The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  God told her to get down to work. Getting into her bikini she took manuscript paper, pens and biscuits for Dinsdale, who’d come back but was still sulking, out on to the terrace.

  Scraping back her hair in an elasticated band to get her forehead brown she whipped off her bikini top, coated her pale breasts with Ambre Solaire and started to think. Cleopatra was always ranting and raving at Anthony, who was charming, self-indulgent and adored by his men: a tower of strength with his willing helpers. To the west she could see a red glow beneath a mushroom-brown spiral of cloud. They were burning the stubble like Anthony’s funeral pyre.

  Georgie shut her eyes and hummed. Slowly a tune that her brain had been chasing for days took form in her head, almost as fast the words followed: ‘I want to blaze with love once more before I die.’ Joyfully she started to write, but her biro refused to function where the paper was soaked with suntan oil. She took a fresh sheet; somehow she must capture the doomed folly of their love.

  She didn’t know how long she wrote, only that music was singing in her head and words racing as though the streams of Angel’s Reach were carrying the rains off the hills once again. Like Hemingway, she was about to stop when she was ‘going good’ and make a cup of coffee when Dinsdale’s bay rang out and Jack and Maggie raced across the lawn. Maggie was carrying an envelope which she dropped in her excitement. Georgie only had time to whip off her elastic band, fluff out her hair and clutch her bikini top to her sweating breasts when Lysander crept round the corner.

  He was wearing Ferdie’s dark glasses and carrying a bottle of champagne and a bunch of clashing pink-and-purple asters. It was hard to tell if he was shaking more from nerves or from hangover.

  ‘Get out,’ said Georgie.

  ‘I’ve come to say I’m sorry. It’s the worst thing I’ve ever done, but basically I got pissed and Jack’s desperately sorry, too.’ He reached down to pick up the envelope which Maggie had dropped. ‘Jesus, my poor head! I can promise you there’s nothing sham about this pain.’

  As he handed over the bottle of Moët, he looked at Georgie under his lashes and was disappointed to see no flicker of amusement.

  ‘Why aren’t you playing in that polo final?’ she snapped.

  ‘I pulled out. You’re more important and I’m not bonking your daughter.’

  ‘I don’t believe you,’ said Georgie, wishing she wasn’t so conscious of being hot, sweaty and middle-aged, when all she should be thinking about was Flora’s honour. ‘She didn’t get back till four in the morning last Sunday, and I overheard her talking on the telephone.’

  There was no way she was going to own up to reading Flora’s diary.

  ‘Flora stayed half an hour last Sunday and had one drink,’ said Lysander, ‘and what is more,’ he went on indignantly, ‘she wasn’t remotely interested in Arthur, even when he lay on his side and snored and shook hands for a Twix bar and drank a can of Fanta. I was appalled.’

  Not exactly the way, thought Georgie thawing slightly, to Lysander’s heart.

  ‘And she kept looking at her watch,’ he went on. ‘Then a car came to the bottom of our lane and she was off like a rat up a drain. You ask Ferdie.’

  ‘He always covers for you.’

  ‘He does not. He’s just given me another bollocking.’

  ‘Any idea who was in the car?’

  ‘No,’ lied Lysander. ‘Where’s the Ace Carer?’

  ‘Gone to Oxford for an end-away fixture.’

  ‘Am I interrupting you?’ Lysander glanced at her paper. ‘You have written a lot.’

  ‘I’ve had a good morning.’ Georgie suddenly felt absurdly happy. ‘D’you want some lunch?’

  ‘Don’t think I could keep it down. Oh, Georgie, thank you for not being cross any more. I’ve been so miserable.’ He followed her into the kitchen which was as cool and dark as a cave.

  ‘I ought to get dressed,’ said Georgie, putting the asters in the sink.

  ‘Please don’t. You’re overdressed as it is.’

  ‘How about some cold chicken or a bit of sea trout?’ Georgie opened the fridge door.

  ‘Unless you’re starving. I’m honestly not hungry. Let’s watch EastEnders first.’

  ‘You ought to cook for me,’ said Georgie, ‘since you beat everyone in the chocolate-cake competition.’

  Lysander opened his bloodshot eyes wide, then roared with laughter. ‘I stuffed it with hash. No wonder the judges finished every scrap and couldn’t identify the special flavour. Ferdie got livid because I kept taking spoonfuls while he was mixing it. Cakes are so much nicer before they’re made.’

  ‘Like women,’ said Georgie acidly.

  ‘Not all women,’ said Lysander, handing her a glass.

  Collapsing on to the dark gold sofa in the drawing room, Georgie wished Guy hadn’t just cut back the rambler rose which had obscured the window. Now the bright sunlight streamed in showing up all her bags and wrinkles.

  Dinsdale promptly heaved himself up beside her and refused to budge, so Lysander was reduced to sprawling on the shaggy rug at her feet, as her children so often did. From now on she must regard him as one of Flora’s cricketing friends – delectable but out of bounds.

  It was a gripping instalment of EastEnders and Georgie was so involved in Michelle’s conversation with Sharon that she suddenly found to her horror she was stroking Lysander’s hair.

  ‘I thought you were Dinsdale,’ she said aghast.

  ‘If only I were,’ Lysander trapped her hand, ‘I’d like to climb into your bed every morning. Oh, Georgie, I’ve had my binoculars trained on Angel’s Reach since first thing waiting for Guy to go out. And I stood watching you this afternoon while you were writing, you looked so gorgeous. I really fancy you.’

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous!’ Georgie swelled with all the outrage of a cat startled by a dog.

  ‘I nearly kissed you in the woods during the cricket match – and I know you fancy me.’

  ‘I do not.’

  ‘You do, too, or you wouldn’t have been so furious about me and Flora.’ Sliding his other hand round her neck he drew her towards him until their lips touched and he kissed her with such alacrity that she fell off the sofa on top of him.

  ‘No, we really shouldn’t.’

  For a moment they were all deliciously sprawling limbs, then his tongue slid inside her mouth and as she struggled with increasing half-heartedness to escape, the safety-pin holding her bikini top gave way and she was naked except for her faded-blue denim bikini pants with her red-gold hair flowing over her golden shoulders and youthful rounded breasts.

  ‘Oh, they’re sweet!’ Lysander kissed each nipple. ‘You’re so beautiful.’

  Laying her across his thighs, he pushed back her fringe and adoringly kissed her forehead, her heavy eyelids, her snub nose, and then, with a whoop of delight, returned to her mouth. All the time he was gently stroking the back of her neck, her armpits, and her breasts an inch below the nipples, every place where she was most responsive, before tunnelling under her bikini bottom until he could feel her heart bashing against his and her thighs quivering with delight.

  ‘I thought you had a hangover,’ muttered Georgie, struggling to keep a metaphorical foot on the bottom of the pool.

  ‘You could put Fernet Branca out of business,’ whispered Lysander. ‘God, I want to get inside you. I’ve got a thing about women of experience.’

  ‘Experience of retreating men,’ said Georgie sadly. Oh, why hadn’t she kept up those exercises to strengthen her internal muscles? ‘Anyway we can’t, not in front of Dinsdale.’

  Laughing, Lysander laid her on the rug. Switching off EastEnders, he removed his dark blue shirt, threw it over Dinsdale and turned a photograph of Guy to face the wall. Then, dropping his jeans, he knelt beside Georgie, gently easing off her bikini bottoms. Burying his face in her breasts, breathing in Ambre Solaire, he mumbled, ‘I dreamt and dreamt this would happen. I’m going to be the bridge over the ravine to your new happiness. Don’t cry, it
’ll be so lovely. Lie on top of me if the floor’s too hard.’

  It had been such agony with Guy that morning that on seeing the splendour of Lysander’s cock, Georgie was terrified he’d never get inside her. But having turned her sideways, with one thigh between his, he spat on his fingers and stroked her so delicately that she was soon bubbling like a hot churn of butter.

  ‘Oooooh, that’s heavenly,’ she sighed as he slid easily right up inside her. ‘We’re tailor-made. God, what a wonderful cock.’

  Lysander grinned down at her. ‘It’s an absolute tower of strength,’ he whispered and Georgie got such giggles he came and she didn’t.

  ‘God, that was magic.’ Lysander filled their glasses with tepid champagne. ‘I’m sorry. I should have kept going. Ferdie always distances himself by reciting Shakespeare or Latin verbs, but I can never remember anything long enough to remember it. Anyway I can’t think of anything but you. Oh, Georgie.’ And he kissed her with such love, it was worth all the orgasms in the world.

  As he lit them both cigarettes, a deep sigh came from the sofa. Jack, Maggie and Dinsdale, peering out from under Lysander’s shirt, were watching them with the utmost disapproval.

  ‘They look like Jack Tinker, Milton Shulman and Irving Wardle after the first act of a seriously bad play,’ said Georgie, ‘except it was seriously lovely.’ Bending over she kissed Lysander’s flat brown belly, then moving slowly upwards kissed each rib. ‘You are desirability incarnate, but it must be the last time. You’re less than half my age. It’s obscene.’

  ‘So what? Look at Rannaldini and—’ Lysander just stopped himself saying ‘Flora’. God, he must be careful. ‘And – er – all those groupies he’s always deflowering.’

  ‘According to Hermione, Rannaldini fulfils a woman’s every need.’

  Chucking his cigarette into the fireplace Lysander stretched out on the rug, his cock pointing unambiguously heavenwards.

  ‘Come and sit on my need,’ he said, ‘and this time you’re going to come.’

  Georgie’s life changed. Feeling herself wildly desired by someone she found wildly desirable, her confidence flooded back. She started looking sensational. She had never enjoyed sex so much. She’d never believed lust and larkiness could be so entwined.

  Ferdie, on the other hand, was livid. ‘You’re not supposed to bonk them,’ he shouted at Lysander, ‘you’ll be done for enticement. Guy’ll take you to the cleaners.’

  ‘I don’t care, I love bonking Georgie.’

  ‘She’s ancient,’ snapped Ferdie. ‘You’re like a robin nesting in some rusty old kettle.’

  Ferdie was somewhat surprised to find himself being shaken like a rat.

  ‘Don’t you ever talk like that about Georgie again.’

  Guy was also seriously rattled. Georgie had cried wolf in the past, often threatening to walk out when she was plastered. But now she was never in when he rang. She claimed she was working, but he noticed exactly the same notes on her music-stand and the same words of lyric in her notebook on Fridays as there had been on Mondays.

  ‘You’re seeing far too much of Lysander Hawkley,’ he told Georgie, who was wearing a scarf on the hottest day of the year to hide the lovebites.

  ‘And you see too much of Julia Armstrong,’ said Georgie blithely. ‘Small tits for tat.’

  ‘We’re not talking about me. It’s juvenile to try and get your own back.’

  ‘Whoever said revenge was sweet was a smart cookie.’

  Guy tried another tack. ‘We must do more things together, Panda.’

  ‘Right,’ said Georgie. ‘Let’s kick off by getting a divorce.’

  34

  The impossibly hot summer sweltered on and people wore as few clothes as possible. Georgie and Lysander spent a great deal of time in bed and his presence at Magpie Cottage kept the husbands of Paradise more on their toes than Baryshnikov. In particular, Guy and Larry started ringing solicitously night and morning, cutting down their sporting activities at weekends and getting home early on Friday with bunches of flowers. In Guy’s case it was dramatic how British Rail had suddenly improved their services.

  Only Rannaldini carried on in his usual fashion making love to Flora in every possible position in every capital in Europe. Hermione and Cecilia, unaware of this new passion, joined Natasha in feeling more than a faint neglect and became increasingly demanding and histrionic – particularly towards Kitty, who was the one who had to cancel when Rannaldini was supposed to be seeing them.

  The only pleasure afforded a chronically cuckolded wife, of witnessing the anguish of one’s husband’s current mistress when he moves on to a new one, was denied to poor Kitty because she felt that Rannaldini was far more smitten with Flora than any of the others.

  A diversion was caused at the end of August by the launching of his film of Don Giovanni, promptly nicknamed Dong Giovanni because many of the leading characters appeared with nothing on. The critics, while full of praise for the production, pointed out that the wonderfully lit conductor appeared more than the Don. Paradise was electrified because their very own Hermione Harefield, and Cecilia Rannaldini, the ex-wife of their very own Rannaldini, appeared in the buff. Grin and Barefield, The Scorpion called it. Pirate versions were soon circulating Paradise with the sound turned down and much frame-freezing on Hermione’s bottom.

  At a private and raucous late-night showing in The Pearly Gates, pats of butter and even darts were thrown at the screen. Hermione was not quite so beloved in Paradise as she believed.

  Having borrowed the tape to show Georgie, Lysander wandered down to Paradise the following morning to hand it over to ancient Miss Cricklade who was next in the queue. Since the arrival of a vast box of chocolates, Miss Cricklade had forgiven Lysander for drinking her home-made wine at the fête and was now taking in his washing.

  It was a day fit for a wedding. After heavy rain in the night, a newly washed blue sky arched over gold fields. Every blade of bleached grass and already turning leaves sparkled in the sunshine. Apples reddened like blushing brides in the orchards of Paradise.

  Lysander had meant just to take the dogs but Arthur had looked so bored and eager for a jaunt and Tiny made such a din if left behind that in the end they all went. Jack, strutting out proudly with Arthur’s lead rope between his teeth, and Maggie, who was now three times larger than Jack, cavorted in front teasing Tiny and keeping out of the way of her gnashing jaws and lightning hoofs.

  Lysander felt absurdly happy. Wearing just loafers and frayed denim shorts, he could feel the sun on his back which was now darker gold than the fields. He was in love. He had a mother to fuss over him once more and he adored living in Paradise. Since he’d mistaken the fête for a wedding reception and made the vicar’s wife, Marigold and Lady Chisleden (all regarded as bossyboots) look silly, his popularity had soared even higher.

  ‘In a world where nothing seems real, I have found you, I have found you,’ sang Lysander to Arthur, who waggled his big ears lovingly and didn’t remotely mind his master being out of tune.

  Passing Bob’s and Hermione’s, Lysander noticed a pair of sweating workmen hoisting very large, new-looking white balls on to the greying flat-topped pillars on either side of the gates.

  He was so busy staring he didn’t see anyone approaching. Giving a snort of irritation that Lysander’s pack was spilling over the road and pressing herself into the hedge like a cat when the hunt passes, was a very tall, very thin girl. Startlingly pale for such a hot summer, she had very short spiky beige hair and a fine-boned foxy face dominated by angry eyes. She was wearing a loose, earth-coloured dress, which totally disguised her figure. Somehow she seemed familiar. Lysander heard her footsteps halt, but when he turned, she’d disappeared. She must have gone into Jasmine Cottage, the sweet little house belonging to Hermione, which was hired out for expensive holiday lets.

  By the time Lysander had had a cup of coffee and a glass of parsnip sherry with Miss Cricklade and dropped off his washing and had a glass of Sancerre
with Miss Paradise ’89, who waited at The Heavenly Host and who’d saved the remains of last night’s bread-and-butter pudding for Arthur, and had a bet and a pint of Flowers at The Pearly Gates and reached The Apple Tree, he was in fine fettle. But as Tiny had eaten his shopping list he’d forgotten what he’d come down for.

  Wandering round the shop throwing smoked salmon, frozen Mars bars and a bottle of Moët into his basket as treats for Georgie, Lysander bumped into Eve the owner who was as short, plump and jolly as the unknown girl had been tall, thin and disapproving. ‘Who’s taken Jasmine Cottage?’ he asked.

  ‘Mrs Levitsky’s come back,’ said Eve with a sniff. ‘She was married to Boris that Russian. They were so happy when they first lived here. She had two lovely kiddies and hair down her back. Then he went off with another woman.’

  ‘Ah. Is she called Rachel and plays the piano?’

  ‘That’s the one. She likes to be called Rachel Grant now.’

  ‘I know her,’ said Lysander in amazement. ‘She was so beautiful she made me forget to go to an interview. Gosh, she’s changed.’ Lysander added Pedigree Chum, chewsticks and carrots for the horses to his basket.

  ‘It’s unhinged her,’ said Eve, writing down Lysander’s purchases in a red book. ‘She’s joined the Green Party and she’s always in here complaining. None of the fruit’s organic enough. I mean, we’re not a health-food store. Then she says we’ve got the wrong washing-up liquid, the wrong toothpaste, the wrong shampoos.’ Eve’s sense of grievance boiled over. ‘I hope her hair turns green and it all falls out. She’s put off so many of my customers.’

  ‘What’s she doing down here?’ asked Lysander, adding the Sun and Sporting Life to the pile.

  ‘Come back to accompany Hermione. She’ll get a pittance for that. She keeps grumbling Jasmine Cottage is so dark. Not surprising with all those Save the Whales and the White Rhino and the Rain Forest posters in the window. She could start by saving her breath,’ added Eve putting everything into a carrier bag.