The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘Hi, Tab,’ called out Lysander. ‘You got here quickly. We’ve only just arrived. Not a bush unleapt behind.’ He patted his concave belly. ‘Bluey’s giving me a few tips.’

  Tab trotted a skittishly leaping Penscombe Pride right up to Lysander’s nose.

  ‘Who the hell’s this?’ she said accusingly, as Pridie whickered and left white dribble on Lysander’s blue overcoat.

  ‘It’s Pridie.’ Lysander scratched his head. ‘How did he get out?’

  ‘You forgot to load him, you asshole.’

  ‘Omigod!’ Lysander looked from Bluey to Tab in horror, then started to giggle. ‘How did he get here?’

  ‘Dizzy’s trying to hide the trailer.’

  ‘Kerrist!’ The grin was wiped off Bluey Charteris’ swarthy, cadaverous features as he shot round the horse, feeling his legs. ‘You fuckwit, Lysander.’

  ‘He liked the fresh air – like a day at the seaside,’ said Tab.

  ‘And what’s Rupert going to say?’ demanded Bluey.

  ‘Say about what?’

  Everyone jumped. It was Rupert in a pale brown overcoat, with a dark brown velvet collar, and with a brown trilby tipped over his Greek nose. With him was Taggie, ravishing as ever in a pale grey trench coat, shiny black boots and a scarlet beret, and Freddie Jones, the electronics billionaire, who had red hair and a jaunty smile and was the most popular owner in the yard. Rupert never minded Freddie dropping in.

  ‘’Allo, Pridie,’ Freddie greeted his very famous prize winner with affection.’

  ’Allo, Tab, ’allo, Lysander. Gather you’ve got your first race in a minute. What is it?’

  ‘Maiden hurdle,’ said Lysander, starting to shake.

  ‘Lysander’s principal hurdle is a married woman,’ said Rupert acidly. ‘What the hell’s Pridie doing out of the lorry?’

  ‘He sweated up. We were just walking him out.’ Tabitha returned her father’s blue-eyed stare blandly. ‘He does look well, doesn’t he?’

  ‘I’d better get changed,’ said Lysander, anxious to escape interrogation.

  Fortunately Rupert was sidetracked by the arrival of Mr Pandopoulos, leering in a massive belted camel-hair coat, together with Hopeless’s owner, Marcia Melling, wafting Joy.

  ‘Hallo, Rupert,’ she said petulantly, leaving crimson lipstick on both sides of his face. ‘I’m a bit choked. You’ve put a complete novice on Hopeless.’

  ‘This is Lysander,’ said Taggie quickly.

  ‘Oh, oh, oooo.’ Suddenly Marcia looked as delighted as a large bear let loose in Barbara Cartland’s larder. ‘My word, aren’t you tall for a jock? Lysander, d’you say? Mystic Meg said only this week that luck would come from a man whose name began with L.’

  ‘Meg’s brilliant,’ Lysander smiled weakly. ‘How d’you do? Must go,’ and he fled to the changing-room lavatories.

  ‘What a charming, intelligent face,’ said a bemused Marcia.

  ‘Hasn’t he?’ said Rupert. ‘Makes a battery hen look like Stephen Hawking.’

  In the same race as Lysander Bluey Charteris was riding a brilliant five year old called Turkish Hustler, whom Rupert had brought off the flat and who was odds-on favourite. Hopeless was 100-1. ‘Lives up to her name,’ said Timeform succinctly.

  The crowds hanging over the paddock railings, studying their racecards and Sporting Life, laughed at Hopeless. Even wearing the thick blue rug with the initials RC-B on the side, which generally inspired terror in the most phlegmatic bookie, Hopeless looked like a child dressing up in her mother’s overcoat.

  Lysander, weighing-out in the tiny chair beside the huge red clock, discovered he’d lost three pounds overnight, which was nice and light for Hopeless and meant he hadn’t anything left to throw up. He had spent last night pouring over videos of Hopeless’s earlier races. An inexperienced horse, she was not used to being in front and weaved all over the place. He must keep her straight and behind Turkish Hustler to the last moment. He wished he could wear his Donald Duck jersey instead of Marcia’s olive-green colours, which he supposed matched his face. He’d got to be brave for Kitty’s and Arthur’s sake. Even if he were only placed, it would help notch up his quota of races needed to qualify for the Rutminster.

  In the paddock, Taggie put her coat round his shuddering shoulders as Rupert gave him last-minute instructions.

  ‘Start slowly. She’s most unlikely to last the distance, and build up,’ he added finally. ‘And I’d get down to the start as early as possible. She gets upset if horses come thundering past her.’

  Rupert wants her out of the paddock as quickly as possible, poor old Hopeless, thought Lysander indignantly. We’ll show him.

  Rupert turned to Bluey who was eyeing a redhead in a group clustered round the second favourite.

  ‘I don’t need to tell you anything, Bluey. Just sit on his back. Let’s go and have a drink,’ he added to Freddie. ‘This race is a foregone conclusion.’

  ‘I put two pounds on Hopeless,’ said Tab.

  Rupert was busy discussing viewing figures with Freddie, who was also a director of Venturer, when he heard the flat, patrician voice of the course commentator echoing round the ground.

  ‘And Hopeless jumped that extremely well, and is moving up to join the leaders.’

  Running to the balcony, choking on a turkey sandwich, Rupert looked through his binoculars at the shimmering garland of colours’ moving above the rails and the centipede of frantically galloping legs below, as they came to the second hurdle from home.

  Hopeless was in fourth place, making it look really easy and Lysander was riding beautifully, his hands almost touching the horse’s flickering orange ears, urging her on, his body moving with her like a lover’s, encouraging her every inch of the way.

  Only a grey gelding and a fence were between Hopeless and the finishing post as she caught up with Turkish Hustler and Bluey.

  Together they cleared the last hurdle.

  ‘Hang on. You’re going a bit quick. Don’t want to wear her out,’ called across Bluey. ‘There’s a long run up.’

  Wide and emerald-green, the course loomed ahead. As the grey gelding’s tail drew nearer and nearer, Bluey picked up his whip, only allowed ten whacks before the finishing-post.

  Crack, crack, crack; down they came on brave Hustler’s heaving flanks.

  ‘Come on, Hopeless,’ shouted Lysander. ‘Good girl, go for it.’

  Turkish Hustler hurtled forward, galvanized but frightened. Hopeless’s competitive spirit flared. She must keep up with her stable-mate. Scrawny mane and tail flying, spindly legs flailing, galloping her no-longer-timid heart out, she chased Hustler past the grey. Then Hustler seemed to tire and go backwards as Hopeless shot forward.

  ‘Go on, angel,’ begged Lysander.

  ‘Pick up your bat, you stupid fucker,’ yelled Rupert from the balcony.

  Marcia, blue mascara streaming, was too excited to speak.

  ‘He’s going to do it,’ shrieked Tabitha. ‘I’ve won two hundred fucking pounds,’ as Hopeless slid past the post a quarter of a length ahead.

  Down they all surged into the winner’s enclosure. A huge cheer and much laughter went up as Lysander rode in with a great grin spread across his face, leaving white stripes of foam on a bemused but happy Hopeless’s chestnut coat as he patted her over and over again.

  Marcia couldn’t stop kissing Lysander, and only relinquished him when Taggie turned up to give him a big hug.

  ‘Oh, that was wonderful! I’m so proud of you, and darling Hopeless.’

  Ecstatically, Lysander hugged her back.

  There were photographers everywhere.

  ‘I made two hundred pounds,’ said Tab, feeding Hopeless a Polo. ‘It was a toss up between a bet and a packet of fags.’

  Over Taggie’s shoulder, Lysander’s eyes met Rupert’s.

  ‘You didn’t obey a single instruction,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Basically,’ Lysander edged away from Taggie, ‘I thought she needed encouraging. I’m really
sorry.’

  But Rupert suddenly laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Fucking marvellous; only another nine races and you qualify for the Rutminster.’

  ‘And don’t go drinking champagne now,’ said Bluey, adding his congratulations. ‘If you’ve been wasting, you’re better off with a cup of tea.’

  It was Rupert’s day. Meutrier won by three lengths, Penscombe Pride by ten. Mr Sparky came second, but only after a photo-finish. Afterwards Bluey took Rupert aside.

  ‘I don’t like competition, but that boy is bloody good. Meutrier’s improved out of all recognition since he’s been working on him. Mr Sparky’s a different horse. He’s loving it. He can see a stride.’

  ‘Marcia feels the same,’ said Rupert. ‘She wants to buy Lysander.’

  Over at Valhalla the following morning, Rannaldini, who hadn’t liked Lysander having such a powerful ally as Rupert, delightedly handed The Scorpion to Kitty.

  ‘Your little friend’s up to his tricks again.’

  On page three was a large picture of Lysander and Taggie embracing ecstatically.

  HAS RUPERT TAKEN IN A TROJAN HORSE? said the caption.

  Rupert pretended not to mind the picture in The Scorpion, but he was livid underneath and took it out on everyone, particularly Taggie. Lysander made himself as scarce as possible. Dusk saw Rupert howling round the house in search of yesterday’s Racing Post.

  ‘Some bloody idiot’s chucked it out. How many times do I have to tell you I need to keep them?’

  ‘It’s probably in the study,’ snapped Taggie, who was exhausted.

  ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘Go and look again.’

  Clenching his fists, Rupert stormed out, then paused in the hall in front of the huge oil of his beloved, late Labrador, Badger. Badger would have understood how he felt about The Scorpion, providing solid, silent, black sympathy.

  Then Rupert heard the crash of the pedal dustbin, followed by a rustling noise, and sidled back towards the kitchen.

  As he opened the door very slowly, he found Taggie frantically wiping baked beans off the front of yesterday’s Racing Post.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Rupert grabbed her from behind.

  ‘You startled me.’ Jumping like a kangaroo, Taggie turned crimson. ‘Someone must have, I mean, I must have thrown it away. We can’t keep everything,’ she said defensively.

  Turning her round, Rupert glared down for a second.

  ‘Of course we can’t.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘If you weren’t here,’ he said roughly, ‘the entire house would disappear in a mountain of rubbish in a week. I’m only terrified you’ll throw me out one day.’

  As he took her tired, dirty, unpainted face between his hands, her hair smelt of bonfire smoke. Looking down, he noticed blood all over her clothes.

  ‘What have you done?’ he asked in horror. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Taggie smiled proudly. ‘Passion went into labour, I pulled her calf out all by myself.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ said Rupert appalled. ‘You might have strained yourself or got knocked over.’

  ‘I’m fine, and it’s the sweetest little calf. Come and see it.’

  ‘I know sweeter calves.’ Rupert ran his hands down her thighs. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘I know. I love you so much.’

  ‘And we’re going to Paris tonight.’

  ‘Wow,’ squeaked Taggie in excitement. ‘Can we leave the yard?’

  ‘Of course we can, for thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Have I got time to wash my hair and have a bath?’

  ‘More important, we’ve got time to go to bed,’ murmured Rupert.

  Peering round the door, Lysander felt a great wave of longing and loneliness as he saw them locked in each other’s arms. They looked so beautiful, straight out of Dynasty. In the corner, Jack was sharing a basket with Gertrude the mongrel, so besotted he could hardly bear to leave her to sleep on Lysander’s bed at night. Everyone’s shacked up but me, thought Lysander. He’d just posted a second Valentine to Kitty, because he couldn’t remember if he’d posted the first. Rupert was going away tomorrow. Lysander had a brainwave.

  58

  Clive, Rannaldini’s leather-clad henchman, intercepted both Valentines which Lysander had drawn himself. The first was of a leopard with tears pouring down its face as it tried to scrub off its spots, in the second the same leopard tried desperately to climb into a washing machine. Clive hid them in a file with all Lysander’s other letters he’d whipped and any press cuttings that had appeared about him. Rannaldini had instructed him to tail Kitty, so on Valentine’s Day he followed her into Rutminster when she did the week’s shopping.

  The moment Rupert and Taggie left for Paris Lysander sloped off to London where he picked up Maggie’s puppy and enlisted Ferdie’s help in writing Kitty a letter. Next morning, Valentine’s Day, he had to crawl back to Rutshire because the whole West of England was blanketed in fog. Risking his neck by missing the morning’s gallops, he prayed that none of the grooms would grass on him. As he reached Paradise his heart started jumping and his hands became so sticky he could hardly swing the wheel enough to navigate the winding lanes. A florist’s van was parked outside Rachel’s cottage. Delivering Rannaldini’s roses, thought Lysander savagely. Avoiding the electric gates and guard-dogs at the main entrance to Valhalla, he bumped up a little-used ride through the woods, stretching a hand back to steady the little creature on the back seat beside Jack.

  Only the passionate hope that one day he and Kitty would be together enabled him to part with Maggie’s puppy. Pale fawn, striped like a tiger, she had a white belly, speckled paws and a sweet frowning striped face with a very direct stare. Despite long legs, her tail practically trailed on the ground. A cross between a flying fish, a bird and a deer, she glided into rooms and leapt on to chairs with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  It was clear that neither Jack nor Dinsdale, nor even Tabloid had a paw in her parentage. Lysander put his money on a greyhound.

  ‘You’re going to cheer up my Kitty,’ he told the puppy who cocked her head on one side, ‘for not having a baby, and don’t let her get pregnant. Sleep on her bed and bite Rannaldini’s willy whenever he comes near her.’

  The silence was eerie. Valhalla was strangled by thick veils of floating grey fog. At the edge of the park Lysander could distinguish rusty iron railings and ancient trees looming up like bison or great horned stags. His heart was pounding his rib cage, a lunatic trying to escape from a padded cell. Then Jack and the puppy started yapping furiously as the fearsome Prince of Darkness in a New Zealand rug galloped out of the mist and thundered away. Ahead the woods reared up like cliffs, treacherous to mariners, and there was the house, greyer than the fog itself, with its gables, tall chimneys and small secretive windows, as though the stonework between the panes formed prison bars.

  Gathering up the puppy, Lysander went up to the great front door, resting against it for a second before setting the rusty bell jangling mournfully. If Kitty answered the door, he was tempted to kidnap her. But the nose that peered out was long and red-veined.

  For a second Mrs Brinscombe’s face lit up, then she looked terrified.

  ‘You mustn’t come here, it’s more than my life’s worth. Oh, the sweet little duck.’ She put up a red, roughened hand to stroke the puppy.

  ‘Where’s Kitty? Please, please, Mrs B, I’ve got to see her.’

  ‘She’s gone shopping in Rutminster.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘No.’ She shrank from him. ‘Clive’s being paid to follow her and he’s a villain. Please don’t risk it. Rannaldini’ll sack me and Mr B, and he’ll take it out on Kitty.’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  Mrs Brimscombe loved Lysander and hated to see him so thin and ghost-pale. She had endured enough of Mr Brimscombe’s indiscriminate lechery to have huge sympathy with Kitty.

  ‘She’s all right
on the surface.’ Mrs Brimscombe thought for a second. ‘But she reminds me of one of those prisoners of war that Saddam Hussein keeps parading on TV, that looks all bruised and beaten and dazed, but keeps on telling you what a good man Saddam is, and how wicked the Allies are to fight him. She don’t seem natural.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Lysander was frantic. ‘Poor little Kitty. Is he bullying her?’

  ‘No. That’s what don’t seem natural either. He’s being so nice.’

  ‘Well, give her this, and this.’ Lysander shoved the puppy and his letter into Mrs Brimscombe’s unwelcoming hands. ‘Tell Clive she’s a stray wandered in from the wood, but please see that Kitty gets her.’

  Stumbling in despair back to his car, he reminded Mrs Brimscombe of one of those poor wretched seabirds, helpless and paralysed by oil in the Gulf. With no other thought but oblivion, Lysander headed for The Pearly Gates.

  Returning from Rutminster, Kitty was greeted by a very over-excited Mrs B, who managed to slip her the letter. ‘Put it in yer bra, m’duck,’ and whispered that the puppy came from Lysander before Clive walked in buckling under the two trays of Bounce for Rannaldini’s guard-dogs.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, as the puppy padded trustfully towards him. ‘Gorgeous little thing.’ He put out a hand ringed like a knuckle-duster. ‘Where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s a stray. Mrs B found it wanderin’ outside,’ said Kitty quickly.

  ‘Doesn’t look like one.’ The puppy yelped as Clive picked it up by the scruff of the neck. ‘It’s well fed, and its paws aren’t marked. I’ll pop it down to the local rescue kennels.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Kitty with surprising sharpness.

  ‘You’re scared of dogs,’ said Clive rudely.

  ‘Not this one. Give it to me.’

  ‘Rannaldini don’t like dogs in the house.’ Clive’s pale fleshless face was alight with malice, his pale grey eyes had the innocence of a psychopath. ‘Canine dogs, that is.’