Jilly Cooper - Appassionata

‘If you don’t shut your trap, you disgusting old monster,’ he yelled, producing the hollowed-out madonna from his inside pocket, ‘I’ll tell the Cardinal exactly what you’ve been up to, although he’s probably in it as well.’ And he stalked out, dislodging most of the flaking green paint from the front door as he slammed it behind him.

Back at the Red Parrot, surrounded by polaroids of Bianca, Taggie had not realized how late Rupert was. She had been wrestling with a letter to her stepson, Marcus, wishing him good luck in a recital (how on earth did one spell that?) he was giving at college next week. She also begged him to come down to Penscombe soon to ‘hopfully meat yor nu sisster’ .

Taggie’s desire to bear Rupert’s child had been intensified because she knew how much he wanted a son to run the estate. This, in turn, would have taken the pressure off Marcus. Saying Rupert got on brilliantly with Marcus had been the only time, in fact, she had lied to the social workers. She was equally ashamed that the moment Rupert walked in she shoved her letter under a cushion and launched into a flood of chat to distract him.

‘Dr Mendoza says I’m not infectious any more.’ Taggie was about to suggest they popped back to the convent for half an hour when she noticed the bleak expression on Rupert’s face, and stammered that she couldn’t wait to see Bianca tomorrow morning.

Fortunately Rupert was distracted by the telephone. It was Declan O’Hara, Taggie’s father and Rupert’s partner at Venturer Television, ringing from Gloucestershire. With his usual courtesy Declan asked after Bianca, Taggie’s chicken pox and then the hotel.

‘Even fleas boycott this place,’ snapped Rupert. ‘Get on with it, Declan, what d’you really want?’

‘As you’re in Bogotá, could you nip over to Buenos Aires tomorrow?’

‘It’s about two thousand miles, some nip,’ protested Rupert, taking a large glass of whisky from Taggie. ‘Didn’t they teach you any geography at school?’

‘I want you to go and see Abigail Rosen.’

‘Who’s she?’

‘About the greatest fiddler in the world, and the hottest property in classical music,’ said Declan reverently. ‘They call her L’Appassionata. I want to do a two-hour special on her, but her agents, Shepherd Denston, who are even greater fiddlers than she is, won’t answer my telephone calls. You’re so gifted at doing deals.’

‘Blarney wouldn’t get you anywhere if I wasn’t desperate to get out of this cesspit. And I don’t know anything about music.’

‘Bullshit your way through. I’ll fax out Abby Rosen’s cv. There’ll be tickets for you and Taggie at the box-office.’

Rupert promptly rang and squared the trip with Mother Maria, who, delighted that someone had taken on Sister Mercedes, was more than accommodating.

‘It will do you good to have a break, enjoy yourselves. I would give the world to hear L’Appassionata.’

‘At least we can get out of this dump for twenty-four hours,’ said Rupert jubilantly. ‘Your father wants us to chat up some female Nigel Kennedy. You’ll love BA.’

Taggie was so desperate to catch another glimpse of Bianca, Rupert agreed they could pop in to the convent on the way to the airport. Stopping off at a toyshop, waiting for Taggie, Rupert glanced at a cutting which Lysander had just faxed out from The Scorpion . This claimed that Rupert was giving sanctuary to Lysander and Kitty Rannaldini, now that she’d left her husband, and weaved in an old quote from Rupert, that Kitty was well shot of ‘an arriviste wop like Rannaldini’. Political correctness was never Rupert’s forte.

Taggie by now had settled for a pink fluffy rabbit and a musical box.

‘We better move it,’ said Rupert, adding a red racing car for Xavier to the pile.

But one look at Bianca was too much for Taggie.

‘Oh Rupert, d’you mind terribly if I don’t come to BA?’

Rupert did mind — terribly, particularly when he thought of his battles with bureaucracy, and his heroic devotion to duty while she had chicken pox. The off-white suit he was wearing was the only thing in his wardrobe that didn’t reek of sick. It was also the first time in seven years of marriage that Taggie had admitted that she wanted to be with anyone else more than him. But he was not going to show it.

‘Why should I mind?’ he said icily. ‘Best-looking women in the world live in BA. Thanks for the pink ticket.’

Not even caring that Sister Angelica was witnessing such a scene, not bothering to kiss a horrified mouthing Taggie, ignoring the anguished bellows of Xavier, Rupert stalked out of the convent, nearly dislodging the battered virgin from her niche as he banged the door.

Rupert’s mood didn’t lighten until he reached Buenos Aires, a city where he had often played polo and which he had always loved. As he joined the crazy traffic hurtling along the wide streets, elegant regal houses gazed down unperturbed over the half-moon spectacles of their balconies. Even with a chill in the air and the trees in the lush parks already turning, the merry inhabitants appeared to be holding drinks parties on the pavement outside every café. After Bogotá it felt blissfully safe. For the first time in weeks, Rupert left off his money belt.

L’Appassionata posters were everywhere, showing off Abigail Rosen’s rippling dark curls and hypnotic eyes, like the leader of some dodgy religious sect.

As her latest CD of Paganini’s Caprices had just topped the classical charts, her face also dominated the window of every record shop, and she certainly caused mayhem round the opera house. Huge crowds, frantic for returns, rioted and smashed windows. Motorists, driven frantic by traffic jams, anticipated the concert with a fortissimo tantivy on their horns.

Rupert was delighted to flog Taggie’s ticket for nearly a grand, but was completely thrown on entering the opera house to see Rannaldini’s pale, sinister face glaring down from posters in the foyer. Declan had foxily omitted to tell Rupert that the New World Symphony Orchestra was touring South America, and Rannaldini, as their very new musical director, had flown down to BA to conduct them and Abigail Rosen in the Brahms concerto.

Rupert felt a rare wave of shame. He and Rannaldini had last met at the Rutminster Cup when all their horses had fallen, and Rupert had been venting hysterical rage on Lysander in front of the entire jockeys’ changing-room for throwing the race: rage, which had turned out to be totally misplaced, as a post mortem had revealed Lysander’s old horse had, in fact, died of a massive heart attack. As Kitty Rannaldini and Lysander were now happily shacked up in one of Rupert’s cottages, the ‘ arriviste wop’, who regarded Lysander as a complete dolt, would, no doubt, suspect Rupert of masterminding the entire coup .

Rupert could have done without complications like this if he were going to sign up Abigail Rosen. She was probably under Rannaldini’s forked thumb by now.

The five-minute bell put an end to his brooding. He had never seen a hall so packed. People were tumbling out of boxes, sitting in the aisles and on the edge of the stage, standing four deep along the back and virtually swinging from the chandelier which hovered overhead like some vast lurex air balloon.

The orchestra were already on stage tuning up. The only man in the place blonder than Rupert was the leader of the orchestra, Julian Pellafacini, an albino with a deathly pale skin, almost white hair curling over his collar and bloodshot eyes hidden behind tinted spectacles. Julian was such a brilliant musician, sat so straight in his chair at the front of the first violins and had such a sweet, noble expression on his thin bony face as he smiled reassuringly round at the other musicians, that their only desire was to play their hearts out for him.