Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

The instant the red light went out, everyone burst out cheering. Boris had pinched Bill’s red-spotted handkerchief to wipe his eyes and was just about to congratulate Viking when the telephone rang. Snatching it up, Boris listened for a second.

‘You tell him. Vy do I always do your dirty vurk?’ he slammed down the receiver and took a deep breath.

‘Viking, that was fantastic, absolutely vonderful, perfect, out of these vorld, but we have technical fault. Could you possibly do exactly the same thing again?’

The orchestra winced collectively, waiting for the explosion.

‘I know women just like that,’ drawled Viking.

Everyone in the studio and the control-room collapsed in relieved and helpless laughter. And Viking did it again — even better.

The next moment he and Boris were hugging each other.

‘Let’s go and get vasted.’

After getting plastered with Boris, Viking was woken at noon by his cleaner, Mrs Diggory, banging noisily against the skirting-boards as she hoovered outside his room. She was due to leave at one o’clock. She hadn’t been paid for three weeks, and was more hopeful of a Christmas bonus if she woke up Viking, who, when he was in funds, was the most generous of the Celtic Mafia. Picking his way through piles of dropped clothes, dog bowls and curry trays, carrying his head gingerly downstairs as if he were trying not to spill it, Viking begged Mrs Diggory to make him a cup of coffee.

‘I can’t do the bedrooms, they’re all occupied,’ she sniffed.

‘You can do mine,’ said Viking, ‘and change the sheets, please.’

‘Expecting company?’ Mrs Diggory had to slant the kettle to fill it above the mountain of soaking plates and mugs.

‘Probably,’ Viking peered gloomily at his reflection in the dingy hall mirror. His hair was so long on top, he’d soon have a middle parting like Nugent.

As he let Nugent out to see off any lurking duck, he noticed the shadow of Woodbine Cottage, across the lake through the bare trees above a fading red carpet of beech leaves.

Picking up the telephone, he called Giuseppe, Parker and Parker’s most sought-after hairdresser.

‘Of course, I’ll fit you in, Viking love, but why must you always call at the last minute?’

‘Going to get your hair done?’ said Mrs Diggory cosily, as she put three spoonfuls of sugar into night-black coffee.

‘I don’t have my hair done, I have it cot,’ said Viking haughtily, then, picking up Mrs Diggory’s copy of the Sun, and turning to the back page, exclaimed, ‘Glory Hallelujah!’

Seizing Mrs Diggory, he waltzed her round the kitchen.

‘Flora’s Pride won by three lengths at 40-1, I’ve just won two hundred quid.’

‘Most of that owed to me.’

‘Indeed it is.’ Viking retrieved a betting-slip before chucking his jeans into the washing-machine, and gave it to Mrs Diggory.

‘Hand it in to Ladbrokes in the High Street and keep the change for a Christmas bonus.’

‘You sure?’ squawked Mrs Diggory in delight.

‘Otterly.’

‘You won’t recognize your room when you get back.’

‘Leave the heating on, lock it, and leave the key in there — ’ Viking tapped the willow-pattern teapot on the dresser — ‘to stop the other basstards using it.’

‘Don’t get too whistled, and forget where I’ve left it.’

Viking glanced at his watch, and reached for the last wine bottle in the rack.

‘We’ve got time for a quick glass, then I mosst dash.’

‘You better wrap up warm, snow’s forecast.’

Searching for her cheque book in the chaos of the drawing-room, Flora discovered an Advent calendar Cherub had given Abby for Christmas, and in an orgy of misery wolfed all the chocolates behind the doors.

Still feeling sick, she wandered listlessly through Parker’s, mostly because it was the only warm place in the High Street. In the record department, she noticed how little music had been written for the viola. She must start singing again. What the hell could she buy her parents? A pair of boxing gloves? On her salary she could hardly afford the wrapping paper.

‘In the Bleak Midwinter,’ sang Hermione over the loudspeaker.

Flora had no difficulty recognizing the orchestra; she’d know that razor-sharp precision anywhere. Looking up, she saw a Rannaldini poster glaring down at her, an inch of white cuff showing off the only hands that had ever really given her pleasure, she had been cold, ever since his arms had left her.

Oh bloody hell, thought Flora, I’m not putting up with any more frozen nights at Woodbine Cottage.

Running downstairs to the Household Emporium, she was just paying for a very expensive electric blanket, when the cheque was removed from her hands and torn into tiny pieces.

Whipping round, Flora found herself looking at dark gold stubble, surrounding the widest, wickedest smile.

‘You’re not going to need that tonight, darling.’

‘I’ve just made out the bill,’ squawked the shop assistant, furious to be robbed of the tiny commission, ‘and dogs are not allowed in here.’

But Flora was gazing up into Viking’s face, the colour staining her pale cheeks. Suddenly they were interrupted by an old lady tapping on Viking’s shoulders.

‘That was a lovely concert, Victor, we enjoyed it so much.’

‘Thanks, darling,’ Viking had to bend right down to kiss her wrinkled cheek. ‘Happy Christmas, see you in the spring. And I’ll see you later,’ he added to Flora, then he and Nugent were gone, haring off to catch the lift for Giuseppe and the hairdressing salon.

‘Such a nice young man,’ quavered the old lady to Flora and the assistant, who clearly didn’t think so at all.

‘He played at the centre yesterday: Scott Joplin, “Bye, Bye Blackbird”, “We’ll Meet Again” — got us all on our feet dancing, even Mrs Bilson and she’s over ninety, and he bought a big box of chocolates and everyone a little bunch of flowers.’

‘Viking played to you at lunch-time yesterday?’ squeaked Flora.

The old lady nodded. ‘He often plays to us, and at the hospital. Other people come from the orchestra, but Victor’s our pin-up. I love his cheeky grin.’

‘Oh, so do I,’ said Flora. ‘Thank you for telling me, and Happy Christmas. I’m really sorry,’ she added to the assistant, ‘but I’ll spend the money somewhere else in the store. Can you possibly direct me to party dresses?’

Back at Woodbine Cottage, Marcus had finally got rid of his last pupil of the day.

Smothered in Opium, wearing the tightest bottle-green cashmere jersey, she had edged her stool up the keyboard, until Marcus was sitting on the window-sill.

Then, when he had showed her some fingering, she had put her other hand over his, imprisoning it and murmuring: ‘My mother used to know your father. She said he was seriously wicked.’

‘I’m just seriously boring,’ said Marcus apologetically, turning his head so her kiss fell on his jawbone.

As she was leaving, she gave him a biography of Rachmaninov and a bottle of Moët.

‘See you next term. I’m going to get a terrific suntan skiing.’

He hadn’t the heart to tell her that her scent gave him asthma. Why hadn’t he kissed her back? She’d been so pretty. What would it have mattered?

Yesterday he had given a Chopin and Liszt recital at an up-market girls’ day-school, and afterwards signed two hundred autographs.

‘You wouldn’t like a job teaching music, Mr Black?’ the headmistress had asked skittishly. ‘I’m sure you’d cure our truancy problem overnight.’

Then she had given him a fee of seventy-five pounds.

There was no way he could pay the rent or for the Stein way, and buy presents for Abby and Flora. The cottage bills were horrific; Flora left lights and fires on all the time, and neither she nor Abby thought anything of ringing long distance for hours.

Marcus’s studio was freezing, but except when he had pupils, he tried to put on four jerseys instead of the heating. As if to save him electricity, the falling snow was lighting the room, thickening branch and twig, filling up the winter jasmine curling inside the lank skeins of traveller’s joy. He put the biography of Rachmaninov in the bookshelf, above the rows of CDs, tapes and scores.