The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

31

One of the hottest Augusts of this century resulted in Paradise drying up and the fields cracking open like vast jigsaw puzzles. Even the evenings were stifling as the music of the promenade concerts drifted down the valley. On the rare occasions Rannaldini was home to listen to a prom, he criticized non-stop, measuring the applause which would certainly never be as deafening nor as long as the ecstatic tearful ovation he would receive when he conducted the London Met in Verdi’s Requiem at the beginning of September.

As Rannaldini was now perfectly confident of Flora’s affection he decided to irritate Guy and Larry and distract Natasha from his own affaire, by inviting Lysander and Ferdie to lunch on the Sunday after the cricket match. Lysander, who wanted to go to the Gatcombe horse trials, only accepted for Ferdie’s sake. Not that Ferdie was making any progress with Natasha. It was plain from the way she was gazing at Lysander, as he lounged on the terrace before lunch, drinking Bloodies and laboriously reading Mystic Meg in the News of the World, that it was him she was after.

By comparison Ferdie looked awful. There were black rings under his normally merry, calculating brown eyes. He had several spots, his gruelling schedule allowed him no time to sunbathe or take exercise. His ankles had swelled up in the heat and his chin spilled over the collar of his Hawaiian shirt worn outside his trousers to cover his gut. His chief asset — his fast line of patter — had dried up like the Paradise streams. He could only gaze and blush.

Piggy in Lord of the Flies, thought Rannaldini, then letting his hand stray briefly across Lysander’s flawless, brown cheek-bones, he murmured: ‘I’m amazed you’ve got so far in life without duelling scars.’

Lunch, laid out under a spreading chestnut tree, almost made up for missing Gatcombe: spinach roulade, lobster, vast langoustine and a huge plate of oysters ferried in from Bristol that morning by Rannaldini’s helicopter.

‘I’ve never had oysters before. They look like poached dishcloth,’ said Flora, as Rannaldini tipped half a dozen on to her plate, and sprinkled them with lemon juice. ‘Ugh! It’s like swallowing one’s own phlegm.’

‘An acquired taste.’ Rannaldini’s leg moved against hers.

On his right sat Hermione, who, with Bob, were the only wrinklies invited and who spent most of the lunch happily reading out faxes from New York of her Salome reviews, which, despite Meredith’s sniping, had been excellent. Bob, who never ate much, spent his time cracking lobster claws and peeling langoustine for Hermione and trying to bring Ferdie, and even more Kitty, into the conversation. This left Lysander at the mercy of Natasha who went on and on about her famous mother and the famous people she knew and how embarrassing it was having the name Rannaldini on her suitcases because everyone knew whose daughter she was and how Lysander must come and stay in the villa in Como.

Only when they’d eaten most of an incredibly light glazed-apricot tart made by Rannaldini and were drinking coffee and brandy did Lysander feel able to escape to watch the last horses at Gatcombe on television. But he found when he switched on that the competition was over and the leading riders were waiting for the presentation.

After the appalling heat and the terrible spills and thrills, they seemed blissfully happy to be alive. Lysander wistfully thought how young they looked in their dusty boots and breeches, many of them now wearing nothing above the waist but their coats and their white stocks. There was Lysander’s hero, David Green, so much the most handsome, his red coat not clashing remotely with his suntan, and there was Mark Todd, towering above the others with his charming lugubrious lived-in face. And there was the winner, Mary Thomson, crying with joy and hugging her brave horse in gratitude. Lysander wiped his eyes. What the fuck was he doing wasting his life hanging round rich bitches, who were far too self-obsessed to care about anything else? He started as he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Rannaldini. For once his cruel sensual face was surprisingly gentle.

‘Poor boy, you mees zee real work with horses. Come and see mine.’

The sun had lost its fiercest heat, so they’d decided to go for a ride, except Kitty who was petrified of horses and who would anyway be better employed clearing up.

‘Leave her,’ whispered Hermione, when Lysander tried to persuade her to come too. ‘She’s only sulking because I’m here.’

Lysander hoped the bloody bitch would fall off, but, irritatingly, Hermione, who had been brought up on a farm in South Africa, rode beautifully and as she rode she sang: ‘Boot, saddle, to horse and away,’ with her lovely voice echoing round the woods.

Rannaldini obviously enjoyed dominating the vicious big black Prince of Darkness. A brilliant steeplechaser who had won many races, he had come second to his greatest rival Penscombe Pride, Rupert Campbell-Black’s top National Hunt horse in last year’s Rutminster Gold Cup. Having spent a summer resting and terrorizing any rambler, and particularly Kitty, who strayed into his field, he was being slowly got fit for the next season. He was now having a battle of wills with Rannaldini, who wanted to rub his leg against Flora’s without The Prince of Darkness savaging the old gymkhana pony of Natasha’s she was riding bareback. Lysander noticed Rannaldini put his hand right up Flora’s skirt when he gave her a leg up.

Bob, who was competent, and Ferdie, who was petrified but determined not to show it, had been given two of Rannaldini’s hunters, who were also getting fit, and who were less blown out with grass than in more fertile years. Sadly Ferdie’s courage did nothing to further his cause with Natasha. A wobbling, mane-clinging lump of dough, he was a sad contrast to Lysander who rode with the dash of a Cossack and with hands even lighter than Rannaldini’s pastry. Allotted Fräulein Mahler, a young bay mare who had already been very successful over hurdles, Lysander put her effortlessly over logs and little hedges.

‘This is a seriously good horse,’ he told Rannaldini. ‘You ought to run her in the Whitbread or the Rutminster next year.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to ride her,’ said Rannaldini.

‘Christ, I would, but basically I’ve got other plans,’ and he told Rannaldini about Arthur.

‘This is like something out of Tolstoy,’ sighed Flora as they cantered across the platinum stubble. Rannaldini’s farm workers were still harvesting. Tiny conkers were swelling on the chestnuts. Down drifted from thistle and willow-herb mingled with the blue hazy evening. Cows lumbered clumsily to their feet, like schoolboys when the headmaster comes into the room.

Finally they reached Rannaldini’s lake at the bottom of the valley, its flawless azure surface being ruffled by splashing Rottweilers. The level had dropped dramatically, only at the water’s edge were wild flowers: forget-me-nots, frogbit and soft mauve spearmint, still growing.

‘My livestock is dependent on thees water.’ Rannaldini told Bob. ‘D’you think it will dry up?’

‘Never has. I’ve no idea how deep it is in the centre.’

In answer, Lysander dug his heels into Fräulein Mahler’s sweating sides and galloped her into the lake, with a huge splash, down, down, hardly rippling the water until Lysander had completely disappeared and all that could be seen were the Fräulein’s brown nostrils just above the water.

‘He’ll drown,’ screamed Natasha.

‘That’s a valuable horse,’ said Hermione, outraged.

‘Help him, someone,’ pleaded Natasha.

Then both horse and rider emerged on the other side with Lysander roaring with laughter. Even when the mare shook herself like a dog, he didn’t shift in the saddle.

His eyelashes were separated like starfish, his hair slicked back from his face, his bare brown back glistened, weed dripped from his jeans belt and from the Fräulein’s bridle as he waited for them to catch up.

‘Like Venus from the foam,’ sighed Bob.

‘But much more beautiful,’ purred Rannaldini.

‘We know who to use if we ever want to make a film of the Paradise Lad.’

It was so hot that both horse and rider were dry by the time they got home. Natasha was adrift with love. Flora and Hermione were equally diverted but both mildly irked that Lysander had shown nothing beyond politeness towards either of them. Rannaldini rode The Prince of Darkness home in silence, pondering how he could manipulate this charming but clearly naïve boy to his own ends.

Over at Angel’s Reach, Georgie looked out of the drawing-room window in that particular despair that overwhelms unhappily married women in the country on Sunday nights, knowing there won’t be anyone, even to row with, until Friday.

Guy had just announced he was going to London, she’d been so bitchy she couldn’t blame him. For the first time since March, ‘Rock Star’ had dropped out of the Top Twenty. Nor were her spirits raised when a dark blue Ferrari drew up at the front door in a cloud of dust.

‘Hi, Mum,’ shouted Flora.

Elongated as a piece of asparagus between two slices of brown bread, she lolled between Ferdie and Lysander in the pistachio-green dress which Georgie had just spent hours looking for.

‘Boot, saddle to whore and away,’ sang Lysander in his high tuneless falsetto.

‘See you lot in a bit,’ said Flora as she clambered over Ferdie with much giggling.

‘Georgie,’ yelled Lysander, but Georgie had slammed down the window.

Babbling on about her gorgeous day, Flora met her mother in the hall.

‘Lysander rides so well and poor Ferdie so badly, I’m afraid Natasha’s been put off for life,’ and she went on to describe the plunge into the lake.

‘Stupid exhibitionist,’ said Guy coming downstairs with his suitcase.

‘As a result Rannaldini wants Lysander to ride for him.’

‘Supper’ll be ready in half an hour,’ said Georgie, ‘I thought we could watch Howard’s Way and have supper on our knees.’ Only possible because Guy, who disapproved of soaps, would be gone.

‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry. I’m going out with Ferdie and Lysander. They want me to meet Arthur and then we’re going to the cinema.’

‘Good idea!’ Guy was absolutely delighted. ‘If you buck up I’ll drop you off on the way.’

‘That’s really kind.’ Not wanting to witness her mother’s disappointment, Flora bolted upstairs.

‘Still stupid exhibitionism,’ said Guy, pouring himself a weak whisky. ‘But I’m glad Lysander and Flora have got together. They’re the right age.’

Somehow Georgie managed not to cry until they’d left. She knew Guy was off to see Julia. He’d deliberately played squash with Larry after tea as an excuse to shower and change before going to London. She was ashamed how depressed she felt that suddenly Guy and Flora were getting on. But most painful of all was that Flora had obviously got off with Lysander. Georgie had grown so fond of him over the past three weeks, although, despite Guy’s suspicions, he hadn’t laid a finger on her. Admittedly when they’d disappeared into the wood yesterday he’d squeezed her waist and, with his lovely infectious laugh, said, ‘Shall we play it for real?’ But she knew he was joking. Young boys didn’t fancy hoary wrinklies, although it was clear from the suicidal way she felt now the reverse was possible. She couldn’t even win Guy back like Marigold had recovered Larry. She was an utter, utter failure.

Ferdie returned to Fountain Street three days later in even lower spirits. He’d just taken Natasha out for a ludicrously expensive dinner. Her first course of two scallops had cost twenty-five pounds. She’d spent the whole evening quizzing him about Lysander and bitching about Kitty. Unfortunately Ferdie’s increasing dislike did nothing to diminish his lust. Lunging with all the finesse of a grisly bear, he was rewarded with a slapped face.

It was after midnight but the telephone was ringing as he let himself in. Hope that it might be Natasha apologizing gave way to fury when it turned out to be Lysander.

‘Oh Ferd, I’m so depressed. I don’t think this campaign’s going to work. Guy’s showing no sign of giving up Julia and Georgie’s really ratty with me and she’s losing weight again. Basically I think we should scrap the whole thing and pay her her money back.’

‘Don’t be so fucking wet.’ Ferdie had already invested his 10 per cent. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day. Try a bit harder. Take Georgie on some decent jaunts. You’ve got the church fête on Saturday, haven’t you?’

‘The party of the decade,’ said Lysander gloomily. ‘I want to go clubbing, Ferd. I need some fun.’

‘You’re to beat Guy at everything — shooting, chucking coconuts, tug of war, guessing the weight of the pig.’

‘You’ll have to tell me how much Natasha weighs.’

‘Shuddup, and you’ve got to win the best-chocolate-cake-made-by-a-man competition.’

‘Don’t talk bollocks, I can’t cook.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ howled Ferdie. ‘So I have to make it for you. I can’t get down till late Friday. Get the recipe from Marigold.’