Authors: Jilly Cooper

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Appassionata (72 page)

BOOK: Appassionata

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Abby was touchingly grateful.

‘What would you like me to do?’

‘What you do best. Play your violin and get young Marcus to accompany you. We’ll put you on late in the evening, give him time to get a bit oiled.’

The cabaret kicked off with Randy in a dark curly wig, with two melons stuck into the front of Clare’s black dress, coming on as Dame Hermione and screeching:
‘I know that my Redeemer liveth.’

Francis the Good Loser, who didn’t have to dress up at all came on as the drunken tramp who tried to out-sing her.

Both were caterwauling away and the audience were holding their sides, when in stumped Blue in one of Miss Priddock’s tweed suits, wearing thick tights, brogues, a monocle and a pork-pie hat as Dame Edith. Having driven the tramp off with a hunting-whip she started chatting up Hermione.

‘You’re a lovely little filly, what does your DBE stand for?’

‘Dame of the Bottom Enormous,’ simpered Hermione.
‘I know that my Redeemer—’

‘Oh, cut that crap,’ boomed Edith. ‘I hear the shit’s hit the Fanny Cycle over the RSO. They’ll never get their Arts Council grant now.’

‘I’d rather have Hugh Grant,’ sighed Hermione. ‘
I know that my
—’

‘Shut up,’ repeated Edith. ‘Goodo, here come Gilbert and Sillyone to give us the low-down.’

Bellows of laughter, screams of joy and even tighter lips from Miles and Hilary, who was taking a lot of photographs, greeted the entrance of Viking. He was wearing a mauve-and-orange caftan, a grey wig with a lopsided bun, an even more lopsided bosom, sticking-out teeth from the joke shop and earrings made from school band cymbals which he crashed whenever he was making a point. He also kept greedily taking bites out of an enormous Christmas pudding.

‘I must have desserts,’ he announced, exactly capturing Gwynneth’s refined North London whine. ‘A
bombe surprise
a day keeps Hungerford away.’

Viking was followed by Dixie, in an identical caftan as goaty Gilbert. He was carrying an urn with the words ‘Clara’ on the side and wiping his eyes with a long ginger beard.

‘Hallo Sillyone,’ demanded Edith. ‘What’s in that urn?’

‘Don’t upset Gilbert,’ whispered Gwynneth. ‘His cycle, Clara, passed away last Wednesday. We’re off to scatter her ashes on Vinifred Trapp’s grave.’

‘I know that my Redeemer—’
squawked Hermione.

‘Actually not quite all Clara’s ashes,’ confided Gwynneth, as Gilbert gave a great sob. ‘Gilbert has donated her handlebars to a co-operative for battered push-bikes, so she can be recycled as intristing earrings to enable me to black a few more people’s eyes.’ Viking put down his pudding, stuck out his teeth and gave his cymbal earrings a great crash. Peering from the wings Flora saw that George was crying with laughter.

‘He
is
human, after all,’ she hissed to Abby.

‘What happened to Clara?’ enquired Dame Edith.

‘Battered to death by the Celtic Mafia,’ sobbed Gilbert. ‘They must be punished.’

‘Surely the Celtic Mafia are an ethnic minority and therefore exonerated from all blame,’ asked Hermione.

‘Certainly not,’ Gwynneth crashed her cymbals. ‘They are white, male and heterosexual, so it doesn’t count.’

‘Gimme their address,’ squealed Hermione.

‘Ah, here comes our favourite patron of the arts, Piggy Porker. Good evening to you, Piggy.’

‘This has gone too far,’ hissed Miles, to a crescendo of cheering and hysterical laughter, as a heavily padded grotesquely over made-up Flora, teetered on in blue stilettos and a sick-green spangled dress, snorting loudly, and waving a Parker’s carrier bag.

‘I quite agree,’ George wiped his eyes, ‘but it is bluddy funny.’

Somehow Flora achieved a wobbly curtsy.

‘Good evening, your dameships,’ she snorted. ‘Ay would so laike to create new looks for you both. Any face is improved by subtle make-up.’ And, reaching into her Parker’s bag, she slammed custard pies in Edith’s and Hermione’s faces.

‘I know that my Redeemer—’
screeched Hermione, spitting out cream and pastry.

‘Have you got a mirror? I don’t carry one,’ said Dame Edith.

‘You both look much younger,’ went on Piggy Parker. ‘I’ve come to invite you all to a brown tre-ouser event at Parker’s next week. My Sonny is . . . oh, here’s Sonny to tell you himself.’

Despite the yells of approval and laughter, no-one at first recognized the concave fop who minced in in a red tunic and floppy white trousers, because the face was almost entirely concealed by curtains of straggly hair.

‘I am the RSO’s composer-in-undesirable residence,’ fluted Sonny, crashing Viking’s earrings, ‘but it’s getting me nowhere because I’ve fallen madly in love with Marcus Black and he won’t return my calls.’

Marcus gave a gasp of horror and delight.

‘Abby, you bitch,’ he said.

‘It’s Abby,’ screamed Nellie. ‘That’s brilliant.’

‘I want him to play on my portable organ,’ Abby tried to make herself heard over the whistling, stamping and yells of approval.

But George was on his feet, sprinting out through the exit, round onto the stage, stopping the performance before Jerry could video anything more or Hilary take any more photographs.

‘I’m sorry that’s enoof,’ he shouted from the rostrum to equal boos and cheers. ‘Mrs Parker, Sonny, Gilbert and Gwynneth all said they might look in later and I for one don’t want the RSO committing pooblic suicide joost yet. I joost wish all you boogers would put as much creative energy into your music-making. But I have to admit it was bluddy foony.’

Packing the cast off to seats in the auditorium, he then congratulated the orchestra on some good concerts, but said it was high time they stopped behaving like hooligans.

‘We moost capitalize on Centenary Year to put the RSO in the black again.’

As was customary he then asked them to drink to their musical director.

Abby had pulled off her wig and her beard and ruffled her dark curls. A week of sleepless nights over Viking and Flora made her look pale and vulnerable.

‘You are a great orchestra,’ she said in a choked voice when the drunken cheers had died down. ‘And we’ve always programmed great composers, so if we’ve managed to make great music, I have only been the catalyst. Thank you for putting up with me.’

‘God, I feel a cow,’ said Flora, as Viking slid an arm round her shoulders. ‘Abby’s so lovely.’

‘She may not be so lovely when we go back to the cottage together later,’ murmured Viking.

Randy’s wife and his mother-in-law had descended unexpectedly to Christmas shop and intended to spend the night in The Bordello. Great armfuls of female underwear had been hastily chucked in the cellar. Viking had agreed to vacate his bedroom for Randy’s mother-in-law and planned an away fixture. Flora was extremely twitchy about Abby.

On rolled Miss Priddock’s cake on its trolley. The hundred candles were lit which set off the smoke alarm so five butch firemen suddenly appeared. Everyone was convinced they were a stripagram so they stayed on for the party to Nellie’s delight.

Rodney had sent six crates of Moët over as a Christmas present so everyone had plenty to drink. Very generously under the circumstances, Peggy Parker had given each member of the orchestra a turkey. Blue didn’t get a chance to speak to Cathie because Carmine was watching her, but he did manage to slip a little sapphire ring into the pocket of her coat hanging up in the Ladies and prayed she’d find it.

By eleven o’clock Marcus, slightly drunk and happy because he’d felt he’d comforted Abby a little in the last week, had lost his nerves enough to play the piano.

Not realizing how many people had stopped to listen and started to dance, he meandered through Gershwin and Cole Porter, then launched into a Seventies hit called
‘Madly in Love’
with Abby accompanying him swooningly on the violin.

What he didn’t realize was that Abby had persuaded Charlton Handsome to slip a recording mike in front of him which also picked up the ecstatic cheering and shouts for more at the end.

‘That recording’ll be worth a fortune one day,’ murmured Julian.

‘Boy plays like an angel,’ George said proudly to Miles, ‘I’m right glad we booked him.’

Abby and Marcus left soon afterwards because she was flying back to Philadelphia first thing the following morning. As Flora and Viking tottered out arm in arm several hours later, they found Eldred on the H. P. Hall steps, weeping at the prospect of a wifeless Christmas.

‘I’m coming back to Woodbine Cottage on Boxing Day,’ Flora comforted him. ‘I’ll ring you, you must come and try our erratic cooking and Marcus, you and I can play chamber music. We could start off with the Mozart
Trio
.’

Flora only stopped crying over Eldred as Viking drove over Rutminster Bridge and pointed out a very drunk Davie Buckle hurling his turkey into the River Fleet, yelling: ‘Go on, you bastard, fly.’

Trying to creep in without turning on any lights, Flora and Viking knocked over an umbrella stand and fell over Abby’s cases already out on the landing. Abby pulled a pillow over her head in anguish. Would she ever sleep again?

It seemed only seconds later that she was woken up by horrifying screams. Wrapping her naked body in a towel, tiptoeing onto the landing, she could hear Viking saying, ‘It’s OK, sweetheart, I’m here, it’s OK.’

He sounded so tender and loving. Almost deranged with misery, Abby could hardly read her watch. Five-thirty. She had to leave for Heathrow in an hour, she might as well get up.

Tottering wearily downstairs, she found it was still dark. Rain was rattling against the windows, pounding away the last patches of snow on the lawn. As she filled up the kettle, she heard piteous mewing. Frightened away earlier by Nugent, but seeing a light on, Sibelius had jumped onto the ledge and was squashing his drenched fur against the window-pane.

‘Oh, poor baby.’ Abby opened the window and, whipping off her towel, began to dry him, crooning how much she was going to miss him, patting his piebald face, squeezing water out of his furry tail.

Only when he was purring and almost dry did she hear a wolf-whistle and whipped round. To her horror, lounging in the doorway, wearing only jeans and a highly amused smirk on his evil, debauched face was Viking. She had no idea how long he’d been there.

‘What in hell are you doing?’ she howled. ‘Ouch!’ she screamed as a terrified Sibelius dug his claws into her breasts.

‘I’ve just come down to make a cup of tea, Flora had a nightmare,’ said Viking.

‘Called Viking O’Neill,’ sobbed Abby.

Seizing her towel, crashing against the door to avoid touching him, she fled upstairs.

Poor Sibelius was mewing again, hoping for an early breakfast. Switching on the kettle, Viking picked him up. His face was expressionless, as burying it in the cat’s fur, he breathed in Abby’s scent.

Depressed that Abby seemed almost suicidal when he got up to wave her off, Marcus was cheered when the post brought a Christmas card from Taggie, containing three hundred pounds, smuggled out of her private account. But it didn’t make up for not hearing from Rupert, and Marcus was so cast down by an enchanting photograph in the
Daily Express
of Rupert, Taggie, Xav and Bianca arriving in Monhaut for a skiing Christmas, that Flora persuaded him to come home to Paradise and stay with her parents.

‘I shall be playing the referee’s whistle, so you can accompany me. We must drop off a bottle of whisky on the way for poor Eldred.’

Despite Viking ringing every day from Dublin, Flora was ashamed how thrilled she was to hear that Helen’s Christmas with Rannaldini’s ex-wives and brat-pack had been a disaster. She had never been gregarious, and Rannaldini’s endless sexual games had absolutely horrified her.

‘I could have told you Helen of Troilism wasn’t a viable proposition,’ quipped Flora.

Marcus was demented.

‘I should have gone out there to protect her.’

What Helen hadn’t told him was that for Christmas Rannaldini had given her a blank cheque to have her face, breasts and bottom lifted.

‘But you said in Prague you loved me as I am,’ sobbed Helen.

‘I did, and I know it will hurt dreadfully,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘but I want you to be even more beautiful.’

Also if Helen was confined to barracks recovering from surgery, it would give him more free time.

FORTY-FOUR