by Jilly Cooper
In the kitchen he was welcomed by Marks & Spencer’s Chicken and Asparagus and Bread and Butter Pudding, both in foil trays. He loathed asparagus.
There was also a note from Marigold:
‘Larry,’ (not even dear), ‘These will take five minutes in the microwave. Gone out to dinner, back around midnight. Make yourself at home.’
It’s my fucking home, thought Larry furiously.
He couldn’t even ring for someone to run him up steak and chips because he’d laid them all off, and even he wouldn’t summon Mrs Brimscombe from the lodge in the middle of Coronation Street.
There were no curtains drawn, nor a fire in the lounge. He couldn’t complain. It was so mild that in the old days, he would have bellyached about the central heating being left on or a fire lit.
Returning to the kitchen, he found an empty bottle of champagne in the bin, two glasses in the sink and a huge bunch of pink roses with a card on the draining board. ‘Marigold, you were out of this world. All love, L.’
His Harley Street consultant had warned him against stress, but Larry had never been nearer a coronary as he bolted upstairs and was knocked sideways by the smell of Joy. Marigold was tidy to the point of finickityness, but now carrier bags with new clothes littered the bed and the armchairs. In the bathroom he found the top off the scented body lotion, a razor clogged with hair that looked unpleasantly pubic, a Cellophane pack that had contained black, eight-denier, seamed stockings and a size ten label on the floor. Marigold used to be size sixteen. The hairdryer was still plugged in, and worst of all The Joy of Sex on the edge of the bath lay open at fellatio. It was no comfort to Larry that this was exactly the state in which Nikki left their new en suite bathroom in Pelham Crescent.
With a howl Larry hurled The Joy of Sex out of the window, whereupon the clockwork squawking of a pheasant reminded him of his clockwork wife running away. Not wanting to go home to Nikki, who thought he was looking at a new pop group in Bristol, he stormed down to The Pearly Gates and got so drunk he didn’t even notice Marigold, Lysander and Ferdie coming out of The Heavenly Host across the road around eleven.
‘Ay’ve got fraightful butterflies,’ gasped Marigold as Ferdie pulled up outside The Grange.
‘Should be moths at night,’ said Lysander, who’d been getting gloomier as the evening progressed.
‘No more lipstick,’ ordered Ferdie, as Marigold opened her bag.
Ruffling her hair, he undid several buttons of her red dress — ‘You’ve got to look as though you’ve been got at,’ — before allowing her out of the car.
‘Now play it cool, and remember no bonking. We’ll stick around for a sec in case you need rescuing.’
Watching Marigold going up the steps, Lysander felt the same sickness as when his mother, trying not to cry, had walked down the platform after putting him on the school train. But a minute later Marigold came rushing back.
‘He’s gone, without leaving a note,’ she sobbed. ‘Ay’ve blown it, Ay’ve blown it.’
Appalled to find Marigold so devastated, Lysander leapt out of the car.
‘He’ll be back.’ He put an arm round her. ‘Probably just stormed out in a strop.’
‘Must have been one hell of a strop, if he left the door open and the burglar alarm off with Picassos and Stubbs in the house,’ mused Ferdie. ‘Can you see anything missing?’
‘Only Larry,’ wailed Marigold, as Jack jumped into Patch’s basket, snuggling up to her.
Desperate to give Marigold comfort, Lysander poured her a glass of Sancerre.
‘I taped Casualty for you,’ he said. It was Marigold’s favourite programme.
‘Ay’m the only casualty round ’ere.’ Putting her chain-handled bag down with a clatter on the draining board, she was bashing the stems of Lysander’s pink roses with a rolling pin, when the telephone rang.
‘Don’t answer it,’ howled Ferdie. But faster than Nijinsky out of the starting gates, Marigold was across the room. The telephone stopped on the third ring.
‘It’s our secret code,’ squeaked Marigold.
As the telephone began again, she snatched it up before Ferdie could stop her, listened for a second, then put her trembling hand over the receiver.
‘Larry wants to come over. He’s in The Pearly Gates.’
‘That’s the nearest he’s going to get to heaven this evening,’ said Ferdie briskly. ‘Tell him no. You’ve got red eyes and a red nose, and you’re both so wasted it’ll only end in a punch or bunk-up and blow all your advantage. Say you’re tired.’
Ferdie’s square face could look very big and mean. His friends didn’t employ him as a bouncer at their twenty-firsts for nothing.
Meekly Marigold told Larry she was shattered. They arranged to have dinner next week.
‘Who’s that in the background?’ growled Larry, as Lysander sulkily crashed the door of the fridge.
‘Only Patch,’ said Marigold. ‘See you next week.’
‘We’ll plan the whole operation when the time comes,’ said Ferdie. ‘Come along, Lysander.’
And because Ferdie wasn’t supposed to know he’d been bonking Marigold, Lysander reluctantly had to comply. Jack, even more reluctant to be removed from Patch’s paws, bit his master sharply on the hand.
Alone in her pink-flounced four-poster, Marigold couldn’t sleep. She had envisaged a scene from Gone with the Wind, with herself being so provoking that Larry would sweep her upstairs like Clark Gable — well, at least the black moustache was the same — and ravish her — at this point admittedly his technique would become Lysander’s. Then, becoming Larry again, he would swear she was his only love and Nikki a fearful aberration.
Hepped up for conflict, twitching with desire, Marigold longed for Lysander’s tender and exuberant lovemaking after which she always fell into a wonderful sleep. Lysander was better than any pill, and he didn’t leave you feeling woozy and unable to drive in the morning.
Having spent so many nights alone at the Grange, Marigold was unafraid of the dark, and always left her curtains open because no-one could see in except the birds. Outside a full moon was admiring her reflection in the fish-ponds, and a gentle west wind was scratching the bare stems of the famous Paradise Pearl against the window.
Marigold had never masturbated in her life, thinking it a disgusting habit, but Lysander had made her come so wonderfully with his fingers and tongue, she thought she’d give it a whirl and put the duvet over Patch snoring beside her, so the dog wouldn’t be corrupted.
‘Think about something that really turns you on,’ Lysander always urged her.
So Marigold thought about Lysander. Goodness, it was nice and quite easy, her breath was coming faster and faster, when she heard a loud bang on the window, which couldn’t be just windswept wisteria twigs. Then to her horror she saw a man framed in the window, the moonlight behind him. Screaming her head off she whipped her finger from her clitoris to the panic button.
Mr Brimscombe, however, who slept lightly because of his rheumatism, had already heard a car going towards the house. The driver must have had a remote control to open the electric gates, but it wasn’t young Mr Hawkley because his red Ferrari always blared music. Remembering his ladder outside Marigold’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe set out to investigate.
The Paradise Pearl, a unique silver-pink wisteria, had been propagated by Mr Brimscombe’s grandfather who’d gone to the grave with the secret of its exquisite vigour and colouring. Gardeners came from all over the world to admire and attempt to copy it. Mr Brimscombe’s first ignoble thought when he saw a man up the ladder was not that he was attempting to break in or rape Mrs Lockton, but that he was taking cuttings off the Paradise Pearl.
Shooting across the lawn like a crab, he seized the ladder just as Larry was peering in at the incredibly erotic sight of his beautiful slimmed-down wife playing with herself, the lamplight warming her lovely breasts. Excitement turned to horror, however, when he saw the duvet moving beside her — it must be that young puppy Ly
sander, not even capable of satisfying her. As Larry banged furiously on the window, his ladder was suddenly shaken down below with even more fury.
‘Come down, you thieving bugger,’ screached Mr Brimscombe.
Instantly obeying, Larry missed the next rung, grabbed a gnarled branch of the Paradise Pearl, bringing it and himself crashing to the ground on top of a whole bed of Crown Imperials.
If Marigold hadn’t recognized Larry and rushed to open the double glazing and alert Mr Brimscombe to his master’s identity, Larry would have been cudgelled to death by a fox-headed walking-stick.
Next morning Marigold rang Ferdie to tell him what had happened.
‘Just a social climb,’ said Ferdie.
Marigold giggled. ‘Larry got off with a bruising and a sprained ankle. He’s just discharged himself from Rutminster Hospital. Oh, and Ferdie, he’s taking me to The Four Seasons tonaight.’
‘Well, play it cool.’
The following morning Marigold summoned Ferdie to The Grange.
‘We never made The Four Seasons. We ended up in bed.’
‘On the first date?’ Disapprovingly, Ferdie dipped a chocolate biscuit in his coffee. ‘You’re a slag, Marigold. When are you seeing him again?’
‘Tonight. He’s going to leave Nikki and come home. Oh, Ferdie, Ay can’t thank you both enough.’
‘We aim to please,’ Ferdie pocketed a £10,000 cheque for mission accomplished and persuaded Marigold she must keep Lysander on a year’s retainer, so he could whizz back if Larry started acting up. ‘And we must return that diamond key to Cartier’s.’
‘How do I explain that to Larry?’
‘That it isn’t ethical to accept presents from young boys if one has made it up with one’s husband. It’s believing Lysander could afford one hundred thousand pounds for a brooch that rattled Larry.’
Marigold was brought up short. She was going to miss Lysander dreadfully. She had found it much easier to forgive Larry, because having Lysander around had made her realize how heady it must have been for Larry having Nikki. But at least if he was on a retainer, she’d see him occasionally. She decided to give him two polo ponies and a set of Dick Francis talking books as he was such a slow reader.
Lysander was so upset at the thought of Larry taking Marigold to The Four Seasons, and no doubt to bed, that he’d gone out and got plastered. Next morning, overwhelmed with hangover, clutching a cup of coffee, he’d gone out to see Arthur in his box.
He found the old horse had eaten all his bedding, a habit from his early days, when he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from, that he only reverted to when he felt very low and neglected.
‘I’m sorry, boy,’ said Lysander appalled, flinging his arms round Arthur’s neck, avoiding the green bits where Arthur had rolled. ‘I’m sorry, Mum and Uncle Alastair. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll bloody well get him sound and have another crack at the Rutminster.’
He emptied his cup into a bucket, because Arthur loved drinking coffee.
Having left Marigold and picked up a hamburger from the pub, Ferdie drove over to Lysander’s. He found him slumped, shivering in the corner of Arthur’s stable clutching Jack like a teddy bear, with Ferdie’s blue coat wrapped round him like a child’s dressing gown. Lysander was deathly pale and looked absurdly young. Arthur having abandoned silent sympathy, was lying flat out with his eyes open snoring loudly to get his master’s attention.
‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ said Ferdie.
‘Marigold’s divorce papers?’
‘Even better.’ Having taken his ten per cent commission, Ferdie handed over a cheque for £9,000, which Lysander pocketed listlessly.
‘Unlike you I don’t think dosh is the most important thing in the world.’
‘It comes a fucking good second.’ Ferdie handed Arthur a bit of hamburger bun. ‘Don’t be bloody ungrateful. Thanks to me you don’t owe a bean, in fact you’ve got a fat bank balance as well as a Ferrari and some really sharp suits. In the old days, you were always grumbling that you wanted to take Dolly to decent places and become a Lanson lout.’
‘I’ve grown out of that way of life. All those phoneys poncing around at the Catchitune party. I don’t want to be part of that scene any more. Why can’t I stay here and get Arthur sound?’
‘Larry’s coming back. It’ll be easier if you’re not around.’
‘She can’t go back to that overpaid clown.’ Lysander was nearly in tears. ‘He’ll have her back in pie-frilled collars in a week. I’m very fond of Marigold,’ he added defiantly. ‘Being with her reminded me of Mum. I wouldn’t mind settling down with her.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Ferdie more gently. ‘You’d have to take her bopping on her zimmer in a few years’ time. And that accent would get seriously on your nerves.’
‘It would not,’ said Lysander furiously.
‘It’s like walking hound puppies. You have to send them back. You don’t have to go back to London. I’ve got another job for you in Cheshire rattling a drain billionaire who’s cheating on his wife.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘You will be when you see the wife. She’s stunning. And you can take Arthur, Tiny and Jack. Evidently there’s a brilliant vet up there.’
Still lying down, Arthur snored even louder, opening an eye to see if Ferdie was prepared to relinquish any more hamburger bun.
‘Come on, you owe it to Arthur,’ persisted Ferdie. ‘Tomorrow to fresh woods and Porsches new.’
15
A fortnight later when Guy and Georgie moved into Angel’s Reach, all the removal men were whistling ‘Rock Star’ which now topped the UK as well as the American charts.
Guy, who took a week off work, masterminded the entire operation. Georgie drifted about getting in everyone’s way and going into poetic ecstasies over the lushness of the Rutshire spring. Blackthorn was breaking in dazzling white waves over the brightening green fields. On the first morning they were woken before dawn by the birds. Georgie had never seen so many lambs jumping in the fields or daffodils in a halo round their very own lake. A singer-songwriter could not but be gay in such a jocund company.
Euphoria, however, soon gave way to panic as she realized she’d lost Act One of her musical Ant and Cleo in the move. She daren’t tell Guy as he’d insist on helping her look, and there were all sorts of old love letters and the odd recent one in her boxes of papers which she didn’t want him to find. In the excitement of having a Number One record, she’d also agreed to deliver the new album by Christmas.
‘I’ll never get it done in time,’ she wailed to Guy, who was putting up some rather startling abstracts in the kitchen. The sink was still blocked with flowers wishing them luck in their new home, which Georgie would never get round to arranging.
Putting down his hammer, Guy took Georgie in his arms.
‘Larry’s just rung to say he’s going to bring in some whizz-kid producer to remix and revamp a lot of your old songs, so you’ll only have to write half a dozen or so new ones. It’s so restful here, you’ll do them in your sleep.’
‘No good if I can’t sleep,’ mumbled Georgie fretfully into Guy’s chest.
Having not arranged the making of a single curtain to fit the vast Angel’s Reach windows, she was getting increasingly irritated at being woken by the sun and the bloody birds at five-thirty in the morning.
So Guy, who knew where everything was, unearthed some swirling blue, olive and purple William Morris curtains which had hung in the house in Hampstead and charmed Kitty Rannaldini, who’d left a dozen new-laid eggs in the porch on their first morning, into letting them down.
As Kitty had promised to return the curtains as soon as possible, Guy, who felt sorry for her rattling around in that huge, supposedly haunted house, had invited her over for a late lunch on the Friday after they moved in. Following this, they would all drive over to the end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall, where Georgie’s and Guy’s younger daughter, Flora, and Kitty’s s
tepchildren, Wolfie and Natasha, were pupils.
Georgie, who’d been failing to work, hugged Kitty in delight as she staggered through the front door, the curtains in her arms.
‘Oh, you are kind! Put them down on the hall chair. Oh dear, you’re wearing a skirt — I was hoping to get away with jeans.’
Although Kitty had never received any affection from her stepdaughter, she felt she ought to support her at the concert because Rannaldini was still away. She had put on a compost-brown suit with a full skirt, which had once looked marvellous on Hermione, but which did nothing for Kitty’s figure or colouring. She had made it worse by trying to add the feminine touches of a pottery flower-brooch and a frilly white Tricel shirt.
‘Guy’s bound to bully me into changing,’ moaned Georgie. ‘Let’s go and murder a huge drink. Don’t worry, Guy’s driving. We’ll need to be pissed to sit through all those Merry Peasants and out-of-tune fiddles.’
Kitty followed her into a kitchen which had just been charmingly redecorated with a cornflower-blue tiled floor, white walls, primrose-yellow surfaces, blue-and-white plates and framed family photographs with blue mounts among Guy’s abstracts on the walls.
‘Ow, it’s so fresh and pretty,’ marvelled Kitty.
‘Guy’s taste,’ said Georgie. ‘He’s awfully clever.’
The kitchen was also surprisingly tidy, except for a large tabby cat with orange eyes, who sprawled most unhygienically, Kitty thought, across a big scrubbed table. She was frightened of animals, particularly of the Rottweilers which guarded Rannaldini, and The Prince of Darkness, the vicious black steeplechaser, who, now the National Hunt Season was over, roamed the fields terrorizing any rambler who ventured on to Rannaldini’s land.
‘What’s he called?’ Kitty tried to be polite, as the cat bopped Georgie with a fat paw as she passed.
‘Charity,’ said Georgie. ‘It’s Guy’s cat. He adores her. Flora chose the name, so we could all say, “Daddy does a tremendous amount for Charity”. And he does. He’s already joined the Best-Kept Village Committee, and he popped down to say hallo to the vicar this morning. He should have been back hours ago.’