El Creepo edged along the squashy sofa, so his right-hand fingers folded round his upper arm could rub against the more exciting squashiness of Mary’s pretty right breast. A totally oblivious Mary was worrying what food shops would still be open, and if she sold her pearls would she get enough to pay the telephone bill and buy a tricycle for Justin for Christmas. Bill Thackery, radiating decency and solidarity, had quite recovered from his mini-tantrum. Blissful to be centre stage for once, he thought nothing had ever sounded more lovely than his dreadful solo.

‘Bill’s all right in the higher register where only bats can hear him,’ muttered Viking to Tommy Stainforth, Principal Percussion.

Slumped against the parquet wall, reading a rave review in Gramophone of his Strauss concerto, Viking looked shattered, his blond mane lank and separating. He had to drive to Bristol to play Mozart’s Fourth Horn Concerto that evening. Through the glass panel he could see Flora. Having boasted he would pick her off, he had been enraged to be pipped by Jack Rodway. Look at her now, flipping through Clare’s copy of Tatler, yacking away to Cherub, Noriko and Candy, making them all laugh, always the focus of bloody attention.

Serena was making notes at her desk.

‘I’ll buy that if you will, Boris,’ she said, more out of despair.

Boris, who was sobering up, shook his head. ‘“Benedictus” is too pretty, too charming.’

‘Could have fooled me,’ muttered Dixie.

‘Those crochets are too long,’ agreed Dimitri. ‘The melody seduce me.’

‘I screw up this tape,’ said Boris grandiosely, ‘we vill do it again, have this von on me.’

‘Well, step on it,’ said Serena. ‘We’ve got fifteen minutes to go before we’re into overtime.’

Serena was passionately relieved when George stalked in just back from Manchester. Having been briefed by Miles, he immediately asked for a score. His face grew grimmer as once again Boris and the ‘Benedictus’ drew to its utterly biteless conclusion. Not a chord or a scale was together.

‘Good thing this glass is bullet-proof,’ said Serena bleakly, ‘We should have stuck with L’Appassionata.’

‘Don’t tell her, she’ll be even more impossible.’

‘At this rate, we’ll go into a second week. If he doesn’t get his act together tomorrow, we’ll have to reschedule or pull the whole thing.’

For a second they gazed at each other; they had planned a leisurely dinner leading to other things.

George sighed. ‘I’ll take him home and force-feed him the score.’ He put a rough hand on hers, ‘There’ll be oother occasions.’

‘Not if the RSO go on playing like this. See you all tomorrow at nine forty-five,’ she called over the talk-back.

Like prisoners in the dungeons of Fidelio the musicians shambled out, frustrated, tired and blaming Boris.

‘Poor Boris,’ protested Noriko. ‘He is very sad to be dragged away from King Rear.’

‘Viking’s King Rear’, said Nellie wistfully, ‘always forcing that gorgeous ass into the tightest jeans.’

A swaying Boris was hijacked on the way out. After initial pleasantries, George asked him where he was staying.

‘Voodbine Cottage, Abby and Flora invite me.’

‘Uh-uh,’ George grabbed Boris’s arm, ‘you’re cooming home with me. You’re going to sober oop, and spend the night with the score instead of one of those two scroobers.’

Unfortunately he hadn’t seen Flora who was lurking in the shadows. She was in total despair, as she remembered the excitement with which they had all worked to finish the Requiem in the summer.

‘I’m not a scrubber,’ she said furiously. ‘If you hadn’t junked Abby, none of this would have happened,’ and fled into the icy night.

Having been forced to drink four Alka-Seltzers before being put straight to bed, Boris slept for nine hours. George woke him at five, giving him black coffee and four hours on the Requiem.

By this time Boris was ready for a huge fry-up, including fried bread spread with Oxford Marmalade.

‘Public-school habit I peek up from Flora.’

‘My cross,’ said George bleakly.

‘Is excellent girl,’ protested Boris.

‘You’ve been seduced by a not particularly pretty face,’ snapped George.

‘Is Cordelia in Lear, “so young, my lord, and true”. My God — ’ Boris clapped his hand to his forehead in horror — ‘vere is my Lear manuscript, three month’s vork, I am ruined.’

‘Sit down.’ George poured Boris another cup of coffee. ‘I put it in the office safe.’

Boris slumped back in his chair.

‘You are horrible, but very good guy. You save vork of art.’

George made sure Boris arrived at the studios in good time. They were greeted by a smirking shifty-eyed Carmine. Cathie had flu, and couldn’t play ‘Rachel’s Lament’ in the ‘Libera Me’. Knickers was tearing the remains of his red hair out. Where would he find a cor anglais player in Christmas week at five minutes’ notice?

‘Cathie could have bloody rung.’

Miss Parrott leapt to Cathie’s defence.

‘That bug going round knocks you for six.’

‘So does that bugger,’ said an anguished Blue, who hadn’t slept for two nights with excitement at the prospect of seeing Cathie and who had turned up in his best blue shirt. ‘I know he’s blacked Cathie’s eye or worse. I’m going round there.’

‘Don’t,’ hissed Viking, ‘the bastard will notice you’re missing. Lindy Cardew has just returned brown as a berry from the Seychelles, courtesy no doubt of George Hungerford. On Friday she and the planning officer are off again to Gstaad. Carmine doesn’t want Cathie around cramping his style.’

Nicholas, Miles, George, Serena and Boris were in a despairing huddle around the rostrum

‘We’ll have to record the “Libera Me” at a later date,’ said Boris.

‘The only solution,’ said Flora strolling up to them, ‘is for Viking to play the solo.’

‘The hell I will,’ Viking didn’t look up from Classical Music, ‘Boris didn’t want me in the first place.’

‘That is untrue,’ said Boris outraged, ‘I offer it to heem once.’

‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, bury your pride, both of you,’ said Flora. ‘You bloody well owe it to us, Boris, for wasting all our times yesterday.’

‘Ahem,’ George cleared his throat, ‘I would like to remind you,’ he told Flora tartly, ‘that until otherwise stated I am nominally in charge of this orchestra.’

‘Well, tell them not to be so pigheaded.’

‘I don’t ’ave French ’orn version,’ said Boris sullenly.

‘I do,’ said Flora, ‘I kept it in my locker. One never knows when these things might come in useless, as you’re obviously all opposed to the idea.’

‘Go and get it,’ said George.

‘It’s only got a bass accompaniment,’ said Serena, as they all pored over the Sellotaped-together page. ‘You and Barry can practise it in the lunch-hour, Viking.’

‘I’m busy,’ said Viking haughtily, ‘I’ll sight-read it.’

Flora’s pleasure in having secured him the solo evaporated at his lack of enthusiasm. Battling with an icy wind in the High Street on her way to send flowers to Cathie Jones, she felt even worse. A BMW screamed to a halt and Viking leapt out. He had put on a tie and had brushed his hair. For a blissful moment, Flora thought he was stopping to thank her; instead he belted into the florists, bought every freesia in the place and belted out again.

Flora started to cry. She ached all over. No-one ever said, ‘Well done, violas’. She was fed up and lonely. She hated George for calling her a scrubber and Viking for bombarding beauties with freesias. Even worse was the thought of Christmas, with all its jollity and loving kindness. She would have to go home to warring parents and a place that reminded her only of Rannaldini.

The rest of the RSO had a much better day. Boris was back on form conducting with his old fire and inspiration. They worked fast polishing off the ‘Agnus Dei’, the ‘Lux Aeterna’ and a vastly improved ‘Benedictus’.

It was time for ‘Rachel’s Lament’.

‘Aren’t you nervous?’ said Cherub admiringly.

Viking shook his head. He had the big-match temperament, that needed adrenalin pumping through his veins to make him perform at his best. Throwing his paper cup of coffee at the waste-paper basket and missing, he picked up his horn. He had removed his tie and jacket. His casket of earth glinted in the V of his dark blue shirt which had escaped from his jeans. Two days in an airless, ill-lit studio had taken their toll. The pale skin fell away from his high cheek-bones, the lines were deeply etched round the bruised mouth, the slitty eyes had disappeared into black shadows.

Too much sex at lunch-time, thought Flora sourly.

I must sign him up, sighed Serena. He’d just have to stand there and smoulder.

Cathie’s version of ‘Rachel’s Lament’ had been poignant, haunting, coming from the depth of her sadness, the last cry of the dying swan. Viking curdled the blood, the rising fourths and fifths singing out, probing, incessant, insistent, almost unbearably raw and primitive. One great player saluting the departure of another.

Miles, Nicholas, George, Miss Priddock holding John Drummond, even Harry Hopcraft, the financial director, crowded into the control-room to listen. All sat spellbound. Only Viking and Julian had that ability at five o’clock on a mean, grey afternoon to bring tears spurting out of the weariest eyes.

Boris, whose eyes were completely misted over, pointed vaguely in Carmine’s direction to bring in the fanfare of trumpets sounding for Rachel on the other side, before the final majestic tutti.