Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

Miles didn’t fail her.

‘And of yourself, heading your great Parker and Parker empire.’

Peggy Parker bowed graciously.

‘With respect though, Mr Chairman,’ continued Miles in his fluting voice, ‘I feel Abigail Rosen is too young and inexperienced.’

El Creepo, who liked Abby because she was beautiful and had praised his solos, said that Simon Rattle and Toscanini had taken over when they were even younger.

‘Auditioning’ll take months,’ urged Harry Hopcraft. ‘And think of the air fares and the hotel bills.’

‘We ought to consider the alternatives,’ persisted Miles. ‘What about Olaf?’

‘Talks far too much in rehearsals and bores the orchestra,’ said Simon, whose solos Abby had also praised.

‘What about Vladimir?’

‘Liable to turn nasty,’ said El Creepo. ‘Uses us to familiarize himself with obscure repertoire, then rushes off to record it with other orchestras.’

‘What about Hans?’ asked Lady Chisleden. ‘Such a charmer.’

‘Said he wanted to live in the area and get to know us then pushed off on the first plane back to Switzerland after every concert, and he’s always drunk on the rostrum.’

‘Sheraton’s miserable in Germany,’ added Simon, ‘but it would take six months to extricate him. Rannaldini’s restless in New York, but we could never afford him and Boris Levitsky.’

‘Is dishy,’ said Lady Chisleden eagerly.

‘But totally unreliable,’ snapped Peggy Parker.

‘None of them is as famous as Abby,’ said Lord Leatherhead. ‘We must have someone who can haul audiences away from the television.’

Miles cracked his knuckles.

‘What about Ambrose?’ he suggested in desperation.

Everyone shuddered. Ambrose, the principal guest conductor, known as the ‘Fat Controller’, was a bitchy old queen who’d been guesting for three months in San Fransisco. (‘Coals to Newcastle,’ said Viking.)

‘Ambrose is bound to block Abby’s appointment when he returns,’ said Lady Chisleden. ‘He loathes women.’

‘All the more important to engage Abigail at once,’ insisted Peggy Parker, envisaging a whole series of concerts in which Abby dazzled in a different Parker and Parker evening ge-own, and blissfully unaware of Abby’s comments about her son’s composition.

‘Don’t you think we should consult the orchestra?’ said Simon Painshaw, examining his red dreadlocks for split ends.

‘Heavens no,’ said Harry Hopcroft. ‘They’ll disagree on principle.’

Miles’s was the only dissenting voice: he was even more fed up when, over Earl Grey and digestive biscuits, the board showed no inclination to appoint him as managing director.

Everyone agreed with Lord Leatherhead that they needed a new broom with a City background, who could capitalize on Abby’s marketability.

‘He must be musical,’ urged Lady Chisleden.

‘And able to give the orchestra spiritual guidance,’ urged Canon Airlie.

Lord Leatherhead said he and one of the bankers had someone in mind.

‘Will you approach him then, my Lord,’ said Peggy Parker.

And I’ll never suck up to you again, you old monster, thought Miles furiously.

Glancing out of the window, Lord Leatherhead saw Abby, back from Lucerne, leaping out of a taxi, running up the path, as lithe and graceful as the white cherry blossom tossing in the April breeze. As a treat, the board decided to call her in and offer her the job.

‘I’d like to hear how Rodney is, too,’ said Lady Chisleden.

There was a rip in Abby’s jeans, a smudge on her forehead and her dark curls stood on end.

She had had a frightening and exhausting three days and had only come back because she had exchanged a few comforting words with Rodney, who had urged her to carry on with Squeakygate.

‘He was so darling,’ she said, as Miss Priddock bustled in with a fresh pot of tea. ‘He sent you all his love, particularly you, Miss Priddock, and said please don’t worry. He said he’d get much better much quicker if they added some Krug to his drip, and at one moment, he looked round at all the tubes,’ Abby gave a sob, ‘and then said, “Darling girl, I’m not frightened of death, it’s just getting there that worries me”’

When they offered her the job, she burst into tears for a second time, and hugged everyone including El Creepo. Her delight and her impassioned promise that she would work her heart out for Rodney’s orchestra, until he could take over again, touched them all.

‘The problem with modern orchestras,’ she went on, ‘is that conductors are so busy jetting round the world, they never have time to learn the repertoire or get to know the orchestra. I want to live in Rutminster and become part of the community. Thank you all for giving me this wonderful chance. Can I sign the contract as soon as possible, in case you change your minds?’

‘Who is going to tell the orchestra?’ asked El Creepo nervously, after she’d gone.

‘Oh, tell them after the contract’s signed,’ said Harry Hopcroft. ‘We don’t want them putting their oar in.’

Having been nearly flattened by musicians charging out of rehearsal to the Shaven Crown, Abby floated off to ring Howie, who gave her a bollocking for over-enthusiasm.

‘If you hadn’t rolled over we could have screwed another grand a concert out of them. I’m only going to draw up the contract for a year, right? To see how you get on.’

Privately he was convinced the RSO would have folded long before then.

As everyone had gone home, Abby stole into the auditorium which seemed filled with the ghosts of former players. Herbert Parker’s haberdasher’s gold crest of interwoven thimbles, needles and cotton reels glittered on the faded dark green velvet curtains. Even the gold cherubs decorating the fronts of the boxes seemed to be tooting their long trumpets to welcome her.

‘My band, my own band,’ sang Abby, waltzing down the aisle in ecstasy. ‘I’m gonna make you the greatest band in the world.’

Leaping onto the rostrum, she was singing Beethoven’s Fifth Symphony: ‘De, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum, de, de, de, dum’, at the top of her voice and conducting with wild flourishes, when someone started playing the First Violin part. Whipping round, Abby nearly died of embarrassment to find Hugo who’d been working late.

‘How was Rodney? Better it would seem.’

‘I figure he’ll pull through,’ Abby leapt down from the rostrum, ‘he’s determined to ride in his new train. Thank you so much for driving me to the airport.’

Something’s happened to her, she’s glowing, thought Hugo in disquiet, and it’s nothing to do with Rodney. God, he hoped Viking hadn’t got there first.

‘You look like the cat that’s got the cream. You must be in love.’

‘Oh I am,’ Abby whirled round the platform.

Bugger Viking, thought Hugo.

‘In love with a whole big orchestra, right? Promise, promise you won’t tell anyone.’

‘Sure, sure.’

‘You are looking,’ Abby paused in mid-whirl, nearly falling over, ‘at your new boss.’

‘What!’ No cymbal crash could have been louder.

‘The Board’s just appointed me musical director.’

Hugo was enchanted, particularly because it had nothing to do with Viking, and suggested dinner at a discreet out-of-town restaurant, the Heavenly Host, in Paradise.

The sunny day had turned into a beautiful evening with the first green leaves spotlit by the falling sun against a navy-blue sky. Lambs were racing in the fields, cricketers in sweaters were practising in the nets. Hugo pointed out various pretty thatched cottages belonging to members of the orchestra, including his own, which was smothered in clematis montana with a front garden filled with grape hyacinths and primroses.

‘This is where you should get a place. I come home in the evening, see cows in the fields, and stop thinking “Bloody orchestra”. We can have a night-cap there later if you’re not too tired.’

‘I’d just love to,’ said Abby.

Hugo was such a gentleman, he’d never try anything unless she wanted it. But, looking at his beautifully manicured hands on the wheel and his powerful thighs in those lemon cords, she thought perhaps she did.

Hugo would be the perfect man, kind, sophisticated, utterly honourable, with whom to celebrate the end of three years’ celibacy.