by Jilly Cooper
‘He was certainly supporting your bum pretty often in the video of the nativity play,’ snarled Georgie.
A hot apple punch-up was avoided by Rachel staggering in with a huge casserole dish. All the husbands except Guy, who was too frightened of Georgie, leapt to her assistance.
Bob got there first. ‘Looks good. What is it?’
‘Organic oat risotto,’ said Rachel, ‘with artichokes and haricot beans. Take a plate, Meredith.’
‘I’m OK at the moment,’ replied Meredith who was blue with cold. ‘When it’s a toss-up,’ he murmured to Lysander, ‘between dying of hypothermia and farting like a drayhorse all night, I choose the former. Shall I get some more logs, Rachel?’
‘I’m as warm as toast,’ said Hermione smugly. ‘I’ve got my thermals on and I had a nice hot bath before I came out.’
‘Baths are a waste of water,’ snapped Rachel, piling food on to plates, ‘you should have a shower, or share the bath water with someone.’
‘I’d share a bath with you any time, Rachie,’ joked Guy, getting a black look from Georgie. ‘You’ve got a terrific crowd here.’
‘Oh, people are so bored with cooking over Christmas they’ll go anywhere for a free meal,’ said Hermone airily.
Fascinated by Lysander’s beauty a London friend edged forward to stroke Jack.
‘I suppose you use him for digging out foxes.’
‘No, only for fouling footpaths and children’s playgrounds,’ said Meredith. ‘Cheer up, it may never happen, Lysander.’
‘That’s what I’m frightened of,’ said Lysander dolefully.
‘I’m off to raid that drinks cupboard.’ Meredith lowered his voice. ‘Like Captain Organic Oates, I may be gone some time. Keep our hostess occupied.’
But Lysander didn’t have to bother for, as Meredith sidled off, Rannaldini walked in. He looked feral and aggressively decadent in a black shirt and cords which matched his predatory eyes and a vast, almost floor-length coat made of wolf pelts which seemed an extension of his hair and set off his Monthaut suntan. And like a wolf entering the fold he mesmerized the room.
I can’t wait for everyone to go, thought Rachel, then he can make love with me in front of the fire.
Rannaldini nodded at Hermione and Bob, then, running his eyes over the long-faced carecrows from London, found nothing to interest him.
‘Where’s your much better half, Rannaldini?’ asked Meredith, sliding a cup of neat whisky into Lysander’s grateful hand.
‘In bed.’
‘Is Brickie ill?’ asked Guy.
‘Just pleasantly exhausted, she sent her apologies.’ Rannaldini smiled evilly at Lysander. ‘All Keety need was a leetle loving.’
Jack gave a yelp then understandingly licked Lysander’s face when his master apologized for gripping him so hard.
‘It’s disgusting the way they boil the roots of Christmas trees so they can’t be replanted,’ chuntered a London friend.
Looking at Lysander so white and distraught, Bob remembered the larky, radiant young blood who’d stopped even the music in its tracks at Georgie’s Rock Star party.
‘Come and have supper one day this week.’ He put a hand on Lysander’s arm. ‘Hermione’s off to Rome.’
‘Thanks, but I gotta go.’ Lysander emptied his cup of whisky. Through in the kitchen, he could see Scarlatti scraping his litter tray and, reminded of Aunt Dinah, nearly blacked out. Next moment Jack had wriggled out of his grasp and, scattering cat litter, chased Scarlatti out through the cat flap.
‘That’s no way to save planet earth box,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Shall I open a window and let in a little hot air? There’s a bit of a pong.’
‘I told you not to bring that dog,’ snapped Rachel. ‘You can’t go yet. The party hasn’t started.’
‘Sorry, I’ve got to. Bye, Bob, bye, Meredith, bye, Marigold,’ muttered Lysander and, gathering up his long coat from the hall chair, he rushed off into the night.
‘Well, we know who he likes,’ said Rachel, furious at losing her only heterosexual spare man, although it was good Rannaldini had come on his own, not that Kitty ever really inhibited him.
‘I’m not going to drink this goat’s piss,’ said Rannaldini, pouring his exotic fruit cup over a depressed-looking yucca. ‘Get me a whisky, Rachel.’ Then, turning to Larry, ‘How are things? I assume your tiny assets are frozen.’
Feeling neglected because Rannaldini hadn’t even come over and kissed her, Hermione decided to check her face before approaching him. Crossing the hall as she went upstairs to the bathroom, she found a letter on the carpet which a distraught Lysander had dropped on the way out. Seeing the letterhead: PARADISE GRANGE she read on. Ignoring the posters about banning additives from school dinners and protecting the natterjack toad, she sat down on the edge of the bath. A smile spread over her face and a glow suffused her body as she read.
Hermione had always been irked and mystified that Lysander had never made a pass at her, nor even chatted her up. Now she knew why. She was about the only wife in Paradise who hadn’t paid him to. Stepping into the bath she used the shower to wash between her legs and cleaned her teeth with Rachel’s organic toothpaste. Returning to the party, she whispered in Rannaldini’s ear, then turning to Rachel triumphantly: ‘Lovely do, darling. Must go. I’ve got work to do on Wozzeck. See you later, Bobbie.’
Almost immediately, to Rachel’s fury, she was followed by Rannaldini.
Half an hour later in the blissful warmth of the tower Hermione sipped a glass of Krug and watched Rannaldini reading Marigold’s letter to Lysander for the second time.
‘Well done,’ he said softly, as conflicting emotions of fury, excitement, passion, hatred and jealousy flickered across his face.
‘What a very silly letter to drop. So Georgie and Marigold paid little Mr Hawkley to retrieve their husbands; and Martha Winterton as well presumably. It always puzzled me how he lives so well.’
‘Georgie and Marigold must have paid him a fortune to make up to Kitty,’ said Hermione smugly. ‘I mean the others are at least attractive. And just to make you jealous. But Kitty must have collaborated.’
‘That was naughty,’ said Rannaldini. ‘Like Cavaradossi, Keety must be tortured. No-one makes a fool of me.’
Unplugging himself from Hermione after a rather perfunctory coupling he plugged in his telephone. He was going to enjoy this game.
Machiavellian as ever, Rannaldini planned an orgy at Valhalla. January was such a dreary month and everyone was so worried about impending war in the Gulf that they needed distraction. First he sent out the invitations: MRS ROBERTO RANNALDINI AT HOME ON TWELFTH NIGHT FOR A fin de siècle TOGA PARTY.
Then he offered Hermione the part of Lady Macbeth in his next film if she succeeded in seducing Lysander during the evening.
Rannaldini was not an unperceptive man. Lysander might have been paid vast sums to pretend to be in love with Kitty but it was clear from his increasingly desperate messages on the ansaphone and his illiterate passionate faxes which spewed out of the machine like tapeworm that the boy was utterly infatuated. Nor was there any doubt that Kitty was smitten, too. Yesterday she had singed his best shirt when they played Miss Saigon on the radio, and, typing out the list of acceptances, which didn’t include Lysander, she misspelt half the names and changed several people’s sexes.
Even though caterers and florists had been hired to save her work, she cleaned obsessively so the place would be sufficiently spick and span. More tellingly, Rannaldini had failed to bring her to orgasm since her return and helpless tears gushed out of her eyes throughout. His digital wife was on the blink.
Rannaldini did not upbraid her. He realized increasingly how dependent on her he was for his comfort and what other wife would run his life so efficiently and allow him such freedom? Certainly not Hermione. Just doing the seating plan together made him want to throttle her.
‘I want you to look pretty and enjoy yourself this evening and leave everything to me,’ he told
Kitty on the afternoon of the party as he watched her dazedly digging up a poin-settia some fan had sent him and freeing its roots from the cruelly constricting plastic cage before repotting it.
‘I want to make a beeg sum of money over to you, Keety,’ he went on. ‘The royalties on Fidelio perhaps, to give you independence. I know I ’urt you horrible in the past, but let us try again. In the States we will leave all the eediots in Paradise behind and eef you cannot ’ave children, no matter, we will adopt.’ Which made poor Kitty feel more confused and guilty than ever.
Over at Magpie Cottage a despairing Lysander saw helicopters bringing Krug and most of Harrods Food Hall, landing all day as he kept his binoculars trained on Valhalla. By dusk snow was falling thickly, turning Georgie’s blond willows grey before his eyes, icing Rannaldini’s maze and weighing down his fruit nets like trampolines. Like a black tie of mourning the dark waters of the River Fleet halved the white valley.
Unable to remember when he’d last eaten, Lysander opened a tin of sweetcorn, then, after a spoonful, put it in the fridge. For the thousandth time he checked if the telephone was on the hook. Jumping violently at a pounding on the front door, he prayed as he never stopped praying that it might be Kitty. Instead in marched the next best thing.
‘Oh, Ferdie!’ Lysander stumbled forward, flinging his arms round his friend, drawing comfort from his solid bulk. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. I didn’t mean to use you. Poor darling little Maggie.’ His voice broke.
‘My fault.’ Ferdie patted Lysander’s shoulder, shocked how bony it was. Then, bending down to scoop up an hysterically excited, yapping Jack. ‘Came on too strong. Choked about Maggie. Had to take it out on someone.’
‘Everything you said was right. I just couldn’t bear not to see you any more. I’ve missed you so much. Did Maggie suffer terribly?’
‘No,’ lied Ferdie, ‘and her puppy’s doing really well.’
For a second Lysander’s haggard face lit up.
‘He’s still alive! That must be an omen.’
‘It’s a bitch.’ Ferdie opened the fridge. ‘Christ, don’t you ever have any food? My mother’s got her this weekend. Bottle-feeding her on goat’s milk, but Mum’s got to go back to work on Monday.’
‘I’ll take her. I’ll give her to Kitty to replace—’ His voice faltered again. ‘Oh, Ferdie what am I going to do?’ And the story of his great love came pouring out.
‘Kitty and me are an item. It’s the real thing,’ he said finally.
‘You said that about Georgie,’ said Ferdie, reduced to putting the kettle on as there was no drink in the house.
‘Georgie!’ said Lysander, outraged. ‘That boring, self-pitying slag. I even remember Kitty’s postcode.’
‘It’s the same as yours,’ said Ferdie unimpressed.
‘Is it?’ asked Lysander in surprise. ‘I don’t know mine. I can’t concentrate on EastEnders and I haven’t had a bet since I came back.’
‘My God,’ said Ferdie in alarm. ‘Ladbroke’s will go into receivership. I’ll give you my opinion of this situation after the orgy tonight. What are you going as?’
‘NFI,’ said Lysander sulkily. Then, when Ferdie raised his eyebrows, ‘Not fucking invited?’
‘You sure?’ Ferdie rifled through the post which Lysander hadn’t bothered to open because none of it contained Kitty’s neat round handwriting but which included several letters marked PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL from his bank and three marked URGENT from David Hawkley.
‘Here you are.’ Ferdie slit open the thick cream envelope: MRS ROBERTO RANNALDINI AT HOME.
‘No-one could feel at home at Valhalla,’ shuddered Lysander.
‘You’ve got to dress up as a Roman,’ said Ferdie, ‘preferably a decadent one. Most people’ll go in sheets and Duo-tan.’
‘I loathe fancy dress.’ Lysander had gone whiter than the snow outside at the thought of seeing Kitty again. ‘And I’ve got a zit.’
‘First time in your life. I can’t see it.’ Then, as Lysander lifted the curls off his forehead, ‘That’s nothing.’
‘It’s massive. If I stood in Paradise High Street, I’d stop the traffic.’
‘You better start eating.’
‘I can’t. I must go into Rutminster and get Kitty some flowers before the shops close.’
‘You could go in the buff as an Ancient Brit,’ suggested Ferdie. ‘You’ll be so blue with cold at Valhalla, you won’t have to bother with woad.’
53
The thunder and surge of Schoenberg could be heard all the way down the valley which glittered in the icy light of a moon hardly softened by a rusty halo presaging storm. Outside Valhalla the Press stamped their feet, desperate for the latest on Kitty and Lysander. But, determined to prevent any drawbridge crashers, Rannaldini had posted a fleet of minions and guard-dogs on every gate. Only guests with invitations were allowed in and, directed by Mr Brimscombe, who was almost more desperate to join the orgy than the Press, to park their cars and helicopters on the lawn.
Rannaldini had laid his plans with care. The scarlet morning room and the yellow summer parlour were radiant with candles and carpeted with pink rosepetals. The central heating, most uncharacteristically, was turned up to tropical, huge banked logs smouldered like the fires of hell in every grate so anyone who had turned up in anything hotter than a toga was soon stripping off.
Great vases of lilies, roses and jasmine poured forth their overpoweringly voluptuous scents, recalling Rannaldini’s garden during last summer’s heatwave. The air was blue with many kinds of smoke as soothsayers, slaves, emperors, Mercurys in tinhats and fig-leaves and goddesses, holding in their tummies and wishing they’d cut down on the turkey left-overs, got stuck into the Krug.
Having frozen at Rachel’s party, Larry had made the mistake of wearing a lion’s costume and was now twitching a yellow tail as he yelled into his mobile.
‘He’s trying to set up a new business with some Japs,’ explained Marigold, who’d come as Minerva. Having fallen asleep under the sun lamp she was redder in the face than Percival Hillary who, as Julius Caesar, had recycled his Cavendish House nightgown and put a laurel wreath on his wispy grey curls.
‘Julius Seize-him, more likely,’ giggled Meredith, lissom in a beige tunic. ‘Rannaldini is not promiscuous, Marigold, just terribly, terribly frightened of the dark, so he cannot sleep alone.’
‘What are you on about?’ said Marigold, adjusting the owl on her shoulder.
‘I’ve come as a Christian,’ said Meredith, folding his hands piously, ‘so I can’t bitch about anyone. Isn’t Hermione a sweet person? Hasn’t Percy got lovely breath? Doesn’t Rachel cheer one up? How the hell did Gwendolyn Chisleden wangle an invite? She could have come as Caligula’s horse without dressing up. Whoops, I’ve sinned again!’
‘Ay think Gwendolyn looks very dignified in that midnaight-blue shirtwaister,’ signed Marigold. ‘Ay wish Ay hadn’t bothered with fancy dress.’
Most chillingly sinister of all was Rannaldini as Janus, the two-faced Roman God, guardian of the gateways and appropriately of January. A best-selling item at music shops round the country was a Rannaldini mask, so lifelike that musicians crossed themselves when they suddenly encountered it. Tonight Rannaldini had attached this second face to the back of his head so wherever you were in the room the black hypnotic eyes seemed to follow you. With his smooth brown torso, black loincloth, and thick gold snake coiled round his arm, he looked menacing and terrifyingly sexy.
Belle of the ball, however, was definitely Hermione as the Botticelli Venus with her glorious figure barely disguised by a flesh-coloured body stocking and her serenely beautiful face framed by a long curling strawberry-blond wig looped back with a silver ribbon.
‘You can count every hair on her pubes, silly old tart,’ fumed Meredith, ‘I don’t know why she didn’t come as herself. She’s so lifted no-one would have recognized her. Doesn’t Bobby look divine as Brutus?’
‘The nobbliest Roman of them all,
’ said Bob deprecatingly, looking down at his bare knees. ‘Christ, it’s hot in here. Shouldn’t someone open a window?’
Poor Georgie had felt absolutely stunning in gold robes and a black wig as Cleopatra until Natasha rolled up totally unexpectedly after ten days in Barbados, as an infinitely more seductive version in her mother’s Angel Gabriel gold tunic and with her own dark curls straightened and cut in a fringe.
‘Two Cleos! You should have come as Georgie’s daughter,’ said Hermione laughing heartily.
‘Bags I be your asp,’ said Guy, who was showing off his splendid legs as a centurion.
Unlike most fathers, Rannaldini was not remotely inhibited by his daughter’s presence. Seeing a miserable, utterly upstaged Georgie retreating into an alcove, he went over to fill up her glass: ‘Hallo, Georgie.’
‘Oh hi, Rannaldini. God, I’m unhappy. I screwed up courage to go to Relate in Rutminster last night and came home full of resolutions to be nicer to Guy only to find he’d gone round to see Rachel and what is more—’
‘Georgie,’ Rannaldini cut into her monologue mockingly, ‘I only came to say Hallo. Talk of zee devil.’
Leaving Georgie squirming with humiliation he sauntered across the room to kiss Rachel, who, having been to a candle-lit peace vigil to protest against the Gulf War, had arrived in an embattled mood. Dressed as Ben Hur, she was brandishing a large whip.
‘Ah, Dolores, Lady of Pain,’ he said softly, sliding a brief caressing hand inside her thighs just below her tunic, ‘let me pull your chariot.’
‘I loathe fancy dress,’ snarled Rachel, but she had lost her audience, because Lysander had just walked in and as usual brought the room to a halt.
He wore ripped jeans, a dark blue shirt and Kitty’s Donald Duck jersey. His deathly pallor set off by the dark stubble and the purple shadows beneath the cavernous eyes, which searched endlessly for Kitty, only made him stand out more from the gaudy yelling revellers swarming around him.