The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

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 greyhound.

‘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 while 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.

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.’