by Jilly Cooper
Oblivious of Nikki’s chilling, killing stare, Larry bolted after Marigold, drawing her aside. She noticed that his T-shirt could have been whiter. He noticed the softness of her thighs swelling up into the black velvet shorts and the way her breasts swung gently as bells under her white silk shirt.
Oblivious to Catchitune staff, who were handing out little papier-mâché rocks, tapes of Rock Star and Body Shop seaweed extract as going-home presents, he said: ‘You look beautiful, Mar, I’ll ring you.’
Catching them up, Lysander deliberately dropped Marigold’s diary, which Larry pocketed, and was horrified to read: LYSANDER, VENICE scrawled across the next weekend. No wonder she didn’t want the boys.
His evening was further ruined when he arrived with Georgie and Guy and the rest of his party at Hero’s, his favourite restaurant, and was accosted by the headwaiter who was the worst gossip in Soho, and constantly feeding stories to Dempster.
‘Meester Lockton, I am very pleased to see Meesis Lockton dining here the other night with your younger brother. She look very well.’
‘I thought you were an only child, Larry,’ said Hermione loudly.
Once again ignoring Nikki’s killing stare, Larry snarled, ‘Bring me a packet of Silk Cut.’
Primed beforehand, the band struck up ‘Rock Star’ as Georgie entered the dining room.
‘Everyone in the room will be humming it in a week, Panda,’ said Guy proudly, then in an undertone to Larry, ‘we’ve got to get that contract signed, before Marigold gives Georgie an earful tomorrow. Georgie’s insanely loyal.’
But Larry could only think of his own problems. In the past, bored with Marigold, envious of Rannaldini’s effortless promiscuity, he had fallen madly in love with Nikki. Now he was torn between his rapacious sexy mistress, who was at this moment deliberately flirting with Guy, and Marigold who had looked utterly ravishing this evening. How unhappy would I be without either? thought Larry. Catchitune had just recorded The Beggar’s Opera.
Nor had he anticipated how wildly jealous he would be of this Adonis with his public-school accent. He’d been humiliated in front of his entire staff, who knew all about Nikki, because Nikki had told them, and if there were a messy divorce, he might not get his knighthood before Rannaldini, if at all.
In addition, Nikki was not as clockwork as Marigold. She was far less efficient in the office now she had to look after him at home, and last night she had shouted at him for putting his plate in the sink rather than the dishwasher. Before he met Nikki, Larry had never lifted a finger at home except to check the dust on top of a picture.
He was haunted by Rannaldini’s warning:
‘Once she’s hooked you, the mistress becomes the wardress. She knows all the tricks you used to cheat on Marigold.’
Nikki now sat in his office, monitoring his telephone calls from all those young singers, who seemed perfectly happy for Larry to make them, if he was prepared to make their records as well. Since he’d taken up with Nikki and shattered the myth of being an utterly faithful husband, gorgeous girls had been looking at him in the most exciting way. All that promise would be nipped in the bud if he settled for Nikki.
‘They keep a cosh behind their backs,’ warned Rannaldini. ‘You never see it until they’ve got the handcuffs on. I made that mistake with Cecilia. She begrudged me my old freedoms, so I ditched her.’
Larry was fed up with going to the gym, only drinking spritzers – bloody wet – and not smoking and saying ‘No’, to canapés. Ignoring Nikki’s scowl of rage, he accepted a white roll from the waiter, and spreading it thickly with butter, ordered Spaghetti Carbonara as a first course followed by a T-bone and chips.
Georgie was now signing an autograph for an elderly couple at the next table.
‘I’d much rather she signed that contract,’ hissed Guy.
Looking across at Nikki being calmed down by Bob, Larry had a brainwave.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
Nipping out to the Rolls, as he had so often in the past when he wanted to ring Nikki, his heart thumping, he dialled Marigold’s number. Just as he was about to ring off the telephone was picked up. There was music and laughter in the background.
‘We oughta talk, Princess,’ Larry told Marigold roughly. ‘I gotta be in Bristol tomorrow. Thought I’d spend the night at home and return your diary.’
‘What took you so long?’ snapped Nikki, as Larry sat down beside her and kissed her fondly on the cheek. After all, he did want a fuck later.
‘Getting this,’ he said, putting a sheaf of papers in front of Georgie. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’
‘For your wife, your daughter, your mother or your girlfriend,’ said Georgie with a laugh.
‘For myself,’ said Larry.
It was a Catchitune contract for a million pounds.
14
Not wanting to alert the whole of Paradise to his return, Larry drove rather than flew down the following evening. Arriving as the red flame of sunset finally gave way to the distant russet glow of the Rutminster streetlights, he caught a glimpse of Catchitune written in fading crocuses and breathed in a heady scent of polyanthus, narcissus and newly turned earth, as he got out of a borrowed Mini. The Grange might face north, but it was still the finest garden in Paradise. He noticed a ladder against the house, Mr Brimscombe, the finest gardener in Rutshire, although threatened with the sack, had been trimming the famous Paradise Pearl from around the master-bedroom windows.
Across the valley he could see a single light burning in Valhalla. Kitty was still working, sorting out the tangled skeins of her husband’s life. Soon Rannaldini, too, would be home studying and settling scores in his tower in the woods. Angel’s Reach was in darkness, but shortly Georgie would be burning the midnight oil earning her million pound advance as she worked on her new album to be handed in by Christmas, and to the left he could see the jewel-coloured stained-glass hall windows of the River House. Bob and Hermione must be enjoying a rare evening at home.
Larry gave a sigh of satisfaction – all these people beavering away to put money into Catchitune’s coffers. Despite the doom and gloom, this year’s figures had been good, next year’s should be spectacular. Only when he turned towards his own house did he realize that the only lights on were the carriage lamps by the door.
Letting himself in, falling over one of Lysander’s boots, he only just reached the burglar alarm in time. After initial woofing, Patch slumped back in her basket, sulking because Jack, her boyfriend, had been banished for the evening.
Larry had skipped lunch anticipating a delicious dinner cooked by Marigold, but had planned on working up a further appetite by screwing her beforehand.
In the kitchen he was welcomed by Marks & Spencer’s Chicken and Asparagus and Bread and Butter Pudding, both in foil trays. He loathed asparagus.
There was also a note from Marigold:
‘Larry,’ (not even dear), ‘These will take five minutes in the microwave. Gone out to dinner, back around midnight. Make yourself at home.’
It’s my fucking home, thought Larry furiously.
He couldn’t even ring for someone to run him up steak and chips because he’d laid them all off, and even he wouldn’t summon Mrs Brimscombe from the lodge in the middle of Coronation Street.
There were no curtains drawn, nor a fire in the lounge. He couldn’t complain. It was so mild that in the old days, he would have bellyached about the central heating being left on or a fire lit.
Returning to the kitchen, he found an empty bottle of champagne in the bin, two glasses in the sink and a huge bunch of pink roses with a card on the draining board. ‘Marigold, you were out of this world. All love, L.’
His Harley Street consultant had warned him against stress, but Larry had never been nearer a coronary as he bolted upstairs and was knocked sideways by the smell of Joy. Marigold was tidy to the point of finickityness, but now carrier bags with new clothes littered the bed and the armchairs. In the bathroom he found the t
op off the scented body lotion, a razor clogged with hair that looked unpleasantly pubic, a Cellophane pack that had contained black, eight-denier, seamed stockings and a size ten label on the floor. Marigold used to be size sixteen. The hairdryer was still plugged in, and worst of all The Joy of Sex on the edge of the bath lay open at fellatio. It was no comfort to Larry that this was exactly the state in which Nikki left their new en suite bathroom in Pelham Crescent.
With a howl Larry hurled The Joy of Sex out of the window, whereupon the clockwork squawking of a pheasant reminded him of his clockwork wife running away. Not wanting to go home to Nikki, who thought he was looking at a new pop group in Bristol, he stormed down to The Pearly Gates and got so drunk he didn’t even notice Marigold, Lysander and Ferdie coming out of The Heavenly Host across the road around eleven.
‘Ay’ve got fraightful butterflies,’ gasped Marigold as Ferdie pulled up outside The Grange.
‘Should be moths at night,’ said Lysander, who’d been getting gloomier as the evening progressed.
‘No more lipstick,’ ordered Ferdie, as Marigold opened her bag.
Ruffling her hair, he undid several buttons of her red dress – ‘You’ve got to look as though you’ve been got at,’ – before allowing her out of the car.
‘Now play it cool, and remember no bonking. We’ll stick around for a sec in case you need rescuing.’
Watching Marigold going up the steps, Lysander felt the same sickness as when his mother, trying not to cry, had walked down the platform after putting him on the school train. But a minute later Marigold came rushing back.
‘He’s gone, without leaving a note,’ she sobbed. ‘Ay’ve blown it, Ay’ve blown it.’
Appalled to find Marigold so devastated, Lysander leapt out of the car.
‘He’ll be back.’ He put an arm round her. ‘Probably just stormed out in a strop.’
‘Must have been one hell of a strop, if he left the door open and the burglar alarm off with Picassos and Stubbs in the house,’ mused Ferdie. ‘Can you see anything missing?’
‘Only Larry,’ wailed Marigold, as Jack jumped into Patch’s basket, snuggling up to her.
Desperate to give Marigold comfort, Lysander poured her a glass of Sancerre.
‘I taped Casualty for you,’ he said. It was Marigold’s favourite programme.
‘Ay’m the only casualty round ’ere.’ Putting her chain-handled bag down with a clatter on the draining board, she was bashing the stems of Lysander’s pink roses with a rolling pin, when the telephone rang.
‘Don’t answer it,’ howled Ferdie. But faster than Nijinsky out of the starting gates, Marigold was across the room. The telephone stopped on the third ring.
‘It’s our secret code,’ squeaked Marigold.
As the telephone began again, she snatched it up before Ferdie could stop her, listened for a second, then put her trembling hand over the receiver.
‘Larry wants to come over. He’s in The Pearly Gates.’
‘That’s the nearest he’s going to get to heaven this evening,’ said Ferdie briskly. ‘Tell him no. You’ve got red eyes and a red nose, and you’re both so wasted it’ll only end in a punch or bunk-up and blow all your advantage. Say you’re tired.’
Ferdie’s square face could look very big and mean. His friends didn’t employ him as a bouncer at their twenty-firsts for nothing.
Meekly Marigold told Larry she was shattered. They arranged to have dinner next week.
‘Who’s that in the background?’ growled Larry, as Lysander sulkily crashed the door of the fridge.
‘Only Patch,’ said Marigold. ‘See you next week.’
‘We’ll plan the whole operation when the time comes,’ said Ferdie. ‘Come along, Lysander.’
And because Ferdie wasn’t supposed to know he’d been bonking Marigold, Lysander reluctantly had to comply. Jack, even more reluctant to be removed from Patch’s paws, bit his master sharply on the hand.
Alone in her pink-flounced four-poster, Marigold couldn’t sleep. She had envisaged a scene from Gone with the Wind, with herself being so provoking that Larry would sweep her upstairs like Clark Gable – well, at least the black moustache was the same – and ravish her – at this point admittedly his technique would become Lysander’s. Then, becoming Larry again, he would swear she was his only love and Nikki a fearful aberration.
Hepped up for conflict, twitching with desire, Marigold longed for Lysander’s tender and exuberant lovemaking after which she always fell into a wonderful sleep. Lysander was better than any pill, and he didn’t leave you feeling woozy and unable to drive in the morning.
Having spent so many nights alone at the Grange, Marigold was unafraid of the dark, and always left her curtains open because no-one could see in except the birds. Outside a full moon was admiring her reflection in the fish-ponds, and a gentle west wind was scratching the bare stems of the famous Paradise Pearl against the window.
Marigold had never masturbated in her life, thinking it a disgusting habit, but Lysander had made her come so wonderfully with his fingers and tongue, she thought she’d give it a whirl and put the duvet over Patch snoring beside her, so the dog wouldn’t be corrupted.
‘Think about something that really turns you on,’ Lysander always urged her.
So Marigold thought about Lysander. Goodness, it was nice and quite easy, her breath was coming faster and faster, when she heard a loud bang on the window, which couldn’t be just windswept wisteria twigs. Then to her horror she saw a man framed in the window, the moonlight behind him. Screaming her head off she whipped her finger from her clitoris to the panic button.
Mr Brimscombe, however, who slept lightly because of his rheumatism, had already heard a car going towards the house. The driver must have had a remote control to open the electric gates, but it wasn’t young Mr Hawkley because his red Ferrari always blared music. Remembering his ladder outside Marigold’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe set out to investigate.
The Paradise Pearl, a unique silver-pink wisteria, had been propagated by Mr Brimscombe’s grandfather who’d gone to the grave with the secret of its exquisite vigour and colouring. Gardeners came from all over the world to admire and attempt to copy it. Mr Brimscombe’s first ignoble thought when he saw a man up the ladder was not that he was attempting to break in or rape Mrs Lockton, but that he was taking cuttings off the Paradise Pearl.
Shooting across the lawn like a crab, he seized the ladder just as Larry was peering in at the incredibly erotic sight of his beautiful slimmed-down wife playing with herself, the lamplight warming her lovely breasts. Excitement turned to horror, however, when he saw the duvet moving beside her – it must be that young puppy Lysander, not even capable of satisfying her. As Larry banged furiously on the window, his ladder was suddenly shaken down below with even more fury.
‘Come down, you thieving bugger,’ screached Mr Brimscombe.
Instantly obeying, Larry missed the next rung, grabbed a gnarled branch of the Paradise Pearl, bringing it and himself crashing to the ground on top of a whole bed of Crown Imperials.
If Marigold hadn’t recognized Larry and rushed to open the double glazing and alert Mr Brimscombe to his master’s identity, Larry would have been cudgelled to death by a fox-headed walking-stick.
Next morning Marigold rang Ferdie to tell him what had happened.
‘Just a social climb,’ said Ferdie.
Marigold giggled. ‘Larry got off with a bruising and a sprained ankle. He’s just discharged himself from Rutminster Hospital. Oh, and Ferdie, he’s taking me to The Four Seasons tonaight.’
‘Well, play it cool.’
The following morning Marigold summoned Ferdie to The Grange.
‘We never made The Four Seasons. We ended up in bed.’
‘On the first date?’ Disapprovingly, Ferdie dipped a chocolate biscuit in his coffee. ‘You’re a slag, Marigold. When are you seeing him again?’
‘Tonight. He’s going to leave Nikki and come home. Oh, Ferdie, Ay
can’t thank you both enough.’
‘We aim to please,’ Ferdie pocketed a £10,000 cheque for mission accomplished and persuaded Marigold she must keep Lysander on a year’s retainer, so he could whizz back if Larry started acting up. ‘And we must return that diamond key to Cartier’s.’
‘How do I explain that to Larry?’
‘That it isn’t ethical to accept presents from young boys if one has made it up with one’s husband. It’s believing Lysander could afford one hundred thousand pounds for a brooch that rattled Larry.’
Marigold was brought up short. She was going to miss Lysander dreadfully. She had found it much easier to forgive Larry, because having Lysander around had made her realize how heady it must have been for Larry having Nikki. But at least if he was on a retainer, she’d see him occasionally. She decided to give him two polo ponies and a set of Dick Francis talking books as he was such a slow reader.
Lysander was so upset at the thought of Larry taking Marigold to The Four Seasons, and no doubt to bed, that he’d gone out and got plastered. Next morning, overwhelmed with hangover, clutching a cup of coffee, he’d gone out to see Arthur in his box.
He found the old horse had eaten all his bedding, a habit from his early days, when he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from, that he only reverted to when he felt very low and neglected.
‘I’m sorry, boy,’ said Lysander appalled, flinging his arms round Arthur’s neck, avoiding the green bits where Arthur had rolled. ‘I’m sorry, Mum and Uncle Alastair. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll bloody well get him sound and have another crack at the Rutminster.’
He emptied his cup into a bucket, because Arthur loved drinking coffee.
Having left Marigold and picked up a hamburger from the pub, Ferdie drove over to Lysander’s. He found him slumped, shivering in the corner of Arthur’s stable clutching Jack like a teddy bear, with Ferdie’s blue coat wrapped round him like a child’s dressing gown. Lysander was deathly pale and looked absurdly young. Arthur having abandoned silent sympathy, was lying flat out with his eyes open snoring loudly to get his master’s attention.
