Hermione had a terrible night. She went to bed early, passed the long lonely hours brooding about Cecilia, flicking channels and then ordering the maid and Bob to make her endless cups of camomile tea and honey when they returned. Having been persuaded by Bob to take a Mogadon she was wracked by nightmares about losing her place, forgetting the notes and arriving at the Albert Hall to find Cecilia singing in her place.
After another pill at five in the morning, she woke at midday when the maid brought her breakfast and the Daily Telegraph. The doctor would be coming round later with her Vitamin A and B jabs to give her stamina and keep the saliva going. She had just taken a large mouthful of fried bread when a picture of Cecilia on the Arts page, with a caption about a husband and ex-wife team in the forthcoming Fidelio, re-ignited her rage.
When she dialled The Savoy where Cecilia always stayed, a maid answered. Cecilia wasn’t to be disturbed.
‘Say it’s Mrs Harefield and it’s important.’
Finally, out of curiosity, Cecilia allowed Hermione to be put through and was very surprised when Hermione congratulated her with great warmth on getting the part of Leonore. ‘I know how good you’ll be.’
‘Vy, tank you, ’Ermione.’ Although placated, Cecilia was still suspicious. ‘That is large of you.’
‘Is Natasha all right?’
‘Vy should she not be?’
‘Did Rannaldini give you those tickets last night?’ asked Hermione idly. ‘I thought we might all dine together afterwards.’
‘I did not see Rannaldini last night. I only fly een this morning,’ said Cecilia. ‘He was with Keety last night.’
‘He was not,’ screamed Hermione. ‘Kitty was in Paradise. I checked. Rannaldini said he was discussing Natasha’s UCCA with you.’
‘The fucker! He no discuss UCCA wiz me,’ screeched Cecilia. ‘Ven did he tell you zat?’
But Hermione was gone, tugging on her clothes and roaring round to Rannaldini’s. The lift was still broken and a cellist was lugging his priceless Strad up the stairs, when Hermione overtook him. Shoving aside Rannaldini’s London secretary, who was holding the door open for the cellist, she barged inside.
‘Rannaldini’s not here, Mrs Harefield,’ said the London secretary aghast. ‘He’s just slipped out.’
‘Of whom?’ screeched Hermione. ‘Don’t lie to me.’
Charging into the bedroom she met Rannaldini coming out of the shower wrapped in a red towel.
‘You wicked liar,’ screamed Hermione.
Terrified she was going to knee him in the groin, Rannaldini clapped his hands over his testicles, leaving his face exposed. Next moment Hermione caught his eye with a punishing right hook. Rannaldini would have hit her back had not the cellist appeared open mouthed in the doorway, followed by a screaming Cecilia.
Very Italian, with snapping over-familiar dark eyes, an oily, olive complexion, streaked blond hair and a muscular worked-out body, Cecilia was wearing an immaculate black suit with a long collarless jacket and a short pleated skirt and looked as though she’d come straight off the catwalk with every claw out. Gathering up a bust of Donizetti with a manic jangling of bracelets, she hurled it at Rannaldini, who ducked so it shattered the mirror behind him, which had witnessed so much of their lovemaking.
‘Scellerato, scellerato,’ screamed Cecilia, echoing Donna Anna as she started working her way through a bowl of alabaster eggs.
‘Monster of vice, sink of iniquity,’ screamed Hermione, echoing Donna Elvira.
‘Bastard,’ screamed Cecilia, just missing Rannaldini’s left ear.
‘She’s right, you are a bastard,’ yelled Hermione, kicking Rannaldini’s shins and rushing out of the flat.
‘Not my Strad,’ screamed the waiting cellist as Rannaldini ran into the living room and grabbed his cello to stem the bombardment.
Cecilia had not played cricket at school but she finally caught Rannaldini on the corner of his other eye with a powder-blue egg. Storming out, she sent flying a blonde in a white towelling dressing gown who’d just emerged from the flat of the editor of The Scorpion to see what the fuss was about. At which moment, laughing her head off, Flora emerged from the shower, having witnessed the whole thing through a two-way mirror.
‘Oh dear.’ She touched Rannaldini’s two fast blackening eyes. ‘Now there are two Pandas in Paradise!’
Rannaldini had conducted with peritonitis, with snakebite, even with a sprained right wrist before now, but he refused to expose himself to ridicule. Ringing Bob he croaked down the telephone that he was dying of pneumonia. Shrouded in dark glasses and a black fedora, he flew off to a retreat in the Alps.
Over in Richmond in Chloe’s drawing room, Boris Levitsky wrestled with a two-hour lecture on Mahler, which he had to deliver at Cotchester University the following day and tried not to brood over Rannaldini’s vile letter returning his symphony.
Chloe was out recording the Alto Rhapsody, one of her first big breaks. She would probably go out to dinner with the director and the conductor afterwards and not be home for hours.
Bearing in mind Boris’s fondness for red meat and red wine and red-blooded women, she had left him a bottle of Pedrotti now being warmed by the evening sun, which he had vowed not to touch until he had finished his lecture. In the fridge was a large steak with instructions how long to grill it on each side and a pierced baked potato to put in the top right of the Aga an hour before he wanted to eat.
Chloe herself, however, had been less red-blooded since Boris moved in. As he was hopelessly impractical, she had to look after him and, as he hadn’t sold a single composition and had packed in his job at Bagley Hall, she had had to support him as well. Finally last week, with the thought: Why doesn’t the stroppy cow get off her ass? ringing through her head, she had had to write a cheque for Rachel’s maintenance.
This had been the greatest humiliation of Boris’s life, which was why he had fired off his new symphony to Rannaldini. Groaning, he wrenched his mind back to his lecture.
‘God, I could endure anything,’ Mahler had written in despair to a woman fan, after paying the Berlin Phil to perform his second symphony, ‘if only the future of my work seemed secure. I am now thirty-five years old, uncelebrated, very unperformed. But I keep busy and don’t let it get me down. I have patience. I wait.’
Boris didn’t have patience — Chloe said it was like living with a good-looking bear — nor did he have the cash to pay the London Met to perform his symphony, which that shit Rannaldini had torn to shreds. Outside, the turning trees were casting long shadows of evening across the park. A young mother with a pack of dusty, happy children walked past carrying a picnic basket. Boris groaned again. He never dreamt he would feel so guilty or miss Rachel and his children so much.
Bob Harefield, having endured Hermione’s hysterics, was now faced with the prospect of replacing Rannaldini, placating an enraged BBC and probably being lynched by a massive audience suffering from acute withdrawal symptoms. Oswaldo was in Moscow. Heinz the Swiss was on a plane to Rome. Bob was fed up with Rannaldini. There were other conductors he could have tried but he had always had a soft spot for Rachel and her husband.
Taking a deep breath, Bob dialled Chloe’s number.
‘Rannaldini’s got his whores crossed,’ he told Boris. ‘Do you want to conduct the Verdi Requiem tonight? I’m afraid there’s no time for a rehearsal.’
There was a long pause.
‘Yes, I will come. Thank you, Bob,’ said Boris, ‘but I ’ave no score, no car, no tailcoat. He is at dry cleaners. Chloe’s cat throw up on heem.’