by Jilly Cooper
This was a body blow. One only saw rushes in Rannaldini’s tower.
‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Flora rudely. ‘Mrs Rannaldini sang wonderfully. She lifted the Verdi every time she opened her mouth. And at least she doesn’t duck out at the last moment because of a lovers’ tiff.’
‘Why zank you, Carissima,’ said Cecilia in amazement.
Abandoned by the vicar, who had beetled off on seeing Lysander looking miserable and standing by himself, Rachel was screwing up courage to ask Cecilia how Boris was, but, hearing arguing voices, didn’t think this was a good moment. Putting her cup down on the table, she idly fingered a yellow snapdragon, squeezing its mouth open as she had when she was a child. Like a cloud over the sun, Rannaldini glided up.
‘Enjoying yourself, Meesis Levitsky?’
‘Not particularly.’
His smile was mocking, his thighs as hard and thick as the magnums of champagne that Mr Brimscombe was now opening for those who had finished playing. She’d never met a man who upset her more.
‘This place is a disgrace,’ she fumed. ‘We’re in the middle of a drought. Your garden is an oasis.’
‘I know how to look after my own,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘I thought you like things green.’
‘Not at other people’s expense. Don’t be fatuous.’
Rannaldini noticed the slight down on her upper lip and the underarm hair inside her sleeve as she scratched a midge bite in her hair.
Smiling slightly, he edged a finger into the snapdragon’s gaping, furry mouth. Instantly Rachel let go, and the mouth shut, gripping him.
‘One day, amore, a more exciting part of you will greep me, and you will love every minute of it,’ he said softly.
‘Don’t be disgusting.’
‘In fact, you will beg for eet.’
‘Your host not looking after you?’ said Guy arriving with a magnum and two glasses. ‘Presumably you want to keep your eye in until after the final, Rannaldini?’
‘Won’t make any difference. ’Ermione,’ he called out, ‘we’ll start in five minutes.’
‘The grass was very “Kitty” this morning,’ announced Natasha, collapsing on the bank beside Flora to watch her fat stepmother make a fool of herself in the finals.
‘Kitty?’ asked Ferdie, squatting down beside her.
‘Stands for “wet”,’ snapped Natasha.
‘Why are you so vile to Kitty?’
For a second, real pain flared in Natasha’s face.
‘I can’t bear to think of her in my father’s bed.’
‘I shouldn’t think she is very often,’ said Flora reasonably.
‘Fancy Kitty, do you?’ Natasha taunted Ferdie. ‘If she rolled over in bed, she’d squash you flat. Although you’d probably do the same to her.’
Ferdie got to his feet.
‘Can I give you a word of advice?’ he said politely. ‘If you’re trying to pull Lysander, he’s never been attracted to bitches.’
The sun dropped into the towering Valhalla woods, the shadow of the abbey with its tall chimneys stretched towards the tennis court like a great black hand as the players took up their positions. Rannaldini had service. Trembling, Kitty waited to receive. Opposite her at the net, skipping from foot to foot in her Grecian dress like an avenging Juno, crouched Hermione.
Lysander had lost all his bounce. He wanted a stiff drink and this match to be over as quickly as possible so he could make it up with Georgie before she left. She’d already put on a cardigan and gathered up her racquets. He could see her pretending to listen to Meredith’s patter as she watched Guy plying Rachel with champagne and compliments as they discussed saving the rhino.
In a quarter of an hour Rannaldini and Hermione were leading 5–0. They had followed a deliberate policy of hitting the ball at Kitty. Like a child fending off blows, she missed everything, apologies pouring from her whitening lips. Lysander simply wasn’t trying.
‘Your little friend certainly cracks under pressure,’ Guy called out scornfully to Georgie.
As the players changed ends, Rannaldini beckoned Natasha.
‘We’ll be through in a few minutes. Run and tell Mrs Brimscombe to put the kettle on.’
Bastard, thought Georgie. Lysander and Kitty looked so cast down and Hermione so smug.
‘Horsey, horsey,’ she suddenly called out to Lysander as he slouched past her. Then as he swung round, she smiled, whispering: ‘Don’t let the old bat get away with it.’
Blissful to be forgiven, Lysander sauntered back to the base line. Next moment an ace whistled past Hermione’s pink sweat band. Changing sides, Lysander curved into a perfect bow, threw up the ball and blasted it across the net – just out, which was lucky for Rannaldini who’d been staring at Rachel and hadn’t even seen it. The second service was even faster.
‘Out, fifteen-all,’ snapped Rannaldini as he walked back to the base line.
Lysander didn’t budge. ‘That serve was in.’
‘It was out,’ snarled Rannaldini.
‘It was in – sir. If you’re going to cheat, there’s no point in playing.’
Kitty quailed. Rannaldini’s face contorted in rage. The spectators exchanged glances of gleeful anticipation.
‘That ball was in, Rannaldini,’ agreed Bob who was umpiring the final. ‘I saw the chalk rise.’
On cue, Maggie came bounding on to the court, nose brown from digging, pink tongue lolling, frantically searching for her master. In a fury, Rannaldini picked up a ball and served it at her, only just missing, sending her fleeing in terror from the court. Instantly Lysander bounded over the net, seizing Rannaldini by the lapels of his cream polo shirt.
‘I wouldn’t do that if I were you.’
‘Vafuculo,’ swore Rannaldini. ‘You should learn to control your dogs.’
‘Not in the way you control your bitches,’ retorted Lysander so only Rannaldini and Hermione could hear. ‘You ought to be suspended for excessive use of the whip. Your partner can hardly sit down today.’
Hermione froze – speechless and open-mouthed – like a photograph of herself reaching top C.
‘Keety ’as been sneaking,’ said Rannaldini in a fury.
‘Not at all.’ Lysander scooped up a ball. ‘You should keep the windows of your indoor school shut on hot summer afternoons.’
It took all Bob’s tact to get them to play on.
To Lysander’s relief that Georgie had forgiven him was added a cold fury with Rannaldini, and his game took on a sustained brilliance as, with great leaps, he intercepted the viciously powerful bombardment Rannaldini was directing at his terrified wife. Hermione, worried how much Lysander had overheard, had been totally put off her game.
‘That tea’s going to be very stewed,’ crowed Georgie twenty minutes later. ‘Hermione’s quite fat, isn’t she?’
‘Kind Bob always turns down the scales when she comes home from tours,’ said Marigold. ‘Oh, good shot, Kitty.’ The spectators gave a great cheer. ‘They’ve caught up at last.’
At six-all they went into a tie-break.
‘Well done, Kitty. Take it slowly. You’re doing brilliantly,’ said Lysander, as, like a cat washing its ears, he wiped the sweat from his forehead with an inside arm.
Rannaldini kicked off and won his first serve. Watching his brute strength as he uncoiled like a cracked whip, Lysander was unpleasantly reminded of his behaviour in the indoor school. Fired up, Lysander served two aces, and somehow Kitty got Hermione’s next serve back. Bounding in front of Hermione, Rannaldini poached her ball. But, in trying to pass Lysander, he left his own side exposed. Unpassed, Lysander powered the ball away into the farthest corner. Hermione now served to Lysander, promptly netted his return, and turned dark red as Rannaldini swore viciously at her under his breath.
‘Kitty and Lysander lead 4–1,’ said Bob, not without satisfaction. The spectators were cheering every point.
Kitty managed to lob her service in to Hermione, who was so upset by Rannaldini’s invectiv
e that she hit it straight to Lysander who whipped a top-spin pass down the backhand. Rannaldini didn’t get near it.
‘Someone’s soon going to have to save the Rhino-ldini,’ drawled Flora.
The crowd, except Rachel and Guy, howled with laughter. Rannaldini was so furious that he ran in, hitting such a vicious return to Kitty’s service that she ducked to avoid being killed.
‘Temper, temper,’ said Lysander. Then to Kitty, ‘You OK, babe? We’ve got him on the run.’
Rannaldini promptly aced Kitty, making it 5–3. A heart-stopping rally followed, which had the crowd on their feet yelling with excitement. Seeing his wife quivering like a strawberry jelly in the middle of the court, Rannaldini opened his shoulders and fired the ball down the tramlines.
‘Well played, partner,’ panted Hermione.
‘Run, Kitty,’ begged Lysander.
Like a little hippo, Kitty lumbered across the court, slicing the ball with a stretched-out racquet, so it just toppled over the net, and Rannaldini, who was now reaching for a towel, had no time to catch it.
‘6–3! Well done, we can do it,’ whooped Lysander.
‘Great play, Kitty,’ called out Natasha who had taken Ferdie’s lecture to heart.
How can I love a man who is such a terrible loser? thought Flora in despair.
It was Lysander to serve again. Crouching at the net, Kitty felt stabbing pains in her tummy, but was more aware of Hermione crouching on the back line. There was no goodwill in that beautiful face now, just hatred. Her return came straight at Kitty, hitting her glasses, sending them flying. Blindly Kitty groped for them.
‘In front of you,’ shouted the crowd.
Racing up, Lysander disengaged them from the net.
‘You OK, sweetheart?’
She’s got gorgeous eyes, he thought irrationally, as he handed her glasses back to her. Ferdie must get her into contact lenses.
Strolling back to the base line, he bounced the ball longer than usual, until a hush fell over the court. It was still set point. Rannaldini took service, blasting it at Kitty, who, shaken, mishit it. The pink ball sailed up in the air.
‘Brilliant,’ howled Lysander. ‘Terrific return, Kitty.’
‘Mine,’ shouted Rannaldini, shoving Hermione aside and coiling himself up for a pulverizing smash. Alas, he was an inch too short. The ball cleared the top of his racquet, dropping a centimetre inside the back line. The crowd erupted.
‘Game, set, match and tournament to Kitty and Lysander,’ said Bob in ill-disguised delight.
Rannaldini’s face was expressionless as he shook hands, but Kitty gasped with pain as his grip almost broke her fingers. With the sun gone, it was suddenly chilly. A screech owl screamed from the depths of the wood. As people gathered round clapping Lysander and Kitty on the back, the pavilion telephone rang. Only members of the family knew the number. Natasha got there first.
‘Wolfie,’ she gave a scream of delight, ‘where are you? You got straight As, didn’t you know? Bloody good. How’s Australia? What time is it? You sound plastered. It’s Wolfie,’ she said to Rannaldini, who’d gone even stiller, his eyes boring into Flora.
‘D’you want a word with Dad?’ Natasha went on, as Rannaldini held out his hand. ‘Oh, right.’ Then, incredulously, ‘You want to speak to Kitty? You’ve rung up to wish her happy birthday? Omigod.’ Even Natasha was horrified. ‘Is it today? I’ll put her on.’
Everyone exchanged shocked glances, but no-one looked blacker than Rannaldini or redder than Kitty as she picked up the telephone.
‘’Allo, Wolfie. Well done with your Hay levels. We was so proud. It’s ever so kind of you to remember. Well, I got a postal order from Mum, and a nice card.’
Flora’s eyes filled with tears. Poor Kitty, and poor Wolfie, whom she’d treated so dreadfully. She was about to snatch the telephone from Kitty and ask him how he was, when Kitty said: ‘Cheerio, Wolfie. We all miss you. Come back soon.’ She put down the receiver to a chorus of, ‘You should have told us. Shame on you, Rannaldini!’
‘Happy birthday to you,’ sang Flora’s sweet, clear, piercing voice and everyone joined in, with Hermione’s voice soaring above everyone else’s, just to prove she should have been picked for Leonora.
‘Many happies, Brickie.’ As the singing ended, Guy hugged Kitty. ‘I can’t tell you how much we’re all looking forward to tea.’
‘You better come and organize it,’ said Rannaldini, stalking off towards the house.
As Kitty panted after him, Lysander noticed a dark red stain on the back of her shorts. Snatching up Natasha’s long scarlet cardigan, he sprinted after them. Where the hell were his dogs? Ferdie was useless at keeping an eye on them.
Entering through the french windows of the summer parlour, he heard Rannaldini saying in a chilling voice: ‘Why didn’t you tell me it was your birthday?’
‘I’m ever so sorry, Rannaldini. I didn’t want no fuss.’
‘It’s your job to remember birthdays. How dare you show me up as a sheet in front of all those peoples? You’ll pay for eet.’
‘Ahem.’ Lysander joined them in the hall. ‘You mustn’t get cold.’ And, putting Natasha’s cardigan round Kitty’s shoulders so it completely covered the bloodstain, he did up the top three buttons. He was just pondering how he could warn her that she’d got the curse without her dying of mortification when an even more piercing scream made them all jump out of their skins, and Mrs Brimscombe rushed in.
‘It’s Mrs Kitty’s tea,’ she screeched. ‘Come quickly.’
Joined by the rest of the guests, swarming into the dining room in greedy expectation, they were greeted by a scene of total devastation.
Jack was on the table, paws in the smoked-salmon quiche, cocktail sausages hanging like fangs from his mouth. Dinsdale stood with his forepaws up on a chair, owlishly looking round like an old man disturbed in his club, a large chocolate Swiss roll drooping from his lips like a cigar. Plates of sandwiches and cakes had been upended all over the floor, and a great jug of milk dripped its last into a huge white puddle on the floor, beside which Maggie was languidly licking the last of the whipped cream out of Kitty’s strawberry flan.
There was a terrible pause, then over the pandemonium, Rannaldini’s voice could be heard saying: ‘I shall be leaving in five minutes, Keety. There’s a button needs sewing on my tailcoat.’
40
‘Compared with Rannaldini’s green and pleasant oasis, this place is like the Sahara,’ grumbled Georgie as she sat on the terrace with Ferdie and Lysander the following evening, drinking Pimm’s and surveying her parched garden.
All the little trees she and Guy had planted were dying. The only things that thrived were the wild oats growing outside the kitchen window which had turned as claret coloured as an old club roue’s face.
‘Why was Kitty crying so much?’ she went on. ‘She’s such a trouper I was convinced she’d magic up Stroganoff and lemon meringue pie for twenty out of the freezer. I never dreamt she’d go to pieces.’
‘She thought she was pregnant and found she’d got the curse.’ Lysander put down the Racing Post. ‘She’s desperate to have a baby.’
‘If she had Rannaldini’s child,’ said Ferdie, ‘it would give her some financial hold on him.’
‘She’s not like that,’ said Lysander quickly. ‘She just adores children and wants one of her own. Then she wouldn’t be lonely in that great Dracula barracks. I’d be scared shitless living there alone.’
‘I’d be more frightened when Rannaldini was at home,’ said Georgie with a shiver.
‘She confessed he doesn’t sleep with her very often.’
‘You did get a lot out of her,’ said Georgie, amazed.
‘So you’ll take her on?’ asked Ferdie, suddenly business-like.
Lysander gazed moodily at the gold coin of the setting sun on the dark horizon. It was as though Ferdie was putting a pound in the slot.
‘OK. But only to annoy Rannaldini.’
‘Improv
ing her appearance is the most important thing,’ said Ferdie briskly. ‘We’ve got to de-prude her. Burn those terrible clothes and get the weight off. Mind you, I’m one to talk!’ He squeezed the huge roll of fat above his agonizingly tight waistband. ‘Sales of chocolate have rocketed since the recession.’
He was feeling guilty about skiving from the office, but at least he’d confirmed his suspicions that both Larry and Guy were desperately strapped for cash. Neither had bought a single round when the remains of the tennis party had retreated to The Pearly Gates last night. There was no point in Marigold and Georgie having quixotic and extravagant schemes for salvaging Kitty’s marriage if there wasn’t any money. Fortunately Georgie had received a large overseas royalty cheque that morning. She’d planned to give half to Guy, but after yesterday’s pursuit of Rachel, she wrote a cheque to Ferdie instead, retaining Lysander’s services for herself and Kitty until Christmas.
‘Let’s go and see Kitty,’ said Ferdie, draining his Pimm’s.
They found her in the garden talking to Mr Brimscombe. Her eyes were still red, but she greeted them cheerfully.
‘Mr B. and I’ve been chasing a cow out of the vegetable garden. Must of stuffed hisself. Fank goodness Rannaldini’s away.’
‘How did it escape?’ asked Georgie. ‘I thought your husband’s fences were everything-proof.’
‘Must have come over the cattle grid,’ said Mr Brimscombe. ‘I’ve seen cows do it. They get so hungry, they stand sideways on the edge of the grid, then they lies down, and roll their legs over, and wriggle till their feets touch t’other side. Then they stands up and off they goes.’
‘Isn’t it brilliant?’ said Kitty in delight.
‘Reassuring, too,’ said Georgie drily. ‘Means you can get out of anything, if you want to enough. Done much damage?’
‘Only a few footprints on the lawn and a lot of veggies,’ said Kitty. ‘But ’Arvest Festival comes up before Rannaldini’s back, so we can blame that.’
Waving Mr Brimscombe goodnight, Kitty led them into the kitchen, where she had been making bramble jelly and listening to the tape of Miss Saigon.
