‘I never had the life of a normal child,’ she added finally, ‘music was the only thing that mattered.’
‘And Christopher,’ Rupert plunged his knife into his steak, releasing the blood, ‘how long have you been sleeping with him?’
Abby looked up in terror, eyes staring, totally thrown.
‘How’d you know? Please don’t say anything. Christopher’s phobic about scandal. His wife’s been so darling to me. Mind you, she’s a yachneh,’ then, at Rupert’s raised eyebrows, added dismissively, ‘a housewife with large boobs.’
‘I’ve got one of those,’ said Rupert approvingly. ‘Jolly nice too.’
But Abby was too distraught to laugh. Leaving three-quarters of her sole uneaten, ignoring Christopher’s and Hermione’s looks of disapproval, she lit a cigarette.
‘Christopher never sleeps with her,’ she whispered defiantly.
‘A husband,’ said Rupert idly,’ is a man who tells his wife he never sleeps with his mistress, and his mistress he never sleeps with his wife. I used to be like that. I’ve got a past longer than the Bible.’
‘What happened?’ The burning glow of Abby’s cigarette was jumping round like a firefly in her shaking hand.
‘I married an angel,’ said Rupert.
Abby’s pallor was lard-like now. Beads of sweat kept breaking out on her upper lip and her forehead.
‘Why isn’t she with you?’ she said sullenly.
‘She’s in Bogotá, we’re adopting a baby.’
‘How very caring of you,’ Hermione could no longer bear to be excluded from Rupert’s conversation, ‘to take on a disadvantaged youngster,’ she added warmly. ‘If I wasn’t concertizing all year, Bobby, my partner and I have often thought of adopting a little sibling for Cosmo.’
‘Cosmo’d probably eat it,’ muttered Rupert.
Hermione’s son created more havoc than most earthquakes.
‘Of course Cosmo is super-gifted,’ sighed Hermione. ‘He could inhibit a less bright child. He’s such a plucky little horseman, too, Rupert, I thought you might give him some riding lessons.’
Rupert laughed at a scowling Rannaldini.
‘Lysander’d better do that, he’s the brilliant rider.’
Passers-by kept peering in from the street outside, then leaping up and down in ecstasy and pointing as they recognized Abby. In the restaurant, diners kept coming over seeking her autograph, and then noticing Hermione and Rannaldini wanted theirs as well. Hermione kept singing the same doom-laden bars from The Force of Destiny.
Rannaldini sipped white wine very slowly and stared covertly at Rupert. Ironically, until Rupert had got involved with Lysander, Rannaldini had always longed to be friends with him, aware how much they had in common.
Both men were extremely successful, intensely competitive, insanely jealous, spoilt and, ultimately, insecure. Both had had mothers who hadn’t loved them, and had taken it out on women ever since. Except that Rupert had got lucky with Taggie. Deep down Rannaldini was bitterly ashamed of being unable to sustain a relationship.
Now he couldn’t take his eyes off Rupert, searching for grey hairs, red veins, spare tyres, some sign that the peacock feathers were beginning to moult. Maddeningly there was none. He was dying to have a go at Rupert, but didn’t want to betray his longing or the white heat of his animosity in front of Christopher.
Christopher was hopping mad. Everything had gone wrong, he loathed not being in control. He’d wanted Abby to be admiring and respectful to Rannaldini so he could do a number on Hermione, but all either woman could do was to drool over that arrogant, mischief-making Brit., who was now giving Abby his card, and writing the fax number of his hotel in Bogotá on the back.
‘I hear you’ve got Benny Basanovich on your books,’ Rannaldini interrupted his thoughts.
But Christopher didn’t want to talk about Benny. There were many instrumentalists and singers on Shepherd Denston’s books who would profit from an introduction to Rannaldini. That was another reason for signing up the great maestro but that could come later. Tonight all he wanted to talk about was Rannaldini.
As Hermione had gone off to the Ladies in a huff because more people were asking for Abby’s autograph, Christopher said softly to Rannaldini, ‘I want to put the two most explosive talents in the world together.’
Rannaldini glanced at Abby. She was a spoilt brat, and not his type. But he’d always been turned on by indifference. He’d enjoy taming her, making her jump, reducing her to crawling submission.
He also wanted that Mozart CD deal, because he suspected the New World Orchestra were not going to be the push-over he’d expected. The board had refused him the total hiring and firing rights he’d had with his last orchestra. It would be good to have a mega-record contract to bargain with.
He wanted the deal, but not Christopher as an agent. Christopher, he decided, was an avaricious thug.
‘I’ll have a dessert if you will, Christopher.’ Hermione had returned from the Ladies, face repainted, reeking of Arpège.
‘Full many a flower is born to blush unseen and waste its sweetness on desserts,’ quipped Christopher gallantly, then whispered, ‘I want to set you free from Rannaldini, I want Harefield to be an even greater name than Callas.’
Hermione bridled. ‘My voice is considered far more lovely than Maria’s.’
‘I said a greater name, Hermione.’
‘I’m not interested in money,’ lied Hermione. ‘My only desire is to bring music to the masses.’
That was a good sign, Christopher thought. She’d just put her hand on his crotch, but he removed it gently with a little squeeze and a tickle of the palm, in case it met Abby’s hand coming the other way.
‘I get as much of a charge if Solti says: “You’re wonderful, Hermione”, as to hear builders on scaffolding shouting: “‘Allo ‘Ermione, loved your last halbum, bort it for the cover, but I loiked the contents”.’ Hermione’s cockney accent was quite frightful. ‘It’s the little things that matter, like the ambassador, this evening, saying you’re even lovelier in the flesh, I hear that so often, I don’t know why.’
Abby caught Rupert’s eyes and giggled, then picked up Christopher’s hand, examining the fingernails, until Christopher snatched it away, asking sharply what she was doing.
‘Look for pastry crumbs, you’ve got fingers in so many pies.’
‘Shepherd’s pie,’ Rupert refilled her glass. Then, dropping his voice, whispered, ‘Christopher wouldn’t do business with me.’
‘He’s so grand, he only talks to God.’
‘And Rannaldini answers, I suppose.’
Abby nodded. ‘Christopher wants me to record all the Mozart concertos with Rannaldini.’
‘I wouldn’t. A beautiful pianist who was recording Beethoven with him topped herself two weeks ago.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Rachel Grant.’
‘I’ve heard her play. She was a wonderful musician.’
‘And Rannaldini was terrible to his wife Kitty.’ For a second Rupert shed his flip manner. ‘Don’t mess with him, sweetheart, he’s evil, he’ll break you.’
Hermione, in between mouthfuls of chocolate mousse, was humming The Force of Destiny again.
‘I had fifteen curtain calls, when I sang Leonora at La Scala. D’you remember, Rannaldini?’
‘We could have a ball if you did Declan,’ murmured Rupert. He’d had far too much to drink. His message was quite unequivocal.
Gazing into his beautiful, predatory, unsmiling face, which for a second seemed unnervingly like Rannaldini’s, Abby thought how impossible it would be to resist him, if he really put on the pressure, and how gorgeous it would be just to take off with him into the Pampas.