Authors: Jilly Cooper

Tags: #Fiction, #General

Appassionata (36 page)

BOOK: Appassionata

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‘I think he’s waiting for you to give him the upbeat, Maestro,’ whispered Hugo.

‘Oh shit, I never thought of that.’ Abby whipped her stick up and then down and they were on their way. She was dying of nerves. But expecting one of Rodney’s bimbos (the last one had got lost in the New World), the RSO were staggered how good she was. Thanks to Marcus she was embedded in the music, giving every important cue, detecting wrong notes from the babble of sound. Musicians detest stopping and starting, and Abby luckily also had the ability to shout out or sing instructions on the wing.

Simon Painshaw, First Oboe, had carrot-coloured dreadlocks and screwed up his thin face when he played as though he was drinking vile medicine out of a straw.

‘That was fantastic,’ Abby called to him after a particularly beautiful solo, ‘but three bars after twenty-nine, you should have played A flat.’

Blushing beetroot like an unattractive winter salad at the unaccustomed praise, Simon mumbled that his part said A.

‘Then yours is a misprint.’

The musicians looked at each other in awe.

The brass players, when they got excited, made enough din to strip the rest of the paint off the foyer. Abby managed to shut them up.

‘I gather that the RSO brass section are the wonder of the West Country,’ she beamed across at them. ‘But it would be kinda fun occasionally to hear what the rest of the orchestra can do.’

The brass section shuffled their feet sulkily but they forgave Abby when she overheated, and whipped off her dark blue jersey, mistakenly taking her white T-shirt with it, to display a pair of stunning breasts.

Hugo was also a joy, playing with panache, never taking his soulful dark eyes off her, clapping his hands to shush any chatter, pleased that Abby consulted him throughout.

And the First Horn was more than adequate. After the ridiculously delayed start, Abby nearly dropped her baton, because he played with a radiance and purity completely at variance with his distinctly
louche
appearance. He was also the most outrageously attractive man Abby had ever seen, lounging high up at the back of the orchestra, his French horn, like the sun in his arms, matching his streaked gold hair. His dark brown eyes seemed permanently narrowed as if he were taking aim before firing one of Cupid’s arrows. He had a pale narrow face darkened by stubble, a snub nose, and his big mocking lips somehow managed to compose themselves round the mouth piece of his instrument This was an eighteenth-century horn with a pretty painted bell made of gold leaf, beaten very thin and giving it enormous range.

He’s the ghost horn player, thought Abby in wonder.

‘You do very well,’ said Hugo, as he and Abby had a cup of tea in the conductor’s room.

‘You gave me so much help,’ said Abby, ‘and the orchestra sure take their lead from you.’

‘And I from you,’ said Hugo, who was having a little bet with himself that it would be under ten seconds.

‘There are some very interesting players,’ mused Abby.

Six seconds, thought Hugo.

‘Particularly First Oboe, and – er – First Horn. A wonderful primitive sound. Why’s he called Viking?’

‘He wore an eyepatch to his audition to hide a black eye given to him by a jealous husband,’ said Hugo, gratified to have won his bet, but disappointed that Abby had reacted like all the rest.

‘When Victor, that’s his real name, first came here,’ he went on, ‘he reminded everyone of a Viking blowing a conch in a flat-bottomed boat before nipping ashore for a spot of rape and pillage.’

‘Does he,’ Abby removed her Earl Grey tea-bag, then added super-casually, ‘have a particular partner?’

‘Well, he’s slept with most of the girls in the orchestra.’ Getting up Hugo tested Rodney’s bed. ‘He only has to say, “Hallo, sweetheart,” in that peat-soft Irish voice to some pretty new cellist. Next minute she’s horizontal in the car-park.

‘Horn players,’ Hugo rearranged the cushions up one end, ‘live on the edge. First Horn and First Oboe are the riskiest instruments to play because they’re so heard and so exposed. Viking’s the hero of the orchestra, because he stands up to visiting conductors and the management.

‘The management, on the other hand, think the sun shines out of Viking’s brass’ – rising from the bed Hugo prowled round the room – ‘because he pulls in the punters. If he isn’t playing, they ask for their money back.’

Hugo opened Rodney’s food cupboard, examining tins and jars with rapt Gallic interest. Abby, who hadn’t had any breakfast, dipped a piece of shortbread in her tea.

‘How old is he?’

‘Twenty-eight.’

‘Same age as me. No disrespect to the RSO, but why hasn’t he been snapped up by one of the London orchestras, or made a fortune as a soloist?’

‘Viking’s lazy and unambitious.’ Squatting down Hugo whistled over the vintages of the wines in the rack. ‘He prefers hell-raising with his friends, they’re known as the Celtic Mafia, and playing football on Sundays. There was a mass walk-out when the management tried to introduce Sunday afternoon concerts.

‘Anyway, why should anyone want to work in London?’ asked Hugo. ‘Have you ever tried carrying a double bass on the tube? You can get to work in ten minutes here and park, and you have a salary even if it’s a pathetic one. You get a chance to rehearse before a concert and the audiences are loyal. I like it when people stop me in Rutminster High Street and say, “That was a great concert, Hugo.” The countryside is marvellous and the cottages are very cheap.’

‘You make it sound so attractive,’ said Abby wistfully.

Hugo laughed – dashing d’Artagnan again.

‘And the pickings are good. There are many, many single women in the country. Others have husbands who go to London in the week.’

‘I don’t approve of married men having
affaires
, said Abby primly.

‘Nor do I,’ said Hugo. ‘I’m divorced.’

Out of the window Abby could see extras running up the path to take part in
Ein Heldenleben
, which required a much bigger orchestra than
Oberon
.

‘Has Viking ever been married?’ she asked.

Hugo shook his head, too polite to snap that he’d been quizzed so often about Viking that he was thinking of making a tape.

‘But there is evidence he is taking life more seriously. Recently he left the ramshackle house on the edge of the Blackmere Lake, which he shares with the Celtic Mafia, and moved in with Juno Meadows, Second Flute, who lives,’ Hugo’s dark eyes gleamed with laughter, ‘in a converted squash court.’

‘Does she have long blond hair?’

‘That’s the one,
ravissante
in a doll-like way.’ Hugo tested the bed again, wondering what Abby was doing this evening. He had a terrific strike-rate with girls disappointed by Viking.

‘Juno,’ he added wickedly, ‘is so refined, she insists on eating bananas sideways.’

Abby burst out laughing.

‘And,’ continued Hugo, ‘despite being a hypochondriac, who rings in sick with a dislocated eyelash, she is very tough. The orchestra call her the Steel Elf. She refused to sleep with Viking till he moved in. He nearly went mad. Now she’s pushing him to get a better job. That’s why he was playing at Covent Garden last night. He’s already picking up her mortgage. But all the orchestra, including Viking, he’s a gambling man, are having bets as to how long it will last.

‘I ’ave to say I love the bloke, and we all forgive him, because he’s such a marvellous musician.’ Hugo looked at his watch. ‘We better get back, here endeth the first lesson.’

‘Omigod,’ said Abby appalled, ‘I forgot you had that horrendously difficult violin solo coming up. I should have left you in peace.’

‘Probably stopped me worrying,’ said Hugo philosophically.

What a pity, thought Abby, that he was at least three inches shorter than she was.

The tattered, bottle-green curtains had been pulled back as far as possible to accommodate the increased orchestra. Viking had four extra freelance horns in his section. There were two gold harps soaring like a king and a queen and an exciting array of percussion including a snare drum, which made a sinister relentless rattle, and cymbals gleaming like Ben Hur’s chariot wheels.

Irritated there were more players on stage, the orchestra were involved in their usual grumbles about over-crowding, music-stands and chairs in the wrong place, lighting and heating. Tomorrow they would have to cope with television cables and cameras. As Abby mounted the rostrum, she noticed Juno Meadows, Viking’s girlfriend, to the left, smugly aware of taking up hardly any room at all. Feeling disappointed Viking was taken – why the hell was she lusting after profligate horn players? – Abby was now in a didactic mood.

‘Ein Heldenleben,’
she told the players, who’d heard it all before, ‘means a hero’s life.’

She was interrupted by the arrival of a very fat, very pretty blonde, who sent several music-stands flying and waved frantically at Viking before plonking herself down beside a furious Steel Elf.

‘Who the hell booked Fat Rosie?’ muttered Hugo. ‘You only need thin musicians for Strauss.’

‘A hero’s life,’ went on Abby, ‘could be described as kinda autobiographical. It was written when Strauss was only thirty-four.’

‘Must have been bloody arrogant,’ said Viking, applying the Second Horn’s strawberry-flavoured lipsalve to his big mouth.

‘Just like you,’ said the Second Horn, retrieving it.

‘Quiet please.’ Hugo clapped his hands.

‘In this piece,’ continued Abby, ‘Strauss paints a savage picture of the critics who attacked his music. They are portrayed by the woodwind, scraping, squeaking and playing out of tune.’

‘Juno won’t have to try,’ sneered the First Trumpet, who had a cruel red-brick face.

‘Who said that?’ Viking was on his feet.

‘Don’t rise.’ The Second Horn pulled him back by his ‘Spoilt Bastard’ T-shirt.

‘Only joking,’ grinned the First Trumpet unrepentantly. ‘Sorry Juno.’

The orchestra, particularly the prettier girls, who entirely agreed with the First Trumpet, smirked into their music-stands.

‘Strauss also portrayed his tempestuous relationship with his wife, Pauline,’ went on Abby, ‘who was a coquette and very capricious.’

The First Trombone, who had a complexion like red rock, very blue bloodshot eyes and hair the colour of wet sand, rather like a South of France travel poster, put down his copy of
Playboy
.

‘You mean she was an absolute bitch,’ he said.

The orchestra giggled. Abby decided to ignore him.

‘As I am sure you all know, Pauline is portrayed by the leader of the orchestra.’ Abby smiled fondly at Hugo.

‘Hope you’re going to wear a pretty frock, Hugo, dearie,’ shouted the First Trombone.

‘And Strauss even portrays himself in the closing pages on the French horn.’ Abby smiled up at Viking, who put down
Auto Express
and smiled back.

‘After a terrific battle,’ concluded Abby, ‘when the brass and percussion can really play fortissimo, the work ends with the hero and his wife reconciling their differences in one of the loveliest tunes ever written, with the solo violin singing and sobbing and the solo horn – er – weaving round her like a great purring panther.’

‘Grrrrrr,’ growled Viking.

‘Show us your tits again,’ shouted the First Trombone.

Abby blushed crimson.

‘Let’s get started.’

It was like hanging onto the coat-tails of a hurricane, thought Abby, as she opened her raised arms, and whipped the orchestra to a frenzy in the battlescenes, then quietened them for the love duet. Here, she felt Hugo, although a dashing and technically faultless player, lacked passion. If only she could have taken his place, providing Viking with a player up to his weight. As she sang along with them, she realized how unendurable life would be until she could play again. She hadn’t done any physio for weeks.

Confronted by genius, however, Abby was always generous. Passing Viking on her way out as he put his horn back in a battered case, lined with crushed purple velvet, she stammered: ‘You were terrific, I’m not just bullshitting.’

‘It’s like being a racing driver or a test pilot,’ said Viking. ‘You just got to believe you’ll come out the other end.’

Hugo’s right, thought Abby, he does have the sexiest peat-soft voice in the world, and he was a good three inches taller than she was.

TWENTY-ONE