obnoxious,’ exploded Christopher. ‘Why must you always telegraph the fact you come from the gutter, and how dare you snatch your hand away when he was gracious enough to kiss it.’
‘Bloody Judas kiss, right? The orchestra detest him, and he’s only been with them a few days. They were really complimentary,’ she added wistfully. ‘Julian Pellaficini said I reminded him of David Oistrakh and he’s played the concerto loads of times himself.’
Christopher looked at her pityingly.
‘Don’t kid yourself your exquisite sound had anything to do with the ecstatic smiles on the musicians’ faces. They only rattled their bows so joyfully because your ostentatious and unauthorized little encore pushed them into overtime. And all that posturing and writhing is so unnecessary. Give the audience an orgasm if you must, but please don’t have one yourself.’
‘That’s because you’re not giving them to me any more,’ said Abby sulkily.
Like a neglected wife, finding comfort in a child, she picked up her Strad and dusted it down, before putting it lovingly in its case, and tucking it up in a periwinkle-blue silk scarf.
‘Thank you, little fiddle.’ She dropped a kiss on its curved scroll, then turned defiantly towards Christopher. ‘I’m not playing for that son-of-a-bitch again.’
‘Sure you are.’ Christopher opened the fridge. ‘You’re gonna record all the Mozart concertos with him and the New World Symphony Orchestra, for starters.’
‘Like hell I am. Fix me a vodka.’
‘You’re staying sober.’ Christopher poured her a glass of Perrier. ‘C’mon, you don’t want to catch cold. Get showered and changed. And at dinner you will turn on what little charm you have. “Thank you for making music with me, Maestro, I was only acting up because you’re so awesome, Maestro. I’m sorry I broke the no-encore agreement, Miss Harefield.” You cannot afford to make enemies.’
‘Because you want to sign them both up,’ hissed Abby. ‘All right, I’m sorry.’ She was near to tears now. ‘I just want us to be alone.’
But as she peeled off her fuchsia-red body stocking, Christopher reached for her dressing-gown. The size of her breasts no longer turned him on, only her enormous royalties.
‘Please kiss me,’ begged Abby, ‘perlease.’
‘We haven’t got time.’ He was now flipping through her good-luck cards to see if they were from anyone important.
‘I’ve got a feeling Beth suspects us,’ he added.
On her way to the shower, Abby halted in horror.
‘Oh no, she’s been like a mom to me.’
‘Well, you haven’t behaved like a daughter to Beth,’ said Christopher brutally.
‘How did she find out? Oh my God, this is awful.’
‘People are talking.’
The corniest way of dumping a woman in the world, thought Rupert scornfully. Christopher was even more of a tosser than he looked. Rupert needed a large drink, and he had heard enough.
Emerging from the Artists’ Bar ten minutes later, he found Hermione coming off the platform still screeching. Not only had Abby got higher billing, but her applause had lasted four times as long. Seeing Rupert, however, Hermione halted in mid-screech like a child spying a tube of Smarties.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black, you’ve come all the way from Penscombe to hear me sing.’
‘I have too,’ lied Rupert. ‘You were sensational.’
‘Then you must join us for dinner. Just Rannaldini, me and Christopher Shepherd. He’s charming, and Abigail Rosen, she’s a spoilt brat, but we don’t have to bother with her.
‘There’s an official reception first at the British Embassy, I must look in because they’d be so disappointed,’ she added, as they were both nearly sent flying by musicians, already changed, charging out to find the nearest bar. ‘But you can come too,’ she shouted over the stampede. ‘Then we’re going on to dinner at Wellington’s.’
The official reception, like all the diplomatic parties Rupert had ever been to,
‘Bloody Judas kiss, right? The orchestra detest him, and he’s only been with them a few days. They were really complimentary,’ she added wistfully. ‘Julian Pellaficini said I reminded him of David Oistrakh and he’s played the concerto loads of times himself.’
Christopher looked at her pityingly.
‘Don’t kid yourself your exquisite sound had anything to do with the ecstatic smiles on the musicians’ faces. They only rattled their bows so joyfully because your ostentatious and unauthorized little encore pushed them into overtime. And all that posturing and writhing is so unnecessary. Give the audience an orgasm if you must, but please don’t have one yourself.’
‘That’s because you’re not giving them to me any more,’ said Abby sulkily.
Like a neglected wife, finding comfort in a child, she picked up her Strad and dusted it down, before putting it lovingly in its case, and tucking it up in a periwinkle-blue silk scarf.
‘Thank you, little fiddle.’ She dropped a kiss on its curved scroll, then turned defiantly towards Christopher. ‘I’m not playing for that son-of-a-bitch again.’
‘Sure you are.’ Christopher opened the fridge. ‘You’re gonna record all the Mozart concertos with him and the New World Symphony Orchestra, for starters.’
‘Like hell I am. Fix me a vodka.’
‘You’re staying sober.’ Christopher poured her a glass of Perrier. ‘C’mon, you don’t want to catch cold. Get showered and changed. And at dinner you will turn on what little charm you have. “Thank you for making music with me, Maestro, I was only acting up because you’re so awesome, Maestro. I’m sorry I broke the no-encore agreement, Miss Harefield.” You cannot afford to make enemies.’
‘Because you want to sign them both up,’ hissed Abby. ‘All right, I’m sorry.’ She was near to tears now. ‘I just want us to be alone.’
But as she peeled off her fuchsia-red body stocking, Christopher reached for her dressing-gown. The size of her breasts no longer turned him on, only her enormous royalties.
‘Please kiss me,’ begged Abby, ‘perlease.’
‘We haven’t got time.’ He was now flipping through her good-luck cards to see if they were from anyone important.
‘I’ve got a feeling Beth suspects us,’ he added.
On her way to the shower, Abby halted in horror.
‘Oh no, she’s been like a mom to me.’
‘Well, you haven’t behaved like a daughter to Beth,’ said Christopher brutally.
‘How did she find out? Oh my God, this is awful.’
‘People are talking.’
The corniest way of dumping a woman in the world, thought Rupert scornfully. Christopher was even more of a tosser than he looked. Rupert needed a large drink, and he had heard enough.
Emerging from the Artists’ Bar ten minutes later, he found Hermione coming off the platform still screeching. Not only had Abby got higher billing, but her applause had lasted four times as long. Seeing Rupert, however, Hermione halted in mid-screech like a child spying a tube of Smarties.
‘Rupert Campbell-Black, you’ve come all the way from Penscombe to hear me sing.’
‘I have too,’ lied Rupert. ‘You were sensational.’
‘Then you must join us for dinner. Just Rannaldini, me and Christopher Shepherd. He’s charming, and Abigail Rosen, she’s a spoilt brat, but we don’t have to bother with her.
‘There’s an official reception first at the British Embassy, I must look in because they’d be so disappointed,’ she added, as they were both nearly sent flying by musicians, already changed, charging out to find the nearest bar. ‘But you can come too,’ she shouted over the stampede. ‘Then we’re going on to dinner at Wellington’s.’
The official reception, like all the diplomatic parties Rupert had ever been to,
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