‘Shame your father isn’t here to hear you singing,’ said Guy.
‘But he will be.’ From under heavy eyelids, Natasha shot a spiteful glance at Kitty. ‘He just rang to say he’s on his way.’
For a second, Guy thought Kitty would black out with horror as she remembered she hadn’t turned on the central heating in the tower, or put clean sheets on Rannaldini’s bed there or in her bedroom, in case he deigned to sleep with her this evening. There was nothing special for supper, and Rannaldini’s guard-dogs were still down in the village with their handler. He liked a pack welcome.
‘I must go,’ she mumbled white-lipped, ‘I’ll get a taxi.’
‘You will not.’ Firmly Guy took her arm. ‘It’s Rannaldini’s fault for arriving a day early. He can join us at The Heavenly Host.’
Georgie, still smarting because Rannaldini had dismissed ‘Rock Star’ as derivative, was even more livid that Guy hadn’t let her wash her hair. She’d had to make up in the car and now, in the crowded, overheated hall, was terrified that her pale skin would grow red and blotchy. She was also piqued that while everyone else’s children were crowding around asking for autographs, Flora, whom she hadn’t seen since before the American tour, hadn’t showed up.
Although she had only been at the school one term, Flora had already established herself as the Bagley Hall wild child, determined to buck the system. Wolfie Rannaldini had a massive crush on her, so did Marcus Campbell-Black, but he was too shy to do anything about it. Like most of the girls in the school, Flora had a massive crush on Boris Levitsky, who had sallow skin, wonderful slitty dark grey eyes and high cheek-bones. With his long blue jacket and shaggy black hair in a pony-tail, he would be perfectly cast as Mr Christian in Mutiny on the Bounty.
The concert had been due to start at five o’clock. It was now five-thirty, and there was still no sign of Rannaldini. The orchestra had tuned up and up. Parents were looking at their watches. Many of them had long drives home and would be forced to stumble out in the middle, ruining the concert, which was probably Rannaldini’s intention, thought Boris darkly. Determined to impress his old mentor, he was getting increasingly strung up. He was very tired, because sustained by vodka he was playing the fiddle in a Soho night-club to make ends meet.
Out in the hall, distraction was provided by the arrival of the great diva, Hermione Harefield, who’d just rolled up with Bob and plonked herself down between Kitty and Guy in the seat that was being kept for Rannaldini. It was twenty-five to six. Miss Bottomley, the headmistress, vast and Sapphic, had just risen furiously to announce that the concert could be delayed no longer, when Rannaldini’s helicopter landed on the lawn outside, squashing a lot of daffodils. Kitty watched him jump down like a cat, bronzed and impossibly glamorous, with his thick pewter hair hardly ruffled by the wind, and her heart failed, as it always did. Georgie, prepared to detest him because of Hermione’s jibes, thought he was the most attractive man she had ever seen. It was not just the good looks, but the total lack of contrition.
‘Sorry to hold you up, Sabine,’ he called out blithely to an apoplectic Miss Bottomley, as he swept up the aisle asphyxiating everyone with Maestro. ‘We had engine trouble.’ Then, glancing up at Boris, who was fuming in the wings, ‘Carry on, Boris.’
Always engine trouble when Cecilia’s in town, thought Kitty despairingly.
‘Over here, Rannaldini. We’ve saved you a seat,’ called Hermione in her deep thrilling voice.
In fact she hadn’t. It merely meant that Helen Campbell-Black had to move into the row in front and sit next to her ex-husband, Rupert, who had in the past been infinitely more promiscuous and far later for every engagement than Rannaldini, but who was now glaring at him with all the chilling disapproval of the reformed rake.
‘Fucking Casanouveau,’ he murmured to Taggie. ‘Can’t imagine him as a schoolboy. Must have spent his time in the biology lab dissecting live rats.’
Moving down the row to join Hermione, Rannaldini’s eyes fell on a cringing Kitty.
‘Friday is a work day,’ he murmured as he sat down beside her. ‘I assume everything’s in order at home for you to play truant like this.’
‘I fort you was coming tomorrow,’ stammered Kitty. ‘I fort Natasha would like one of us to be here.’
‘Hush,’ said Hermione loudly, ‘Boris wishes to begin.’
Boris had a hole in his dark blue jacket, buttons off his white frilled shirt, a nappy pin holding up his trousers, and his unruly black hair was escaping from its black bow. Mounting the rostrum, he bent to kiss the score of Brahms’ Academic Overture, lifted his stick and began immediately. If Rannaldini was all icy precision, Boris was all fire and romantic enthusiasm. The orchestra played as though they were possessed. Bob Harefield, who never stopped talent-spotting and was now leaning against the wall at the back of the hall, took out his notebook.
Rannaldini, on the other hand, closed his eyes and ostentatiously winced at any wrong note. Rupert Campbell-Black was not much better behaved, his golden head lolling on his present wife’s shoulder as he gently snored in counterpoint to the music, until his ex-wife woke him up to listen to Marcus playing the last movement of Mozart’s E Flat Piano Concerto. This Marcus did so exquisitely, and looked so touching, with his faun’s face, big hazel eyes and gleaming dark red hair, that the audience, despite being kept late by Rannaldini, demanded an encore.
Mopping his brow, looking much happier, Boris tapped the rostrum.
‘Marcus will now play a little composition of my own. I ’op you all like him.’
The audience wasn’t sure, and started looking bewildered and at their watches, not understanding the music one bit.
‘Sounds as though the stable cat’s got loose on the piano. Awful lot of wrong notes,’ muttered Rupert.
‘I think they’re meant to be, because it’s modern,’ whispered Taggie.
‘Hush,’ said Rupert’s ex-wife furiously.
Rannaldini, who’d repeatedly refused to programme Boris’s music, felt totally vindicated, and smirking, pretended to go to sleep again. Through almost closed eyes he was aware of Kitty, plump, white and quivering like a blancmange. It was cruel to compare her with the other very young wife in the room, but Rannaldini did so. Staring at Taggie Campbell-Black, he decided she was very desirable, particularly in that red cashmere polo-neck which had brought a flush to her cheeks. And what breasts, and what legs in that black suede mini-skirt! Her succulent thighs must be twice as long and half the width of Kitty’s. She was reputed to be a marvellous cook, and to be adored by all Rupert’s children, which was more than could be said for Kitty. How amusing to take Taggie off Rupert, thought Rannaldini, who liked long-distance challenges. As if willed by his lust, Taggie turned round and smiled without thinking because he looked familiar. Then, realizing they hadn’t been introduced, she turned away, and Rannaldini suddenly encountered such a murderous glare from Rupert that he hastily looked up the row at Helen. She was stunning, too. Rupert certainly knew how to pick them. Rannaldini wished he had brought Cecilia to redress the balance, but he had exhausted her so much at The Savoy she couldn’t be bothered to get out of bed.
And now it was Natasha’s turn to sing ‘Hark, Hark the Lark’. Her voice was strident and she hadn’t practised enough. Marcus played the accompaniment, and, being a kind boy, speeded up to get her through the difficult bits. The audience, who didn’t know any better, seeing in their programme that she was a Rannaldini, gave her huge applause, led by Hermione.
Rannaldini let his thoughts wander to the little blond flautist he had reduced to tears at the rehearsal. Tomorrow he would be stern at first, then stun her with a word of praise and ultimately ask her to his flat in Hyde Park Square for a drink. ‘I only bully you, dearest child, because you have talent.’