The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (14 page)

    'I refuse to take sides,' she went on. 'I'm sure poor Larry's as confused as you are.'

    no

    'And sells millions of your records,' said Marigold furiously.

    'Oh Marigold, you silly billy,' sighed Hermione, looking at Marigold properly for the first time. 'You've dyed your hair.'

    'I thought I needed a change.'

    Hermione put her head on one side. 'Well, if you like it that's the main thing, and I've never seen you in jeans before. We are jazzing ourselves up.'

    With a trembling hand Marigold reached for a Silk Cut. Hermione, who had a singer's pathological horror of smoking, was about to reproach her when she was distracted by the tape reaching 'Blow the wind southerly'.

    This is my favourite, I never thought anyone could sing "Blow" as well as Kathleen Ferrier, but the American critics say my version is better.'

    'Oh, look,' sighed Lysander, pausing in the doorway, his arms full of bottles and glasses, and nodding at an incredibly handsome man talking to a sardonic-looking jockey in blue-and-green colours. 'That's Rupert Campbell-Black. Isn't he handsome? And seriously cool? And that's Bluey Charteris who rides for him lucky

    sod.'

    Lysander was about to turn up the sound when the cameras switched to the latest odds. Penscombe Pride's were shortening.

    'I was lucky to get that bet on early. God, I want to meet Rupert.'

    Hermione refused a drink, but said pointedly that she'd like some tea, because she hadn't had any lunch.

    'You're out of luck,' said Lysander. 'Marigold's on a diet.'

    Hermione turned to Marigold. 'I thought you were looking awfully tired.'

    'She looks great!' Lysander smiled amiably at Hermione. 'I'm afraid the only thing in the fridge is some smoked salmon.'

    'For our supper,' said Marigold.

    'I'll have that,' said Hermione, and such was the force

    in of her personality that she was just polishing off the lot, washed down by Earl Grey and honey, when Jack and Patch went into another frenzy of barking.

    This time it was Rannaldini's young wife, Kitty. Clutching a bunch of freesias and a red-spotted tin, she blushed when she saw not only Marigold but also Hermione, her husband's mistress, plus an incredibly good-looking young man. Perhaps he was Hermione's latest.

    Launching into a flurry of 'how are yous', Hermione embraced Kitty graciously, then embarrassed her by saying teasingly: 'Both sides, Kitty,' and holding out her other cheek to be kissed after Kitty had ducked away.

    Marigold, who, since Larry's departure, had suffered from chronic lapse of memory, suddenly blocked on Lysander's surname and merely introduced him and Kitty by their Christian names.

    Heavens, he's gorgeous, thought Kitty, he must be some young actor who's making a pop record; such a sweet sleepy smile.

    'Very pleased to meet you, Ly-sunder,' she stammered, then turning to Marigold, 'you look wonderful. I love your 'air, and you're so lovely and slim.'

    'I have been tryin',' said Marigold gratefully.

    'Well, you probably won't want that,' said Kitty going even redder, as Marigold opened the red-spotted tin which contained a huge dark chocolate cake.

    'Oh yum,' sighed Marigold. 'Oh, Kitty, you are kaind, but I truly mustn't. Lysander can, though.'

    'And so can I,' said Hermione. 'I never have to diet.'

    Having helped herself to a vast slice, Hermione rewound the tape to play 'Blow the wind southerly', which was blotted out by Lysander's howl of joy as Penscombe Pride won by a length.

    'Yippee!' He hugged Marigold in ecstasy. 'I've won two fucking grand. I can buy you a gold exercise bike now.'

    Looking very bootfaced, Hermione picked up a new biography of Placido Domingo, turning to the index for reference to herself.

    'I must go,' said Kitty. 'I didn't mean to butt in when you'd got company, Marigold.'

    'You must have a drink to celebrate,' said Lysander, letting Marigold go.

    'I'll have a small sweet sherry then,' said Kitty. 'Rannaldini don't approve, but I can't drink it dry.'

    'I'll have some more Perrier please, darling.' Marigold handed Lysander her glass.

    'Clever to 'ave a win like that,' said Kitty, 'I'm afraid I'm terrified of 'orses. I'd 'ave walked over 'ere this afternoon, but Rannaldini's turned The Prince of Darkness he's

    a big black ring with 'uge teef out

    in Long Meadow, so I came by car.'

    'I know The Prince of Darkness. Bloody good horse, came second in the Whitbread,' said Lysander.

    'E's still got 'uge teef,' sighed Kitty.

    Lysander thought Kitty was as plain as Hermione was beautiful. She was probably younger than him, but she had a round pale face and eyes far too wide apart behind disfiguringly strong spectacles. Her fuzzy light brown hair was dragged off a rather spotty forehead into a bun. With her squashed snub nose and big generous mouth, the bottom lip of which she was nervously gnawing as she listened to Hermione, she resembled an apprehensive pug on the end of a chatterbox mistress.

    A gold cross round her neck and a navy-blue polyester dress with a white collar gave her a prim look, but couldn't disguise her heavy breasts and lack of waist. Plump legs were not flattered by flesh-coloured tights, nor by navy-blue high heels which thrust her forward like a plant desperately seeking the sunlight.

    'Cheers.' She attacked her large glass of sherry. 'I was wondering if you'd like to come to tea, I mean supper, next week, Marigold?'

    'Love to,' said Marigold. 'As long as you don't cook anything fattening. Can I bring Lysander? He's just moved into a cottage at Eldercombe.'

    That's nice. Near Ricky France-Lynch,' said Kitty.'His wife Daisy's just 'ad the most gorgeous li-el boy,' she added wistfully.

    'You'll be next,' said Marigold reassuringly.

    'Havens, I 'ope so,' said Kitty, who, unlike Marigold, made no attempt to disguise a strong cockney accent.

    Hermione, having finished reading about herself in the Domingo biography, cut another massive piece of chocolate cake and asked: 'Do you play an instrument, Lysarnder.'

    'Yarss,' said Lysander gravely. 'I learnt the piano at prep school, but I only play with one hand because I was always fending off Mr Molesworth, the music master, with

    the other one.'

    'What a pity,' said Hermione, ignoring Marigold's laughter. 'I'm recording Beethoven's Cycle "To the distant beloved" on Monday. I need an accompanist to rehearse with. Such a beautiful work. D'you know it?'

    Lysander shook his head. 'Can't imagine anyone bicycling to see a beloved round here, particularly a distant one. The hills are so steep. It's bad enough jogging.'

    For a second, Kitty's face crumpled up into a smile, then she quickly asked Hermione how little Cosmo was.) 'Magic, magic,' said Hermione warmly. 'Which reminds me, Kitty. Do you know definitely when Rannaldini's getting back? I've got to learn Amelia Boccanegra at top speed so I need him to work with me on the character and the vocal demands.'

    'I fink he's coming back for Georgie Maguire's launching party,' said Kitty.

    'I'd forgotten we'd got to be subjected to that,' grumbled Hermione. 'One meets such awful people at pop-record launches.'

    'I expect Larry needs you and Rannaldini to raise the tone,' said Marigold acidly.

    'I expect he does,' agreed Hermione. 'But I still don't really like Georgie Maguire's voice.' 'I love it,' said Lysander,

    'So do I,' agreed Kitty defiantly, then, seeing Hermione's glare, 'I must go.'

    'I've got a great pile of contracts at home,' said Hermione to punish her, 'so perhaps you could pop over tomorrow and check them for me.'

    So you don't have to fork out for a lawyer, thought Marigold furiously.

    As Lysander snowed Kitty out, Hermione reproached Marigold for fraternizing with young men.

    'He's probably G-A-Y, the way he was going on about Rupert Campbell-Black.' Then patronizingly as she refilled her glass, 'You're not in your first youth, Marigold.' 'I'm about to be into my first youth,' muttered Marigold through clenched teeth.

    'Blow the wind southerly,' sang Hermione on the tape. 'Who was that girl?' asked Lysander returning. 'Didn't you realize?' said Marigold. 'That's Kitty Rannaldini.'

    'Rannaldini's daughter?' Lysander took a cigarette from Marigold's pack. 'No, his wife.'

    'His wife!' said Lysander. 'Bloody hell, I thought Rannaldini was into fantastic-looking women.'

    Hermione had been about to reproach Lysander for smoking. Instead she bowed in acknowledgement of the implied compliment, then added sententiously: 'Some people think she's rather common, but I maintain Kitty Rannaldini is very much her own woman.'

    'Hardly be anyone else's, looking like that,' said Lysander. 'He must have got her from Pug Rescue.' That's unkind.' Hermione laughed heartily. 'Kitty's sweet,' protested Marigold angrily. 'She's such a good listener -unlaike

    some and

    so kaind you forget how plain she is.'

    Outside the setting sun, like a great red air balloon, was turning the mist which had suddenly filled the valley the softest rose-pink. Having polished off another drink, Hermione, known locally as the Great White Hinter, asked if the Ferrari outside the door was Lysander's and whether he could run her home.

    'I walked here, but it's a bit chilly, and we singers are paranoid about getting colds. Goodbye, Marigold, don't take everything quite so personally.'

    Lysander returned ten minutes later to find Marigold gibbering with rage. Her fury at Hermione's jibes and smugness had been exacerbated by a sudden, violent explosion of jealousy because she had waltzed off with Lysander. This was the more appalling because after all she had suffered over Larry, Marigold thought she was immune from feeling jealous about anyone else.

    'The bitch,' she stormed, 'not taking saides indeed. "Don't be bitter, Marigold, if you like your hair, that's what matters." And being so patronizing about Georgie and poor darling Kitty.'

    'Have a drink. One won't hurt. What's brought all this

    on?'

    'Then insistin' you drove her home. God, I'm unhappy.'

    Marigold was so upset, she unthinkingly picked up the remaining quarter of chocolate cake and was about to shove it into her face when Lysander grabbed her hand, squeezing it until she dropped the cake on the floor. Then he took her in his arms.

    'Don't be miserable. She's just jealous. I think you're absolutely gorgeous.'

    'You do?' whispered Marigold. 'Yarss,' said Lysander, and catching her off guard she giggled, he kissed her, nearly losing his tongue in the process as Marigold clamped her teeth and lips together with a squeal of horrified rage.

    'How dare you?' With shock fuelled by years of respectability and inhibition, she was fighting him off, pummelling his chest like Frank Bruno. 'No, no, no!'

    But Lysander grabbed her arms, and much stronger than her, drew her towards him, tantalizing her with the lithe, youthful warmth of his body, refusing to let go, until, panic-stricken, she raised her leg to knee him in the groin. But somehow her leg never reached its target, for far above it, Lysander was whispering words of such affection and desire into her hair.

    'I want you, Marigold. You creep into my thoughts like that pink mist stealing up the valley.'

    Glancing up, amazed by such poetic sentiment, and seeing the gentleness in his adorably innocent eyes, and feeling his fingers stroking her face, seeking some loving message in braille, she let him put his beautiful mouth on hers.

    As she kissed him back, the raised leg retreated and coiled itself round the other leg in ecstasy, and the pummelling Frank Bruno fists unclenched, and, 'may goodness', she was hanging from Lysander's neck like a chimpanzee because she was so dizzy with lust it was the only way she could stand up.

    Slowly, slowly like a Harrods lift at Christmas, Lysander progressed downwards. Worried that her breasts might be droopy, she clamped her arms back over them, but as Lysander caressed her neck, she couldn't remember if she'd plucked out that bristle on her chin this morning. Raising her hand to check, she left her right breast exposed. Next moment it had fallen like a ripe pear into his hand, as he unhooked her bra.

    'Let's go to bed.'

    'We can't. Ay've never been to bed with anyone but Larry, and he says Ay fuck laike a dead… ' Marigold gave a wail.

    'Hush, just regard it as a superior form of workout.'

    People are said never to remember how they get upstairs to the bedroom, but it was imprinted on Marigold's memory, because Lysander kissed her on every stair, but still half her mind was fretting about stretch marks and whether her body would be creased by such tight jeans and, although she'd had a bath two hours ago, whether she should wash again, so she wouldn't smellof mouldy old woman. As they reached the landing, she nearly led him into the airing cupboard.