The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

48

Both Rannaldini and Guy were furious with Flora, but had little opportunity to vent their rage on the day of the play.

Members of the cast, however, continued to spat. Cecilia, in her new role as Gabriel, had gone off to Valentino and bought a seductive, but totally inappropriate, thigh-length gold tunic and an even bigger halo than Hermione. In revenge, Hermione spent two hours in make-up, leaving little time for anyone else.

Marigold cried all day because Larry hadn’t come home the previous night. He must have gone back to Nikki.

Rachel was totally unsympathetic.

‘If you have a remotely attractive husband in the nineties,’ she snapped as she buttoned up her Second King’s velvet tunic, ‘you have to be prepared to share him.’

‘Rock Star, you are the rock, the star that guides me,’ sang the wireless.

‘Shut up, you bloody thing,’ screamed Georgie.

But by six-thirty the great hall was decked with greenery and hundreds of candles and camera lights were reflected in the gleaming dark panelling. The crew were ready, the London Met tuned up. A vetted collection of villagers, a sprinkling of local gentry including Lady Chisleden, the odd talent scout and a crowd of Meredith’s gay friends were among the audience. Mother Courage, thrilled at the prospect of appearing on television, was holding forth noisily.

‘Rattledicky stayed the night and Guy was furious that Flora delapidated herself all over the bath, and I only cleaned it yesterday, and Melanie’s sending Georgie a duck-billed platitude for Christmas.’

Standing in the wings, all dolled up in his red plumes and gemmy bridle, Arthur was itching to get on stage.

‘Don’t forget to look at the camera,’ Lysander urged him. ‘And whenever you see Rupert, wave a hoof. I’m really nervous for him,’ he told Cameron Cook as Arthur rested his head lovingly on his master’s shoulder.

‘Ever thought of becoming an actor?’ asked Cameron, handing him her card. ‘D’you mind sitting in the audience when it starts? Marigold can look after Arthur.’

She was determined to get reaction shots of him whenever they cut to the audience.

‘D’you actually know Rupert?’ pleaded Lysander.

‘You could say that.’

‘Is he seriously wonderful?’

Cameron thought for a second. ‘Only if he likes you. For Christ’s sake, see all the telephones are switched off,’ she added to her PA as her mobile rang.

‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered to the chief cameraman two minutes later. ‘Rupert’s not coming. He’s buggered off skiing.’

‘Well, don’t tell anyone,’ whispered back the chief cameraman. ‘We don’t want the entire female cast going on strike.’

But at last the cameras were rolling and the London Met were appropriately playing like angels, enjoying the novelty of the occasion and the relief of being conducted by Bob, whose bald head gleamed like a bathing cap above the dark river of the orchestra pit.

Everything, in fact, was going wonderfully. Neither Hermione in her blue robes nor Cecilia in her figure-hugging mini would have looked so radiant if they had known Rupert wasn’t going to make it, even for ‘Brickie’s spread’, which included two vats of boeuf bourgignon, whose delicious smell was stealing up from the kitchen.

‘Hail Mary, Full of Grace,’ called Cecilia who preferred the beauty of the old language, ‘thou art with child.’

‘Joseph will be very supportive, and present at the birth,’ said Hermione who did not.

Kitty caught Lysander’s eye and giggled.

‘There’s a Christmas tree with nothing on,’ said Mother Courage as the curtains jerked back on the stable at Bethlehem.

The play was nearing its end. Although the shepherds and inn staff had been rather too reminiscent of Iraqi and Saudi agitators in the Gulf, Meredith’s gay cronies were in ecstasies over the sets and the beauty of little Cosmo as a shepherd boy unaccountably trying to strangle Hermione’s white cat. The animals had all behaved impeccably, except Dinsdale who had lifted his leg twice on the manger.

Flora had sung ‘O come all ye faithful’ and ‘O little town of Bethlehem’ so magically that she had earned a round of applause each time. But the real coup de théâtre was when Rannaldini, Rachel and Marigold, singing the most ravishing three-part arrangement of ‘We Three Kings’, cantered in on their splendid bejewelled horses.

Rannaldini and Rachel looked so glamorous that the audience hardly noticed the reddened eyes and streaked moustache of the Third King, whom Arthur carried with such sympathy and gentleness.

‘Look at the old boy really acting,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘Don’t look at the camera, Arthur.’

‘Will you be quiet,’ hissed Lady Chisleden.

The Prince of Darkness, who’d had a good win at Lingfield the previous week, was jumping all over the place as Rannaldini, perfectly capped teeth flashing above his black beard, bent down to hand Hermione a gold casket.

‘Bet Hermione pockets it,’ whispered Lysander.

‘I’d give that Prince of Darkness a wild berth if I was ’er,’ said Mother Courage.

As everyone lined up to gaze at the Virgin and Child, Hermione brandished a large breast in the direction she imagined Rupert to be sitting.

‘Wasted on us,’ chorused Meredith’s cronies in unison.

As the Kings remounted their horses, Flora, hovering in the wings, noticed Rachel shoot Rannaldini a smile of uncharacteristic lasciviousness.

For the final tableau, Flora came forward to sing ‘Once in royal David’s city’. She was wearing black jeans and a black polo-neck with her hair slicked back off her incredibly pale face.

Playing Death and the Maiden, thought Bob, raising his baton. The poor child looked extraordinarily bleak.

The orchestra gave her the introductory bars, then put down their instruments in anticipation of a treat. Guy folded his arms, happy to claim ownership when Flora brought him credit. For a second she glanced around, waiting for total silence. Her voice, cool as an icicle, was so exquisite it was several seconds before anyone took in the words.

‘Once in Rannaldini’s watch-tower,’ sang Flora,

‘Stood a king-size double bed.

Where the Maestro bonked Hermione.

Once her Chanel suits she’d shed.’

Horror, amazement and delighted expectation were slowly creeping over the faces of the audience. The leader of the orchestra put his head in his hands to hide his laughter.

‘Stay on Camera Two, for Christ’s sake,’ hissed Cameron Cook.

‘Rannaldini drove her wild,

Little Cosmo is his child,’ sang Flora emphasizing every word.

‘And through Cosmo’s wondrous childhood,’ a beatific smile spread over Flora’s face.

‘Maestro popped in every day,

Just to bonk the fair Hermione,

In whose hulking arms he lay.

And he bonked his ex-wife, too

Rachel Grant’s just joined the queue.’

Laughing himself sick, then suddenly noticing the distress on Kitty’s face, Lysander took her hand, warming it with both his own. The otherwise mesmerized paralysis of the entire room was broken by an animal howl of rage from Rannaldini.

‘Cut, for Christ’s sake, cut.’

This so overwhelmed the overbred Prince of Darkness that he crapped all over the stage, whereupon, Jack, who’d been licking his chops, took off after Hermione’s cat, followed by an hysterically barking Maggie, Dinsdale and Tabloid. Hermione opened her mouth and screamed and screamed. Arthur, who loved babies as much as hay, shuffled forward to inspect the manger and was just about to nudge Baby Jesus when the Harrods doll was snatched up by Cecilia, halo askew.

‘Scellerato,’ she yelled, laying into Rannaldini with it.

‘Oh,’ sighed a visiting talent scout from Virgin Records, consulting his programme, ‘Flora Seymour has the most beautiful voice I have ever heard.’

As everyone started yelling at Flora she burst into tears.

‘Please don’t cry.’

Running forward, Kitty clambered clumsily on to the stage, putting her arms round Flora and, with Lysander’s and Bob’s help, carried her out through the wings, up the steps into the summer parlour, where she collapsed on to the blue and white striped sofa on which she had first scorned Rannaldini’s advances.

‘You spoilt our nativity play,’ shouted Guy rushing in, tearing off Joseph’s head-dress, then turning to Georgie who had followed him.

‘Now see where your sloppy permissive attitude has led.’

Next minute they were joined by Meredith and his twittering cronies who swooped on Flora, trying to comfort her, when Rannaldini stalked in, his face incandescent with rage.

‘You bitch,’ he screamed.

‘Are you talking to us?’ chorused Meredith’s cronies.

Staggering to her feet, Flora lurched towards Rannaldini.

‘You’re drunk,’ he snarled.

‘No, pregnant,’ said Flora tonelessly, ‘and you’re the father.’

‘That’s not true,’ screamed Natasha. ‘How could you, Flora?’

‘You lying slut,’ hissed Rannaldini. ‘How dare you tell such fucking lies?’

‘It’s true,’ sobbed Flora.

Calmly, Rannaldini walked over to the telephone.

‘Get me James Benson’s number,’ he called over his shoulder to Kitty. ‘He’ll soon do a few tests to see who’s right.’

Kitty paused. She knew James Benson’s number by heart, having rung him so often about her own tests, but she suddenly felt so sorry for Flora. As if reading her thoughts, Flora slumped at Rannaldini’s feet, sobbing that she’d made the whole thing up, clinging hysterically to his purple-stockinged thighs.

‘I love you,’ she wept. ‘I can’t help myself. I’m so sorry, Kitty. It’s all my fault.’

‘And you’ve broken the Official Secrets Act,’ hissed Rannaldini viciously, wriggling out of her frantic clutches as though she were a pair of tight breeches. He seemed oblivious of the crowd around them.

‘You should have cut my vocal chords at the beginning,’ said Flora falling pitifully to the floor.

Kitty, rushing forward to comfort her, was almost pushed sideways by Georgie.

‘Oh, darling, I’m sorry I’ve neglected you. I’ve been so worried about work and everything. It’s not your fault. Let’s go home.’

Utterly appalled that she’d been too locked in over Guy’s philandering and the loss of David Hawkley to notice what was going on, she started to cry.

‘It’s all your fault, you bastard,’ she sobbed at Rannaldini.

Guy was longing to castigate Rannaldini, too, but didn’t dare in case Rannaldini shopped him about Julia. Instead he proceeded to vent his fury on Flora.

‘Look how you’ve upset your mother.’

‘Not nearly as much as you’ve upset her,’ screamed back Flora. ‘She’d never have gone to bed with Lysander if you hadn’t been carrying on with Julia all this time.’

‘Dear, dear,’ said Meredith, looking from a speechless Georgie to a flabbergasted Guy. ‘Turnbull & Asser are going to do a roaring trade in hair shirts this Christmas.’

Very, very reluctantly and only because Rannaldini threatened to close all the electric gates and doors and imprison them, Venturer signed a hastily typed-out agreement that they would cut Flora’s outburst.

‘If Rupert hadn’t fucked off skiing, we could’ve made a fight for it,’ said Cameron furiously.

‘The Kings just mounting their horses make a shitty ending.’

‘Very shitty in The Prince of Darkness’ case,’ giggled Meredith.

‘Who’s talking of endings?’ said Rannaldini, admiring Cameron’s snarling sexy face. ‘Let’s have dinner in the New Year. Now bugger off everyone.’

If anyone was more distraught than poor Flora that evening it was Marigold, who didn’t seem to have taken in any of the dramas. All that mattered was that Larry hadn’t turned up. She refused to join Meredith, his friends, various euphoric members of the London Met, most of the crew and Ferdie and Lysander in The Pearly Gates for a pissed mortem.

As he first had to box Arthur back and feed him, Lysander insisted Ferdie drive Marigold home.

‘Ay wish they made husbands laike you, Arthur,’ Marigold said, having sobbed off most of her stage make-up into his grey shoulder.

As they trooped out into the snow they passed Hermione. Completely oblivious that Little Cosmo, who’d been at Kitty’s sweet sherry, was systematically removing tenners from her bag, she was screeching, ‘How dare Flora call my arms hulking?’

‘I think the Virgin Mary’s suffering from post-natal depression,’ muttered Ferdie.

‘And what happened to Rupert Campbell-Black?’ demanded Hermione.

‘I’d forgotten about him,’ said Lysander in dismay as he helped Marigold into the car. ‘I so wanted him to meet Arthur. Look after her,’ he urged in an undertone as he shut the door against the swirling snow. ‘She’s worried sick.’

‘Not as worried sick as I am,’ said Ferdie, scooping up a ball of snow from the top of the car and hurling it at a departing harpist. ‘Larry, or rather Marigold, owes us thirty thousand pounds.’

‘Forget it,’ said Lysander. ‘You don’t think Rannaldini will take it out on Kitty, do you? I didn’t get a chance to say goodnight to her. Promise to go into the house with Marigold and see she’s OK.’

Even Ferdie couldn’t bring himself to talk finance to such a shuddering, desolate wreck. Ahead, through a snowy tunnel of bowed trees, Paradise Grange reared up darkly, its great battlements and turrets lit by the wannest of moons.

‘Since Rachel moved in, the laights have been goin’ out all over Paradise,’ said Marigold sadly. ‘Ay’m sure Larry gave her that lovely cashmere jumper.’

‘Rachel’s being bonked by Rannaldini,’ said Ferdie gently. ‘Your husband’s far too deeply into filthy consumerism to appeal to Rachel. Aren’t you going to ask me in for a drink?’ he added. ‘You shouldn’t be on your own.’

‘I’ve obviously got to get used to it,’ said Marigold.

She had got through the performance. All she wanted to do was crash out in her lonely bed and sob out her broken heart.

She was amazed to find the front door open. She was so off the wall, she must have forgotten to put on the burglar alarm when she left that morning.

As she put down her costume in its carrier bag, her gold crown fell on to the floor, a symbol that her Ritzy life had gone for ever.

Catching sight of her blackened, red-eyed, miner’s face, she went into the downstairs 100 and washed away the streaked mascara and the remains of her cork moustache. Now, wanner than the moon itself, she switched on the drawing-room light, and gave a scream for there, slumped on the sofa, was Larry. He looked utterly wretched. He was neatly dressed in a white shirt and a pin-striped suit. Only his face was unironed and rumpled.

Marigold wanted to yell at him for not showing up, for humiliating her, for being unfaithful like everyone else in Paradise, but the words withered on her white lips.

‘I tried to grapple back up the tree,’ said Larry, as though they were in the middle of a conversation, ‘but it was like using fungi as ’andholds. They kept givin’ way.’

As he put his head in his hands she noticed all his gold rings and the bracelets had gone and how grey his dark hair had become.

‘I don’t know ’ow to tell you, Princess, but I’m finished, up the spout,’ he croaked. ‘I guaranteed a big electronics project, borrowed a ’uge amount of money, used some of Catchitune’s assets as well, an’ it bombed. The bank’s pulled the plug. I’m ruined, skint.’ He tugged his empty pockets out of his trousers like a conjurer.

‘I didn’t want to worry you.’ He gave a groan. ‘I’ve been trying to raise the dough from everywhere, but there isn’t any about.’

As Marigold opened her mouth to speak, he put up his hand.

‘But I can’t blame the recession. I was greedy. An’ this afternoon they voted me off the Board.’

‘They can’t have,’ said Marigold aghast.

‘So I’m broke, belly-up. I’ve got nuffink.’

Marigold couldn’t speak the lump in her throat was so huge, the tidal wave of tears ready to smash the lock gates, as Larry hung his head.

‘I understand if you want to leave me, Princess.’

‘Oh Larry, Larry, Ay thought you’d gone back to Nikki.’

Incredulously, Larry looked up.

‘All those phone calls,’ sobbed Marigold. ‘An’ you’ve lost so much weight and never turning up to rehearsals.’

She moved towards him with her arms open.

‘Ay don’t mind where Ay live so long as it’s with you. Ay never really läiked this mansion. It’s a naightmare to clean, and Ay’ve never felt comfortable with servants and the boys will be delaighted to leave boarding-school and we’ve got enough food in the freezer to live on for ever.’

‘You don’t mean it? You’ll stand by me? Ow, Princess, ow, Princess.’

‘Oh Larry, Larry,’ said Marigold crying and laughing all at once as she flung herself into his arms. ‘Ay love you so much, Ay’d follow you to the hend of the earth.’