The orchestra, with Wolfie playing the clarinet, Natasha the violin and Marcus Campbell-Black the trumpet, were just murdering the ‘Dove’ from Respighi’s The Birds, and plucking the poor thing as well, and Rannaldini was about to stage another of his very public walk-outs which would take all the attention off Boris, when Kitty whispered that the girl Wolfie was mad about was coming on next.
The orchestra, who were going to end the concert with an Enigma Variation, stayed in their seats. Rannaldini couldn’t imagine his stolid rugger-playing son being mad about anyone interesting, but when Flora strolled on to the platform, he couldn’t take his eyes off her. Despite having several spots, greasy red hair the colour of tabasco and a pale green complexion from drinking at lunchtime, she was the sexiest girl he’d ever seen. Her school shirt, drenched in white wine, clung almost transparently to her small jutting breasts, her tie was askew, her black stockings laddered. Gazing truculently at the back of the hall she sang ‘Speed Bonny Boat’ unaccompanied and the room went still. Her voice was beyond criticism, sweet, pure, piercingly distinctive and delivered in a take-it-or-leave-it manner without a quiver of nerves. Her star quality was undeniable. Georgie clutched Guy’s hand. Deeply moved, Guy couldn’t resist glancing sideways, delighted at the dramatic effect his daughter’s voice was having on Rannaldini. He didn’t want her to become a pop star, but a career in classical music would be different. Perhaps Flora was learning to behave at last.
But when Flora reached the line about winds roaring loudly and thunderclouds rending the air, she so empathized with tossing on a rough sea that she suddenly turned even greener, and, grabbing the nearest trumpet from a protesting Marcus, threw up into it.
The first person to break the long and appalled silence was Rupert Campbell-Black, quite unable to control his laughter.
Sod Wolfie, thought Rannaldini with a surge of excitement, I must have that girl.
Georgie and Guy were so overwhelmed with mortification and, in Guy’s case, white-hot rage that they nearly boycotted the drinks party afterwards. Miss Bottomley, who’d been looking for an excuse all term, was poised to sack Flora on the spot when Rannaldini glided up and smoothed everything over.
Putting his beautiful suntanned hand, which was immediately shrugged off, on Miss Bottomley’s wrestler’s shoulders, he assured her that all creative artists suffered from stage fright.
‘The girl’s impossible,’ spluttered Miss Bottomley.
‘But on course for stardom. I never ’ear a voice like this since I first heard Hermione Harefield. Even Mrs Harefield,’ Rannaldini lowered his voice suggestively, ‘need endless coaxing to go on and very delicate handling.’
Frightfully excited at the thought of handling Hermione, Miss Bottomley agreed to give Flora another chance.
‘I will speak to her parents,’ insisted Rannaldini.
He then astounded Wolfie, Natasha and Kitty by changing his mind and staying on for the drinks party. As Rupert Campbell-Black had led the stampede of cars down the drive, he would at least have the floor to himself.
‘Was “Hark, Hark” OK, Papa?’ demanded Natasha, linking arms with her father as she led him down dark-panelled corridors past gawping staff and pupils.
‘Excellent,’ said Rannaldini abstractedly, ‘you’ve come on a lot. What was the matter with Wolfie’s little redhead?’
‘Flora?’
Deliberately Natasha let the door into Miss Bottomley’s private apartment slam in the face of Kitty, who was panting to keep up with them on her high heels.
‘Flora got pissed at lunchtime,’ explained Natasha. ‘She’s got this massive crush on Boris Levitsky and she saw him French, or rather,’ Natasha giggled, ‘Russian-kissing some strange blonde — not Rachel his wife — outside the Nat West this morning. That was Boris’s trumpet Flora was sick into. Boris had lent it to Marcus.’
So Boris is back with Chloe the mezzo, thought Rannaldini. Certainly he didn’t regard Flora’s massive crush on the Russian as any competition.
Miss Bottomley’s large study was already packed with parents falling on drink and food like the vultures culture always seems to turn people into. Most of them, Rannaldini noticed scornfully, seemed to be gathering like flies on a cowpat round that ghastly, blousy Georgie Maguire, who kept throwing him hot glances. Ignoring her totally, but accepting a glass of orange juice — he never touched cheap wine — Rannaldini spoke briefly to Boris.
‘Well tried, my dear. Slightly too ambitious. They are still cheeldren, and was it wise to programme one of your own compositions in front of these Pheelistines?’
Boris, whose conducting arm was not aching too much to prevent him downing several glasses of red, wanted to smash Rannaldini’s cold, fleshless, but curiously sensual face, but then Rannaldini murmured something about having a pile of freelance work. Boris needed the money badly.
‘Now introduce me to Flora’s parents,’ he said to Natasha.
‘Oh, didn’t you twig, Papa? Flora’s Georgie Maguire’s daughter.’
Rannaldini didn’t miss a beat. Gliding forward, parting parents like the Red Sea by sheer force of personality, he stopped in front of Georgie, put his hands in the pockets of his soft brown suede jacket, bowed slightly and glared aggressively into her eyes. His trick was to unnerve women by staring them out, then suddenly to smile.
‘Senora Seymour,’ he said caressingly. ‘May I call you Georgie?’ Then raising her hand which was clutching a soggy Ritz cracker topped with tinned pâté and chopped gherkin, he touched it with his lips.
Just one corny-etto, thought Guy.
‘I am sorry I mees your launching,’ went on Rannaldini, ‘I ’op it is not too late to say: welcome to Paradise.’
‘Oh, not at all. How lovely to meet you at last.’ Georgie was totally flustered, as though a great tiger had strolled out of the jungle and was rubbing his face against her cheek. Rannaldini was even more faint-making close up.
‘And I loff Rock Star. It is great music and your peecture don’t do you any justice.’
What could Rannaldini be playing at? Hermione, who’d joined them, was looking furious.
‘Oh, thank you,’ gasped Georgie, then remembering her manners, ‘This is Guy — my husband,’ she added almost regretfully.
‘I haff heard much of your gallery.’ Rannaldini switched his searchlight charm on to Guy. ‘You were first to exeebit Daisy France-Lynch when no-one else had ’eard of her. I ’ave several of her paintings.’
‘Oh, right,’ Guy was totally disarmed. ‘I’d love to see them.’
‘You shall,’ said Rannaldini. ‘First I want to get Bob over to talk about Flora.’
Seeing his endlessly compassionate and good-natured orchestra manager making too good a job of cheering up Boris Levitsky, Rannaldini clicked his fingers imperiously.
Refusing to be ruffled, Bob finished what he was saying and was fighting his way through the mob when Guy said to Rannaldini: ‘You may not have been here to welcome us, but Kitty has been an absolute brick, bringing us new-laid eggs and turning down curtains. You’re a lucky man,’ he added rather heartily, aware that the searchlight beam had dimmed a little.
Rannaldini, who detested Kitty furthering anyone’s interests but his own, much preferred it if she turned down invitations rather than curtains. He even begrudged her taking an hour off on Sunday to go to church.
Aware of a distinct chill but not understanding why, Georgie couldn’t bear to lose contact.