There was also something infinitely touching, when she wasn’t playing, in the way she rested her head like a weary child on her two-million-dollar Stradavarius, and so spontaneous when she swung round and grinned at the first oboe, who’d gone quite puce in the face playing the ravishing opening to the slow movement.
Several times, however, she turned to scowl at Rannaldini, his stillness a total contrast to her incessant movement. With his sinister pallor, midnight-black eyes and cloak-like tail-coat, he was a dead ringer for Dracula. Rupert was glad Abigail kept making a cross of bow and fiddle to ward off the bastard’s unrelenting evil.
She had now taken up the first oboe’s luminous, hauntingly beautiful tune. Glancing sideways Rupert saw that tears were trickling down the wrinkles of the old woman beside him.
‘Mon dieu, oh mon dieu.’
As Rupert passed her his handkerchief, his thoughts wandered to Xavier, poor little sod, what chance did he have? Rupert had read that lasers could cure a squint and work wonders with birthmarks. But he mustn’t think like that. Taggie couldn’t cope with two children, particularly one so retarded he couldn’t even walk.
The orchestra were into the last movement now — a manic, joyous gypsy dance with terrifying cross-rhythms. Rupert could see the white glisten of Abigail’s armpits, the dark tendrils glued to her damp forehead. God, she was glorious. There couldn’t be a man in the audience who didn’t want to screw the ass off her.
She was plainly into some horse race with Rannaldini, faster and faster, neither willing to give in, both her bow and his baton a blur. The faster they went the more the great chandelier trembled and shot out glittering rainbows of light.
And at the end when the bellows of applause and the storm of bravoes nearly took off both roof and chandelier, Rupert noticed that although Abigail collapsed into the arms of the albino leader and reached out to shake hands with the principals of the various sections of the orchestra, she snatched her fingers away when Rannaldini tried to kiss them.
This was followed by an insult more pointed, when a pretty little girl in a pink-striped party dress presented her with a bunch of red roses and she promptly handed one to the First Oboe who had played so exquisitely.
‘Viva L’Appassionata,’ roared the audience, until she came back and played a Paganini Caprice as an encore.
The orchestra, who could temporarily forgive a hard time in rehearsal if the concert was a success, were looking happier and, in homage to Abby, the string players rattled their bows on the backs of the chairs in front, until Julian led them off for the interval.
The only person, surprisingly, who seemed put out was Christopher Shepherd, who’d been making furious notes on the back of his programme, and who promptly disappeared backstage to see his illustrious client.
Deciding also to give Mahler’s Fourth in the second half a miss, Rupert followed him, defusing the heavy security on the stage door with a good wad of the dollars he’d been paid for Taggie’s ticket. Hearing Rannaldini’s screams and seeing smoke coming out of the conductor’s room, Rupert nipped behind a double bass case and nearly bumped into Rannaldini’s mistress, Hermione Harefield, who was waiting to sing the soprano solo in the Mahler. She was wearing a white dress, which looked as though a swan had forgotten to blow dry its feathers, and was making it impossible for a make-up girl to touch up her lipstick as she screeched: ‘Abigail Rosen and I had a no-encore agreement.’
‘Shut up you stupeed beetch,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘We haven’t got all night.’
And off they went. Hermione got her revenge by making the slowest entrance in musical history, trapping Rannaldini like a car behind a hay wain on a narrow road.
The crowd, who had turned up backstage to congratulate Abigail and get their programmes signed, were disappointed when Christopher Shepherd went grimly into her dressing-room and locked the door.
The manager of the opera house was almost in tears over the vast fees he was having to fork out for Abby, Rannaldini and Hermione. They cost more than the box-office receipts for the whole evening, he moaned, and he hadn’t paid the orchestra yet, nor the marketing people.
‘Rannaldini ees impossible,’ he told Rupert bitterly. ‘He finded out how much L’Appassionata get, and refuse to come out of his room until he get more. He complain about her having too much publicity. Then when I arrange press conference he storm out, because someone ask heem if his wife is coming back. Wise lady to stay away.
‘Hermione is just as ’orrible,’ the manager went on, ‘she see proof of programme and posters, then wait until they are printed to complain they are not OK.’
The poor man was only too happy to accept a further wad of green backs in return for secreting Rupert in the dressing-room next to Abigail’s. On the adjoining balcony Rupert could hear everything that was going on between her and Christopher Shepherd.
Howard Denston and Christopher Shepherd were the most successful agents in New York. Power brokers, they moved conductors, soloists and even entire orchestras around the world like chess pieces. Known as Pimp and Circumspect, they complemented each other perfectly. Howard Denston (also known as Shepherd’s Crook) was a beguiling wide boy from the Bronx who pulled off the shadier deals and lent on unwilling debtors. Totally amoral, he was only turned on by the big deal. Christopher Shepherd, radiating integrity and Old Testament authority, provided the agency’s respectable front.
Christopher had orchestrated Abby’s career from the start, settling fees, monitoring her promotion, providing encouragement and advice. Abby tended to play what he told her to, because unlike most agents, he was musical, playing the piano and possessing a fine tenor voice. Having starred in many amateur productions, he saw himself very much as Rodolfo in La Bohème. Hence the frock-coat and the pearl tie-pin.
Christopher had a parental attitude to his artists. He was aware of the insularity of soloists, the insecurity of conductors. He knew that this resulted in huge egos that needed the public far more than the public needed them, and that they responded as much to bullying as encouragement.
The instant he locked the door of Abby’s dressing-room, she lived up to her L’Appassionata nickname. Dropping the red roses she was putting in the basin, she bounded forward, flinging her arms round his neck, writhing against him, covering his face, that wasn’t obscured by dark brown beard, with kisses.
‘Was I OK? Was I really OK? Omigod, I’ve missed you. How long can you stay on in the UK? Did you like the encore? I need you, oh Christo, I want you so bad.’ She started to fumble with the pearl pin, then changed her mind. ‘No, let’s go back to the Plaza, I can’t be bothered to change.’
Abby had a clear, carrying voice, which had shed most of its Bronx accent and which squeaked endearingly when she got excited. Christopher, however, was in no mood to be charmed.
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Repelled by her trembling, burning sweatdrenched body, which had once excited him so unbearably, he prised off her hands and shoved her away. ‘How in hell can you expect to be taken seriously, right, when you come onto the platform dressed as a hooker? Those hot pants are so tacky.’
Pulling up a chair and like Rodolfo sitting on it back to front, as if to protect himself from further sexual assault, he asked: ‘Where are those gowns Beth bought for you?’
‘They’re too hot.’ Abby would have added too middle-aged and too frumpy, but she didn’t want to insult Christopher’s wife.