The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

10

Half an hour later Lysander and Marigold were in Larry’s study, smoking like mad to dull their appetites, and watching the runners in the 3.00 at Wincanton circling in the paddock.

‘I’ve backed Rupert Campbell-Black’s horse, Penscombe Pride,’ said Lysander. ‘That bay in the dark blue rug, doesn’t he look well? He won both the Rutminster and the Cotchester Gold Cups last year.’

‘Even I know that,’ said Marigold.

‘He’s favourite, but he’s carrying so much weight.’

Next moment Jack flew out of the basket he now shared with Patch and went into a frenzy of yapping as Hermione Harefield swept in.

‘What’s the point of electric gates,’ muttered Marigold, ‘when Mrs Brimscombe lets in the horrors?’

Hermione was fortunate to have looks that needed little maintenance. Her strong, glossy, dark brown curls fell naturally into shape. Her big eyes the colour of After Eights were fringed with thick lashes that never needed mascara. No spot nor red vein ever marred a complexion as smooth and creamy as Carnation Milk. Her splendid bosom soared above an enviously slim waist and she never wore trousers, because they would have emphasized a rather large bottom and hidden long, charmingly curved legs. She could easily have passed for the much admired younger sister of Michelangelo’s David, but in Hermione’s case, beauty was only rhinocerous-hide deep.

Embracing Marigold regally, she said: ‘How are you, how are you?’ in her deep, thrillingly rich voice, and presented her with a tape of herself singing sea shanties, including ‘Blow the wind southerly’. She then insisted on pressing the mute button of the television, and playing the tape fortissimo, while recounting details of her wildly successful tour.

‘Such love, such love, one could feel it reaching out to one,’ cried Hermione. ‘But it’s a responsibility to be so beloved. I must take my voice increasingly into the open air and bring music to the people. So I’ve decided to do Hyde Park and Wembley this summer.

‘But when I felt Paradise beneath my feet and little Cosmo rushed across the lawn crying, “Mummy, Mummy”, I knew that here was the real world.’ She smiled at Lysander, who, having risen when she came in, was now back with his feet on the table, listening to her non-stop flow with his mouth open.

Finally Marigold butted in: ‘Hermione, may I introduce Lysander Hawkley, my personal exercise trainer.’

‘But you never take any exercise,’ said Hermione in disbelief, which turned to disapproval when Marigold despatched Lysander to get a bottle of wine and some Perrier for herself.

‘You shouldn’t encourage workmen to watch television and drink in the middle of the afternoon, Marigold. What’s he doing here?’

‘Mending my heart.’

But Hermione wasn’t listening. ‘I need to get in touch with Larry. I’m recording Dido next week, and I want to know who’s singing Aeneas and which recording studio’s been booked.’

‘Ay haven’t a clue,’ snapped Marigold. ‘Ring Nikki’s new apartment. You’ll find Larry in bed there.’

‘Don’t be bitter, Marigold, it’s so ageing,’ chided Hermione, who loathed her friends having marriage problems because it gave them an excuse to talk about themselves rather than her.

‘I refuse to take sides,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure poor Larry’s as confused as you are.’

‘And sells millions of your records,’ said Marigold furiously.

‘Oh Marigold, you silly billy,’ sighed Hermione, looking at Marigold properly for the first time. ‘You’ve dyed your hair.’

‘I thought I needed a change.’

Hermione put her head on one side. ‘Well, if you like it that’s the main thing, and I’ve never seen you in jeans before. We are jazzing ourselves up.’

With a trembling hand Marigold reached for a Silk Cut. Hermione, who had a singer’s pathological horror of smoking, was about to reproach her when she was distracted by the tape reaching ‘Blow the wind southerly’.

‘This is my favourite, I never thought anyone could sing “Blow” as well as Kathleen Ferrier, but the American critics say my version is better.’

‘Oh, look,’ sighed Lysander, pausing in the doorway, his arms full of bottles and glasses, and nodding at an incredibly handsome man talking to a sardonic-looking jockey in blue-and-green colours. ‘That’s Rupert Campbell-Black. Isn’t he handsome? And seriously cool? And that’s Bluey Charteris who rides for him — lucky sod.’

Lysander was about to turn up the sound when the cameras switched to the latest odds. Penscombe Pride’s were shortening.

‘I was lucky to get that bet on early. God, I want to meet Rupert.’

Hermione refused a drink, but said pointedly that she’d like some tea, because she hadn’t had any lunch.

‘You’re out of luck,’ said Lysander. ‘Marigold’s on a diet.’

Hermione turned to Marigold. ‘I thought you were looking awfully tired.’

‘She looks great!’ Lysander smiled amiably at Hermione. ‘I’m afraid the only thing in the fridge is some smoked salmon.’

‘For our supper,’ said Marigold.

‘I’ll have that,’ said Hermione, and such was the force of her personality that she was just polishing off the lot, washed down by Earl Grey and honey, when Jack and Patch went into another frenzy of barking.

This time it was Rannaldini’s young wife, Kitty. Clutching a bunch of freesias and a red-spotted tin, she blushed when she saw not only Marigold but also Hermione, her husband’s mistress, plus an incredibly good-looking young man. Perhaps he was Hermione’s latest.

Launching into a flurry of ‘how are yous’, Hermione embraced Kitty graciously, then embarrassed her by saying teasingly: ‘Both sides, Kitty,’ and holding out her other cheek to be kissed after Kitty had ducked away.

Marigold, who, since Larry’s departure, had suffered from chronic lapse of memory, suddenly blocked on Lysander’s surname and merely introduced him and Kitty by their Christian names.

Heavens, he’s gorgeous, thought Kitty, he must be some young actor who’s making a pop record; such a sweet sleepy smile.

‘Very pleased to meet you, Ly-sunder,’ she stammered, then turning to Marigold, ‘you look wonderful. I love your ’air, and you’re so lovely and slim.’

‘I have been tryin” said Marigold gratefully.

‘Well, you probably won’t want that,’ said Kitty going even redder, as Marigold opened the red-spotted tin which contained a huge dark chocolate cake.

‘Oh yum,’ sighed Marigold. ‘Oh, Kitty, you are kaind, but I truly mustn’t. Lysander can, though.’

‘And so can I,’ said Hermione. ‘I never have to diet.’

Having helped herself to a vast slice, Hermione rewound the tape to play ‘Blow the wind southerly’, which was blotted out by Lysander’s howl of joy as Penscombe Pride won by a length.

‘Yippee!’ He hugged Marigold in ecstasy. ‘I’ve won two fucking grand. I can buy you a gold exercise bike now.’

Looking very bootfaced, Hermione picked up a new biography of Placido Domingo, turning to the index for reference to herself.

‘I must go,’ said Kitty. ‘I didn’t mean to butt in when you’d got company, Marigold.’

‘You must have a drink to celebrate,’ said Lysander, letting Marigold go.

‘I’ll have a small sweet sherry then,’ said Kitty. ‘Rannaldini don’t approve, but I can’t drink it dry.’

‘I’ll have some more Perrier please, darling.’ Marigold handed Lysander her glass.

‘Clever to ’ave a win like that,’ said Kitty, ‘I’m afraid I’m terrified of ’orses. I’d ’ave walked over ’ere this afternoon, but Rannaldini’s turned The Prince of Darkness — he’s a big black fing with ’uge teef — out in Long Meadow, so I came by car.’

‘I know The Prince of Darkness. Bloody good horse, came second in the Whitbread,’ said Lysander.

‘E’s still got ’uge teef,’ sighed Kitty.

Lysander thought Kitty was as plain as Hermione was beautiful. She was probably younger than him, but she had a round pale face and eyes far too wide apart behind disfiguringly strong spectacles. Her fuzzy light brown hair was dragged off a rather spotty forehead into a bun. With her squashed snub nose and big generous mouth, the bottom lip of which she was nervously gnawing as she listened to Hermione, she resembled an apprehensive pug on the end of a chatterbox mistress.

A gold cross round her neck and a navy-blue polyester dress with a white collar gave her a prim look, but couldn’t disguise her heavy breasts and lack of waist. Plump legs were not flattered by flesh-coloured tights, nor by navy-blue high heels which thrust her forward like a plant desperately seeking the sunlight.

‘Cheers.’ She attacked her large glass of sherry. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to tea, I mean supper, next week, Marigold?’

‘Love to,’ said Marigold. ‘As long as you don’t cook anything fattening. Can I bring Lysander? He’s just moved into a cottage at Eldercombe.’

‘That’s nice. Near Ricky France-Lynch,’ said Kitty. ‘His wife Daisy’s just ’ad the most gorgeous li-el boy,’ she added wistfully.

‘You’ll be next,’ said Marigold reassuringly.

‘Eavens, I ’ope so,’ said Kitty, who, unlike Marigold, made no attempt to disguise a strong cockney accent.

Hermione, having finished reading about herself in the Domingo biography, cut another massive piece of chocolate cake and asked: ‘Do you play an instrument, Ly-sarnder.’

‘Yarss,’ said Lysander gravely. ‘I learnt the piano at prep. school, but I only play with one hand because I was always fending off Mr Molesworth, the music master, with the other one.’

‘What a pity,’ said Hermione, ignoring Marigold’s laughter. ‘I’m recording Beethoven’s Cycle “To the distant beloved” on Monday. I need an accompanist to rehearse with. Such a beautiful work. D’you know it?’

Lysander shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine anyone bicycling to see a beloved round here, particularly a distant one. The hills are so steep. It’s bad enough jogging.’

For a second, Kitty’s face crumpled up into a smile, then she quickly asked Hermione how little Cosmo was.

‘Magic, magic,’ said Hermione warmly. ‘Which reminds me, Kitty. Do you know definitely when Rannaldini’s getting back? I’ve got to learn Amelia Boccanegra at top speed so I need him to work with me on the character and the vocal demands.’

‘I fink he’s coming back for Georgie Maguire’s launching party,’ said Kitty.

‘I’d forgotten we’d got to be subjected to that,’ grumbled Hermione. ‘One meets such awful people at pop-record launches.’

‘I expect Larry needs you and Rannaldini to raise the tone,’ said Marigold acidly.

‘I expect he does,’ agreed Hermione. ‘But I still don’t really like Georgie Maguire’s voice.’

‘I love it,’ said Lysander.

‘So do I,’ agreed Kitty defiantly, then, seeing Hermione’s glare, ‘I must go.’

‘I’ve got a great pile of contracts at home,’ said Hermione to punish her, ‘so perhaps you could pop over tomorrow and check them for me.’

So you don’t have to fork out for a lawyer, thought Marigold furiously.

As Lysander showed Kitty out, Hermione reproached Marigold for fraternizing with young men.

‘He’s probably G-A-Y, the way he was going on about Rupert Campbell-Black.’ Then patronizingly as she refilled her glass, ‘You’re not in your first youth, Marigold.’

‘I’m about to be into my first youth,’ muttered Marigold through clenched teeth.

‘Blow the wind southerly,’ sang Hermione on the tape.

‘Who was that girl?’ asked Lysander returning.

‘Didn’t you realize?’ said Marigold. ‘That’s Kitty Rannaldini.’

‘Rannaldini’s daughter?’ Lysander took a cigarette from Marigold’s pack.

‘No, his wife.’

‘His wife!’ said Lysander. ‘Bloody hell, I thought Rannaldini was into fantastic-looking women.’

Hermione had been about to reproach Lysander for smoking. Instead she bowed in acknowledgement of the implied compliment, then added sententiously: ‘Some people think she’s rather common, but I maintain Kitty Rannaldini is very much her own woman.’

‘Hardly be anyone else’s, looking like that,’ said Lysander. ‘He must have got her from Pug Rescue.’

‘That’s unkind.’ Hermione laughed heartily.

‘Kitty’s sweet,’ protested Marigold angrily. ‘She’s such a good listener — unlaike some — and so kaind you forget how plain she is.’

Outside the setting sun, like a great red air balloon, was turning the mist which had suddenly filled the valley the softest rose-pink. Having polished off another drink, Hermione, known locally as the Great White Hinter, asked if the Ferrari outside the door was Lysander’s and whether he could run her home.

‘I walked here, but it’s a bit chilly, and we singers are paranoid about getting colds. Goodbye, Marigold, don’t take everything quite so personally.’

Lysander returned ten minutes later to find Marigold gibbering with rage. Her fury at Hermione’s jibes and smugness had been exacerbated by a sudden, violent explosion of jealousy because she had waltzed off with Lysander. This was the more appalling because after all she had suffered over Larry, Marigold thought she was immune from feeling jealous about anyone else.

‘The bitch,’ she stormed, ‘not taking saides indeed. “Don’t be bitter, Marigold, if you like your hair, that’s what matters.” And being so patronizing about Georgie and poor darling Kitty.’

‘Have a drink. One won’t hurt. What’s brought all this on?’

‘Then insistin’ you drove her home. God, I’m unhappy.’

Marigold was so upset, she unthinkingly picked up the remaining quarter of chocolate cake and was about to shove it into her face when Lysander grabbed her hand, squeezing it until she dropped the cake on the floor. Then he took her in his arms.

‘Don’t be miserable. She’s just jealous. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous.’

‘You do?’ whispered Marigold.

‘Yarss,’ said Lysander, and catching her off guard as she giggled, he kissed her, nearly losing his tongue in the process as Marigold clamped her teeth and lips together with a squeal of horrified rage.

‘How dare you?’ With shock fuelled by years of respectability and inhibition, she was fighting him off, pummelling his chest like Frank Bruno. ‘No, no, no!’

But Lysander grabbed her arms, and much stronger than her, drew her towards him, tantalizing her with the lithe, youthful warmth of his body, refusing to let go, until, panic-stricken, she raised her leg to knee him in the groin. But somehow her leg never reached its target, for far above it, Lysander was whispering words of such affection and desire into her hair.

‘I want you, Marigold. You creep into my thoughts like that pink mist stealing up the valley.’

Glancing up, amazed by such poetic sentiment, and seeing the gentleness in his adorably innocent eyes, and feeling his fingers stroking her face, seeking some loving message in braille, she let him put his beautiful mouth on hers.

As she kissed him back, the raised leg retreated and coiled itself round the other leg in ecstasy, and the pummelling Frank Bruno fists unclenched, and, ‘may goodness’, she was hanging from Lysander’s neck like a chimpanzee because she was so dizzy with lust it was the only way she could stand up.

Slowly, slowly like a Harrods lift at Christmas, Lysander progressed downwards. Worried that her breasts might be droopy, she clamped her arms back over them, but as Lysander caressed her neck, she couldn’t remember if she’d plucked out that bristle on her chin this morning. Raising her hand to check, she left her right breast exposed. Next moment it had fallen like a ripe pear into his hand, as he unhooked her bra.

‘Let’s go to bed.’

‘We can’t. Ay’ve never been to bed with anyone but Larry, and he says Ay fuck laike a dead… ’ Marigold gave a wail.

‘Hush, just regard it as a superior form of work-out.’

People are said never to remember how they get upstairs to the bedroom’ but it was imprinted on Marigold’s memory, because Lysander kissed her on every stair, but still half her mind was fretting about stretch marks and whether her body would be creased by such tight jeans and, although she’d had a bath two hours ago, whether she should wash again, so she wouldn’t smell of mouldy old woman. As they reached the landing, she nearly led him into the airing cupboard.

‘No, not in our bedroom,’ she squeaked with a resurgence of virtue, ‘and certainly not in there,’ as Lysander tried another door. ‘That’s where I caught Larry and Nikki.’

‘Good, I can lay you and the ghost.’

‘But the central heating’s been off for days.’

Lysander’s body was warmer than any radiator as he drew her close, and slowly began to unbutton her navy-blue cardigan.

‘Turn off the laight,’ moaned Marigold as she shot between the peach satin sheets.

‘I want to look at you,’ said Lysander.

In the end they compromised by leaving the light on on Lysander’s side with the lampshade tipped outwards.

‘God, I love snogging. Let’s go on for hours.’

And Marigold, who hadn’t snogged since the Purley Odeon in the sixties, responded with alacrity.

Then with the joyful excitement of a child unpacking a Christmas stocking he began to explore her body.

‘Christ, these are beautiful.’ He buried his face in her heavy breasts. ‘And do you like being stroked here?’ He turned her over to admire her surprisingly high rounded bottom. ‘This is my favourite bit.’ His hands crept up the velvet inside of her thighs. ‘No, it isn’t quite. This is.’ His long fingers disappeared into the sticky, spongy burrow.

‘Aaaaaah,’ sighed Marigold.

‘Eureka,’ said Lysander as like a doorbell in the dark his middle finger found the nub of her clitoris.

‘Ay reek of what?’ Marigold jumped away in horror. She knew she should have washed beforehand.

‘The only Greek I know. Come here.’

‘Ay truly shouldn’t.’

‘Isn’t it nice?’

‘Heavenly, but we mustn’t, oh, please go on, oh, gracious me, how lovely, oh, help me, help me.’ Marigold went silent and rigid, her breath came in little gasps, and she forgot to hold her tummy in. Finally she gave a contented moan.

‘Oh Laysander, that was top ’ole.’

‘It certainly was.’ Opening her eyes, she saw he was smiling down at her. ‘Open your legs, and I’ll turn you to cream. Did you enjoy it?’

‘Oh, very much, and now Ay must give you pleasure.’

Dutifully Marigold reared up on her elbow. The progress of her hand down his flat belly into the down of hair was impeded by a cock rearing up like the Tower of Pisa.

‘May word.’

Marigold had never really liked Larry’s cock, which was rather small and, because he preferred to make love in the morning, she’d never known after a night’s sleep what was under the folds. She’d always treated it like an unexploded bomb.

But Lysander, having had a shower after their jog, smelled as fresh and sweet as the violets that had scented the valley that afternoon, and his cock tasting faintly of Pear’s soap was so hard and smooth beneath her lips that she began to give it puppy licks.

Used to Dolly’s snake-like flickering expertise, Lysander was curiously turned on. But when she grew bolder and tried to take his cock in her mouth he sensed her fear, and detaching himself slithered down the satin sheets, pulling her on top of him.

‘Oh, that’s wonderful,’ gasped Marigold, feeling gloriously thrust upward. ‘Oh Laysander, I’m flaying from your flagpole. Oh Laysander. LAY-SANDER!’

‘That was miraculous,’ said Lysander, retrieving the duvet from the floor, as he collapsed back on to the satin pillows.

‘You’re amazing, a complete revelation.’

‘Men are supposed to go on for hours, I never last more than a minute — if I’m lucky, so I make up for it beforehand.’

‘Ay should feel guilty.’

‘Why — we must have lost at least five hundred calories.’

Then, suddenly, he sat up, put the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, screwed up his face engagingly like Hermione, and sang in a high falsetto: ‘Blow the cock, southerly, southerly, southerly,’ and they both collapsed with giggles.

‘We mustn’t tell Ferdie,’ said Marigold.

‘No, he’d be livid,’ said Lysander in alarm. ‘He insisted no bonking.’

‘We won’t do it again.’

‘We might. If we use up another five hundred calories, we could get a take-away for supper.’

‘Oh, yes please.’

‘How about now.’

Marigold glanced at the clock in amazement. ‘But you’ll miss Neighbours.’

‘Some things are more important.’

‘Oh Laysander, that’s the greatest compliment Ay’ve ever been paid. Why don’t we phone Mrs Brimscombe and ask her to record it?’