The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous trc-4

by Jilly Cooper

  Georgie simply couldn’t cope with a return to the old uncertainties. She’d got to get out. Ant and Cleo was so nearly finished, then she’d make plans. Looking at the kitchen clock she decided to start work soon, but she’d promised to mince up the remains of Sunday’s leg of lamb for a shepherd’s pie. She felt she ought to practise wifely duties for when she was living alone or shacked up one day with someone less domesticated than Guy. At first, she didn’t hear the telephone over the Moulinex.

  ‘Georgie, it’s David Hawkley. Hallo, hallo, are you there?’

  ‘Just,’ stammered Georgie, wiping her hands on her Jeans.

  ‘Thank you for your Valentine card. It was sweet. You did send it, didn’t you?’

  ‘Unless you know some other Georgie. Look, I’m really sorry I lied to you about me and Lysander, but I was so frightened of losing you.’

  ‘It’s OK. How’s Lysander?’

  ‘I haven’t seen him, but he’s in love. She’s married and even more common than me, but at least she’s the same age as him and got the sweetest nature.’

  ‘I can’t get him on the telephone and Magpie Cottage is deserted.’

  Georgie felt an air of gloom. David must have visited Paradise without coming to see her. He was only ringing to pump her about Lysander.

  ‘Where’s he living?’

  ‘With Rupert Campbell-Black.’

  ‘Good God!’ exploded David. ‘That’s worse than peddling dope.’

  ‘He won a good race yesterday. Didn’t you see The Scorpion?’

  ‘I don’t read The Scorpion,’ said David tartly. Then, he started to stammer, ‘I miss you — a lot. Let’s have lunch.’

  In a daze of happiness, Georgie watched Dinsdale remove the leg of lamb from the kitchen table.

  ‘Are you still there?’

  ‘I’d adore to. How about the end of next week?’ She needed the time to give up booze, lose seven pounds and finish Ant and Cleo.

  ‘Fine. Where d’you want to go?’

  ‘What about L’Escargot?’ It was a restaurant Guy and she had frequented when they were first married.

  ‘Good idea, I’ll book. D’you know Rupert Campbell-Black’s address?’

  It was still pitch black when Dizzy’s alarm clock went off the following morning. Cocks were crowing through the mist, horses knocking over their buckets as she staggered into the yard. Going from box to box, she felt each horse’s legs for fullness or bumps, before giving it a bucket of fresh water and a scoop of racehorse nuts. When he was at home Rupert preferred to perform this duty and decide which horses should be pulled from the gallops and merely walked round the village or rested in their boxes. He was due back from London at midday. Taggie had arrived from Paris very starry-eyed last night. At seven-thirty the rest of the grooms would arrive to muck out and tack up the horses for everyone to ride out at eight.

  But long before the grooms, Taggie had erupted into the yard wearing nothing but a red silk kimono covered in gold dragons.

  ‘Oh, Dizzy, Lysander’s bed hasn’t been slept in and he didn’t come home last night.’

  ‘And men are missing,’ intoned Dizzy, echoing the Gulf War bulletins.

  ‘What the hell’s Rupert going to say?’ she went on. ‘We had enough trouble covering up for him yesterday and when he left Pridie behind at Worcester. He’s a fucking liability.’ Dizzy slammed Penscombe Pride’s stable-door shut.

  ‘But such a sweet one,’ pleaded Taggie, ‘and he’s been such an interest and a morale boost for Rupert. Rupert was desperately upset about the baby,’ stammered Taggie.

  ‘I know.’ Dizzy put an arm round Taggie’s shivering silk shoulders. ‘But Rupert’ll have to sack him if he doesn’t turn up. He can’t risk such irresponsibility with the horses.’ Then, noticing Taggie’s blue, bare feet, ‘get dressed, I’ll finish feeding the horses. Then we’ll look for him.’

  They both jumped as deafening snores rent the air from the direction of Arthur’s box. Both doors were bolted to stop Arthur chewing them. Opening the top one, Dizzy and Taggie found both Arthur and Lysander stretched out. Lysander was asleep. Arthur was not and was snoring to get attention and breakfast.

  Giving a great rumbling whicker, he waved a hoof at them. Arthur was so lazy, and pretended to be exhausted by all the trotting up and down the Gloucestershire hills, that he often managed to persuade the grooms to feed him his racehorse nuts and even his bucket of water lying down. From the back of the stable, Tiny glared down on such debauchery with more disapproval than the vicar’s wife at the Valhalla orgy.

  ‘I hope he’s not ill from all that wasting. He’s awfully still,’ said Taggie alarmed.

  Dizzy sniffed: ‘Not ill. Drunk and passed out cold. Wake up, you stupid fucker.’

  When shaking Lysander had no effect, Dizzy turned the hose on him.

  ‘Go and get some warm clothes and some black coffee,’ she urged Taggie. ‘We’ve got to try and sober him up enough to ride out.’

  ‘Kitty won’t leave Rannaldini,’ mumbled Lysander.

  ‘Can’t say I blame her if you carry on like this,’ said Dizzy tartly.

  It was a pity that Rupert’s helicopter had engine trouble, so no-one was alerted by the chug, chug, chug of his approach. Instead, arriving in the dark blue Aston Martin, he was mistaken for Jimmy Jardine or Bluey Charteris rolling up to ride out. His first sight was of his beautiful wife, still wearing nothing but a drenched, gaping red kimono frantically trying to dress a half-naked paralytically drunk Lysander in the kitchen. Rupert had no option but to sack him on the spot.

  Rupert spent the afternoon venting his rage on owners who owed him nearly a million and whose alleged cheques-in-the-post would rival the mail on Valentine’s Day. He had already received tearful deputations from every groom and estate worker, Mr and Mrs Bodkin, even Jimmy and Bluey, and his own sweet wife who was now sobbing into the batter she was about to freeze for Shrove Tuesday pancakes. Any moment Beaver, Gertrude, Jack and the rest of the dogs, the stable cat and all the horses would troop out of the twilight waving banners in some candlelit protest march.

  He was brought back to earth by Taggie knocking on the door.

  ‘You magazine are just going to press. They want to know what you’re giving up for Lent.’

  ‘Lysander Hawkley,’ howled Rupert. Then, as Taggie burst into tears, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, are you and my entire staff and livestock bewitched by this cretin?’

  ‘No,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘It’s just that he hasn’t got a mother any more and his father’s a pig to him, and he’s nowhere to go if we chuck him out.’

  Shooting across the room, knocking over his out-tray, Rupert took her in his arms.

  ‘There, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Of course he can stay.’

  Pulling her head against his shoulder, he stroked her hair. She’d been so incredibly brave since the baby died. She needed something to fuss over, and Lysander had been such an interest and a morale boost for her.

  ‘I love him, too,’ he muttered. ‘But he’s such a dickhead.’

  At that moment Lysander appeared round the door hanging his head, clutching a large bottle of whisky as a peace offering. He could hardly move for hangover and misery.

  ‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I’ve made such a fool of myself.’

  ‘Get out,’ said Rupert irritably. Then, as Lysander shuffled desolately out again, ‘Go to bed, I want you on parade at eight tomorrow morning.’

  Lysander turned in desperate hope. ‘Pridie needs more work,’ Rupert went on, ‘and Arthur’s come on so well he can start on the gallops tomorrow.’

  59

  With a huge lump in her throat, Georgie wrote THE END in capital letters on the score of Ant and Cleo. She had a faint, faint hope that it was the best thing she had ever done. Her head, her hand and her back ached dreadfully but not for once her heart. At least tomorrow she could go up to London to meet David with a clear conscience. Tonight she would spend several hours de-slagging herself.

  Hav
ing steeped her hair in coconut oil, waiting for a mud pack to dry on her face, she noticed that the rain which had been lashing the windows all day had finally stopped. Outside the sun had broken through behind the woods and flooded the opposite side of Paradise in rosy gold light, turning the fields a brilliant, leaping emerald-green, and a lone grey horse and the departing clouds the softest pink. Then, as she watched, a rainbow soared between the clouds. My life is on the up, thought Georgie.

  Picking up the telephone, she rang Relate.

  ‘I’m terribly sorry, I can’t make it this evening. You’ve been so kind. I’m sorry I’ve talked so much about myself.’

  That’s fifteen pounds saved, she thought in jubilation, I can buy a new T-shirt from Miss Selfridge, something clinging and sludgy to match my eyes.

  Money was dreadful at the moment. It was a good thing she hadn’t bothered to finish the album for Larry. Catchitune were in such deep trouble, despite the new board, that they would never have paid the rest of the advance on it. But as she was leaving for the station her agent telephoned saying that Dancer Maitland was interested in playing Ant and could they see an early score. Then Guy rang, delighted that she’d finished.

  ‘We’ll celebrate this evening, Panda.’

  He was having lunch at the Athenaeum with his father, he said.

  That’s far enough away from L’Escargot, thought Georgie, floating off to London.

  Arriving at Paddington on the next train after Georgie, David Hawkley felt the need to stretch his legs — a headmaster’s favourite phrase — and decided to walk to Soho. The first daffodils waving at him from Hyde Park put a spring in his step. Overtaking a traffic jam in Oxford Street, he was amused to pass a taxi in which Georgie was frantically powdering, combing, scenting and trying to re-assure herself in a tiny smudged hand-mirror that her new khaki T-shirt wasn’t too juvenile. All the girls in Miss Selfridge had been so sweet about her records.

  Feeling happy and excited for the first time in months, David bought an Evening Standard and a bunch of daffodils and followed a trail of Giorgio into L’Escargot.

  Having been told that his lunch guest had gone to the Ladies, he sat down at the table, ordered a glass of sherry and was soon engrossed in the racing pages, which described Lysander as Campbell-Black’s golden boy, and suggested people put their money on him and Mr Sparky the next day. Torn between pride, disapproval and sudden sharp envy of Rupert, he turned to the front pages and the war.

  The land battle was about to start any minute, all Kuwait was aflame, burning the midnight and the midday oil.

  David was so engrossed he didn’t notice a charming redhead sit down in an alcove round the corner, and then everything was forgotten because Georgie arrived with the price tag still on her T-shirt, but looking as beautiful, scented and shining as a woman in love.

  ‘How gorgeous!’ She took the daffodils from him.

  ‘Not as gorgeous as you.’ Cursing himself for being corny, David kissed her warm, scented, freckled cheek.

  ‘I’m manic. I’ve just finished Ant and Cleo.’

  ‘Oh Eastern Star, that calls for champagne.’ David waved to a waiter.

  Although a place had been laid for her opposite him, Georgie wriggled between the tables so she could sit down on the bench-seat beside him. Sod being recognized.

  ‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you. Isn’t the war terrifying? Do you think the Israelis will retaliate?’

  David shook his head. ‘The Americans have paid them too much money.’

  ‘Mother Courage was so funny this morning: “Oh, Mrs Seymour, the Iraqis are copulating.”’

  David laughed, his face losing all its daunting sternness.

  ‘I liked Duck-billed Platitude best.’

  ‘You remembered!’

  ‘I remember everything about you. Look.’ He brought a little silver box out of his pocket, and for a worried moment Georgie thought he was about to inhale snuff. Instead she saw it was full of hair.

  ‘Do you remember the day I cut your fringe?’ Putting the box away, he broke a roll in half but didn’t eat it. ‘How’s Guy?’

  ‘Not great. We lie side by side at night not touching like apples in the attic because we’re so frightened of bruising.’

  ‘Sounds like Sappho.’

  ‘Did you finish Catullus?’

  ‘Yup. How’s Flora?’

  ‘Absolutely devastated,’ and she told him about the affair with Rannaldini. ‘He’s destroyed her,’ she said finally. ‘I wish you two could meet.’

  ‘We will soon.’

  Flooded with happiness, Georgie felt they were talking in certainties.

  ‘Tell me about Mrs Rannaldini, I assume she was that plump little thing bouncing around like a rubber ball in a bra and pants last October?’

  Georgie laughed. ‘She’s so sweet.’

  David took her hand. ‘I’m so glad you sent me that Valentine card. It arrived during a staff meeting, I had to rush out and ring you.’

  ‘I was about to ring you at Christmas, but when I picked up the telephone Guy was talking to Julia.’

  ‘My poor darling.’

  But as she leant sideways to kiss him, she suddenly heard a familiar voice saying: ‘Darling, I’m so sorry I’m late, the traffic’s appalling,’ and as painful as electrolysis on the bikini line, she realized it was Guy and he was speaking to Julia, who had leapt out of the alcove as beautiful, scented and shining as herself to embrace him.

  The proprietor, coming over to ask if they’d chosen yet, turned green, but was too late to warn Guy, as over Julia’s shoulder he caught sight of Georgie and the tender smile froze on his handsome face.

  ‘It’s Guy,’ whispered Georgie.

  ‘Rock Star in person,’ said David acidly, and with great presence of mind he downed his glass of sherry, gave the waiter a tenner and whisked Georgie down the road and took a room at the Mountbatten.

  ‘Guy said he was lunching at the Athenaeum with his father,’ sobbed Georgie as they entered the lift.

  As David led them into a room that had framed photographs of Lord Mountbatten playing polo all over the walls, Georgie turned to face him.

  Taking her hand, he pulled her down on to the bed. ‘I’m not going to assault you. It’s all right. Please don’t cry.’

  Georgie felt buttons against her face. There was something comfortingly upright about a man who wore a waistcoat.

  ‘Now Guy knows about us it’s all in the open.’

  ‘Are we an “us”?’ asked Georgie.

  ‘I think so, don’t you?’

  That night, because it was Friday, out of habit both Georgie and Guy returned to Paradise.

  ‘You took him to our favourite restaurant,’ said Guy furiously.

  ‘So did you,’ snapped Georgie. ‘And I’d just struggled to pay the poll tax and you go squandering money on Julia.’

  ‘You bought a new T-shirt.’

  ‘Out of my Relate money. Anyway it was the first time I’ve ever lunched with him,’ she lied.

  ‘It’s the first time I’ve had lunch with Julia since Christmas,’ lied Guy. ‘Who is he anyway?’

  ‘I’m not going to tell you,’ hissed Georgie.

  Alas, there was a feature in the Daily Telegraph the following day on the headmasters of the top schools in England with a large picture of David, looking stern and handsome.

  Devastated how jealous he felt, Guy rushed off to play squash with Rannaldini, who was feeling very smug because he was behaving comparatively well at present.

  ‘What am I going to do? Georgie’s having an affair with Lysander’s father. He’s got two inches in Who’s Who.’

  ‘And presumably eight inches in Georgie,’ said Rannaldini evilly. ‘I thought she was looking good.’

  ‘But headmasters shouldn’t behave like that,’ spluttered Guy.

  Rannaldini laughed. ‘Like father, like son. If Georgie can keep her Head, when all about her are losing theirs.’

  ‘Oh, shut up. Julia thinks
that lets me off the hook, but I can’t afford to leave Georgie. Another backer went belly-up last week. Anyway I don’t want to.’

  ‘You should have thought of that before.’

  ‘Have you heard the latest Saddam Hussein story?’ Dizzy asked Lysander at the beginning of March as they drove home after another highly successful day at Sandown. ‘What do Saddam Hussein and nylon knickers have in common?’

  ‘I don’t care.’

  ‘They both rub Bush the wrong way. Ha, ha, ha. Have you totally lost your sense of humour?’

  ‘Totally. I don’t care if the war is over. Stormin’ Norman should have been allowed to go in and crucify Saddam Hussein for starving all the Kuwaiti bloodstock to death. A lot of them came from this yard. And if Allied prisoners of war are being released, why can’t Rannaldini release Kitty?’

  Still pinching herself with joy at the prospect of being the future Lady Lockton, Marigold was also delighted to see Boris’s clapped-out Fiesta parked at an angle outside Rachel’s cottage. Perhaps, as was rumoured, they were getting together again. On the other hand, Marigold was getting increasingly worried about Kitty whom she’d just bumped into outside the village shop. Kitty had been wearing odd shoes and her coat was done up all wrong. She was also as white as a sheet, but explained it away as a tummy upset.

  Kitty, in fact, was almost certain she was pregnant. Although she hadn’t dared go to James Benson, she had missed three periods. But the thing she had longed for most in the world had only brought her desperate worry and unhappiness because she had no idea if the baby was Lysander’s or Rannaldini’s. She felt overwhelmed with guilt. What would happen if the baby popped out in September, another little Virgo like herself, but with Lysander’s wide blue eyes? She couldn’t stop crying, and she was feeling appallingly sick. Thank goodness Rannaldini was too tied up with Macbeth and the machinations of the New York job, which still hadn’t been confirmed, to notice.