by Jilly Cooper
‘We’ll discuss it some other time. At least promise not to tell anyone about the baby until we decide what to do,’ said Rannaldini sharply. Then, changing tack and becoming conciliatory, ‘You are cold, you must ’ave a nice hot bath and I weel come and dry you like a leetle girl.’
Oh please, please no, thought Kitty in horror. Fortunately Rannaldini was distracted by the telephone. Emerging from the quickest bath in history, Kitty found that Lassie had shredded a roll of lavatory paper all over the landing carpet – white horses on an olive-green sea. Very pleased with herself, she bounced up to Kitty, seizing the bottom of her dressing gown and tugged it open to reveal her mistress still wet and naked.
‘My child.’ Rannaldini moved forward to touch her.
‘No,’ Kitty shrank away. ‘I still feel queer.’
‘Of course, I just wanted to ’old you in my arms. I bring you sleeping pill.’
Sulphur-yellow, it lay on the palm of his hands.
‘I don’t like takin’ those fings.’
‘My dear, James said complete rest.’
Kitty longed for time alone to mourn the passing of Arthur, but within a couple of minutes sleep engulfed her.
Downstairs, Rannaldini planned his next move.
The sooner Kitty was removed from Lysander’s clutches the better, but maddeningly Graydon Gluckstein had whizzed back to New York at Rannaldini’s expense without confirming his appointment. Having made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich, Rannaldini choked on his glass of Pouilly Fumé as, catching up with the papers, he discovered a large piece in the weekend Times on the relative merits of his and Boris’s candidacies. The damaging implication was that while Rannaldini’s fame and explosive personality would draw the crowds, Boris was a far more interesting and creative musician.
How could they possibly think that? fumed Rannaldini as he turned up the new CD of Fidelio. No-one else made brass sing like that.
The pictures accompanying the weekend Times piece were even more damaging. Rannaldini, marvellously lit in perfect profile and exquisitely cut tails, was conducting on the rostrum. Boris, looking twenty years younger, had been photographed without a tie with his arm round Rachel, each holding a happy child by the hand. In a fury Rannaldini scrumpled up the page and, flipping through his address book, punched out a number.
‘Beattie, my leetle wild thing, we need to talk.’
Lying in Boris’s arms the following Thursday Rachel slowly came back to earth.
‘I must get up.’ She buried her lips in her husband’s shoulder.
‘No, no.’ He held her tightly.
‘I must practise for Saturday.’ She had a concert at a girls’ boarding-school in Sussex. She was going to play Chopin and Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood.
‘Play them for me now as you are.’
With the curtains drawn and one lamp casting a golden glow over his wife’s body, which was as smooth and as ivory as the keys over which she was running her fingers, Boris felt totally happy. Dreaming, The Song of the Reaper, Soldier’s March, Little Orphan, Child Falling Asleep, The Rocking-horse Knight, they were the charming little pieces his mother had played to him as a child.
‘Go on please.’
‘The Merry Peasant’s been re-titled The Happy Farmer,’ said Rachel flicking over the pages, ‘Quite right, “peasant” is much too demeaning and “merry” has connotations of alcohol.’
‘They’ll all know that one,’ said Boris.
There was a new passion to Rachel’s playing that Rannaldini must have unleashed. His wife, Boris decided, had the most beautiful body in the world, the longest neck, the slenderest waist, the softest bottom swelling out over the pansy-embroidered piano stool. He could see the gleam of her unpainted toenails as she worked the pedals. Chloe always painted hers.
Boris hadn’t told Rachel but on the way to Heathrow this evening he was going to pop in on Chloe to pick up some clothes and a pile of scores. He hadn’t seen her since they broke up several weeks ago. He knew she was in a bad way and she needed compassion and consideration, but he was determined not to start the affaire up again. Chloe was beautiful and would soon find someone else.
Rachel had launched into Important Event which entailed vigorous staccato octaves in the bass, with the right hand going right down below middle C. This meant she had to turn sideways and he could see her breasts jiggling in the firelight. Appropriately Rachel moved straight on to By the Fireside, but she got no further than the opening bars. Boris had pulled her down on to the carpet.
‘I swear I vill nevair love anyone else but you. Pleese one more time before I leave for the airport.’
The following evening Beattie Johnson sat in her large office at The Scorpion flipping through some photographs of Boris going into Chloe’s flat and embracing her tenderly on the doorstep as he left. Then she dialled a number and flicked on the recording machine.
‘Hallo,’ her voice thickened slightly, ‘Rachel Levitsky? I’m sorry, I know you like to call yourself Rachel “Grant”. It’s The Scorpion here. OK, OK, I understand, but before you ring off I wonder if you’ve got any comment about a story that your husband’s gone back to Chloe. Oh dear, she’s hung up.’
Beattie turned to the good-looking boy perched on her desk. ‘OK, Rod, you ring her now. Ask the same question and pretend to be the Mirror. Give it five minutes and you pretend to be the Mail, Kev. Then you can put on a posh voice and be The Sunday Times, Mandy, and finally I’ll do my refined Islington twang and be the Independent. That’s her favourite paper. That’ll really rattle her. She’ll soon crack under pressure.’
Rachel hadn’t cracked, but she hadn’t been able to get Boris in Italy because he’d checked out of his hotel and was obviously on his way to Israel. Despite a sleepless night she didn’t really believe the papers – they were just chasing old rumours – until she came out of Jasmine Cottage with the children on her way to Sussex. It was one of those perfect daffodil-lit mornings when the cuckoo might make his first appearance. Breathing in the sweet air Rachel suddenly noticed a bug-eyed blonde getting out of a car.
‘Rachel Grant, can we have a chat?’
‘No, go away,’ said Rachel, shoving the children and her music case into the back of her car which unfortunately was cold and took a bit of time to start.
‘What d’you think of this story about your husband and Chloe?’ The girl thrust The Scorpion through the window.
‘Cheating Boris fakes happy marriage to clinch New York job,’ read Rachel.
‘It’s not true,’ she whispered, driving off with a squeal of tyres.
‘Look at the pictures,’ yelled the blonde.
Half a mile away in Valhalla Kitty was in an increasing turmoil. For a week now she had been cut off from the outside world. As James Benson had prescribed complete rest, Rannaldini had employed a temp, a Miss Bates, who had very nice ankles and who fielded all telephone calls and visits.
Now up and dressed for the first time, Kitty sat in an armchair in the summer parlour gazing listlessly at a little copse of young poplars thrusting their acid-green branches upwards in victory salutes and reminding her agonizingly of Lysander. Out in the park in their New Zealand rugs all Rannaldini’s horses, except The Prince of Darkness, who was still confined to box rest, were enjoying the spring grass. But not Arthur, thought Kitty in despair – and wondered for the millionth time whether Lysander was all right.
Lassie was her one comfort. Already in trouble that morning for having pinched Mr Brimscombe’s paintbrush, peed on Rannaldini’s Aubusson and chewed one of Miss Bates’s green suede shoes, she had now collapsed in front of the fire and was showing off her white belly, with her speckled paws folded over like a model wearing smart new gloves.
As the front door banged she rose with a lot of woofing, shot between Kitty’s legs, then bounded forward pirouetting with joy as her old friend Ferdie walked in with Natasha.
‘Kitty, you poor thing!’ Natasha ran across the room and kissed her. ‘We’ve o
nly just found out how ill you’ve been. Are you OK? You look so pale and thin.’ She thrust a vast bunch of red tulips into Kitty’s hands. ‘And we’ve brought you some mags and some scent. Hasn’t Lassie grown?’ Leaving Kitty, she crouched down beside the puppy who was still trying to lick Ferdie to death.
Kitty had never seen such a change in two people. Natasha looked utterly ravishing in a clinging campion-pink shorts suit and high-heeled black shoes. The heavy make-up had gone; dark-lashes and sparkle were enough, and what was the point of lipstick when it kept being kissed off? And the beady, calculating dead-pan Ferdie was grinning from ear to ear, which were mostly hidden by a curly new cherub’s haircut.
‘I took him to Schumi’s,’ said Natasha proudly. ‘Doesn’t he look gorgeous?’
‘Wonderful! You both do,’ said Kitty in amazement. ‘And so thin, Ferdie.’
‘Forget Special K and Lean Cuisine,’ said Ferdie patting his concave gut. ‘Love’s the answer.’
‘You don’t think he’s too thin?’ asked Natasha anxiously.
‘No, no. When did you two get togevver?’
‘Beginning of last term.’ Natasha collapsed on the sofa and pulling Ferdie down beside her, started nibbling his ear. ‘Ferdie started taking me out from Bagley Hall. Papa’s stopped bothering now he’s bored with Flora. Oh Christ, sorry, Kitty.’
‘I’m sorry we didn’t take you out. I fort when you didn’t come ’ome,’ Kitty blushed, ‘you preferred it that way.’
‘Oh, I did.’ Natasha was ruffling Ferdie’s hair. ‘I’ve always grumbled about Papa and Mama neglecting me. Now I realize how wonderful it is. Ferdie and I have just had the most gorgeous ten days in France.’
‘We fort you was with Cecilia,’ said Kitty.
‘Mama thought I was with you,’ giggled Natasha. ‘No-one checked. And Ferdie takes care of me so much better than either of them. Oh hi, Papa.’ She edged closer to Ferdie as she noticed Rannaldini in the doorway.
‘I thought you were with your mother,’ he snapped.
‘Basically, no. She’s got a new boyfriend. You can read all about it.’ Natasha waved Hello!. ‘The last thing she wants is me around.’
‘And what about your A levels?’ said Rannaldini coldly.
Natasha smiled. ‘Well, Ferdie’s been helping me with Business Studies and even more with Human Biology. And as for Ancient History – I ought to study Lysander.’
Rannaldini was looking thunderous but fortunately rushed back to his study to answer the telephone. He was expecting confirmation from New York any second.
Just for a second colour spilled over Kitty’s grey face. ‘How’s Lysander?’ she whispered the moment he’d gone.
‘Absolutely miserable,’ whispered back Ferdie, thrusting a letter into the pocket of her grey cardigan. ‘Almost as miserable as Tiny who never stops crying and running to the gate looking for Arthur. So most of the time Lysander lets her into the house. He’s back at Magpie Cottage by the way. Marigold rolled up with some prospective buyers and was not amused to find Tiny eating carrots in front of the fire.’
‘Lysander’s still wiped out about the Rutminster,’ added Natasha who was entwining her fingers with Ferdie. ‘He blames himself totally.’
‘It wasn’t his fault,’ flared up Kitty.
‘Course it wasn’t. Rupert’s had to apologize,’ said Ferdie, who was very shaken by Kitty’s appearance. ‘They did a post-mortem. Arthur had a massive heart attack. From what I gather some old worm larvae got into the gut and migrated through the wall of the artery into the aorta and died there leaving a lesion which couldn’t cope with all that blood racing round.’
‘You are clever to explain,’ said Natasha fondly.
‘So they’ve decided Arthur crashed into the railing and broke his neck as a result of the heart attack, so Lysander’s in the clear.’
‘Oh, fank goodness.’ Kitty’s eyes filled with tears. ‘I’m so frilled, but poor Arfur.’
‘Wonderful way to go,’ said Ferdie. ‘Leading the field by twenty lengths, cheers echoing in his ears, his beloved master in ecstasy. He wouldn’t have known anything.’
‘Are you quite sure?’ Kitty gave a sob. ‘Lysander loved him so much.’
‘He loves you much more,’ said Ferdie with a furtive glance at the door. ‘He’s lost his Eurydice.’
Kitty was about to ask him to explain when Rannaldini marched in, singularly unamused to see Natasha still wrapped round Ferdie, who was no doubt acting as a go-between for Lysander.
‘You better push off now,’ he said coldly. ‘Kitty gets very tired.’
‘She looks terrible,’ said Natasha. ‘Have you been feeding her on Paraquat?’
‘Don’t be infantile,’ hissed Rannaldini so evilly that even Ferdie shivered.
Lassie was barking again. There was a knock on the door. It was Miss Bates with her normally bold grey eyes cast down.
‘Dr Benson to see you, Mrs Rannaldini.’
Before Rannaldini could stop him, James had swept in.
‘Natasha,’ he said kissing her on both cheeks, ‘I haven’t seen you for years. You’ve grown even more lovely than your mother.’
‘Why, thanks. This is my boyfriend, Ferdie Fitzgerald,’ said Natasha proudly.
‘Lucky guy.’ James shook Ferdie’s hand, then glancing from this glowing buxom child to her desperately pale, red-eyed stepmother. ‘Aren’t you pleased about the new addition to the family?’
Natasha looked blank.
‘He’s talking about Lassie,’ cut in Rannaldini. ‘Now buzz off you two and have a drink in the morning room.’
‘I wasn’t talking about Lassie,’ said James Benson smoothly. ‘Hasn’t your father told you that your stepmother’s expecting a baby?’
‘She can’t be,’ whispered Natasha, utterly aghast. Then, fielding a laser-beam of warning from Rannaldini, ‘I mean, that’s great. How very exciting,’ she added in a strange high voice.
‘We’re not telling anyone,’ said Rannaldini grimly, ‘not until the New York job’s in the bag. Now bugger off you two. James wants to look at Kitty. He hasn’t got all day.’
Natasha seemed so shattered that she walked out without even saying goodbye.
‘Look after yourself,’ said Ferdie, hugging Kitty. Seriously worried, he hated leaving her.
Natasha can’t bear my having her father’s child, thought Kitty hopelessly. Oh God, another dreadful complication.
Rannaldini jumped up and rushed out as the telephone rang. He had been unbelievably edgy all morning. A long time talking, he met James Benson on his way out.
‘Not very happy about Kitty,’ James told him. ‘Not responding at all well, almost clinically depressed. I’ve put her on anti-depressants and some iron and vitamins to boost her up. But I cannot recommend TLC too strongly, Rannaldini. She needs a proper holiday.’
‘She has one,’ said Rannaldini, who was quite incapable of controlling his orgasmic elation. ‘That call confirm the New World Phil job. It is all I have dreamt of and worked for.’
‘Well done, great,’ said James, ‘brilliant, but that’s hardly a holiday for Kitty.’
‘It’ll be a change of scenery.’ Most uncharacteristically, Rannaldini kissed his doctor on both cheeks. ‘If you’ll forgeeve me, James, I must break the news to Kitty. That will be the best tonic.’
What a victory! He wanted to shout to the rooftops as he bounded upstairs. How dare that little Russian upstart challenge his throne. The best man had won – even if he had had to fax The Scorpion piece on Boris and Chloe anonymously to Graydon Gluckstein the moment it came off the press.
‘It’ll be a new ’eaven and a new earth, my kitten,’ he told her joyfully.
The early afternoon sun flooding his face made him look young and extraordinarily handsome.
‘We will leave our problems behind and start our marriage again. You will adore New York. It pulsates like an animal.’
Cecilia lives in New York, thought Kitty bleakly, and once she�
�s dumped this latest boyfriend she’ll want Rannaldini back and me as a dogsbody. And if I go to the States and want to come back Lassie will have to go into quarantine for six months. And Hermione will come and stay for ages and little Cosmo will break the place up. At least in England they live in their own house.
‘They are so delighted to ’ave me,’ Rannaldini was saying, ‘they ’ave already release the news worldwide. Next week we can fly over and look at ’ouses. Oh, sheet,’ as his mobile rang again. ‘Why can’t people leave us alone? ’Allo, ’allo.’
His face went utterly still, so instantly drained of colour and joy that for a second Kitty thought the job had been withdrawn. For a couple of minutes he listened, just interjecting the occasional ‘sí’. Then he said: ‘It was good of you to let me know. We’ll talk later, ciao.’ He switched off the telephone.
Only then did the rage erupt, as he launched into a stream of Latin expletives.
‘What’s the matter?’ Kitty clung to a cringing Lassie.
‘The stupid, stupid beetch,’ screamed Rannaldini, ‘driving over a fucking cliff and we’ve only recorded the first two movements of the Emperor.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘Rachel. She kill herself driving off the road.’
Kitty gave a moan. ‘Oh my God! Poor Rachel. ’Ow terrible. What ’appened? Did the brakes fail? It couldn’t have been suicide.’
Rannaldini shrugged. ‘She was found clutching a copy of The Scorpion. They’d run a piece about Boris going back to Chloe.’
‘Oh no, I can’t bear it. Oh, the poor li-el kids.’
‘Rachel left them with Gretel. Stupid, selfish beetch.’
‘Oh, poor Boris. Does he know?’
‘Ees in Eesrael,’ said Rannaldini contemptuously. ‘That was Bob. He’s trying to trace him.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Kitty’s face crumpled up with tears. ‘She was probably just distracted by the ’orrible article and drove off the road.’ Groping in her pocket for a handkerchief, she nearly pulled out Lysander’s letter. ‘She dropped me a line only this week sayin’ ’ow ’appy she and Boris was.’
Again the telephone went. The Telegraph, having been tipped off, was ringing to congratulate Rannaldini about New York and wanting a comment on Rachel’s death.
