The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Come in, come in,’ he was saying cosily. ‘Of course we take Amex. Just give me the keys to your donkey and I’ll park him. Sign in here.’

  The orchestra, all in their overcoats, were in stitches. Kitty nearly fell off her ladder laughing.

  ‘I’ve got the video of Dirty Dancing,’ murmured Lysander, handing her up another branch of holly.

  ‘There’s a lot of shepherds in the next room who keep ordering pie on room service,’ Ferdie was now saying. ‘Bang on the wall if they get too noisy.’ Then, handing two room keys to a very disapproving St Joseph, ‘Oh, well, I better go back to watering the wine.’

  ‘Oh, please, don’t waste precious water,’ interjected Hermione, who was revving up for the birth of her Harrods doll.

  Bob, who’d been laughing a lot, told Ferdie in future he’d better stick to the script.

  ‘And it’s about time for you to sing “Oh, come all ye faithful”,’ he shouted to Flora.

  ‘No-one’s faithful in Paradise except you and Kitty,’ shouted back Flora. ‘As we’re heavily into realism I better sing, “Come both ye faithful”.’

  ‘That is quite uncalled for,’ thundered Guy, turning brick red above his blond beard.

  Flora strolled towards the stage, hands in her pockets. ‘Oh, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,’ she sang softly.

  ‘Oh wow,’ murmured the leader of the orchestra to a neighbouring oboist, ’eat your stony heart out, Hermione.’

  They had reached the part when the Angel Gabriel appeared to the shepherds abiding in the fields.

  ‘You ready, Perce?’ called Bob to the vicar in the gallery.

  ‘Ready,’ called the vicar, adjusting his halo in the window.

  Outside it was snowing. How very appropriate in the bleak midwinter. He was glad he was wearing his thermals under his nightgown.

  ‘Chat amongst yourselves, shepherds,’ said Bob consulting his script.

  ‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve, Reuben?’ asked Meredith who, as second shepherd, was holding Maggie.

  ‘That’s not in the script,’ hissed Georgie, burnous askew as she clung for grim death on to a terrified ewe.

  Suddenly, like sulphur and brimstone, a waft of Maestro swept through the great hall, far stronger than frankincense or droppings of sheep or donkey.

  Instantly the nearest flautist whipped the curly blond wig off Rannaldini’s bust. Georgie let go of her ewe, which bolted into the wings sending a peeping Mr Brimscombe flying. The star fused again.

  Rannaldini, the astrakhan collar of his black coat turned up, framing a face white with barely controlled fury, strolled towards the stage.

  ‘I thought I told you all to be word and note perfect by the time I came back.’

  ‘My fault.’ Ferdie stubbed out his cigar and stood up in the stalls. ‘I was standing in for Larry and thought I’d jazz things up a bit.’

  ‘Well, don’t,’ said Rannaldini witheringly. ‘Hermione?’

  ‘Maestro?’ Hermione smiled at him, awaiting praise.

  ‘Piano, for God’s sake,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘That lullaby would have woken every bambino in Judea and babies are fed every four hours not every four minutes, so put those boobs away. You’re playing the Virgin not Delilah.’

  Then, not giving Hermione time to scream at him, he turned on Guy who was eating a flapjack in the stalls.

  ‘You’re even more wooden than that ludicrously overdecorated manger, Joseph. Your young wife’s having a baby, then everyone rolls up bringing him presents and ignoring you. Show some pride or some jealousy, and as for you, Percy,’ he looked up at the vicar who was still swaying helplessly from his beam, ‘talk about Fat Tum of the Opera.

  ‘Your belly’s too large and your voice too small. You’re being drowned by Hermione and Georgie and you couldn’t instil mighty dread into any mind, troubled or otherwise. I’m afraid you’ll have to join the angelic choir instead.’

  Normally suntanned, Rannaldini’s extreme pallor was infinitely more sinister. The jet-black eyes glittered like holes into hell, but there was an air of purring satisfaction about him, not just due to the pleasure of bawling people out. Ignoring the equal hysterics of the vicar and Hermione, Rannaldini picked up Cameron Cook’s mobile and punched out long distance.

  ‘Carissima,’ he launched into a flood of Italian, only the occasional word like ‘network’ being comprehensible. Then, with a vicious smile, he changed to English so everyone could hear over Hermione’s squawking.

  ‘It only means arriving a day early for Chreestmas. The script? Eees excellent. I’ll get Keety to fax you a copy so you can learn it tonight. Ciao.’

  Switching off his telephone, he turned evilly to face the cast. ‘Cecilia arrive tomorrow to take over Gabriel.’

  Artistic integrity overcoming terror, Georgie tore off her head-dress.

  ‘The script is not excellent, Rannaldini,’ she protested. ‘We’ll be a laughing stock. Rachel’s wrecked it, Cameron Cook agrees with me. Someone’s got to tell Rachel.’

  ‘I will, my dear Georgie,’ said Rannaldini gently. ‘To me the scripts are much improved, more topical, more relevant, less trite.’ He turned to the back of the hall. ‘Well done, Rachel.’

  Everyone, particularly Georgie who thought Rachel was miles away, jumped out of their skins as Rachel drifted through the door.

  She was wearing a very new-looking, pale fawn cashmere jersey, softer than the belly of a Persian kitten and she looked absolutely beautiful, as though all her anger had been ironed out.

  ‘Christ,’ murmured Meredith, letting Maggie off her lead so she shot back to Lysander, ‘if Rannaldini likes that script, he must be hooked.’

  ‘I shall be working late in the tower,’ Rannaldini called to Kitty who, up on her ladder, was now filling the window-ledge with big branches of yew. ‘I do not weesh to be disturbed.’

  As he walked past Rachel, like a bat in his black coat, he shielded her from the others’ view. Only Flora, stiller than a shadow in the window-seat, saw him reach out for Rachel’s breast as Rachel put a quick hand on his crotch.

  ‘My leetle Quaker,’ whispered Rannaldini, ‘my leetle earthquaker. You will come soon to the tower?’

  ‘The moment I’ve found a babysitter.’

  And he was gone.

  The best-laying plans of maestros and men, however, can go astray. Wandering into the kitchen to make Arthur a bowl of coffee, Lysander found Rachel writing a note.

  ‘Where’s Kitty?’ she demanded.

  Picking up the note, Lysander scrumpled it up.

  ‘She can’t babysit,’ he said flatly.

  ‘Why ever not? What else has she got to do?’

  ‘She’s taking Christmas presents over to her mother.’

  ‘Oh, right – well, perhaps you could? The kids adore you so much.’

  ‘I couldn’t.’ Lysander’s sweet face hardened like wet clay cast in bronze. ‘I’m not looking after your kids so you can get fucked by Rannaldini.’

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel gave a gasp of horror. ‘I’ve been celibate for nine months.’

  ‘Not with Rannaldini, you haven’t. December 9th, wasn’t it? I was driving home from Kitty’s, Rannaldini was kissing you on the doorstep. Your towel was slipping. And you told Kitty you’d gone to see your solicitors – soliciting more likely.’

  ‘We were discussing cadenzas,’ said Rachel, frantically casting round for excuses.

  ‘Cad’s a better word,’ said Lysander bleakly. ‘Kitty was so bloody tired that night.’

  Rachel was shattered by his anger.

  ‘Come and have a drink this evening. I’ll explain.’

  ‘No thanks, and don’t ever do that to Kitty again.’

  Poor Rannaldini. Hermione was so livid she decided temporarily to emulate the purity of the Virgin that night. Kitty was in Sidcup and Rachel was confined to barracks minding her own children. Faced with the appalling prospect of a loveless evening, Rannaldini decided to forgive Flora
. Ringing up Guy and Georgie, he suggested he dropped by after supper to show them the video of the dress rehearsal and have a last-minute script conference.

  ‘Maybe Rachel make it a leetle too green.’

  It was snowing heavily by the time he arrived at Angel’s Reach. Shivering in the icy wind like a slaughtered ostrich, a large Christmas tree lay on its side.

  Rannaldini was livid to discover that Flora had gone out to a party. Georgie was livid because the video showed Guy’s hand disappearing more than once into the billowing blue depths of Hermione’s robes.

  ‘It’s good acting,’ protested Guy. ‘A pat on the bottom is just the kind of friendly gesture a wife receives from any husband.’

  ‘Particularly someone else’s,’ snapped Georgie.

  Guy had been twitchy all evening because wretched Flora had pinched the car without asking and there was no way he could escape.

  They worked in the kitchen because it was warm by the Aga and by the time they’d gone through the script and toned down Rachel’s worst excesses, Rannaldini had drunk enough red wine to risk dropping in on her on the way home. He had just picked up his car keys when Flora walked in. She betrayed no trace of surprise at seeing him. Her red hair, darkened by snow, had grown since last summer. A thick strand had blown round her white neck like a leather strap.

  She was wearing a black leather jacket over a gunmetal-grey satin camisole top and black velvet shorts above black-stockinged legs that had lost any trace of puppy fat.

  ‘We were worried about you, darling,’ said Georgie. ‘The roads must be hell. Was it a good party?’

  ‘Great.’ Flora crouched down beside Dinsdale, giving him a crumbling sausage roll out of her pocket.

  ‘Ask, next time you borrow the car,’ said Guy angrily. ‘I can now get some more red.’

  ‘We’ve got some,’ said Georgie, ‘there’s a crate in the utility room.’

  Guy jumped as the telephone rang.

  ‘I’ll take it next door,’ said Flora, running across the hall into the drawing room to answer it. There was something stark and unwelcoming about her parents’ house, not a coloured ball nor a string of tinsel yet in sight.

  Hearing the happy Tennyson’s brook sound of continuous laughter, Guy reflected that at least he wasn’t paying for the call.

  ‘It’s Melanie,’ said Flora, a quarter of an hour later. Then, smiling sweetly at her father, ‘She’s reversing the charges from a Perth call-box.’

  Somehow Guy kept his temper and when Georgie rushed off and because Rannaldini showed no sign suddenly of leaving, he went off to get another bottle.

  Bidding a tearful farewell to her adored elder daughter five minutes later, Georgie noticed the copy of Catullus David Hawkley had sent her and pulled it out of the bookshelf.

  ‘It is hard to put aside long-standing love,’ she read sadly.

  If only she could see David – he was so straight compared with Guy. A bad sleeper, he’d probably be awake now. His number was engraved on her heart. Surreptitiously she picked up the second telephone and heard Guy’s voice saying: ‘I couldn’t get away, Ju Ju. Flora took the car without asking and Georgie suddenly remembered a crate of booze, so I had no excuse. I daren’t risk it, sweetheart. I’m really sorry, I’ll ring you first thing. Sleep well, my darling.’

  ‘Which is more than you’re fucking going to do,’ screamed Georgie down the telephone.

  ‘I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you this afternoon, little one,’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘You sing very well.’

  ‘Wailing for my demon lover,’ said Flora drily.

  Outside Rannaldini could see the dark snowless shadow under his car and the ostrich’s white feathers fluffing up. Through the gloom a light still shone in Rachel’s cottage. He had a vision of Rachel in bed with Flora, languorously smoothing oil into each other’s bodies, growing increasingly slippery inside and out as they waited for him to join in.

  ‘I mees you,’ he said softly. ‘Wheech is your room?’

  Out in the hall, under the mistletoe she had put up that morning, Flora could see her parents furiously mouthing at one another.

  ‘Oh, Maestro,’ she said in a tremulous voice, ‘I thought you would never forgive me.’

  ‘Ees good for little girls to be punished sometime.’

  ‘I deserved it,’ Flora admitted. ‘If you go up the stairs and turn left, I’m the fourth door on the right, up three small stairs, but don’t turn on the light as it shines right into Mummy’s and Daddy’s room. Don’t be too long.’

  She slid out of the room.

  Rannaldini could not keep the grin off his face. He felt sure Rupert Campbell-Black couldn’t pull seventeen year olds any more.

  As Guy bustled in, his face redder than the bottle of claret he was carrying, Rannaldini yawned and said it must be jet lag. Could he borrow a toothbrush and crash out in the spare room? Once alone he had a quick wash, plucked out a grey hair from his chest, rubbed one of the samples of eau-de-Cologne Guy had brought back from France into his neck and shoulders, and waited half an hour until the house was so quiet you could hear the snow padding like a white cat outside.

  Clad in a dark red towel, scratchy from Mother Courage’s washing, he tiptoed along the landing. The creaking was awful. He jumped as Dinsdale in his basket let out a great snore. One, two, three doors. Rannaldini thought he would explode with lust. Feeling his way up the three uncarpeted stairs with his bare toes, he opened and softly closed the fourth door on the right.

  ‘Come to me, lovely creature,’ whispered a voice.

  ‘Leetle darling, it is I,’ answered Rannaldini.

  Taking a flying leap in the direction of the voice, he found that Flora had shrunk and grown in the most improbable places. Next moment he realized his arms were full of naked Guy, who’d been banished to the spare room by an enraged Georgie and who’d been drunkenly rehearsing his lines. Guy was sober enough, however, to be extremely stuffy.

  ‘Flora’s only seventeen. How dare you run after schoolgirls like a dirty old man?’

  ‘And I saw you coming out of Langan’s with that painter girlfriend of yours on Monday,’ spat back Rannaldini. ‘I’d keep your trap shut if I were you.’

  48

  Both Rannaldini and Guy were furious with Flora, but had little opportunity to vent their rage on the day of the play.

  Members of the cast, however, continued to spat. Cecilia, in her new role as Gabriel, had gone off to Valentino and bought a seductive, but totally inappropriate, thigh-length gold tunic and an even bigger halo than Hermione. In revenge, Hermione spent two hours in make-up, leaving little time for anyone else.

  Marigold cried all day because Larry hadn’t come home the previous night. He must have gone back to Nikki.

  Rachel was totally unsympathetic.

  ‘If you have a remotely attractive husband in the nineties,’ she snapped as she buttoned up her Second King’s velvet tunic, ‘you have to be prepared to share him.’

  ‘Rock Star, you are the rock, the star that guides me,’ sang the wireless.

  ‘Shut up, you bloody thing,’ screamed Georgie.

  But by six-thirty the great hall was decked with greenery and hundreds of candles and camera lights were reflected in the gleaming dark panelling. The crew were ready, the London Met tuned up. A vetted collection of villagers, a sprinkling of local gentry including Lady Chisleden, the odd talent scout and a crowd of Meredith’s gay friends were among the audience. Mother Courage, thrilled at the prospect of appearing on television, was holding forth noisily.

  ‘Rattledicky stayed the night and Guy was furious that Flora delapidated herself all over the bath, and I only cleaned it yesterday, and Melanie’s sending Georgie a duck-billed platitude for Christmas.’

  Standing in the wings, all dolled up in his red plumes and gemmy bridle, Arthur was itching to get on stage.

  ‘Don’t forget to look at the camera,’ Lysander urged him. ‘And whenever you see Rupert, wave a hoof. I’m really nervou
s for him,’ he told Cameron Cook as Arthur rested his head lovingly on his master’s shoulder.

  ‘Ever thought of becoming an actor?’ asked Cameron, handing him her card. ‘D’you mind sitting in the audience when it starts? Marigold can look after Arthur.’

  She was determined to get reaction shots of him whenever they cut to the audience.

  ‘D’you actually know Rupert?’ pleaded Lysander.

  ‘You could say that.’

  ‘Is he seriously wonderful?’

  Cameron thought for a second. ‘Only if he likes you. For Christ’s sake, see all the telephones are switched off,’ she added to her PA as her mobile rang.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered to the chief cameraman two minutes later. ‘Rupert’s not coming. He’s buggered off skiing.’

  ‘Well, don’t tell anyone,’ whispered back the chief cameraman. ‘We don’t want the entire female cast going on strike.’

  But at last the cameras were rolling and the London Met were appropriately playing like angels, enjoying the novelty of the occasion and the relief of being conducted by Bob, whose bald head gleamed like a bathing cap above the dark river of the orchestra pit.

  Everything, in fact, was going wonderfully. Neither Hermione in her blue robes nor Cecilia in her figure-hugging mini would have looked so radiant if they had known Rupert wasn’t going to make it, even for ‘Brickie’s spread’, which included two vats of boeuf bourgignon, whose delicious smell was stealing up from the kitchen.

  ‘Hail Mary, Full of Grace,’ called Cecilia who preferred the beauty of the old language, ‘thou art with child.’

  ‘Joseph will be very supportive, and present at the birth,’ said Hermione who did not.

  Kitty caught Lysander’s eye and giggled.

  ‘There’s a Christmas tree with nothing on,’ said Mother Courage as the curtains jerked back on the stable at Bethlehem.

  The play was nearing its end. Although the shepherds and inn staff had been rather too reminiscent of Iraqi and Saudi agitators in the Gulf, Meredith’s gay cronies were in ecstasies over the sets and the beauty of little Cosmo as a shepherd boy unaccountably trying to strangle Hermione’s white cat. The animals had all behaved impeccably, except Dinsdale who had lifted his leg twice on the manger.