The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  ‘I’ve never known such breakages!’ One of the caterers was scratching her head over the broken glass which glittered among the trampled rose-petals, as Kitty rushed out into the snow. She was dimly aware of the vicar, followed by a trail of screaming Bacchantes, chasing a panic-stricken police constable, naked except for his helmet, into the Valhalla Maze. But as she looked up at the moon, howling in anguish, she noticed that, like Lysander, it had lost its halo.

  The party showed no sign of abating. Salt lay like patches of snow over the wine stains. Even worse howls came from Lady Chisleden when she discovered that the man in the donkey’s head, whom she’d enjoyed for the last hour, was none other than a leering Mr Brimscombe.

  Joy Hillary, who’d been kept very busy failing to stop couples coupling, stiffened with delight as she saw Marigold disappear giggling into the broom cupboard followed by the naked man in a Neil Kinnock mask.

  Wrenching open the door she chucked the contents of a rusty fire bucket over them, crying: ‘How can you bring such disrepute on the Parish Council, Marigold?’

  ‘Ay’m makin’ love to may husband, you stupid cow,’ shrieked Marigold, who was straddling a drenched Larry, who’d received most of the deluge.

  ‘But he came in as a lion,’ said Joy in bewilderment.

  ‘And he’s not goin’ out laike a lamb,’ said Marigold, and throwing a dustpan at Joy, kicked the door shut.

  ‘I want my mother,’ sobbed Natasha.

  ‘Where is she?’ said Ferdie, stroking her tear-drenched hair.

  ‘In New York, I think,’

  ‘I’ll take you to her,’ said Ferdie. ‘The moment I’ve shown Rudolpho over Paradise Grange.’

  ‘If I were you, Gwendolyn,’ said Joy Hillary, trying to regain some ascendancy, ‘I’d get that nice shirtwaister dry cleaned.’

  Over in his tower, lying in his other huge bed surrounded by cheering opera crowds as he listened to his own recording of Salome, Rannaldini drew heavily on a joint.

  ‘According to Sade,’ he murmured, ‘enjoyment increases in proportion to the intensity of the sensations the imagination receives. The most intense sensation’ — he groaned in ecstasy, as Chloe plunged a long-nailed finger deep inside him — ‘ees produced by pain. The true voluptuary will impose the greatest amount of pain.’

  He smiled round at Chloe, drawing on the joint until it glowed, then placing its burning end within a millimetre of her smooth brown face.

  ‘Don’t be frightened,’ he said softly as she winced away. ‘Listen.’

  Straining her ears, Chloe could hear the faint tolling of a bell.

  ‘How would you like to play Lady Macbeth, Chloe?’ asked Rannaldini.

  Lysander woke around ten with a murderous headache. Groaning, he tried to focus on a strawberry-blond wig flowing down from one of the posts of a big double bed.

  There was Jack asleep on his Donald Duck jersey, and several pink nude girls looking down at him from the pictures, and a strong scent that boded evil. Slowly his aching eyes took in scarlet toenails, smooth brown waxed legs swelling to plump cushiony thighs and glossy brown pubic hair trimmed in the shape of a heart.

  Like a massive electric shock he realized something was dreadfully wrong. Kitty’s bush had been shaved in France and would now only be sprouting stubble. Dragging his eyes laboriously up over billowing breasts he reached Hermione’s smug satisfied face, a fat tabby who had just wolfed a side of smoked salmon.

  ‘What in hell happened?’

  ‘We made love,’ Hermione stroked his forehead, ‘and it was wonderful.’

  ‘It couldn’t have been. You must have spiked my drink. I’ve never wanted to go to bed with you. I like Bob too much anyway.’

  ‘How ungallant!’ Hermione still smiled, but her nails raked savagely across Lysander’s scalp.

  ‘Ouch, don’t. I love Kitty.’

  ‘Oh, come, we all know you were being paid.’

  ‘The love was real, damn you.’

  ‘And did she say afterwards: “That was ubsolutely mudgic, Lysunder”?’

  ‘Whadyamean?’ Lysander, totally awake now, leant up on his elbow, glaring into Hermione’s lovely spiteful face.

  ‘That’s what Kitty always says; ‘Thut was mudgic, Rannaldini.’ You’ve been putting a lot of marriages asunder, Lysunder.’

  Suddenly frightened, she waved a hand in front of his murderous, bloodshot eyes.

  ‘D’you mean Rannaldini tells you about him and Kitty in bed?’

  The bastard. How horrible that Kitty should say Rannaldini was ‘mudgic’ too.

  ‘Oh, come. Pillow talk. Rannaldini doesn’t pretend to be a gentleman. He loves stories and he adored watching you and me through the two-way mirror last night.’ She gave her deadly little laugh. ‘So did Kitty.’

  ‘Kitty!’ Lysander froze. ‘Kitty. The poor angel. What did she say?’

  ‘She’ll be OK,’ said Hermione, irritated by his sudden desperate concern. ‘The working-classes don’t feel pain like we do. I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss, you must have made a fortune out of the whole thing. Come on,’ she patted the red silk sheets enticingly. ‘Let’s try again now you’re sober. You’ll soon forget Kitty.’

  Revolted, Lysander leapt out of bed, clutching his head as waves of nausea almost floored him, and, tugging on his jeans, ripped them even further. Hermione lost her temper.

  ‘Why should Kitty leave Rannaldini?’ she hissed. ‘Look at this beautiful house and all this beautiful land.’

  Out of the narrow windows Lysander could see snow-covered chimneys soaring to a brilliant blue sky. Across the valley, like a Brueghel, people were already skiing and tobogganing in the sloping fields below Paradise Grange, hurtling downhill with dogs barking joyously after them — a scene so reminiscent of Monthaut and Kitty that Lysander had to cling on to the window-ledge.

  ‘Think of her thrilling lifestyle, married to a man of genius.’ Hermione’s voice was now tolling like the punishment bell. ‘Think of her future in New York. What the hell have you got to offer her?’

  ‘Only my heart.’

  With Hermione’s mocking laughter ringing in his ears, he went in search of Kitty. The landing was deserted except for the odd bra and pair of knickers. Downstairs, wading through sandals, daggers, laurel wreaths, fallen fig-leaves, place cards, cigarette ends, condoms and burst balloons, Lysander breathed in a stench of sex, stale tobacco and half-full glasses.

  Not wishing to wake the vicar, who was stretched out on a sofa with a bunch of dried poppies in his arms, Lysander finally stumbled on a cheerful, bleary-eyed group having a post-mortem round the kitchen table.

  ‘I never knew Gwendolyn Chisleden had had a tummy tuck,’ said Georgie, who was actually holding hands with Guy.

  ‘And the first decent bonk in forty years,’ said Meredith. Then, noticing Lysander. ‘Hallo, duckie. How are you?’

  Seeing Bob at the end of the table deep in the music pages of the Observer, Lysander went scarlet and mumbled: ‘Where’s Kitty?’

  ‘Not herself, poor lamb. She put salt in all our coffee. Then, when I asked her very politely for some butter for our croissants, she got two pounds out of the freezer and chucked them down on the table like bullion.’

  ‘I should think you, Larry and I are the only people who didn’t catch Aids last night,’ said Marigold, pushing Kitty into a chair against the Aga and handing her a cup of black coffee to warm her numb frozen hands. Her teeth were rattling between blue lips. She was wearing an old sheepskin coat over her torn vestal virgin dress.

  The few maiden ladies, waiting in vain in All Saints, Paradise, for the vicar to take Matins, had been electrified instead by the sight of poor little Mrs Rannaldini, always so quiet and retiring, wandering in in a white ball dress with bleeding feet and collapsing in a back pew, piteously sobbing, ‘Oh, please God, help me, help me.’

  Miss Cricklade had run out to ring Marigold from the telephone box, much used by Paradise adulterers, begging her to come and
collect Kitty.

  ‘I think the poor little soul’s finally gone off her head.’

  Now Marigold was half-tidying up, as Rudolpho the tenor was due to see over Paradise Grange in a minute. It did look beautiful with the big rooms lit up by the snow. If only all the pictures hadn’t gone off to Sotheby’s. Larry was fast asleep upstairs. They both agreed they hadn’t enjoyed a party so much in ages. Relieved that Kitty seemed calmer, Marigold was now being very practical.

  ‘Ay know Lysander went to bed with you, Kitty dear. He laikes you very much, but he also went to bed with Georgie and me, yes Ay’m afraid he did, he just can’t resist a bonk, and yes he’s a genius in bed. He makes you feel so desirable and funny and, well, beautiful.’

  Aware that Kitty was flinching at every adjective, Marigold felt one had to be cruel to be kind: ‘And he was about to go to bed with Rachel and he did with Martha in Palm Beach and God knows who else when working away from Paradise, and now Hermione. I know it’s a shock, but let’s face it, he’s a playboy, out for what he can get and whom he can bonk.’

  Kitty took a gulp of coffee so scalding her eyes watered.

  ‘I fort he’d changed.’

  ‘Men don’t change,’ said Marigold, ‘except their partners. Lysander wouldn’t be any more faithful than Rannaldini, but at least if you stay put, you live in luxury.’

  Kitty started to cry. ‘But I love him, Marigold.’

  ‘Because he was so kaind. That’s another thing. He gets ladies not just by the saize of his winkle, but by his ears, because he’s so good at listening.’

  Restored to Rannaldini’s arms later in the day, Kitty was allowed one incoming telephone call. It was all she needed.

  ‘Go away,’ she screamed, cutting through Lysander’s hysterical pleadings. ‘You’re worse than all the uvvers. All you fink about is sex. Leave me in peace. I never want to see you no more.’

  Half an hour later Lysander’s hopes flared for a second as he heard steps coming up the path of Magpie Cottage, but when he ran to the door he found only a note in the porch from Bob, summoning him to lunch in London the following day: ‘You and I have to do some serious talking about Hermione.’

  55

  Sick with terror Lysander rolled up at Radnor Walk the following day. Was Bob going to cite him as co-respondent or to call him out for bonking Hermione? The house was absolutely beautiful inside and seemed far too subtly decorated to be Hermione’s taste. The drawing room had burnt-orange curtains, a big white carpet strewn with blue flowers and drained blue walls covered with musical books, scores, Hermione’s records and tapes, a mournful Picasso clown, not unlike Bob, and a Cotman of a soft gold wood in autumn.

  A huge portrait of Hermione as Donna Elvira was reflected in the big gilt mirror over the fireplace. Lysander turned his back on both of her, but couldn’t avoid photographs of the awful old bitch everywhere. Delicious smells of wine and herbs drifted from the kitchen. Despite the bitter cold of the day, the house inside was warm enough for Bob to be wearing a grey striped shirt tucked into jeans showing off the flattest stomach and neatest hips in Gloucestershire.

  Lysander, who seemed to have been cold for days, felt a passionate, almost tearful, relief at the equal warmth of Bob’s welcome.

  ‘Come in, dear boy. You look frozen and in need of a whole fur of the dog. Morning, Jack. Put him down. There aren’t any cats.’

  Pushing Lysander towards a pale orange and blue striped armchair beside a crackling leaping fire he opened a bottle of pink champagne.

  ‘How were the roads?’

  ‘Awful, until I got to Rutminster and they’d started gritting.’

  ‘More gritted teeth than roads the other night,’ observed Bob, as he carefully eased the cork out. ‘What a remarkable evening. I had terrible problems getting the orchestra sobered up in time for today’s rehearsal. We’re playing a fiendishly difficult piece by Villa-Lobos at the Festival Hall this evening. Chloe was supposed to be singing Les Nuits d’été, but she’s done in her back, or so she says.’

  Bob gave Lysander his weary charming smile as he handed him a glass. ‘You enjoy yourself?’

  ‘No.’

  Idly Bob straightened the yellow Chinese silk shawl draped over the piano and removed a browning flower from a bowl of light blue hyacinths. Then, sitting down opposite Lysander, he raised his glass: ‘To my deliverer. This should really be Dom Perignon Rosé 1982 because it’s such a red-letter day. I cannot tell you how grateful I am. I’ve been praying for someone to take Hermione off my hands for fifteen years.’

  Lysander’s jaw clanged like a gangplank.

  ‘Rannaldini’s always been far too fly to offer the old thing marriage.’ Bob carefully smoothed out the gold paper of the champagne cork with a beautifully manicured thumb. ‘Anyway he is my musical director and if I cited him as co-respondent he’d probably fire me and the orchestra doesn’t need any more scandal. Beside,’ he added gently, ‘I’ve got you and Hermione on video so I’m home and dry.’

  ‘Oh, my God!’ Lysander choked on a huge gulp of champagne. ‘Basically I don’t think Hermione and I would suit. She’s a terrific singer and a terrific-looking woman and all, but honestly she’d find me such a thicko and hopelessly unmusical — and I doubt if I could afford her.’

  ‘You should have thought about that,’ Bob said, suddenly cold. ‘Hermione could certainly afford you. You’d never have to work again. And you’d be a much more arresting accessory than a chain handbag on her arm; and she’s sensational in bed — as, of course, you know.’

  Lysander had gone green, his face glistened with sweat.

  ‘I don’t remember. I promise you, Bob, I was set up. One of the reasons I feel dreadful is you’ve always been seriously nice to me. I never wanted to bonk her.’

  ‘So, you’re telling me you’ve got no intention of standing by her.’

  ‘N-no, please not,’ bleated Lysander.

  ‘After you’ve compromised her so appallingly. You realize she can afford the toughest lawyers in the world.’

  For a long moment Bob glared at Lysander’s terrified face, then he started to shake with laughter.

  ‘What a pity! I suppose I’ll have to hang in there. She couldn’t cope on her own and Cosmo does need a putative father.’

  ‘But I thought you adored her?’ said Lysander in utter bewilderment.

  ‘I take care of her,’ said Bob flatly.

  Getting up, smoothing his remaining blond hair in the mirror, he perched on the arm of Lysander’s chair: ‘The other night when you and Hermione were in bed you reminded me of Matthew Arnold’s white violets plucked by the little children then, when the nurse calls them home, thrown down to die on the woodland floor. You’re wasting yourself on women, you know,’ Bob added softly.

  Lysander’s eyes widened. He felt himself blushing and tried to make himself as small as possible. Even so, Bob was seriously close. Glancing up he noticed the smoothness of Bob’s recent shave, his hairless nostrils above the long wide upper lip, the big kind, almost lashless eyes.

  ‘You were probably too drunk to remember anything about your performance the other night.’ Bob put a light hand on Lysander’s hair. ‘But I promise you it was the most exciting thing I’ve ever seen.’ Slowly he stroked Lysander’s rigid cheek with the other hand. ‘I know you’d be turned on to watch yourself on the video.’

  ‘I bloody would not!’ Lysander jumped to his feet so fast he nearly tipped Bob on to the floor.

  Jack stopped inspecting a stuffed bear in the corner and barked furiously.

  ‘Are you quite, quite sure?’ Righting himself, Bob moved towards his quarry.

  ‘Quite.’ Backing away panic-stricken, Lysander was blocked by the piano.

  ‘What a shame,’ sighed Bob. ‘You’d find men so much more rewarding and far less hassle. Oh well, we better have lunch. Meredith!’ he shouted through to the kitchen.

  And in bustled Meredith. Swamped in a butcher-boy apron, he was bearing a big blue Delft di
sh of lobster pancakes smothered in the palest white wine and anchovy sauce.

  Collapsing on to the keyboard with a crash of notes, Lysander opened his eyes the widest ever.

  ‘You and him?’ he mumbled incredulously.

  Bob nodded, filling up a glass for Meredith. ‘Been going on for fourteen years. I’d never have survived marriage to Hermione if it hadn’t been for Meredith.’

  ‘Does Hermione know?’

  ‘Course not, silly bitch. She’s so unobservant and self-obsessed,’ said Meredith. ‘Can you get the bread from the oven and the salad, Bobbie? I’m sure you’d enjoy the video, Lysander,’ he went on cosily. ‘I loved it. You’re so photogenic you’d make a fortune in blue movies.’

  ‘You really are kind.’ Starting to giggle in relief, Lysander found he couldn’t stop until they all joined in until the tears were pouring down their cheeks.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ gasped Lysander finally, wiping his eyes on his sleeve. ‘It’s so nice to laugh, but I love Kitty.’

  ‘Tush, tush,’ chided Meredith. ‘There’s a world of possibility out there,’ he tapped the window, ‘called London. Three thousand miles away there’s New York. With those God-given looks, why throw yourself away on a plain Jane?’

  ‘She is not.’

  ‘Who is married to someone else,’ went on Meredith laying a blue napkin across Lysander’s thighs, ‘who is determined not to relinquish her.’

  ‘I must rescue her.’

  ‘You won’t, duckie. Now eat up that pancake before it gets cold. You’re much too thin. Don’t worry,’ he added when Lysander drooped like one of Kitty’s snowdrops, ‘you’ve got to move out of Paradise and give it time.’

  ‘Kitty’s doing time with that shit. How can I abandon her when I know how happy I can make her?’