The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (15 page)

    'No, not in our bedroom,' she squeaked with a resurgence of virtue, 'and certainly not in there,' as Lysander tried another door. 'That's where I caught Larry and

    Nikki.'

    'Good, I can lay you and the ghost.' 'But the central heating's been off for days.' Lysander's body was warmer than any radiator as he drew her close, and slowly began to unbutton her navy-blue cardigan.

    'Turn off the laight,' moaned Marigold as she shot

    between the peach satin sheets.

    'I want to look at you,' said Lysander. In the end they compromised by leaving the light on on Lysander's side with the lampshade tipped outwards. 'God, I love snogging. Let's go on for hours.' And Marigold, who hadn't snogged since the Purley Odeon in the sixties, responded with alacrity.

    Then with the joyful excitement of a child unpacking a Christmas stocking he began to explore her body.

    'Christ, these are beautiful.' He buried his face in her heavy breasts. 'And do you like being stroked here?' He turned her over to admire her surprisingly high rounded bottom. 'This is my favourite bit.' His hands crept up the velvet inside of her thighs. 'No, it isn't quite. This is.' His long fingers disappeared into the sticky, spongy burrow. 'Aaaaaah,' sighed Marigold.

    'Eureka,' said Lysander as like a doorbell in the dark his middle finger found the nub of her clitoris.

    'Ay reek of what?' Marigold jumped away in horror, She knew she should have washed beforehand. 'The only Greek I know. Come here.' 'Ay truly shouldn't.' 'Isn't it nice?'

    'Heavenly, but we mustn't, oh, please go on, oh, gracious me, how lovely, oh, help me, help me.' Marigold went silent and rigid, her breath came in little gasps and she forgot to hold her tummy in. Finally she gave a contented moan.

    'Oh Lay-sander, that was top 'ole.'

    'It certainly was.' Opening her eyes, she saw he was smiling down at her. 'Open your legs, and I'll turn you to cream. Did you enjoy it?'

    'Oh, very much, and now Ay must give you pleasure.'

    Dutifully Marigold reared up on her elbow. The progress of her hand down his flat belly into the down of hair was impeded by a cock rearing up like the Tower of Pisa.

    'May word.'

    Marigold had never really liked Larry's cock, which was rather small and, because he preferred to make love in the morning, she'd never known after a night's sleep what was under the folds. She'd always treated it like an unexploded bomb.

    But Lysander, having had a shower after their jog, smelled as fresh and sweet as the violets that had scented the valley that afternoon, and his cock tasting faintly of Pear's soap was so hard and smooth beneath her lips that she began to give it puppy licks.

    Used to Dolly's snake-like flickering expertise, Lysander was curiously turned on. But when she grew bolder and tried to take his cock in her mouth he sensed her fear, and detaching himself slithered down the satin sheets, pulling her on top of him.

    'Oh, that's wonderful,' gasped Marigold, feeling gloriously thrust upward. 'Oh Lay-sander, I'm flaying from your flagpole. Oh Lay-sander. LAY-SANDER!'

    That was miraculous,' said Lysander, retrieving the duvet from the floor, as he collapsed back on to the satin pillows.

    'You're amazing, a complete revelation.'

    Then are supposed to go on for hours, I never last more than a minute if

    I'm lucky, so I make up for it beforehand.'

    'Ay should feel guilty.''Why we

    must have lost at least five hundred calories.'

    Then, suddenly, he sat up, put the fist of one hand into the palm of the other, screwed up his face engagingly like Hermione, and sang in a high falsetto: 'Blow the cock, southerly, southerly, southerly,' and they both collapsed with giggles.

    'We mustn't tell Ferdie,' said Marigold.

    'No, he'd be livid,' said Lysander in alarm. 'He insisted no bonking.'

    'We won't do it again.'

    'We might. If we use up another five hundred calories, we could get a take-away for supper.'

    'Oh, yes please.'

    'How about now.'

    Marigold glanced at the clock in amazement. 'But you'll miss Neighbours.'

    'Some things are more important.'

    'Oh Laysander, that's the greatest compliment Ay've ever been paid. Why don't we phone Mrs Brimscombe and ask her to record it?'

II

    This and subsequent glorious couplings cheered Marigold up immensely, particularly when her two sons came home from prep school for the weekend, and fell almost more in love with Lysander than she had. Not only did he play endless billiards and darts with them, and took them to the amusement arcades in Rutminster and to the stables to mess around with Arthur and Tiny, but he also initiated them into the more dubious pleasures of poker, chemmy and betting.

    Jason's shriek of delight when he won on an each-way bet at Chepstow was only equalled by Mark's quiet satisfaction that, by the end of the weekend, Lysander owed him 5,225 pounds at poker.

    Marigold was wryly aware that Lysander was far nearer to the boys in age and behaviour than he was to her. But she was overjoyed to see her sons emerge from pale monosyllabic shell-shock, no doubt induced as much by two terms at an English prep school as by the collapse of their parents' marriage. She was also gratified that whenever the boys were absorbed with anything, Lysander sloped out to the kitchen for a surreptitious, but no less passionate, embrace. He couldn't keep his hands off her.

    She had lost a further seven pounds a week later when she got a telephone call on her private line. Knowing it could only be Larry, she was only just stopped by Lysander from snatching up the receiver on the first ring. The warmth of his hand over hers gave her strength.

    'Make him wait ten rings, and play it cool.'

    Larry was telephoning to say he'd be in the area thatevening, could he drop in for a very quick drink. Marigold was thrown into total panic.

    'We'd better ask Ferdie's advice on this one,' said

    Lysander.

    Ferdie, bored of not selling houses in London and wanting to suss out properties in Paradise, said he would be straight down to orchestrate the whole thing.

    Larry Lockton was a bully with a mega-ego and no small talk, who was used to ordering around thousands at work. Having lost weight, found a decent dentist and coaxed his coarse black hair forward to hide a receding hairline, he had developed sex appeal late in life. Huge success at work and a decent tailor had accelerated the process. When addressing his social superiors, he talked with an orchard of plums in his mouth.

    Landing the helicopter, he saw a blur of yellow and purple. What the hell was Marigold doing spoiling his perfect lawn with crocuses? It would take ten grand off the asking price. He must remember to remove his gold discs, the Picasso, the Stubbs and the framed Beethoven sonata, before Marigold got too grasping over the spoils, Letting himself in, Larry was surprised not to be welcomed by Marigold. Only Patch greeted him, and then with reservation. Larry meant fewer chewsticks and banishment from her mistress's bed at night. Going into the kitchen, he found a table with pink candles laid for two, pink freesias and hyacinths everywhere and two bottles of Moet in the fridge.

    Oh Christ, he hoped Marigold wasn't planning to lure him into staying for dinner. Nikki was expecting him back. They were going to a party to meet Kiri Te Kanawa and Marigold's attempted candle-lit lobster thermidor last month had ended in total hysterics and both lobsters being hurled at him. He'd better watch out for flying

    sauceboats.

    He could hear noises overhead. Finding a navy-blue overcoat covered in dog hairs hanging over the banisters, Larry went slowly up to his former bedroom where he was shocked to discover his naked wife blow-drying her hair. Seeing him, she jumped only slightly, then languidly wrapped round herself a fluffy yellow towel which matched her eyes.

    'Larry! Ay didn't hear you arrive. Let me finish my hair. You know it drays crinkly if Ay stop in the middle.'

    Marigold then kept him waiting half an hour, giving him time to absorb all Lysander's clutter of drying boots, breeches, Sporting Lifes, and a pile of beautifully ironed Harvie & Hudson shirts on the hall table. When she wandered down, still in the yellow towel, Marigold was delighted to see Larry's shirt was crumpled and missing a button.

    She also noticed how old he looked compared

    with Lysander and

    that, with hair long enough for a pony-tail, a new black moustache, bags under his eyes and designer stubble flecked with grey (all no doubt Nikki's work), he looked seedy rather than sexy. He was also dressed uncharacteristically butchly in a studded leather jacket, and black jeans belted with a large silver buckle.

    'Where's your motor bike?' she said teasingly. 'I thought you'd have got fat gobblin' up all those poor little companies, but you seem to have lost even more weight. Have a glass of bubbly. Ay'm going to.'

    It's my fucking champagne, thought Larry, noticing that as she took the bottle out of the fridge, she replaced it with another, and that her hair was streaked very blond and her toenails had been newly painted scarlet. The towel was showing a great expanse of stunning, recently waxed, Duo-tanned legs. Marigold, in fact, was looking fantastic, as though she'd been restored and a picture light shone over her.

    Larry then asked her if she'd mind coming to the party next week to launch Georgie Maguire's new album, Rock

    Star.

    'I've brought the whole package.' Larry threw the tape, the single and the album down on the kitchen table.The sleeve showed Georgie Maguire clinging wetly to a rock, with her head thrown back, eyes closed, nostrils flaring, long, drenched red hair snaking down her back. 'I think it looks terrific.'

    'Hermione was barefoot on the sleeve of Blow the wind southerly,' said Marigold, who knew Nikki had worked on the design. 'Are you trying to tell folk your artistes can't

    afford shoes?'

    Larry refused to rise. 'Album's going to be a massive hit. It's storming up the American charts, so the party'll be a celebration. Loads of names accepted already. Hermione and Rannaldini are coming.'

    'And presumably Nikki to add glamour,' said Marigold

    sweetly.

    'She might look in,' admitted Larry. 'Should be a

    terrific bash.'

    I'll bash her, thought Marigold, narrowly missing Larry as the champagne cork flew out.

    Larry adjusted his leather jacket, bought new that morning, wondering if it were over the top. He felt more at home in pinstripe.

    'Pop in for half an hour,' he said gruffly, 'just to show Georgie there's no hard feelings.'

    'Because she won't sign another contract with you, if she has an inkling what an absolute shit you've been to me,' said Marigold flaring up.

    'Chill out,' said Larry, which irritated Marigold more than ever. 'It's in your interest. You'll be able to screw far more maintenance out of me if Georgie signs that contract,' he added heartily. 'Besides it's her first big break in twenty years. She wants her best friend there.'

    Weighing up the options, Marigold let the towel slip a

    fraction.

    'And I'd like you to be there,' Larry was shocked to

    hear himself saying.

    'All right, Ay'll show,' Marigold agreed flatly, 'and tray and behave.' Then, glancing at the kitchen clock, 'I must get ready. Don't hurry, finish your drink.'

    Utterly thrown, expecting either abuse or pleading to stay, Larry drained his whisky, and was then even more flabbergasted when Marigold said: 'Ay've decided Ay've been horribly selfish over the kids. One must be civilized for their sakes. And they must get to know Nikki, she's so near them in age.' Let Larry experience some of the same guilt she felt about cradle-snatching. 'In fact, you can have them next weekend. I'm goin' away.' 'To your mother?' asked Larry.

    'No, to Paris.' Marigold smiled beautifully. 'And Mummy would be decaydedly de trap.'

    If Larry had looked round he would have seen the tears in his wife's eyes. Instead, trampling crocuses underfoot as he strode furiously out to his helicopter, he was incensed to see a red Ferrari, unleashed by a signal from Ferdie, storming up the drive. Larry had refused to listen to Hermione's hints about an over-familiar workman. Workmen in his experience did not drive Ferraris. Only when he looked back from his helicopter did he read: CATCHITUNE in yellow and purple on the lawn and almost weep.

    Five days later Lysander drove Marigold up to London for Georgie Maguire's launching party. A huge sixties star, Georgie was now in her late forties. But from the posters plastered all over the walls of Hammersmith and Fulham: GEORGIE MAGUIRE LIVE

    IN CONCERT, which showed

    her clinging to the same wet rock as on the CD sleeve, she was still seductive in a slightly blousy way.

    'How can one be dead in concert?' asked Lysander, dodging and diving through end-of-rush-hour traffic.

    'She'll be dead on her feet from touring and jet lag,' said Marigold.

    Georgie's new album was already Number Two in America, because of the leading track, the actual 'Rock Star' of the title. The song, in fact, was not about a rock star, but a celebration of Georgie's abiding love for her husband Guy, who was not only the rock on which she built her life, but the star who guided her. The sentimentwould have been mawkish had not the lyrics and melody, written and sung by Georgia herself in her husky, mezzo-soprano voice, been so beautiful. With so many marriages breaking up, such a simple public confession of love had driven the Americans wild. The young in particular adored the song, because they craved the example of a happy lasting union in the same way they had loved 'Lady in Red', which Chris de Burgh had written about his wife. To distract herself from the terrors of Lysander's driving, and the party ahead, Marigold played the advance Rock Star tape all the way up to London. It still made

    her cry.

    'What's Georgie's husband like?' asked Lysander, overtaking a startled chauffeur in a limo on the inside, as he stormed up the Lillie Road.

    'Oh, very attractive, rather stern, but incredibly kaind.

    Georgie used to be terribly wild before she married and

    for quite a whayle afterward. Guy got an honours degree

    at Cambridge and a boxing blue. His father was a bishop in

    some hot African country, so Guy's used to givin' orders.

    His family were horrifayed when he married Georgie, but

    he stuck bay her. He calmed her down, understood her

    need for freedom, yet yanked in the reins when she went

    too far. He was also big enough to handle her success

    and her failures. He was there when she went out of

    fashion in the late-seventies, and stopped her drinking

    heavily when she had one flop after another. Ay've never

    forgotten her last big launch in the early eighties. They

    hired the Hippodrome and none of the media turned up,

    just Georgie dancing by herself to her own music, then

    collapsin' in a sozzled heap. It was terrible.'

    'Poor Georgie,' Lysander was appalled. 'I'd have danced

    with her.'

    'She's a bit scatty, too,' went on Marigold, checking her reflection for the thousandth time, 'and Guy's always given her so much back-up domestically, changing nappies, taking the kids out. He's a wonderful cook, too. He should give Larry lessons.'

    'And me,' said Lysander. 'He sounds depressingly like one of my brothers. How did you and Georgie meet?'

    'She came as a temp to the office where Ay was working, tryin' to support herself between gigs. She could only taype with two fingers, and used to come in and collapse on the taypewriter complainin' that she'd been trippin' all night. I tayped most of her letters. But she was such fun. She had lots of unsuitable musician boyfriends, but Guy was always in the background. Her Guyrope, she called him. Finally they got married.'

    'What does he do?' asked Lysander, shooting a red light at the bottom of the North End Road.

    'Well, he was thinking of going into the Church. He'd have packed them in like Billy Graham, but the thought of Georgie as a vicar's waife probably put him off, so he went into Sotheby's, he was always arty and had a terrific eye. Now he's got his own gallery. He's pretty successful, discovering obscure painters, then making a killing when they become famous.

    'Their finances have always been a bit haphazard, but hopefully Rock Star will put them on a secure financial footing. They need it for all the money they're pourin' into Angel's Reach. The trouble is they're too generous. Guy's always helping struggling artists, and he does so much for charity.'

    'Guy, Guy with the terrific eye,' said Lysander. 'When they move into Paradise, he can take your place on all those "Preservation of Rural Gentlecats" committees, and you can spend all day in bed with me.'

    'Whay d'you draive so fast?' shrieked Marigold, as, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming bus, Lysander screeched off right into Fountain Street.

    'Because I'm desperate to bonk you before Ferdie gets home.'

    Waving a friendly two fingers at the gays opposite, who were peering out of their curtains, Lysander whisked her into the flat.As it was they had plenty of time. Marigold was changing and Lysander was watching EastEnders and giggling over a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, signed: plastered OF paris, which he and Marigold had sent Ferdie, when Ferdie himself walked in, bringing a new dark blue pinstripe suit, made by Douglas Hay ward, for Lysander.