The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

Pushing Lysander towards a pale orange and blue striped armchair beside a crackling leaping fire he opened a bottle of pink champagne.

  ‘How were the roads?’

  ‘Awful, until I got to Rutminster and they’d started gritting.’

  ‘More gritted teeth than roads the other night,’ observed Bob, as he carefully eased the cork out. ‘What a remarkable evening. I had terrible problems getting the orchestra sobered up in time for today’s rehearsal. We’re playing a fiendishly difficult piece by Villa-Lobos at the Festival Hall this evening. Chloe was supposed to be singing Les Nuits d’été, but she’s done in her back, or so she says.’

  Bob gave Lysander his weary charming smile as he handed him a glass. ‘You enjoy yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  Idly Bob straightened the yellow Chinese silk shawl draped over the piano and removed a browning flower from a bowl of light blue hyacinths. Then, sitting down opposite Lysander, he raised his glass: ‘To my deliverer. This should really be Dom Perignon Rosé 1982 because it’s such a red-letter day. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I’ve been praying for someone to take Hermione off my hands for fifteen years.’

  Lysander’s jaw clanged like a gangplank.

  ‘Rannaldini’s always been far too fly to offer the old thing marriage.’ Bob carefully smoothed out the gold paper of the champagne cork with a beautifully manicured thumb. ‘Anyway he is my musical director and if I cited him as co-respondent he’d probably fire me and the orchestra doesn’t need any more scandal. Beside,’ he added gently, ‘I’ve got you and Hermione on video so I’m home and dry.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Lysander choked on a huge gulp of champagne. ‘Basically I don’t think Hermione and I would suit. She’s a terrific singer and a terrific-looking woman and all, but honestly she’d find me such a thicko and hopelessly unmusical – and I doubt if I could afford her.’

  ‘You should have thought about that,’ Bob said, suddenly cold. ‘Hermione could certainly afford you. You’d never have to work again. And you’d be a much more arresting accessory than a chain handbag on her arm; and she’s sensational in bed – as, of course, you know.’

  Lysander had gone green, his face glistened with sweat.

  ‘I don’t remember. I promise you, Bob, I was set up. One of the reasons I feel dreadful is you’ve always been seriously nice to me. I never wanted to bonk her.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me you’ve got no intention of standing by her.’

  ‘N-no, please not,’ bleated Lysander.

  ‘After you’ve compromised her so appallingly. You realize she can afford the toughest lawyers in the world.’

  For a long moment Bob glared at Lysander’s terrified face, then he started to shake with laughter.

  ‘What a pity! I suppose I’ll have to hang in there. She couldn’t cope on her own and Cosmo does need a putative father.’

  ‘But I thought you adored her?’ said Lysander in utter bewilderment.

  ‘I take care of her,’ said Bob flatly.

  Getting up, smoothing his remaining blond hair in the mirror, he perched on the arm of Lysander’s chair: ‘The other night when you and Hermione were in bed you reminded me of Matthew Arnold’s white violets plucked by the little children then, when the nurse calls them home, thrown down to die on the woodland floor. You’re wasting yourself on women, you know,’ Bob added softly.

  Lysander’s eyes widened. He felt himself blushing and tried to make himself as small as possible. Even so, Bob was seriously close. Glancing up he noticed the smoothness of Bob’s recent shave, his hairless nostrils above the long wide upper lip, the big kind, almost lashless eyes.

  ‘You were probably too drunk to remember anything about your performance the other night.’ Bob put a light hand on Lysander’s hair. ‘But I promise you it was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.’ Slowly he stroked Lysander’s rigid cheek with the other hand. ‘I know you’d be turned on to watch yourself on the video.’

  ‘I bloody would not!’ Lysander jumped to his feet so fast he nearly tipped Bob on to the floor.

  Jack stopped inspecting a stuffed bear in the corner and barked furiously.

  ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’ Righting himself, Bob moved towards his quarry.

  ‘Quite.’ Backing away panic-stricken, Lysander was blocked by the piano.

  ‘What a shame,’ sighed Bob. ‘You’d find men so much more rewarding and far less hassle. Oh well, we better have lunch. Meredith!’ he shouted through to the kitchen.

  And in bustled Meredith. Swamped in a butcher-boy apron, he was bearing a big blue Delft dish of lobster pancakes smothered in the palest white wine and anchovy sauce.

  Collapsing on to the keyboard with a crash of notes, Lysander opened his eyes the widest ever.

  ‘You and him?’ he mumbled incredulously.

  Bob nodded, filling up a glass for Meredith. ‘Been going on for fourteen years. I’d never have survived marriage to Hermione if it hadn’t been for Meredith.’

  ‘Does Hermione know?’

  ‘Course not, silly bitch. She’s so unobservant and self-obsessed,’ said Meredith. ‘Can you get the bread from the oven and the salad, Bobbie? I’m sure you’d enjoy the video, Lysander,’ he went on cosily. ‘I loved it. You’re so photogenic you’d make a fortune in blue movies.’

  ‘You really are kind.’ Starting to giggle in relief, Lysander found he couldn’t stop until they all joined in until the tears were pouring down their cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ gasped Lysander finally, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It’s so nice to laugh, but I love Kitty.’

  ‘Tush, tush,’ chided Meredith. ‘There’s a world of possibility out there,’ he tapped the window, ‘called London. Three thousand miles away there’s New York. With those God-given looks, why throw yourself away on a plain Jane?’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘Who is married to someone else,’ went on Meredith laying a blue napkin across Lysander’s thighs, ‘who is determined not to relinquish her.’

  ‘I must rescue her.’

  ‘You won’t, duckie. Now eat up that pancake before it gets cold. You’re much too thin. Don’t worry,’ he added when Lysander drooped like one of Kitty’s snowdrops, ‘you’ve got to move out of Paradise and give it time.’

  ‘Kitty’s doing time with that shit. How can I abandon her when I know how happy I can make her?’

  ‘She’s a treasure,’ agreed Bob, forking radicchio and cèpes shining with tarragon dressing on to Lysander’s side plate, ‘but she’ll never leave Rannaldini. He terrorizes her and appeals to her conscience. A lethal combination. He’s got her mother into an expensive home which Kitty couldn’t afford on her own. As it is she sends her money every week.’

  ‘I could pay for that,’ said Lysander quickly. ‘Kitty’s mother could live with us, then it wouldn’t be so expensive.’

  ‘Well, you’d better abandon this gigolo lark and win her properly.’

  ‘I find it mystifying,’ said Meredith, gobbling up the untouched three-quarters of Lysander’s pancake as he loaded up the machine. ‘What’s Kitty got that we haven’t?’

  ‘She’s touched his heart,’ said Bob. ‘Lysander’s quite uncomplicated despite those wondrous looks. Like Papageno all he wants is enough to eat and the woman of his choice. Fighting’s not his business.’

  Natasha had been so distraught she had fled Valhalla, while Ferdie was showing Rudolpho over Paradise Grange, and sought sanctuary with a girlfriend’s parents in Pimlico. She left her address with Kitty just in case Lysander asked for it.

  The worst part of the nightmare for Natasha was that her own father had actually been drooling over Lysander and Hermione in bed together.

  ‘Papa knew I was crazy about Lysander,’ she sobbed to Kitty. ‘How could he do that to me and get a buzz out of it? And how could Lysander bonk that gross old wrinkly?’

  Deranged with grief herself, Kitty had comforted Natasha as best she could and, although neither Rannaldini
nor Lysander had shown the slightest interest in Natasha’s whereabouts, the fifth time Ferdie rang Valhalla Kitty had given him the Pimlico address.

  Two days later, having bored the girlfriend and her parents rigid with her obsessive monologue, Natasha was forced to return to Valhalla as she was due back at Bagley Hall that evening. She and Flora would be like war casualties. At least Kitty would have packed her trunk. Since the orgy, Natasha had decided there was something definitely to be said for her stepmother. Arriving at Paddington, she bought Kitty a box of Black Magic and a book on tapestry. But as she slouched miserably along the platform, thinking of Mocks in two weeks and all the holiday work she hadn’t done and how unbearable Bagley Hall would be if she couldn’t while away lessons dreaming of Lysander, she felt a hand picking up her suitcase. Swinging round she found herself looking into the square, blushing face of Ferdie.

  ‘Oh, go away. You remind me of Lysander. I’m sorry, Ferdie, that was bitchy, but the bottom’s fallen out of my world.’

  ‘The world’s fallen out of my bottom,’ grumbled Ferdie. ‘I should never have eaten that curry last night.’

  A slight smile lifted Natasha’s big mournful red mouth. ‘You’re a dickhead. What are you doing here anyway?’

  ‘I’ve been put on commission only. I thought I’d come and see you off.’

  ‘You better find yourself a rich girlfriend.’

  ‘I’ve got one in my sights,’ said Ferdie, taking her arm. ‘Now let’s find you a seat.’

  For reasons best known to themselves British Rail had scrapped the normal open-plan express and replaced it with an old-fashioned train with small carriages and, even worse, no bar or heating. Somehow, with a fat tip, Ferdie managed to inveigle a large brandy out of a dining-car waiter on the next-door train.

  ‘This’ll warm you up,’ he told Natasha, emptying the bottle into a paper cup, ‘and here’s Tatier and Hello!.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Natasha listlessly.

  ‘I’ll come and take you out from school.’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘And I’ll write.’

  Natasha felt so low and was so determined not to break down that she didn’t even look up and wave to Ferdie as the train pulled out. Slumped in her seat to avoid the low-angled sun she noticed the train had the same hoot as the first notes of the last movement of Beethoven’s Violin Concerto. Next door to her a pale girl was writing an essay on The Future of Marriage. Opposite, a fat woman seemed to be deriving far more enjoyment from Maeve Binchy and the rest of the carriage was occupied by three lawyers in black and white on their way to the court at Swindon, talking most indiscreetly about their cases.

  Natasha tried to read Hello! but on page twelve found a big piece on Bob’s and Hermione’s marriage, so she put it away. Gazing out of the window at the cheerless landscape and the leafless trees she started to cry and found she couldn’t stop, even when the door slid open and a voice said: ‘Tickets, please.’

  ‘I don’t know where mine is,’ sobbed Natasha.

  ‘In your coat pocket on top of the rack,’ said the voice.

  ‘Oh, Ferdie,’ howled Natasha, ‘go away.’

  Charmingly relentless, Ferdie ordered everyone out of the carriage, getting down the fat woman’s suitcase, explaining that there had been a death in the family. Then, sitting beside Natasha, he emptied another bottle of brandy into her paper cup.

  ‘I’m such a bitch, how can you possibly still love me?’

  ‘The torch I carry for you has a rechargeable battery. I’m thinking of signing up for the Gulf.’

  Natasha looked up suddenly. ‘Oh, please don’t.’

  ‘Would you mind?’ Ferdie started to wipe away her tears with a British Rail napkin.

  ‘I would,’ said Natasha in amazement. ‘Actually I seriously would.’

  Ferdie got out his wallet and handed her two hundred pounds in cash.

  ‘What’s that for?’

  ‘It says: PENALTY FOR IMPROPER USE: £200, and I want to use you improperly! Oh Natasha, my darling,’ said Ferdie, taking her in his arms.

  By the time Lysander returned to Magpie Cottage the rosy dreams of winning Kitty, induced largely by Bob’s Dom Perignon, had faded and he collapsed into a deep despairing sleep. Woken by his alarm clock set for two in the afternoon so he could back Hannah’s Uncle in the 2.30, he was outraged to find his Ladbroke’s account had been suspended. Transferred to the accounts department, he learned that his December cheque had bounced. Only utter disbelief induced him to open one of the numerous letters from his bank, whereupon he nearly died of shock. He was on to Ferdie in a trice.

  ‘Does OD at the bottom of the page always mean one’s overdrawn.’

  ‘Or over-dosing. It certainly does.’

  ‘By twenty thousand pounds?’

  ‘Jesus! Did you buy Paradise Grange or something? You had a hundred grand in there in November. Look at your cheques.’

  Laboriously Lysander started to decipher them.

  ‘Well, there’s fifty thousand to Georgie.’

  ‘Georgie? She was supposed to be paying you.’

  ‘I hate her so much I paid her back. I didn’t want to be be – whatever it is – to her. Anyway I didn’t get her husband back.’

  ‘Sale and no return,’ sighed Ferdie. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘And thirty grand back to Marigold. No, she’s honestly on her uppers, and I had to pay my return fare from Brazil, and give Gina a diamond bracelet because I’d walked out on her.’

  ‘Oh, Lysander,’ said Ferdie wearily.

  ‘And ten thousand for the Hotel de Versailles. Christ, that’s steep.’

  ‘You were only there three days.’

  ‘I know, but Rannaldini wanted Kitty to move into a pokey little room so I picked up the tab for her suite. The Jacuzzi was sensational. Hang on, I’ll ring you back. There’s someone at the door.’

  In fact quite a crowd had gathered, stamping their feet on the snowy doorstep, including the owner of The Heavenly Host who hadn’t been paid for four months, a man in a duffle-coat with a drop on the end of his red nose and Marigold, swollen with indignation and a blue Puffa, who was accompanied by a disdainful camel-faced couple in Barbours.

  ‘Oh, Marigold,’ Lysander pulled her like a lifebelt into the cottage. ‘Is Kitty OK? Please put in a good word for me.’

  ‘You keep away from Kitty,’ whispered Marigold furiously. ‘You’ll only upset her and Ay don’t think this is funny.’ She thrust a large sign saying BOTTLE BANK, which Ferdie had put in the porch, into his hand. ‘Ay left a note sayin’ Ay was bringing Gwendolyn Chisleden’s nephew and his fiancée to see over the cottage. They’re getting married in April. You mayte have shaved and got dressed.’

  Then she gave a gasp of horror as she took in the chaos behind him: overflowing ashtrays, glasses on every table, a floor littered with clothes, chewsticks and newspapers turned to the racing pages and washing-up rising out of the sink and along the window-sill to meet an army of mouldy green milk bottles.

  Worst of all, poor Jack, unable to contain himself after a long night’s confinement, had crapped extensively in the kitchen doorway.

  ‘You promised to keep the place taydy.’

  ‘It wasn’t Jack’s fault. You know how good—’

  ‘It’s your fault, you aydle lad, for oversleeping.’

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry. Have a drink, everyone,’

  Lysander called over Marigold’s shoulder. ‘No, actually I haven’t got any. Why don’t you all go down to The Pearly Gates and chalk up a stiff one on my account while I get dressed and clean the place up?’

  ‘No thanks, I’m driving,’ said the man in the dufflecoat. ‘I’ve come to repossess your TV and video machine.’

  ‘I’m about to watch the 2.30,’ said Lysander furiously. ‘And there’s EastEnders and The Bill this evening. Look, if you’re popping down to The Pearly Gates you can put twenty quid on Hannah’s Uncle,’ he yelled after the camel-faced couple who were b
elting down the path to their car.

  After they’d all departed, Lysander was reduced to listening to the race over the telephone, which cost a bomb because Hannah’s Uncle wouldn’t go into the starting gates for ages, before storming home, five lengths clear at 25-1. Lysander was about to ring up Ladbroke’s and shout at them that he could practically have settled his account if he’d been allowed his bet, when he was distracted by a photograph of Arthur on the mantelpiece.

  He’d been so miserable about Kitty that he’d forgotten to ring Rupert to find out how poor dear Arthur and utterly bloody Tiny were getting on.

  56

  As Lysander drove through Penscombe past grey-blond houses, and a little Norman church where generations of Campbell-Blacks were buried, he noticed a betting shop. Rare in such a tiny village, it was no doubt patronized by all the locals putting their shirts on Rupert’s horses. In the village-store window was a poster advertising a British Legion cheese-and-wine party to raise money for the Gulf. Lysander knew he ought to take an interest. The radio banged on and on about the liberation of Kuwait, but he was only interested in liberating Kitty.

  Below Rupert’s beautiful blond house, with its halo of magnificent beech trees, a long lake like mother of pearl in the falling sunshine was freezing at the edges. Across his rolling fields patches of snow lay like the spilt milk over which there was no use crying. All the birds were singing, trying to disguise the dull constant roar high above the clouds of B52s carrying bombs south from RAF Fairford.

  Rupert was not surviving the recession and alarming set-backs at Lloyd’s by altruism alone. Although beguiled by Lysander in Monthaut, he had noticed the boy’s effortless extravagance. By smiling at the receptionist at the Hotel Versailles, Rupert had also ascertained that Lysander was picking up the massive bill for the President de Gaulle suite. The reason, therefore, that Rupert had offered to get Arthur sound was because he regarded Lysander as an engaging dolt awash with cash, who could easily be coaxed into buying other much younger horses for Rupert to train.

  Rupert loathed droppers-in. Even the richest owners disturbed the horses’ routine. He was not running a Harley Street nursing home. But when Lysander rolled up shivering uncontrollably with Donald Duck glaring out between the lapels of his long, dark blue, dog-fur-matted overcoat, Rupert actually stopped placating Mr Pandopoulos, whose horse hadn’t been placed last week either. Leaving the apoplectic Greek to Dizzy, his extremely glamorous head girl, Rupert bore Lysander off to the yard kitchen for a cup of tea.