‘That’s Rannaldini’s house,’ Hugo halted, putting a caressing hand round her left shoulder and pulling her across the same powerful thighs, so that out of the side-window, she could see Valhalla, towering and tasselled with emerald-green larches.

‘How can he leave such a fantastic place to work in New York?’

As they arrived at the restaurant, Hugo pointed out a pilgrimage of frogs laboriously crawling across Paradise High Street on their way to the River Fleet.

‘Just like the RSO, no matter who they’re bonking, how much they’ve drunk, whatever mischief they’re up to, oversleeping or missing the bus, some inner clock tells them the time and somehow they always make the gig.’

‘That’s so dear,’ said Abby in a choked voice. ‘And this is so gorgeous,’ she cried as they went into the restaurant.

Angels reclining on clouds and twanging gold harps had been painted on the walls. Pretty waitresses, in flowing white robes and haloes, handed out scrolls instead of menus. Vases of lilies stood on each celestial blue table.

Being mid-week, the restaurant was pretty empty. Hugo felt free to talk and, over a celebratory bottle of Moët, he told Abby about the Berlin Wall existing between the musicians and the management, who were known as the ‘Fourth Reich’.

‘The management think the orchestra are a bunch of capricious, male-dominated, backbiting, money-grubbing hooligans. The orchestra think management is inefficient, lazy, uppity, tone deaf, overpaid and spends its time drinking coffee and taking three-hour lunches.’

The candlelight gave a warmth to Hugo’s sallow skin, his dark eyes gleamed with laughter.

‘The only time the orchestra venture onto the top floor is to ask for days off or more money, or make private telephone calls. In fact the orchestra’s attitude to management,’ Hugo picked up the menu, ‘was summed up this afternoon by the chairman of the Players’ Committee telling the Press about Mark Carling’s resignation.’

‘What did he say?’ asked Abby fascinated.

‘He said: “I feel great joy and sadness. Joy that Mr Carling is leaving, but sadness that it won’t be for another three months.”’

‘That’s obnoxious,’ Abby was shocked rigid.

‘And that,’ sighed Hugo, ‘after all Mark’s done for the orchestra. Poor guy was so upset, he’s walked out, and we’ll have to put up with that dickhead Miles Brown-Nose until they appoint another managing director.

‘But with an average RSO salary of fifteen thousand pounds and most of them forced to take teaching jobs and freelance work to pay the mortgage,’ said Hugo fairly, ‘it’s not surprising they’re tired, tetchy and demoralized.

‘They’re all spoilt,’ he went on. ‘They’ve been the best player in their school, in the local youth orchestra, probably at college. Parental hopes centred on them, so on the one hand you’re dealing with eighty-six Pavarottis who all think they can play the concerto better than the soloist. On the other hand they’ve been soured by being told how to play Beethoven’s Fourth Symphony every week by a different idiot, who earns more in an evening than they all do put together in a month. The hall is terrible,’ he went on, ‘a blackbird on the first day of spring would sound dire in there, and there’s no money to repair it.’

‘Are you ready to order, Monsieur de Ginèstre?’ an angelic waitress put down a plate of little pies, filled with salmon mousse and scrambled eggs, and topped up Abby’s glass.

Hugo, who had hardly touched his, because he had been talking so much, ordered garlic mushrooms for himself and Abby as a first course. After a lot of French chat du jour with the manager, they agreed on boeuf bourguignonne, new potatoes and haricot verts as a main course.

‘Musicians love food,’ said Hugo. ‘The best thing about a concert is eating afterwards. Tomorrow night,’ he put a leisurely hand on Abby’s jeaned thigh, ‘I will cook for you.’

Abby, who hadn’t eaten all day, was trying not to wolf all the little pies.

‘Go on about the orchestra, I guess I better know the worst.’

‘The main problem,’ Hugo was studying the wine list with intensity, ‘is that there isn’t room in the area for two orchestras. And the Arts Council are dying to close one down. There’s only fifty miles between us and the Cotchester Chamber Orchestra, who are smaller and much better run by Dame Edith Spink. And they’ve got the backing of Venturer Television. As a result they’re pinching more and more of our dates, and more of our sponsors.

‘They specialize in early music when they are not programming Dame Edith’s junk. They’ve done fifteen CDs in the last seven months, and they’ve got some really good musicians. The RSO used to be a terrific orchestra, specializing in heavyweight nineteenth-century music.’

‘And will be again,’ interrupted Abby firmly. ‘But first I gotta fire some of the musicians. Juno Meadows for a start, she’s awful, and there are some dreadful string players, and an old boy in Viking’s section, who should have been pensioned off years ago, as should that old bass player, with the hearing-aid, for Christ’s sake. And the First Clarinet’s a basket case.’

‘His wife keeps threatening to leave him, normally he’s a good player,’ protested Hugo.

She doesn’t miss a trick, he thought.

‘Omigod,’ Abby gave a moan of greed as a huge cloud-shaped plate of mushrooms, dripping in garlic butter and parsley, was placed on the blue table-cloth for them to share.

‘Tuck in,’ said Hugo.

Abby, however, was reluctant to be distracted. Dunking a piece of bread in the butter, she said: ‘Most of that lot will have to go.’

‘Well, that’s a good thing,’ Hugo popped a mushroom into her mouth, ‘because there’ll probably be a mass exodus once they hear you’ve been appointed. Then you can slot in your own people.’

‘Will they be very hostile?’ said Abby in alarm.

‘They won’t like working for a woman.’

‘But there are lots of women in the orchestra.’

‘That’s different, they’re in subordinate positions. Mary Melville, Principal Second Violin and Clarissa, Principal Cello, are the only section leaders.’

‘But they’ve been darling, so far,’ Abby felt champagne, garlic mushrooms and too many pies churning unpleasantly round and took a slug of water.

‘That’s because no-one takes Squeakygate seriously,’ confessed Hugo. ‘They loved Rodney, but they still winged about him. Now he’s gone, they’ll canonize him. Orchestras see the fronts of conductors so they only fall in love with their departing backs.

‘You must be tough with them, Abby, or they’ll walk all over you, and you must keep your distance. You’re a very attractive woman, but once one of them gets you into bed, the rest will be wildly jealous and lose any respect for you. And don’t think they’ll keep it a secret. You can’t be a member of the Celtic Mafia unless you report back on every conquest.’

Sidling down the heavenly blue velvet banquette, Hugo slid an arm round Abby, and pressed his lips to hers.

Abby was so startled, she kissed him back, a glorious exchange of garlic butter: her first French French kiss. Sitting down, Hugo was the same height as her.

‘I can’t wait to show you my cottage,’ he whispered.

‘I haven’t showered since this morning,’ stammered Abby, then kicked herself for being so gauche. Frenchmen were supposed to relish unwashed women, like camembert.

‘I’ve just had a Jacuzzi installed,’ Hugo seemed to read her mind.

‘I thought you said I mustn’t screw any members of the orchestra,’ chided Abby, who was nevertheless getting wildy excited.

‘I did,’ Hugo’s eyes were no longer soulful, but smiling wickedly — d’Artagnan of the flashing rapier again.

‘Quite frankly I can’t stand playing second fiddle to Lionel Fielding any more, he’s back the day after tomorrow and he’s such a wanker, so I’m off to lead the CCO. Edith and I were bashing out the nuts and bolts after your début concert. I gave my notice in this afternoon,’ he added triumphantly. ‘I’m no longer a member of your orchestra, my darling, so there’s nothing to keep us apart.’

And he lunged back into the attack.

Abby was so enraged that her great ally was abandoning her in her hour of need, that she leapt to her feet, and emptied the plate of mushrooms and butter all over Hugo’s yellow cords.

Then she shouted across to the manager: ‘If you bring in the boeuf bourguignonne, I’ll empty that over the son-of-a-bitch, too.’

And she stalked out.

TWENTY-SIX


Abby’s spirits were scarcely raised the following morning when she went into the general office to study the wall chart of future engagements. It was like a wallflower’s dance programme. There should have been bookings two years ahead. The RSO hardly knew what they were doing in the autumn.