Last Act Page 10

  On the dais a small group stood apparently frozen round the Prince and James Frensham. The Prince had his back half turned, but they got the full benefit of young Frensham’s sneer as they approached. “Killer roads, and a twenty-man police force,” he said. “An opera no one knows and a cast no one’s heard of. Not a star in it. And a black hole of a hotel with steps for the guests to fall over, and you still think you can play host to an international peace conference. No wonder my father said he was pulling out.”

  “Your Highness.” Carl Meyer boldly intervened before the Prince’s rage boiled over in reply. “Allow me to present the star we are launching: Miss Paget.”

  “Ah.” The Prince’s furious face smoothed into a smile as Anne went down into her deepest curtsey. “I knew it. Trust an old fox like me to know the real thing … the gem when he sees it. And they’ve not done too badly with the setting, either.” He was eating her up with his eyes, and she thought dismally of the payment it would be in his character to expect.

  But for the moment he had more pressing business. “No star, you say, James? I think both our conductor and our Regulus will have a bone to pick with you over that. But here, as Herr Meyer rightly observes, is our lead card, our discovery: Miss Paget.”

  “Hmmm.” The dark, deep-set eyes looked Anne over. She might have been a horse, she thought, in a Florentine market, having its points examined.

  She put her head a little back and looked up at him with considering eyes. “How do you do, Mr Frensham?” The room, suddenly quiet, echoed to the resonance of her deep voice. “I am so sorry about your father.” She made the words almost into recitative.

  “Quite something.” He was shaking her hand, ignoring the reference to his father. “Pity to put you into boy’s clothes, though.”

  She laughed, and felt a quick, sharp warning of pain. “Not the kind I’ll be wearing. The Romans knew a thing or two about dress, and so does our wardrobe mistress. Don’t worry. I won’t let Lissenberg down—or Beethoven, which is more important.” He was actually listening, and she sensed a little breath of relief from the group around them. “I know how lucky I am to be appearing in Beethoven’s lost opera. The whole world must be waiting for it. It’s going to be the most tremendous draw.” She turned to Carl Meyer. “Surely the house must be sold out?”

  “Sold out! We’ve a waiting list as long as the Bible.”

  “And if it’s a disaster?” Frensham turned on him. “And the guests stuck in this hotel with steps everywhere, and no service. My father was right. He told me.”

  “You should both have stayed at the castle,” said the Prince. “I only wish your poor father had.” He turned away from the painful subject. “It’s true, the hotel’s not running quite smoothly yet, but it’s not even officially open and there’s a whole week to go.”

  “A week!” The sneer was back. “A month would be better news.”

  “I should think tourists would love it.” Anne felt a twinge of pain and took a deep breath. “There’s a great rage for medieval banquets in England. They pack them in.”

  “England!” said James Frensham in his rich English. “If they like it there, it has to be bad. Just look at them. A strike a minute and shouting for help the next.”

  Anne took a reviving sip of champagne. “We don’t all of us shout,” she said. “Quite a few of us work, Mr Frensham.”

  She had expected an explosion, but the handsome, guarded face broke into a remarkably sweet smile. “I like you,” said young Frensham. “You’ve got something, haven’t you? If you can sing too, maybe we’ve not got such a disaster after all. Can you?”

  The pain was devouring her. If she had to stand much longer, she might faint. She tried to make her smile reach her eyes. “I hope so,” she said.

  And, blessedly, big doors at the side of the dais were thrown open and a green-clad waiter announced that dinner was served.

  “I take Miss Paget in.” Taking Anne’s arm, James Frensham made it a challenge.

  “Naturally,” said the Prince, without pleasure. “You are our honoured guest and she is our star.”

  Taking her place between them, Anne looked across the long table at a big dining room that seemed to combine the worst features of the lobby and the reception room. The chandeliers here were even more brilliant than those in the reception room, their colours just slightly at odds with those of illuminated stained glass panels.

  “What do you think of it?” The Prince turned to her.

  “It’s formidable,” she said, with truth. And, with equal truth, “I’m sure it will be a huge success.”

  “I hope so,” he said. “I’ve got a plastics factory down the valley hard at work turning out models to sell to the tourists.”

  “Just the thing.” James Frensham leaned across Anne. “It should make perfect plastic models. The opera house, too, I hope.”

  “The whole complex.” The Prince obviously did not like young Frensham’s tone, and Anne did not blame him.

  “A bit like a set of false teeth. But no doubt the tourists you expect will buy them. If they come.”

  “They are already here.” Now the Prince sounded angry. “The town is full and this hotel is booked solid from the official opening on.”

  “Of course,” said James Frensham. “I quite forgot. It’s not open yet, your fine hotel. That’s why the service is so slow. You’ll need to feed the conference delegates faster than this, if they are to get anything done at their great peace meeting.”

  Like his father, he was a master of inflexions, Anne thought. He had contrived to suggest that the peace meeting would be anything but great. Time to intervene. “When is the official opening of the hotel?” she asked.

  “Not for another week,” the Prince told her. “And of course the conference delegates won’t be arriving until the week-end your opera opens. Almost three weeks still.”

  “Yes, thank goodness,” said Anne with feeling. She looked across the open-sided top table at the crowded dining room, aware of a slackening in the babble of talk. It was true, the service was slow, but here at last came waiters pouring wine.

  “You think three weeks long enough to learn an entirely new opera?” asked young James.

  “Oh, yes.” She smiled at him, grateful for the moral support of hair-do and dress. “I’m a quick learner, and the others have had longer, which helps enormously.”

  “So you expect a success?” He sounded as if he might be really interested.

  “I don’t see how we can fail. Beethoven’s lost opera—it’s the most marvellous music. And Signor Falinieri’s an extraordinary conductor. I’ve never sung with him before. You’ve no idea how he is making us work. It’s not every conductor who will spend three weeks rehearsing. But then this is a special case.”

  “You enjoy the work?”

  “Oh, yes. There’s nothing in the world like it.”

  “And the others?”

  “But, of course. Or they wouldn’t be here. It’s a tremendous chance for us all.”

  “I just hope you won’t have to sing to a starving audience,” said James Frensham, reaching out for a second roll.

  But now, at last, green-clad waiters were beginning to scurry about with plates of melon filled with prawns. “About time.” Frensham turned as the plate was put down in front of him and demanded a vodka martini, but the waiter had already hurried away.

  “Call it service!” he said. “Opening in a week. They need six. Imagine the world’s journalists—who I presume will be covering this opera of yours—enduring this kind of thing. Just think what they will say.”

  She could, and could think of nothing to say herself. Hunger made the pain worse. For the first time, she actually wished herself back in England. Beside her, the Prince had turned away to carry on a surprisingly animated conversation with Gertrud Stock. Odd that she was next to him rather than Hilde Bernz, the older singer who played Regulus’ wife.

  James Frensham was clicking his fingers unavailingly at a passing
waiter. “I had no lunch,” he told her. “What I need is a real drink. And real food.” He picked up the menu from its silver container. “It says here we start with Game Soup Lissenberg. This doesn’t look much like it. Ladies’ food. I just hope we get the Steak Diane.”

  “So do I.” Anne sighed with amazed relief at sight of a long-legged waiter refilling Gertrud Stock’s glass. She leaned behind the Prince and breathed a quiet, “Michael.”

  He finished pouring, swathed the bottle in its napkin, and turned to her, heels clicked, the picture of service. “Mein Fräulein?”

  “Mr Frensham would like a double martini. Vodka.”

  “Instantly.” He bent forward and whispered. “Chaos in the kitchen—sabotage. Keep them sweet if you can.” And was gone, his long white apron flying.

  “Capable girl.” Frensham was actually looking at her with approval. “What the hell’s he doing here, and what did he say?”

  “Helping out, I suppose. He does seem to be a jack of all trades.”

  “You could call him that. But what did he say?”

  “Trouble in the kitchen.” She left it vague.

  “Excuses as usual! They couldn’t organise a children’s outing in this country, and they try to run an international conference. And an opera. Talk about disaster. I just hope your opera goes better than this dinner. Ah.” Michael’s long arm had put down a large glass beside him. “Michael, what in the world?” But Michael had whisked away.

  “You know him?” asked Anne, surprised.

  “Well, of course. But what the hell he’s doing here? Oh, well.” He shrugged and drank. “He always was his own law. And look where it’s got him.”

  “Where?”

  But he had taken another heartening pull at his martini and begun on his melon. “It’s good,” he said, “even if it’s not game soup.”

  “Delicious!” Anne also thought it a very clever choice for a first course, granted the chaos in the kitchen of which Michael had spoken. It took a very long time to eat. Waiters were scurrying about, refilling wine glasses. The tone of the conversation had settled down as people savoured the sauce, or worked to get the right mix of shrimp and melon.

  “Someone can cook,” said James Frensham. “What’s in this sauce, d’you think?”

  “Cream,” said Anne. “Lemon, of course. Sherry perhaps? Or a touch of bitters?”

  “Cook as well as sing, do you? How d’you keep that figure of yours?” He was mellowing with every sip, but his glass was nearly empty, and Anne looked around for Michael. He was ahead of her. Once again his long green arm swooped down to replace the empty glass with a full one. Then, to Anne’s surprise, he paused behind the Prince’s chair and murmured something in his ear.

  The Prince’s response was obviously both Liss and unprintable. He turned to Anne. “Miss Paget.” The thick brows were drawn together with rage, but he managed a smile for her. “It seems there is a small problem in the kitchen.” He was speaking low, obviously hoping that Frensham would not hear. “I had planned to ask you to sing for our guests, later, over coffee. Could you do it now? Would it be asking too much …”

  She smiled back at him, grateful that the pain had ebbed with food and wine. “Frankly, if I’ve got to do it, I’d rather do it now. I never did understand how Victorian young ladies managed to sing after those huge meals they ate. What would you like?’

  “Ask Mr Frensham,” suggested the Prince. “Then let me know when you are ready.”

  She turned to her other neighbour. “Heaven help me.” She made it an appeal, eyes widened under lashes she had taken trouble with. “The Prince wants me to sing! What would you suggest to keep all these hungry people happy, Mr Frensham?”

  “I’m no expert. Nothing too heavy, if you ask me.”

  “That’s just what I was thinking. Not opera at all. It’s not the moment for that.” She looked around the crowded room. “D’you think everyone understands English?”

  “If they don’t; tough.”

  She smiled at him brilliantly. “Thanks! That’s just what I needed!” And turned to the Prince. “Ready when you want me.”

  His short speech was masterly, leaving it in some doubt as to why the singing was to be so early in the meal. As he spoke, waiters were moving briskly round the tables, refilling glasses and supplying more rolls. The panic of the first course had subsided. It may work yet, thought Anne, and rose to her feet. “Ladies and gentlemen, I hope you will bear with me. I am going to sing to you in English, unaccompanied, and at short notice. And before such a group of experts, too! I beg your indulgence.” And to a polite little murmur, she took a deep breath and plunged into an old English ballad with an irresistibly lilting rhythm. Down the table, she saw Falinieri lift his head in surprise, then, catching her eye, give a tiny nod of approval.

  She went on to some of the pop songs of her own youth, guessing that the Lissenberg element of the audience were older and should recognise them, and then, encouraged by increasing applause, ventured a little further out. “Where have all the flowers gone …” got a surprisingly warm reception, and so did “Greensleeves,” but she was getting tired, the pain twitching at her warningly.

  “One more.” Michael’s quiet voice behind her. “And we’ll do, God bless you.”

  “What shall it be?” She turned to Frensham. “You must have a favourite.”

  “Music?” He shrugged. “No. I’m not like my father. I’m a philistine. And proud of it. But I can see that you do it very well.”

  “I’m sorry. How boring it must be for you. Well, positively the last.” She took a deep breath and began The Battle Hymn of the Republic.

  Bowing for tumultuous applause at the end, she turned to smile an apology at Frensham. “All over.”

  “And a success. You are good, I can see, Miss Paget. May I call you Anne? And here, at last, comes food.”

  It was both delicious, and, to an expert, quite obviously a last-minute improvisation: veal escalopes, lightly cooked in an exquisite sauce, fluffy dry rice and a wide choice of obviously frozen vegetables. Frensham’s glass had been exchanged once more while she was singing. He raised it: “To your bright eyes! The opera will succeed, I think. I congratulate you.”

  Kindness itself. So why did his tone send a cold shiver down her spine? Why in the world did she suddenly find herself thinking of Robin, and all that disaster?

  7

  “But What On earth went wrong with the dinner?” It had been as much pleasure as surprise to find Michael waiting to drive her back to the hotel, a dark raincoat hiding his green waiter’s costume.

  “You may well ask.” He had cut her neatly out from Frensham, Stern and Meyer, who all thought they should walk her home, and was guiding her down the hotel steps. “Ipecac in the game soup, and lavishly scattered all over the Steak Diane. The way we flavour things here, no-one would have noticed. It’s a fierce emetic, you know. Just think of tomorrow morning.” He opened the door of a small car parked on the double yellow line. “I thought you’d need a breath of air after all that politeness. And the chef sent you his blessings in broad Liss. Damn clever choice of songs; I congratulate you on that, as well as the singing. Some fool might have got up and let fly with Beethoven.”

  “Not this fool; not with James Frensham sitting there like a thunderstorm about to break. You saved the situation just as much as I did with those martinis. But how come he knows you?”

  “Oh, everyone knows me. Hopeless Michael and his mad ideas.” He had taken the car demurely down the curve of the arcade, now put on a burst of speed on the main road and swooped off it again on to an uphill turning she had never noticed. “I’m not kidnapping you.” He had read her thoughts. “Just taking you to a favourite pub of mine. Half an hour’s compulsory relaxation before bed. Just what the doctor ordered.”

  “Thanks.” She shivered at the unlucky phrase.

  “What’s the matter?” He was disconcertingly quick, this young dropout. “You ought to be on top of the world, after a
success like that, and against such odds, and you sound below zero.”

  “I’m a little tired,” she prevaricated.

  “Long, hard evening? You were terrific. Let me be the first to tell you so. And warn you you’ve got quite a complicated three weeks ahead of you. The waiter sees most of the game, and if James Frensham and our Rudolf haven’t both got plans for you, I’m no mind reader. If I were you, I’d send for the doctor in the morning. Tell him you’re overtired with all the pressure. Get him to put a ban on nights out. He’ll do it, I promise.”

  “Another of your cousins?” The unconscious irony of his suggestion almost choked her.

  “More or less. Ah, here we are.” He swung the little car off the road and its headlights lit up a chalet with the usual wide overhanging eaves and a stag’s antlers over the front door.

  “It looks closed,” she objected.

  “It is closed. Uncle Hans always closes at ten, and always opens up again for his friends.” He played a little tune on the car horn, and lights glowed out from the front of the chalet, illuminating a terraced beer garden with a luxuriance of flowers in boxes, their colours deep and strange in the artificial light. “In with you.” The front door had swung open and a huge man stood outlined against the light. “Uncle Hans, this is Miss Paget, who is going to sing us all into history. She wants something to settle her dinner.”

  “She shall have it.” Hans shook hands warmly and beamed down at Anne out of a cheerful, weather-beaten face. “Didn’t know you were hungry, did you?”

  “No.” But it was true.

  “Michael—” He paused. “My friends always come up here after the big banquets. They say food eaten under such strain is no use. Now, which shall it be, a hunter’s breakfast or some of my dumpling soup?”

  “Oh, soup! How lovely,” said Anne. And, “Hunter’s breakfast,” said Michael. “If the guests are hungry, how do you think the waiters feel?”

  “You were splendid.” Anne let him seat her at a little table in a corner by a blazing fire. “You can’t have learned that at Oxford.”