The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  Such a description presupposed some degree of glamour and sophistication, but Lysander found himself faced by a row of all-time dinginess: Anita Brookner heroines with long pale faces and longer pale cardigans desperately trying to warm dirndl-skirted bottoms in front of a desperately anaemic fire.

  ‘This is the local stud I told you about,’ Rachel whispered.

  Already dominating the group was Guy. Still high on his television success as St Joseph, he had received stacks of fan mail and been the subject of an Independent profile comparing the ways Joseph took Mary away privily and Guy the Rock Star had stood by Georgie.

  ‘You made so many statements in Nativity Green,’ said one of Rachel’s friends, displaying armpit hair that was a positive fire hazard as she reached for her glass. ‘I liked the bit when you calmly changed Baby Jesus’s nappy during the shepherd’s visit.’

  Guy smiled in acknowledgement, then, turning to Lysander, towards whom he now felt quite well disposed since he had proof he wasn’t after Georgie: ‘How was skiing?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty,’ reproved another London friend, ‘about the way skiing disrupts the ecological balance.’

  ‘I didn’t know it did,’ said Lysander, longing to spit out his first mouthful of fruit cup.

  ‘Skiers hurtling down the mountains trigger off avalanches and disturb the wildlife,’ he was told earnestly. ‘Not to mention deforestation.’

  Deforestation! With a stab of anguish Lysander remembered giggling over Kitty’s shaved bush. He hated all these long, pale supercilious faces for not being round, pink and smiling like hers.

  ‘Have some blotting paper,’ interrupted Rachel, handing round sausage rolls.

  ‘Thanks.’ Lysander broke one in half, giving it to Jack.

  ‘Are you sure they don’t contain meat?’ asked a London friend nervously.

  Jack promptly confirmed this by spitting his all over the carpet.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Lysander, ‘I must go and talk to Meredith,’ who, with his airborne curls and merry blue eyes, seemed the nearest thing to Kitty in the room.

  ‘Hallo, baby boy,’ said Meredith.

  ‘I go to parties to dance and get wasted,’ sighed Lysander. ‘What the hell’s in this drink?’

  ‘Most of Rachel’s Body Shop concoctions I should think. Certainly no booze.’

  ‘Christ, I wondered why I was getting lower.’

  ‘Hallo, you sweet thing.’ Meredith stroked Jack’s rough white head but the little dog could hardly wag his tail.

  ‘He’s pissed off. To him parties mean chops, chicken and sausages, proper human food. He’ll eat Rachel’s cat in a minute.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Maggie. Poor old you.’

  Lysander nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘How’s Arthur?’

  ‘I took him over to Rupert Campbell-Black’s yard this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you now? What’s it like?’

  ‘Seriously impressive: swimming-baths, solarium, computers, a resident blood analyst and such terrific horses. I actually patted Penscombe Pride. God, what a beautiful horse, but he’s really small. Rupert’s going to try and sort Arthur out.’

  ‘Lucky Arthur,’ sighed Meredith. ‘Rupert’s to die for and dye for.’ He patted his blond curls in the mirror.

  ‘He can be quite fierce,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Oh, I love that. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.’

  ‘Taggie, Rupert’s wife, was really sweet. She made Arthur a bowl of coffee to make him feel at home, but he still sulked dreadfully when I left. I don’t think I’m very good at making anything happy,’ he added dolefully.

  ‘Mrs Rannaldini looked pretty cheerful in Today,’ said Meredith, noticing the way Lysander’s bloodshot eyes kept darting towards the door.

  ‘She is coming this evening, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, Hermione and Bob have just arrived,’ said Meredith. ‘And Madam wouldn’t grace a grisly jaunt like this unless she was expecting Maestro.’

  ‘Christ, it’s cold,’ said Lysander. ‘No wonder Rachel doesn’t bother with a deep freeze.’

  ‘Here are the lovers,’ said Meredith as a battered Marigold and Larry entered hand in hand. ‘Go anywhere for a free drink these days. All the same it’s sad to see the FOR SALE sign outside Paradise Grange. Your friend Ferdie’s got his board up already. Whoever buys it can’t not want to redecorate it. I better get in there early and give Ferdie a ring.’

  Lysander couldn’t bear to talk about Ferdie either. He missed him dreadfully and was trying to screw up courage to ring him and apologize. Oh God, here was Hermione.

  ‘Hallo, Mary,’ said Guy, turning from the admiring circle of London friends to waylay her.

  ‘Hallo, Joseph,’ said Hermione skittishly, ‘I’ve just been talking to the Independent about Me and My Cat.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ laughed Guy. ‘I’ve just done a long interview with the Guardian on Me and My Work Station.’

  ‘I am going to leave Guy,’ hissed Georgie to Marigold. ‘He’s been so uppity since the play. Look at him being drooled over by all those dreary friends of Rachel’s.’

  ‘Well, he is charming,’ protested Marigold. ‘How’s Flora?’

  ‘Desperately low. Oh, Marigold, I made a New Year’s resolution to look after her and make my marriage better and I’d broken it by Christmas Eve when Guy insisted a little unsigned Victorian love note on his desk had come from some picture framers.’

  ‘I made a New Year’s resolution not to maind about not havin’ any money,’ sighed Marigold, ‘but the boys have decided they rather like boarding-school. And every taime I see the FOR SALE sign swinging outside Paradise Grange, Ay burst into tears.’

  ‘I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss, Marigold.’ Hermione, who was still wearing Rannaldini’s mink Christmas present and quite oblivious of the glares of Rachel’s Green friends, barged between them.

  ‘You were always telling me how blissfully happy you and Larry were when you were poor. It’s far worse for me having to renegotiate all my contracts. Larry might have warned us he was going bankrupt.’

  ‘If you and Rannaldini hadn’t screwed such vast advances out of him, never maind the jets and the ten-star hotels, it maight never have happened,’ said Marigold furiously.

  ‘Oh, don’t over-react,’ sighed Hermione. Then, turning to Georgie, ‘I must tell you what a wonderful man Guy is, so caring and supportive.’

  ‘He was certainly supporting your bum pretty often in the video of the nativity play,’ snarled Georgie.

  A hot apple punch-up was avoided by Rachel staggering in with a huge casserole dish. All the husbands except Guy, who was too frightened of Georgie, leapt to her assistance.

  Bob got there first. ‘Looks good. What is it?’

  ‘Organic oat risotto,’ said Rachel, ‘with artichokes and haricot beans. Take a plate, Meredith.’

  ‘I’m OK at the moment,’ replied Meredith who was blue with cold. ‘When it’s a toss-up,’ he murmured to Lysander, ‘between dying of hypothermia and farting like a drayhorse all night, I choose the former. Shall I get some more logs, Rachel?’

  ‘I’m as warm as toast,’ said Hermione smugly. ‘I’ve got my thermals on and I had a nice hot bath before I came out.’

  ‘Baths are a waste of water,’ snapped Rachel, piling food on to plates, ‘you should have a shower, or share the bath water with someone.’

  ‘I’d share a bath with you any time, Rachie,’ joked Guy, getting a black look from Georgie. ‘You’ve got a terrific crowd here.’

  ‘Oh, people are so bored with cooking over Christmas they’ll go anywhere for a free meal,’ said Hermone airily.

  Fascinated by Lysander’s beauty a London friend edged forward to stroke Jack.

  ‘I suppose you use him for digging out foxes.’

  ‘No, only for fouling footpaths and children’s playgrounds,’ said Meredith. ‘Cheer up, it may never
happen, Lysander.’

  ‘That’s what I’m frightened of,’ said Lysander dolefully.

  ‘I’m off to raid that drinks cupboard.’ Meredith lowered his voice. ‘Like Captain Organic Oates, I may be gone some time. Keep our hostess occupied.’

  But Lysander didn’t have to bother for, as Meredith sidled off, Rannaldini walked in. He looked feral and aggressively decadent in a black shirt and cords which matched his predatory eyes and a vast, almost floor-length coat made of wolf pelts which seemed an extension of his hair and set off his Monthaut suntan. And like a wolf entering the fold he mesmerized the room.

  I can’t wait for everyone to go, thought Rachel, then he can make love with me in front of the fire.

  Rannaldini nodded at Hermione and Bob, then, running his eyes over the long-faced carecrows from London, found nothing to interest him.

  ‘Where’s your much better half, Rannaldini?’ asked Meredith, sliding a cup of neat whisky into Lysander’s grateful hand.

  ‘In bed.’

  ‘Is Brickie ill?’ asked Guy.

  ‘Just pleasantly exhausted, she sent her apologies.’ Rannaldini smiled evilly at Lysander. ‘All Keety need was a leetle loving.’

  Jack gave a yelp then understandingly licked Lysander’s face when his master apologized for gripping him so hard.

  ‘It’s disgusting the way they boil the roots of Christmas trees so they can’t be replanted,’ chuntered a London friend.

  Looking at Lysander so white and distraught, Bob remembered the larky, radiant young blood who’d stopped even the music in its tracks at Georgie’s Rock Star party.

  ‘Come and have supper one day this week.’ He put a hand on Lysander’s arm. ‘Hermione’s off to Rome.’

  ‘Thanks, but I gotta go.’ Lysander emptied his cup of whisky. Through in the kitchen, he could see Scarlatti scraping his litter tray and, reminded of Aunt Dinah, nearly blacked out. Next moment Jack had wriggled out of his grasp and, scattering cat litter, chased Scarlatti out through the cat flap.

  ‘That’s no way to save planet earth box,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Shall I open a window and let in a little hot air? There’s a bit of a pong.’

  ‘I told you not to bring that dog,’ snapped Rachel. ‘You can’t go yet. The party hasn’t started.’

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to. Bye, Bob, bye, Meredith, bye, Marigold,’ muttered Lysander and, gathering up his long coat from the hall chair, he rushed off into the night.

  ‘Well, we know who he likes,’ said Rachel, furious at losing her only heterosexual spare man, although it was good Rannaldini had come on his own, not that Kitty ever really inhibited him.

  ‘I’m not going to drink this goat’s piss,’ said Rannaldini, pouring his exotic fruit cup over a depressed-looking yucca. ‘Get me a whisky, Rachel.’ Then, turning to Larry, ‘How are things? I assume your tiny assets are frozen.’

  Feeling neglected because Rannaldini hadn’t even come over and kissed her, Hermione decided to check her face before approaching him. Crossing the hall as she went upstairs to the bathroom, she found a letter on the carpet which a distraught Lysander had dropped on the way out. Seeing the letterhead: PARADISE GRANGE she read on. Ignoring the posters about banning additives from school dinners and protecting the natterjack toad, she sat down on the edge of the bath. A smile spread over her face and a glow suffused her body as she read.

  Hermione had always been irked and mystified that Lysander had never made a pass at her, nor even chatted her up. Now she knew why. She was about the only wife in Paradise who hadn’t paid him to. Stepping into the bath she used the shower to wash between her legs and cleaned her teeth with Rachel’s organic toothpaste. Returning to the party, she whispered in Rannaldini’s ear, then turning to Rachel triumphantly: ‘Lovely do, darling. Must go. I’ve got work to do on Wozzeck. See you later, Bobbie.’

  Almost immediately, to Rachel’s fury, she was followed by Rannaldini.

  Half an hour later in the blissful warmth of the tower Hermione sipped a glass of Krug and watched Rannaldini reading Marigold’s letter to Lysander for the second time.

  ‘Well done,’ he said softly, as conflicting emotions of fury, excitement, passion, hatred and jealousy flickered across his face.

  ‘What a very silly letter to drop. So Georgie and Marigold paid little Mr Hawkley to retrieve their husbands; and Martha Winterton as well presumably. It always puzzled me how he lives so well.’

  ‘Georgie and Marigold must have paid him a fortune to make up to Kitty,’ said Hermione smugly. ‘I mean the others are at least attractive. And just to make you jealous. But Kitty must have collaborated.’

  ‘That was naughty,’ said Rannaldini. ‘Like Cavaradossi, Keety must be tortured. No-one makes a fool of me.’

  Unplugging himself from Hermione after a rather perfunctory coupling he plugged in his telephone. He was going to enjoy this game.

  Machiavellian as ever, Rannaldini planned an orgy at Valhalla. January was such a dreary month and everyone was so worried about impending war in the Gulf that they needed distraction. First he sent out the invitations: MRS ROBERTO RANNALDINI AT HOME ON TWELFTH NIGHT FOR A fin de siècle TOGA PARTY.

  Then he offered Hermione the part of Lady Macbeth in his next film if she succeeded in seducing Lysander during the evening.

  Rannaldini was not an unperceptive man. Lysander might have been paid vast sums to pretend to be in love with Kitty but it was clear from his increasingly desperate messages on the ansaphone and his illiterate passionate faxes which spewed out of the machine like tapeworm that the boy was utterly infatuated. Nor was there any doubt that Kitty was smitten, too. Yesterday she had singed his best shirt when they played Miss Saigon on the radio, and, typing out the list of acceptances, which didn’t include Lysander, she misspelt half the names and changed several people’s sexes.

  Even though caterers and florists had been hired to save her work, she cleaned obsessively so the place would be sufficiently spick and span. More tellingly, Rannaldini had failed to bring her to orgasm since her return and helpless tears gushed out of her eyes throughout. His digital wife was on the blink.

  Rannaldini did not upbraid her. He realized increasingly how dependent on her he was for his comfort and what other wife would run his life so efficiently and allow him such freedom? Certainly not Hermione. Just doing the seating plan together made him want to throttle her.

  ‘I want you to look pretty and enjoy yourself this evening and leave everything to me,’ he told Kitty on the afternoon of the party as he watched her dazedly digging up a poin-settia some fan had sent him and freeing its roots from the cruelly constricting plastic cage before repotting it.

  ‘I want to make a beeg sum of money over to you, Keety,’ he went on. ‘The royalties on Fidelio perhaps, to give you independence. I know I ’urt you horrible in the past, but let us try again. In the States we will leave all the eediots in Paradise behind and eef you cannot ’ave children, no matter, we will adopt.’ Which made poor Kitty feel more confused and guilty than ever.

  Over at Magpie Cottage a despairing Lysander saw helicopters bringing Krug and most of Harrods Food Hall, landing all day as he kept his binoculars trained on Valhalla. By dusk snow was falling thickly, turning Georgie’s blond willows grey before his eyes, icing Rannaldini’s maze and weighing down his fruit nets like trampolines. Like a black tie of mourning the dark waters of the River Fleet halved the white valley.

  Unable to remember when he’d last eaten, Lysander opened a tin of sweetcorn, then, after a spoonful, put it in the fridge. For the thousandth time he checked if the telephone was on the hook. Jumping violently at a pounding on the front door, he prayed as he never stopped praying that it might be Kitty. Instead in marched the next best thing.

  ‘Oh, Ferdie!’ Lysander stumbled forward, flinging his arms round his friend, drawing comfort from his solid bulk. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. I didn’t mean to use you. Poor darling little Maggie.’ His voice broke.

  ‘My fau
lt.’ Ferdie patted Lysander’s shoulder, shocked how bony it was. Then, bending down to scoop up an hysterically excited, yapping Jack. ‘Came on too strong. Choked about Maggie. Had to take it out on someone.’

  ‘Everything you said was right. I just couldn’t bear not to see you any more. I’ve missed you so much. Did Maggie suffer terribly?’

  ‘No,’ lied Ferdie, ‘and her puppy’s doing really well.’

  For a second Lysander’s haggard face lit up.

  ‘He’s still alive! That must be an omen.’

  ‘It’s a bitch.’ Ferdie opened the fridge. ‘Christ, don’t you ever have any food? My mother’s got her this weekend. Bottle-feeding her on goat’s milk, but Mum’s got to go back to work on Monday.’

  ‘I’ll take her. I’ll give her to Kitty to replace—’ His voice faltered again. ‘Oh, Ferdie what am I going to do?’ And the story of his great love came pouring out.

  ‘Kitty and me are an item. It’s the real thing,’ he said finally.

  ‘You said that about Georgie,’ said Ferdie, reduced to putting the kettle on as there was no drink in the house.

  ‘Georgie!’ said Lysander, outraged. ‘That boring, self-pitying slag. I even remember Kitty’s postcode.’

  ‘It’s the same as yours,’ said Ferdie unimpressed.

  ‘Is it?’ asked Lysander in surprise. ‘I don’t know mine. I can’t concentrate on EastEnders and I haven’t had a bet since I came back.’

  ‘My God,’ said Ferdie in alarm. ‘Ladbroke’s will go into receivership. I’ll give you my opinion of this situation after the orgy tonight. What are you going as?’

  ‘NFI,’ said Lysander sulkily. Then, when Ferdie raised his eyebrows, ‘Not fucking invited?’

  ‘You sure?’ Ferdie rifled through the post which Lysander hadn’t bothered to open because none of it contained Kitty’s neat round handwriting but which included several letters marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL from his bank and three marked URGENT from David Hawkley.

  ‘Here you are.’ Ferdie slit open the thick cream envelope: MRS ROBERTO RANNALDINI AT HOME.

  ‘No-one could feel at home at Valhalla,’ shuddered Lysander.