The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’ll deal with Rannaldini.’ Kitty was fired with sudden courage.’

  ‘And it over. Now clear off.’

  As she grabbed the puppy from Clive, it covered her face with little licks. Shutting her eyes, Kitty breathed in its sweet, fresh oatmeal smell. It was the first Valentine she’d ever had.

  Only when the puppy had been fed and watered and they’d both retreated to the safety of her bedroom did she open Lysander’s letter kindly dictated by Ferdie. She read:

  Darling Kitty,

  This is Maggie’s puppy, Lassie II, to replace the one from Harrods those bastards at customs ripped open. Unless you have a dog that needs taking out, you never get out at night. But when you look up at the moon, and the great Bear and Orion the Hunter with his dogs, think of them looking down on me and Jack who both love you, Lysander.

  Kitty gave a sob. Her dark little room, which faced north into the wood was lightened today by sheets of snowdrops which reminded her unbearably of the nursery slopes at Monthaut. She should have burnt Lysander’s letter, but she read it over and over again before hiding it under the lining paper of her tights drawer.

  Jumping at the knock on the door, she shoved the drawer shut just in time. It was Clive bearing a huge bunch of dark red roses and a jewel box wrapped in shiny red paper. Inside was a ruby brooch in the shape of a heart.

  To my Valentine, said the card, whose price is far above rubies, with all my love, Rannaldini.

  Marigold was in despair. Although Larry was trying frantically to build up some kind of business again – you don’t go from 10p to ten million by stroking the cat, was one of his favourite sayings – no-one wanted to buy Paradise Grange, or Magpie Cottage or the villa in France, and all the pictures had gone for knockdown prices.

  But far, far worse, Larry hadn’t sent her a Valentine. Last year, when he’d been with Nikki, was the only other year he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d gone back to her to boost his ego. Marigold had so little confidence, any little thing triggered off the panic. She must keep calm, but when Larry rang just before lunch, she found herself shouting at him, ‘I thought we were traying to mend our marriage, you beast.’ Then she burst into noisy sobs.

  ‘Princess, princess.’ When Larry finally could get a word in, he said rather smugly, ‘If you go and ’ave a butchers be’ind the mirror in the ’all.’

  Rushing out, Marigold found a large box of chocolates, a card with a red heart on the front, and a page of kisses inside. There was also a letter. Dear Mr Lockton, read Marigold incredulously, and felt the blush of joy creeping slowly over her.

  Down the telephone Larry could hear her scream of delight.

  ‘Oh, Ay love you, Sir Laurence,’ she said in a choked voice as she picked up the telephone. ‘No-one deserves a knaighthood more.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Lady Lockton. But Mum’s the word till it’s in the papers.’

  Behaving like the ideal husband on the surface, Rannaldini put a coded Valentine message in the Independent: Little wild thing, the big leopard longs for you.

  As he called all his mistresses ‘Little wild thing’, Hermione, Chloe, Rachel, Cecilia, even for a giddy second, Flora, and most of the ladies of the London Met thought Rannaldini was sending secret signals to them.

  Returning from the Highlands where he had been looking for locations for Macbeth with Cameron Cook, Rannaldini was decidedly unamused to find Lassie in situ. She had already made herself thoroughly at home romping along the passages after Kitty and peeing everywhere.

  ‘Let her go to the stables with Clive.’

  ‘No, she’s mine.’ Kitty’s eyes were terrified.

  Lassie got up and stretched, turning her toes backwards, trailing along, then attacking the red-and-yellow rose-patterned Aubusson in the morning room, and shaking it furiously.

  ‘Stop that,’ snapped Rannaldini, aiming a kick at her.

  Instantly Lassie flattened her ears, and seemed to become half her breadth, as she fled to Kitty’s side.

  Having already read Lysander’s letter, which Clive had tracked down and photostated while Kitty popped out to the post, Rannaldini suspected the hand of Rupert Campbell-Black. According to the ubiquitous Clive, who frequently bunged the Rutminster florists, the roses sent to Rachel that morning had come from Boris, who had just returned from a successful tour of his homeland. The New York job wasn’t in the bag yet, so even when Kitty forgot to provide him with a white gardenia for the Gulf concert that evening, Rannaldini didn’t bawl her out, and Lassie was allowed to stay.

  Returning from an equally successful but nerve-racking tour of Israel where she’d expected to be flattened by a Scud missile in the middle of a piano concerto, Rachel felt horribly depressed.

  The war grew more dreadful. Only the night before the Allies had bombed a bunker full of civilians. The Americans intended to use napalm to ignite the Iraqi oil ditches on the front lines and the Iraqi hospitals had no electricity, so the baby incubators couldn’t function and syringes were having to be used several times.

  Rachel knew she ought to go straight out that evening to a peace vigil in Rutminster, but she felt so tired, and the children, whom she had to collect from Gretel, would kick up if she left them again.

  Perhaps the most nightmarish part of being a single parent was that she had no-one to tell things to – to boast that she had taken seven bows last night.

  ‘I had to take these in for you,’ said Gretel, handing Rachel a huge bunch of the palest peachy-pink roses.

  Rannaldini or Guy? thought Rachel wearily, then read; Dearest Rachel, Happy seventh wedding anniversary, all love, Boris.

  To Gretel’s amazement Rachel burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘Oh Gretel, he remembered,’ she sobbed. ‘He really, really remembered.’

  Rising late on Valentine’s Day after a long stint the night before, Georgie wandered round the garden. The lake was as flat and grey as washing-up water. In the tub outside the kitchen window a lone mud-spattered daffodil swayed in the wind. She and Guy had been getting on so much better since the orgy. He’d shaved off his beard, so she didn’t think he was pursuing Rachel any more. But suddenly last Friday he was up to his old tricks again – coming back to Paradise early to go to the doctor about his headaches. Returning to Angel’s Reach an hour and a half later, he explained that the surgery queue had been so long that he couldn’t be bothered to wait – but he had the jubilant air of an aircrew flying in from a successful raid over Iraq without loss.

  Georgie simply couldn’t cope with a return to the old uncertainties. She’d got to get out. Ant and Cleo was so nearly finished, then she’d make plans. Looking at the kitchen clock she decided to start work soon, but she’d promised to mince up the remains of Sunday’s leg of lamb for a shepherd’s pie. She felt she ought to practise wifely duties for when she was living alone or shacked up one day with someone less domesticated than Guy. At first, she didn’t hear the telephone over the Moulinex.

  ‘Georgie, it’s David Hawkley. Hallo, hallo, are you there?’

  ‘Just,’ stammered Georgie, wiping her hands on her Jeans.

  ‘Thank you for your Valentine card. It was sweet. You did send it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Unless you know some other Georgie. Look, I’m really sorry I lied to you about me and Lysander, but I was so frightened of losing you.’

  ‘It’s OK. How’s Lysander?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, but he’s in love. She’s married and even more common than me, but at least she’s the same age as him and got the sweetest nature.’

  ‘I can’t get him on the telephone and Magpie Cottage is deserted.’

  Georgie felt an air of gloom. David must have visited Paradise without coming to see her. He was only ringing to pump her about Lysander.

  ‘Where’s he living?’

  ‘With Rupert Campbell-Black.’

  ‘Good God!’ exploded David. ‘That’s worse than peddling dope.’

  ‘He won a good race yesterday.
Didn’t you see The Scorpion?’

  ‘I don’t read The Scorpion,’ said David tartly. Then, he started to stammer, ‘I miss you – a lot. Let’s have lunch.’

  In a daze of happiness, Georgie watched Dinsdale remove the leg of lamb from the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I’d adore to. How about the end of next week?’ She needed the time to give up booze, lose seven pounds and finish Ant and Cleo.

  ‘Fine. Where d’you want to go?’

  ‘What about L’Escargot?’ It was a restaurant Guy and she had frequented when they were first married.

  ‘Good idea, I’ll book. D’you know Rupert Campbell-Black’s address?’

  It was still pitch black when Dizzy’s alarm clock went off the following morning. Cocks were crowing through the mist, horses knocking over their buckets as she staggered into the yard. Going from box to box, she felt each horse’s legs for fullness or bumps, before giving it a bucket of fresh water and a scoop of racehorse nuts. When he was at home Rupert preferred to perform this duty and decide which horses should be pulled from the gallops and merely walked round the village or rested in their boxes. He was due back from London at midday. Taggie had arrived from Paris very starry-eyed last night. At seven-thirty the rest of the grooms would arrive to muck out and tack up the horses for everyone to ride out at eight.

  But long before the grooms, Taggie had erupted into the yard wearing nothing but a red silk kimono covered in gold dragons.

  ‘Oh, Dizzy, Lysander’s bed hasn’t been slept in and he didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘And men are missing,’ intoned Dizzy, echoing the Gulf War bulletins.

  ‘What the hell’s Rupert going to say?’ she went on. ‘We had enough trouble covering up for him yesterday and when he left Pridie behind at Worcester. He’s a fucking liability.’ Dizzy slammed Penscombe Pride’s stable-door shut.

  ‘But such a sweet one,’ pleaded Taggie, ‘and he’s been such an interest and a morale boost for Rupert. Rupert was desperately upset about the baby,’ stammered Taggie.

  ‘I know.’ Dizzy put an arm round Taggie’s shivering silk shoulders. ‘But Rupert’ll have to sack him if he doesn’t turn up. He can’t risk such irresponsibility with the horses.’ Then, noticing Taggie’s blue, bare feet, ‘get dressed, I’ll finish feeding the horses. Then we’ll look for him.’

  They both jumped as deafening snores rent the air from the direction of Arthur’s box. Both doors were bolted to stop Arthur chewing them. Opening the top one, Dizzy and Taggie found both Arthur and Lysander stretched out. Lysander was asleep. Arthur was not and was snoring to get attention and breakfast.

  Giving a great rumbling whicker, he waved a hoof at them. Arthur was so lazy, and pretended to be exhausted by all the trotting up and down the Gloucestershire hills, that he often managed to persuade the grooms to feed him his racehorse nuts and even his bucket of water lying down. From the back of the stable, Tiny glared down on such debauchery with more disapproval than the vicar’s wife at the Valhalla orgy.

  ‘I hope he’s not ill from all that wasting. He’s awfully still,’ said Taggie alarmed.

  Dizzy sniffed: ‘Not ill. Drunk and passed out cold. Wake up, you stupid fucker.’

  When shaking Lysander had no effect, Dizzy turned the hose on him.

  ‘Go and get some warm clothes and some black coffee,’ she urged Taggie. ‘We’ve got to try and sober him up enough to ride out.’

  ‘Kitty won’t leave Rannaldini,’ mumbled Lysander.

  ‘Can’t say I blame her if you carry on like this,’ said Dizzy tartly.

  It was a pity that Rupert’s helicopter had engine trouble, so no-one was alerted by the chug, chug, chug of his approach. Instead, arriving in the dark blue Aston Martin, he was mistaken for Jimmy Jardine or Bluey Charteris rolling up to ride out. His first sight was of his beautiful wife, still wearing nothing but a drenched, gaping red kimono frantically trying to dress a half-naked paralytically drunk Lysander in the kitchen. Rupert had no option but to sack him on the spot.

  Rupert spent the afternoon venting his rage on owners who owed him nearly a million and whose alleged cheques-in-the-post would rival the mail on Valentine’s Day. He had already received tearful deputations from every groom and estate worker, Mr and Mrs Bodkin, even Jimmy and Bluey, and his own sweet wife who was now sobbing into the batter she was about to freeze for Shrove Tuesday pancakes. Any moment Beaver, Gertrude, Jack and the rest of the dogs, the stable cat and all the horses would troop out of the twilight waving banners in some candlelit protest march.

  He was brought back to earth by Taggie knocking on the door.

  ‘You magazine are just going to press. They want to know what you’re giving up for Lent.’

  ‘Lysander Hawkley,’ howled Rupert. Then, as Taggie burst into tears, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, are you and my entire staff and livestock bewitched by this cretin?’

  ‘No,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘It’s just that he hasn’t got a mother any more and his father’s a pig to him, and he’s nowhere to go if we chuck him out.’

  Shooting across the room, knocking over his out-tray, Rupert took her in his arms.

  ‘There, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Of course he can stay.’

  Pulling her head against his shoulder, he stroked her hair. She’d been so incredibly brave since the baby died. She needed something to fuss over, and Lysander had been such an interest and a morale boost for her.

  ‘I love him, too,’ he muttered. ‘But he’s such a dickhead.’

  At that moment Lysander appeared round the door hanging his head, clutching a large bottle of whisky as a peace offering. He could hardly move for hangover and misery.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I’ve made such a fool of myself.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Rupert irritably. Then, as Lysander shuffled desolately out again, ‘Go to bed, I want you on parade at eight tomorrow morning.’

  Lysander turned in desperate hope. ‘Pridie needs more work,’ Rupert went on, ‘and Arthur’s come on so well he can start on the gallops tomorrow.’

  59

  With a huge lump in her throat, Georgie wrote THE END in capital letters on the score of Ant and Cleo. She had a faint, faint hope that it was the best thing she had ever done. Her head, her hand and her back ached dreadfully but not for once her heart. At least tomorrow she could go up to London to meet David with a clear conscience. Tonight she would spend several hours de-slagging herself.

  Having steeped her hair in coconut oil, waiting for a mud pack to dry on her face, she noticed that the rain which had been lashing the windows all day had finally stopped. Outside the sun had broken through behind the woods and flooded the opposite side of Paradise in rosy gold light, turning the fields a brilliant, leaping emerald-green, and a lone grey horse and the departing clouds the softest pink. Then, as she watched, a rainbow soared between the clouds. My life is on the up, thought Georgie.

  Picking up the telephone, she rang Relate.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I can’t make it this evening. You’ve been so kind. I’m sorry I’ve talked so much about myself.’

  That’s fifteen pounds saved, she thought in jubilation, I can buy a new T-shirt from Miss Selfridge, something clinging and sludgy to match my eyes.

  Money was dreadful at the moment. It was a good thing she hadn’t bothered to finish the album for Larry. Catchitune were in such deep trouble, despite the new board, that they would never have paid the rest of the advance on it. But as she was leaving for the station her agent telephoned saying that Dancer Maitland was interested in playing Ant and could they see an early score. Then Guy rang, delighted that she’d finished.

  ‘We’ll celebrate this evening, Panda.’

  He was having lunch at the Athenaeum with his father, he said.

  That’s far enough away from L’Escargot, thought Georgie, floating off to London.

  Arriving at Paddington on the next train after Georgie, David Hawkley felt the need to str
etch his legs – a headmaster’s favourite phrase – and decided to walk to Soho. The first daffodils waving at him from Hyde Park put a spring in his step. Overtaking a traffic jam in Oxford Street, he was amused to pass a taxi in which Georgie was frantically powdering, combing, scenting and trying to re-assure herself in a tiny smudged hand-mirror that her new khaki T-shirt wasn’t too juvenile. All the girls in Miss Selfridge had been so sweet about her records.

  Feeling happy and excited for the first time in months, David bought an Evening Standard and a bunch of daffodils and followed a trail of Giorgio into L’Escargot.

  Having been told that his lunch guest had gone to the Ladies, he sat down at the table, ordered a glass of sherry and was soon engrossed in the racing pages, which described Lysander as Campbell-Black’s golden boy, and suggested people put their money on him and Mr Sparky the next day. Torn between pride, disapproval and sudden sharp envy of Rupert, he turned to the front pages and the war.

  The land battle was about to start any minute, all Kuwait was aflame, burning the midnight and the midday oil.

  David was so engrossed he didn’t notice a charming redhead sit down in an alcove round the corner, and then everything was forgotten because Georgie arrived with the price tag still on her T-shirt, but looking as beautiful, scented and shining as a woman in love.

  ‘How gorgeous!’ She took the daffodils from him.

  ‘Not as gorgeous as you.’ Cursing himself for being corny, David kissed her warm, scented, freckled cheek.

  ‘I’m manic. I’ve just finished Ant and Cleo.’

  ‘Oh Eastern Star, that calls for champagne.’ David waved to a waiter.

  Although a place had been laid for her opposite him, Georgie wriggled between the tables so she could sit down on the bench-seat beside him. Sod being recognized.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you. Isn’t the war terrifying? Do you think the Israelis will retaliate?’

  David shook his head. ‘The Americans have paid them too much money.’

  ‘Mother Courage was so funny this morning: “Oh, Mrs Seymour, the Iraqis are copulating.”’