The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

49

As President Gorbachov kept going abroad to distance himself from the growing domestic crises in Russia, so Rannaldini abandoned all thought of Christmas at Valhalla. He knew Venturer still had the clip of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’ and that he couldn’t silence blabbermouths like Mother Courage and Lady Chisleden. Harassed by enraged mistresses and a baying Press, Rannaldini decided, as a gesture of family solidarity, to take Kitty and his many children skiing and made sure that a delightful photograph of them all arriving at the airport was circulated worldwide.

Lysander felt sick when he saw it reproduced on the front of the Sun. He had been appalled, the morning after the play, to find Valhalla deserted except for Mrs Brimscombe who was sourly freezing boeuf bourgignon and who handed him a Christmas present from Kitty beautifully wrapped in red paper covered in polo ponies. Inside were chewsticks for the dogs, Twix bars for Arthur and Tiny and a dark blue jersey with Donald Duck on the front which Kitty had knitted for him. A card enclosed said: ‘Dear Lysander. This is to thank you for your many kindnesses. I hope you don’t miss your Mum and Georgie too much over Xmas, yours sincerely, Kitty Rannaldini.’

Lysander was utterly desolate. Earlier in December, Kitty had given him an Advent Calendar. Now he felt all the doors were closing on him. Returning to Magpie Cottage, he found Ferdie bemoaning his excesses the night before in The Pearly Gates and examining a green tongue in the mirror. On the strength of his success as the innkeeper he had managed to score with Miss Paradise ’90, the barmaid.

‘I told her I was off to the Gulf, too.’

‘That’s bloody dishonest. She’s a nice girl.’

‘What’s bitten you?’ said Ferdie in amazement.

‘Rannaldini’s taken Kitty skiing.’

‘That is terrific,’ said Ferdie. ‘I have to congratulate you. I never dreamt you’d get Kitty looking that good, almost attractive, in that green dress the other night — and to get Rannaldini back as well. He’s never taken her on holiday before. I’m going to give you a massive Christmas bonus,’ he added as Lysander’s face blackened. ‘You’re off to Brazil. Bastard coffee billionaire giving his ravishing young wife the run-around. Here’s the ticket.’ Ferdie reached for his brief case.

‘I don’t want to go to Brazil,’ said Lysander mutinously.

‘You’ll get some seriously good polo.’

After Christmas in the extremely fashionable French ski resort of Monthaut acquiring a suntan and being photographed on every piste surrounded by children, Rannaldini was bored rigid and decided to fly home. Christmas, like the snow, had temporarily blotted out all gossip. Natasha left with him. To shake her out of her shock at his affaire with Flora, he despatched her to Barbados for a holiday.

Kitty got no such compensation. She was to stay on in Monthaut over the New Year to keep an eye on Rannaldini’s children and the au pair, who was very pretty and expected to go out skiing and clubbing in the evenings, leaving Kitty in charge. At no time had Rannaldini apologized in any way for Flora’s revelations.

Wearily, Kitty drove back from dropping him off at the airport. Rannaldini had been particularly ratty over Christmas. In her distress at not being able to say goodbye to Lysander, Kitty had left several scores and clothes that he needed in Valhalla, although she felt he would have complained whatever she had picked. She was desperately short of clothes herself. She hadn’t brought anything for the evening, no ski clothes and no boots for walking on the polished ice, so, as Rannaldini loathed her spending money, the drive to the airport was her first outing. Even with chains on the wheels, she had been terrified of the winding, treacherous roads.

She felt safer when she reached Monthaut. Horses with bells jangling on their bridles, which reminded her of Arthur, were pulling sledgefuls of tourists along the High Street. Beautiful girls with vivid brown faces and enviably narrow hips strode purposefully over the frozen pavements. The Hotel Versailles, where Rannaldini always stayed, was the best in Monthaut. South-facing, yellow-stoned, overlooking the village square with its statue of President de Gaulle and a wonderful view of the mountains, it was two minutes’ walk from the main ski lifts. Snow and icicles glittering from the gables were melting slightly in the sunshine.

As Kitty crept in through the swing doors, every table in the foyer was occupied by glamorous, chattering, sunburnt people. It was several seconds before she recognized the most glamorous of them all. He was wearing a Donald Duck jersey and knocked over his glass of Kir as he jumped to his feet.

‘Lysander,’ whispered Kitty.

Her delight was so unmistakable that Lysander nearly kissed her properly, but, as she ducked her head in embarrassment, he made do with hugging her.

‘I fort you was in Brazil.’

‘I got bored and I missed you. I’m going to teach you to ski.’

‘I ’aven’t got any gear.’

‘I’ll buy you some. I haven’t given you a Christmas present. Thank you for the Donald Duck,’ he looked down, ‘he’s the best present I’ve ever had. I hope he doesn’t have to go into quarantine when we go back to England.’

Tucking his arm through hers as he led her towards the lift, he asked her if she had been given anything nice.

‘Rannaldini gave me a filing cabinet and Hermione some chopstick ’olders,’ Kitty giggled, ‘an’ a red sloppy jumper big enough for a helephant. “I know you like them baggy, Kitty.” Ooo, I am ’appy to see you, Lysander.’

Feeling dreadfully guilty about abandoning Rannaldini’s children to the sulky au pair and feeling embarrassingly ostentatious in a lime-green, violet, harebell-blue and shocking pink ski suit, ‘I look like a rinebow ’ippo,’ Kitty took to the slopes.

‘You must have lots of protection,’ said Lysander, rubbing Ambre Solaire into her pink cheeks and painting her mouth with mauve lipsalve before dropping a kiss on her squashed nose.

He was looking very flash in a tight daffodil-yellow bomber jacket and ski pants, and a kingfisher-blue sweat band keeping his curls out of his eyes, which were covered with black wrap-around glasses. He’d streaked his face and his beautiful big mouth with different coloured lipsalves like an Apache. Behind him, dazzling white peaks reared up against a sapphire sky. Chalet girls, PAs from Knightsbridge, glamorous divorcées on the prowl, au pairs who’d escaped, gazed at him in wonder.

‘I feel like a new-born foal wiv a banana skin attached to each hoof,’ protested Kitty. ‘Ooooh — I’m going to fall over again.’

‘No, you’re not,’ encouraged Lysander. ‘Stand on the edge of your skis, that’s right, now lean forward, sticks behind, sticks behind! Don’t cross them! Well done, Kitty.’

‘Weeee, I can do it.’ Kitty got so carried away, she skiied several yards. ‘Ow, my legs are going, ’elp, ’elp.’

Soon her suit of many colours was covered with snow. It was true what they said about the mountains making you feel all tingly and excited. All her tiredness had vanished.

Lysander had taken her to a comparatively deserted slope, and such was his total preoccupation with teaching her and his growing awareness of the delicious curves of her body since she’d lost all that weight that neither of them realized that the snow around them had been invaded by photographers and reporters, sliding all over the place, gabbling into telephones and tape recorders. For a horrific moment, Kitty thought they were on to her and Lysander, but they were all gazing up the mountain.

‘He’s on his way down,’ announced a reporter from the Daily Mail, switching off his telephone.

‘James Whittaker says the kid’s got a strong American accent, so Rupert must have got it from Texas,’ said a predatory blonde.

‘I thought he and Taggie were going to adopt from Bogota.’

‘Probably decided he wanted something more Aryan.’

‘Evidently the kid’s the spitting image of Rupert. It’s amazing how these adoption societies match them up.’

‘They must have got it very quickly. Taggie’s miscarriage was only a few weeks ago,’ said the Sun photographer.

‘Could be an illegit of Rupert’s he’s trying to palm off on Taggie,’ suggested the predatory blonde.

‘Oh, Beattie, you would think that.’

‘Taggie looked miserable last night and she hasn’t skiied since she’s been out here,’ said Beattie Johnson of The Scorpion shirtily.

‘She’s just lost a baby, stupid.’

‘If it is Rupert’s,’ Beattie was not to be deflected, ‘it means that he has been unfaithful to Taggie, because Nigel says the kid can’t be a day over three and he’s been married to Taggie nearly six years.’

‘Hush, here they come.’ The world’s Press adjusted their long lenses and switched on their tape recorders as a very blond child in huge dark glasses and a striped blue and white ski suit came whistling down the slope. For a second, it looked as though he was going slap into an elderly American in fuschia-pink who was gingerly picking herself up.

‘Move your ass, grandma,’ yelled the child as he shot past.

‘Come back, Eddie, for Christ’s sake,’ yelled a voice loud enough to start an avalanche and over the white brow of the slope like a shiver of lightning came a tall man in faded jeans and a thick dark grey jersey. Slithering to a spectacular halt beside the child, he hid them both for a moment in a fountain of snow. As they emerged, Lysander took in the smooth brown forehead, the thick gleaming blond hair, the beautiful Greek nose thrown into relief by the dark glasses, and the curling mouth now set like a trap.

‘Rupert Campbell-Black,’ he whispered to Kitty in wonder. ‘Just think, I come here to see you and he’s here as well. Oh, Kitty, isn’t he handsome?’

‘I fort Taggie’d just had a miscarriage.’

‘They must have adopted this one. Isn’t he sweet?’

‘Don’t you run away from me like that, you little sod,’ yelled Rupert. ‘And you can all fuck off,’ he added as the Press closed in with a frenzied clicking of cameras.

‘Where you get him from, Rupe?’ demanded the Express.

‘What’s your name, darling?’ asked Beattie Johnson.

‘Edward Bartholomew Alderton,’ said the child politely. Then, turning to Rupert, ‘Move your ass, Grandpa, I’m starved.’

As the howls of laughter subsided and Rupert disappeared in a towering rage, Beattie Johnson could be heard saying: ‘Of course, he’s Perdita’s child.’

‘Who’s she?’ asked Paris Match.

‘Where’ve you been for the last four years?’ said Beattie as they trooped back to their hotels to file copy. ‘One of Rupert’s illegits. That’s why her kid’s the spittin’ image of him. She married an American polo player called Luke Alderton.’

‘Fancy Rupert being a grandad,’ said the Mirror.

‘Not very good for his super-stud image,’ said Beattie in amusement. ‘I wonder if I can get Grandfather Cock into the copy?’

Sitting in the bar at the Hotel Versailles watching the mountains turn from rose-pink to glittering electric-blue as the gold lights came on in the village square, Rupert ignored his beautiful wife Taggie, drank whisky as brown as his face, in a mood as black as his name. He was trying not to lose his temper with Mr Pandopoulos, the rich Greek owner, who’d flown in specially to complain that his best horse hadn’t even been placed in a big race that afternoon.

In the past Rupert had notched up more conquests than Don Giovanni. The Press, deeply sceptical about his apparent fidelity to Taggie, were determined to catch him out. The Scorpion employed two reporters whose sole job was to tail him night and day. Their last scoop had indeed been four and a half years ago when the tempestuous Perdita Macleod, England’s best woman polo player, had turned out to be Rupert’s daughter. After passionate initial antagonism, Rupert had eventually recognized her as his child and given her considerable emotional and financial support. Since then the paparazzi had had nothing to go on, following him warily, aware that Rupert was rich enough to sue them witless if they stepped out of line.

But a scoop in the Daily Express about Taggie’s heartbreak over the miscarriage had triggered all the speculation off again. Apart from the loss of the baby, which had affected him just as badly as Taggie, Rupert had had a pulverizing year. Even successful owner-trainers had been stymied by the recession. Rupert’s yearlings didn’t automatically fetch six figures any more. For the first time he was having to put up with indifferent horses if the owner was rich enough to pay for them. Hence the post-mortem today. As a founder director of Venturer Television he should have made a killing but advertising was right down and they’d been forced to layoff staff.

Nor were his three children giving him much joy. Marcus, who was at Bagley Hall with Flora, was a wimp whose only ambition egged on by his mother, Rupert’s first wife, was to be a concert pianist. Tabitha, with whom Rupert had enjoyed an adoring, almost too symbiotic relationship, had suddenly turned into a brat who questioned Rupert’s every decision and attitude and who had recently, at the age of fourteen, fallen madly in love with Rupert’s tractor-driver. Removed out of temptation to Monthaut, she had sulked so badly that Rupert, in a rage, had packed her off home to her mother. Finally, Perdita, with whom Rupert had an erratic relationship — only her husband Luke could really handle her — had added a last straw heavier than a crowbar.

His wife Taggie, though young enough to be his fourth child, adored him and longed to have his children. After an almost fatal miscarriage early on in their marriage when she had been told she couldn’t have children, she had endured several painful and disappointing attempts to have a test-tube baby. Finally getting pregnant to universal rejoicing in August, at four months she had had a ghastly and inexplicable miscarriage.

Nothing in the world would bring back the baby. Dismissing Rupert’s anguished protestations that he must be bringing Taggie bad luck, James Benson, who was also Rupert’s family doctor, told him to take Taggie away for a holiday.

‘And then go to South America, or Texas, or even Romania, and adopt. There are plenty of babies if you wave your cheque book.’

Having endured innumerable sleepless nights worrying about Taggie, Rupert was desperately in need of a break himself. A dashing skier all his life, the mountains always recharged his batteries and Taggie would get brown and strong again.

Then all had been sabotaged by Perdita ringing Taggie from Palm Beach; she had deliberately chosen the moment just before Christmas when Rupert was in Ireland. Announcing that it was high time he and Taggie got to know their grandchild, she asked if she could dump little Eddie on them for a fortnight while she and Luke flew to Kenya to play polo.

‘It’s the chance of a lifetime, Taggie,’ she had begged. ‘All expenses paid. Luke and I have been working our asses off keeping the barn and the ponies going. The recession’s been far worse in America. We really need to spend some time together.’

And sweet, gentle Taggie, of course, had agreed and Rupert had returned from Ireland to find little Eddie in situ, totally American, utterly adorable but as self-willed as his grandfather, who never stopped asking when Mom and Dad were coming back. Outraged with Perdita for lumbering Taggie with a child when she’d just lost her own, Rupert had promptly employed a French girl to look after Eddie. But, infuriatingly and stubbornly, Taggie had insisted on caring for him herself, getting up in the night whenever he cried, even allowing him to come into their bed, so there had been no holiday and even less sex.

He had taken Eddie skiing to give Taggie a break and the little sod, who had learnt to ski before he could crawl, had given Rupert the slip and showed him up as a grandfather in front of the entire world Press — the Misconstruction Industry, as he always called them.

Rupert actually liked his new grandchild. He knew it was desperately uncool to mind about being a grandfather, or even worse, to go round saying that he had only been eighteen when Perdita had been conceived. But, at the moment, he felt a failure as a grandfather, a father, a husband and a trainer, particularly with Mr Pandopoulos bellyaching beside him.

Most of all Rupert despised himself for biting Taggie’s head off yet again because she had allowed his grandchild to wreck their holiday. She looked utterly ravishing this evening in a crimson angora jersey and a straight black, sequined skirt, showing off legs far more beautiful than any tiresome owner’s colt. Rupert was about to take her hand and tell her he loved her and was only livid with himself, when he noticed a couple at the next table. A plain girl whose pink face clashed with her brilliantly coloured ski suit and a miraculously good-looking boy, whose clear bluey-green eyes were unashamedly gazing in his direction. Rupert was quite used to admiration from his own sex, but the boy didn’t look gay, so he must be after Taggie, hardly surprising if one was lumbered with a dog like that.

Five minutes later when Kitty went upstairs to read a bedtime story to Rannaldini’s children, Lysander paid the bill. For Arthur’s sake, he must do it now. Knees knocking, mouth dry, unaware of every woman gazing at him hungrily, he approached his great hero. Looking down at the wonderful chiselled features, the cold lapis-lazuli eyes, he wanted to give Rupert some amazing present, to kneel down and kiss his hand. Instead he stammered, ‘Excuse me, I hope you don’t mind my butting in?’

‘If you’re a journalist, piss off,’ snapped Rupert.

‘Oh no, no, no, I’m absolutely not. My name’s Lysander Hawkley.’

Rupert’s eyes narrowed in half-recognition.

‘Basically I live in Paradise,’ went on Lysander, ‘I’d hoped to meet you last week at the Valhalla nativity play.’

Rupert looked fractionally more friendly.

‘We were hoping to go,’ said Taggie, feeling horribly sorry for the poor boy. ‘Do sit down for a minute and tell us about it.’ She winced as Rupert kicked her on the ankle.

‘Thank you.’ Lysander beamed at Taggie and nearly knocked over the water jug in his efforts to appear calm.

‘I gather Georgie Maguire’s daughter — last seen throwing up into a trumpet at Bagley Hall — went berserk and listed Rannaldini’s mistresses,’ said Rupert lightly. ‘Roberto Rannaldini, this is one of your nine lives. Cameron said it was seriously funny.’

‘Not for Kitty,’ said Lysander quickly.

‘Kitty?’

‘Rannaldini’s wife,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘She was with me just now.’

‘Ah’

The penny was beginning to drop. This must be the boy that Cameron had been raving about. ‘We’ve got to sign him up, Rupert. He’s to die for.’

‘What part did you play?’ asked Taggie, aware of the menace of Rupert’s mood.

‘Oh, I just shifted scenery, but my horse, Arthur, carried the Third King. He was seriously good in the part, but that was only a sideline. It’s Arthur I wanted to tell you about.’ He looked at Rupert fair and square.

After five minutes he realized that Rupert was yawning and tapping long fingers on the table.

‘Sorry. I’m talking too much.’

‘I wouldn’t argue with that.’

‘He sounds really sweet,’ said Taggie quickly, wishing Rupert wouldn’t be so vile.

Comforted, Lysander turned to her. God, she was lovely with all that cloudy dark hair and her soft, pink mouth and her kind, silvery-grey eyes and sweet, shy face.

‘You’re so much prettier than your picture in the Express,’ he stammered, ‘and we saw your little boy. He’s adorable. He’ll be skiing for America soon and he looks just like you.’

‘Odd,’ said Rupert coldly, ‘he’s no relation of Tag’s. He’s my grandchild.’

That’s torn it, thought Lysander. ‘I know it sounds crass,’ he stumbled on, ‘but you don’t look anything like old enough to be a grandfather.’

Little bastard, patronizing me, thought Rupert.

‘He doesn’t, does he?’ Taggie put a hand over Rupert’s clenched one. ‘Eddie’s parents are playing polo in Kenya, so we’re looking after him for a few days. Good practice because we’re hoping to adopt our own baby from South America soon.’

Rupert was looking thunderous. He didn’t like Taggie discussing their private life. The boy could easily be stringing for The Scorpion.

‘I spent Christmas in South America. Brazil actually,’ Lysander told Taggie, ‘in an incredible house with a swimming-pool and a polo field, running into the sea at one end and the mountains at the other. We were drinking on the terrace one evening and I pointed out that the mountain was dotted with stars. Gina, my hostess, just laughed. “Your stars are lights from the shacks of the poor,” she said. “Don’t ever grumble about being rich.”’

‘That’s really sad,’ said Taggie.

‘Isn’t it? I thought what the hell am I doing here?’

Rupert yawned pointedly. ‘One might ask the same question.’

‘Rupert!’ reproved Taggie.

Flushing, Lysander jumped to his feet.

‘I’m really sorry.’

Suddenly Rupert twigged. This must be the boy who had cut such a swathe through the Paradise wives. There was no way he was leaving him on the loose to run after Taggie.

‘How well d’you ski?’ he asked Lysander.

‘OK. I’m a bit rusty.’

‘I’ll take you off-piste tomorrow if you like. Down the Chute des Fantômes, Chute d’Enfer, Descente des Diables — it’s got a lot of names. We could stop for lunch on the way down and talk about Arthur.’

‘That’s seriously kind.’

‘I’ll pick you up about nine-thirty then.’