The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

47

Tempers were not improved during the dress rehearsal by the arrival of a film crew with a sleek, glamorous but very aggressive director from Venturer Television called Cameron Cook. The continual stopping to re-adjust cameras and microphones threw the entire cast — even such old hands as Georgie and Hermione. Lights fused, lines were forgotten, cues missed. Cameron decided to put two cameras on either side of the hall and one up in the minstrels’ gallery from which the vicar, as the Angel Gabriel, would descend to address Mary and later the shepherds. The technicians stood around yawning, looking bored and tripping over Mr Brimscombe as he peered into the chapel, which had been turned into a women’s changing room, while he pretended to fiddle with the fuse box.

Lysander had taken refuge at the back of the stalls. He was laboriously ploughing through a really sad piece in the Express about Rupert Campbell-Black and his wife who had just lost a test-tube baby at four months and were both utterly devastated.

Oh, poor Rupert, thought Lysander, and his wife was so beautiful and not much older than himself. He wished he could do something to help them.

The rows on stage were getting worse.

‘Don’t forget not to look at the camera,’ Hermione was hissing at the shepherds.

‘With so many cameras one can hardly help it,’ said Meredith fretfully.

The star fused again.

‘If it blows on the night, Larry can leap on to the roof and flash his medallion,’ said Flora.

‘If he turns up at all,’ said Natasha bitchily. ‘Talk about a never-in keeper.’

Marigold burst into tears again. Dropping a huge bunch of holly, Kitty ran to comfort her.

‘Lully, lully, breast is best,’ sang Hermione, nearly taking the vaulted roof off.

‘You can’t say that shit,’ said Cameron Cook, consulting her script. ‘And what’s a Christmas tree doing in the stable? They weren’t invented in those days. And why isn’t it decorated?’

‘Because it’s demeaning for trees to be hung with baubles,’ explained Rachel earnestly.

‘For God’s sake,’ snarled Cameron. ‘Now Holy Joe’s arrived, we better go back and do the Annunciation.’

Up in the gallery like some vast white bird in his Cavendish House nightgown, the vicar cleared his throat and straightened his halo.

‘Hi, Charismatic Mary,’ he called out in his fluting voice. ‘I’ve dropped in from heaven to tell you your pregnancy test is positive.’

‘How wonderful,’ cried Hermione, gazing down at her Harrods lily. ‘Joseph will be absolutely, absolutely—’ She turned to Meredith who, instead of prompting, was gazing at a butch cameraman.

‘Joseph will be absolutely?’ repeated Hermione, snapping her fingers.

‘Gobsmacked,’ suggested Lysander, who was still reading about Rupert.

‘Absolutely delighted.’ Meredith had found his place.

‘I’m afraid Joseph isn’t the father,’ said the vicar as he slowly descended on a wire attached to a buckling beam in the ceiling.

Hermione bowed her head. ‘It could be no other.’

‘It is — God Almighty!’ screamed the vicar as he landed on a free-range hen.

‘Well, I know Joseph will make a caring stepfather,’ said Hermione, launching loudly into ‘Behold a Virgin Shall Conceive’.

‘Stop, stop! Who wrote this shit?’ shouted Cameron Cook.

‘This bit, Handel and Jennings,’ said Bob helpfully. ‘The rest of it is Georgie’s.’

‘It is not,’ stormed Georgie. ‘Not a line of mine’s left in.’

‘I’d take your name off it sharpish then,’ advised Cameron.

A diversion was created by the arrival of Ferdie who had dropped in to discover if Natasha still had the power to hurt him and why Marigold’s last cheque for Lysander’s services had bounced twice and Georgie’s retainer not been paid at all. As Larry was still AWOL, Ferdie was promptly co-opted to play the innkeeper.

‘You’ve lost even more weight,’ said Lysander, coming through the big door at the back, leading Arthur — looking very smart in a jewelled bridle.

‘I’ve been working out and cleaning up,’ said Ferdie, giving Arthur a Polo. ‘The gym is packed with bored housewives walking very slowly around the running track so their make-up doesn’t run. I’m telling all of them I’m about to be sent to the Gulf and pulling everything in sight.’

‘Here’s the script.’ Bob handed it to Ferdie. ‘I don’t think Larry’s up to it, even if he does show. It’s not a huge part, but key. Can you learn it by tomorrow? Ad lib if you like.’

‘Ferdie was brilliant as Shylock at school,’ Lysander told Kitty.

‘How are you anyway?’ he asked Ferdie.

‘Exhausted with electricity privatization, I’ve been stagging all week.’

‘I’ve been staggering all week, moving scenery,’ said Lysander. ‘But Rupert Campbell-Black’s turning up tomorrow and I know he and Arthur are going to get on. Aren’t you, boy?’ He gave Arthur a hug.

‘What’s happening?’ hissed Ferdie, drawing Lysander aside. ‘No-one’s paying. Not a bean out of Marigold, nor Georgie. If they don’t cough up soon, we should cut our losses and pull out. The Brazil job’s still open — and that’s serious dosh.’

But Lysander was watching Kitty who had climbed up a ladder to put pieces of holly around a huge oil of one of Rannaldini’s alleged ancestors. She was wearing the black leggings and huge black-and-purple sloppy jersey he’d bought her in Way-In. He’d never seen her in trousers before. There was something infinitely touching about her plump little legs. As she stretched up he could see three-inch gaps of white calf above her Father Christmas socks. He suddenly longed to touch them. Just as he always wanted to stroke Arthur, Jack and Maggie, who was now chewing up a stray shepherd’s crook, he told himself firmly.

Putting down the Express he walked over to hold her ladder.

‘It’s Lysander, not electricity, who ought to be privatized,’ drawled Flora. ‘Having exhausted the other ladies of Paradise, he’s moved on to Kitty.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Rachel, Hermione and Natasha in unison. With their deep involvement in Rannaldini and Lysander, they found it impossible, as well as unbearable, to concede that Kitty had any pulling power.

However often Lysander banked up the fire in the great hall it was definitely getting colder. People’s breath rose in thick white plumes.

‘Cameron will be able to send up smoke signals from the back of the hall,’ said Meredith to his pal Flora. ‘I do hope she gets the script back to your mother’s version.’

But Flora was glaring at a new and splendid fur coat which Hermione had put on over her blue robes, which could only be a Christmas present from Rannaldini.

‘I’m going to report her to Animal Rights,’ she said furiously. She also noticed Rachel had disappeared and Cameron was yelling into a telephone in the summer parlour which was a good thing, as neither of them would have enjoyed Ferdie’s début as he welcomed Mary and Joseph to the Inn, script in one hand, litre of red in the other.

‘Come in, come in,’ he was saying cosily. ‘Of course we take Amex. Just give me the keys to your donkey and I’ll park him. Sign in here.’

The orchestra, all in their overcoats, were in stitches. Kitty nearly fell off her ladder laughing.

‘I’ve got the video of Dirty Dancing,’ murmured Lysander, handing her up another branch of holly.

‘There’s a lot of shepherds in the next room who keep ordering pie on room service,’ Ferdie was now saying. ‘Bang on the wall if they get too noisy.’ Then, handing two room keys to a very disapproving St Joseph, ‘Oh, well, I better go back to watering the wine.’

‘Oh, please, don’t waste precious water,’ interjected Hermione, who was revving up for the birth of her Harrods doll.

Bob, who’d been laughing a lot, told Ferdie in future he’d better stick to the script.

‘And it’s about time for you to sing “Oh, come all ye faithful”,’ he shouted to Flora.

‘No-one’s faithful in Paradise except you and Kitty,’ shouted back Flora. ‘As we’re heavily into realism I better sing, “Come both ye faithful”.’

‘That is quite uncalled for,’ thundered Guy, turning brick red above his blond beard.

Flora strolled towards the stage, hands in her pockets. ‘Oh, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,’ she sang softly.

‘Oh wow,’ murmured the leader of the orchestra to a neighbouring oboist, ’eat your stony heart out, Hermione.’

They had reached the part when the Angel Gabriel appeared to the shepherds abiding in the fields.

‘You ready, Perce?’ called Bob to the vicar in the gallery.

‘Ready,’ called the vicar, adjusting his halo in the window.

Outside it was snowing. How very appropriate in the bleak midwinter. He was glad he was wearing his thermals under his nightgown.

‘Chat amongst yourselves, shepherds,’ said Bob consulting his script.

‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve, Reuben?’ asked Meredith who, as second shepherd, was holding Maggie.

‘That’s not in the script,’ hissed Georgie, burnous askew as she clung for grim death on to a terrified ewe.

Suddenly, like sulphur and brimstone, a waft of Maestro swept through the great hall, far stronger than frankincense or droppings of sheep or donkey.

Instantly the nearest flautist whipped the curly blond wig off Rannaldini’s bust. Georgie let go of her ewe, which bolted into the wings sending a peeping Mr Brimscombe flying. The star fused again.

Rannaldini, the astrakhan collar of his black coat turned up, framing a face white with barely controlled fury, strolled towards the stage.

‘I thought I told you all to be word and note perfect by the time I came back.’

‘My fault.’ Ferdie stubbed out his cigar and stood up in the stalls. ‘I was standing in for Larry and thought I’d jazz things up a bit.’

‘Well, don’t,’ said Rannaldini witheringly. ‘Hermione?’

‘Maestro?’ Hermione smiled at him, awaiting praise.

‘Piano, for God’s sake,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘That lullaby would have woken every bambino in Judea and babies are fed every four hours not every four minutes, so put those boobs away. You’re playing the Virgin not Delilah.’

Then, not giving Hermione time to scream at him, he turned on Guy who was eating a flapjack in the stalls.

‘You’re even more wooden than that ludicrously overdecorated manger, Joseph. Your young wife’s having a baby, then everyone rolls up bringing him presents and ignoring you. Show some pride or some jealousy, and as for you, Percy,’ he looked up at the vicar who was still swaying helplessly from his beam, ‘talk about Fat Tum of the Opera.

‘Your belly’s too large and your voice too small. You’re being drowned by Hermione and Georgie and you couldn’t instil mighty dread into any mind, troubled or otherwise. I’m afraid you’ll have to join the angelic choir instead.’

Normally suntanned, Rannaldini’s extreme pallor was infinitely more sinister. The jet-black eyes glittered like holes into hell, but there was an air of purring satisfaction about him, not just due to the pleasure of bawling people out. Ignoring the equal hysterics of the vicar and Hermione, Rannaldini picked up Cameron Cook’s mobile and punched out long distance.

‘Carissima,’ he launched into a flood of Italian, only the occasional word like ‘network’ being comprehensible. Then, with a vicious smile, he changed to English so everyone could hear over Hermione’s squawking.

‘It only means arriving a day early for Chreestmas. The script? Eees excellent. I’ll get Keety to fax you a copy so you can learn it tonight. Ciao.’

Switching off his telephone, he turned evilly to face the cast. ‘Cecilia arrive tomorrow to take over Gabriel.’

Artistic integrity overcoming terror, Georgie tore off her head-dress.

‘The script is not excellent, Rannaldini,’ she protested. ‘We’ll be a laughing stock. Rachel’s wrecked it, Cameron Cook agrees with me. Someone’s got to tell Rachel.’

‘I will, my dear Georgie,’ said Rannaldini gently. ‘To me the scripts are much improved, more topical, more relevant, less trite.’ He turned to the back of the hall. ‘Well done, Rachel.’

Everyone, particularly Georgie who thought Rachel was miles away, jumped out of their skins as Rachel drifted through the door.

She was wearing a very new-looking, pale fawn cashmere jersey, softer than the belly of a Persian kitten and she looked absolutely beautiful, as though all her anger had been ironed out.

‘Christ,’ murmured Meredith, letting Maggie off her lead so she shot back to Lysander, ‘if Rannaldini likes that script, he must be hooked.’

‘I shall be working late in the tower,’ Rannaldini called to Kitty who, up on her ladder, was now filling the window-ledge with big branches of yew. ‘I do not weesh to be disturbed.’

As he walked past Rachel, like a bat in his black coat, he shielded her from the others’ view. Only Flora, stiller than a shadow in the window-seat, saw him reach out for Rachel’s breast as Rachel put a quick hand on his crotch.

‘My leetle Quaker,’ whispered Rannaldini, ‘my leetle earthquaker. You will come soon to the tower?’

‘The moment I’ve found a babysitter.’

And he was gone.

The best-laying plans of maestros and men, however, can go astray. Wandering into the kitchen to make Arthur a bowl of coffee, Lysander found Rachel writing a note.

‘Where’s Kitty?’ she demanded.

Picking up the note, Lysander scrumpled it up.

‘She can’t babysit,’ he said flatly.

‘Why ever not? What else has she got to do?’

‘She’s taking Christmas presents over to her mother.’

‘Oh, right — well, perhaps you could? The kids adore you so much.’

‘I couldn’t.’ Lysander’s sweet face hardened like wet clay cast in bronze. ‘I’m not looking after your kids so you can get fucked by Rannaldini.’

‘What d’you mean?’ Rachel gave a gasp of horror. ‘I’ve been celibate for nine months.’

‘Not with Rannaldini, you haven’t. December 9th, wasn’t it? I was driving home from Kitty’s, Rannaldini was kissing you on the doorstep. Your towel was slipping. And you told Kitty you’d gone to see your solicitors — soliciting more likely.’

‘We were discussing cadenzas,’ said Rachel, frantically casting round for excuses.

‘Cad’s a better word,’ said Lysander bleakly. ‘Kitty was so bloody tired that night.’

Rachel was shattered by his anger.

‘Come and have a drink this evening. I’ll explain.’

‘No thanks, and don’t ever do that to Kitty again.’

Poor Rannaldini. Hermione was so livid she decided temporarily to emulate the purity of the Virgin that night. Kitty was in Sidcup and Rachel was confined to barracks minding her own children. Faced with the appalling prospect of a loveless evening, Rannaldini decided to forgive Flora. Ringing up Guy and Georgie, he suggested he dropped by after supper to show them the video of the dress rehearsal and have a last-minute script conference.

‘Maybe Rachel make it a leetle too green.’

It was snowing heavily by the time he arrived at Angel’s Reach. Shivering in the icy wind like a slaughtered ostrich, a large Christmas tree lay on its side.

Rannaldini was livid to discover that Flora had gone out to a party. Georgie was livid because the video showed Guy’s hand disappearing more than once into the billowing blue depths of Hermione’s robes.

‘It’s good acting,’ protested Guy. ‘A pat on the bottom is just the kind of friendly gesture a wife receives from any husband.’

‘Particularly someone else’s,’ snapped Georgie.

Guy had been twitchy all evening because wretched Flora had pinched the car without asking and there was no way he could escape.

They worked in the kitchen because it was warm by the Aga and by the time they’d gone through the script and toned down Rachel’s worst excesses, Rannaldini had drunk enough red wine to risk dropping in on her on the way home. He had just picked up his car keys when Flora walked in. She betrayed no trace of surprise at seeing him. Her red hair, darkened by snow, had grown since last summer. A thick strand had blown round her white neck like a leather strap.

She was wearing a black leather jacket over a gunmetal-grey satin camisole top and black velvet shorts above black-stockinged legs that had lost any trace of puppy fat.

‘We were worried about you, darling,’ said Georgie. ‘The roads must be hell. Was it a good party?’

‘Great.’ Flora crouched down beside Dinsdale, giving him a crumbling sausage roll out of her pocket.

‘Ask, next time you borrow the car,’ said Guy angrily. ‘I can now get some more red.’

‘We’ve got some,’ said Georgie, ‘there’s a crate in the utility room.’

Guy jumped as the telephone rang.

‘I’ll take it next door,’ said Flora, running across the hall into the drawing room to answer it. There was something stark and unwelcoming about her parents’ house, not a coloured ball nor a string of tinsel yet in sight.

Hearing the happy Tennyson’s brook sound of continuous laughter, Guy reflected that at least he wasn’t paying for the call.

‘It’s Melanie,’ said Flora, a quarter of an hour later. Then, smiling sweetly at her father, ‘She’s reversing the charges from a Perth call-box.’

Somehow Guy kept his temper and when Georgie rushed off and because Rannaldini showed no sign suddenly of leaving, he went off to get another bottle.

Bidding a tearful farewell to her adored elder daughter five minutes later, Georgie noticed the copy of Catullus David Hawkley had sent her and pulled it out of the bookshelf.

‘It is hard to put aside long-standing love,’ she read sadly.

If only she could see David — he was so straight compared with Guy. A bad sleeper, he’d probably be awake now. His number was engraved on her heart. Surreptitiously she picked up the second telephone and heard Guy’s voice saying: ‘I couldn’t get away, Ju Ju. Flora took the car without asking and Georgie suddenly remembered a crate of booze, so I had no excuse. I daren’t risk it, sweetheart. I’m really sorry, I’ll ring you first thing. Sleep well, my darling.’

‘Which is more than you’re fucking going to do,’ screamed Georgie down the telephone.

‘I’m sorry I didn’t speak to you this afternoon, little one,’ murmured Rannaldini. ‘You sing very well.’

‘Wailing for my demon lover,’ said Flora drily.

Outside Rannaldini could see the dark snowless shadow under his car and the ostrich’s white feathers fluffing up. Through the gloom a light still shone in Rachel’s cottage. He had a vision of Rachel in bed with Flora, languorously smoothing oil into each other’s bodies, growing increasingly slippery inside and out as they waited for him to join in.

‘I mees you,’ he said softly. ‘Wheech is your room?’

Out in the hall, under the mistletoe she had put up that morning, Flora could see her parents furiously mouthing at one another.

‘Oh, Maestro,’ she said in a tremulous voice, ‘I thought you would never forgive me.’

‘Ees good for little girls to be punished sometime.’

‘I deserved it,’ Flora admitted. ‘If you go up the stairs and turn left, I’m the fourth door on the right, up three small stairs, but don’t turn on the light as it shines right into Mummy’s and Daddy’s room. Don’t be too long.’

She slid out of the room.

Rannaldini could not keep the grin off his face. He felt sure Rupert Campbell-Black couldn’t pull seventeen year olds any more.

As Guy bustled in, his face redder than the bottle of claret he was carrying, Rannaldini yawned and said it must be jet lag. Could he borrow a toothbrush and crash out in the spare room? Once alone he had a quick wash, plucked out a grey hair from his chest, rubbed one of the samples of eau-de-Cologne Guy had brought back from France into his neck and shoulders, and waited half an hour until the house was so quiet you could hear the snow padding like a white cat outside.

Clad in a dark red towel, scratchy from Mother Courage’s washing, he tiptoed along the landing. The creaking was awful. He jumped as Dinsdale in his basket let out a great snore. One, two, three doors. Rannaldini thought he would explode with lust. Feeling his way up the three uncarpeted stairs with his bare toes, he opened and softly closed the fourth door on the right.

‘Come to me, lovely creature,’ whispered a voice.

‘Leetle darling, it is I,’ answered Rannaldini.

Taking a flying leap in the direction of the voice, he found that Flora had shrunk and grown in the most improbable places. Next moment he realized his arms were full of naked Guy, who’d been banished to the spare room by an enraged Georgie and who’d been drunkenly rehearsing his lines. Guy was sober enough, however, to be extremely stuffy.

‘Flora’s only seventeen. How dare you run after schoolgirls like a dirty old man?’

‘And I saw you coming out of Langan’s with that painter girlfriend of yours on Monday,’ spat back Rannaldini. ‘I’d keep your trap shut if I were you.’