The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  The hero of Paradise after last Sunday’s cricket match had, in fact, fallen among thieves in The Pearly Gates. Everyone wanted to buy him drinks and, being Lysander, he promptly bought them back. Then Crooked Mouse, his hot tip for the 1.30, came in first and as he had told everyone to back her it was more drinks all round to celebrate, then at his suggestion they backed Georgie’s Day for obvious reasons in the 2.15 and it came last so they had loads more drinks to cheer themselves up. By two-thirty Lysander was out of his skull. Hazily remembering he had to meet Georgie somewhere he staggered out wearing his fox fur and eventually found himself behind the vicarage. Hearing noise, he shinned over the wall, landing in a guelder rose bush at the back of a large tent. Wriggling through a side flap, he stumbled upon the home-made wine section on a nearby table with all the bottles open after the judging.

  The winner had once again been Miss Cricklade. Last year after a couple of glasses of her elderflower wine the Archangel Michael, who normally drank for England, had driven straight through The Apple Tree’s shop window after leaving her house.

  Having finished the remaining half of this year’s winning bottle, Lysander, who hadn’t eaten since the previous evening and then only uncooked cake mixture, suddenly decided he was hungry and polished off an excellent spinach quiche and a plate of sausage rolls before starting on Miss Cricklade’s prizewinning elderberry red.

  By now people were flooding into the tent, shaking him by the hand and congratulating him. Really, thought Lysander, this is the nicest wedding reception I’ve ever been to. He must have another drink.

  Outside, the RSPCA inspector, who had rolled up to prosecute Ferdie, having been bitten sharply by Tiny, was tempted to prosecute the pony instead.

  The shadow of the spire fell over the vicar’s garden as the sun started its descent. Disconsolate exhibitors were pouring out of the flower-tent. Rannaldini and Mr Brimscombe seemed to have won everything.

  Having thrust cups of tea on willing stall holders and remembering that Hermione liked hers camomile and flavoured with honey, Guy led Marigold, who’d been up since six, off to the beer tent for something stronger. Now Georgie could see them laughing together. Traitor, thought Georgie, wishing someone would hurl a coconut at Guy.

  Guy was less amused, as were Larry, the vicar and Meredith when they discovered that the still-absent Lysander had won first prize for his chocolate cake.

  ‘It had a lovely damp texture and a delicious flavour we can’t pin-point,’ was the judge’s comment.

  It was time for Larry to run the auction and regain the ascendancy after not winning a single prize. He’d show who could drive a hard bargain and kicked off by getting eighty pounds for a signed copy of Rock Star.

  Guy then impressed everyone by bidding an unheard of forty pounds for Hermione’s posy of wildflowers. Consisting of marjoram, thyme, scabious and light and dark purple bell-flowers, they had been picked and arranged by little Cosmo’s Nanny, Gretel. Hermione was in heaven.

  ‘Guy Seymour is the most generous man in Rutshire,’ she told everyone after kissing Guy several times full on the mouth.

  Having only had the courage to open the joint bank statement that morning and seen the abyss of their overdraft, Georgie’s smile fell heavily among the bric-à-brac. She knew she ought to roll up her sleeves and help Marigold or Kitty, but somehow she felt paralysed in her high heels and too shy to talk to people who were too shy of her fame to talk to her. She found Ferdie sitting on a haybale eating a choc-ice. All his bounce had left him.

  ‘I’m sorry, Georgie. I’d go and look for him if he hadn’t lumbered me with this fucking pony. I thought I’d cured him of bunking off.’

  The fortune-teller was hidden in a little white tent under the taller of the chestnut trees. As Georgie’s nails were clean after washing her hair and the queue had almost dried up, she decided to test her fate.

  Outside, a sweet-faced woman with long dark hair was trying to quiet an adorable, but fretful, baby, and telling two pretty little red-headed girls, ‘Mummy won’t be long, then we’ll go back to Robinsgrove and swim in the pool.’

  Next moment a red-headed girl stumbled out of the tent, tears pouring down her cheeks.

  ‘Oh Daisy, I can’t bear it,’ she wailed to the dark woman. ‘He’s not going to leave her.’

  Georgie realized to her horror that it was Julia. There was no way of avoiding her. She was wearing a white shirt, blue schoolboy shorts and black pumps and the combination of tawny freckled skin and russet hair was absolutely stunning. She doesn’t need to Clinique out her varicose veins, thought Georgie wearily.

  ‘Oh Georgie – I’m so sorry. I tried to keep away today,’ sobbed Julia, ‘but I couldn’t help myself. He’s not going to leave you. You’re so lucky to have him.’

  ‘Come on, Julia.’ Daisy put an arm round her heaving shoulders. ‘Let’s go home. I’m so sorry,’ she turned to Georgie, ‘I do hope you’re OK.’

  Georgie was not. Kicking off her beastly high heels she ran off to find Guy who was surrounded by eager helpers including Joy Hillary and Lady Chisleden, and having his photograph taken for the local paper as he pinned a tail on the donkey.

  ‘Got a tenner?’ he called out to Georgie.

  ‘No, I have not,’ hissed Georgie. ‘If you’re not worth a fortune, you’re certainly worth a fortune-teller. I’ve just bumped into Julia and Daisy France-Lynch.’

  ‘Julia and Daisy?’ Guy didn’t miss a beat. ‘How good of them to look in. Perhaps they could sell some of their paintings here next year, Joy, and give you a percentage. D’you know Daisy? She’s so sweet. There’s so much local talent.’ Then, turning to Lady Chisleden, ‘I think cocoa gives a better flavour actually, Gwendolyn. My mistake this year was to use drinking chocolate.’

  ‘I do not believe I am hearing this,’ said Georgie. ‘Guy, did you know Julia was coming?’

  ‘Of course not, I haven’t spoken to her for months. Settle down, Georgie.’ Guy drew her aside. ‘Think of other people rather than yourself for a change.’

  ‘Time for you to draw the raffle,’ interrupted Joy Hillary, whose eyes were on stalks.

  ‘I’ll make an announcement,’ said Guy striding off.

  ‘I do hope I win the Copenhagen dinner service,’ said Joy. ‘It’s so good of Hermione to donate it.’

  ‘Gives her another excuse not to invite anyone to dinner,’ muttered Meredith to an exhausted Kitty. ‘She’s already got three sets in the attic. She gets one every time she sings “Wonderful Copenhagen” as an encore in the Danish Opera House.’

  Among other raffle presents were a basket of fruit from The Apple Tree, a set of crystal glass donated by the local antique shop, dinner for two from The Heavenly Host and an array of bottles from The Pearly Gates.

  Georgie was mindlessly scuffling round in the drum praying that she wouldn’t pull out Julia’s ticket when everyone was distracted by a piercing shriek from the flower-tent. Ancient Miss Cricklade, who had only just left her post at the Nearly New Stall to check how many prizes she’d won, came scuttling up to Marigold.

  ‘All my wine’s been drunk,’ she screamed. ‘That’s three bottles and it’s him what’s done it.’

  On cue out of the flower-tent, supported by Miss Paradise ’89 and ’90 with their crowns askew, came Lysander with his legs running away in every direction and his eyes crossing.

  ‘There is a green-fingered Hillary far away – whoops – without a city wall,’ sang Lysander waving a half-eaten rock bun in time. Georgie had never seen anyone so drunk. Suddenly Lysander turned his head with a superhuman effort.

  ‘Georgie!’ He tried to focus. ‘Oh Georgie, darling, I’ve been looking everywhere for you. When are you going to make your speech?’

  Then Georgie flipped.

  ‘Piss off,’ she screamed, advancing on him with her bouquet. ‘Just piss off you little fucker to your playpen and never come back again.’

  There was an appalled silence.

  ‘Georgie,’ w
ailed Lysander.

  Desperate to reach her, he lunged forward, tripping over a guy rope and lumbering into the raffle table, sending everything flying with a deafening crash. The Copenhagen dinner service was in smithereens, as were the Waterford glass and the bottles from The Pearly Gates.

  ‘Put not your trust in princes,’ murmured Bob.

  ‘Time for a natural break,’ said Meredith who was quite hysterical with laughter.

  Hermione, who had hysterics of a different kind, was whisked inside the vicarage by Joy Hillary. Guy seized control of the microphone telling people to leave now to avoid broken glass, assuring them that the raffle would be drawn at a later date and all the winners would get their prizes in due course.

  ‘And that little shit is going to pay for them,’ he said grimly as he switched off the microphone.

  After the broken glass and china had been swept up, organizers and helpers retreated to the vicarage for a well-earned drink while the money was counted. Georgie, who was shaking with mortification, only wanted to slope off home but Guy insisted she came too.

  ‘You’ve made a complete fool of yourself, Panda. You owe it to the committee and to me to put in an appearance and show a bit of contrition.’ The moment they entered the vicarage, he was off congratulating stall holders.

  Hermione, as a result of smelling salts, two large whiskies and a vat of buttering up, was recovered enough to draw Georgie aside. Having misinterpreted Georgie’s tight lips earlier, she said: ‘I want to put your mind at rest. Guy admires me – very much indeed – it was so caring of him to buy my posy, but I’m far too much of a friend of yours to encourage him. Anyway he’s not my type.’

  ‘Why d’you kiss him on the fucking mouth every time you see him?’ Georgie was appalled to hear herself saying.

  ‘Oh Georgie.’ Hermione put her head on one side. ‘I thought by showing you everything was in the open, you’d realize nothing was going on.’

  This time misreading Georgie’s stunned silence for approval, Hermione went on: ‘We all feel so sorry for Guy, he’s such a darling man, so dependable and so different when you’re not around glowering at him like a wardress. He may have lied to you, but men do lie when they’re frightened. Anyway, any man of gumption keeps a mistress,’ Hermione lowered her voice. ‘You wouldn’t want to be married to a wimp. Take a leaf out of Kitty Rannaldini’s book and accept it. Brickie knows how to behave with dignity.’

  ‘Because she doesn’t kick against the lack of pricks,’ snarled Georgie.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure Rannaldini fulfils her every need.’

  Stumbling away from Hermione, Georgie searched for a friendly face, but all the stall holders, holding their glasses of cheap wine like unexploded bombs, averted their eyes. Poor Guy to be lumbered with such a liability. Did liabilities always turn men into liars?

  ‘I wasn’t always like this,’ Georgie wanted to plead.

  ‘You all right?’ It was Marigold.

  ‘No, I’m not. That fucking Lysander!’

  ‘Hush.’ Marigold drew Georgie towards the window. The ledge was covered in dust. A vase of roses was dripping petals. Joy Hillary’s thoughts had been elsewhere this week.

  ‘And what were you doing letting Guy buy you drinks?’

  ‘I was thirsty,’ said Marigold apologetically, ‘and Ay do like him. Oh, Georgie, we’ve made six thousand pounds and Ferdie’s just given us a cheque for a thousand to pay for Lysander’s breakages.’

  ‘Where is the little beast?’

  ‘Passed out in the field next door.’

  ‘I hope they burn the stubble with him in it.’

  But Marigold wasn’t listening. ‘We’ve made six thousand and, oh, Georgie, Lady Chisleden has asked me to call her Gwendolyn.’

  33

  Somehow, because Georgie was busy working out whether to kill Guy with a bread knife or a carving knife they managed to get home without a row. She had just fed Charity and Dinsdale when he came into the kitchen carrying a file.

  ‘I’m off, Panda. I told Joy and Percy I’d help clear up. Don’t bother with supper. I’ll grab a sandwich at The Pearly Gates. I’ve got a Best-Kept Village meeting later.’

  ‘Why don’t you enter Julia in the Best-Kept Mistress competition?’ screamed Georgie. ‘You might even beat Hermione.’

  Georgie cried and cried, had a large Bacardi, got down her suitcase and couldn’t think where to go. It was so hot she put on an old denim bikini scrumpled up in the ironing. Then she took a plum from the fruit bowl and found she’d put the stone in her mouth and chucked the fruit in the ashy muck-bucket. Everything turned to ashes. Poor Julia had looked devastated, too. Georgie found she didn’t hate her any more. And maybe Marigold, Hermione and all the ladies of Paradise were right and Guy was different and really nice when he wasn’t with her. Why had Lysander let her down? Because she simply wasn’t important enough to him. She jumped as the telephone rang. It was Flora.

  ‘Where are you?’

  ‘Lake Geneva – er – staying in a youth hostel. It’s great here.’

  ‘And where the hell is my white silk shirt? No doubt split across the back of one of your rugger-playing boyfriends, or being used to clean his car.’

  There was a pause.

  ‘Look behind the spare-room door,’ said Flora huffily. ‘You’ll find it there. Go and look now.’

  Belting upstairs Georgie found her white shirt, then remembered it was the spare room where Guy had adjusted the mirror to sleep with Julia, and started to cry again. By the time she got downstairs Flora had rung off. Georgie felt awful – poor darling Flora might jump in Lake Geneva.

  I was beastly to her, said a small voice, because I was jealous of her and Lysander. She was overcome by a sick, heart-thumping, craving for information. She daren’t snoop in Guy’s study. She was a bit drunk and he’d notice if papers had been moved.

  Loathing herself, she went into Flora’s room. The radio and the record player were still on. Clothes carpeted the floor. On the wall was a poster of a gorilla; underneath it someone had written: FLORA SEYMOUR ON A GOOD DAY. Here was Flora’s diary; Georgie’s hands were shaking so much that at first she couldn’t focus.

  ‘August 13: Read The Franklyn’s Tale (not bad for a set book) about a man who sleeps with a disgusting old woman who turns into a beautiful princess. I can really relate to the Franklyn.’

  Would I turn into a princess if I went to bed with Lysander? wondered Georgie.

  ‘August 14: Sunday.’ Here it was. ‘Lunch at Valhalla, Lysander and Ferdie there and Hermione being a pain.’ Then followed a lot of guff about Lysander riding into the lake. ‘He’s gorgeous but quite old. He and Ferdie really sweet and invited me over to Magpie Cottage. Daddy really nice, too, gave me a lift. We had a good chat. Later we had fantastic sex in the wood. I’m terrified I’m falling in love.’

  Giving a moan, Georgie turned the page. ‘August 15: X made me come by just talking to me over the telephone. He’s given me a tiny vibrator in the shape of a fountain-pen as a going-away present so I don’t miss him, but I know I will. At least he’s flying out lots to see me.’

  Georgie was so transfixed with horror that at first she didn’t hear the telephone. Sobbing at the sickness that had made her pick the lock of Pandora’s box she reeled down the landing to her bedroom and snatched up the receiver.

  ‘Georgie, it’s Lysander. I’m sorry I got pissed. I want to come round.’

  ‘Fuck off,’ screamed Georgie.

  ‘I know I let you down. Ferdie’s just bawled me out. I’ll make it up to you.’

  ‘You won’t. Your bloody dog screwed up my speech, then you make a fool of me in front of everyone and finally you’re fucking my daughter. How dare you! Keep your rotten fee, but I don’t want to see you or Ferdie ever again and don’t you dare contact Flora.’ Slamming down the receiver she raced round the house pulling out telephones as though she were weeding tares out of her life.

  She couldn’t believe it was only eleven o’clock. Ou
t on the terrace the air was heavy with night-scented stock. In the moonlight Rannaldini’s strawbales encased in black shiny bags looked like great slugs coming to eat her.

  Undressed in her lonely double bed, she looked in the big mirror over the fireplace and in her reflection, with her red hair flowing over her bare shoulders, she could only see Julia. Sobbing she swallowed two sleeping pills and crashed out.

  Next day she woke, as always after taking pills, feeling calm and almost euphoric. What did a million mistresses matter? In one of those bewildering volte-faces, she didn’t shrug off Guy’s encroaching hands. Today she was going to be like Brickie, who would never spurn a husband.

  ‘Let’s make love outside. Oh, Panda, I’ve missed you,’ said Guy, taking her down to a corner of the lake hidden by willow trees and laying her on the scratchy yellow grass. But just as he’d put his hand between her legs, Dinsdale had barged through the willow fronds and was shoved aside so vociferously he had waddled off in a sulk to Mother Courage.

  Georgie, needing the release so desperately, found herself wracked by sexual paralysis.

  Too tense to reach orgasm that way, she started to cry and begged Guy to come inside her, but she was so tight down there, she nearly screamed out with pain.

  ‘That was lovely, darling,’ she mumbled afterwards, ‘thank you so much.’

  But as she got out of her bath, Guy came out of his dressing room with a cricket bag, kissing her on the cheek and announcing he was off to Oxford.

  ‘You’re always complaining you can’t work, Panda, so I thought I’d give you a clear day.’

  No doubt he and Julia would meet up in Ricky France-Lynch’s woods and Guy would say, ‘Things can’t go on. Georgie’s being so awful.’

  It was terribly hot. The smell of dew drying on a nearby clump of fennel reminded Georgie of Wheeler’s, London and fun. Whooping across the valley, Larry’s farm boy was moving weary cattle in search of grazing. The bells of All Saints rang out, no doubt in grateful anticipation of a rebuilt spire. A young vixen sat motionless in the stubble awaiting victims disorientated by the combine harvesters – rabbits and field-mice so desperate for water that they lost their instinct for survival. Like me, thought Georgie with a sob. Oh please God, help me, she dropped to her knees.