unwind slowly, savouring her triumph. But Rosalie Brandon, having spent twenty-four hours humouring Hermione, was back in martinet form, waiting in Abby’s dressing-room.
‘You haven’t time for an encore, you’ve got to sign CDs in the foyer, and then I’ve arranged for an interview with the Guardian , and then we’re having supper with the Independent .’
Abby loathed Rosalie being present at interviews. It had been the same when she was a kid, and her mother had insisted on staying in the room when the doctor examined her.
‘I’m having supper with Sir Rodney,’ she said firmly, ‘Christopher never stops chewing me out for not brown-nosing conductors.’
Christopher’s right, thought Rosalie beadily, Abby was definitely getting above herself.
Rodney, steaming like a pink pig in the conductor’s room as he changed into a clean shirt for the second half, gave Abby a jaunty wave as she passed by on her way to the foyer.
‘See you later, Abbygator.’
SIX
Abby regarded Rodney as far too old and gay to try anything, so she was relieved when he suggested supper in the apartment in which the orchestra put up visiting conductors.
‘You’ve been stared at quite enough,’ he announced as he emerged from the conductor’s room, wearing a big black cloak and a beatle cap tipped rakishly over one eye. He was clutching a clanking carrier bag, ‘Just a few little extras from Tesco’s,’ and singing a snatch from La Bohème . ‘Come along Musetta, devourer of all hearts.’
As they toddled across the square arm in arm, passing cafés, boutiques, pigeons huddling in the eaves and a glittering canal, the moon, slimmer than two days ago, but still sporting a rust halo, was sailing through silvery wisps of cloud.
‘Ring round the moon means trouble,’ sighed Rodney. ‘I do hope I don’t get a tax bill in the morning.’
The apartment was blissfully warm, with a gas log-fire which Rodney immediately turned on. Looking down from the moss-green walls were portraits of music’s giants: Alfred Brendel, André Previn, Rannaldini, Giulini, Jessye Norman, Simon Rattle.
‘You’ll be up there soon,’ said Rodney, pouring her a large glass of Dom Perignon, then sitting down at the big grand piano.
‘What’s your favourite tune?’
Abby’s mind went blank.
Rodney strummed a few chords and began to sing.
‘I love Abby in the springtime ,
I love Abby in the Fall ,
I love Abby in the summer when it sizzles,’
then changing key and putting on a French accent:
‘Thank ‘eavens for Abigail .
For Abigail get beeger every day .
Thank heavens for Abigail .
She’s grown up in the most exciting way.’
He looked so sweet and naughty, Abby kissed him on the top of his shiny bald head.
Having installed her on a dark, gold damask sofa, with the latest copy of Classical Music , which had her picture on the front, he toddled off to rustle her up some scrambled eggs. Abby felt herself unwinding for the first time in weeks. Oh, why were all the sweetest guys gay?
When Rodney returned five minutes later, however, he was brandishing the nearly empty bottle, reeking of English Fern, and wearing nothing but a blue-and-white striped butcher’s apron. Rodney’s down beat may have been wavery, but nothing could have been more emphatic than his upbeat, which was relentlessly lifting the striped apron like a shop blind.
‘My lovely child.’ Putting the bottle on the mantelpiece, Rodney advanced briskly.
‘Omigod,’ screamed Abby.
Flight to both doors was cut off, so she took the only possible way out, and went off into peals of laughter. After a second, Rodney joined in and they collapsed on the sofa, until the tears were running down their cheeks.
‘I thought you were gay, because you kissed the leader and you were so sympatico,’ said Abby, wiping her eyes.
‘Oh my dear, four wives to vouch to the contrary. Oh well, it was worth a try. You shouldn’t be so beautiful and so tall. Those stunning breasts
‘You haven’t time for an encore, you’ve got to sign CDs in the foyer, and then I’ve arranged for an interview with the Guardian , and then we’re having supper with the Independent .’
Abby loathed Rosalie being present at interviews. It had been the same when she was a kid, and her mother had insisted on staying in the room when the doctor examined her.
‘I’m having supper with Sir Rodney,’ she said firmly, ‘Christopher never stops chewing me out for not brown-nosing conductors.’
Christopher’s right, thought Rosalie beadily, Abby was definitely getting above herself.
Rodney, steaming like a pink pig in the conductor’s room as he changed into a clean shirt for the second half, gave Abby a jaunty wave as she passed by on her way to the foyer.
‘See you later, Abbygator.’
SIX
Abby regarded Rodney as far too old and gay to try anything, so she was relieved when he suggested supper in the apartment in which the orchestra put up visiting conductors.
‘You’ve been stared at quite enough,’ he announced as he emerged from the conductor’s room, wearing a big black cloak and a beatle cap tipped rakishly over one eye. He was clutching a clanking carrier bag, ‘Just a few little extras from Tesco’s,’ and singing a snatch from La Bohème . ‘Come along Musetta, devourer of all hearts.’
As they toddled across the square arm in arm, passing cafés, boutiques, pigeons huddling in the eaves and a glittering canal, the moon, slimmer than two days ago, but still sporting a rust halo, was sailing through silvery wisps of cloud.
‘Ring round the moon means trouble,’ sighed Rodney. ‘I do hope I don’t get a tax bill in the morning.’
The apartment was blissfully warm, with a gas log-fire which Rodney immediately turned on. Looking down from the moss-green walls were portraits of music’s giants: Alfred Brendel, André Previn, Rannaldini, Giulini, Jessye Norman, Simon Rattle.
‘You’ll be up there soon,’ said Rodney, pouring her a large glass of Dom Perignon, then sitting down at the big grand piano.
‘What’s your favourite tune?’
Abby’s mind went blank.
Rodney strummed a few chords and began to sing.
‘I love Abby in the springtime ,
I love Abby in the Fall ,
I love Abby in the summer when it sizzles,’
then changing key and putting on a French accent:
‘Thank ‘eavens for Abigail .
For Abigail get beeger every day .
Thank heavens for Abigail .
She’s grown up in the most exciting way.’
He looked so sweet and naughty, Abby kissed him on the top of his shiny bald head.
Having installed her on a dark, gold damask sofa, with the latest copy of Classical Music , which had her picture on the front, he toddled off to rustle her up some scrambled eggs. Abby felt herself unwinding for the first time in weeks. Oh, why were all the sweetest guys gay?
When Rodney returned five minutes later, however, he was brandishing the nearly empty bottle, reeking of English Fern, and wearing nothing but a blue-and-white striped butcher’s apron. Rodney’s down beat may have been wavery, but nothing could have been more emphatic than his upbeat, which was relentlessly lifting the striped apron like a shop blind.
‘My lovely child.’ Putting the bottle on the mantelpiece, Rodney advanced briskly.
‘Omigod,’ screamed Abby.
Flight to both doors was cut off, so she took the only possible way out, and went off into peals of laughter. After a second, Rodney joined in and they collapsed on the sofa, until the tears were running down their cheeks.
‘I thought you were gay, because you kissed the leader and you were so sympatico,’ said Abby, wiping her eyes.
‘Oh my dear, four wives to vouch to the contrary. Oh well, it was worth a try. You shouldn’t be so beautiful and so tall. Those stunning breasts
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