by Jilly Cooper
‘How was Paris?’ she asked Marigold.
‘Oh, lovely. We stayed at the Ritz.’
‘Did you go to the Pompidou?’
‘No.’
And when Marigold and Lysander hadn’t been to any of the operas or concerts Hermione suggested, she said patronizingly, ‘You must have gone to some decent restaurants?’
‘We just used room service at the Ritz,’ said Lysander.
‘The only thing flambéeing in our suite was me,’ giggled Marigold.
The next moment they were joined by Guy and Larry, both unnerved by the juxtaposition of Georgie and Marigold.
‘Are you an actor?’ asked Guy.
‘No. Lysander plays polo and raydes in races,’ said Marigold. ‘He loves horses.’
‘Particularly bonking dead ones,’ said Lysander, kissing Marigold. Then turning to Hermione, he asked blandly, ‘How’s Dildo and Aeneas going, Helena?’
Determined not to betray her rage, Hermione grabbed Lysander’s arm. ‘Come and meet Nikki. You two must be the same age.’
The stirring cow, thought Marigold, as Lysander was dragged off into the gloom.
‘What are Flora and Melanie doing now?’ she said.
‘You’ve just asked me that,’ said Georgie, drawing Marigold aside. ‘Are you OK?’
‘Fine,’ said Marigold.
‘You’re not. You’re shaking.’
‘Larry’s having the most terrific affaire,’ mumbled Marigold. ‘He wants a divorce and me out of Paradise.’
‘Christ, you poor darling. I’d no idea. Larry’s a bastard. Who is she?’
‘Nikki. That blonde being introduced to Lysander.’
‘Oh.’ Georgie peered through the gloom. ‘She did a number on me in the Ladies. Very plain and frumpy, I thought.’
‘She’s trying to look like a waife tonight,’ sighed Marigold. ‘Normally she exudes sex.’
‘Lysander doesn’t think so,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s done a U-turn. Wow, he’s good looking.’
‘OK?’ Lysander took Marigold’s hand.
‘Can I borrow you, Panda?’ Guy called over, sensing trouble. ‘Dempster wants a word.’
‘What did you think of Nikki?’ Marigold couldn’t resist asking.
‘Gross,’ said Lysander, beckoning to a waitress to fill up Marigold’s glass. ‘Looks as though she fell off the back of a Larry.’
Marigold burst out laughing.
‘Scuse me, Mr Maguire.’ An Evening Standard photographer sent Guy flying as he raced to get a picture of Georgie greeting Jason Donovan.
‘They also serve,’ said a quiet voice at Guy’s elbow. It was Bob Harefield, Hermione’s long-suffering husband, who’d got hold of a whisky bottle with which he laced Guy’s glass.
Balding, round-faced, bow-tied, always smiling, Bob gave the impression of a Humpty Dumpty who’d survived a great fall by the skin of his teeth.
Because of his amiable egg-like face, people tended not to notice the lean beauty of his body. No-one could understand how he could put up with Hermione and Rannaldini, but certainly his tactful handling of the latter had stopped most of the London Met committing suicide. Guy would have liked to have had a heart-to-heart with him about the Catchitune royalty system, but unfortunately Bob had that bespectacled frump in tow.
‘I want you to meet the nicest lady in Paradise,’ said Bob, ‘Kitty Rannaldini.’
Guy nearly dropped his glass.
‘Rannaldini, did you say?’ He added in amazement. ‘I didn’t realize.’ He couldn’t really say, ‘Love your hair, you’re looking fabulous,’ short of total hypocrisy, so he thanked her for being nice to Georgie. ‘You are a brickette.’
‘I was just suggesting to Kitty,’ said Bob, ‘that we ought to start a second-fiddle club for people married to celebs.’
‘You’ve got the London Met to look after as well,’ said Kitty.
‘Well, you’ve got all Rannaldini’s children and ex-wives. That’s much worse,’ said Bob, then when Kitty protested, ‘you know they are.’
‘I’ve got used to the post and the telephone always being for Georgie,’ volunteered Guy. ‘I don’t even mind being shoved aside by people desperate to meet her. The only thing I find wearing is her constant need for reassurance, but all artists are like that.’
He watches her the whole time, thought Kitty wistfully, seeing she’s got a drink and talking to the right people.
‘I did like Georgie,’ she said timidly. ‘Will you be in London during the week?’
Guy nodded. ‘I hope you and Marigold will stop her getting lonely.’
‘Oh, I will,’ Kitty felt impossibly flattered, ‘and Angel’s Reach is so beautiful. All the angels was turning pink in the sunset as I was driving up this evening. As though they was flushed with excitement about you movin’ in.’
Guy smiled. ‘That’s sweet. I so look forward to being part of a community again. If you live in a village you must put something back.’
‘Marigold’ll rope you in. She does so much for others.’
‘Particularly at the moment,’ said Bob, looking in amusement at Marigold who was peeling Mediterranean prawns and handing them to Lysander. ‘That boy is the smoothest bit of trade I’ve ever seen, straight out of Fortnum’s toy department.’
Guy, who strongly disapproved of extra-marital frolicking, deliberately changed the subject.
‘What are you doing after this?’ he asked Kitty.
Kitty looked at her watch. ‘Driving back to Rutshire.’
‘Come dine with us, Larry’s booked a table at Hero’s.’
‘I’ve already eaten a ’ole paella.’
‘Have one course. I insist.’
Feeling his warm hand on her arm, Kitty thought Guy was one of the nicest men she’d ever met. It would be lovely having him in Paradise, as an island at parties who one wasn’t frightened of going up to.
Seeing Georgie was nose to nose with David Frost now, Guy said, ‘I’ve got to ring Brian Sewell of the Evening Standard and try and get him along to a preview tomorrow. Have you got any pound coins for a fiver?’
Returning five minutes later, he was grabbed by Georgie.
‘That bastard Larry’s having an affaire with that blonde.’
‘It’s not serious, I’ll explain later,’ murmured Guy. ‘Larry’s about to make a speech. Go and stand beside him.’
As ‘Rock Star’ boomed out from every speaker, people turned to watch the video on the monitor, which showed shoals of fish turning into ink-blot ghosts which, in turn, became boats being shipwrecked, sharks prowling through the deep, lusty fishermen pulling in nets. Then the waves pounded the rock to which Georgie was clinging, until there seemed no hope for her survival. Then slowly the seas calmed, the sun came out, and Georgie was draped against the rock, drenched in her grey rags but smiling.
‘Rock star, rock star, rock star, you are my rock star,’ sang Georgie in her husky haunting voice. And on the monitor appeared a close-up of Guy looking wonderfully macho in a blue denim shirt which brought out the strange light azure of his eyes, with the wind tugging at his arctic-blond hair.
Even people round the buffet, stopped eating and drinking and listened to the track, swaying and dancing to the beat.
At the end when Guy walked up to the rock, picked up Georgie and carried her away across the sands with her wet hair trailing, and a pack of basset hounds raced after them, everyone cheered and stamped their feet. Those who were holding glasses and couldn’t clap, banged their other hand on the table, and cried, ‘Speech, speech’.
Sweat glistening on his forehead, Larry grasped the microphone.
‘We’re very happy to be producing Georgie Maguire,’ he mumbled. ‘We think she’s a bit special, and she’s going to be around for a long time to come. Catchitune hope this album is the first of many. This party isn’t a hype, no big deal, but as we speak “Rock Star” is Number One in the American charts. I give you Georgie Maguire.’
That’s the first draft
I wrote, thought the head of publicity indignantly, and I’ve been fired a dozen times today for my pains.
Georgie took the microphone and in a choked voice thanked everyone at Catchitune, and particularly Larry and his lovely wife, Marigold.
‘Hurrah,’ bellowed the Catchitune staff glaring at Nikki.
‘It’s been a long time in the wilderness,’ Georgie went on, ‘which makes tonight even more special. This is the second happiest day of my life. The happiest was when I married my husband, Guy Seymour’ — she emphasized Guy’s surname — ‘the loveliest, strongest man in the world. I’d like you to drink to Guy, my rock.’
Everyone clapped and cheered. Standing beside Marigold, Lysander noticed a girl in front removing her spectacles to wipe away the tears, and realized it was Kitty Rannaldini. He’d say hallo later. Then, in the lull that followed, out of the gloom, Marigold’s very distinct tones could be heard saying to the man on her other side, ‘Are you the chief buyer of Tower Records or a disc jockey for Radio 1? Well, take your ’and off may bottom then.’
There was a howl of mirth.
‘Marigold used to be such a dutiful wife,’ whispered Hermione in shocked tones. ‘What has got into her?’
‘I think that miraculous toy boy has,’ said Bob.
‘Larry’s having an affaire with that ghastly Nikki,’ hissed Georgie, as smilingly she and Guy posed for photographs.
‘Shut up,’ hissed back Guy. ‘The boot’s on the other foot.’
‘Lovely speech,’ said Nikki, coiling her hand into Larry’s.
‘Just going to check the other room,’ said Larry noticing Marigold was missing.
Next door, the smell of dope and hairy male armpits spilling out of sleeveless T-shirts was suffocating.
‘Rock star, rock star, my life would be a zero, without my steadfast hero,’ sang the writhing, gyrating couples in ecstasy.
Indifferent to such proof of a mega-hit on his hands, Larry scoured the room. Then suddenly the dancers parted like clouds at night to reveal two bright stars, Lysander and Marigold, in each other’s arms. Outraged, Larry watched Lysander put a joint in Marigold’s mouth and her breasts swelling provocatively as she inhaled, then Lysander taking a last puff before stamping it underfoot, then French kissing her on and on, with all Catchitune’s staff and distributors dancing round to have a better look. Larry was appalled at the pain. Stumbling upstairs, he roared at the General Manager to close the bar.
As Lysander and Marigold drifted back hand in hand, Georgie noticed the diamond brooch on Marigold’s black velvet coat.
‘Isn’t that lovely?’
‘Lysander took me to Cartier’s this afternoon,’ yelled Marigold over the din of the music as Larry joined the group. ‘It’s the key to freedom.’
Noticing his wife was no longer wearing a wedding-ring, Larry felt sick.
Waitresses were gathering up plates. Guests were ostentatiously up-ending empty glasses hoping for refills.
‘We must go,’ said Marigold.
‘I thought you were coming out to dinner,’ wailed Georgie.
‘We’ve got to get back to Paradise. Patch is on her own. We just dropped in to wish you luck. Not that you’re going to need it. I’ll ring you first thing for a proper gossip.’
Larry and Guy exchanged uneasy glances.
On the way out, Lysander tore another page from Marigold’s diary and peeled off to get Chris de Burgh’s autograph.
Oblivious of Nikki’s chilling, killing stare, Larry bolted after Marigold, drawing her aside. She noticed that his T-shirt could have been whiter. He noticed the softness of her thighs swelling up into the black velvet shorts and the way her breasts swung gently as bells under her white silk shirt.
Oblivious to Catchitune staff, who were handing out little papier-mâché rocks, tapes of Rock Star and Body Shop seaweed extract as going-home presents, he said: ‘You look beautiful, Mar, I’ll ring you.’
Catching them up, Lysander deliberately dropped Marigold’s diary, which Larry pocketed, and was horrified to read: LYSANDER, VENICE scrawled across the next weekend. No wonder she didn’t want the boys.
His evening was further ruined when he arrived with Georgie and Guy and the rest of his party at Hero’s, his favourite restaurant, and was accosted by the headwaiter who was the worst gossip in Soho, and constantly feeding stories to Dempster.
‘Meester Lockton, I am very pleased to see Meesis Lockton dining here the other night with your younger brother. She look very well.’
‘I thought you were an only child, Larry,’ said Hermione loudly.
Once again ignoring Nikki’s killing stare, Larry snarled, ‘Bring me a packet of Silk Cut.’
Primed beforehand, the band struck up ‘Rock Star’ as Georgie entered the dining room.
‘Everyone in the room will be humming it in a week, Panda,’ said Guy proudly, then in an undertone to Larry, ‘we’ve got to get that contract signed, before Marigold gives Georgie an earful tomorrow. Georgie’s insanely loyal.’
But Larry could only think of his own problems. In the past, bored with Marigold, envious of Rannaldini’s effortless promiscuity, he had fallen madly in love with Nikki. Now he was torn between his rapacious sexy mistress, who was at this moment deliberately flirting with Guy, and Marigold who had looked utterly ravishing this evening. How unhappy would I be without either? thought Larry. Catchitune had just recorded The Beggar’s Opera.
Nor had he anticipated how wildly jealous he would be of this Adonis with his public-school accent. He’d been humiliated in front of his entire staff, who knew all about Nikki, because Nikki had told them, and if there were a messy divorce, he might not get his knighthood before Rannaldini, if at all.
In addition, Nikki was not as clockwork as Marigold. She was far less efficient in the office now she had to look after him at home, and last night she had shouted at him for putting his plate in the sink rather than the dishwasher. Before he met Nikki, Larry had never lifted a finger at home except to check the dust on top of a picture.
He was haunted by Rannaldini’s warning:
‘Once she’s hooked you, the mistress becomes the wardress. She knows all the tricks you used to cheat on Marigold.’
Nikki now sat in his office, monitoring his telephone calls from all those young singers, who seemed perfectly happy for Larry to make them, if he was prepared to make their records as well. Since he’d taken up with Nikki and shattered the myth of being an utterly faithful husband, gorgeous girls had been looking at him in the most exciting way. All that promise would be nipped in the bud if he settled for Nikki.
‘They keep a cosh behind their backs,’ warned Rannaldini. ‘You never see it until they’ve got the handcuffs on. I made that mistake with Cecilia. She begrudged me my old freedoms, so I ditched her.’
Larry was fed up with going to the gym, only drinking spritzers — bloody wet — and not smoking and saying ‘No’, to canapés. Ignoring Nikki’s scowl of rage, he accepted a white roll from the waiter, and spreading it thickly with butter, ordered Spaghetti Carbonara as a first course followed by a T-bone and chips.
Georgie was now signing an autograph for an elderly couple at the next table.
‘I’d much rather she signed that contract,’ hissed Guy.
Looking across at Nikki being calmed down by Bob, Larry had a brainwave.
‘I’ll get it,’ he said.
Nipping out to the Rolls, as he had so often in the past when he wanted to ring Nikki, his heart thumping, he dialled Marigold’s number. Just as he was about to ring off the telephone was picked up. There was music and laughter in the background.
‘We oughta talk, Princess,’ Larry told Marigold roughly. ‘I gotta be in Bristol tomorrow. Thought I’d spend the night at home and return your diary.’
‘What took you so long?’ snapped Nikki, as Larry sat down beside her and kissed her fondly on the cheek. After all, he did want a fuck later.
‘Getting this,’ he said, putting a sheaf of papers
in front of Georgie. ‘Can I have your autograph, please?’
‘For your wife, your daughter, your mother or your girlfriend,’ said Georgie with a laugh.
‘For myself,’ said Larry.
It was a Catchitune contract for a million pounds.
14
Not wanting to alert the whole of Paradise to his return, Larry drove rather than flew down the following evening. Arriving as the red flame of sunset finally gave way to the distant russet glow of the Rutminster streetlights, he caught a glimpse of Catchitune written in fading crocuses and breathed in a heady scent of polyanthus, narcissus and newly turned earth, as he got out of a borrowed Mini. The Grange might face north, but it was still the finest garden in Paradise. He noticed a ladder against the house, Mr Brimscombe, the finest gardener in Rutshire, although threatened with the sack, had been trimming the famous Paradise Pearl from around the master-bedroom windows.
Across the valley he could see a single light burning in Valhalla. Kitty was still working, sorting out the tangled skeins of her husband’s life. Soon Rannaldini, too, would be home studying and settling scores in his tower in the woods. Angel’s Reach was in darkness, but shortly Georgie would be burning the midnight oil earning her million pound advance as she worked on her new album to be handed in by Christmas, and to the left he could see the jewel-coloured stained-glass hall windows of the River House. Bob and Hermione must be enjoying a rare evening at home.
Larry gave a sigh of satisfaction — all these people beavering away to put money into Catchitune’s coffers. Despite the doom and gloom, this year’s figures had been good, next year’s should be spectacular. Only when he turned towards his own house did he realize that the only lights on were the carriage lamps by the door.
Letting himself in, falling over one of Lysander’s boots, he only just reached the burglar alarm in time. After initial woofing, Patch slumped back in her basket, sulking because Jack, her boyfriend, had been banished for the evening.
Larry had skipped lunch anticipating a delicious dinner cooked by Marigold, but had planned on working up a further appetite by screwing her beforehand.
