The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (7 page)

    Digesting the details, Lysander had to leave the backseat light on all the way into London.

    'You better charge me extra for electricity,' he said, handing back the Standard.

    'Worf it for a fantastic bird like that,' said the driver, as the taxi jolted over discarded vegetables littering the North End Road.

    Thank Christ Dolly was still in Paris. London was at its most tatty. Most of the shops had sales on, the bitter east wind was rattling frozen litter along pavements and gutters.

    'Fink we've lost them,' said the driver as he turned into Fountain Street.

    Fountain Street was a charming Victorian terrace lined with cherry trees. Number 10 had been taken by Ferdie for a low rent because it was on the market and would sell better if lived in. Ferdie had repainted the bottle-green door and tied back the red rose which swarmed up the pink-washed front of the house. Ignoring the empty dustbins by the gate and the frantic waving of the two gays opposite, Lysander let himself in. Among the leaflets for decorators, window cleaners and minicabs I was a postcard from Dolly saying she missed him and! would be home tomorrow. There was also a mountain of brown envelopes which he didn't open. Thank goodness he was starting his new job with Ballensteins in March. His father had fiddled it for him as a quid pro quo for taking Rodney Ballenstein's son into his smart public school. The good-luck cards from all Lysander's old office cronies were still up in the drawing room.

    The house looked awfully tidy and

    it wasn't even the Filipino cleaner's day. Lysander switched on the simulated log fire which sent shadows flickering over the dark red wallpaper. In the fridge next door he found Bio Yoghurt and pink grapefruit juice (Ferdie must be on one of his endless diets), ham, Scotch eggs and a bottle of Moe't.

    He'd just helped himself to most of the ham and the last of Ferdie's whisky when a white envelope thudded through the letter-box. Addressed to him it was marked:

URGENT AND CONFIDENTIAL.

    'Dear Hawkley,' read Lysander with a giggle, again it took him several seconds to take in the fact that Ballenstein

    was an old-established firm who prided themselves on their utter discretion. In view of Lysander's recent very unfortunate publicity, the job was no longer open.

    The truth was that Rodney Ballenstein was not only a business friend of Elmer's but also had a new bimbo wife, whom he didn't entirely trust, and an equally glamorous PA on whom he had long-range designs. There was no way Rodney was going to have Lysander lounging round his office causing havoc.

    'Fucking hell!' Lysander screwed up the letter and threw it on the gas logs.

    At that moment the front door opened, there was a frantic scampering of paws and Jack the Jack Russell hurtled in like a bullet, yapping and jumping with all four feet off the ground, to greet his master.

    Jack was followed by Ferdie bringing in the emptied dustbins.

    'Hi,' he said, chucking the Evening Standard on the hall table, 'I was expecting you.'

    Ferdinand Fitzgerald was a fixer, as fly and commercially orientated as Lysander was ingenuous and unmaterialistic. A schoolfriend of Lysander's, he was also an estate agent who, despite the recession, was doing very well. In addition to selling houses, he charged for dinner parties and for friends to stay the night in Fountain Street and let out properties on his firm's books by the afternoon for chums visiting London to bonk in. Ferdie's Achilles' heel was Lysander, whom he adored and had protected both from the bullying and the advances of older boys at school and beyond and whom he let get away with murder.

    Very plump with a double chin and pink cheeks hiding an excellent bone structure, Ferdie looked like a cleanshaven Laughing Cavalier who'd slicked back his hair in an attempt to pass as a Roundhead. Cheerfulness, however, kept breaking in. He and Lysander were known to their friends as Mr Fixit and Mr Fucksit.

    Today as he hung up his long navy-blue coat in the hall, the Roundhead mood predominated, particularlywhen Lysander, who always poured out everything at once, immediately told him he had lost both the Palm Beach and the Ballenstein jobs.

    'Pretty stinking, getting fired before I've even got there,' grumbled Lysander, feeding Scotch eggs to a slavering Jack.

    'You should have signed the contract before you left,' reproved Ferdie. 'It's still on the kitchen table.'

    'There must be some party to go to,' said Lysander, 'I feel very depressed. How am I going to support Jack and the horses?'

    As Ferdie read the Ballenstein letter looking for loopholes, Lysander opened the bottle of champagne from the fridge and threw the cork on to the floor. Ferdie picked it up.

    'You live in a cork-lined room, Lysander. Sadly you lack Proust's application. This house has been tidy since you've been away. Annunciata took two days to muck out your room. No self-respecting pig would have dossed down in it. And you'll have to sleep on the sofa tonight. I've rented it to Matt Gibson and that's his Moet and his Scotch eggs you're feeding to that seriously spoilt dog. Look at the way he's scratched every door. And that is disgusting.' Ferdie removed two strips of ham fat from the gas logs with a shudder. 'How many times do I have to tell you? This is not a real fire.'

    'Don't you want to hear about Palm Beach?'

    'Not particularly. I've read most of it in the Standard. Look, we've got to talk about dosh.'

    'I've just got in.' Lysander was now feeding Jack Toblerone and trying to read Ferdie's Evening Standard, which was a later edition, upside down.

    'EastEnders is on in a minute.' He got up to turn on the television. 'Then let's go clubbing later, Ferd. My overdraft's so big I might as well make it bigger. I must just check my horoscope,' he added, switching over to Ceefax and Patric Walker.

    'It'll tell you the debtors' prison is looming,' said Ferdie.Turning off the television, he sat Lysander down and made him open the brown envelopes. The bills were horrific.

    'Barclaycard, Ladbroke's, Foxtrot Oscar, Tramps, British Telecom,' intoned Ferdie. 'Christ, your telephone bill's longer than your telephone number.'

    'It's not all me.'

    'The long-distance calls are itemized and all to Dolly. And how in hell did you spend seven hundred pounds at Janet Reger?'

    That was Dolly's Christmas present.'

    'Not to mention bills for bootmakers, saddlers, vets, feed bills, livery fees, blacksmith, Interflora; and here's a letter from the off-licence complaining your cheque bounced. How did you manage to run up a bill for five hundred pounds at an off-licence?'

    The girl with the big boobs lets me have it on tick. It's useful when we have parties.' Having filled up his glass, Lysander filled up Jack's water-bowl. 'I watched satellite in Palm Beach. You can watch racing twenty-four hours a day. Turn on the telly. It'll be The Bill in a minute.'

    'You are not going to watch anything,' snapped Ferdie, stacking the bills tidily and chucking the brown envelopes in the waste-paper basket. 'You owe me four months' rent and you can at least sign on tomorrow.'

    Lysander shuddered. 'They might find me a job. Basically, I need a holiday.'

    'Matt Gibson saved his dole money for six months and went skiing,' said Ferdie sternly.

    'I've never saved anything in my life. OK, I'll go and tap Dad tomorrow.'

    Knowing how Lysander loathed going to see his father, Ferdie relented. Ringing a head-hunting friend called Roger Westwood, he arranged for Lysander to see him the following day.

    There's a PR job going,' said Ferdie switching off the telephone. The firm's got two bloodstock agencies and a polo club. At least you know something about horses.'But turning round, he found Lysander had fallen asleep with Jack clutched in his arms like a teddy bear. He looked about twelve. He could sleep anywhere, curling up in patches of sunlight like a cat. Sighing, Ferdie removed his shoes and covered him with his own duvet.

    Ferdie had a rotten morning taking some Arabs (who had no idea what they were looking for and who hardly spoke any English) round a big block of luxury flats in Chelsea Harbour. The weather was even meaner than yesterday There were no meters and Ferdie had to put his BMW convertible in a car-park, forcing the Arabs to walk two hundred yards with a bitter east wind whipping up their robes. They were then so picky that Ferdie's good nature ran out. Shoving them into a taxi instead of driving them back to Claridge's, he returned to bung the porter, who often tipped him off if people were moving out, about new flats coming on to the market.

    Ringing the office from his car, he learnt that a Greek couple had ratted on a deal on a half a million pounds Radnor Walk house.

    Twelve thousand pounds the poorer, Ferdie abandoned his perennial diet and mindlessly devoured two bacon rolls. Ringing Lysander to check he was on course for the interview with Roger Westwood he got no answer. Ferdie cursed. Roger was a vital contact because people he placed in jobs were often moving and needed to sell houses and buy new ones. Ferdie was putting his own reputation on the line, sending Lysander to see him. He'd better go back to Fountain Street to see what was going on.

    Lysander appeared compliant but ended up doing! exactly what he chose. Ferdie was reminded of an English] Setter his family had once owned, who was beautiful, sweet natured, thick but also cunning, with a nose on elastic for bitches, and virtually untrainable.

    He found the place in chaos. Lysander shed possessions like leaves in autumn. Records, tapes, telephone books, glasses, the remains of breakfast, over-flowing ashtrays, the racing pages of the Sun and several discarded ties littered the sitting room. Lysander, already dressed for the interview, was ringing Ladbroke's.

    'Why the hell can't you shut my bedroom door?' Ferdie retrieved a Gucci loafer from Jack's ravening jaws. 'And what do you look like?'

    Lysander glanced down at the crumpled grey suit and the blue and white striped shirt.

    'Basically I put on the thing that least needed ironing,' he said apologetically.

    He'd have pinched one of my shirts if they hadn't been too big, thought Ferdie darkly, then caught sight of an empty bottle of Moe't in the waste-paper basket.

    'You've been drinking.'

    'Only half the bottle.'

    'You can't fucking afford champagne.'

    'I didn't,' said Lysander smugly. 'An incredibly nice girl turned up with it from The Scorpion. She left me her card.'

    Examining it, Ferdie gave a groan.

    'Beattie Johnson! Are you crazy? She's the most bent journalist in England.'

    'Well, she was sweet to me. Said she'd read all the Palm Beach stuff and wanted me to have the chance to tell my side of the story, and if I told her all about Martha and Sherry, The Scorpion might give me a Ferrari.'

    Ferdie went white. 'You didn't?'

    'Course not.' Lysander assumed an air of great virtue. 'I couldn't do that to Martha. Besides, Dolly would do her nut. Off the record I did tell her how funny it was escaping from Elmer's and being picked up by Sherry. She took some pictures. She said she could get me some modelling work.'

    'Christ, when will you learn?' Ferdie was in despair, but there was no time for reproaches.

    Sighing, he straightened Lysander's tie, gave his shoes a last polish and brushed Jack's white hairs off his suit. He then put a couple of Roger Westwood's cards in bothLysander's breast and inside pockets and turned down the A-Z with the relevant road ringed. Finally he gave Lysander an Extra Strong mint to hide the champagne fumes and his last twenty-pound note in case he needed some cash.

    'Now, don't forget to steer Roger on to racing. That's the only thing you know anything about, and try and look interested. No, you haven't got time to watch Neighbours, Move it.'

    An insanely fast driver, Lysander reached Roger's office near Holborn ten minutes early and pulled up his battered dark green Golf outside a television shop to watch the end of Neighbours and the runners going down to the start for the 2.15. He'd been right to back that dark brown mare she looked really well. Neighbours ended on a clinch, which reminded Lysander that Dolly was due back this evening, Worried about the side-effects of being on the Pill since she was fourteen, Dolly had recently come off it, so he had better nip into the next door chemist's shop to buy some condoms. He was just waiting at the counter wondering if rainbow ones would improve his performance Dolly

    was very demanding when

    a girl swept into the shop sending a rack of bath caps flying.

    She was very tall and thin, with fine pale hair drawn] back from a long, beautiful unmade-up face into a tortoise shell clip. Very inadequately dressed in a grey wool midi-dress, she had the gangling panicky air of a giraffe who'd] escaped from the zoo into rush-hour traffic.

    'I want some eye-gel,' she announced in a high, trembling voice. 'No, not that one, it's tested on animals,] In fact I want three tubes. I'm going to be doing a lot of crying in the next few days. My husband's just left me.' And she burst into tears.