The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘It’ll never work,’ moaned Marigold. ‘If it weren’t for Patch, I’d kill myself.’

  Patch stared balefully at them through the strings of the harp.

  When Ferdie started to discuss money, Lysander was so embarrassed Ferdie had to take him off to Larry’s den, where he was very excited to find a bar in the corner with every drink known to man hanging upside down with rightway-up labels.

  ‘Oh, can I play with it?’

  ‘Of course, and watch the end of Lingfield on the big screen. If you get bored with that, Larry’s got all Donald Duck’s cartoons up on the right,’ said Ferdie, shutting the door firmly.

  ‘It’s going to cost you,’ he told Marigold, going back into the sitting room.

  ‘Ay haven’t got any money. Larry’s keepin’ me so short.’

  ‘Well, you’ll have to pawn a few rings.’

  ‘He’s charmin’ Lysander.’

  ‘Charming,’ agreed Ferdie. ‘But very expensive. We’ll have to find a cottage for him to rent down here. Not too near Paradise to preserve his air of mystery. He needs a couple of paddocks and stabling for his horses and a really sharp, fuck-off car, a Porsche or better still a red Ferrari.’

  Then, ignoring Marigold’s gasp of horror, ‘And access to a helicopter — we can’t have Larry thinking he’s some tinpot gigolo — and some decent clothes: a few suits and Gucci shoes. He needs decent shoes because he has a tendency to ingrowing toenails. And you must arrange an account at The Apple Tree, and the nearest off-licence and install satellite television, so he doesn’t get bored down here. Then there’s the little matter of his debts.’

  ‘How much are they?’ said Marigold faintly.

  ‘Ten grand should cover it,’ said Ferdie airily. ‘He’ll need pocket money of course to send you flowers and take you out on the tiles. If Larry comes back to you that’s a further ten grand, and a retainer for the next year to keep Larry on his toes.’

  ‘But Ay haven’t got that kind of money,’ whimpered Marigold. ‘Ay shall be destitute.’

  ‘No, you won’t.’ Ferdie topped up her glass. ‘Insist Larry buys you that house in Tregunter, and I’ll pretend it cost one hundred and fifty thousand pounds more than it does, which gives us lots of leeway.’

  Marigold was so distraught, and by this time so awash with vodka, that she accepted all Ferdie’s conditions.

  ‘Life is about taking chances,’ said Ferdie, cosily pocketing a vast advance cheque. ‘It’s going to be a lark, I promise you.’

  ‘You ’ave terrific control over Lysander,’ said Marigold shaking her head.

  ‘I’m his mind and his minder,’ Ferdie reassured her. ‘I’ll be overseeing things all the way.’

  Watching the 3.15 on Larry’s ten-foot screen made the race ten times more exciting, but Lysander felt ten times more depressed when the horse he’d backed fell at the last fence.

  He thought of Arthur in his last race, donkey ears flapping, big feet splaying out in all directions, but with so much heart in his great grey girth that he ran on and on, just tipping the last fence in his tiredness. He’d got to get Arthur sound again. He had no job, no money, no prospects, no mother. The snowdrops outside, like the ones on her grave, reminded him he’d never see her again. The fish-ponds under the trees were turning ruby red in the setting sun.

  He was roused from his black gloom by Ferdie, quite unable to keep the smirk off his broad pink face.

  ‘Well, you got the job.’

  ‘What job?’

  ‘Being Marigold’s toy boy.’

  ‘Don’t be an asshole. I can’t bonk for money.’

  ‘You only get paid if you don’t bonk her. We don’t want you involved in a messy divorce case.’

  ‘What about Arthur and Tiny?’

  ‘They can move in, too.’

  All Lysander’s scruples were overcome when he saw his first pay cheque. On the way back to London he and Ferdie stopped to order a red Ferrari. Arriving at Fountain Street, they found the telephone ringing. It was the police.

  ‘I think we’ve found your Golf GTi, Mr Hawkley. Does it have a NCDL sticker in the back saying, “A Dog is for Life… Not Just for Christmas”?’

  ‘That’s the one.’

  ‘It wasn’t in Drake Street where you thought you’d left it, but in Kempton Street.’

  ‘Thanks awfully,’ said Lysander, ‘that’s really, really kind of you, but basically I don’t need it any more, because I’ve just got another one.’

  ‘Lysander!’ Ferdie grabbed the telephone in exasperation. ‘We’ll be over to pick it up at once,’ he told the policeman.

  9

  Lysander, Arthur, Tiny, Jack and a red Ferrari with a top speed of 200 m.p.h. moved into a charming cottage seven miles from Paradise, and Lysander lost no time in getting Marigold into training. As they both jogged in track suits along punishingly steep footpaths, watching the first celandine and coltsfoot pushing their way through the leaf mould and the winter barley slowly turning the brown fields pale green, Lysander wished it was Arthur he was getting fit for the Rutminster Gold Cup rather than Marigold, but they made terrific progress.

  Marigold was still desperately low and Lysander got bored as she endlessly bent his ear about Larry, but he began to realize the extent of her hurt and desolation, and how hard she had supported Larry in his rocket-like rise to the top.

  ‘Ay really trayed to be a social asset,’ she told Lysander one morning as they pounded up Paradise Hill. ‘For years Ay struggled with those dreadful elocution lessons.’ Pink from her exertions, Marigold went even pinker. ‘Ay was taught by a disgustin’ old Lezzie who kept touchin’ may bosom to make me project from the chest.’

  ‘How dreadful,’ Lysander shuddered.

  ‘Let’s stop and look at the vista,’ gasped Marigold, who was panting more from non-stop chatter than the one-in-five gradient.

  Across the valley, softened by a pale sun, morning mist and the thickening buds of its army of trees, Paradise Grange rose like a fairy-tale castle.

  ‘Ay can’t bear to leave it,’ she sighed. ‘You should see it in summer when the Paradise Pearl is out. That’s a pinky-whaite wisteria Mr Brimscombe planted thirty years ago. We floodlaight it in the evenings. And that’s Lady Chisleden’s home to the left. Ay trayed so hard to dress laike Lady Chisleden.’

  ‘I don’t think that’s wise,’ said Lysander in alarm. ‘The old trout was blocking Paradise High Street this morning with her Bentley, bawling out Adam’s Pleasure for delivering manure that was more straw than shit. Perhaps she could give Arthur a job.’

  Marigold smiled, but as they started off down the hill, she returned to the subject of Larry.

  ‘Talkin’ of horses, Ay always thought we had a good love laife,’ her voice trembled. ‘But one of the things Nikki screamed at me was that Larry told her Ay made love laike a dead horse, because Ay never moved.’

  Although Marigold had told him this a dozen times, Lysander put his arm round her.

  ‘Alive horses don’t move very much,’ he said consolingly. ‘I’ve seen lots of them being covered. My Uncle Alastair ran a stud at one time, and someone always held the mare still. Anyway, men say anything to a girl when they want to get their leg over.’

  To begin with Lysander used to escape to London as soon as he had supervised Marigold’s frugal supper, to party all night, returning yawning at breakfast and falling asleep in the afternoon on Larry’s sunbed. But gradually he spent more and more time at Paradise Grange. There was so much to do, working out in the gym, swimming in the heated pool, riding the hunters Larry abandoned after he’d been bucked off at the opening meet, watching all Larry’s Walt Disney tapes, playing with Larry’s bar.

  ‘What a pity you’re off the booze, Marigold. I could mix you some terrific cocktails.’

  One of their first mutual projects was the restoration of Arthur, who’d been confined to box rest for three months by the vet. As soon as the old horse arrived, Lysander had driven Marigold over to his
cottage to meet him.

  It was a beautiful day after a night of heavy rain, the robins were singing their heads off, and the racing streams glittered in the sunshine. Marigold tried not to squeal with terror as Lysander stormed the red Ferrari along the winding country lanes, whose high hedges were filling up so quickly with buds and even leaves one had no idea who might be hurtling in the opposite direction. By contrast, barking his head off, and rattling back and forwards like a shaken dice, Jack seemed to be thoroughly enjoying himself.

  ‘How did you acquire Arthur?’ asked Marigold faintly.

  ‘Well, it’s an extraordinary story. Basically my cousin Titus was in the Army in the Oman and during some skirmish he found Arthur wandering on the edge of the desert, thin as a rake and desperately dehydrated. Well, Titus had nowhere to stable him that night and no headcollar, so he and his men made a corral by parking four army lorries, nose to tail. Even in his desperately weakened condition, Arthur jumped straight over one of the bonnets after a passing mare.

  ‘Titus thought they’d lost him, but he was back nosing around for toast and marmalade the next morning. Anyway, he was such a distinctive-looking horse that his owner, some Arab sheik whom Titus was liberating, recognized him and was so grateful he let Titus keep him. Arthur’s got quite a good pedigree.

  ‘Titus brought him back to England, and gave him to his father, my Uncle Alastair, who was a trainer and who won a lot of races with him. I was left some money by an aunt and Alastair was in financial trouble — he was always bad with money — so I spent the lot buying Arthur from him. I’d always loved the horse. Dad was absolutely livid.’

  ‘Ay’m not surprised,’ said Marigold, shocked. ‘Your uncle shouldn’t have taken all your inheritance.’

  ‘You haven’t met Arthur,’ said Lysander fondly. ‘Anyway, poor Uncle Alastair died of a heart attack and Arthur fell first time out last September. The vet said rest him for a year, but Mum and I were determined to get him sound by next season. Then Mum died in October.’ For a second Lysander’s hands clenched on the wheel. Then, swinging off the road and destroying any hope that Marigold might have had that he might slow down on the stony track up to the cottage, he added, ‘So, I’m going to get him sound if it kills me.’

  ‘Yes, Ay can see that,’ said Marigold, only thankful to be alive amid so much death, as Lysander drew up with a jerk outside the stables behind the cottage. ‘Oh, how adorable,’ she squeaked.

  For the great grey horse hanging out of his box was tugging hay from a net so untidily that Tiny, his black Shetland stable-mate, who was attacking another net hung below his, had nearly vanished under a thatch of dropped hay.

  ‘The sweet wee thing.’ Marigold rushed forward to hug the little pony.

  ‘I wouldn’t,’ warned Lysander.

  As Tiny lashed out with a lightning off-hind, he pulled Marigold out of the way just in time.

  ‘Tiny,’ he added, giving the pony a sharp boot on the rump, ‘is an absolute bitch.’

  ‘She ought to meet Nikki,’ said Marigold with a sniff. ‘Nikki said—’

  ‘Basically I only keep Tiny,’ interrupted Lysander hastily, before Marigold could get into her stride, ‘because Arthur’s so bats about her. She henpecks him dreadfully, and she’s tried to kill Jack several times.’

  Scooping Jack up, Lysander held him so he could lick Arthur’s nose, then plonked the little dog between the horse’s huge flopping ears. Immediately Jack tightroped down Arthur’s straggly mane and settled down into the small of his back.

  ‘How adorable,’ sighed Marigold, giving Tiny a very wide berth, as she stroked Arthur. ‘He’s ’uge, isn’t he?’

  ‘Eighteen hands,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘He was the biggest horse in training. The public still send him fan mail and Twix bars, because they know he loves them.’

  Arthur was pure white except for his grey nose and dark eyes which were fringed with long, straight, white eyelashes and edged with white on the inside corners, as though some make-up artist had wanted to widen them.

  ‘Arthur looks as though he’s been around,’ said Marigold.

  ‘Basically he has,’ said Lysander. ‘He’s lived in back gardens in Fulham and on Dolly’s parents’ lawn; there was a row about that, and he spent three days in the orchard of a woman whose house I was — er — trying to sell.’

  Not anxious to expand on that, Lysander pointed to the traffic cones and rubber tyres he’d hung over Arthur’s door to give him something to biff around and amuse himself with.

  ‘He’s so good about being inside.’ Lysander pulled Arthur’s ears. ‘He just adores being petted. He never bites Tiny back and if Jack attacks his ankles, he just looks down in amazement. If he were a human, he’d put on a smoking jacket and velvet-crested slippers every night. He’s such a gent.’

  ‘Like his master,’ said Marigold warmly.

  ‘I wish Dolly thought so,’ sighed Lysander. ‘She’s just sent me a really sarky card: CONGRATULATIONS ON YOUR RETIREMENT. Now watch this.’

  As he produced a tin of Fanta out of his Barbour pocket, Arthur gave a deep Vesuvius whicker. Pulling back the tab, Lysander put the tin between Arthur’s big yellow teeth and, with gurgles of ecstasy, Arthur tipped back his head and drained the lot.

  ‘He can’t get up in the morning without his bowl of coffee,’ said Lysander retrieving the tin, ‘but only if it has two spoonfuls of sugar.’

  February 13th was a day for celebration. Marigold weighed in a stone lighter at nine stone four, and even Patch had shed five pounds and could wriggle through the cat door again. After a frugal lunch of clear soup, fennel-and-kiwi-fruit salad, Marigold was virtuously stuffing invitations to a Save the Children Bring and Buy into envelopes, instead of white chocolates into herself, and Lysander was sitting with his muddy booted legs up on the table, trying to compose a Valentine poem to Dolly who still hadn’t forgiven him for his exploits in Palm Beach.

  ‘Ferdie’s brilliant at writing poems, but he’s out and I must get it in the post. What rhymes with green?’

  ‘Keen, mean, been, my queen, sheen,’ suggested Marigold. ‘Did you know birds choose their mates on Valentine’s Day?’ She peered out at the crowded bird-table. ‘And that in the spring the chaffinch gets a pinker breast and the blackbird a more golden beak and look at that starlin’ his feathers are all purple and green in the sunshine.’

  But Lysander was looking at Marigold. Her skin was glowing pink, not dead white laced with hectic red. Her eyes, no longer bloodshot, were the same hazel as the catkins dropping their pollen on the kitchen table. There was no resemblance now to a Beryl Cook lady.

  ‘Sod the birds! You’re the one looking terrific,’ he said, tipping back his chair.

  ‘Oh, get on with you,’ said Marigold, putting two invitations into the same envelope, and blushing crimson. ‘Look at those sweet little great tits, swingin’ on that coconut.’ Then her happiness evaporated. ‘That was the coconut Larry won at the village fête last year.’

  ‘How d’you know so much about birds?’ asked Lysander, anxious to distract her.

  ‘Ay thought Ay should study wildlaife when we moved to the country. Unfortunately Larry got interested in another kaind of bird.’ That’s a sort of joke, if a very weak one, Marigold thought in surprise. Perhaps I’m beginning to laugh again.

  ‘How are you getting on with your poem?’ she asked. Proudly Lysander handed it across the table.

  ‘The rose is red, the grarse is green,’ read Marigold. ‘Open your legs and i’le turn you to creem.’

  ‘Oh, Laysander!’ Marigold was shocked rigid. ‘Ay don’t think that’s in the raight spirit. Why don’t you pop down to The Apple Tree? They’ve got some beautiful floral cards, with such lovely sentiments inside, or even left blank to record your message. Ay weakened,’ Marigold hung her head, ‘and sent one with primroses on to Larry. Ay trayed to get it back, and nearly got my hand stuck in the letter-box. Anyway, Ay don’t think Nikki’ll let it through, she gets the kettle ou
t for anythin’ marked prayvate and confidential.’

  Lysander was so worried Marigold would get no Valentines that he rushed off to The Apple Tree and bought her the largest card in the shop, which he handed to her with a huge bunch of daffodils the next morning, so she wouldn’t get all excited and think it was from Larry.

  ‘Oh, that’s beautiful,’ said Marigold, deeply touched.

  Inside Lysander had written: ‘To Marrygold who gets prittier eech day. love Lysander.’

  I didn’t marry gold, she thought sadly. It’s Nikki that’s going to do that, as soon as Larry divorces me.

  Seeing her face cloud over, Lysander handed her another present. More Sellotape than gift wrap, thought Marigold fondly as she broke her way in, and found a size ten pair of black-velvet shorts.

  ‘They’re lovely,’ she squeaked, ‘but you must be jokin’.’

  ‘Give it three weeks,’ said Lysander, ‘and we’ll be there.’

  ‘We,’ mumbled Marigold. How very nice.

  ‘As we can’t celebrate your great weight loss by getting pissed this evening,’ added Lysander, ‘I bought some magic mushrooms in Rutminster.’

  ‘Ay can’t take drugs,’ said Marigold, appalled. ‘Ay’m hoping to become a JP.’

  ‘It’s just a natural product,’ said Lysander airily. ‘We can make tea out of them, you’ll love it and you won’t put on an ounce.’

  ‘Ay’m supposed to be going to a Best-Kept Village committee.’

  ‘Cancel it. Crocodile Dundee’s on television.’

  ‘Ay really shouldn’t,’ said Marigold. That was the third committee meeting she’d cancelled that week.

  What a very sweet boy, thought Marigold. When they were jogging he helped her over stiles and caught her elbow if she slipped in the mud or on the icy roads, and he always opened doors and helped her on with her coat. He was probably doing it because he thought of her as a pathetic old wrinkly, she told herself sternly, but Larry had never done any of these things in eighteen years. And Lysander never got cross.