The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’m a triffic fan of yours, Georgie,’ said Kitty hastily. ‘Could I have your autograph?’

  The Billboard man was appalled at such lack of cool, but Georgie delightedly signed a page of Kitty’s autograph book. Seeing Georgie wasting valuable time on some dowdy groupie, Guy whizzed over.

  ‘May I borrow Georgie for a minute?’ he asked, and frogmarched her off to charm the manager of Tower Records, Piccadilly.

  As the Billboard man promptly disappeared in search of more exciting prey, Kitty overheard a Scorpion reporter saying: ‘Let’s call it a day. Rannaldini’s obviously not coming.’

  ‘I gather the wife’s here,’ said the Mirror. ‘Might get something out of her. Let’s try the mistress first.’

  Retreating hastily into the darkness, sitting on a lobster pot, poor Kitty miserably ate her way through a large plate of paella, trying to ignore the great phallic lighthouse flashing on the opposite wall. If only she could escape in her little car down the motorway to a cup of cocoa and her Danielle Steel, but she’d promised to give Marigold support. Through the darkness she caught a whiff of Chanel No. 5, and peppermint breath.

  ‘Hi, Kitty,’ said a caressing, rather common, voice, which she’d heard so often over the telephone discussing Rannaldini’s contracts and recording dates.

  Unlike Georgie, Kitty immediately recognized Nikki – less glamorous than she expected, but as the lighthouse beam flashed on to the vulpine features, far more predatory. What chance had poor Marigold got?

  ‘So pleased to meet you at last.’ Nikki plonked herself on an adjoining lobster pot. ‘And I was looking forward to meeting Rannaldini. I’ve heard such nice things about you.’

  Kitty, who hadn’t heard anything nice about Nikki, stared at the pieces of squid round the rim of her plate and felt sorry for them because they’d been rejected, too.

  ‘We must have lunch,’ urged Nikki.

  ‘I don’t come to town very often.’

  ‘Then we’ll meet in the country. I’ll be moving into Paradise Grange very shortly.’ Nikki’s forked tongue was loosened by drink. ‘Larry and I are getting married.’

  Kitty was aghast. ‘Oh, poor Marigold, and wot about the poor kids?’

  ‘It didn’t deter you that Rannaldini was a married man with children,’ said Nikki sharply.

  ‘No, I know.’ Kitty hung her head. There didn’t seem any point adding that Rannaldini was separated from Cecilia by the time she’d gone to work for him.

  ‘Anyway,’ went on Nikki, fishing, ‘Marigold’s got some rough trade in tow, hasn’t she?’

  Nikki, in fact, was iffy about this development. The boys had banged on and on about Lysander all weekend and, having written off Marigold as a sexless old bag, Nikki disliked any proof that she might be able to attract even rough trade. On the other hand, if she did find someone, it would save Larry a great deal of guilt and alimony. Nikki had been so certain Larry was going for a quicky divorce – she’d even planned her dress, cream silk, for the Registry Office.

  And there he was scowling and clutching his speech, his hair all tousled. No-one would think he was worth billions.

  ‘See you in a bit,’ murmured Nikki, and sliding over to Larry, taking his hand in the darkness, she placed it under her gathered velvet skirt straight on to her damp pubic hair.

  ‘Come on, make me come, I dare you,’ she whispered.

  That should obliterate all thoughts of Marigold.

  13

  ‘D’you think we should arraive together?’ said Marigold, overcome by a sudden fit of respectability as she signed her name in the visitors’ book. ‘Ay mean Ay am Larry’s wife. All his staff will be there. What’s everyone goin’ to say?’

  ‘They’ll say, “Hallo, Marigold, Hallo, Lysander,”’ giggled Lysander, who’d been smoking a joint in the car.

  As they entered the party, the room went still.

  ‘Hallo, Marigold, Hallo, Lysarnder,’ said Hermione loudly.

  Larry whipped his hand from Nikki’s bush as if it were a wasps’ nest, for across the room was the Marigold he’d first fallen in love with, but ten times more beautiful.

  Who is he? Who is he? Shaken out of their cool, everyone in the room was frantically trying to identify Lysander.

  ‘Kerist,’ exploded the Catchitune Sales Director. ‘It’s the boss’s wife.’

  ‘Lucky thing,’ said Denise the receptionist.

  A favourite has no friends. Nikki, since she had taken up with Larry, had snubbed senior and junior secretaries alike and banned executives from Larry’s presence. Marigold, on the other hand, had always been kind. She had written to Larry’s staff when they married or had babies, and been sweet even to the lowest packer at office parties. With the increasingly dark cloud of recession, they felt Marigold would not have let them starve. So they now converged on her joyfully telling her how marvellous she looked, and having a really good butcher’s at Lysander. It therefore took Marigold several minutes to reach Geòrgie. Ignoring a hovering Larry, resisting the temptation to tuck in his shirt and throttle him with his silly gold necklace, she flung herself on her great friend, telling her how wonderful she looked and how much she adored the album.

  ‘Oh Georgie, Ay’m so proud of you and for Guy, too. It’s such a wonderful celebration of your love for each other.’

  ‘Great party,’ said Lysander, who managed to have eyes for no-one but Marigold, but also on stalks for all the famous people he wanted to meet. ‘There’s Dancer Maitland, and Steve Wright and Simon Bates, and all the cast of EastEnders, and that lovely girl from Brookside. Oh my,’ he looked at Georgie, ‘and you, too. The album’s fantastic. Can I have your autograph?’

  Rootling round in Marigold’s bag in a gesture of casual intimacy, he found a pen and Marigold’s diary, out of which he tore a page and handed it to Georgie.

  ‘Why are they playing this junk instead of Rock Star?’

  ‘It’s evidently uncool to play one’s own music,’ sighed Georgie.

  ‘Bollocks! It’s your party.’

  Georgie turned to Marigold. ‘You look amazing, twenty years younger. Whatever happened?’

  ‘He did,’ said Marigold, taking Lysander’s arm.

  ‘Lucky thing,’ Georgie laughed as though this was a huge joke.

  ‘How are the children?’ asked Marigold.

  ‘Well, Flora’s been at Bagley Hall since January,’ said Georgie, ‘so she’ll be near by when we move to Paradise. It’s co-ed, so I hope she’s managing to do some work. Melanie’s in Australia bankrupting us with reverse-charged calls. And your two?’ asked Georgie, who never remembered names.

  ‘Both at prep school,’ said Marigold.

  Hermione was having a bad party. None of the pop music press were remotely interested that she was doing Dido and Aeneas. Once again she had to approach Georgie to get her picture taken.

  ‘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 wi
fe,’ 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.