‘And why in hell are you wearing that even tackier diamond bangle round your ankle? We all know you’re coining it. Dressed like that, you’re an insult to Brahms and a brilliant conductor.’
Abby was already prowling round the little room but at the reference to Rannaldini her contrition evaporated.
‘He’s a monster,’ she howled. ‘He screwed me on every tempo, dragging or pushing me on. I nearly unravelled in the last movement.’
‘Has it entered your thick head that he might be right? He only happens to be the greatest interpreter in the world.’
‘Only because he makes the most bucks. That’s all you care about. He’s an asshole.’
‘Don’t be obnoxious,’ exploded Christopher. ‘Why must you always telegraph the fact you come from the gutter, and how dare you snatch your hand away when he was gracious enough to kiss it.’
‘Bloody Judas kiss, right? The orchestra detest him, and he’s only been with them a few days. They were really complimentary,’ she added wistfully. ‘Julian Pellaficini said I reminded him of David Oistrakh and he’s played the concerto loads of times himself.’
Christopher looked at her pityingly.
‘Don’t kid yourself your exquisite sound had anything to do with the ecstatic smiles on the musicians’ faces. They only rattled their bows so joyfully because your ostentatious and unauthorized little encore pushed them into overtime. And all that posturing and writhing is so unnecessary. Give the audience an orgasm if you must, but please don’t have one yourself.’
‘That’s because you’re not giving them to me any more,’ said Abby sulkily.
Like a neglected wife, finding comfort in a child, she picked up her Strad and dusted it down, before putting it lovingly in its case, and tucking it up in a periwinkle-blue silk scarf.
‘Thank you, little fiddle.’ She dropped a kiss on its curved scroll, then turned defiantly towards Christopher. ‘I’m not playing for that son-of-a-bitch again.’
‘Sure you are.’ Christopher opened the fridge. ‘You’re gonna record all the Mozart concertos with him and the New World Symphony Orchestra, for starters.’
‘Like hell I am. Fix me a vodka.’
‘You’re staying sober.’ Christopher poured her a glass of Perrier. ‘C’mon, you don’t want to catch cold. Get showered and changed. And at dinner you will turn on what little charm you have. “Thank you for making music with me, Maestro, I was only acting up because you’re so awesome, Maestro. I’m sorry I broke the no-encore agreement, Miss Harefield.” You cannot afford to make enemies.’
‘Because you want to sign them both up,’ hissed Abby. ‘All right, I’m sorry.’ She was near to tears now. ‘I just want us to be alone.’
But as she peeled off her fuchsia-red body stocking, Christopher reached for her dressing-gown. The size of her breasts no longer turned him on, only her enormous royalties.
‘Please kiss me,’ begged Abby, ‘perlease.’
‘We haven’t got time.’ He was now flipping through her good-luck cards to see if they were from anyone important.
‘I’ve got a feeling Beth suspects us,’ he added.
On her way to the shower, Abby halted in horror.
‘Oh no, she’s been like a mom to me.’
‘Well, you haven’t behaved like a daughter to Beth,’ said Christopher brutally.
‘How did she find out? Oh my God, this is awful.’
‘People are talking.’
The corniest way of dumping a woman in the world, thought Rupert scornfully. Christopher was even more of a tosser than he looked. Rupert needed a large drink, and he had heard enough.
Emerging from the Artists’ Bar ten minutes later, he found Hermione coming off the platform still screeching. Not only had Abby got higher billing, but her applause had lasted four times as long. Seeing Rupert, however, Hermione halted in mid-screech like a child spying a tube of Smarties.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black, you’ve come all the way from Penscombe to hear me sing.’
‘I have too,’ lied Rupert. ‘You were sensational.’
‘Then you must join us for dinner. Just Rannaldini, me and Christopher Shepherd. He’s charming, and Abigail Rosen, she’s a spoilt brat, but we don’t have to bother with her.
‘There’s an official reception first at the British Embassy, I must look in because they’d be so disappointed,’ she added, as they were both nearly sent flying by musicians, already changed, charging out to find the nearest bar. ‘But you can come too,’ she shouted over the stampede. ‘Then we’re going on to dinner at Wellington’s.’
The official reception, like all the diplomatic parties Rupert had ever been to, was held in a large, high-ceilinged room with sculptured yellow flower arrangements on shiny leggy furniture and frightful oils of elder statesmen on eau-de-nil walls. As April signalled the start of the Argentine autumn, the central heating was on at full blast.
Having spent many years on the show-jumping circuit and as a Tory minister, Rupert discovered he knew plenty of people. Most of the guests, however, knew no-one, so they gravitated to the evening’s two celebrities. Hermione, who was now wearing a wonderbra and a purple Chanel suit, was livid that the crowd round Abby was so much larger.
Abby had changed into a very short halter-necked dress in oyster-coloured silk, which clung lasciviously to her marvellous body. Her hair, freed from its black velvet ribbon, rippled in Pre-Raphaelite abundance over her shoulders. She was still clutching her dark red roses, whose long stems dripped onto her skirt, moulding it between her thighs. She was also wearing high heels which enabled her to see over the crowd to where Christopher was having a competition with Hermione to see who could crinkle their eyes at one another the more engagingly.
Rupert, half-listening to the ancient Italian Ambassador, who like all ambassadors seemed to have once had an affaire with his mother, was tall enough to watch Abby over the crowd. She looked wild, vulnerable and on the brink of tears, as she made heroic attempts to scintillate on the Perrier Christopher had forced on her, politely signing programmes and answering silly questions about how she got such a lovely shine on her fiddle. When the fifteenth person asked how she managed to memorize so many notes, she finally flipped and snapped back: ‘By learning them.’
As Christopher was still arched over Hermione, about to free fall down her cleavage, Abby slid out of the group of admirers, across the room, and onto the balcony where Julian Pellafacini had commandeered a bottle of Beaujolais and was quietly getting drunk. Easily the most diplomatic person in the room, who had spent his entire career keeping the peace between troublesome conductors and temperamental players, Julian had suffered this afternoon the almost unique humiliation of being bawled out three times by Rannaldini in front of the orchestra.
Emptying Abby’s Perrier over the balcony, he filled up her glass with red wine. After the stifling room, it was blissfully cool. Abby breathed in a smell of damp earth, moulding leaves and the distant reek of bonfires. The full moon was untangling itself from the trees, a round gold ball for Orion’s dogs to play with.
‘Where’s Rannaldini?’ she asked.
‘Taking a conference call from Japan, or so he says.’
With his blond hair even whiter in the moonlight, and his long pale kindly face, Julian looked like the ghost of Abraham Lincoln who’d had a premonition he was about to be assassinated.
‘Rannaldini was so god-damned charming when he was guesting,’ he said bitterly, ‘that the orchestra, particularly the young players, were knocked out when he got the job. Now they’re shell-shocked — like a bride waking up on the first morning of her honeymoon to find her handsome young groom’s turned into a werewolf.