Score! by Jilly Cooper
‘I didn’t wake you?’ asked Tristan.
‘No, I was watching the Academias. Lily in the Valley won everything. You got Best Director.’
‘I did?’
‘You don’t sound very excited. It’s a huge honour.’
‘Other things matter more.’
‘How’s Don Carlos?’ Anyone would think she was at one of Helen’s drinks parties.
‘People seem to like it. Everyone loves your make-up, and have bet you get Oscar.’
Soothed by Lucy’s stroking, James had collapsed on the floor, but kept one eye open – after all, his future was at stake. All round the walls hung photographs of beautiful, happy, rehomed dogs, cheek to cheek with adoring but often extremely plain owners. Maybe, thought Lucy hopefully through a haze of white wine, one didn’t need to be beautiful to be loved. Then she made the mistake of asking how Tab was.
‘Blissful,’ said Tristan happily. ‘Rupert’s revving up for a massive wedding at Penscombe in April.’
How lunatic she’d been to hope. Smoothing the feathers on James’s legs, Lucy felt the tears starting again.
‘That’s great.’ Desperately she tried to keep the conversation light. ‘I can be godmother to your first child.’
‘I’d much rather you were its mother,’ muttered Tristan.
But Lucy wasn’t concentrating, only noticing that he seemed to be edging across the room towards her, like James trying to get on to her mother’s double bed when they stayed in Cumbria.
‘Lucy darling, please stop crying,’ begged Tristan, ‘I can’t bear it. Listen to me. Hortense die last week.’
‘Oh, no, I’m so sorry.’ Lucy looked up in horror. ‘She was such a darling.’
‘She love you too, and eef you hadn’t sought her out, I would never have known I was Laurent’s son. That parcel was most wonderful present I ever have. I can never thank you too much.’
‘But it’s me who should thank you. You saved my life, you brought James back. We’ll have to settle abroad,’ said Lucy, in a worried voice. ‘He’d never cope with quarantine, nor would I.’
Tristan was so close now, she could again breathe in the familiar heady cocktail of Eau Sauvage, peppermint chewing-gum and Gauloise, and her heart started to hammer as his knees brushed against hers.
‘James and I had long conversation on the plane coming over.’
Was she imagining it or had his hand just stroked her hair?
‘James detest crate I have to put him into,’ continued Tristan. ‘He didn’t believe I was taking him to you. He was so depressed and nervous I had to sit in the hold and hold his paw. It was very uncomfortable for both of us. There were two parrots with us, who both learn to say “I love Lucy” by end of flight.’
Still unable to take in what he was saying, Lucy gave a shaky laugh.
‘James want to live in France,’ insisted Tristan.
‘We don’t know anyone in France,’ said Lucy, in a choked voice.
‘You know me.’ Crouching down beside her, Tristan put one hand over her mouth, ‘Tais-toi, my darling, for just one second. Since you go away nothing in my life has been so dreadful. I suffer over Claudine, but nothing to the purgatory of life without you. Those months of filming, you bring such sunshine into my life.’
With the other hand he was now stroking her forehead, fingering her feathery eyelashes, wiping away a fresh supply of tears, running his finger down her nose in wonder. ‘You are really real,’ he whispered. ‘I have nightmares every night that you are dead.’
‘Oh, so do I,’ breathed Lucy, appalled to find she couldn’t stop kissing his fingers.
‘Hush, I talk. First, I kid myself you are sweet little sister I never had. When you take care of me after Rannaldini tell me about Maxim, I kid myself you are mother I never had. But then you come back from France looking so beautiful in that pink dress, and I sack you because I am so white-hot jealous you’re having affaire with Wolfie, I suddenly realize you are true grand passion I never have. When you nearly died, I died with worry, but when you went away, I died worser.’ Tristan removed his hand from her mouth and waited. ‘Lucy, Lucy. Please look at me and say something.’
But she was so stunned by the wonder of his words, she could only stare down and ask herself how the hell Peter Rabbit could stuff his face with carrot at a time like this.
Tristan picked up one of her bunches. ‘You look so sexy with blonde hair.’ Then a horrible possibility dawned on him. ‘There is not someone else?’
‘Someone else?’ squeaked Lucy incredulously. ‘Of course not. I’ve never loved anyone but you since that moment I saw you with snow in your hair. The Prince with the heavy heart.’ Then she remembered the occasion and cried out despairingly, ‘But what about Tab and the wedding?’
‘What’s she got to do with it?’ asked Tristan in amazement. ‘Tab’s marrying Wolfie. Oh, my God, did you think it was still Tab and me? Oh, my poor angel.’ Kneeling up, he pulled her against him, feeling the frantic pounding of her heart, as she in turn felt the exquisite pain of being crushed against the hardness of his big gold blazer buttons.
‘That’s wonderful for Wolfie,’ gasped Lucy, ‘but weren’t you heartbroken?’
‘Not in the least. They will have pretty blond babies.’
‘And Wolfie’ll look after her so well, he adores her so much.’
‘Not as much as I shall adore and look after you.’ For a second Tristan sounded almost beady. ‘And you and I will have lots of babies with dark curly hair, who will be even prettier. I know how you love kids.’ He picked up Lucy’s hand and kissed each finger. ‘As Maxim’s son, I couldn’t give them to you so I back off. By the time I open parcel and learnt the truth you had gone. Why did you run away? It broke my heart.’
‘I couldn’t bear the pain.’ Tentatively Lucy’s hand crept up to the dark stubble along his jaw. ‘I thought you were in love with Claudine or, at least, Tab – that’s stiff competition – and Rozzy . . .’ Her voice trailed off in embarrassment.
‘Rozzy what?’ demanded Tristan, forcing her face upwards.
‘She, well, she said I was too plain, ugly and common, and your family would be furious. Ouch!’ Lucy screamed, as Tristan’s hand clenched on her chin, then gasped in alarm because his eyes had become black whirlpools of hatred.
‘Eef that evil monster weren’t in security prison,’ he spat, ‘I break in and tear her to pieces. How dare the beetch! You have sweetest face in the world. And my family will love you. Whether you will love them is different matter. My brothers are very pompous. And it’s me they are furious with at the moment because Aunt Hortense leave me so much money, and’, Tristan smiled suddenly, ‘they don’t quite know how to handle Griselda. I adore your face.’ Very gently he covered it in kisses. ‘And now it will grow as familiar as the paintings on my bedroom wall.’
But Lucy wasn’t ready for certainty. ‘What about Claudine? I read the Mail.’
Tristan scrambled to his feet, pulling Lucy up against him. Despite his thinness, his chest was still broad, and his arms incredibly strong as they closed round her.
‘I should have level with you,’ he muttered, ‘my love for her die, the night Rannaldini die. I drive to Wales and find I am chasing dream.’
‘Did you see her in Edinburgh?’
‘No, I run away. I call her from airport. She was furious. “Are you sick?” she shout. “No,” I say, “I am seeking.”’
Running his hands deep into Lucy’s hair, he gazed down at her. ‘You have no need of Oscar’s lighting.’
Then, breathing in faint traces of Bluebell, he knew spring had at last returned. As he kissed her Lucy could feel his wonderful big bruised lower lip crushing hers, and his tongue caressing her tongue. Just for a second her eyes flickered open and saw that his were closed in ecstasy, the thick dark brown lashes fanning his beautiful cheekbones. As she swivelled her head sideways so he could kiss her even harder, she felt as though she was being drawn up to heaven like one of Chagall’s an
As they broke for breath, she flung her arms round his neck. ‘You are the most blissfully gorgeous man who ever walked this earth, and I’m going to love, cherish and adore you for ever.’
‘If you don’t, I shall be horribly jealous,’ said Tristan. ‘Even of Pierre Lapin.’ He fingered Peter Rabbit. ‘Look at lucky him, lying against those wonderful breasts.’
‘How d’you know they’re wonderful?’ mumbled a blushing Lucy.
‘I have Hype-along’s picture in my wallet. I show it you later. But first you must have this.’
Reaching down to his coat which had fallen on the floor, he took a little black velvet box from the inside pocket. ‘Aunt Hortense leave me ring, which once belong to Marie Antoinette. You give me back my name, Lucy, now I want you to share it with me.’
Lucy’s hands were trembling so violently, Tristan had to open the box. Inside, like mistletoe berries waiting for kissing lovers, gleamed three pearls.
As a tear splashed on one of them, Tristan said shakily, ‘I would be safest, happiest guy in world, if you would wear it always.’
They were brought back to earth by a great snore rending the air. With his future assured, James felt safe to fall asleep.
EPILOGUE
The police had finally allowed Rannaldini to be buried in huge pomp. Unwilling to attend the funeral, Tristan came alone to Valhalla to pay his last respects. It was a bitterly cold, dark afternoon: the east wind howled and lashed the naked trees. A ‘For Sale’ sign swung dismally outside the main gates.
Tristan went straight to the graveyard. Here, amid a sea of flowers and higgledy-piggledy ivy-clad graves, soared a splendid white marble headstone, on which had already been inscribed the words: ‘Roberto Rannaldini, Maestro and Composer, 1949–1996.’
As he stood in the fading light, Tristan relived the past year, remembering Baby serenading Hermione in the snow, Tabitha screaming at the hunt, Granny silencing the rabble with such terrifying authority, Alpheus singing with such kingly anguish, and Mikhail as he lay dying reducing everyone to tears.
Tristan thought of Simone, Wolfie and Bernard working themselves to the bone, of Valentin and Oscar creating radiance even when they seemed at their most languid and inattentive, of dearest Lucy, always comforting and smiling, of Sexton giving him full rein and heroically raising the money, and the rest of the crew backing him all the way despite their grumbling.
But without Rannaldini it would never have happened. Without Rannaldini’s kindness and continual encouragement in the early days he would never have emerged from the shadow of Étienne’s disdain and become a director. And what would Rannaldini, who had never settled for less than perfection, think of his film, which was now in a little black oblong box for present and future generations to judge?
More important than winning any Oscars, Tristan hoped that, whatever form or being he was now, Rannaldini would be proud.
Strange that one narrow grave could contain so much vitality, strange that so much tragedy and passion should be contained in one small, black videotape, which Tristan now laid on Rannaldini’s grave. On top he placed a white gardenia.
But as he stood in silence, he could have sworn a pale violet light, like a torch beam or a peacock butterfly left over from summer, landed on the grave, and danced for a second before disappearing into the earth. He shook his head. It must have been a trick of the light.
Leaving the graveyard, he wandered past Meredith’s cuckoo clock lying upside down in the park. The patch of yellow grass beneath Lucy’s caravan was green once more, the love-in-a-mist in her abandoned window-box turned to seed pods. Tristan put a couple in his pocket.
Looking over the valley with the ghosts of the past swirling around him, he was overwhelmed by sorrow that Don Carlos was over and Rannaldini gone for ever. But as he walked swiftly back to the car park he felt only joy as he switched on his telephone and dialled his future:
‘May I speak to Lucy de Montigny, please?’
ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS
In 1985 Robin Baird-Smith, then of Constable the publisher, sent me to Death Valley to write a short book about Patrick Lichfield photographing three ravishing nude models for the 1986 Unipart calendar. As well as Patrick’s crew, there was a second film crew videoing the shoot for television. Everyone was obsessed with their own agenda. With temperatures hitting 140°F, the rows were as pyrotechnic as the high jinks. Returning home a wreck, but eternally grateful to everyone involved for such riotous fun, I vowed one day to write a novel about a film crew on location.
The result, fourteen years later, is Score!: the subject no longer a calendar shoot but the filming of Verdi’s darkest opera, Don Carlos, with the resultant tensions leading to murder. Only when I had embarked on the story did I realize that in addition to filming and recording I would need to research opera and the ways of singers as well as the infinitely complicated police procedure of solving a murder. This consequently means a huge number of people to thank for their help. Singers, and those who work with them, seem to have particularly large and generous hearts.
On the filming front, I must start by thanking my dear friend Adrian Rowbotham, an independent director, who not only talked to me for hours, but later nobly ploughed through the manuscript for errors. I am also eternally grateful to the charismatic Peter Maniura of BBC Television, who was brilliant on directing the film of Dido and Aeneas, and the ebullient Mick Csaky of Antelope Films, who rolled up to lunch with a complete and marvellously funny brief on how to fund the film of an opera. Mick also introduced me to the divine soprano Susan Daniel, who over many meetings shared her singing experiences, particularly of starring in the film of Carmen with Placido Domingo.
Brilliant filming advice was given me by Ray Marshall, Chloë and David Hargreaves and Alison Sterling of Fat Chance Productions, Alan Kaupe, Clifford Haydn-Tovey, James Swann, Nick Handel, Bill and Susannah Franklyn and, in particular, Irving Teitelbaum and Rob Knights, who allowed me to range freely on the set of Mosley, the excellent series they produced and directed for ITV. During this time I had terrific conversations with actors Jonathan Cake, Jemma Redgrave and Roger May, as well as Chris O’Dell, the director of photography, Rudi Buckle, sound, Charlotte Walter, wardrobe, Heather Storr, continuity, Shelagh Pymm, publicity, Patricia Kirkman, make-up, and an ace caterer called Melanie.
My heroine in Score! is a make-up girl, always the still centre of any shoot, so I would therefore especially like to thank all the make-up artists over the years who soothed and transformed me, as well as beguiling me with anecdotes. They include Maggie Hunt, Valerie Macdonald, Jacqui Jefferies, Becky Challis, Rozelle Parry, Sally Holden, Clayton Howard, Juliette Mayer, Sarah Bee, Jenny Sharpe and Celia Hunter.
Several chapters in Score! are set in France. Here I am deeply indebted to star journalist Suzanne Lowry as well as my French publisher, Valérie-Anne Giscard d’Estaing, for thinking up glamorous names; Jonathan Eastwood for being brilliant on French law; Jill de Monpezat for kindly reading the French chapters for accuracy; Caterina Krucker for correcting my French; and my brother and sister-in-law, Timothy and Angela Sallitt, who lived for ten years in a stunning house in the Tarn, and who have been a constant source of information and inspiration.
On the music front, I am quite unable to express sufficient gratitude to Bill Holland, head of Polygram Classics and Jazz, easily the nicest and most generous man in the record business, who not only lent me numerous books and plied me with the relevant CDs, but also endlessly answered my questions, waded through the chapters on recording and finally produced a glorious double CD of the music featured in Score!
Bill also invited me to a miraculous production of Berg’s Lulu at Glyndebourne. Again I am extremely grateful to the then General Director Anthony Whitworth-Jones for letting me wander everywhere, and to Humphrey Burton and Sonia Lovett and their crew at NVC Arts, who were filming Lulu for Channel 4,
Going back to the seventies, I must thank my friend Guelda Waller for first taking me to Don Carlos at the Royal Opera House, thus igniting a passion, which has grown with the years. It was therefore a colossal thrill to be allowed to sit in on Phillips Classics recording sessions of Don Carlos in Walthamstow Assembly Rooms in 1996. I would especially like to thank the executive producer, Clive Bennett; the legendary Christopher Raeburn, who produced the record; the mighty Bernard Haitink; the sublime chorus and orchestra of the Royal Opera House, Covent Garden; the beguiling language coach, Maria Cleva; the endearingly laid-back orchestra manager, Clifford Corbett; and the magnificent cast, including Richard Margison, Robert Lloyd, Galina Gorchakova, Robin Leggate and Roderick Williams. I also had particular help from Patricia Haitink, Jan Burnett, the co-ordinator, James Jones, in charge of publicity, and the PA James Ross, a rising young conductor, who talked to me for hours about the opera and made some excellent suggestions when the book was in synopsis stage.
My characters sing a lot in the book. I am therefore extremely grateful first to Theodore Lap and Hugh Graham and secondly to Avril Bardoni for permission to quote from their excellent English translations of the Don Carlos libretto, which in Hugh’s case was for the 1997 EMI recording conducted by Antonio Pappano, and in Avril’s for the programme when Don Carlos was performed at a 1997 Promenade concert.
I must thank Ingrid Kohlmeyer of English National Opera and Helen Anderson and Rita Grudzien of the Royal Opera House, who were constantly helpful. I am also indebted to Katherine Fitzherbert, who runs English Touring Opera, which brings such joy to music lovers around the country. Katherine allowed me to sit backstage with the DSM Helen Bunkall at a production of Rigoletto and work the lightning flashes. She also invited me to Werther followed by a riotous, end-of-tour party. Here I had the luck to meet the conductor Alistair Dawes, then Head of Music Staff at the Royal Opera House, and his wife Lesley-Ann, a singer and teacher, who have since become extremely close friends, letting me sit in on lessons, taking me through the Don Carlos score and answering endless questions.