The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

37

Machiavellian as ever, Rannaldini decided to avenge himself on Boris by laying siege to Rachel. This would not only enrage Hermione and Cecilia, with whom he was still furious, but also Flora who refused to take the whole eye-blacking incident seriously. She insisted on calling him Panda II and had been cheeky enough to insist that Boris’s Requiem had been the best thing she had ever heard.

Rannaldini was further turned on by Rachel’s animosity and the way she kept firing off incensed letters to the local papers complaining about his clay shoots, his closing of footpaths, and his spraying with pesticides.

Ignoring such bombardment, Rannaldini started dropping in at Jasmine Cottage, occasionally at weekends encountering Lysander, who was at a loose end with Guy at home and the polo season over. Rannaldini had also persuaded Catchitune to sign up Rachel to record the Rachmaninov piano concertos in the autumn with himself conducting. He knew it was too big a break for her to refuse. He was amused that, despite his largesse, Rachel kept an icy distance. And just as the husbands of Paradise had tried to make the best chocolate cake for the fête, now following Rannaldini’s example, they vied, unknown to their wives, to be the first to comfort Rachel.

Lysander thought the whole thing hilarious and promptly picked up the telephone.

‘Ferdie, Ferdie, you’ll never guess. Rachel, my eye-gel friend has emerged in Paradise, and all the husbands are mad about her. They’re all putting up shelves for her health foods and stalling their mowers with unleaded petrol. First they rolled up with trays of tomatoes for chutney, last week it was two-legged carrots, this week it’s apples. Her cottage looks like Harvest Festival, and Rachel chucks out most of it because it’s not organic enough, so Arthur and Tiny are doing terribly well.’

‘Who’s after her?’ asked Ferdie beadily.

‘Well, Rannaldini, Guy, Larry, Bob and the vicar for starters.’

‘Larry and Guy bloody shouldn’t be,’ snapped Ferdie, thinking of Marigold’s retainer and Georgie’s fat monthly cheque. ‘Your only justification for being down there is to keep them keen on their wives. You’d better come back to London and earn some serious money. I’ve got a terrific job for you in Kenya, beautiful rich wife, shit-of-a-parasite husband, stacks of polo and racing.’

‘I’m happy in Paradise,’ bleated Lysander in a panic at the thought of leaving Georgie. ‘None of them is serious about Rachel. They just don’t want each other to get her. Rachel’s a crosspatch, but seriously good-looking. I wouldn’t mind giving her one myself.’

‘If you stopped at one, I wouldn’t mind,’ said Ferdie disapprovingly. ‘I had to cope with your father yesterday, rolled up in a strop because you hadn’t written. He’s left you a letter.’

‘I won’t read it. It’ll be just another lecture about getting a proper job. I’ve been working Rannaldini’s horses,’ said Lysander by way of mitigation. ‘He wants me to race ride for him in the winter.’

‘That won’t keep you in fags.’

‘Fags want to keep me; the vicar’s asked me to go to the Holy Land.’

‘Don’t be fatuous. How’s Natasha?’ asked Ferdie. Even her name still caused him pain.

‘Gone back to school. But she and Flora are home on Sunday for Rannaldini’s famous tennis tournament. Do you want to play?’

‘OK. I’ll come down for the weekend.’ It would be an excuse to see Natasha and protect his investment.

Poor Kitty, meanwhile, had been having a dreadful summer. Increasingly desperate for a baby, she had spent nearly all the running-away money she had saved in case things became too awful, hawking herself from one gynaecologist to another, putting up with the embarrassment of endless tests and internal probings. But even when her tubes were blown, no-one could find anything wrong.

‘And it’s not my husband, he’s got loads of kids already,’ Kitty kept telling the doctors.

Rannaldini, who bitterly resented any time Kitty took off, felt she should have been satisfied with her seven stepchildren — eight including little Cosmo.

‘Concentrate on being a mother to them, and a secretary to me.’

But I’m almost the same age as your older children, thought Kitty, and the young ones, although very cute, made her feel guilty about longing so much for one of her own.

Her chances seemed less and less likely as Rannaldini slept with her so seldom. She had put up with Rannaldini and Flora all summer, and she had been upset and had to fend off the Press over the eye-blacking furore, but it had given her a faint hope that with Hermione and Cecilia out of favour, and Flora back at Bagley Hall, Rannaldini might have more time for her.

But immediately Cecilia, whom Rannaldini had to forgive because she was starring in Fidelio, turned up to use Valhalla as a base for the duration of filming, Hermione, who was still excluded from Maestro’s presence, became even more histrionic.

Cecilia was easier than Hermione because she was less stupid and patronizing, and at least had a sense of humour. But she was just as demanding and narcissistic and there was also her total assumption that Rannaldini was still in love with her.

‘I cannot understand, Keety, why he is so obsessively jealous of all my admirers. He ripped out the telephone when I was talking to Carlo the other day, and I daren’t tell him Luigi wants to take me to Thailand.’

Every time Cecilia went out she invited Kitty to her room pretending to ask her advice on what to wear, but really to show off how wonderful she looked in clothes. Often, to Kitty’s embarrassment, she would greet her in the nude, taunting her with a body that was full-breasted but wonderfully slender elsewhere, and magnificent for someone well over forty. How could Rannaldini ever notice Kitty with that around?

It was the eve of Valhalla tennis tournament. Cecilia had mercifully disappeared to Paris in a ravishing pink shorts suit and Rannaldini’s helicopter. Rannaldini, who was at home for once, had retreated to look at rushes of Fidelio in his tower. Kitty had hoped for peace to make cakes and sandwich fillings for tomorrow and to give herself a perm, but alas Rachel turned up trailing two fretful children who found making fortresses out of egg boxes insufficiently amusing during a hot summer afternoon.

Kitty had been very kind to Rachel, listening endlessly to her problems and looking after her children when Rachel needed to practise or see lawyers. Rachel felt it was only fair, in turn, to prevent Kitty poisoning herself and the environment.

‘Why make a strawberry flan,’ she was now complaining, ‘when strawberries are out of season and there’s a glut of apples? And tuna fish — tuna fish,’ shrieked Rachel. ‘Didn’t you know tuna congregate beneath schools of dolphin, and the tuna fleets haul up dolphin at the same time? Nearly a quarter of a million dolphin die in the Pacific.’

‘Poor fings,’ muttered Kitty, appalled. ‘I’ll remember next time.’

‘Good, though, to use brown flour,’ said Rachel, feeling she’d been a bit sharp. Then, catching sight of a packet of Tampax in Kitty’s shopping bag, ‘but I wish you’d use STs. Tampons floating round in the sea take a hundred and twenty days to biodegrade.’

Shut up, Kitty wanted to scream. Normally as regular as clockwork, she was a week late and praying that at last she might be pregnant. Like taking an umbrella out on a sunny day, she had bought the Tampax.

Rachel was now glaring at a screen Kitty was secretly covering with photographs of Rannaldini and the famous for his birthday in December.

‘Christ, look at him leering at Princess Di. Your husband is such a lech, Kitty. Why d’you put up with it?’

‘I love ’im.’

‘God knows why. I wish he’d stop dropping in on Jasmine Cottage. I wish all the husbands would. One’s so defenceless being so close to the road. Everyone can see lights, or hear the radio.’

Not Rachel as well, thought Kitty hopelessly. On the dresser was a letter from her mother enclosing a postal order for three pounds and a card with a printed message wishing a wonderful daughter many happy returns tomorrow. Rannaldini was sure to forget it was her birthday.

As it was Mr Brimscombe’s day off, she’d better water the new plants. The roots of older plants were supposed to go down far enough to find water. Emptying an entire watering-can over a bluey-mauve clematis against the wall, she reflected that new plants, like new or potential mistresses, required attention. Was this why Rannaldini was giving Rachel all this work, and insisting she came to the tournament tomorrow, and making sure Gretel looked after her children?

Dear God, help me to stop grumbling, pleaded Kitty. If I’m pregnant, I’ll never, never grumble again, and at least Rannaldini hasn’t taken Hermione back.

As Rannaldini’s tournaments were so unbelievably competitive, Marigold and Georgie had arranged to play a warm-up foursome with Ferdie and Lysander the evening before. Guy had gone to Salisbury to look at a private collection. Larry wasn’t due back from London until later, so the coast was clear.

On the way over to Angel’s Reach, Lysander had to pop in to Rannaldini’s yard to pick up some worming tablets for Tiny and Arthur.

There had been no let-up in the weather. The authorities were even muttering about standpipes. Traveller’s joy fell in creamy festoons over the hedgerows, which were weighed down with haws and shining scarlet hips. Ferdie could have leant out of the Ferrari and helped himself to huge ripe blackberries if Lysander hadn’t driven so fast. A glut of crab-apples crunched beneath the wheels.

Lysander was unsettled by the tang of bonfires. In October his mother would have been dead a year. He clenched the steering-wheel to ease the pain. He must put some flowers on her grave. Perhaps he should make it up with his father.

Autumn had been daubing Rannaldini’s woods yellow and orange. The Virginia creeper smothering the grooms’ cottage had already turned crimson. Walking into the immaculate but deserted yard, Lysander heard a blood-curdling scream, like a rabbit caught in a snare. Whipping round, he was relieved to see Maggie and Jack still sitting beside Ferdie in the car.

‘No, please, please no,’ screamed a female voice.

For a horrified second Lysander thought it might be Kitty being savaged by The Prince of Darkness, but no, he was safely muzzled in his box.

There it was again. Another dreadful wail coming from the indoor school in which Rannaldini enjoyed being left alone to dominate difficult horses. His methods were very cruel, according to Janice the head groom, but, being well paid, she let well alone.

Beckoning frantically for Ferdie, Lysander loped round the corner and found the door of the indoor school locked.

‘No more, please.’ The moaning voice was too deep and throaty for Kitty’s.

‘You agreed to do everything I asked.’ It was Rannaldini, spine-chillingly cold.

Clambering on to Ferdie’s broad shoulders, Lysander straightened up and nearly fell off. He must be seeing things. For there in the centre, wearing shiny black riding-boots and the tightest buff breeches, stood Rannaldini. With one hand he held a hunting whip which he was cracking like a rattlesnake, with the other a leading rein, which was attached to a studded dog-collar round Hermione’s neck.

Hermione was totally naked except for tight-fitting high-heeled boots. Her body ran with sweat. Her large, wonderfully firm breasts bounced as she trotted round in a circle, her big curved bottom was already slightly pink, her eyes glistened in terror and excitement.

‘You’re not going fast enough,’ snapped Rannaldini, cracking the whip again, so the wicked thong caught her left buttock. With a neighing scream, Hermione broke into a canter.

Wrong leg, thought Lysander.

She was panting hard now; Rannaldini smiled, but his eyes were dead.

‘Are you sorry for the way you behaved?’

‘Oh yes, Rannaldini.’

‘Sorry you made scenes?’

‘Yes, yes.’

‘What are you going to do about it? Head up, straighten your back.’ With another vicious flick he caught the underside of her breast.

‘I’m sorry,’ shrieked Hermione.

‘I said, “What are you going to do about it?”’ Yanking her towards him, nearly toppling her, he put a hand between her legs. ‘You’re getting bloody excited. Loving it, aren’t you?’

‘Yes, Rannaldini.’

‘Then we’ll try a few jumps. Come on, bitch.’

At this moment Lysander tumbled off Ferdie’s shoulders and sent a yard broom flying.

‘Who’s there?’ called out Rannaldini.

Just in time, Ferdie and Lysander leapt behind the mounting block. At least the Ferrari was parked round the corner. As Rannaldini came out they flattened in terror. Fortunately lust drew him back again.

‘Must have been a horse,’ they heard him say, as the key turned in the lock.

‘What was going on?’ hissed Ferdie. Lysander, bright red with shock, trying not to laugh, mouth wide open in amazement, couldn’t utter, until they had hurtled to the boundaries of Rannaldini’s land, and turned into the road up to Angel’s Reach.

‘Oh, Ferd, you never saw such a thing in your life! Talk about undressage. He was schooling her and she was bollock-naked except for her boots. She’s got the most fantastic body! You can see exactly why he stays with her. She was giving excited little squeaks like Maggie when she gets on a rabbit trail. Give me a cigarette — and they were obviously about to have the most enormous bonk. God, it was gross, but seriously sexy. Wow! I’ve never seen anything like that.’

‘You must have in a porn mag.’

‘Dearie me, I’ll never get rid of this erection.’

He took a cigarette from Ferdie, gave a long drag, and gasped in horror. ‘You don’t suppose he schools poor darling Kitty, do you?’

‘She’d be a lot thinner if he did.’

Georgie looked better, really wonderful, thought Ferdie, as he and Lysander went into the kitchen at Angel’s Reach. He felt distinctly envious, when, after pecking him on the cheek, she turned to Lysander, wrapping him in a warm, voluptuous embrace and kissed him quite openly on the mouth. She was wearing a torn grey T-shirt of Flora’s and a pair of Guy’s boxer shorts covered with bonking alligators. Despite chunkier legs, she looked twice as sexy as Marigold, who was all done up in a pleated white tennis dress with her hair in a pink bow.

‘Ay’m afraid Ay always maintain the discipline of wearin’ whayte,’ she said apologetically.

Lysander wouldn’t let anyone hit a ball until they’d drunk a bottle of Muscadet and he’d relayed every detail of his adventure.

The grass court was tucked away behind the house. Marigold was a good player. Having spent her youth aspiring to join a tennis club, she had been much coached in later life and as a non-working wife played all summer. Ferdie was overweight, but he had a good eye, and got most things back. Georgie had no backhand and was out of practice but she played with Lysander who was so soaringly better than anyone else that they beat Marigold and Ferdie 6–0, 6–1.

After that they started fooling around, pretending the ball was Hermione and saying: ‘You’ve been a naughty girl, whack,’ and giving a shriek, and getting so weak with laughter, that Maggie got excited and ran off with all the balls, with Jack yapping encouragement, so they packed it in.

Georgie seemed so happy that, as they walked back to the house, Ferdie dropped back and asked Lysander if she knew anything about Guy pursuing Rachel.

‘No, I’m sure not. Why upset her?’

‘God, this weather’s bliss. If this is the greenhouse effect, long may it last,’ said Georgie, emptying a watering-can over a panting Dinsdale.

‘Don’t let Rachel hear you,’ said Marigold nervously, ‘and don’t let her see you wastin’ water laike that. She’s given me hell about Larry’s floodlaightin’ and our chandeliers in the lounge.’

It was the most perfect evening. Night-scented stock and tobacco plants mingled their sweet scents with the first autumnal waft of the poplars. A pale blue-and-cherry-red air-balloon drifted home into a rose-pink sunset passing the bright star Arcturus which had just appeared above the wood.

‘Rannaldini’s going to be livid Lysander’s so good,’

said Marigold. ‘He’s so used to being the best player by miles.’

‘You and I might beat him,’ said Georgie fondly.

‘Aren’t you going to play with Guy?’

‘No, I’m not. He gets so cross if I serve double faults.’

Lysander couldn’t get the scene in the riding school out of his mind. It was the act of a seriously depraved man.

‘Why doesn’t Kitty leave him?’

Georgie shrugged, her face in shadow. ‘Why doesn’t anyone leave anyone? Mental paralysis, a belief in fidelity? Kitty’s awfully religious. She worships the bastard, and he’s sapped her confidence. Anyway, where would she go? Her mother’s in a home.’

‘Rannaldini won’t let her go. She’s far too useful,’ said Marigold.

An owl hooted, pigeons cooed. Across the valley they were shooting clays. Georgie topped up everyone’s glass and took another bottle out of the ice bucket for Lysander to open.

‘I’ve had a brainwave,’ she said patronizingly. ‘Kitty’s got a birthday this month. She’s a Virgo, wouldn’t you know. Why don’t we club together and give Lysander to her as a present?’

She turned to Lysander. Her sludge-green eyes dark brown and mocking in the half-light. ‘You’re always talking about the need for a real challenge. Forget the Rutminster, try Kitty.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Lysander with rare ill temper. ‘It’d be a farce. There’s no way I could get Rannaldini back for Kitty. He was never hers in the first place. For Marigold, for you, for Hermione, not that she needs it, for Rachel even, no problem. But not poor little Kitty, for Christ’s sake.’

With her sad, round, formless face, Kitty reminded him of the huge white moon hanging like a plate above Larry’s woods, hardly discernible in the pale azure sky of the first dusk.

‘Go on,’ urged Ferdie, scenting more cash. ‘Give it a try.’

If Lysander was refusing to leave Paradise and Georgie, this seemed a good way to supplement his income.

Lysander scooped up Maggie who was trembling at the bangs of the clay shoot, cuddling her to his chest.

‘You just collect the ten per cent,’ he said crossly. ‘You get Rannaldini back if you feel so strongly. I’m having none of it.’

The others proceeded to get drunk and noisy. Lysander sat in silence, watching the moon rising, turning from a pale pinky-orange to butter-gold like one of Miss Cricklade’s sunflowers, to incandescent mother-of-pearl, and then flooding the whole valley while the sky deepened from smoky-blue to sapphire as the doomed, menacing notes of Rachmaninov’s third and most difficult piano concerto floated up from Jasmine Cottage.

‘Rachel plays wonderfully well,’ said Marigold. ‘Larry says she’s going to be a big star.’

‘Might cheer her up,’ said Georgie. ‘Better than grumbling about junk food and fending off passes from Rannaldini.’

‘You’d be a true knaight in shining armour if you rattled Rannaldini and made him naicer to Kitty,’ said Marigold.