by Jilly Cooper
‘Why did you marry Kitty?’ Flora emerged from the far side of the weeping ash. ‘Was it an act of deliberate sadism? Did they toll the punishment bell at your wedding? Did the Paradise Lad howl on the first night?’
Rannaldini gave a shrug. ‘Kitty run my life. She was brought up by elderly parents so I seem like spreeng chicken, and she help her mother look after other people’s children.’
‘So she has no problem with your brat-pack?’
‘Correct.’ Rannaldini moved off down the ride, pausing to caress the upturned face and breasts of a naked wood nymph, then letting his hands stray downwards.
‘Eef one is going to run more than one woman,’ he continued, ‘one must have a loving wife rather plain so one’s mistresses don’t get jealous, rather working class, so women think Keety is fortunate to be plucked from her humble origins and to have landed such a mesmerizing – ’ Rannaldini paused mockingly over the word – ‘husband that she cannot expect heem to be faithful to her.
‘Above all,’ he went on with a satanic smile, ‘Keety is the perfect alibi. Eef Hermione is being difficult and I want to see Cecilia, I tell Hermione that Keety is in town so I cannot get away. Eef I want to see someone else, you, for example’ – briefly he touched her cheek – ‘I tell both Hermione and Cecilia, Keety is in town. If I want to drop someone I say: “I am so sorry, my dear, Keety has found out, and I cannot ‘urt Keety.” If a woman suddenly refuses to get out of my bed or one of my ’ouses, I say: “Keety is due any minute, you must go.” Finally eef any of them are foolish enough to want to marry me I tell them I cannot leave Keety, she do nothing wrong, it would be like throwing a freshwater fish into the sea.’
He has got the most beautiful voice, thought Flora, husky, caressing, anodyne. Perhaps it was an essential of adulterers because so much of their campaigning was done on the telephone.
‘You’re such a shit,’ she said fascinated.
‘Like Byron.’ Gently Rannaldini fingered the crutch of the wood nymph. ‘We love our men of genius not because they are perfect but because they are great.’ Then, running his hand over the wood nymph’s bottom, ‘Still warm from the sun as though she has been given a spanking, I would love to spank all the bad temper out of you, leetle Flora.’
‘You bloody wouldn’t.’ Outraged, yet excited, Flora plunged back into another weeping ash. As she emerged Rannaldini drew two ropes of fronds round her neck, trapping her.
‘I ’ave a ’ole in my heart from Cupid’s arrow,’ he whispered, tightening the fronds. Aware that he could throttle her, Flora gazed into his mocking, sensual, infinitely cynical, face.
‘My father was a Spanish Captain,’ she sang softly,
‘Went to sea a month ago,
First he kissed me, then he left me,
Bid me always answer No.’
She paused so long on the high note that Rannaldini felt the hair rising on the back of his neck, then she smiled and went on:
‘Oh no Juan, no Juan, no Juan no.’
Rannaldini’s straight black eyebrows underlined a forehead almost without lines. Not a man who worries or who suffers from guilt, thought Flora. His lips were absolutely on a level with hers. She was sure he was going to kiss her and shut her eyes. Then he laughed and moved away.
‘Come and see my tower.’
Flora could hear the distant hum of a tractor trying to get the hay cut before the storm. The sun had set, but the heat was still murderous. As they moved through the wood Rannaldini held back nettles and brambles and, having climbed a stile overgrown with elder, turned to help her. The starry elderflowers that fell into her hair were as creamy as her skin. Overcome with lust, Rannaldini let his hand stray over her right breast testing its soft springiness.
Leaping away, livid with her heart for pounding like the hoof-beats of Rannaldini’s horses, Flora hurled a clump of goosegrass at him to lower the tension.
‘Clinging but instantly detachable, like the perfect woman,’ said Rannaldini, peeling it off his silk shirt and throwing it back at Flora who ducked and ran down the path. As she reached the clearing a crack of lightning lit up Rannaldini’s tower, then thunder boomed like a twelve pounder. The Rottweilers collided against their master’s legs in terror. Rannaldini just had time to kick them into their kennel and bustle Flora into the tower when the heavens opened.
The ground floor, where Rannaldini worked, was completely walled by records, tapes and editing equipment.
‘It’s soundproof, so however much you scream—’
‘It won’t sound as awful as Hermione,’ mocked Flora.
As the soundtrack of Rannaldini’s film of Don Giovanni flooded the tower and its surrounding woodland, Flora bounded up a sprial staircase into a sitting room furnished with pale grey sofas and chairs and two high footstools covered in buttercup-yellow and crimson silk.
Flora looked up at the bright scarlet walls and ceiling. ‘Like being wrapped in the flames of Don Giovanni’s hell,’ she said.
On a side table beside a shoal of silver photographs of Rannaldini being congratulated by the famous, including Gorbachov and Princess Diana, stood a big yellow bowl overflowing with pink-and-green grapes, peaches, mangoes, persimmons and fruit so exotic Flora had never seen it before. A yellow Aubusson carpet swimming with roses and oak leaves caressed her bare feet. The only pictures were an Eric Gill panel of an ambiguous-looking madonna offering a perfect breast to a rather too-knowing and adult baby and a Picasso girl whose eye squinted over Rannaldini’s ivory-silk shoulder as he opened another bottle of Krug.
The bathroom, also in pale grey and scarlet with a mirrored ceiling and walls, was dominated by a vast Jacuzzi.
‘Mother Courage’s famous Ju-Jitzu bath,’ giggled Flora. ‘I can’t tell you how much I admire her, she makes my father’s shirts look as though Dinsdale’s slept in them and she told Mum that Mrs ‘Arefield ’ad just had her back passage painted bottle green. You should know presumably.’
Even though a faint smile flickered at the corner of Rannaldini’s mouth Flora decided not to tell him about Rattledicky.
‘I could listen to her for hours.’
‘Unlike Boris Levitsky’s compositions,’ said Rannaldini handing her a glass. ‘To us.’
‘To my guardian devil.’ Trying to suppress her surging excitement Flora sauntered next door into a bedroom which was all bed, with a mural above it of an endlessly applauding opera audience, beautiful bare-shouldered women in wonderful jewels, handsome men in dinner-jackets, all cheering and clapping so realistically you could smell the carnations in their buttonholes and hear the bravoes ringing out.
‘Christ, you’re a narcissist,’ snapped Flora. ‘Do you delay your entrance even here? How’d you take out your teeth without a bedside table?’
She jumped as a huge clap of thunder burst overhead. Her heart was beating almost as loudly. Any moment Rannaldini would pounce.
‘Vile seducer,’ sang Hermione, ‘like a fury I’ll pursue you, haunt you to your dying day.’
‘Exquisite,’ sighed Rannaldini and, going downstairs, he turned on Wimbledon to watch a replay of an excruciatingly boring women’s singles match.
Feeling absurdly let down Flora slumped on one of the silk footstools, sulkily consuming an entire bunch of green grapes, pips and all, by which time Leporelló was listing Don Giovanni’s conquests to a distraught Donna Elvira.
Dark, blond, fat, thin, tall, tiny, all were fair game to the Don.
‘But his favourite form of sinning,
Is with one who’s just beginning,’ sang Leporelló.
Realizing that the rain was no longer machine-gunning the roof and windows Flora knocked back her Krug.
‘Well, I can’t stay here all night gazing up Miss Sabatini’s knickers.’
‘I’ll walk you home. Are you tired?’ Rannaldini switched off the television and the soundtrack.
‘No, bored.’
‘Ees the same thing.’
As they were leaving he flicked on his an
swering machine. Suddenly the tower was filled with desperate weeping.
‘Rannaldini, it’s Beatrice, I must see you, I love you so much.’
With an irritable shrug Rannaldini turned off the machine. ‘Some stupeed flautist want her job back.’
‘And you, too, by the sound of it,’ reproved Flora. ‘How can you hang a cross round your neck and behave so horribly?’
‘Theenk how much worse I would behave if I didn’t wear it. Women make such a fuss. As a sex, you will soon be expendable. The Japanese invent a robot that makes exquisite love. Afterwards you sweetch it off.’
‘It must be called Hermione.’
Rannaldini laughed.
‘You should scowl more often,’ mocked Flora, going towards the door, ‘you’re too attractive when you smile.’
Rannaldini punched her gently in the belly.
‘You wanna go ’ome?’
‘While I still can.’
‘Peety, you have no idea of the unimaginable pleasure you will miss. See these leetle footstools. They are very old. Italian voluptuaries used to kneel their mistresses up on them so they could spend hours licking their bottoms.’
‘How disgusting.’ Flora was rigid with shock.
She’s a child, thought Rannaldini.
‘Come, leetle wild thing.’ Putting a warm hand on her neck, he drew her towards him and kissed her gently on each corner of her mouth, then slowly worked inwards, his mouth cool and tasting faintly of Krug.
Supported by the door, Flora just remained standing.
‘Now I can tell them at Bagley Hall I’ve snogged Rannaldini.’
26
Outside night had fallen. The wood steamed like a tropical jungle. The rain had bowed the trees into a dripping green tunnel and pestled a rank sexy smell out of elder, nettles and the last yellow leaves of the wild garlic. As they emerged the maze reared up, a great jet-black wave waiting to topple over them. An owl hooted warningly, a bat swooped.
‘Duck – it’s the Count,’ said Flora, through desperately chattering teeth.
‘Go into the maze,’ whispered Rannaldini.
‘Give me a ball of thread, Ariadne. Although you’re more like the Minotaur.’
‘Keep your hand on the wall and you’ll reach the centre.’ Rannaldini buried his lips briefly in her neck. ‘I geeve you a minute’s start.’
Never one to resist a challenge Flora plunged into the maze feeling her way between drenched lowering yew cliffs. With a scream she ducked in terror as a sinister dark figure reared up ahead like a black cowled monk about to pounce on her. Then she gasped with relief: it was only one of Mr Brimscombe’s yew peacocks. Shivering, yet pouring with sweat as her feet crunched on the wet, cold, pebble floor, she felt she was walking down an endless beach into a sea of no return.
Turning, twisting, falling to her knees, losing both her espadrilles in her panic, she could hear Rannaldini behind her like the Hound of Heaven (should be hell), his footsteps deliberate but relentless, stealthily drawing closer.
Oh Christ, she could hear breathing in front now – someone else was in the maze, or was it the way it twisted back on itself? Terrified, she started to run, piercing herself as she crashed from one massed wall of sharp twigs to another. Twenty feet above, a thin strip of dun, starless sky gave her no direction.
Her breath was coming in such gasps she would have none left to scream for help. She’d never get out. Meeting a dead end she stumbled to the left, hands desperately searching. Rannaldini was going to murder her, the maze was a trick, there was no centre. She gave a sob as an owl hooted overhead.
Then suddenly she breathed in the headiest smell. The path seemed to widen. Her feet must have touched a pressure point because soft light suddenly flooded a bower of bliss in which an ancient stone bench was fantastically garlanded by great clumps of rain-soaked philadelphus and jasmine with white rambler roses clambering to the top of the yew ramparts, all wafting their sweetness. Flora gave a moan of relief and joy.
Next moment Rannaldini’s arms were around her. She could feel the burning heat of his body, Don Giovanni in the flames.
‘You made it, leetle wild thing.’
‘I’m waiting for Mr Rite of Spring to come along.’
‘You must not mock.’
This time he kissed her with real passion, quivering with tension, his tongue stabbing and probing her mouth, his hands untying the black knot of Wolfie’s shirt. Laying bare her dove-soft white breasts, he covered them with kisses, murmuring endearments in Italian.
Then he seemed to gain control of himself and pushed her gently away.
‘Now we play games,’ he said softly. ‘You must do what I say. You are leetle village girl who wishes to enter the great Convent of Paradise. But first the all-powerful Abbot of Valhalla must inspect you to make sure of your purity and innocence. It ees his privilege.’
His face was totally impassive.
‘Are you some kind of nutter?’ stammered Flora backing away.
‘Take off your clothes,’ said Rannaldini sharply.
Furiously Flora stepped out of her rain-soaked blue skirt and pink and white striped pants.
‘Sit down.’ He pushed her on to the stone bench. ‘Now the Abbot will examine the leetle girl fully. He touches her breasts,’ Rannaldini’s warm hands were stroking, squeezing, searching, ‘and he theenks what a tragedy that two such lovely theengs should be hidden for ever under a nun’s black robes.
‘The little girl is frightened now,’ he went on, sensing Flora’s apprehension, ‘but just when she think the touching has gone on too long for decency the Abbot moves downwards. He is delighted to find her a little plump. Her puppy fat will protect her from the bitter cold of the convent.’
In time to the deep, husky, caressing voice Rannaldini’s hands roved over her belly and thighs, slowly, meticulously, assessing and examining.
Once again Flora was appalled to find herself revolted but wildly, hopelessly excited.
‘Sturdy legs, too,’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘Good for kneeling for hours on a cold chapel floor.’
Then, as he pushed her back on the bench, ‘Now she must lie down and put her knees up to her breasts for the crucial examination to begin. The test of her virginity.’
‘What sort of fucking pervert are you?’ hissed Flora, but, powerless to resist, she lay back, raising her legs and giving a wail of pleasure as his fingers slid inside her.
‘They go in too easily,’ purred Rannaldini, ‘the leetle girl try to tighten up to pretend she is still intacta but she is far too excited. As the Abbot explore probing her most secret places she cannot stop herself gripping his fingers. She is embarrassed how wet she is getting. She knows the Abbot is excited, too. He no longer care eef she is virgin.’
Rannaldini’s iron-hard thigh was rigid against Flora’s bare leg. She began to gasp with helpless pleasure as his finger moved up to her clitoris.
‘See the hood is back. From this tiny pink bud blossoms all female joy. It is so pretty. The Abbot will cure all her tensions, all her fears and geeve her such a lovely feeling.’
‘Oh, you bastard!’ Flora arched her back, went rigid and came.
‘That was nice?’ crooned Rannaldini, delightedly gathering her against his chest and stroking her hair.
‘Bliss but utterly bent.’
‘Is only the beginning. Tomorrow you can be little nun who has been caught in some wickedness.’
‘And you’ll be the Abbot of Valhalla ordering me to be flogged. Not bloody likely.’
Desperate to regain the upper hand, Flora dropped to her knees, unzipping his fly, lowering the blue silk boxer shorts and burying her face in the scented powdered hair flattened by the tight trousers, as the thick powerful cock flew up like a jack in the box.
‘Oh, wow,’ sighed Flora.
But, feeling her tongue, Rannaldini pulled away.
‘I weesh to come inside you.’
‘Pity, I wanted to have my cock and eat it.’
&
nbsp; For a second she thought he was going to hit her.
‘Stop taking the pees.’
Lifting her back on to the stone bench he roughly parted her labia and shoved his cock deep inside her.
‘Aaaaaaah, lovely,’ cried Flora, starting to move.
She was used to over-excited schoolboys who came in an instant. Rannaldini now totally in control, could have been a metronone for The Rite of Spring. His rhythm was so exact and so relentless.
‘Keep your eyes open,’ he ordered, his face satanical above hers, ‘I want to see you come. Are you bored now?’
‘Not as much as I was. Twelve bored more likely.’ Ah, those deep slow thrusts, Flora was battling not to abdicate herself completely. ‘For a pervert you’re seriously good at straight fucking. Although this bench is even harder than you – oh my God, on second thoughts perhaps it isn’t . . . Oh, Rannaldini, oh, Rannaldini.’
At the end of a week’s suspension Flora was allowed back for the Leaver’s Ball, because Wolfie Rannaldini, who’d won every cup and prize going, interceded with Sabine Bottomley.
Two days before the ball Flora, who was supposed to be practising ‘Who is Sylvia?’ with Rannaldini in his tower, was actually perched on his huge treble bed rubbing baby oil into him while he finished the crossword.
‘Ah that’s good. Deeper, deeper. You learn fast.’ Later he combed back the hair between her legs.
‘You are very charming, like a rose called Felicia. I cannot wait to shave you.’
‘Do you shave all your women?’
‘Usually. Cecilia ’ave a brush like Bernard Shaw’s beard so I ’ad to.’
‘You are decadent. You should publish a coffee table book of all your ladies and call it Clitoris Allsorts. Anyway you can’t shave me until after the Leavers’ Ball. Think of the raised eyebrows if we all go skinny dipping.’
‘You are not going to Leavers’ Ball.’
‘I must. I feel so dreadful about Wolfie. I promised I’d go with him two months ago. I’m not letting him down in front of all his friends. I’m off backpacking soon, so he and I will just peter out without his knowing about you.’
‘Eef you go to that ball, do not come back to me.’
