The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  Met.

  THE REVEREND PERCIVAL A portly parson who confines

  HILLARY his pastoral visits to drinks

  time.

  JOY HILLARY His wife. A bossy boots.

  BEATTIE JOHNSON A seductive, totally

  unprincipled journalist.

  FREDDIE JONES Electronics supremo and

  director of Venturer

  Television.

  BORIS LEVITSKY A glamorous, temperamental

  composer who defected

  from Russia in the eighties.

  Assistant conductor at the

  London Met and lover of

  red wine, red meat and

  red-blooded women.

  RACHEL LEVITSKY His English wife. A concert

  pianist who has sacrificed

  her career to bring up

  two children: Vanya and

  Masha. Performs under her

  maiden name, Rachel Grant.

  LARRY LOCKTON Chief Executive of

  Catchitune Records and a

  rough diamond.

  MARIGOLD LOCKTON His once-ravishing

  wife, who is finding

  to her cost that rough

  diamonds are not for

  ever.

  ISAAC LOVELL A brilliant jump jockey.

  SHERRY MACARTHY A ravishing neglected

  American wife.

  GEORGIE MAGUIRE A sixties singer/songwriter

  and sex symbol. Slightly

  long-in-the-capped tooth,

  but poised for a massive

  come-back.

  DANCER MAITLAND A rock star.

  MARCIA MELLING A susceptible divorcee, one

  of Rupert Campbell-Black’s

  owners.

  OSWALDO A colourful guest conductor

  of the London Met.

  MR PANDOPOULOS Another of Rupert

  Campbell-Black’s owners.

  MRS PIGGOTT Georgie Maguire’s daily.

  Nicknamed Mother

  Courage because of her

  fondness for a pint of

  beer.

  ROBERTO RANNALDINI One of the world’s greatest

  conductors. Musical director

  of the London Met and a

  very evil genius.

  KITTY RANNALDINI His much younger third

  wife who runs his life like

  clockwork.

  WOLFGANG RANNALDINI Rannaldini’s son from his

  first marriage, a good

  sort.

  NATASHA RANNALDINI Rannaldini’s daughter from

  his second marriage: a

  handful in all senses of the

  word.

  CECILIA RANNALDINI Rannaldini’s second wife

  and a world famous diva.

  Given to throwing plates and

  tantrums.

  GUY SEYMOUR A bishop’s son and Georgie

  Maguire’s very decent and

  rather unlikely husband.

  Owner of London art

  gallery and nurser of talent.

  FLORA SEYMOUR Guy’s and Georgie’s wild

  child.

  MEREDITH WHALEN A highly expensive gay

  interior designer, known as

  the Ideal Homo because he’s

  always being asked as a spare

  man for deserted wives at

  Paradise dinner parties.

  ELMER WINTERTON American Security

  billionaire. Chief executive

  of Safus Houses Inc. and a

  philandering Palm Beach

  polo patron.

  MARTHA WINTERTON His ravishing neglected

  second wife.

  1

  Lysander Hawkley appeared to have everything. At twenty-two, he was tall, broad-shouldered, heart-stoppingly handsome, wildly affectionate, with a wall-to-wall smile that withered women. In January 1990 at the finals of a Palm Beach polo tournament, this hero of our time was lying slumped on a Prussian-blue rug in the pony lines sleeping off the excesses of the night before.

  The higher the standard of polo the better looking tend to be both grooms and ponies. On this punishingly hot, muggy day, all around Lysander beautiful girls in Prussian-blue shirts and baseball caps were engaged in the frantic activity of getting twenty-four ponies ready for the match. But, trying not to wake him, they swore under their breaths as they bandaged and tacked-up charges driven demented by an invasion of mosquitoes. And, if they could, these beautiful girls would have hushed the thunder that grumbled irritably along the flat, palm-tree fringed horizon.

  But Lysander didn’t stir – not even when an Argentine groom working for the opposition jumped a pony clean over him on the way to the warm-up area, nor when two of his team mates, the Carlisle twins, Sebastian and Dominic, roared up in a dark green Aston Martin yelling in rage and relief that they’d finally tracked him down.

  People loved doing things for Lysander. The grooms had kept their voices down. In the same way Seb and Dommie, both England polo internationals, had persuaded Elmer Winterton, the security billionaire who employed them for the Palm Beach season, to fly Lysander out as a substitute when the fourth member of the team had broken his shoulder in the semi-finals.

  ‘The little fucker,’ howled Seb, leaping out of the car, ‘after all the trouble we took getting him the job.’

  ‘He rewards us by getting rat-assed,’ said Dommie.

  Together they gazed indignantly down at Lysander, sprawled lean-hipped and loose-limbed as a lurcher puppy. Lazily he stretched out and raked a mosquito bite in his sleep.

  ‘No-one looking at that angelic inertia,’ went on Dommie grimly, ‘could imagine his ability for wanton destruction when he’s awake.’

  ‘Well, if he channels some of that ability against the opposition we’ll be OK,’ said Seb, and, picking up a Prussian-blue bucket, he dashed the contents into Lysander’s face. ‘Come on, Mr Hawkley. This is your wake-up call.’

  ‘What the fuck?’ Leaping as though he’d been electrocuted, frantically wiping dirty water out of his eyes, Lysander slowly and painfully focused on two, round, ruffian faces and four dissipated blue eyes glaring down at him from under thick blond fringes.

  ‘Oh, it’s you two,’ he groaned. ‘For a terrible moment I thought I was seeing double. What the hell are you trying to do to me?’

  ‘Nothing to what you’re doing to yourself,’ said Seb briskly. ‘Game starts in half an hour. Get your ass into gear.’

  ‘Did you pull that blonde?’ asked Dommie, unbuttoning his grey-striped shirt and selecting a Prussian-blue polo shirt from the back of the Aston Martin.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Lysander’s wonderfully smooth, wide forehead wrinkled for a second. ‘I went back to her place, certainly, but I’ve got a terrible feeling I fell asleep on the job. I’d better ring and apologize.’

  ‘Later.’ Seb chucked him a polo shirt.

  ‘I bloody can’t,’ complained Lysander, taking a sodden piece of paper from his shirt pocket. ‘She gave me her number but the ink’s run. I’d like a tan like that,’ he added, admiring Dommie’s solidly muscled conker-brown back.

  ‘Well, you won’t get one unless you play bloody well this afternoon,’ said Seb, stepping out of his jeans. ‘Elmer’s threatening to send you home on the next plane. The fax in the barn is for business use only. Elmer is desperate for details of some massive Jap deal, and all morning the machine has been spewing out the racing pages of every English newspaper.’

  ‘Oh, great! They’ve arrived.’ Leaping to his feet, Lysander tore off his shirt without bothering to undo any buttons. ‘If I get changed quickly, I can have a bet. If Elmer won’t let me use the telephone in the barn, can I borrow yours?’

  ‘No, you cannot!’ Grabbing Lysander’s arm, Seb yanked him back. ‘Bloody get dressed and warmed up. We didn’t bring you all the way from Fulham to make fools of us.’

  ‘Foolham,’ said Lysander. For a moment, his head went back and his big mouth stretched in a roar of laughter sh
owing off wonderfully even teeth. Then he looked perplexed.

  ‘Now, where did I leave my polo gear?’

  The opposition team, who were called ‘Mr Beefy’, consisted of a fast-food tycoon, Butch Murdoch, a good consistent player, and his three Argentine professionals, one of whom, Juan O’Brien, was the greatest player in the world. Wearing red shirts, they were already hitting balls across a field which rippled beneath its heat haze like a vast green lake. A red mobile canteen was handing out free hamburgers to Mr Beefy supporters. Inhaling a waft of frying onions, as he and the twins rode onto the field, Lysander retched and clamped his mouth shut. Unable to find his kit, he was wearing boots that wouldn’t zip up, borrowed knee-pads and a too-large hat which kept falling over his perfect nose and which did nothing to deflect a white-hot sun from his murderous headache.

  An utterly instinctive horseman, Lysander’s polo career had been held back in the past by his ability to be distracted during matches.

  ‘Oh wow, oh wow,’ he was now muttering as he took in the glamorous, gold-limbed female supporters, crowding the stands and lolling on the burning bonnets of the Cadillacs and Lincolns lining the field.

  ‘God, I’ve got a hangover. This horse is so over the top,’ he grumbled, trying to stop a madly excited chestnut mare taking off as Butch Murdoch’s private ambulance manned by an army of paramedics, stormed past to take up position at mid-field.

  ‘Kerr-ist!’ Lysander nearly lost his hat as he swung round. ‘Look at the legs on that brunette in the pink skirt.’

  ‘More to the point,’ Seb lowered his voice, ‘see that man in the panama in the second row of the stands. He’s an England selector flown specially over to watch you.’

  ‘Really!’ Lysander’s blue-green eyes widened in wonder.

  ‘So get your finger out.’

  ‘You bet!’ Squeezing the chestnut, Lysander galloped off in a cloud of dust, tapping a practice ball effortlessly ahead of him.

  ‘That’s not true,’ said Dommie who had slightly more principles than Seb.

  ‘Of course it’s not,’ said Seb. ‘But it might take his mind off fieldside crumpet!’

  The twins were basically amused by Lysander’s antics. In their youth, when they had made more money ripping off rich patrons than by their polo skills, their own wildness had been legendary. But the chill hand of the recession was making patrons more parsimonious and hot horse deals less easy and, as Elmer Winterton paid them a long salary and picked up their expenses, it was very much in their interest that Lysander distinguished himself that afternoon.

  And here at last, trailing security guards, and perennially late because he liked to give the impression of being delayed by matters of state, came Elmer Winterton. He was followed by a private ambulance even larger than Mr Beefy’s and manned by more paramedics.

  Elmer’s company, Safus, not only produced the Safus House which was allegedly so well secured that no intruder could break in, but also specialized in screening high-risk computers for the American government and industry. Elmer could frequently be heard boasting that only he knew the passwords to the nation’s most crucial secrets.

  Having flown several senators and their wives down from Washington by private jet to watch him play, he was desperate that his team should win the cup under the Prussian-blue Safus colours.

  Dark, swarthy, squat, with eyebrows that without ferocious plucking would have met in the middle, Elmer had mean, small eyes and a long nose that jerked up at the end like a white rhinoceros. He also displayed the rhino’s erratic belligerence and was so unable to control his overbred ponies that he was as likely to crash into his own side as the opposition.

  It would be hard to have been uglier or a worse rider than Elmer, as he lumbered on to the field intolerably pounding the kidneys of his delicate dapple-grey pony, but such were his power and riches that the gold-limbed girl groupies licked their lips and rolled their shorts up an inch or two higher as he passed.

  The heat was stifling. To the west, sinister black clouds advanced like a procession of Benedictine monks. Shaggy palm trees quivered with stillness above the mushroom-brown houses that flanked the outfield. As sweating ponies lined up and the umpire chucked the ball into a shifting forest of legs, Lysander could be heard saying, ‘I wonder if Elmer’s paramedics have got any Fernet-Branca.’

  By half-time, Safus was trailing 2–8 and Lysander was dying of shame. Not having played since last summer, he was scuppered by hangover and the cauldron heat of Palm Beach after a freezing English winter. Unused to such fast well-bred ponies or such hard dry ground, he had had a terrible three chukkas. Mr Beefy’s three Argentine hired assassins hadn’t allowed him near the ball. Nor were matters helped by Elmer barging around like some geriatric in an ancient Mini, who keeps pulling in front of faster drivers on the motorway. Of the eight goals scored by Mr Beefy, six had been penalties awarded against Elmer. Elmer was also aware that a photographer, hired by the Safus PR Department, was videoing the entire game to show at the sales conference next month and he hadn’t touched the ball once.

  ‘I pay for this fucking team,’ he was now yelling at Seb and Dommie in the pony lines, ‘and I’m going to fucking well hit the fucking ball as much as I fucking well like, and as for him,’ he stabbed a stubby finger at a cringing Lysander, ‘hired assassin indeed. Hired asshole more likely, that son of a bitch couldn’t assassinate a fly.’

  Matching Elmer’s mood, the black clouds now hovered above the pony lines like a vast impenetrable yew hedge. Lysander’s eyes and throat were lined with dust. He’d towelled off a bucket of sweat as he came off the field, and now he was wringing wet again.

  Comfort, however, was at hand from a honey-blond groom called Astrid.

  ‘Don’t listen to Elmer,’ she told Lysander, ‘and don’t be fooled by this mare. She doesn’t have brakes, but she sure is fast,’ she added as she pulled down the stirrups of a mean-looking yellow pony, whose coat quivered irritably against the flies.

  ‘What’s she called?’ Lysander asked listlessly as he put his foot in the stirrup.

  ‘Mrs Ex, after Elmer’s ex-wife,’ said Astrid, jumping to avoid the mare’s darting teeth, ‘because she’s always bombing around causing trouble.’

  ‘Surprised he got anyone to marry him,’ shuddered Lysander, gathering up his reins and his stick.

  In defence of her master Mrs Ex put in a terrific buck. Next moment Lysander was sitting on the ground.

  ‘See what I mean,’ bellowed Elmer, ‘that asshole can’t even stay on a fucking horse. Get the paramedic. He’ll certify the guy injured and we can put in a sub.’

  But the fall had sobered Lysander. Vaulting on to Mrs Ex, he galloped back into the fray. In the fourth chukka, Dommie and Seb both scored twice, and Lysander once. Then Mr Beefy’s Argentines rallied and Lysander was so transfixed with admiration for Juan O’Brien’s forehand pass that he completely forgot to mark the number two player to whom Juan was passing.

  ‘Take the bloody man, Lysander,’ screamed Dommie. But he was too late, the number two had scored.

  Three minutes later to placate Elmer, who was bellyaching about being the only member of the Safus team not to have scored, Dommie dropped a ball a foot in front of him and bang in front of the goal.

  ‘Take your time, Elmer,’ he shouted, galloping upfield in support.

  ‘Elmer Winterton is looking awful good,’ said the commentator.

  Elmer took a swipe, missed, and, losing his temper, started to beat his pony.

  ‘Hi,’ yelled Lysander, thundering across the field, ‘that is absolutely not on.’

  ‘It absolutely isn’t on, is it, you little fuckwit.’ Elmer mimicked Lysander’s English accent. ‘I can hit anything I want,’ and raising his stick he took a furious swipe at Lysander who promptly lifted his stick in retaliation.

  ‘Stop it,’ roared Seb.

  Fortunately, like a bucket of water over a dogfight, the dense black cloud keeled over in a tidal wave. Like cats, the specta
tors shot into their cars. Most of the players, particularly the Argentines, who detested rain, would have followed suit. But Lysander felt only blessed relief. For the first time in forty-eight hours he was cool and he was utterly used to playing in the rain.

  ‘Lysander Hawkley is looking awful good,’ crackled the loudspeaker a minute later. ‘He’s got the line and he’s really motoring on Elmer Winterton’s yellow pony. Oh, where are you going, Lysander?’

  Shying at one of Mr Beefy’s white-and-red paper napkins which had blown on to the field, Mrs Ex had taken off through the downpour carting Lysander, who was whooping with laughter, past Elmer’s and Mr Beefy’s ambulances, beyond the goal posts and goal judge off into the Everglades. Three minutes later, he cantered back, still roaring his head off.

  ‘When a horse takes off, there’s not much you can do. The only thing that stopped Mrs Ex was a huge croc on the river bank. I thought it was one of your security guards. Sir,’ he added hastily seeing the sudden fury in Elmer’s beady little eyes.

  Fortunately Mrs Ex’s turn of speed proved more effective going the other way. Hanging on Lysander’s hands like an express train, she whisked him past three outraged Argentines, which enabled him to lean right out of the saddle and flick the ball between the red-and-white posts with a glorious, offside cut shot.

  As the bell went for the end of the fifth chukka the crowd hooted approval from the inside of their cars. Riding back to the pony lines through the deluge Lysander noticed a lone spectator huddling in the stands beneath the totally inadequate protection of a Prussian-blue Safus umbrella. Catching a glimpse of long brown legs Lysander recognized the brunette in the pink skirt he’d admired earlier. Returning for the last chukka, he carried a spare blue rug which had kept dry in Elmer’s trailer.

  ‘Oh, how darling of you,’ said the brunette as he jumped off and spread it over her legs.

  Her hair, the rich brown of soy sauce, fell in dripping rats’ tails. The rain intensified the dark freckles that polka-dotted her thin face and arms. She was shivering like a dog in a vet’s waiting room.

  ‘You should be inside your car,’ reproved Lysander.

  ‘My husband likes to know where I am, in case he breaks a mallet.’ The girl pointed to three spare polo sticks propped against the low white fence in front of her.