Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘You do?’

‘I just adore Cyril,’ went on Abby, ‘he was obviously a great musician once, but his lips have gone and he’s always drunk.’

‘That’s an exaggeration,’ said Viking coldly.

‘Well, he reeks of booze.’

‘He retires in four years’ time.’

‘Why can’t he teach?’

‘Too shy. Those kids today would make dog-meat out of him.’

Abby took a gulp of wine to strengthen her resolve.

‘He’s pulling back the orchestra.’

‘The orchestra’ll have to pull a bit harder then. I don’t want to discoss it.’

The most delectable smells were wafting in from the kitchen. Abby proceeded to lecture him and Viking to disagree with her, until a barmaid in a tight gentian-blue sweater and an emerald-green mini skirt came over with the menu.

‘D’you want to order, Viking?’

‘I’m not sure. That’s a fantastic sweater.’ Then, turning to Abby, asked, ‘Do you want some lunch?’

Abby shook her head irritably.

‘I’ve got far too much work.’

Viking smiled up at the waitress. ‘Can I have my bill?’

‘Irish stew’s delicious. I could do you a take-away.’

Viking eyed her up. ‘There are things I’d rather take away.’

The waitress giggled. ‘I’ll get you your bill.’

‘Can’t you pass anything up?’ snapped Abby.

She was still lecturing him about his profligate lifestyle as they reached the car-park. Viking took her car keys and opened her door.

‘I’m sorry to get heavy,’ muttered Abby, ‘but I don’t want you to hurt Flora, she was absolutely blown away by Rannaldini.’

Viking looked at Abby in that amused wicked testing way until she had turned as red as her jersey.

‘I won’t hurt Flora,’ he said softly. ‘I adore her, she’s a soul mate; stonningly gorgeous and amazingly loyal to you,’ he added sharply.

‘Then why do you do a number on every woman you meet?’

‘Don’t you think my numbers add up to the sum of human happiness?’ Turning, Viking waved to two of the barmaids who were still gazing at him out of the pub window.

‘I don’t know,’ said Abby crossly, ‘I guess you’re just a womanizer.’

‘I’m not a womanizer,’ said Viking, ‘I’m a charmer!’

Grabbing her, he kissed her on the mouth, sticking his tongue down her throat. Putting up absolutely no resistance Abby kissed him back until her pulses were thundering like the nearby mill-stream and she could hardly stand up.

But, as she pulled away to draw breath, Viking let her go.

‘Only way to shot you up, darling.’ Laughing, he sauntered off towards his car.

Back at the cottage, Marcus was listening to Pablo Gonzales playing Rachmaninov’s Third Piano Concerto.

‘How perfect, how effortless, how beautiful. Oh Christ,’ he was saying.

He was slowly getting to grips with the concerto and only occasionally allowed himself to listen to recordings, terrified of being over-influenced.

‘It’s a bit quick,’ said Flora, who was combing tangles out of a protesting Scriabin, ‘I prefer Kissin — more languorous and tender.’

‘I like Kissin’s applause at the end,’ sighed Marcus.

‘What can we do this afternoon to stop me eating?’ pleaded Flora, who was on a diet. Whichever way she’d put her knickers on that morning they had felt back to front.

She suspected she was stuffing her face because Rannaldini had just won the coveted Conductor of the Year Award. Under his direction, the New World had won Orchestra of the Year, and Winifred Trapp’s Harp Concertos, newly released, were receiving ecstatic reviews. Flora couldn’t open a paper without Rannaldini’s face glaring out at her.

She didn’t feel any better when Abby floated in.

‘Just been having a drink with Viking.’

‘Where did you meet him?’ asked Flora.

‘He was teaching at St Clement’s — good to see him occupying his time profitably for a change, I cannot understand people who are super-talented and lazy.’

‘I can,’ said Flora, taking a tub of ice-cream out of the freezer.

‘And don’t you get mad at the way he chats up every woman he meets?’

‘No-oh,’ said Flora, seizing a spoon.

‘Viking’s attractive, I’ll grant you that. George chewed me out earlier this morning, but I guess underneath his animosity, he’s kinda attracted to me, like Viking is, or he wouldn’t bully me so much.’

‘That’s a false argument,’ said Flora with her mouth full. ‘Carmine bullies Cathie.’

‘I figure George would be a better bet than Viking,’ reflected Abby.

‘Georgie, Porgie, Black Pudding and Pie,’ Flora took another large spoonful. ‘If it was a choice between Mr Wrong but Romantic O’Neill and Mr Right but Repulsive Hungerford, I know who I’d choose.’

‘It’s weird; George doesn’t like you either,’ said the ever-tactful Abby.

Marcus winced. He wished Abby’s almost pathological jealousy of Flora didn’t make her so bitchy. He knew that she’d regret this conversation later.

‘Oh hell,’ said Flora, miserably, looking down at the empty ice-cream tub and chucking it into the sink. The telephone rang.

‘It’s Mr Wrong but Romantic,’ a returning Marcus gave a faint smirk, ‘for Flora.’

‘I’ve just kissed Abby,’ were Viking’s first words.

‘I guessed,’ said Flora.

‘She was listing my shortcomings.’

‘Your comings are never short.’ Flora was happy to hear Viking’s relieved laughter.

‘I love you and need you,’ he begged, ‘come over at once. I’d come and collect you, but I don’t want any more lectures.’

Abby couldn’t hide her exasperation.

‘Tell Viking to keep that damn dog under control. He’s always round here upending dustbins, just like his master.’

Cash crisis followed cash crisis throughout the winter. Bad weather kept audiences away in droves. George told the orchestra they might even have to take cuts in salaries. Two more players had their houses repossessed and moved into awful rented rooms where people banged on the wall if they practised. A bass player, a cellist and one of the Second Violins left and were not replaced.

Even Julian was downcast. ‘We’ll be a string quartet at this rate,’ he said gloomily.

Flora’s answer to her bank manager was to tell Miles she had an appointment with the dentist in Harley Street and to go busking on the South Bank. One of Viking’s mates at the London Philharmonic Orchestra had arranged for her to have a slot.

She chose a horribly cold grey morning and had great difficulty in getting out of bed. Returning to earth after making love, slumped on her back, fingers resting on her forehead, she glanced sideways at the watch on her wrist, worried about missing the train, and saw that instead of figures and hands the dial was filled with roses reflected from the curtains of Viking’s four-poster

‘Time ceases to exist when I’m with you,’ she said in a choked voice. ‘It’s turned to roses. You’ve made me terribly happy,’ she added, kissing him, ‘I’m so grateful.’

Viking drove her to Rutminster Station. Then, casually as the train was moving out, he said: ‘How about you and me getting our own place together?’

‘D’you think Nugent could learn to love Scriabin?’

‘Will you ever be serious?’

‘I’d like it, love it,’ stammered Flora. ‘It’s just such a surprise. As long as I can pay my way — I don’t want to be a kept woman.’

‘You can be a capped woman then.’ Removing Rodney’s cap, Viking plonked it on her head. ‘Be careful, if anyone asks you for a drink, say no.’

‘I love you,’ said Flora and, despite the cold, stayed watching him until he was out of sight.

London was much colder than Rutminster. Flora felt so sorry for the shivering sweeps of purply-blue crocuses in the parks and the almond trees whose pink blossom, forced out by a mild January, was already being scattered by a vicious wind.

The newsagents’ windows, scarlet with Valentine Day displays, provided the only cheerful note. She must buy a really gorgeous card for Viking, and a big jokey one for Mr Nugent from Scriabin. She couldn’t believe he’d asked her to move in with him, but allowed her thoughts to wander happily. He was so good with kids, he’d make a brilliant father and Flora O’Neill sounded so much more romantic than Flora Seymour. Oh God, let her not be too presumptuous.