by Jilly Cooper
In the past Rupert had notched up more conquests than Don Giovanni. The Press, deeply sceptical about his apparent fidelity to Taggie, were determined to catch him out. The Scorpion employed two reporters whose sole job was to tail him night and day. Their last scoop had indeed been four and a half years ago when the tempestuous Perdita Macleod, England’s best woman polo player, had turned out to be Rupert’s daughter. After passionate initial antagonism, Rupert had eventually recognized her as his child and given her considerable emotional and financial support. Since then the paparazzi had had nothing to go on, following him warily, aware that Rupert was rich enough to sue them witless if they stepped out of line.
But a scoop in the Daily Express about Taggie’s heartbreak over the miscarriage had triggered all the speculation off again. Apart from the loss of the baby, which had affected him just as badly as Taggie, Rupert had had a pulverizing year. Even successful owner-trainers had been stymied by the recession. Rupert’s yearlings didn’t automatically fetch six figures any more. For the first time he was having to put up with indifferent horses if the owner was rich enough to pay for them. Hence the post-mortem today. As a founder director of Venturer Television he should have made a killing but advertising was right down and they’d been forced to layoff staff.
Nor were his three children giving him much joy. Marcus, who was at Bagley Hall with Flora, was a wimp whose only ambition egged on by his mother, Rupert’s first wife, was to be a concert pianist. Tabitha, with whom Rupert had enjoyed an adoring, almost too symbiotic relationship, had suddenly turned into a brat who questioned Rupert’s every decision and attitude and who had recently, at the age of fourteen, fallen madly in love with Rupert’s tractor-driver. Removed out of temptation to Monthaut, she had sulked so badly that Rupert, in a rage, had packed her off home to her mother. Finally, Perdita, with whom Rupert had an erratic relationship — only her husband Luke could really handle her — had added a last straw heavier than a crowbar.
His wife Taggie, though young enough to be his fourth child, adored him and longed to have his children. After an almost fatal miscarriage early on in their marriage when she had been told she couldn’t have children, she had endured several painful and disappointing attempts to have a test-tube baby. Finally getting pregnant to universal rejoicing in August, at four months she had had a ghastly and inexplicable miscarriage.
Nothing in the world would bring back the baby. Dismissing Rupert’s anguished protestations that he must be bringing Taggie bad luck, James Benson, who was also Rupert’s family doctor, told him to take Taggie away for a holiday.
‘And then go to South America, or Texas, or even Romania, and adopt. There are plenty of babies if you wave your cheque book.’
Having endured innumerable sleepless nights worrying about Taggie, Rupert was desperately in need of a break himself. A dashing skier all his life, the mountains always recharged his batteries and Taggie would get brown and strong again.
Then all had been sabotaged by Perdita ringing Taggie from Palm Beach; she had deliberately chosen the moment just before Christmas when Rupert was in Ireland. Announcing that it was high time he and Taggie got to know their grandchild, she asked if she could dump little Eddie on them for a fortnight while she and Luke flew to Kenya to play polo.
‘It’s the chance of a lifetime, Taggie,’ she had begged. ‘All expenses paid. Luke and I have been working our asses off keeping the barn and the ponies going. The recession’s been far worse in America. We really need to spend some time together.’
And sweet, gentle Taggie, of course, had agreed and Rupert had returned from Ireland to find little Eddie in situ, totally American, utterly adorable but as self-willed as his grandfather, who never stopped asking when Mom and Dad were coming back. Outraged with Perdita for lumbering Taggie with a child when she’d just lost her own, Rupert had promptly employed a French girl to look after Eddie. But, infuriatingly and stubbornly, Taggie had insisted on caring for him herself, getting up in the night whenever he cried, even allowing him to come into their bed, so there had been no holiday and even less sex.
He had taken Eddie skiing to give Taggie a break and the little sod, who had learnt to ski before he could crawl, had given Rupert the slip and showed him up as a grandfather in front of the entire world Press — the Misconstruction Industry, as he always called them.
Rupert actually liked his new grandchild. He knew it was desperately uncool to mind about being a grandfather, or even worse, to go round saying that he had only been eighteen when Perdita had been conceived. But, at the moment, he felt a failure as a grandfather, a father, a husband and a trainer, particularly with Mr Pandopoulos bellyaching beside him.
Most of all Rupert despised himself for biting Taggie’s head off yet again because she had allowed his grandchild to wreck their holiday. She looked utterly ravishing this evening in a crimson angora jersey and a straight black, sequined skirt, showing off legs far more beautiful than any tiresome owner’s colt. Rupert was about to take her hand and tell her he loved her and was only livid with himself, when he noticed a couple at the next table. A plain girl whose pink face clashed with her brilliantly coloured ski suit and a miraculously good-looking boy, whose clear bluey-green eyes were unashamedly gazing in his direction. Rupert was quite used to admiration from his own sex, but the boy didn’t look gay, so he must be after Taggie, hardly surprising if one was lumbered with a dog like that.
Five minutes later when Kitty went upstairs to read a bedtime story to Rannaldini’s children, Lysander paid the bill. For Arthur’s sake, he must do it now. Knees knocking, mouth dry, unaware of every woman gazing at him hungrily, he approached his great hero. Looking down at the wonderful chiselled features, the cold lapis-lazuli eyes, he wanted to give Rupert some amazing present, to kneel down and kiss his hand. Instead he stammered, ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind my butting in?’
‘If you’re a journalist, piss off,’ snapped Rupert.
‘Oh no, no, no, I’m absolutely not. My name’s Lysander Hawkley.’
Rupert’s eyes narrowed in half-recognition.
‘Basically I live in Paradise,’ went on Lysander, ‘I’d hoped to meet you last week at the Valhalla nativity play.’
Rupert looked fractionally more friendly.
‘We were hoping to go,’ said Taggie, feeling horribly sorry for the poor boy. ‘Do sit down for a minute and tell us about it.’ She winced as Rupert kicked her on the ankle.
‘Thank you.’ Lysander beamed at Taggie and nearly knocked over the water jug in his efforts to appear calm.
‘I gather Georgie Maguire’s daughter — last seen throwing up into a trumpet at Bagley Hall — went berserk and listed Rannaldini’s mistresses,’ said Rupert lightly. ‘Roberto Rannaldini, this is one of your nine lives. Cameron said it was seriously funny.’
‘Not for Kitty,’ said Lysander quickly.
‘Kitty?’
‘Rannaldini’s wife,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘She was with me just now.’
‘Ah’
The penny was beginning to drop. This must be the boy that Cameron had been raving about. ‘We’ve got to sign him up, Rupert. He’s to die for.’
‘What part did you play?’ asked Taggie, aware of the menace of Rupert’s mood.
‘Oh, I just shifted scenery, but my horse, Arthur, carried the Third King. He was seriously good in the part, but that was only a sideline. It’s Arthur I wanted to tell you about.’ He looked at Rupert fair and square.
After five minutes he realized that Rupert was yawning and tapping long fingers on the table.
‘Sorry. I’m talking too much.’
‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’
‘He sounds really sweet,’ said Taggie quickly, wishing Rupert wouldn’t be so vile.
Comforted, Lysander turned to her. God, she was lovely with all that cloudy dark hair and her soft, pink mouth and her kind, silvery-grey eyes and sweet, shy face.
‘You’re so much prettier than your picture
in the Express,’ he stammered, ‘and we saw your little boy. He’s adorable. He’ll be skiing for America soon and he looks just like you.’
‘Odd,’ said Rupert coldly, ‘he’s no relation of Tag’s. He’s my grandchild.’
That’s torn it, thought Lysander. ‘I know it sounds crass,’ he stumbled on, ‘but you don’t look anything like old enough to be a grandfather.’
Little bastard, patronizing me, thought Rupert.
‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Taggie put a hand over Rupert’s clenched one. ‘Eddie’s parents are playing polo in Kenya, so we’re looking after him for a few days. Good practice because we’re hoping to adopt our own baby from South America soon.’
Rupert was looking thunderous. He didn’t like Taggie discussing their private life. The boy could easily be stringing for The Scorpion.
‘I spent Christmas in South America. Brazil actually,’ Lysander told Taggie, ‘in an incredible house with a swimming-pool and a polo field, running into the sea at one end and the mountains at the other. We were drinking on the terrace one evening and I pointed out that the mountain was dotted with stars. Gina, my hostess, just laughed. “Your stars are lights from the shacks of the poor,” she said. “Don’t ever grumble about being rich.”’
‘That’s really sad,’ said Taggie.
‘Isn’t it? I thought what the hell am I doing here?’
Rupert yawned pointedly. ‘One might ask the same question.’
‘Rupert!’ reproved Taggie.
Flushing, Lysander jumped to his feet.
‘I’m really sorry.’
Suddenly Rupert twigged. This must be the boy who had cut such a swathe through the Paradise wives. There was no way he was leaving him on the loose to run after Taggie.
‘How well d’you ski?’ he asked Lysander.
‘OK. I’m a bit rusty.’
‘I’ll take you off-piste tomorrow if you like. Down the Chute des Fantômes, Chute d’Enfer, Descente des Diables — it’s got a lot of names. We could stop for lunch on the way down and talk about Arthur.’
‘That’s seriously kind.’
‘I’ll pick you up about nine-thirty then.’
50
Lysander went up to his room to find lots of messages. Then he hung up on Georgie because he was still furious with her. Next Marigold rang scolding him for staying out there.
‘Rannaldini’s back in England. He doesn’t need rattling any more. We’ve got to talk, Lysander.’ But he had hung up.
Ferdie was even more disapproving.
‘Why the hell aren’t you in Brazil? That’s a half a million pound deal,’ he shouted.
‘Go and sell some more houses,’ snapped Lysander.
‘The market’s dead. Gina’s just called. She’s hopping you walked out, and Martha rang. Remember Martha, your first success? She needs a Refresher Course because Elmer’s straying again. You can go on to Florida from Brazil. Gina said it was working fine when you buggered off. And office parties at Christmas have triggered off lots of unfaithful husbands who need bringing to heel when you get back from Martha’s. Loadsamoney, boy.’
‘I’m not interested.’
‘This is a partnership,’ said Ferdie angrily. ‘I’ve worked my ass off for you. I deserve my cut. There’s no way you’ll be able to hold down any other job earning this kind of money. Remember the mess you were in this time last year. And you don’t want to take on Rannaldini, he’s a dangerous bugger — you won’t have any kneecaps left — and Kitty’s sweet, but frankly, she’s not the right class and certainly not good looking enough. You shouldn’t be giving her ideas.’
‘You’re always grumbling I never have any. And shut up about Kitty.’
‘I’ll ring you when you’re in a better mood.’
Outside it had started to snow, whitely blurring the gold lamps and windows lighting the town square, wrapping the church spire in cotton wool. Realizing he hadn’t been to sleep for forty-eight hours and in need of Kitty’s cheerful company, Lysander wandered off to the vast President de Gaulle suite which Rannaldini had taken for his holiday. He found her plumping the cushions of a huge dark green velvet sofa and in floods of tears. He was appalled. The only time he’d seen Kitty cry was after the tennis tournament when she’d discovered she wasn’t pregnant. Perhaps she’d just got the curse again. Hell! He’d been hoping to get her into bed that evening. Then he felt furious with himself for being selfish.
‘Oh, Lysander, I’m in such a muddle.’
Lysander was about to take her in his arms when the telephone rang. It was Rannaldini in a rage because Kitty hadn’t cancelled the President de Gaulle suite. Why, after he’d left, should she live in the style befitting a great maestro?
‘I’m sorry, Rannaldini. We’ll move into other rooms first fing.’
Lysander was so angry that Kitty was being so placatory that he retreated to the vast bathroom next door, gazing stonily at the dewy bank of ferns and the red velvet steps leading up to a raspberry-pink Jacuzzi big enough to accommodate an entire string quartet. And the bastard wanted to move Kitty into some pokey little hole! He was tempted to pick up the telephone and join in the row. Instead, despite Kitty’s frantic waving, he pulled the chain noisily and then turned up the television — some French rock band — far too loud.
‘What’s that noise?’ asked Rannaldini sharply.
‘Nothing, one of the children,’ stammered Kitty over the din.
‘They should be in bed.’
Lysander had sulkily eaten all the strawberries in the fruit bowl and was starting on the nectarines when Kitty put down the receiver.
‘How dare you make all that noise,’ she said furiously.
Lysander looked up in amazement.
‘Kitty, you can actually be cross!’
And like a bullet between the eyes he realized that he was in love with her.
‘I just hate you being so nice to him,’ he mumbled.
Wiping his hands on his jeans, he pulled her towards him. Despite her wriggling away like a piglet, he kissed her and she tasted so clean and sweet and her young skin smelt so like a wild rose that he went on kissing her until the wriggling stopped.
‘I haven’t got any knees left.’ Catching her off balance, he pulled her down on to the green velvet sofa and, kissing her again, began to explore her body.
Beneath a dress drenched by the children’s bath water, he discovered wonderfully full, bouncy breasts and a waist no longer belted by spare tyres.
‘Oh Kitty, I’m mad about you.’
Then the wriggling started again.
‘You don’t have to be nice to me,’ sobbed Kitty. ‘Just to rattle Rannaldini and give me a sheen.’
‘This had nothing to do with Rannaldini.’ It was Lysander’s turn to be outraged.
Trapping her face between his hands, he forced her to look at him, ‘I’m doing this because I can’t not. I love you, Kitty. It crept up on me in Brazil. I was Kitty-sick, not homesick. From now on, you’re where I belong.’
Then seeing her utter amazement. ‘You’re as irresistible as Cambozola, you’re’ — he snapped his fingers trying to be really poetic — ‘as comforting as a baked potato full of butter on Sunday night. As-as-as welcome as a glass of cold water in the middle of the night when the ham’s been too salty. Oh, Kitty, I can’t say clever things but I want to be the hot-water bottle that melts your frozen heart.’
‘Oh, blimey!’ Kitty was fighting back the tears as she gazed up at him. ‘You’re so ’andsome, you oughta be on every Mills and Boon jacket but the girls the ’eroes gaze at don’t look anyfink like me.’
Now it was Lysander’s turn to grit his jaw.
‘Of course they don’t. They’re pretty.’ He ran his hand wonderingly over her blushing, squashed little face. ‘But you’re beautiful. And you’re beautiful inside, too, like Arthur.’
Realizing how huge a compliment this was, Kitty managed not to laugh.
Encouraged, Lysander suggested they romp in the
Jacuzzi. But Kitty’s face clouded over.
‘We shouldn’t. I’m married.’
‘Don’t be ridiculous.’ Lysander only just stopped himself cataloguing Rannaldini’s women.
‘Anyway, it was so lovely, kissin’ you,’ sighed Kitty. ‘I couldn’t stop.’
‘That’s the general idea.’ Lysander began to unbutton her dress then, seeing her apprehension, ‘Let’s discuss it over dinner. Go and change.’ He yawned. ‘I love you, Kitty.’
But when she came out, jet lag had overtaken him. He was slumped, fast asleep, on the sofa, red juice running down his chin, a half-eaten pomegranate on the floor.
‘Good night, Suite Prince,’ murmured Kitty, who had done Hamlet at school, wrapping her duvet round him. She was going to allow herself the luxury of watching him all night.
At dawn she drifted into a heavy sleep in her armchair and was woken by the telephone. She remembered the clipped, contemptuous drawl from Rannaldini’s answering machine.
‘I thought Lysander was coming off-piste with me,’ said Rupert.
The fact that Lysander was apologizing sleepily on the same telephone a few seconds later did nothing to assuage Rupert’s suspicions. Lysander could use the money Kitty paid him as a gigolo to run after Taggie.
‘Where are you going?’ asked Kitty, feeding Lysander croissant spread with apricot jam as he groggily tugged on his yellow ski pants.
‘Somewhere he called Chute des Fantômes, Shoot to Kill, I dunno. I’ll ski down as fast as I can. At least I can bend Rupert’s ear about Arthur.’
It had snowed heavily in the night, blotting out yesterday’s footprints and ski tracks, putting five inches on the parked cars and President de Gaulle’s cap in the town square. Glancing out of the window, Kitty saw Rupert’s dark blue Mercedes draw up. Getting out, he looked as chill and menacing as the day. Suddenly Kitty was frightened.