by Jilly Cooper
‘Oh, they’re sweet!’ Lysander kissed each nipple. ‘You’re so beautiful.’
Laying her across his thighs, he pushed back her fringe and adoringly kissed her forehead, her heavy eyelids, her snub nose, and then, with a whoop of delight, returned to her mouth. All the time he was gently stroking the back of her neck, her armpits, and her breasts an inch below the nipples, every place where she was most responsive, before tunnelling under her bikini bottom until he could feel her heart bashing against his and her thighs quivering with delight.
‘I thought you had a hangover,’ muttered Georgie, struggling to keep a metaphorical foot on the bottom of the pool.
‘You could put Fernet Branca out of business,’ whispered Lysander. ‘God, I want to get inside you. I’ve got a thing about women of experience.’
‘Experience of retreating men,’ said Georgie sadly. Oh, why hadn’t she kept up those exercises to strengthen her internal muscles? ‘Anyway we can’t, not in front of Dinsdale.’
Laughing, Lysander laid her on the rug. Switching off EastEnders, he removed his dark blue shirt, threw it over Dinsdale and turned a photograph of Guy to face the wall. Then, dropping his jeans, he knelt beside Georgie, gently easing off her bikini bottoms. Burying his face in her breasts, breathing in Ambre Solaire, he mumbled, ‘I dreamt and dreamt this would happen. I’m going to be the bridge over the ravine to your new happiness. Don’t cry, it’ll be so lovely. Lie on top of me if the floor’s too hard.’
It had been such agony with Guy that morning that on seeing the splendour of Lysander’s cock, Georgie was terrified he’d never get inside her. But having turned her sideways, with one thigh between his, he spat on his fingers and stroked her so delicately that she was soon bubbling like a hot churn of butter.
‘Oooooh, that’s heavenly,’ she sighed as he slid easily right up inside her. ‘We’re tailor-made. God, what a wonderful cock.’
Lysander grinned down at her. ‘It’s an absolute tower of strength,’ he whispered and Georgie got such giggles he came and she didn’t.
‘God, that was magic.’ Lysander filled their glasses with tepid champagne. ‘I’m sorry. I should have kept going. Ferdie always distances himself by reciting Shakespeare or Latin verbs, but I can never remember anything long enough to remember it. Anyway I can’t think of anything but you. Oh, Georgie.’ And he kissed her with such love, it was worth all the orgasms in the world.
As he lit them both cigarettes, a deep sigh came from the sofa. Jack, Maggie and Dinsdale, peering out from under Lysander’s shirt, were watching them with the utmost disapproval.
‘They look like Jack Tinker, Milton Shulman and Irving Wardle after the first act of a seriously bad play,’ said Georgie, ‘except it was seriously lovely.’ Bending over she kissed Lysander’s flat brown belly, then moving slowly upwards kissed each rib. ‘You are desirability incarnate, but it must be the last time. You’re less than half my age. It’s obscene.’
‘So what? Look at Rannaldini and—’ Lysander just stopped himself saying ‘Flora’. God, he must be careful. ‘And — er — all those groupies he’s always deflowering.’
‘According to Hermione, Rannaldini fulfils a woman’s every need.’
Chucking his cigarette into the fireplace Lysander stretched out on the rug, his cock pointing unambiguously heavenwards.
‘Come and sit on my need,’ he said, ‘and this time you’re going to come.’
Georgie’s life changed. Feeling herself wildly desired by someone she found wildly desirable, her confidence flooded back. She started looking sensational. She had never enjoyed sex so much. She’d never believed lust and larkiness could be so entwined.
Ferdie, on the other hand, was livid. ‘You’re not supposed to bonk them,’ he shouted at Lysander, ‘you’ll be done for enticement. Guy’ll take you to the cleaners.’
‘I don’t care, I love bonking Georgie.’
‘She’s ancient,’ snapped Ferdie. ‘You’re like a robin nesting in some rusty old kettle.’
Ferdie was somewhat surprised to find himself being shaken like a rat.
‘Don’t you ever talk like that about Georgie again.’
Guy was also seriously rattled. Georgie had cried wolf in the past, often threatening to walk out when she was plastered. But now she was never in when he rang. She claimed she was working, but he noticed exactly the same notes on her music-stand and the same words of lyric in her notebook on Fridays as there had been on Mondays.
‘You’re seeing far too much of Lysander Hawkley,’ he told Georgie, who was wearing a scarf on the hottest day of the year to hide the lovebites.
‘And you see too much of Julia Armstrong,’ said Georgie blithely. ‘Small tits for tat.’
‘We’re not talking about me. It’s juvenile to try and get your own back.’
‘Whoever said revenge was sweet was a smart cookie.’
Guy tried another tack. ‘We must do more things together, Panda.’
‘Right,’ said Georgie. ‘Let’s kick off by getting a divorce.’
34
The impossibly hot summer sweltered on and people wore as few clothes as possible. Georgie and Lysander spent a great deal of time in bed and his presence at Magpie Cottage kept the husbands of Paradise more on their toes than Baryshnikov. In particular, Guy and Larry started ringing solicitously night and morning, cutting down their sporting activities at weekends and getting home early on Friday with bunches of flowers. In Guy’s case it was dramatic how British Rail had suddenly improved their services.
Only Rannaldini carried on in his usual fashion making love to Flora in every possible position in every capital in Europe. Hermione and Cecilia, unaware of this new passion, joined Natasha in feeling more than a faint neglect and became increasingly demanding and histrionic — particularly towards Kitty, who was the one who had to cancel when Rannaldini was supposed to be seeing them.
The only pleasure afforded a chronically cuckolded wife, of witnessing the anguish of one’s husband’s current mistress when he moves on to a new one, was denied to poor Kitty because she felt that Rannaldini was far more smitten with Flora than any of the others.
A diversion was caused at the end of August by the launching of his film of Don Giovanni, promptly nicknamed Dong Giovanni because many of the leading characters appeared with nothing on. The critics, while full of praise for the production, pointed out that the wonderfully lit conductor appeared more than the Don. Paradise was electrified because their very own Hermione Harefield, and Cecilia Rannaldini, the ex-wife of their very own Rannaldini, appeared in the buff. Grin and Barefield, The Scorpion called it. Pirate versions were soon circulating Paradise with the sound turned down and much frame-freezing on Hermione’s bottom.
At a private and raucous late-night showing in The Pearly Gates, pats of butter and even darts were thrown at the screen. Hermione was not quite so beloved in Paradise as she believed.
Having borrowed the tape to show Georgie, Lysander wandered down to Paradise the following morning to hand it over to ancient Miss Cricklade who was next in the queue. Since the arrival of a vast box of chocolates, Miss Cricklade had forgiven Lysander for drinking her home-made wine at the fête and was now taking in his washing.
It was a day fit for a wedding. After heavy rain in the night, a newly washed blue sky arched over gold fields. Every blade of bleached grass and already turning leaves sparkled in the sunshine. Apples reddened like blushing brides in the orchards of Paradise.
Lysander had meant just to take the dogs but Arthur had looked so bored and eager for a jaunt and Tiny made such a din if left behind that in the end they all went. Jack, strutting out proudly with Arthur’s lead rope between his teeth, and Maggie, who was now three times larger than Jack, cavorted in front teasing Tiny and keeping out of the way of her gnashing jaws and lightning hoofs.
Lysander felt absurdly happy. Wearing just loafers and frayed denim shorts, he could feel the sun on his back which was now darker gold than the fields.
He was in love. He had a mother to fuss over him once more and he adored living in Paradise. Since he’d mistaken the fête for a wedding reception and made the vicar’s wife, Marigold and Lady Chisleden (all regarded as bossyboots) look silly, his popularity had soared even higher.
‘In a world where nothing seems real, I have found you, I have found you,’ sang Lysander to Arthur, who waggled his big ears lovingly and didn’t remotely mind his master being out of tune.
Passing Bob’s and Hermione’s, Lysander noticed a pair of sweating workmen hoisting very large, new-looking white balls on to the greying flat-topped pillars on either side of the gates.
He was so busy staring he didn’t see anyone approaching. Giving a snort of irritation that Lysander’s pack was spilling over the road and pressing herself into the hedge like a cat when the hunt passes, was a very tall, very thin girl. Startlingly pale for such a hot summer, she had very short spiky beige hair and a fine-boned foxy face dominated by angry eyes. She was wearing a loose, earth-coloured dress, which totally disguised her figure. Somehow she seemed familiar. Lysander heard her footsteps halt, but when he turned, she’d disappeared. She must have gone into Jasmine Cottage, the sweet little house belonging to Hermione, which was hired out for expensive holiday lets.
By the time Lysander had had a cup of coffee and a glass of parsnip sherry with Miss Cricklade and dropped off his washing and had a glass of Sancerre with Miss Paradise ’89, who waited at The Heavenly Host and who’d saved the remains of last night’s bread-and-butter pudding for Arthur, and had a bet and a pint of Flowers at The Pearly Gates and reached The Apple Tree, he was in fine fettle. But as Tiny had eaten his shopping list he’d forgotten what he’d come down for.
Wandering round the shop throwing smoked salmon, frozen Mars bars and a bottle of Moët into his basket as treats for Georgie, Lysander bumped into Eve the owner who was as short, plump and jolly as the unknown girl had been tall, thin and disapproving. ‘Who’s taken Jasmine Cottage?’ he asked.
‘Mrs Levitsky’s come back,’ said Eve with a sniff. ‘She was married to Boris that Russian. They were so happy when they first lived here. She had two lovely kiddies and hair down her back. Then he went off with another woman.’
‘Ah. Is she called Rachel and plays the piano?’
‘That’s the one. She likes to be called Rachel Grant now.’
‘I know her,’ said Lysander in amazement. ‘She was so beautiful she made me forget to go to an interview. Gosh, she’s changed.’ Lysander added Pedigree Chum, chewsticks and carrots for the horses to his basket.
‘It’s unhinged her,’ said Eve, writing down Lysander’s purchases in a red book. ‘She’s joined the Green Party and she’s always in here complaining. None of the fruit’s organic enough. I mean, we’re not a health-food store. Then she says we’ve got the wrong washing-up liquid, the wrong toothpaste, the wrong shampoos.’ Eve’s sense of grievance boiled over. ‘I hope her hair turns green and it all falls out. She’s put off so many of my customers.’
‘What’s she doing down here?’ asked Lysander, adding the Sun and Sporting Life to the pile.
‘Come back to accompany Hermione. She’ll get a pittance for that. She keeps grumbling Jasmine Cottage is so dark. Not surprising with all those Save the Whales and the White Rhino and the Rain Forest posters in the window. She could start by saving her breath,’ added Eve putting everything into a carrier bag.
‘I’ll drop in and say hallo on the way home,’ said Lysander.
Eve followed him outside giving a finger of KitKat to the dogs and breaking up a Twix bar for Arthur and Tiny.
‘What did you think of Madam’s video?’ she asked.
‘Well, basically I’m not into opera. I can never see how they can sing so loudly and for so long when they’re supposed to be dying, and Hermione’s got a bigger ass on her than Arthur. Talking of asses, I better get mine into gear. Here comes the vicar.’
The return journey took almost as long, with more drinks and bets and a long chat with Mother Courage returning from Angel’s Reach with huge sweat circles under the armpits of Hermione’s Jean Muir which she’d bought for £2.50 at the Nearly New stall.
‘Take your time, Sandy,’ she told Lysander. ‘Georgie’s playing and singing up in her tower like a lark. You ’aven’t been missed. ’Allo, Jack, ’allo, Maggie, going to see Debenham? Yes, I know Rachel. Always flying off the angle. Her husband was a nice fellow, used to walk along the road composing. He’d always buy you a drink. People say he defecated all the way from Russia.’
Moving on, Lysander read in the Sun about a forest fire raging through France. It had probably been started by Flora tossing her fag into the bracken and crying, ‘Encore, Rannaldini.’ He wondered what Georgie and Flora would both say if they knew with whom the other was sleeping. He was dithering whether to pop in on Rachel when Jack took matters into his own paws. Seeing Rachel’s tabby cat in the road ahead, he dropped Arthur’s lead rope and took off, followed by Maggie.
When Lysander caught up with them the cat had been chased up an ancient quince tree hanging over the wall and the dogs were yapping hysterically round the base with Rachel swiping at them with a broom and screaming: ‘Go away, you bloody animals.’
‘Don’t kill them,’ begged Lysander. ‘Here, hang on to Arthur and Tiny.’
He had grabbed Jack, when Maggie, unnerved by raised voices and any kind of violence, crapped extensively on Rachel’s lawn, producing a further tirade.
‘Are you trying to blind my children? Can’t you keep your bloody dogs on a lead? Get them out of my garden.’
‘I’m really sorry.’ Tucking Jack under his arm, grabbing the horses and calling to Maggie, Lysander backed down the path until he had shut the gate firmly between them.
‘Look, d’you remember me? Lysander Hawkley. We met in that chemist’s and went back to your house. We were having a really nice time until your husband came back.’
Slowly, painfully, Rachel seemed to lug her mind out of the horrors of the present into the far worse torments of the past.
‘Boris left me.’ Furiously she started dead-heading yellow roses.
‘I know. I’m desperately sorry.’
‘What are you doing here?’
‘Living at Magpie Cottage — where are your kids?’
‘A friend’s taken them, I’ve got to go over to Hermione’s. She’s got a prom next week and needs to go through the score.’
Rachel was even thinner than Georgie had been. Her face was seamed with pain, her huge eyes dark with loss. Christ, what awful things men do to women, thought Lysander. As it was Friday he’d be at a loose end tonight because Guy was due home. He’d also had a lot to drink and heard himself saying: ‘Why don’t you come over to supper after you’ve finished?’
‘No thanks.’ Rachel’s face shut like a trap. ‘Hermione’ll keep me for hours. She takes her kilo of flesh. Then I’ve got to put the kids to bed.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Lysander, relieved. ‘Some other time.’
His skin was as smooth, dark and shiny as any of the rain-forest mahogany she was trying to save. His bleached hair flopped into his eyes. He was heartbreakingly pretty.
‘You ought to put on a shirt or you’ll get skin cancer,’ snapped Rachel. ‘The ozone layer’s so thin. But I don’t expect you care about that.’
Slamming the front door, she started to cry. It was a relief to be jolted out of her dry stony grief. Lysander had stirred up so many memories. That brief afternoon when they’d been so furiously and rudely interrupted was the last time she had been totally sure of Boris’s love.
The marriage had started with such promise, after Boris caught sight of her slender bare back topped by shining piled-up brown hair as she played Beethoven’s Third Piano Concerto in Moscow and had fallen so wildly in love that he could do nothing but defect. For a while, like the Gemini, they had been two glittering stars in the musical firmament: the broodingly handsome young conductor immediately snapped up by
the London Met, and his equally dazzling young pianist wife.
Having shaken off the shackles of Communism, however, Boris, who already had a passion for red wine, red meat and red-blooded women, started amassing capitalist trappings: fast cars, designer clothes, CDs, tapes and electronic equipment — which was fine when he and Rachel were both working.
But with babies the trouble started. Because her mother had gone out to work Rachel had been determined to stay at home with her own children and on one income the money soon ran out.
Rachel also grew increasingly resentful at not being able to pursue her own career. As she pushed prams in the park with a green, Guardian-reading feminist, who indoctrinated her with her subversive ideas, Rachel started serving up vegetarian food and throwing Boris out of the house for smoking and drinking. Then, determined to return to work, she accepted an invitation to tour America, hoping that the totally undomesticated Boris, left at home to look after two small children and the house, would appreciate what she had to put up with.
But Boris, missing his homeland and family and fed up with Rachel’s passion for the truth, which many people called tactlessness, suddenly felt a desperate need for warmth, approval and companionship.
Thus Rachel returned from America to find he had fallen in love with Chloe the mezzo, who was beautiful, bosomy, successful and only too happy to tell Boris how marvellous he was.
Finding himself unable to give up Chloe and too straight, unlike Guy, Rannaldini and Larry, to run two women, Boris had finally resigned from his marriage. Rachel, having lost touch with the music world, was getting no concert work. A couple of earlier recitals where she had loyally played Boris’s compositions, which had meant half the audience leaving at the interval, hadn’t exactly helped her career. Hermione paid her a pittance, as did her few pupils, and she was embittered at Boris’s constant failure to keep up the maintenance payments. Her evenings were now spent festering and firing off letters on recycled paper to the prime ministers of foreign countries complaining about their treatment of the environment. At least it ensured that she occasionally got some post in return.