The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  If he was going to clinch the New York job he must mend his marriage at once.

  He therefore curbed his initial instinct which was to beat Kitty up on her return. And when she came through the front door just holding back the tears and waiting, trembling violently, for the tolling of the punishment bell, Rannaldini promptly despatched the children to Mrs Brimscombe and roast chicken and chips in the kitchen and drew her into the red morning room.

  After the bleak, bitter day, nothing could have been more welcoming. Apple logs crackled merrily in the grate, side lamps cast soft light on huge dark blue bowls of white hyacinths, and on the soft red roses and peonies of the Aubusson which flowed over the entire floor. Instead of the usual deafening Stockhausen or Shostakovitch the stereo was playing My Fair Lady. Even Rannaldini himself looked more approachable in old brown cords, a yellow-checked shirt and a dark brown cashmere jersey, which seemed to bring out softer brown flecks in the hard black eyes, and he was smiling at her with such tenderness.

  ‘I’m ever so sorry, Rannaldini,’ Kitty’s teeth were chattering so frantically she could hardly get the words out.

  ‘Hush, hush, all that matters is that you are home. Come here, my lovely child.’

  Taking her blue frozen hands he drew her close, gently stroking her cheek, which was rigid with tension, as she waited for the first blow from the back of his hand.

  ‘I’m so sorry about the Press and fings.’

  ‘What does the stupid Press matter?’ sighed Rannaldini. ‘Seeing you in Lysander’s arms bring me to my senses. I ’ave the worst twenty-four hours of my life.’

  Expecting screaming abuse, the thumbscrew, the stapler punched through the hand, Kitty looked up in bewilderment.

  ‘I’ve grown accustomed to her face, she seems to make the day begin,’ sang Rex Harrison.

  ‘My sentiments entirely,’ said Rannaldini, kissing her forehead and then her trembling lips.

  ‘You’re not angry?’

  ‘Only with myself for neglecting you. All my cheeldren adore you, even Natasha. She reeng me in such distress this morning. Papa, don’t let Kitty go. She is very upset, of course. Lysander ’ave often tell her he love her, and keep ringing up from Switzerland.’ That hurts her, thought Rannaldini with satisfaction, seeing Kitty flinch.

  ‘Of course he chase Natasha,’ he went on. ‘She will be very rich woman eef I die. So will you, Kitty, and that ees not so impossible.’ He waved away her protests. ‘Theenking you might not come back, I contemplate ending it all.’ Pulling open a desk drawer he pointed to a black pistol.

  ‘Oh no, Rannaldini!’ Kitty was horrified. ‘You mustn’t do anyfing like that.’

  ‘Not eef I have you.’ Banging the drawer shut Rannaldini went to the drinks table and poured Kitty a large brandy. ‘But I have many problems. Catchitune have gone belly-up. Larry is ruined.’

  ‘Oh, poor Larry and poor Marigold.’

  ‘Poor me,’ said Rannaldini fretfully. ‘Catchitune owe me meelions of pounds. We will have to find a new record company, theenk of the new contracts to be drawn up.’ Then, seeing the exhaustion on Kitty’s face, ‘But forget that. Theenk only of us, my Keety, and come with me to the tower.’ His hand slid round her waist, sliding upwards to caress her breast with infinite gentleness, then down to stroke her bottom, giving it a quick vicious pinch.

  ‘You are made for love, Keety, and now perhaps a leetle punishment for being such a naughty girl. Drink up your brandy and I will blot out all memory of that promiscuous greedy little gigolo.’

  ‘He’s not,’ gasped Kitty.

  ‘Oh, my dear!’ Picking up a woodlice crawling across the hearth, Rannaldini tossed it into the fire. ‘Don’t make me shatter any more of your illusions. You must promise never to see him again.’

  Even worse was Lysander’s return to Magpie Cottage. Paradise had never looked bleaker. A sadistic east wind whipped the last leaves across the sallow fields. The frantically threshing branches of the trees tangled like antlers. Rannaldini, the wily old buck, was despatching the young pretender into the forest. He never should have let Kitty go. It was his fault. If he’d been able to keep his hands off her in public they’d have got away with it. He was terrified of Rannaldini’s vengeance and for a sickening moment over the wind and rain thought he could hear the punishment bell tolling at Valhalla, then realized it was only the church clock striking twelve. It seemed like midnight. How could he get through the rest of his life?

  The cottage smelt damp and sour. The doormat was covered in letters, mostly brown envelopes. In the fridge he found a half-eaten pheasant crawling with maggots and, shuddering, threw it in the bin. Pouring himself the dregs of a bottle of vodka he topped it with tonic as flat as his life and only bothered to open three letters, each of which plunged him into deeper despair.

  The first was from the vet saying he was 99 per cent sure Arthur had contracted navicular disease which meant he was a write-off for racing.

  ‘Oh, poor darling Arthur.’ But Lysander couldn’t really absorb such a bodyblow in his present shell-shocked condition. The second letter didn’t need a stamp. Marigold wrote:

  Dearest Lysander,

  I’m terribly sorry but poor Larry’s been voted off the Catchitune board so we won’t be able to pay you your monthly retainer any more, but I hope Georgie is still paying you, and we’ve got to put The Grange and Magpie Cottage on the market at once. You can stay until we sell it, but please try to keep it tidy because agents will be showing people round. Don’t worry about Larry and me, we’re OK.

  On a happier note, although I can’t afford the £10,000 bonus, congratulations on getting Rannaldini back for Kitty. He was really rocked by those pictures in Today. Larry, who saw him afterwards, said he minded much more about them than Catchitune going belly-up. And you managed to look really in love with Kitty — you are a good actor. Rannaldini’s so jumpy he’ll be dropping all his mistresses soon, even that old bat Hermione. Hope to see you at Rachel’s party tomorrow evening. Love, Marigold.

  Rain was sweeping down the valley like a ghost cavalry charge. Lysander started to shake; all his old insecurities came hurtling back. He had lost his true love. If he moved out of the cottage, where would all the animals and, hopefully, Kitty, live? Poor Marigold, too — going up the spout. He’d had a lot of money from her. His trembling hand had great difficulty in writing her a cheque for thirty thousand pounds. He didn’t want to be paid a bean for saving Kitty’s marriage. He’d better ring his bank sometime and find out how much he’d got left. Or perhaps Ferdie could do that for him. He must ring up and get the dogs back and talk of the devil, here was a letter from Ferdie. How odd, Ferdie never wrote letters and his handwriting on the envelope looked really crazy.

  Dear Lysander, I’m afraid Maggie’s dead. Lysander gave a moan of horror. She wasn’t getting fat like we thought, she was pregnant and pining so much for you she wouldn’t eat. She had no strength and died giving birth to three puppies. Two were still born. I’m feeding the third with a bottle.

  ‘Oh God,’ whispered Lysander; he read on: I just want you to know that you can’t go on fucking up people and animals like this and dodging your responsibilities. You plucked Maggie out of hell, made her fall in love with you and dumped her. And from those pix in Today you’ve done the same to Kitty. I’m fed up with picking up the pieces. I’ll leave Jack with Marigold. I don’t want to see you any more. You’re on your own.

  Lysander was distraught. Poor darling, little Maggie, the most adorable dog in the world, who’d given him nothing but love, starving herself to death, and sweet darling Kitty, and Ferdie, his dearest friend, whom he’d totally taken for granted. How could he have behaved so appallingly to all of them? Shivering, he threw himself down on the damp grey sheets and sobbed himself to sleep. Waking two hours later, the light was already fading and he felt so desolate he dialled Valhalla even though he’d promised not to. At first he thought Kitty was a recording machine, her voice was so high, stilted and unnatural.


  ‘I can’t see you any more.’

  ‘I can’t live without you,’ he jibbered in panic, ‘and Maggie’s dead.’

  ‘Oh, Lysander.’ For a second, Kitty’s voice faltered, ‘I’m ever so sorry, but I still can’t see you. Rannaldini’s forgiven me. I’ve got to save my marriage.’

  ‘What marriage? You’re married to Saddam Hussein.’

  ‘He’s frettening to kill hisself if I leaves ’im. Fank you for everyfink. God bless you and I’m sorry about Maggie.’

  It took Lysander five dials to get Rupert’s number right.

  ‘Oh, Rupert, Rupert, I’m really sorry to bother you, but Kitty won’t see me any more and Rannaldini’s threatening suicide.’

  ‘That old trick,’ said Rupert scornfully. ‘No doubt he’ll get Kitty to run off suicide notes on her word processor for all his mistresses. I’ve just been watching the tape of the nativity play. Christ, it’s funny. I must send Flora some flowers.’

  ‘And Arthur’s got navicular,’ said Lysander despairingly.

  ‘Bring him over tomorrow. I’ll have a look.’

  ‘Are you sure? D’you mind having Tiny as well? She’s such a bitch, but Arthur pines without her.’

  52

  The only reason Lysander went to Rachel’s party was in the hope of seeing Kitty. It was another mean night. Black ice gripped the winding Rutshire roads. A savage wind chivvied woolly sepia clouds across the stars. Rachel’s barrel of rainwater was frozen solid. Although Jasmine Cottage was, if anything, colder in than out, the party gave an initial illusion of success because the twenty-five odd guests crammed into a small room, dominated by a large black grand piano, had to yell to be heard, particularly as Rachel had turned up Rannaldini’s CD of Shostakovich’s Fifth fortissimo.

  ‘Thank God you’ve come — I need spare men,’ shouted Rachel, her welcome vanishing when she saw Jack tucked inside Lysander’s coat.

  ‘I hope that beast won’t chase Scarlatti. Can’t he stay in the car?’

  ‘He’d freeze to death. Happy birthday,’ said Lysander, unable to meet her eyes he disliked her so much, as he handed over a bottle of Moët.

  ‘You spoil me,’ said Rachel mockingly. ‘I’ve had so much booze, anyone would think I had a drink problem.’

  Lysander’s hopes that he might get one decent drink were dashed when she promptly put the Moët in the cupboard with the other bottles, saying she’d keep it for special occasions.

  Your next bonk with Rannaldini, thought Lysander in disgust. He was sure that the huge brown mohair jersey and the thigh boots in softest mushroom-pink leather she was looking so good in were more presents from the Maestro. Glancing round the room he noticed an elaborate new stereo system, shelves filled with Rannaldini’s tapes and records and a piano stool exquisitely embroidered with yellow pansies. And poor darling Kitty got a filing cabinet for Christmas!

  ‘Hot apple punch or exotic fruit cup?’ asked Rachel, brandishing a ladle.

  ‘Whichever’s the strongest.’

  ‘People seem to prefer the cup.’ Rachel handed him a green glass of fruit salad. ‘Come and meet some of my London friends.’

  Such a description presupposed some degree of glamour and sophistication, but Lysander found himself faced by a row of all-time dinginess: Anita Brookner heroines with long pale faces and longer pale cardigans desperately trying to warm dirndl-skirted bottoms in front of a desperately anaemic fire.

  ‘This is the local stud I told you about,’ Rachel whispered.

  Already dominating the group was Guy. Still high on his television success as St Joseph, he had received stacks of fan mail and been the subject of an Independent profile comparing the ways Joseph took Mary away privily and Guy the Rock Star had stood by Georgie.

  ‘You made so many statements in Nativity Green,’ said one of Rachel’s friends, displaying armpit hair that was a positive fire hazard as she reached for her glass. ‘I liked the bit when you calmly changed Baby Jesus’s nappy during the shepherd’s visit.’

  Guy smiled in acknowledgement, then, turning to Lysander, towards whom he now felt quite well disposed since he had proof he wasn’t after Georgie: ‘How was skiing?’

  ‘Lovely.’

  ‘Don’t you feel guilty,’ reproved another London friend, ‘about the way skiing disrupts the ecological balance.’

  ‘I didn’t know it did,’ said Lysander, longing to spit out his first mouthful of fruit cup.

  ‘Skiers hurtling down the mountains trigger off avalanches and disturb the wildlife,’ he was told earnestly. ‘Not to mention deforestation.’

  Deforestation! With a stab of anguish Lysander remembered giggling over Kitty’s shaved bush. He hated all these long, pale supercilious faces for not being round, pink and smiling like hers.

  ‘Have some blotting paper,’ interrupted Rachel, handing round sausage rolls.

  ‘Thanks.’ Lysander broke one in half, giving it to Jack.

  ‘Are you sure they don’t contain meat?’ asked a London friend nervously.

  Jack promptly confirmed this by spitting his all over the carpet.

  ‘Excuse me,’ said Lysander, ‘I must go and talk to Meredith,’ who, with his airborne curls and merry blue eyes, seemed the nearest thing to Kitty in the room.

  ‘Hallo, baby boy,’ said Meredith.

  ‘I go to parties to dance and get wasted,’ sighed Lysander. ‘What the hell’s in this drink?’

  ‘Most of Rachel’s Body Shop concoctions I should think. Certainly no booze.’

  ‘Christ, I wondered why I was getting lower.’

  ‘Hallo, you sweet thing.’ Meredith stroked Jack’s rough white head but the little dog could hardly wag his tail.

  ‘He’s pissed off. To him parties mean chops, chicken and sausages, proper human food. He’ll eat Rachel’s cat in a minute.’

  ‘I’m sorry about Maggie. Poor old you.’

  Lysander nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  ‘How’s Arthur?’

  ‘I took him over to Rupert Campbell-Black’s yard this afternoon.’

  ‘Did you now? What’s it like?’

  ‘Seriously impressive: swimming-baths, solarium, computers, a resident blood analyst and such terrific horses. I actually patted Penscombe Pride. God, what a beautiful horse, but he’s really small. Rupert’s going to try and sort Arthur out.’

  ‘Lucky Arthur,’ sighed Meredith. ‘Rupert’s to die for and dye for.’ He patted his blond curls in the mirror.

  ‘He can be quite fierce,’ said Lysander.

  ‘Oh, I love that. Treat ’em mean, keep ’em keen.’

  ‘Taggie, Rupert’s wife, was really sweet. She made Arthur a bowl of coffee to make him feel at home, but he still sulked dreadfully when I left. I don’t think I’m very good at making anything happy,’ he added dolefully.

  ‘Mrs Rannaldini looked pretty cheerful in Today,’ said Meredith, noticing the way Lysander’s bloodshot eyes kept darting towards the door.

  ‘She is coming this evening, isn’t she?’

  ‘Well, Hermione and Bob have just arrived,’ said Meredith. ‘And Madam wouldn’t grace a grisly jaunt like this unless she was expecting Maestro.’

  ‘Christ, it’s cold,’ said Lysander. ‘No wonder Rachel doesn’t bother with a deep freeze.’

  ‘Here are the lovers,’ said Meredith as a battered Marigold and Larry entered hand in hand. ‘Go anywhere for a free drink these days. All the same it’s sad to see the FOR SALE sign outside Paradise Grange. Your friend Ferdie’s got his board up already. Whoever buys it can’t not want to redecorate it. I better get in there early and give Ferdie a ring.’

  Lysander couldn’t bear to talk about Ferdie either. He missed him dreadfully and was trying to screw up courage to ring him and apologize. Oh God, here was Hermione.

  ‘Hallo, Mary,’ said Guy, turning from the admiring circle of London friends to waylay her.

  ‘Hallo, Joseph,’ said Hermione skittishly, ‘I’ve just been talking to the Ind
ependent about Me and My Cat.’

  ‘What a coincidence,’ laughed Guy. ‘I’ve just done a long interview with the Guardian on Me and My Work Station.’

  ‘I am going to leave Guy,’ hissed Georgie to Marigold. ‘He’s been so uppity since the play. Look at him being drooled over by all those dreary friends of Rachel’s.’

  ‘Well, he is charming,’ protested Marigold. ‘How’s Flora?’

  ‘Desperately low. Oh, Marigold, I made a New Year’s resolution to look after her and make my marriage better and I’d broken it by Christmas Eve when Guy insisted a little unsigned Victorian love note on his desk had come from some picture framers.’

  ‘I made a New Year’s resolution not to maind about not havin’ any money,’ sighed Marigold, ‘but the boys have decided they rather like boarding-school. And every taime I see the FOR SALE sign swinging outside Paradise Grange, Ay burst into tears.’

  ‘I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss, Marigold.’ Hermione, who was still wearing Rannaldini’s mink Christmas present and quite oblivious of the glares of Rachel’s Green friends, barged between them.

  ‘You were always telling me how blissfully happy you and Larry were when you were poor. It’s far worse for me having to renegotiate all my contracts. Larry might have warned us he was going bankrupt.’

  ‘If you and Rannaldini hadn’t screwed such vast advances out of him, never maind the jets and the ten-star hotels, it maight never have happened,’ said Marigold furiously.

  ‘Oh, don’t over-react,’ sighed Hermione. Then, turning to Georgie, ‘I must tell you what a wonderful man Guy is, so caring and supportive.’