The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  Flora had sung ‘O come all ye faithful’ and ‘O little town of Bethlehem’ so magically that she had earned a round of applause each time. But the real coup de théâtre was when Rannaldini, Rachel and Marigold, singing the most ravishing three-part arrangement of ‘We Three Kings’, cantered in on their splendid bejewelled horses.

  Rannaldini and Rachel looked so glamorous that the audience hardly noticed the reddened eyes and streaked moustache of the Third King, whom Arthur carried with such sympathy and gentleness.

  ‘Look at the old boy really acting,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘Don’t look at the camera, Arthur.’

  ‘Will you be quiet,’ hissed Lady Chisleden.

  The Prince of Darkness, who’d had a good win at Lingfield the previous week, was jumping all over the place as Rannaldini, perfectly capped teeth flashing above his black beard, bent down to hand Hermione a gold casket.

  ‘Bet Hermione pockets it,’ whispered Lysander.

  ‘I’d give that Prince of Darkness a wild berth if I was ’er,’ said Mother Courage.

  As everyone lined up to gaze at the Virgin and Child, Hermione brandished a large breast in the direction she imagined Rupert to be sitting.

  ‘Wasted on us,’ chorused Meredith’s cronies in unison.

  As the Kings remounted their horses, Flora, hovering in the wings, noticed Rachel shoot Rannaldini a smile of uncharacteristic lasciviousness.

  For the final tableau, Flora came forward to sing ‘Once in royal David’s city’. She was wearing black jeans and a black polo-neck with her hair slicked back off her incredibly pale face.

  Playing Death and the Maiden, thought Bob, raising his baton. The poor child looked extraordinarily bleak.

  The orchestra gave her the introductory bars, then put down their instruments in anticipation of a treat. Guy folded his arms, happy to claim ownership when Flora brought him credit. For a second she glanced around, waiting for total silence. Her voice, cool as an icicle, was so exquisite it was several seconds before anyone took in the words.

  ‘Once in Rannaldini’s watch-tower,’ sang Flora,

  ‘Stood a king-size double bed.

  Where the Maestro bonked Hermione.

  Once her Chanel suits she’d shed.’

  Horror, amazement and delighted expectation were slowly creeping over the faces of the audience. The leader of the orchestra put his head in his hands to hide his laughter.

  ‘Stay on Camera Two, for Christ’s sake,’ hissed Cameron Cook.

  ‘Rannaldini drove her wild,

  Little Cosmo is his child,’ sang Flora emphasizing every word.

  ‘And through Cosmo’s wondrous childhood,’ a beatific smile spread over Flora’s face.

  ‘Maestro popped in every day,

  Just to bonk the fair Hermione,

  In whose hulking arms he lay.

  And he bonked his ex-wife, too

  Rachel Grant’s just joined the queue.’

  Laughing himself sick, then suddenly noticing the distress on Kitty’s face, Lysander took her hand, warming it with both his own. The otherwise mesmerized paralysis of the entire room was broken by an animal howl of rage from Rannaldini.

  ‘Cut, for Christ’s sake, cut.’

  This so overwhelmed the overbred Prince of Darkness that he crapped all over the stage, whereupon, Jack, who’d been licking his chops, took off after Hermione’s cat, followed by an hysterically barking Maggie, Dinsdale and Tabloid. Hermione opened her mouth and screamed and screamed. Arthur, who loved babies as much as hay, shuffled forward to inspect the manger and was just about to nudge Baby Jesus when the Harrods doll was snatched up by Cecilia, halo askew.

  ‘Scellerato,’ she yelled, laying into Rannaldini with it.

  ‘Oh,’ sighed a visiting talent scout from Virgin Records, consulting his programme, ‘Flora Seymour has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.’

  As everyone started yelling at Flora she burst into tears.

  ‘Please don’t cry.’

  Running forward, Kitty clambered clumsily on to the stage, putting her arms round Flora and, with Lysander’s and Bob’s help, carried her out through the wings, up the steps into the summer parlour, where she collapsed on to the blue and white striped sofa on which she had first scorned Rannaldini’s advances.

  ‘You spoilt our nativity play,’ shouted Guy rushing in, tearing off Joseph’s head-dress, then turning to Georgie who had followed him.

  ‘Now see where your sloppy permissive attitude has led.’

  Next minute they were joined by Meredith and his twittering cronies who swooped on Flora, trying to comfort her, when Rannaldini stalked in, his face incandescent with rage.

  ‘You bitch,’ he screamed.

  ‘Are you talking to us?’ chorused Meredith’s cronies.

  Staggering to her feet, Flora lurched towards Rannaldini.

  ‘You’re drunk,’ he snarled.

  ‘No, pregnant,’ said Flora tonelessly, ‘and you’re the father.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ screamed Natasha. ‘How could you, Flora?’

  ‘You lying slut,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘How dare you tell such fucking lies?’

  ‘It’s true,’ sobbed Flora.

  Calmly, Rannaldini walked over to the telephone.

  ‘Get me James Benson’s number,’ he called over his shoulder to Kitty. ‘He’ll soon do a few tests to see who’s right.’

  Kitty paused. She knew James Benson’s number by heart, having rung him so often about her own tests, but she suddenly felt so sorry for Flora. As if reading her thoughts, Flora slumped at Rannaldini’s feet, sobbing that she’d made the whole thing up, clinging hysterically to his purple-stockinged thighs.

  ‘I love you,’ she wept. ‘I can’t help myself. I’m so sorry, Kitty. It’s all my fault.’

  ‘And you’ve broken the Official Secrets Act,’ hissed Rannaldini viciously, wriggling out of her frantic clutches as though she were a pair of tight breeches. He seemed oblivious of the crowd around them.

  ‘You should have cut my vocal chords at the beginning,’ said Flora falling pitifully to the floor.

  Kitty, rushing forward to comfort her, was almost pushed sideways by Georgie.

  ‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry I’ve neglected you. I’ve been so worried about work and everything. It’s not your fault. Let’s go home.’

  Utterly appalled that she’d been too locked in over Guy’s philandering and the loss of David Hawkley to notice what was going on, she started to cry.

  ‘It’s all your fault, you bastard,’ she sobbed at Rannaldini.

  Guy was longing to castigate Rannaldini, too, but didn’t dare in case Rannaldini shopped him about Julia. Instead he proceeded to vent his fury on Flora.

  ‘Look how you’ve upset your mother.’

  ‘Not nearly as much as you’ve upset her,’ screamed back Flora. ‘She’d never have gone to bed with Lysander if you hadn’t been carrying on with Julia all this time.’

  ‘Dear, dear,’ said Meredith, looking from a speechless Georgie to a flabbergasted Guy. ‘Turnbull & Asser are going to do a roaring trade in hair shirts this Christmas.’

  Very, very reluctantly and only because Rannaldini threatened to close all the electric gates and doors and imprison them, Venturer signed a hastily typed-out agreement that they would cut Flora’s outburst.

  ‘If Rupert hadn’t fucked off skiing, we could’ve made a fight for it,’ said Cameron furiously.

  ‘The Kings just mounting their horses make a shitty ending.’

  ‘Very shitty in The Prince of Darkness’ case,’ giggled Meredith.

  ‘Who’s talking of endings?’ said Rannaldini, admiring Cameron’s snarling sexy face. ‘Let’s have dinner in the New Year. Now bugger off everyone.’

  If anyone was more distraught than poor Flora that evening it was Marigold, who didn’t seem to have taken in any of the dramas. All that mattered was that Larry hadn’t turned up. She refused to join Meredith, his friends, various euphoric memb
ers of the London Met, most of the crew and Ferdie and Lysander in The Pearly Gates for a pissed mortem.

  As he first had to box Arthur back and feed him, Lysander insisted Ferdie drive Marigold home.

  ‘Ay wish they made husbands laike you, Arthur,’ Marigold said, having sobbed off most of her stage make-up into his grey shoulder.

  As they trooped out into the snow they passed Hermione. Completely oblivious that Little Cosmo, who’d been at Kitty’s sweet sherry, was systematically removing tenners from her bag, she was screeching, ‘How dare Flora call my arms hulking?’

  ‘I think the Virgin Mary’s suffering from post-natal depression,’ muttered Ferdie.

  ‘And what happened to Rupert Campbell-Black?’ demanded Hermione.

  ‘I’d forgotten about him,’ said Lysander in dismay as he helped Marigold into the car. ‘I so wanted him to meet Arthur. Look after her,’ he urged in an undertone as he shut the door against the swirling snow. ‘She’s worried sick.’

  ‘Not as worried sick as I am,’ said Ferdie, scooping up a ball of snow from the top of the car and hurling it at a departing harpist. ‘Larry, or rather Marigold, owes us thirty thousand pounds.’

  ‘Forget it,’ said Lysander. ‘You don’t think Rannaldini will take it out on Kitty, do you? I didn’t get a chance to say goodnight to her. Promise to go into the house with Marigold and see she’s OK.’

  Even Ferdie couldn’t bring himself to talk finance to such a shuddering, desolate wreck. Ahead, through a snowy tunnel of bowed trees, Paradise Grange reared up darkly, its great battlements and turrets lit by the wannest of moons.

  ‘Since Rachel moved in, the laights have been goin’ out all over Paradise,’ said Marigold sadly. ‘Ay’m sure Larry gave her that lovely cashmere jumper.’

  ‘Rachel’s being bonked by Rannaldini,’ said Ferdie gently. ‘Your husband’s far too deeply into filthy consumerism to appeal to Rachel. Aren’t you going to ask me in for a drink?’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’

  ‘I’ve obviously got to get used to it,’ said Marigold.

  She had got through the performance. All she wanted to do was crash out in her lonely bed and sob out her broken heart.

  She was amazed to find the front door open. She was so off the wall, she must have forgotten to put on the burglar alarm when she left that morning.

  As she put down her costume in its carrier bag, her gold crown fell on to the floor, a symbol that her Ritzy life had gone for ever.

  Catching sight of her blackened, red-eyed, miner’s face, she went into the downstairs 100 and washed away the streaked mascara and the remains of her cork moustache. Now, wanner than the moon itself, she switched on the drawing-room light, and gave a scream for there, slumped on the sofa, was Larry. He looked utterly wretched. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt and a pin-striped suit. Only his face was unironed and rumpled.

  Marigold wanted to yell at him for not showing up, for humiliating her, for being unfaithful like everyone else in Paradise, but the words withered on her white lips.

  ‘I tried to grapple back up the tree,’ said Larry, as though they were in the middle of a conversation, ‘but it was like using fungi as ’andholds. They kept givin’ way.’

  As he put his head in his hands she noticed all his gold rings and the bracelets had gone and how grey his dark hair had become.

  ‘I don’t know ’ow to tell you, Princess, but I’m finished, up the spout,’ he croaked. ‘I guaranteed a big electronics project, borrowed a ’uge amount of money, used some of Catchitune’s assets as well, an’ it bombed. The bank’s pulled the plug. I’m ruined, skint.’ He tugged his empty pockets out of his trousers like a conjurer.

  ‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ He gave a groan. ‘I’ve been trying to raise the dough from everywhere, but there isn’t any about.’

  As Marigold opened her mouth to speak, he put up his hand.

  ‘But I can’t blame the recession. I was greedy. An’ this afternoon they voted me off the Board.’

  ‘They can’t have,’ said Marigold aghast.

  ‘So I’m broke, belly-up. I’ve got nuffink.’

  Marigold couldn’t speak the lump in her throat was so huge, the tidal wave of tears ready to smash the lock gates, as Larry hung his head.

  ‘I understand if you want to leave me, Princess.’

  ‘Oh Larry, Larry, Ay thought you’d gone back to Nikki.’

  Incredulously, Larry looked up.

  ‘All those phone calls,’ sobbed Marigold. ‘An’ you’ve lost so much weight and never turning up to rehearsals.’

  She moved towards him with her arms open.

  ‘Ay don’t mind where Ay live so long as it’s with you. Ay never really läiked this mansion. It’s a naightmare to clean, and Ay’ve never felt comfortable with servants and the boys will be delaighted to leave boarding-school and we’ve got enough food in the freezer to live on for ever.’

  ‘You don’t mean it? You’ll stand by me? Ow, Princess, ow, Princess.’

  ‘Oh Larry, Larry,’ said Marigold crying and laughing all at once as she flung herself into his arms. ‘Ay love you so much, Ay’d follow you to the hend of the earth.’

  49

  As President Gorbachov kept going abroad to distance himself from the growing domestic crises in Russia, so Rannaldini abandoned all thought of Christmas at Valhalla. He knew Venturer still had the clip of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and that he couldn’t silence blabbermouths like Mother Courage and Lady Chisleden. Harassed by enraged mistresses and a baying Press, Rannaldini decided, as a gesture of family solidarity, to take Kitty and his many children skiing and made sure that a delightful photograph of them all arriving at the airport was circulated worldwide.

  Lysander felt sick when he saw it reproduced on the front of the Sun. He had been appalled, the morning after the play, to find Valhalla deserted except for Mrs Brimscombe who was sourly freezing boeuf bourgignon and who handed him a Christmas present from Kitty beautifully wrapped in red paper covered in polo ponies. Inside were chewsticks for the dogs, Twix bars for Arthur and Tiny and a dark blue jersey with Donald Duck on the front which Kitty had knitted for him. A card enclosed said: ‘Dear Lysander. This is to thank you for your many kindnesses. I hope you don’t miss your Mum and Georgie too much over Xmas, yours sincerely, Kitty Rannaldini.’

  Lysander was utterly desolate. Earlier in December, Kitty had given him an Advent Calendar. Now he felt all the doors were closing on him. Returning to Magpie Cottage, he found Ferdie bemoaning his excesses the night before in The Pearly Gates and examining a green tongue in the mirror. On the strength of his success as the innkeeper he had managed to score with Miss Paradise ’90, the barmaid.

  ‘I told her I was off to the Gulf, too.’

  ‘That’s bloody dishonest. She’s a nice girl.’

  ‘What’s bitten you?’ said Ferdie in amazement.

  ‘Rannaldini’s taken Kitty skiing.’

  ‘That is terrific,’ said Ferdie. ‘I have to congratulate you. I never dreamt you’d get Kitty looking that good, almost attractive, in that green dress the other night – and to get Rannaldini back as well. He’s never taken her on holiday before. I’m going to give you a massive Christmas bonus,’ he added as Lysander’s face blackened. ‘You’re off to Brazil. Bastard coffee billionaire giving his ravishing young wife the run-around. Here’s the ticket.’ Ferdie reached for his brief case.

  ‘I don’t want to go to Brazil,’ said Lysander mutinously.

  ‘You’ll get some seriously good polo.’

  After Christmas in the extremely fashionable French ski resort of Monthaut acquiring a suntan and being photographed on every piste surrounded by children, Rannaldini was bored rigid and decided to fly home. Christmas, like the snow, had temporarily blotted out all gossip. Natasha left with him. To shake her out of her shock at his affaire with Flora, he despatched her to Barbados for a holiday.

  Kitty got no such compensation. She was to stay on in Mont
haut over the New Year to keep an eye on Rannaldini’s children and the au pair, who was very pretty and expected to go out skiing and clubbing in the evenings, leaving Kitty in charge. At no time had Rannaldini apologized in any way for Flora’s revelations.

  Wearily, Kitty drove back from dropping him off at the airport. Rannaldini had been particularly ratty over Christmas. In her distress at not being able to say goodbye to Lysander, Kitty had left several scores and clothes that he needed in Valhalla, although she felt he would have complained whatever she had picked. She was desperately short of clothes herself. She hadn’t brought anything for the evening, no ski clothes and no boots for walking on the polished ice, so, as Rannaldini loathed her spending money, the drive to the airport was her first outing. Even with chains on the wheels, she had been terrified of the winding, treacherous roads.

  She felt safer when she reached Monthaut. Horses with bells jangling on their bridles, which reminded her of Arthur, were pulling sledgefuls of tourists along the High Street. Beautiful girls with vivid brown faces and enviably narrow hips strode purposefully over the frozen pavements. The Hotel Versailles, where Rannaldini always stayed, was the best in Monthaut. South-facing, yellow-stoned, overlooking the village square with its statue of President de Gaulle and a wonderful view of the mountains, it was two minutes’ walk from the main ski lifts. Snow and icicles glittering from the gables were melting slightly in the sunshine.

  As Kitty crept in through the swing doors, every table in the foyer was occupied by glamorous, chattering, sunburnt people. It was several seconds before she recognized the most glamorous of them all. He was wearing a Donald Duck jersey and knocked over his glass of Kir as he jumped to his feet.

  ‘Lysander,’ whispered Kitty.

  Her delight was so unmistakable that Lysander nearly kissed her properly, but, as she ducked her head in embarrassment, he made do with hugging her.