Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘That’s incredible,’ Abby’s eyes spilled over with tears. ‘Oh, how darling of Marcus. Where is he?’

Viking’s arms tightened round her.

‘Please don’t be sad, sweetheart — he’s gone to Moscow.’

‘My God! To Alexei.’

‘You don’t still love him, you’re not too opset?’ Viking’s face was suddenly so fearful and worried, Abby had to kiss him better, entwining her body with his, melting into him until she thought he was going to take her then and there in the leafy clearing.

‘God, I’m so lucky,’ he murmured. ‘And Nugent promises not to eat Sibelius or Scriabin.’

Abby smiled, still unable to take it all in. Then she nearly fell back into the water in amazement as she heard the most glorious cacophony. Leaping to her feet, she was just turning towards the bank, when Viking, who had also jumped up, clamped her to his chest.

‘Josst listen,’ he whispered.

Now I really am going crazy, thought Abby, as a full orchestra belted out, admittedly somewhat haphazardly, the first bars of Ein Heldenleben before switching to ‘Happy Birthday’.

Struggling frantically until Viking loosened his grasp, Abby wriggled round, then she gazed and gazed, clutching his hand, leaning against him for support as the tears flowed down her cheeks. For the entire RSO still in their white ties and tails and last night’s black dresses were grinning at her from the bank.

They were all standing out of order and obviously in the middle of a splendid party. Randy and Dixie were brandishing champagne bottles as well as their instruments. Dimitri was mopping his eyes, with Miss Parrott fondly beside him, her harp blending into the golden woods behind. Julian and Francis were brandishing a huge streamer, saying ‘Happy 30th Birthday, Abby’. Juno — my goodness — was dancing cheek to cheek with Charlton Handsome, and — even more my goodness — there was Lord Leatherhead doing a stately jive with Peggy Parker, while Old Cyril merrily bopped with Old Henry, and a totally unharassed Knickers twisted the day away with Militant Moll.

In the background stood George, happily smoking a huge cigar and hugging a giggling Flora who was trying to play her viola. As Isobel and Ninion let off a great volley of bangers, a little boat struck out from the bank, with Noriko rowing through the yellow leaves, and Cherub frantically pinging his triangle.

‘Herro. Abby, Herro,’ called out Noriko.

‘Actually she’s a heroine,’ shouted back Viking.

Then everyone cheered and cheered.

‘I d-d-don’t understand,’ whispered Abby.

‘They had an emergency board meeting last night after the competition,’ said Viking, wiping her eyes, ‘and George decided to charter a plane to fly us all out. It’s been one helluva bash. We dropped Miles and Hilly in the English Channel.’

‘But George shouldn’t be wasting money charting planes, when we’re bankrupt.’

‘We’re not any more,’ Viking could hardly speak for laughing. ‘John Drommond won the lottery, so even if you programme Winifred Trapp every day, we’ll still be solvent in the year 2000.’

‘I can’t believe it,’ muttered Abby.

‘Indeed you can, darling. It’s the only way they can tell you they love you,’ added Viking as ‘Happy Birthday’ swung very discordantly into the Wedding March.

‘Your orchestra has come to take you home.’

Abby burst into tears of joy.

‘But they’re not together,’ she wailed.

‘No, but you and I are, and that’s all that matters,’ said Viking.

THE END