Jilly Cooper - Score!

Another wild-goose chase, sighed Serena, who’d made sure she was sitting next to Tristan. The sets and costumes might have come from an amateur operatic society’s production of Brigadoon . Neither conductor, soloists nor chorus could agree on tempi . Attempting to glide through a castle wall, Banquo’s ghost sent it flying.

But out of this shambles came a voice of such beauty, so deep, rich, soft, yet intensely masculine, that Rannaldini’s party turned to each other in rapture. Tristan was so excited he hardly felt Serena’s pinstriped leg rubbing against his.

Mikhail Pezcherov was also an excellent actor, with a square, expressive face and strong features, enhanced by a black moustache and beard, and a curly bull’s poll tumbling over soulful dark eyes. More important, if he were going to play the gallant Marquis of Posa, he was of heroic stature, with long, strong legs that would look marvellous in tights.

Afterwards, he welcomed Rannaldini and his party backstage.

‘My knees knock, my tongue thicken in mouth, I can only croak hello, I am so excited,’ he announced, thrusting mugs of very rough red wine into their hands.

He wished he could afford something more expensive but all his money was going home to support his darling wife, Lara, and his children. Showing the visitors their photographs, he wiped away copious tears, but all would be worthwhile, if they could live together one day in comfort.

‘How did you meet your wife?’ asked Helen.

‘I was best man at wedding. Lara was bridesmaid. I sing “Nessun’ Dorma” at reception. Zat was zat,’ sighed Mikhail.

‘Lady Rannaldini and I had our first romantic weekend in Prague,’ purred Rannaldini.

‘Zat is good,’ said Mikhail. ‘I trust guys who love their wives.’

‘I too.’ Rannaldini caressed Helen’s cheek.

Really, thought Helen, when he’s as charming as this, I can remember why I married him.

Back at Rannaldini’s suite, Mikhail got stuck into a better class of red, wolfed down his own incredibly tough steak, and polished off everyone else’s leftovers.

Rannaldini, who for once hadn’t made a single bitchy remark, produced the score of Don Carlos and thumped away on the piano. When Mikhail came to the end of Posa’s wonderfully beautiful dying aria, it seemed impossible that only five listeners could have made such a noise, cheering and shouting until people in the next rooms banged on the thin walls.

‘So thrilling to find him together.’ A tearful Helen squeezed Serena’s hand.

‘You’re going to give the part exactly the right ker-pow quotient, Mick,’ Sexton told Mikhail. ‘Tomorrow our people will call your people.’

‘You better call my vife, she handle money,’ said Mikhail. ‘If I really have zee part?’

‘You have it,’ said Rannaldini, who had been particularly captivated when Mikhail congratulated him on his piano-playing. Not since Hermione had he discovered such a thrilling talent. Now, where had he put his treasured jade fountain pen? In his excitement, he must have handed it absent-mindedly to the waiter after he’d signed for room service.

‘May I call my Lara?’ asked Mikhail, as his glass was refilled yet again.

‘Go into our bedroom,’ said Rannaldini.

‘Can I possibly borrow your mobile to check on Jessie?’ Serena asked Sexton. ‘I’ve got a horrible feeling I’ve left mine in the taxi.’

Helen had buttonholed Tristan. When she’d first moved to England from America, she told him, she had worked as an editor in publishing, which had involved a lot of research. Perhaps she could help out on Don Carlos .

Tristan listened politely. Close up, Helen’s huge, staring eyes, ribby body, spindly legs and flesh worn down to her admittedly perfect bone structure, reminded him unnervingly of paintings of chargers dying of starvation in the Crimean War.

Across the room, trying to make Tristan jealous, Serena was chatting up Rannaldini, who was terribly sexy, but definitely not husband potential.

‘We must have dinner one evening,’ he was murmuring. ‘Bussage can always find a window for special people. At least promise to sit next to me at the Gramophone Awards on Tuesday.’

Helen’s face had lit up while Tristan talked to her, but it went dead as she noticed the wolfish expression on Rannaldini’s. Meticulous by nature, Helen became obsessive under stress. Now she launched into a frenzy of tidying, lining up scores and magazines, plumping cushions, whipping glasses from people still drinking — anything to maintain her sense of controlling the environment.

‘Leave it. We are not at home,’ exploded Rannaldini, and then, remembering his role as cherishing husband, ‘Go to bed, my darling, you must be tired.’

Having told Mikhail he would fix him up with a shithot agent, Shepherd Denston’s, who would handle everything, and arrange for him to have coaching in Prague to prepare him for rehearsals starting in December, Rannaldini said he was off to bed.

‘Helen and I have happy memories to relive.’

He found Helen faffing round in her nightie. She always laid out her clothes for the morrow, and she was certain she’d packed her saxe-blue cashmere and the lapis-lazuli brooch that went so well with it.

‘You packed in a hurry,’ soothed Rannaldini.

‘I guess one of the maids has nicked it,’ said Helen shrilly. ‘I hate Prague! The beds are so hard, the food’s disgusting, you can’t turn down the heating so I’ll have hot flushes all night, and finally there’s no bath plug.’

‘I will plug your hole, my darling,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘D’you remember last time we play game of naughty doctor, taking liberties with young girl patient, and how excited you became?’

Helen gasped as he pushed her back on the bed.

‘She has been very naughty.’ Rannaldini locked the door. ‘She deserves good spanking for not eating enough.’

‘The others’ll hear us. You can’t, Rannaldini!’

Parting Helen’s legs, Rannaldini laid his tongue on her clitoris. Not for nothing was he known as the James Galway of Cunnilingus!

Helen achieved orgasm, fantasizing about Tristan de Montigny. Rannaldini pushed himself over the edge thinking about Tabitha.

‘My darling child,’ he murmured, as he came.

‘Why can’t our marriage always be like this?’

‘From now on it will be,’ promised Rannaldini.

Next door Tristan and Mikhail, who was drinking from the bottle, were dissecting the character of Posa.

‘He changes in the opera.’ Tristan lit another Gauloise. ‘He starts out an idealist, then realizes he’s got to act politically to get things done. He has to put on a different face to hide the brutal facts.’

Like you’ll have to, thought Sexton, with a sudden surge of pity, if you’re going to work with Rannaldini.

‘Posa was like IRA freedom-fighter,’ announced Mikhail.

Anxious to make a note about parallels with the IRA, who were very hot in Hollywood at the moment, Sexton found his pocket computer had suddenly disappeared. He was distracted by Serena, who had unleashed her dark hair like a cavalry charge, and undone two buttons of her pinstripe jacket.

‘Can I have a word?’ she murmured.

Wildly excited, Sexton padded after her into the second bedroom.

‘Is Tristan OK?’ she whispered.

‘No, shittin’ himself about the funeral on Monday, poor little sod.’

‘It’s going to be like a state funeral.’

‘In-a-state more likely, wiv all his dad’s ex-wives and mistresses fighting to sit in the front row, and all the paparazzi hangin’ abart.’

God, Serena was pretty. I’m going to score, thought Sexton joyfully.

He was about to unfasten the last button of her jacket and push the door behind them, when she hissed, ‘Get rid of Mikhail.’