by Jilly Cooper
David laughed, his face losing all its daunting sternness.
‘I liked Duck-billed Platitude best.’
‘You remembered!’
‘I remember everything about you. Look.’ He brought a little silver box out of his pocket, and for a worried moment Georgie thought he was about to inhale snuff. Instead she saw it was full of hair.
‘Do you remember the day I cut your fringe?’ Putting the box away, he broke a roll in half but didn’t eat it. ‘How’s Guy?’
‘Not great. We lie side by side at night not touching like apples in the attic because we’re so frightened of bruising.’
‘Sounds like Sappho.’
‘Did you finish Catullus?’
‘Yup. How’s Flora?’
‘Absolutely devastated,’ and she told him about the affair with Rannaldini. ‘He’s destroyed her,’ she said finally. ‘I wish you two could meet.’
‘We will soon.’
Flooded with happiness, Georgie felt they were talking in certainties.
‘Tell me about Mrs Rannaldini, I assume she was that plump little thing bouncing around like a rubber ball in a bra and pants last October?’
Georgie laughed. ‘She’s so sweet.’
David took her hand. ‘I’m so glad you sent me that Valentine card. It arrived during a staff meeting, I had to rush out and ring you.’
‘I was about to ring you at Christmas, but when I picked up the telephone Guy was talking to Julia.’
‘My poor darling.’
But as she leant sideways to kiss him, she suddenly heard a familiar voice saying: ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late, the traffic’s appalling,’ and as painful as electrolysis on the bikini line, she realized it was Guy and he was speaking to Julia, who had leapt out of the alcove as beautiful, scented and shining as herself to embrace him.
The proprietor, coming over to ask if they’d chosen yet, turned green, but was too late to warn Guy, as over Julia’s shoulder he caught sight of Georgie and the tender smile froze on his handsome face.
‘It’s Guy,’ whispered Georgie.
‘Rock Star in person,’ said David acidly, and with great presence of mind he downed his glass of sherry, gave the waiter a tenner and whisked Georgie down the road and took a room at the Mountbatten.
‘Guy said he was lunching at the Athenaeum with his father,’ sobbed Georgie as they entered the lift.
As David led them into a room that had framed photographs of Lord Mountbatten playing polo all over the walls, Georgie turned to face him.
Taking her hand, he pulled her down on to the bed. ‘I’m not going to assault you. It’s all right. Please don’t cry.’
Georgie felt buttons against her face. There was something comfortingly upright about a man who wore a waistcoat.
‘Now Guy knows about us it’s all in the open.’
‘Are we an “us”?’ asked Georgie.
‘I think so, don’t you?’
That night, because it was Friday, out of habit both Georgie and Guy returned to Paradise.
‘You took him to our favourite restaurant,’ said Guy furiously.
‘So did you,’ snapped Georgie. ‘And I’d just struggled to pay the poll tax and you go squandering money on Julia.’
‘You bought a new T-shirt.’
‘Out of my Relate money. Anyway it was the first time I’ve ever lunched with him,’ she lied.
‘It’s the first time I’ve had lunch with Julia since Christmas,’ lied Guy. ‘Who is he anyway?’
‘I’m not going to tell you,’ hissed Georgie.
Alas, there was a feature in the Daily Telegraph the following day on the headmasters of the top schools in England with a large picture of David, looking stern and handsome.
Devastated how jealous he felt, Guy rushed off to play squash with Rannaldini, who was feeling very smug because he was behaving comparatively well at present.
‘What am I going to do? Georgie’s having an affair with Lysander’s father. He’s got two inches in Who’s Who.’
‘And presumably eight inches in Georgie,’ said Rannaldini evilly. ‘I thought she was looking good.’
‘But headmasters shouldn’t behave like that,’ spluttered Guy.
Rannaldini laughed. ‘Like father, like son. If Georgie can keep her Head, when all about her are losing theirs.’
‘Oh, shut up. Julia thinks that lets me off the hook, but I can’t afford to leave Georgie. Another backer went belly-up last week. Anyway I don’t want to.’
‘You should have thought of that before.’
‘Have you heard the latest Saddam Hussein story?’ Dizzy asked Lysander at the beginning of March as they drove home after another highly successful day at Sandown. ‘What do Saddam Hussein and nylon knickers have in common?’
‘I don’t care.’
‘They both rub Bush the wrong way. Ha, ha, ha. Have you totally lost your sense of humour?’
‘Totally. I don’t care if the war is over. Stormin’ Norman should have been allowed to go in and crucify Saddam Hussein for starving all the Kuwaiti bloodstock to death. A lot of them came from this yard. And if Allied prisoners of war are being released, why can’t Rannaldini release Kitty?’
Still pinching herself with joy at the prospect of being the future Lady Lockton, Marigold was also delighted to see Boris’s clapped-out Fiesta parked at an angle outside Rachel’s cottage. Perhaps, as was rumoured, they were getting together again. On the other hand, Marigold was getting increasingly worried about Kitty whom she’d just bumped into outside the village shop. Kitty had been wearing odd shoes and her coat was done up all wrong. She was also as white as a sheet, but explained it away as a tummy upset.
Kitty, in fact, was almost certain she was pregnant. Although she hadn’t dared go to James Benson, she had missed three periods. But the thing she had longed for most in the world had only brought her desperate worry and unhappiness because she had no idea if the baby was Lysander’s or Rannaldini’s. She felt overwhelmed with guilt. What would happen if the baby popped out in September, another little Virgo like herself, but with Lysander’s wide blue eyes? She couldn’t stop crying, and she was feeling appallingly sick. Thank goodness Rannaldini was too tied up with Macbeth and the machinations of the New York job, which still hadn’t been confirmed, to notice.
Like a pickpocket, Kitty’s hand kept edging towards the telephone, longing to dial Rupert’s number, just to hear Lysander’s voice. She was watching him win a small race at Cheltenham that afternoon when Clive marched in, so she hurriedly switched over to an Australian soap opera.
Lassie was her only comfort. Getting up in the middle of every night to carry her outside, feeling the little creature covering her face with gentle licks, as she lay warm and sleepy in her arms, Kitty thought she had never loved anything except Lysander so much.
At night Lassie curled up against her on her counterpane. Running her hand along the tiger-striped back, as smooth and silky as a banister, Kitty dreamt of racing down the great Valhalla staircase out of the front door across the valley into Lysander’s arms.
60
In the second week in March doughty little Penscombe Pride trounced The Prince of Darkness in the Cotchester Cup by ten lengths, bringing great glory to the yard, and putting a welcome forty thousand pounds into Rupert’s pocket. Rannaldini, who’d watched the race on satellite, while attempting to hammer out terms with the New World Phil, was so furious he promptly faxed his trainer to say he was taking The Prince of Darkness and his other horses away and would also be seeking a new jockey.
The two equine Titans were due to meet next in the Rutminster Gold Cup in the first week in April. Arthur, who had been reluctantly heaving his whale-like bulk over Rupert’s fences, had also been entered, but not declared. It was still a question of Lysander having enough races in the bag to qualify. Spirits at Penscombe plummeted when, ten days before the race, he had a punishing fall from Mr Sparky, putting his shoulder out and breaking a front tooth. Laid o
ff for a week, he was nearly sacked on the Saturday before Mothering Sunday. His mind was so much on Pippa, as well as Kitty, that he forgot to pack the colours.
With only forty-eight hours left to qualify, however, he exonerated himself by winning a selling plate at Leicester so brilliantly that the owner was forced to buy the horse back for three times what he’d paid for it. Then he came third in the 3.15, and finally notched up his quota by finishing, as he thought, second in the handicap hurdle. But he was so elated he raised a clenched fist to punch the air, whereupon a startled Hopeless, thinking he was going to whack her, shot past the dark brown gelding in front to win by a nose.
The only person in the yard not overjoyed was Rupert. ‘How many times have I told you to get past before you start waving your arms about like a fucking politician,’ he yelled at Lysander as he caught up with him on the way to the winner’s enclosure. ‘And where was your head during the first circuit? Between Mrs Rannaldini’s fat legs, I suppose.’
A very nasty punch-up was averted when a pretty brunette from The Scorpion shoved her tape recorder under Rupert’s nose.
‘Is Penscombe Pride going to beat The Prince of Darkness on Saturday?’
‘Not a question of whether he’ll beat him,’ snapped Rupert, ‘but by how many lengths.’
‘Is he the best horse you’ve ever had?’
‘Yes, now buzz off.’ The prettier the reporter, the more Rupert distrusted them.
‘We do have another runner in the race,’ protested Tabitha indignantly, as she gave Hopeless a congratulatory hug.
‘Oh, right, King Arthur, 200-1.’ The brunette consulted her notebook. What had Timeform said about him that morning: ‘Campbell-Black’s white elephant, gigantic grey gelding of little account.’
‘Fucking hell!’ Lysander, on his way to being weighed in, swung round glaring at the brunette over Hopeless’s saddle. ‘How dare they?’
‘He’s your horse, Lysander,’ she said slyly. ‘How d’you rate his chances?’
‘Negligible if he rides like he did just now,’ snapped Rupert. Then turning to Lysander. ‘Piss off and get weighed in.’
‘People are saying the Rutminster’s a grudge match between you and Rannaldini,’ the brunette quailed slightly under Rupert’s chilling ice-blue glare, ‘for taking Lysander under your wing.’
‘So?’
‘You were in Monthaut with Lysander and Kitty Rannaldini.’
‘Don’t you say anything against Kitty,’ said Lysander coming back again.
‘Fuck off,’ hissed Rupert.
‘Why are you entering Lysander on a no-hoper just to irritate Rannaldini?’ asked the brunette, delighted at what she’d stirred up.
As Lysander opened his mouth, desperate to think of a really crushing reply, Rupert spoke first.
‘Arthur isn’t a no-hoper,’ he said coldly. ‘He’s a stayer. He stays even longer than my mother-in-law.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Tabitha whispered to Lysander. ‘Daddy’s always in strop before a big race.’
Daddy got stroppier. On the last gallops before the Rutminster, little Penscombe Pride was so well and above himself that he carted Bluey off the end of the all-weather track across two fields of barley on to the Penscombe-Chalford Road in the rush hour. Arthur, by contrast, didn’t try at all, slopping along at the back of the field, listening to the larks singing in a cloudless sky. He was still outraged that because caffeine was a banned substance, Rupert had stopped his morning cup of coffee. Far worse, having despatched Lysander to the dentist yesterday to get his tooth capped, Rupert had taken the opportunity to sharpen Arthur up himself, giving the old horse a good hiding when he refused to jump a row of fences at the gallop.
Lysander was in despair as he rode back to the yard. The cracks in the paths were as bad as last summer. Rain, which would make the going soft enough for Arthur, had been forecast for days, but showed no sign of appearing. Wild garlic was spreading over the floor of the wood like a thousand green hangover tongues. Lysander hadn’t had a hangover since the morning after Valentine’s Day. Nor a drink, nor any dope, nor magic mushrooms, nor even a fuck. Last night he had reached his target weight of nine stone six, but what was the point of all this self-denial if Rupert wasn’t going to declare Arthur? He glanced at his watch. It would be too late in half an hour. In the distance he could hear Tiny yelling her head off because Arthur had deserted her. She’d give him hell when he got back.
‘Can’t someone strangle that fucking Shetland?’ Rupert stalked into the kitchen where Taggie was turning sausages and frying eggs.
‘There are about thirty press messages on the machine,’ she said desperately, ‘asking if you’re going to run Arthur.’
‘Not after the way he went this morning,’ snapped Rupert, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and disappearing into his office.
The morning’s papers didn’t make Lysander any happier. There was a lot of guff about Rupert’s ‘Rutminster raiding party’ and how many winners he would get during the meeting. The tabloids all concentrated on the contrast between Penscombe Pride and Arthur. ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ said the Mail. ‘David with an Exocet faces Goliath with a sling,’ quipped the Sun. ‘Why do the handsomest men choose the ugliest horse?’ wrote the brunette from The Scorpion.
‘How dare they pick on Arthur?’ Lysander was practically in tears. ‘I’ll sue them.’
‘Hush.’ Shoving a piece of fried bread spread with marmalade into Lysander’s protesting mouth, Taggie led him to the door of Rupert’s office. ‘Just listen.’
‘It’s Race 31161,’ Rupert was saying in his flat drawl, ‘Rutminster Gold Cup, King Arthur, owned by Lysander Hawkley, ridden by Lysander Hawkley – that’s right. You still don’t know who’s riding The Prince of Darkness yet?’
Coming out of his office on his way to a Venturer board meeting back at the house, he found Lysander leaning against the wall, fighting back the tears again.
‘Thank you, Rupert. I won’t let you down.’
‘I’ve declared him, but I won’t run him unless it rains. And go and have a haircut. You can’t ride in the Rutminster with a pony-tail.’
Everyone grew increasingly tense. Danny, Penscombe Pride’s Irish lad, had been throwing up all morning, even Taggie was shouting at the Press. Rupert, in his board meeting, was trying to concentrate on plummeting advertising revenue, when there was a thundering on the door and Lysander barged in, white-faced.
‘Oh, Rupert, Arthur’s lame. He’s going short on the off-fore.’
‘Probably knocked himself this morning, just poultice him. Now get out,’ said Rupert curtly.
‘Just come and see him. Per-lease.’
So the entire board trooped down to the yard to have a look, only to find Arthur dramatically recovered.
‘He’s winding you up,’ Dizzy chided Lysander. ‘He does it to get sympathy and Polos now.’
Although the yard was running down at the end of the season, and most of the young horses had been turned out, Rupert hadn’t wanted to waste a valuable stable-lad on Arthur. To keep Tabitha out of mischief, he let her do the horse. She had proved both responsible and efficient.
Wearing a navy-blue jersey, which brought out the famous Campbell-Black eyes, but was already coated with white hairs, she stood on a bucket that afternoon to wash Arthur’s mane.
‘We’ve got to stop you rolling and getting yourself mucky before tomorrow,’ she told him, as Arthur nudged her jeans’ pocket hopefully looking for Polos.
Lysander, sitting on the edge of a stone tub of white narcissi, holding Arthur’s lead rope with Jack on his knee, had been laboriously reading Ivor Herbert’s life of Red Rum to inspire Arthur, but had given up with the effort. Trapped in her stable, Tiny watched them beadily.
‘Arthur has a look of Rummy,’ said Lysander. ‘I wonder how many more stable-boys The Prince of Darkness has eaten. I tried to help one of the grooms at Valhalla clip him once. Jesus, he went ape-shit. I jumped on to the manger. The groom sh
ot out of the door. I want to know who’s going to ride him. I bet Rannaldini’s got some nasty surprise. God, I hope he lets Kitty come to Rutminster tomorrow.’
He was really upset that, unlike most of Paradise, Kitty hadn’t sent him a good-luck card. He had even driven over to Magpie Cottage in the lunch hour to check.
‘Have you got a picture of her?’
‘It’s a bit cracked.’ Lysander took a photograph out of his trouser pocket.
After a long pause, Tabitha said kindly, ‘I expect she looks better in the flesh.’
Lysander scratched his head. ‘No, she doesn’t really. Jack’s very plain, particularly on his white-eyed side, but he’s got such a dear little face, and Arthur isn’t classically beautiful either, although I hate the Press saying it, but I love him to bits too.’
‘But you don’t want to go to bed with Jack and Arthur,’ said Tabitha. ‘Shut your eyes, darling,’ she added, as she hosed the soap out of Arthur’s forelock. ‘Not bed-bed, I mean. I suppose you’re beautiful enough for two.’
‘I feel safe with Kitty,’ confessed Lysander. ‘Since I lost weight I’m always cold. The only thing that could make me warm would be her arms around me.’
Suddenly noticing the expression of desolation on Tab’s face, Lysander realized how tactless he was being. Taking her grubby little hands, he pulled her off her bucket.
‘If I wasn’t so hopelessly hooked on Kitty, I’d fall madly for you, Tab. There isn’t a single man in the world that won’t slit his throat for you in a year or two. Like your father, you’re irresistible.’
‘Not to you,’ said Tabitha dolefully.
‘I got you a present.’
It was a silver horse-shoe brooch and he pinned it on her jersey.
‘Oh, thank you, it’s lovely.’
‘It’s going to bring you special luck. Mystic Meg said your destiny was linked with the initial I. God, I’m nervous about seeing Kitty.’
Returning at dusk from the second day of the Rutminster meeting with two wins and a couple of places, Rupert was in a much better mood. The raiding party was turning into a rout. But the smile was wiped off his face when he went into the tack-room and found Dizzy, Danny and the stable cat poring over the Evening Scorpion. They all jumped when they saw him.
