The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

Wide and emerald-green, the course loomed ahead. As the grey gelding’s tail drew nearer and nearer, Bluey picked up his whip, only allowed ten whacks before the finishing-post.

  Crack, crack, crack; down they came on brave Hustler’s heaving flanks.

  ‘Come on, Hopeless,’ shouted Lysander. ‘Good girl, go for it.’

  Turkish Hustler hurtled forward, galvanized but frightened. Hopeless’s competitive spirit flared. She must keep up with her stable-mate. Scrawny mane and tail flying, spindly legs flailing, galloping her no-longer-timid heart out, she chased Hustler past the grey. Then Hustler seemed to tire and go backwards as Hopeless shot forward.

  ‘Go on, angel,’ begged Lysander.

  ‘Pick up your bat, you stupid fucker,’ yelled Rupert from the balcony.

  Marcia, blue mascara streaming, was too excited to speak.

  ‘He’s going to do it,’ shrieked Tabitha. ‘I’ve won two hundred fucking pounds,’ as Hopeless slid past the post a quarter of a length ahead.

  Down they all surged into the winner’s enclosure. A huge cheer and much laughter went up as Lysander rode in with a great grin spread across his face, leaving white stripes of foam on a bemused but happy Hopeless’s chestnut coat as he patted her over and over again.

  Marcia couldn’t stop kissing Lysander, and only relinquished him when Taggie turned up to give him a big hug.

  ‘Oh, that was wonderful! I’m so proud of you, and darling Hopeless.’

  Ecstatically, Lysander hugged her back.

  There were photographers everywhere.

  ‘I made two hundred pounds,’ said Tab, feeding Hopeless a Polo. ‘It was a toss up between a bet and a packet of fags.’

  Over Taggie’s shoulder, Lysander’s eyes met Rupert’s.

  ‘You didn’t obey a single instruction,’ he said coldly.

  ‘Basically,’ Lysander edged away from Taggie, ‘I thought she needed encouraging. I’m really sorry.’

  But Rupert suddenly laughed, and clapped him on the shoulder.

  ‘Fucking marvellous; only another nine races and you qualify for the Rutminster.’

  ‘And don’t go drinking champagne now,’ said Bluey, adding his congratulations. ‘If you’ve been wasting, you’re better off with a cup of tea.’

  It was Rupert’s day. Meutrier won by three lengths, Penscombe Pride by ten. Mr Sparky came second, but only after a photo-finish. Afterwards Bluey took Rupert aside.

  ‘I don’t like competition, but that boy is bloody good. Meutrier’s improved out of all recognition since he’s been working on him. Mr Sparky’s a different horse. He’s loving it. He can see a stride.’

  ‘Marcia feels the same,’ said Rupert. ‘She wants to buy Lysander.’

  Over at Valhalla the following morning, Rannaldini, who hadn’t liked Lysander having such a powerful ally as Rupert, delightedly handed The Scorpion to Kitty.

  ‘Your little friend’s up to his tricks again.’

  On page three was a large picture of Lysander and Taggie embracing ecstatically.

  HAS RUPERT TAKEN IN A TROJAN HORSE? said the caption.

  Rupert pretended not to mind the picture in The Scorpion, but he was livid underneath and took it out on everyone, particularly Taggie. Lysander made himself as scarce as possible. Dusk saw Rupert howling round the house in search of yesterday’s Racing Post.

  ‘Some bloody idiot’s chucked it out. How many times do I have to tell you I need to keep them?’

  ‘It’s probably in the study,’ snapped Taggie, who was exhausted.

  ‘I’ve looked.’

  ‘Go and look again.’

  Clenching his fists, Rupert stormed out, then paused in the hall in front of the huge oil of his beloved, late Labrador, Badger. Badger would have understood how he felt about The Scorpion, providing solid, silent, black sympathy.

  Then Rupert heard the crash of the pedal dustbin, followed by a rustling noise, and sidled back towards the kitchen.

  As he opened the door very slowly, he found Taggie frantically wiping baked beans off the front of yesterday’s Racing Post.

  ‘Gotcha!’ Rupert grabbed her from behind.

  ‘You startled me.’ Jumping like a kangaroo, Taggie turned crimson. ‘Someone must have, I mean, I must have thrown it away. We can’t keep everything,’ she said defensively.

  Turning her round, Rupert glared down for a second.

  ‘Of course we can’t.’ He pulled her towards him. ‘If you weren’t here,’ he said roughly, ‘the entire house would disappear in a mountain of rubbish in a week. I’m only terrified you’ll throw me out one day.’

  As he took her tired, dirty, unpainted face between his hands, her hair smelt of bonfire smoke. Looking down, he noticed blood all over her clothes.

  ‘What have you done?’ he asked in horror. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ Taggie smiled proudly. ‘Passion went into labour, I pulled her calf out all by myself.’

  ‘You shouldn’t,’ said Rupert appalled. ‘You might have strained yourself or got knocked over.’

  ‘I’m fine, and it’s the sweetest little calf. Come and see it.’

  ‘I know sweeter calves.’ Rupert ran his hands down her thighs. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. Tomorrow’s Valentine’s Day.’

  ‘I know. I love you so much.’

  ‘And we’re going to Paris tonight.’

  ‘Wow,’ squeaked Taggie in excitement. ‘Can we leave the yard?’

  ‘Of course we can, for thirty-six hours.’

  ‘Have I got time to wash my hair and have a bath?’

  ‘More important, we’ve got time to go to bed,’ murmured Rupert.

  Peering round the door, Lysander felt a great wave of longing and loneliness as he saw them locked in each other’s arms. They looked so beautiful, straight out of Dynasty. In the corner, Jack was sharing a basket with Gertrude the mongrel, so besotted he could hardly bear to leave her to sleep on Lysander’s bed at night. Everyone’s shacked up but me, thought Lysander. He’d just posted a second Valentine to Kitty, because he couldn’t remember if he’d posted the first. Rupert was going away tomorrow. Lysander had a brainwave.

  58

  Clive, Rannaldini’s leather-clad henchman, intercepted both Valentines which Lysander had drawn himself. The first was of a leopard with tears pouring down its face as it tried to scrub off its spots, in the second the same leopard tried desperately to climb into a washing machine. Clive hid them in a file with all Lysander’s other letters he’d whipped and any press cuttings that had appeared about him. Rannaldini had instructed him to tail Kitty, so on Valentine’s Day he followed her into Rutminster when she did the week’s shopping.

  The moment Rupert and Taggie left for Paris Lysander sloped off to London where he picked up Maggie’s puppy and enlisted Ferdie’s help in writing Kitty a letter. Next morning, Valentine’s Day, he had to crawl back to Rutshire because the whole West of England was blanketed in fog. Risking his neck by missing the morning’s gallops, he prayed that none of the grooms would grass on him. As he reached Paradise his heart started jumping and his hands became so sticky he could hardly swing the wheel enough to navigate the winding lanes. A florist’s van was parked outside Rachel’s cottage. Delivering Rannaldini’s roses, thought Lysander savagely. Avoiding the electric gates and guard-dogs at the main entrance to Valhalla, he bumped up a little-used ride through the woods, stretching a hand back to steady the little creature on the back seat beside Jack.

  Only the passionate hope that one day he and Kitty would be together enabled him to part with Maggie’s puppy. Pale fawn, striped like a tiger, she had a white belly, speckled paws and a sweet frowning striped face with a very direct stare. Despite long legs, her tail practically trailed on the ground. A cross between a flying fish, a bird and a deer, she glided into rooms and leapt on to chairs with the grace of a ballet dancer.

  It was clear that neither Jack nor Dinsdale, nor even Tabloid had a paw in her parentage. Lysander put his money on a greyhoun
d.

  ‘You’re going to cheer up my Kitty,’ he told the puppy who cocked her head on one side, ‘for not having a baby, and don’t let her get pregnant. Sleep on her bed and bite Rannaldini’s willy whenever he comes near her.’

  The silence was eerie. Valhalla was strangled by thick veils of floating grey fog. At the edge of the park Lysander could distinguish rusty iron railings and ancient trees looming up like bison or great horned stags. His heart was pounding his rib cage, a lunatic trying to escape from a padded cell. Then Jack and the puppy started yapping furiously as the fearsome Prince of Darkness in a New Zealand rug galloped out of the mist and thundered away. Ahead the woods reared up like cliffs, treacherous to mariners, and there was the house, greyer than the fog itself, with its gables, tall chimneys and small secretive windows, as though the stonework between the panes formed prison bars.

  Gathering up the puppy, Lysander went up to the great front door, resting against it for a second before setting the rusty bell jangling mournfully. If Kitty answered the door, he was tempted to kidnap her. But the nose that peered out was long and red-veined.

  For a second Mrs Brinscombe’s face lit up, then she looked terrified.

  ‘You mustn’t come here, it’s more than my life’s worth. Oh, the sweet little duck.’ She put up a red, roughened hand to stroke the puppy.

  ‘Where’s Kitty? Please, please, Mrs B, I’ve got to see her.’

  ‘She’s gone shopping in Rutminster.’

  ‘Then I’ll wait.’

  ‘No.’ She shrank from him. ‘Clive’s being paid to follow her and he’s a villain. Please don’t risk it. Rannaldini’ll sack me and Mr B, and he’ll take it out on Kitty.’

  ‘Is she OK?’

  Mrs Brimscombe loved Lysander and hated to see him so thin and ghost-pale. She had endured enough of Mr Brimscombe’s indiscriminate lechery to have huge sympathy with Kitty.

  ‘She’s all right on the surface.’ Mrs Brimscombe thought for a second. ‘But she reminds me of one of those prisoners of war that Saddam Hussein keeps parading on TV, that looks all bruised and beaten and dazed, but keeps on telling you what a good man Saddam is, and how wicked the Allies are to fight him. She don’t seem natural.’

  ‘Oh, God!’ Lysander was frantic. ‘Poor little Kitty. Is he bullying her?’

  ‘No. That’s what don’t seem natural either. He’s being so nice.’

  ‘Well, give her this, and this.’ Lysander shoved the puppy and his letter into Mrs Brimscombe’s unwelcoming hands. ‘Tell Clive she’s a stray wandered in from the wood, but please see that Kitty gets her.’

  Stumbling in despair back to his car, he reminded Mrs Brimscombe of one of those poor wretched seabirds, helpless and paralysed by oil in the Gulf. With no other thought but oblivion, Lysander headed for The Pearly Gates.

  Returning from Rutminster, Kitty was greeted by a very over-excited Mrs B, who managed to slip her the letter. ‘Put it in yer bra, m’duck,’ and whispered that the puppy came from Lysander before Clive walked in buckling under the two trays of Bounce for Rannaldini’s guard-dogs.

  ‘What’s this?’ he said, as the puppy padded trustfully towards him. ‘Gorgeous little thing.’ He put out a hand ringed like a knuckle-duster. ‘Where’s it come from?’

  ‘It’s a stray. Mrs B found it wanderin’ outside,’ said Kitty quickly.

  ‘Doesn’t look like one.’ The puppy yelped as Clive picked it up by the scruff of the neck. ‘It’s well fed, and its paws aren’t marked. I’ll pop it down to the local rescue kennels.’

  ‘No you won’t,’ said Kitty with surprising sharpness.

  ‘You’re scared of dogs,’ said Clive rudely.

  ‘Not this one. Give it to me.’

  ‘Rannaldini don’t like dogs in the house.’ Clive’s pale fleshless face was alight with malice, his pale grey eyes had the innocence of a psychopath. ‘Canine dogs, that is.’

  ‘I’ll deal with Rannaldini.’ Kitty was fired with sudden courage.’

  ‘And it over. Now clear off.’

  As she grabbed the puppy from Clive, it covered her face with little licks. Shutting her eyes, Kitty breathed in its sweet, fresh oatmeal smell. It was the first Valentine she’d ever had.

  Only when the puppy had been fed and watered and they’d both retreated to the safety of her bedroom did she open Lysander’s letter kindly dictated by Ferdie. She read:

  Darling Kitty,

  This is Maggie’s puppy, Lassie II, to replace the one from Harrods those bastards at customs ripped open. Unless you have a dog that needs taking out, you never get out at night. But when you look up at the moon, and the great Bear and Orion the Hunter with his dogs, think of them looking down on me and Jack who both love you, Lysander.

  Kitty gave a sob. Her dark little room, which faced north into the wood was lightened today by sheets of snowdrops which reminded her unbearably of the nursery slopes at Monthaut. She should have burnt Lysander’s letter, but she read it over and over again before hiding it under the lining paper of her tights drawer.

  Jumping at the knock on the door, she shoved the drawer shut just in time. It was Clive bearing a huge bunch of dark red roses and a jewel box wrapped in shiny red paper. Inside was a ruby brooch in the shape of a heart.

  To my Valentine, said the card, whose price is far above rubies, with all my love, Rannaldini.

  Marigold was in despair. Although Larry was trying frantically to build up some kind of business again — you don’t go from 10p to ten million by stroking the cat, was one of his favourite sayings — no-one wanted to buy Paradise Grange, or Magpie Cottage or the villa in France, and all the pictures had gone for knockdown prices.

  But far, far worse, Larry hadn’t sent her a Valentine. Last year, when he’d been with Nikki, was the only other year he’d forgotten. Maybe he’d gone back to her to boost his ego. Marigold had so little confidence, any little thing triggered off the panic. She must keep calm, but when Larry rang just before lunch, she found herself shouting at him, ‘I thought we were traying to mend our marriage, you beast.’ Then she burst into noisy sobs.

  ‘Princess, princess.’ When Larry finally could get a word in, he said rather smugly, ‘If you go and ’ave a butchers be’ind the mirror in the ’all.’

  Rushing out, Marigold found a large box of chocolates, a card with a red heart on the front, and a page of kisses inside. There was also a letter. Dear Mr Lockton, read Marigold incredulously, and felt the blush of joy creeping slowly over her.

  Down the telephone Larry could hear her scream of delight.

  ‘Oh, Ay love you, Sir Laurence,’ she said in a choked voice as she picked up the telephone. ‘No-one deserves a knaighthood more.’

  ‘I thought you’d be pleased, Lady Lockton. But Mum’s the word till it’s in the papers.’

  Behaving like the ideal husband on the surface, Rannaldini put a coded Valentine message in the Independent: Little wild thing, the big leopard longs for you.

  As he called all his mistresses ‘Little wild thing’, Hermione, Chloe, Rachel, Cecilia, even for a giddy second, Flora, and most of the ladies of the London Met thought Rannaldini was sending secret signals to them.

  Returning from the Highlands where he had been looking for locations for Macbeth with Cameron Cook, Rannaldini was decidedly unamused to find Lassie in situ. She had already made herself thoroughly at home romping along the passages after Kitty and peeing everywhere.

  ‘Let her go to the stables with Clive.’

  ‘No, she’s mine.’ Kitty’s eyes were terrified.

  Lassie got up and stretched, turning her toes backwards, trailing along, then attacking the red-and-yellow rose-patterned Aubusson in the morning room, and shaking it furiously.

  ‘Stop that,’ snapped Rannaldini, aiming a kick at her.

  Instantly Lassie flattened her ears, and seemed to become half her breadth, as she fled to Kitty’s side.

  Having already read Lysander’s letter, which Clive had tracked down and photostated w
hile Kitty popped out to the post, Rannaldini suspected the hand of Rupert Campbell-Black. According to the ubiquitous Clive, who frequently bunged the Rutminster florists, the roses sent to Rachel that morning had come from Boris, who had just returned from a successful tour of his homeland. The New York job wasn’t in the bag yet, so even when Kitty forgot to provide him with a white gardenia for the Gulf concert that evening, Rannaldini didn’t bawl her out, and Lassie was allowed to stay.

  Returning from an equally successful but nerve-racking tour of Israel where she’d expected to be flattened by a Scud missile in the middle of a piano concerto, Rachel felt horribly depressed.

  The war grew more dreadful. Only the night before the Allies had bombed a bunker full of civilians. The Americans intended to use napalm to ignite the Iraqi oil ditches on the front lines and the Iraqi hospitals had no electricity, so the baby incubators couldn’t function and syringes were having to be used several times.

  Rachel knew she ought to go straight out that evening to a peace vigil in Rutminster, but she felt so tired, and the children, whom she had to collect from Gretel, would kick up if she left them again.

  Perhaps the most nightmarish part of being a single parent was that she had no-one to tell things to — to boast that she had taken seven bows last night.

  ‘I had to take these in for you,’ said Gretel, handing Rachel a huge bunch of the palest peachy-pink roses.

  Rannaldini or Guy? thought Rachel wearily, then read; Dearest Rachel, Happy seventh wedding anniversary, all love, Boris.

  To Gretel’s amazement Rachel burst into a flood of tears.

  ‘Oh Gretel, he remembered,’ she sobbed. ‘He really, really remembered.’

  Rising late on Valentine’s Day after a long stint the night before, Georgie wandered round the garden. The lake was as flat and grey as washing-up water. In the tub outside the kitchen window a lone mud-spattered daffodil swayed in the wind. She and Guy had been getting on so much better since the orgy. He’d shaved off his beard, so she didn’t think he was pursuing Rachel any more. But suddenly last Friday he was up to his old tricks again — coming back to Paradise early to go to the doctor about his headaches. Returning to Angel’s Reach an hour and a half later, he explained that the surgery queue had been so long that he couldn’t be bothered to wait — but he had the jubilant air of an aircrew flying in from a successful raid over Iraq without loss.