lake and quite ravishing, there’ll be no passes, scout’s honour, and you’re going to come and play for my orchestra in Rutminster, ravishing country there too, and my boys and girls would love you.’
‘Shall I pack for you?’ asked Abby.
Rodney shook his head.
‘The sight of you bending over my suitcase,’ gently he patted her bottom, ‘would be too much for me. Goodnight, my new little friend.’ He stood on tiptoe to kiss her cheek.
‘You’d have enjoyed it, you know, there’s many a good tune played on an old fiddle, and I’m a spring chicken compared to your Stradivarius.’
Returning, still laughing, to the Hyatt Hotel and reality, Abby found an express parcel from Christopher.
Frantic with excitement, hoping for a gold bracelet or even a diamond pin as an act of atonement, Abby ripped it open and found six copies of the CD contract for the Mozart concertos. It was covered in primrose-yellow stickers telling her where to sign. Also enclosed was a brusque note from Christopher ordering her to return the contracts at once. A car would be waiting at Heathrow tomorrow to take her on to a rehearsal and recital at the Wigmore Hall. The next day she would start recording the Bartók concerto with the LSO.
‘If Declan O’Hara or Rupert Campbell-Black try to contact you, I cannot urge you too strongly to resist them,’
ended Christopher.
‘That’s the one thing that could, screw up the Rannaldini deal.’
ended Christopher.
‘That’s the one thing that could, screw up the Rannaldini deal.’
I better call Rupert at once, thought Abby.
Five Mozart concertos, music she loved, spoilt for ever by bullying and screaming matches.
Her shoulders, her arms, her back and her neck still ached. In the old days, Christopher had cured her, rubbing in Tiger Balm, a mixture of herbs and menthol, and sooner or later his fingers had crept downwards in pursuit of pleasure. Abby groaned at the memory.
Taking her violin from its case, she cleaned its strings with eau-de-Cologne, then dusted its smooth flanks and delicate neck curving over into the seahorse head.
‘It’s you and me against the world, little fiddle,’ she said sadly. ‘If I don’t play you well enough, the bank will take you back again. You must have witnessed so much misery in two hundred and eighty years, but have you ever been played by anyone as lonely and unwanted as me?’
But that wasn’t true, Rupert had wanted her, and men’s hands had trembled when they’d asked her to sign their records this evening. Even Rodney’s jovial elephantine pass had made her aware she was desirable.
She was only so isolated, because Christopher, when he had wanted her had not wanted witnesses, and had driven away all her friends, and even her noisy fat mother. Pacing her room all night, she watched the sky lighten and the city emerge.
Far below she could now see a row of pretty pastel houses, the kind she would have loved to have settled down in, lining the bottle-green, oily waters of the canal, on which floated brightly coloured barges, attached at the centre like the petals of a flower. All round was debris, where bulldozers and cranes were in the process of flattening beautiful old russet buildings, churches, meeting houses and a factory with tall pipes. I’ll be bashed down before I have any chance to enjoy life, thought Abby, her eyes following the path of the canal which flowed under roads and bridges, past a man throwing sticks for his shaggy white dog, along a row of dark cypresses, into the mist, keeping its head down, amid the hubbub of the city. The hands of the little red clock-tower merged into one at six-thirty.
Abby flipped. She was enmeshed like Laocoon, she had to break free. First she chucked Rannaldini’s contracts out of the window. Blue birds of unhappiness, they wheeled downwards. Then she took the earliest shuttle to Heathrow, and booked herself onto Concorde.
Buoyed up by an excess of champagne, she wept over a piece in the
Independent
about Rachel Grant, the beautiful pianist, who’d been recording the Beethoven concertos with Rannaldini. She had evidently driven over a cliff because she’d seen a picture in
The Scorpion
of her husband sneaking out of the apartment of a former mistress.
What a tragic loss to music
, wrote the reporter.
Independent
about Rachel Grant, the beautiful pianist, who’d been recording the Beethoven concertos with Rannaldini. She had evidently driven over a cliff because she’d seen a picture in
The Scorpion
of her husband sneaking out of the apartment of a former mistress.
What a tragic loss to music
, wrote the reporter.
Abby got stuck back into the champagne.
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