Appassionata by Jilly Cooper Page A

about her having too much publicity. Then when I arrange press conference he storm out, because someone ask heem if his wife is coming back. Wise lady to stay away.
    ‘Hermione is just as ’orrible,’ the manager went on, ‘she see proof of programme and posters, then wait until they are printed to complain they are not OK.’
    The poor man was only too happy to accept a further wad of green backs in return for secreting Rupert in the dressing-room next to Abigail’s. On the adjoining balcony Rupert could hear everything that was going on between her and Christopher Shepherd.
    Howard Denston and Christopher Shepherd were the most successful agents in New York. Power brokers, they moved conductors, soloists and even entire orchestras around the world like chess pieces. Known as Pimp and Circumspect, they complemented each other perfectly. Howard Denston (also known as Shepherd’s Crook) was a beguiling wide boy from the Bronx who pulled off the shadier deals and lent on unwilling debtors. Totally amoral, he was only turned on by the big deal. Christopher Shepherd, radiating integrity and Old Testament authority, provided the agency’s respectable front.
    Christopher had orchestrated Abby’s career from the start, settling fees, monitoring her promotion, providing encouragement and advice. Abby tended to play what he told her to, because unlike most agents, he was musical, playing the piano and possessing a fine tenor voice. Having starred in many amateur productions, he saw himself very much as Rodolfo in La Bohème . Hence the frock-coat and the pearl tie-pin.
    Christopher had a parental attitude to his artists. He was aware of the insularity of soloists, the insecurity of conductors. He knew that this resulted in huge egos that needed the public far more than the public needed them, and that they responded as much to bullying as encouragement.
    The instant he locked the door of Abby’s dressing-room, she lived up to her L’Appassionata nickname. Dropping the red roses she was putting in the basin, she bounded forward, flinging her arms round his neck, writhing against him, covering his face, that wasn’t obscured by dark brown beard, with kisses.
    ‘Was I OK? Was I really OK? Omigod, I’ve missed you. How long can you stay on in the UK? Did you like the encore? I need you, oh Christo, I want you so bad.’ She started to fumble with the pearl pin, then changed her mind. ‘No, let’s go back to the Plaza, I can’t be bothered to change.’
    Abby had a clear, carrying voice, which had shed most of its Bronx accent and which squeaked endearingly when she got excited. Christopher, however, was in no mood to be charmed.
    ‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Repelled by her trembling, burning sweatdrenched body, which had once excited him so unbearably, he prised off her hands and shoved her away. ‘How in hell can you expect to be taken seriously, right, when you come onto the platform dressed as a hooker? Those hot pants are so tacky.’
    Pulling up a chair and like Rodolfo sitting on it back to front, as if to protect himself from further sexual assault, he asked: ‘Where are those gowns Beth bought for you?’
    ‘They’re too hot.’ Abby would have added too middle-aged and too frumpy, but she didn’t want to insult Christopher’s wife.
    ‘And why in hell are you wearing that even tackier diamond bangle round your ankle? We all know you’re coining it. Dressed like that, you’re an insult to Brahms and a brilliant conductor.’
    Abby was already prowling round the little room but at the reference to Rannaldini her contrition evaporated.
    ‘He’s a monster,’ she howled. ‘He screwed me on every tempo, dragging or pushing me on. I nearly unravelled in the last movement.’
    ‘Has it entered your thick head that he might be right? He only happens to be the greatest interpreter in the world.’
    ‘Only because he makes the most bucks. That’s all you care about. He’s an asshole.’
    ‘Don’t be