The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘He’s still seeing Julia.’ Georgie couldn’t keep off the subject. ‘I ought to get out, but I’m like a hotel coat-hanger, useless when detached from my moorings.’

  ‘I was like that,’ said Marigold. ‘How are you and Guy when you’re together?’

  ‘Terrified. We never stop apologizing like British Rail. I bitched about him so much to Annabel Hardman the other day with the answering machine on that I had to record Dire Straits over the whole tape.’

  ‘There.’ Marigold put a huge blue-green glass of Chardonnay in front of Georgie.

  ‘Thanks. Larry was so hellish to you I’d never have signed that Catchitune contract if I’d known about Nikki, but you look so stunning now. How did you ever get him back?’

  ‘Promise, promise not to tell?’ whispered Marigold. ‘Ay paid Laysander.’

  ‘You what!’

  ‘Ferdie, Laysander’s flatmate, orchestrated everythin’. They put me on an awful diet, took me joggin’ and made me act totally unconcerned whenever Larry rolled up. Ay gave Laysander some lovely clothes and a Ferrari and we hired jewels for him to give me. Larry was so mad with jealousy he came roaring back.’

  ‘It really worked!’ Georgie showed the faint flicker of animation of the dying castaway hearing the chug of a helicopter.

  ‘Far better than before,’ said Marigold, taking the smoked salmon out of its transparent paper and laying it on a blue plate from the Reject Shop, which had presumably replaced her plates Georgie had smashed.

  ‘You know how hopelessly undomesticated Larry was,’ she went on, searching among the spice shelf for red pepper. ‘Now he brings down his washing and even loads and unloads the dishwasher. Ay’m thinkin’ of writing Nikki a thank-you letter. And he’s become so marvellous in other ways.’ Marigold unearthed a tired-looking lemon from the bottom of the fridge. ‘Not just terribly loving and not being able to keep his hands off me, but he doesn’t rev up any more or shout at me if Ay map-read wrong and he gives me the remote control when we watch TV and smothers me in YSL. That’s why I’m looking so good and best of all I don’t have to go to Masonic dinners any more.’

  ‘Golly.’ Georgie found herself peeling off a bit of smoked salmon. ‘I wonder if it would work with Guy? How much did you pay Lysander?’ she asked. Then, bleating in horror when Marigold told her, ‘I can’t afford that!’

  ‘It’s worth it,’ urged Marigold. ‘You’ll never be able to pay back the Ant and Cleo money and Larry’s hell-bent on having your album by Christmas. He’s mean about deadlines. It’ll be such fun having Laysander back in Paradise and he’ll keep Larry on his toes,’ she added dreamily.

  ‘Did you sleep with him?’

  ‘May word, no,’ Marigold crossed her fingers. ‘He’s just there to rattle one’s hubby. Do give it a go. He was in Cheshire bringing some drain billionaire to heel and now he’s in Mayorca on some rescue mission. Ay promise he and Ferdie are brilliant.’

  27

  Feeling anything but brilliant, Lysander huddled in the only bit of shade on the burning deck of the motor yacht, Feisty Lady, as she chugged round the rocky Majorcan coast. He was seven days into the worst job Ferdie had ever found him: to rattle a fabulously rich arms dealer appropriately called Mr Gunn, who had brought his appalling bimbo on the cruise as well as his equally appalling wife.

  Bloody Ferdie had also pooh-poohed Lysander’s gloomy prognostications that he was bound to be seasick.

  ‘That was rowing boats at school. Large boats are quite different.’

  Large boats turned out to be infinitely worse. The minute Feisty Lady left the Hamble, Lysander started heaving his guts out. It was absolutely no consolation, particularly during a storm in the Bay of Biscay, that the busty, braceleted Mrs Gunn spent her time vying with the ship’s crew who were all as gay as crickets (Mr Gunn was taking no chances) over who should minister to Lysander on his death bunk. Nor that Mr Gunn became so jealous of Mrs Gunn playing Florence Nightingale twenty-four hours a day that he dumped the bimbo in Gibraltar and was now bonking Florence Nightingale so vigorously in the master cabin below deck that Feisty Lady was pitching worse than in the Bay of Biscay.

  It was Lysander’s first day up. A molten midday sun blazed down out of a royal-blue sky and he felt too dreadful even to watch Goodwood on satellite or crawl to the telephone to ring his bookmaker. His wracked stomach was even more concave than that of the bronzed deckhand in frayed hotpants who seemed to be spending an unnecessarily long time polishing the nearest life buoy.

  ‘It’s really kind, Gregor, but I honestly don’t want anything,’ mumbled Lysander.

  He tried to concentrate on yesterday’s Sun. But the cheery forecast for Pisces bore no resemblance to the horrors of the day before and he was depressed by a survey in which the majority of female readers said they preferred men to be well read rather than well hung. Lysander hadn’t finished a book in years. Sick for a home that no longer existed, he longed for Jack or Arthur to cuddle. He was terrified once Mr Gunn stopped emptying himself into Mrs Gunn he would empty one of his Kalashnikovs into the catalyst. And wretched Ferdie, who had a maddening habit of going off air when he wanted Lysander to stay put, was always out of the office and refusing to return his calls.

  Listlessly he gazed across a tie-dyed turquoise and navy-blue sea at the pine-spiked cliffs falling into the sea. They were so like hedgehogs he half-expected them to curl up, taking their tower blocks and hotels with them as the yacht approached. The buildings themselves were like the egg-box castles he used proudly to take home from playgroup for his mother who, to his father’s irritation, always put them in the drawing room. He always missed her more when he was feeling ill.

  They were approaching Palma. Feisty Lady was bucking ominously and Lysander was wondering if he had the strength to stagger to the side or anything left to throw up when a huge yacht overtook them.

  ‘That’s Britannia, Sandy, isn’t she lovely?’ sighed Gregor the deckhand.

  Raising his binoculars with effort, Lysander scoured the deck for Princess Diana or the Queen. He seriously admired the Queen, no-one knew more about racing. If she fell overboard he could dive in and rescue her, although in his weakened state he probably couldn’t swim that far. Perhaps Princess Diana could rescue him. She was supposed to swim every day. He imagined her firm hands on either side of his head, her soothing voice saying: ‘Not long now,’ as she towed him towards Britannia. At the thought of her beautiful long legs doing a vigorous backstroke Lysander’s mind misted over. He was roused by the ship’s cook waving a cordless telephone smelling of garlic at him.

  ‘Nice sounding man for you, Sandy.’

  As Ferdie was the only person who knew he was on board, Lysander grabbed the telephone in a fury.

  ‘Gemmyoutofhere, you bastard. Where the hell have you been? I’ve been propositioned by every bum bandit in the British navy.’

  ‘Chill out,’ said Ferdie, who had an irritating addiction to modern slang. ‘What’s the state of play?’

  Lysander told him, then after a long pause in which Ferdie outlined his next assignment, Lysander gave a whoop of delight.

  ‘Georgie Maguire, fucking hell, the Georgie Maguire. She’s gorgeous. All right, I am keeping my voice down. I thought she was happily married… the bastard. I’ll get the next flight out of Palma.’

  ‘Wait till tomorrow,’ said Ferdie, ‘then I can meet you.’

  The following afternoon as the temperature soared into the nineties Ferdie was amazed to see Lysander sidling through the Nothing-to-Declare doors at Gatwick, smothered in an enormous camel-hair overcoat, swathed in long scarves, sending fellow passengers flying as his trolley, hopelessly over-loaded with duty-free, polo sticks and expensive suitcases out of which protruded shirt-tails and legs of boxer shorts, veered out of control.

  ‘Where’s the fucking car?’ he hissed to Ferdie.

  ‘In the car park.’

  ‘Well, take this trolley and move it.’

  ‘You OK?’


  ‘Move it, for Christ’s sake.’

  Even when he was shaking like a leaf with sweat pouring down a yellowing face, people stopped and gazed at Lysander.

  Hell, thought Ferdie, he’s picked up a fever, or worse.

  It turned out to be worse. The moment they were alone and going up in the grey car-park lift Lysander parted his stifling coat to reveal a pink nose and a pair of totally crossed eyes. Tucked under his arm was a painfully thin, bedraggled, reddy-brown mongrel puppy who nevertheless managed to twitch its curly tail and stretch up to lick Lysander’s chin.

  ‘What the fuck is that?’

  ‘What does it look like? Sweet little thing. I had to trank her so she’s very dopey.’ Lysander dropped a kiss on the puppy’s head. ‘All the way from Palma, Jesus, if another hostess asks if she can take my coat! I’ve never had so many women trying to get my clothes off. Isn’t she adorable?’

  ‘And probably rabid,’ hissed Ferdie, then as the lift stopped, ‘cover it up for Christ’s sake.’

  The row continued in the car.

  ‘Have you ever seen anyone with rabies?’ Ferdie was practically diving out of the window to avoid contact.

  ‘No, nor anything like this puppy. She’s got cigarette burns all over her back. Christ, people are bastards.’

  ‘You could go to prison for ten years, so could I for abetting you.’

  ‘Thanks for reminding me. I must have a bet.’ Lysander reached for Ferdie’s car telephone.

  ‘Put it down. Don’t change the subject. That dog could have rabies.’

  ‘Course she hasn’t. Her owners kept her locked in a cupboard. The boys from the boat took me clubbing and we heard her howling. We had to break in after-hours to rescue her. I really like gays. Basically they’re so brave and so kind to animals. It took Gregor and me an hour to wash the shit off.’

  ‘So it’s stolen as well,’ said Ferdie sternly. ‘That’s fifteen years.’

  ‘Anything’d be better than that bloody boat. I am not into bateau-ed wives.’

  Ferdie didn’t smile. ‘You’re so fucking impulsive, like that time you hi-jacked the school cat. Jack will be wildly jealous.’

  ‘Jack will be delighted — once he knows she’s female.’

  ‘Then they can have lots of rabid puppies.’

  Lysander giggled. ‘I’ve got you a huge bottle of Jack Daniels and some Toblerone for fat Jack and scent for Marigold. I can’t wait to see her. God, it’s bliss to be back. I hate abroad. People can’t understand me and I can’t understand the television. When are we going to see Georgie?’

  ‘About half-past six.’

  ‘How exciting. She looked so stunning at her launching party. Perhaps she’ll write a song about me called “Cock Star”!’

  ‘You are not allowed to bonk her.’

  ‘No, well. I better have a shower before we see her. I’ve got pee all over my shirt.’

  ‘What have you called that puppy, Death Threat?’ asked Ferdie.

  ‘Maggie.’

  ‘After Thatcher?’

  ‘No, after this girl in The Mill on the Floss.’

  ‘What are you reading that for?’

  Lysander, who was now marking runners in Ferdie’s Evening Standard, his hand edging towards Ferdie’s mobile, explained about the survey in the Sun.

  ‘How far have you got?’

  ‘Page three. He’s quite a good writer, this George Eliot.’

  Lysander was very hurt when Ferdie roared with laughter. He knew he was thick but he’d just executed a dangerous assignment with great skill and put a lot of dosh into Ferdie’s pocket.

  ‘Mrs Gunn was so grateful this morning, she’s given me twenty grand to spend at Ralph Lauren so I can buy lots of sharp suits.’ If he’d been bitchy he’d have added that Ferdie had put on a lot of weight and there was no way he could get into any of them. ‘And she offered me a yacht with my own mooring at the Hamble whenever I want, which I told her I didn’t.’

  ‘You dickhead!’ exploded Ferdie. ‘Ring her up and accept and we’ll flog it.’

  Marigold was overjoyed to see Lysander.

  ‘Chanel Number Fayve, oh you remembered, oh Laysander.’

  As she flung herself into his arms, Lysander noticed that she had, like Ferdie, put on a lot of weight. But as they had been held up in traffic there was no time to do more than bath and change before setting off to Georgie’s. Maggie the puppy, who was still dopey, having devoured a bowl of bread and milk and been inspected by Jack and Patch, had now fallen asleep on the sofa.

  ‘Poor little thing came from the National Canine Defence Kennels in Evesham,’ lied Ferdie, as Lysander, still a bit pale and black under the eyes, came downstairs rolling up the sleeves of a dark blue shirt.

  ‘God, Gregor knows how to iron.’

  ‘You look gorgeous,’ sighed Marigold. ‘Lucky Georgie.’

  She wanted to come along to effect the introductions. It had been her idea. But Ferdie didn’t want any feminine compassion softening the hard bargain he intended to drive.

  ‘Well, at least nag Georgie about the village fête,’ said Marigold. ‘We desperately need any clothes she doesn’t wear any more for the Nearly New Stall.’

  Georgie watched a dying wych-elm showering yellow leaves on the burnt lawn. It hadn’t rained since the storm that had delayed Flora the first day she’d had singing coaching with Rannaldini. Honeysuckle buds like bloody red hands clawed at the terrace walls. The hay had been cut for a second time in Rannaldini’s field below, the bales like yellow coffins symbolizing the death of the summer. Georgie had had a terrible day — not a note of music or a word written. Having made a dropped telephone call earlier she had found out that Julia was back in the cottage at Eldercombe. So Guy’s compulsive mowing, even though there was no grass, would go on.

  She didn’t know what had made her agree to see Lysander and Ferdie. The whole enterprise would distract her from work and cost a fortune and her confidence had taken such a battering she’d never pull it off. There’s no way Guy was going to stop seeing Julia.

  They were shooting clays across the valley in preparation for 12 August. Bang, bang, bang, like a relentlessly approaching army. She turned on the prom. It was the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, which Guy was always playing, probably because it was one of his and Julia’s ‘tunes’. Georgie started to cry.

  ‘Marigold looks well, doesn’t she?’ said Lysander as they stormed up a drive lit by hogweed and dog-daisies. ‘When you think what she looked like last February. I can’t wait to see Georgie.’

  In nervous excitement Lysander smoothed his windswept hair in Ferdie’s wing mirror.

  Georgie, however, was in a far worse state than Marigold had ever been. Even done up on their last notches, her belt and her watch hung loose. The stones of her engagement ring, fallen inwards, scratched against her wine glass. Like purple worms the veins rose on her thin hands. Her hair had lost its lovely Titian glow and had no life, like a dull village. She hadn’t shaved the back of one of her emaciated legs and her ankles were scratched with brambles from wandering aimlessly through the woods. It also looked as though someone had grated coconut on the shoulders of her black T-shirt.

  Getting drinks took ages.

  ‘I’m sorry this tonic’s flat,’ she said when they’d finally sat down on the terrace. ‘There’s a bottle in the fridge,’ she added as Ferdie leapt up. ‘I’m sorry the place is a mess. Mother Courage, my cleaner, has gone to the Costa Brava for a week.’

  ‘Lovely dog,’ said Lysander, as Dinsdale wriggled along the bench until his head and shoulders were resting on Georgie’s lap. She winced as the dog’s elbows dug into her fleshless thighs.

  ‘I spend my time taking grass seed out of his eyes.’

  Which are only marginally more red-rimmed than your own, thought Lysander. ‘We had a basset,’ he told her. ‘They’re terrible at getting up in the morning.’

  ‘You two should get along,’ said Ferdie, returning with the tonic.

&n
bsp; In the fridge he had also found blackening avocadoes, tomatoes spotted with grey, whiskery sweetcorn and mouldy cheese. All the plants in the kitchen were dying. Phlox and night-scented stock drooped round the terrace unwatered. This was definitely a house out of control.

  Lysander loathed the moment when Ferdie told the wives where they were going wrong. Rannaldini’s haybales reminded him not of coffins but of school trunks and sobbing into his pillow every night at prep school, until every boy in the dormitory had hurled their regulation black lace-up school shoes at him. No wonder he was brain damaged.

  He was still smarting over Ferdie’s amusement. How was he to know George Eliot was a woman? Down below he could see Rannaldini’s horses seeking shade beneath a huge oak tree. He must get Arthur sound. Box rest had done no good. He’d turn him out when he’d got him back to Paradise.

  ‘I can’t afford that,’ an aghast Georgie was saying as she rotated her leather bracelet. ‘Marigold never said it’d be that much.’

  ‘Inflation’s gone up three per cent since we sorted her out,’ said Ferdie, ‘and Lysander must have a soft-top Ferrari.’

  ‘I am due a big royalty cheque,’ said Georgie. ‘If it arrives when Guy’s not here I suppose I could stash it away and pay you with that.’

  ‘No sweat. The important thing is to get Guy back. He’s away Monday to Friday, I presume.’

  Georgie nodded. ‘But the coast isn’t always clear. Guy keeps telling his lady friends that I’m lonely. Last night bloody Hermione dropped in, had three whiskies and scrambled eggs, and I had to miss EastEnders, The Bill, After Henry and Capital City.’

  Lysander turned even paler. ‘How dreadful. Couldn’t you have taped them?’

  ‘I was buggered if I’d show her I’m hooked on soaps. She thinks I’m an utter philistine as it is. Then she had the cheek to tell me I wasn’t unhappy, just suffering from rejection and hurt pride, the smug cow.’

  ‘Well, if the lady friends roll up it doesn’t matter.’ Ferdie was anxious to get down to basics. ‘It’ll be no bad thing if they tell Guy Lysander was here.’