by Jilly Cooper
‘Do I look like a bender?’ asked Ferdie as he trained his normally slicked-back hair forward to cover a large red spot.
‘Yes,’ said Lysander, turning the Ferrari into Rannaldini’s drive.
Feeling horrendously overweight, having eaten last night most of the large curry he and Lysander had ordered, Ferdie had kitted himself out at Lillywhites before leaving London. He was now appalled to discover he was wearing the same jokey orange shorts and white T-shirt covered with orange, red and mauve squiggles and orange-and-mauve sweat band as Larry. The only difference was that Larry had dressed up his outfit with a great deal of gold jewellery and was weighed down by six black Hammer Wilson racquets.
Guy was in stitches.
‘I’ve got a non-figurative exhibition coming up next month,’ he told Ferdie and Larry. ‘I’ll have to hang you both in the gallery.’
‘Ferdie’s certainly got a non-figure,’ said Natasha, poking his beer gut with her tennis racquet.
‘Ferdie’s brilliant at figures,’ said Lysander sharply, seeing the hurt in Ferdie’s eyes.
Aware how white flattered his powerful body and ruddy, suntanned face, Guy was pleased with his appearance until he saw Rannaldini in a ten times more expensive cream polo shirt, shorts showing off his chunky, walnut-brown legs and a cream bomber jacket with terracotta piping flung over his muscular shoulders. No heat was ever too hot for Rannaldini. Getting into training for hell-fires, thought Guy sourly. At least that fucker Lysander looked hungover to the teeth, and had only taken the trouble to tug on a pair of trainers and frayed denim shorts.
Unlike Georgie, Lysander was dreading the afternoon. Not being married, he got no buzz out of situations where he had to conceal his feelings. He hated not being able to kiss Georgie and tell her how much he adored her, and she had warned him to be particularly careful today, because she didn’t want Flora to suspect anything. Lysander’s dogs showed no such reserve. Leaping out of the Ferrari, they threw themselves noisily on Dinsdale, Maggie swinging on his ginger ears, Jack chiding him for being away from them for at least eighteen hours, until they all took off into the wood.
By the time the stable clock struck three all the guests had arrived. Natasha, black plait flying, was knocking up with Marigold, Larry and Guy, the standard terrifyingly high, as Kitty tried surreptitiously to join the party. She was foiled by Cecilia.
‘Keety, I never see you een shorts before, an’ you change your ’air. Let’s see you.’
Everyone turned to look.
‘Thunder and lightning the size of your thighs is frightening,’ sang Natasha.
Aware of Rannaldini’s irritated indifference, Kitty wanted to turn and run. Guy made everything worse by charging off the court.
‘Brickie looks terrific. We missed you at matins, didn’t we, Percy? And you missed a splendid sermon.’
‘Hell for you, Kitty darling, having Cecilia staying,’ whispered Meredith, who was looking sweet in mauve shorts and his white Christopher Robin hat, ‘worse than having the builders in,’ he went on. ‘At least you’ve got hot water and no Hermione, or rather you did have.’
‘Manaccia,’ swore Cecilia, swallowing a greengage stone.
Marigold and Georgie exchanged looks of horror.
I can’t bear it, thought Kitty.
‘Bloody hell,’ murmured Flora, ‘Rannaldini’s forgiven her and not me.’
For Hermione had emerged from the path which had once more been strimmed through the wood to her house. Trampling heavily on chucked-out red dahlias, like a goddess in search of an apple, she was ravishingly dressed in a pleated white tunic which left one big golden shoulder bare. Her shining dark curls were arranged most becomingly over a flamingo-pink sweat band, which echoed the flush in her glowing brown cheeks.
‘Hallo, Brickie,’ cried Hermione, ignoring all the other women, then turning to curtsy to Rannaldini, ‘Good afternoon, Maestro, sorry we’re late.’
‘Horsey, horsey, don’t you stop,’ whispered Lysander to Ferdie. ‘Do you think Rannaldini’s going to school her over the tennis net?’
And he had such difficulty in keeping a straight face that he had to wander off into the wood.
Following Hermione, carrying her bag and racquets as well as his own, came Bob, smiling as usual and looking elegantly old-fashioned in white flannels, braces and a panama shading his tired, deep-set eyes.
He really is handsome, thought Rachel.
Cecilia, who was livid to see Hermione, said: ‘We better get started, Rannaldini, I’ve got to be on the set by ten o’clock tomorrow.’ And she launched into ‘Mir ist so wunderbar’ from the first act of Fidelio to rub in that she, and not Hermione, had landed the part of Leonore.
His eyes glittering with malice, Rannaldini tapped the table with the handle of his racquet.
‘Welcome to our tournament. The procedure is seemple. There are sixteen of us here. We divide into two groups, each consisting of four couples who each play one set against each other. Group One play on this court. Group Two on a court round corner. This means six sets on each court, then we break for a quick cup of tea, followed by the finals in which the best couple in each group play against each other.
‘We then have proper tea, as much champagne as any of you feel fitting to dreenk on a Sunday night, then the couple who has lost the most matches will streep off and jump naked into the pool,’ Rannaldini smiled evilly, ‘and the punishment bell will be rung.’
‘Who plays with who?’ asked the vicar, gazing longingly at Lysander.
‘I come to that. The man who draws longest straw has first choice of partner, him with second longest, second choice, and so on.’
Natasha came round with the straws. As Lysander, who’d temporarily stopped laughing, stretched out a lazy hand, Natasha deliberately let hers touch his.
‘Lucky in love, you choose first,’ she said as he drew the longest straw.
Lysander glanced round at the charming expectant faces: Flora looking sulkily sexy; Natasha smouldering with promise; Hermione radiating certainty – of course he’ll choose me; Rachel trying to appear indifferent, but her eyes telling a different story; Marigold smiling at Larry who was ringing Japan on his mobile; Cecilia letting her pink slit-skirt fall open: ‘I will excite you more than any of the others,’ said her hot, lingering glance; and Georgie, fondly indulgent – Lysander’s dear love, and to him even lovelier because she looked tired and not her best. Then at the back, her fat legs as brick-red as the squashed dahlias she was clutching, her face topped by that frightful frizzy perm and shiny from racing around all day, cringed Kitty. Her very white aertex shirt and her pleated shorts strained over her large breasts and bottom. Dying of humiliation, she gazed down at her racquet knowing she would be the last to be chosen. Georgie, whom he longed to please, had begged him to look after her.
‘I’d like to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander.
‘You what?’ said Rannaldini incredulously.
Smiling, mishearing, Georgie moved forward.
‘I said I wanted to play with Kitty,’ said Lysander firmly. Going over and putting his arm round her shoulders, he saw tears swimming behind the impossibly strong spectacles.
‘Fank you,’ she mumbled.
‘The judgement of Paris,’ murmured Bob. ‘Well done.’
Ferdie was incensed. ‘You’re supposed to be getting Guy back for Georgie,’ he hissed.
‘What nice manners Lysander has,’ said Hermione loudly. ‘Anyone who says the young haven’t got exceptionally nice manners doesn’t know what they’re talking about.’
Georgie was livid. Particularly when the vicar, who had the second longest straw, noticing her closeness to Lysander and desperate to get in there, decided to overcome his disapproval of her behaviour at the fête and chose her as his partner. She was even crosser when Guy, relieved of his duty as Ace Carer to choose Kitty, infuriated the husbands of Paradise by picking Rachel. Natasha, however, was crossest of all to be chosen by Ferdie who was getting redde
r and sweatier by the minute.
‘I don’t want my eyes blacked,’ giggled the Ideal Homo, ‘so I choose Flora.’
‘Nor do I,’ muttered Bob. Ignoring Hermione’s furious stare, he chose Marigold.
Larry chose Cecilia, because Hermione’d just sent him a furious letter about an advance.
‘Men are frightened of playing with really good women players,’ Hermione told the empty air as Rannaldini, who’d drawn the short straw, bore her off to Court Two.
‘Oh goodee, a cosy girls’ foursome,’ murmured Flora as she and the Ideal Homo also set off to the second court to play against Georgie and the vicar. A spitting Natasha then had to watch Kitty and Lysander drawn against Larry and Cecilia, both class players, on Court One.
‘I’m ’orribly bad,’ Kitty told Lysander miserably, clutching her ancient Prince racquet.
‘Hurrah,’ said Lysander. ‘I’ve got a dreadful hangover, so if we get knocked out early we can slope off and watch Longchamps.’
A champing Larry kicked off, unleashing a thunderbolt at poor Kitty, who missed it completely. His next serve to Lysander came hurtling back. Picking up the ball on the half-volley, Larry whacked it cross-court to Kitty, who missed once again.
Returning to serve to Kitty once more, an over-eager Larry released another thunderbolt while she was still retrieving a ball from the long grass, hitting her hard on the bottom.
‘You shouldn’t be so large,’ shouted Natasha.
‘You OK, Kitty?’ called Lysander sympathetically. ‘She wasn’t ready,’ he yelled to Mr Brimscombe who was umpiring.
‘Forty love,’ said Mr Brimscombe, who, fed up with sweeping up leaves, thought he might allow himself to be lured back to Larry.
‘Just lulling the opposition into a feeling of false security,’ said Lysander, grinning at Kitty as he easily passed Cecilia with his backhand.
‘Forty fifteen.’
But poor Kitty was nowhere near Larry’s next service.
‘Game to Mr Lockton and Mrs Rannaldini. They lead 1–0.’
Kitty hung her frizzy head. ‘I’m so sorry.’
‘Doesn’t matter.’ Lysander peered through the spyhole as they changed ends. ‘I can see Arthur talking to some children. I wonder where Jack and Maggie are. They’ve been gone for ages. We’ve got sun in our eyes this end.’ He plonked his baseball cap over Kitty’s perm. ‘It can’t be much worse than Larry’s jewels.’
Lucky Cecilia to have olive skin that never goes red, thought Kitty as she cringed at the net waiting for Lysander’s serve.
‘Watch zee ball, Keety,’ called out Cecilia kindly.
‘You won’t even see this one, duckie,’ muttered Lysander. Bouncing the ball reflectively, he waited for Cecilia to get into position, then curling over like a breaking wave, he aced her.
Larry jumped from foot to foot awaiting service, blowing on his nails, twitching his orange-and-purple shirt. He had all the Wimbledon tricks. He’d show the little bastard. Another ace hurtled past his ear at 90 m.p.h.
‘Game to Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty,’ said Mr Brimscombe, two aces later.
Cecilia was so furious that she served a double fault to Kitty, which gave her and Lysander a vital point, Lysander only having to win his service to clinch the next game.
Aware of everyone watching her and, she thought, laughing, Kitty’s hand was so sweaty that she promptly served two double faults. On the second Lysander reached out and caught the shocking pink ball as it veered off into the woods, tossed it into the right court. He then turned and gave Kitty a smile of such reassuring sweetness that she served the next ball in. Cecilia pounded it straight to Lysander, who whipped it between her and Larry. From then on Kitty’s dolly-drops went in and Lysander killed the return.
He was such a dazzlingly natural player, and his encouragement and kindness if she missed a shot gave Kitty such confidence that, having beaten the outraged Larry and Cecilia, they went on to thrash Natasha and Ferdie.
Flora and Meredith fooled about so much they lost all their three matches, which suited them both. Meredith wanted to drink lemon barley water and drool over Lysander. Flora was desperate for a word with Rannaldini, who, with Hermione, had slaughtered her and Meredith without the loss of a point or the flicker of a smile.
Now as he stood alone watching the needle match that had just started on Court One – Rachel and Guy v. Kitty and Lysander – to see which pair went into the final, Flora sidled up. Detesting herself, she slid a hand into his, whispering, ‘Can’t we slope off into the wood?’
‘Too many people around,’ said Rannaldini coldly, removing his hand.
‘Never put you off in the past.’
‘I weesh to watch. Hermione and I play the winner ’ere in final.’
Flora slunk off, despairing as a rescued dog returned to Battersea, and missed Rannaldini’s quick smile. He had been recently glued to the serial about Vita Sackville-West and Violet Trefusis on television, repeatedly replaying the love scenes between the two women, which made him all the more eager for sexual variation. He was aware how crazy Flora was about him. If he made her desperate enough by freezing her out, she would agree to anything, even going to bed with Cecilia who loved to go both ways, or Hermione (that would humble the spoilt bitch), or Rachel (ditto). He glanced at Flora kicking the grass, puffing furiously on her cigarette. God knows, he wanted her, but he’d have to punish her a great deal more before he reduced her to an adequate level of submission.
Georgie wasn’t enjoying the afternoon any more than Flora. Unlike Lysander, the vicar had been very shirty about double faults. He was enraged they hadn’t made the final. How impressed his congregation would have been if that had been the reason for him to miss Evensong.
And although Georgie thought it sweet of Lysander to be so nice to Kitty, it had encouraged Guy to be even nicer to Rachel. Georgie experienced an excruciating feeling of déjà vu as Guy whisked about finding balls when Rachel was serving, putting strong brown hands on her slender back when she played well, gently guiding her in front of him as they changed ends, and shouting, ‘Yours’ commendably often if a ball were hit between them.
What a poppet, thought Guy, as Rachel bent down at the net to retrieve a ball. She had delightful legs. It was so hot he’d remove his shirt for the finals and ask her to rub in some Ambre Solaire to show his awareness of the ultra-violet rays. And as all the matches had ended on Court Two they now had an admiring audience to watch them thrash Brickie and that little pipsqueak who’d been fawning over Georgie. He was gratified Rannaldini was watching. Guy arranged his sweat band as Rachel waited for service. In deference to a woman, Lysander tempered his thunderbolt.
‘Oh well hit, Rachie,’ shouted Guy as she clouted it back to Kitty. So lost was he in admiration, he mishit Kitty’s gentle lob. A split second later Lysander had murdered it.
From then on he had both Guy and Rachel racing all over the court. Rachel, upset at how aware she was of Rannaldini’s smiling scrutiny, started hitting wildly. Lysander, who had an uncanny ability to guess when a ball was going out, took every advantage.
‘Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty lead, 5-0,’ announced Mr Brimscombe.
‘In a place where nothing seems real, I have found you,’ sang Lysander happily to himself as they changed ends.
‘Miss Saigon,’ said Kitty longingly.
‘I’ve got the tape at home if you want to borrow it,’ said Lysander. ‘I’d stand further back for this game. The sun’s tricky and Guy’s going to step up the pace.’
He was right; but when even Guy forgot his Ace-Caring role so much that he served and hit really hard balls to Kitty, fired by Lysander she managed to get them back.
‘Good li-el Prince,’ she said, looking down at her ancient racquet at set point.
Guy was hurtling towards her, smiting a great shocking pink cannon ball in her direction. Shutting her eyes, Kitty stuck out her Prince and prayed. Next moment she heard cheers and clapping.
‘Game, set and match t
o Mrs Kitty and Mr Hawkley,’ said a delighted Mr Brimscombe.
Neither Rachel nor Guy could crack a smile as they all shook hands.
39
‘Pile up on the motorway,’ Lysander said to Kitty, as Bob, Guy and Larry all converged on Rachel two minutes later with cups of black tea and lemon.
Not that she was very grateful, and when they started to compete in telling the most grisly recession story, she stalked off to bend the vicar’s ear about PVC coffin liners giving off noxious fumes. The vicar pretended to listen but was much more interested in eavesdropping on the frightful row Georgie was clearly having with Lysander.
‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she hissed. ‘You’re paid a bomb to rattle my husband and he’s been crawling over that ghastly vegan all afternoon. How the hell did he know she didn’t have milk in her tea?’
‘I’m sorry, Georgie.’ Lysander was flabbergasted. ‘I was so sorry for Kitty. I thought that was what you wanted. I wish we hadn’t got into the finals. When’s Guy going back to London? I miss you.’ He tried to take her hand, but Georgie snatched it away.
‘For God’s sake, everyone’ll see us.’
Flouncing off, Georgie found herself in a gaggle of women.
‘How’s Ant and Cleo going?’ asked Hermione, radiant with smugness at being in the final.
‘Fine,’ said Georgie shortly.
‘I just wonder if the musical is quite the right vehicle for Shakespeare.’
‘Kees me Kate grossed a few million,’ interrupted Cecilia. ‘Brush up your Shakespeare,’ she sang softly. ‘Start quoting him now. When you ’ave a score for Ant and Cleo, I like to see eet, Georgie.’
‘Oh – you’d be a wonderful Cleo.’
‘I would enjoy eet. Kiri ’as been Eliza Doolittle.’
‘The Verdi Requiem was fantastic, both you and Boris,’ said Georgie in wonder.
Hermione was furious.
‘It’s amazing how you manage to inject sex into everything, Cecilia.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Your “Libera Me” was more like Come and Get Me. You’re not doing too much, are you? Your voice sounded tired in Rannaldini’s rushes yesterday.’
