The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (19 page)

    That's the first draft I wrote, thought the head of publicity indignantly, and I've been fired a dozen times today for my pains.

    Georgie took the microphone and in a choked voice thanked everyone at Catchitune, and particularly Larry and his lovely wife, Marigold.

    'Hurrah,' bellowed the Catchitune staff glaring at Nikki. 'It's been a long time in the wilderness,' Georgie went on, 'which makes tonight even more special. This is the second happiest day of my life. The happiest was when I married my husband, Guy Seymour' she

    emphasized Guy's surname 'the

    loveliest, strongest man in the world. I'd like you to drink to Guy, my rock.'

    Everyone clapped and cheered. Standing beside Marigold, Lysander noticed a girl in front removing her spectacles to wipe away the tears, and realized it was Kitty Rannaldini. He'd say hallo later. Then, in the lull that followed, out of the gloom, Marigold's very distinct tones could be heard saying to the man on her other side, 'Are you the chief buyer of Tower Records or a disc jockey for Radio 1? Well, take your 'and off may bottom then.' There was a howl of mirth.

    'Marigold used to be such a dutiful wife,' whispered Hermione in shocked tones. 'What has got into her?' 'I think that miraculous toy boy has,' said Bob.

    'Larry's having an affaire with that ghastly Nikki,' hissed Georgie, as smilingly she and Guy posed for photographs.

    'Shut up,' hissed back Guy. 'The boot's on the other foot.'

    'Lovely speech,' said Nikki, coiling her hand into Larry's.

    'Just going to check the other room,' said Larry noticing Marigold was missing.

    Next door, the smell of dope and hairy male armpits spilling out of sleeveless T-shirts was suffocating.

    'Rock star, rock star, my life would be a zero, without my steadfast hero,' sang the writhing, gyrating couples in ecstasy.

    Indifferent to such proof of a mega-hit on his hands, Larry scoured the room. Then suddenly the dancers parted like clouds at night to reveal two bright stars, Lysander and Marigold, in each other's arms. Outraged, Larry watched Lysander put a joint in Marigold's mouth and her breasts swelling provocatively as she inhaled, then Lysander taking a last puff before stamping it underfoot, then French kissing her on and on, with all Catchitune's staff and distributors dancing round to have a better look. Larry was appalled at the pain. Stumbling upstairs, he roared at the General Manager to close the bar.

    As Lysander and Marigold drifted back hand in hand, Georgie noticed the diamond brooch on Marigold's black velvet coat.

    'Isn't that lovely?'

    'Lysander took me to Carrier's this afternoon,' yelled Marigold over the din of the music as Larry joined the group. 'It's the key to freedom.'

    Noticing his wife was no longer wearing a wedding-ring, Larry felt sick.

    Waitresses were gathering up plates. Guests were ostentatiously up-ending empty glasses hoping for refills. 'We must go,' said Marigold. 'I thought you were coming out to dinner,' wailed Georgie.

    'We've got to get back to Paradise. Patch is on her own. We just dropped in to wish you luck. Not that you're going to need it. I'll ring you first thing for a proper gossip.' Larry and Guy exchanged uneasy glances. On the way out, Lysander tore another page from Marigold's diary and peeled off to get Chris de Burgh's autograph.

    Oblivious of Nikki's chilling, killing stare, Larry bolted after Marigold, drawing her aside. She noticed that his T-shirt could have been whiter. He noticed the softness of her thighs swelling up into the black velvet shorts and the way her breasts swung gently as bells under her white silk shirt.

    Oblivious to Catchitune staff, who were handing out little papier-mache rocks, tapes of Rock Star and Body Shop seaweed extract as going-home presents, he said: 'You look beautiful, Mar, I'll ring you.'

    Catching them up, Lysander deliberately dropped Marigold's diary, which Larry pocketed, and was horrified to read: Lysander, venice scrawled across the next weekend. No wonder she didn't want the boys.

    His evening was further ruined when he arrived with Georgie and Guy and the rest of his party at Hero's, his favourite restaurant, and was accosted by the headwaiter who was the worst gossip in Soho, and constantly feeding stories to Dempster.

    'Meester Lockton, I am very pleased to see Meesis Lockton dining here the other night with your younger brother. She look very well.'

    'I thought you were an only child, Larry,' said Hermione loudly.

    Once again ignoring Nikki's killing stare, Larry snarled, 'Bring me a packet of Silk Cut.'

    Primed beforehand, the band struck up 'Rock Star' as Georgie entered the dining room.

    'Everyone in the room will be humming it in a week, Panda,' said Guy proudly, then in an undertone to Larry, 'we've got to get that contract signed, before Marigold gives Georgie an earful tomorrow. insanely loyal.'

    But Larry could only think of his own problems. In the past, bored with Marigold, envious of Rannaldini's effortless promiscuity, he had fallen madly in love with Nikki. Now he was torn between his rapacious sexy mistress, who was at this moment deliberately flirting with Guy, and Marigold who had looked utterly ravishing this evening. How unhappy would I be without either? thought Larry. Catchitune had just recorded The Beggar's Opera.

    Nor had he anticipated how wildly jealous he would be of this Adonis with his public-school accent. He'd been humiliated in front of his entire staff, who knew all about Nikki, because Nikki had told them, and if there were a messy divorce, he might not get his knighthood before Rannaldini, if at all.

    In addition, Nikki was not as clockwork as Marigold. She was far less efficient in the office now she had to look after him at home, and last night she had shouted at him for putting his plate in the sink rather than the dishwasher. Before he met Nikki, Larry had never lifted a finger at home except to check the dust on top of a picture.

    He was haunted by Rannaldini's warning:

    'Once she's hooked you, the mistress becomes the wardress. She knows all the tricks you used to cheat on Marigold.'

    Nikki now sat in his office, monitoring his telephone calls from all those young singers, who seemed perfectly happy for Larry to make them, if he was prepared to make their records as well. Since he'd taken up with Nikki and shattered the myth of being an utterly faithful husband, gorgeous girls had been looking at him in the most exciting way. All that promise would be nipped in the bud if he settled for Nikki.

    They keep a cosh behind their backs,' warned Rannaldini. 'You never see it until they've got the handcuffs on. I made that mistake with Cecilia. She begrudged me my old freedoms, so I ditched her.'

    Larry was fed up with going to the gym, only drinking spritzers bloody

    wet and

    not smoking and saying 'No', to canapes. Ignoring Nikki's scowl of rage, he accepted a white roll from the waiter, and spreading it thickly with butter, ordered Spaghetti Carbonara as a first course followed by a T-bone and chips.

    Georgie was now signing an autograph for an elderly couple at the next table.

    'I'd much rather she signed that contract,' hissed Guy.

    Looking across at Nikki being calmed down by Bob, Larry had a brainwave.

    'I'll get it,' he said.

    Nipping out to the Rolls, as he had so often in the past when he wanted to ring Nikki, his heart thumping, he dialled Marigold's number. Just as he was about to ring off the telephone was picked up. There was music and laughter in the background.

    'We oughta talk, Princess,' Larry told Marigold roughly. 'I gotta be in Bristol tomorrow. Thought I'd spend the night at home and return your diary.'

    'What took you so long?' snapped Nikki, as Larry sat down beside her and kissed her fondly on the cheek. After all, he did want a fuck later.

    'Getting this,' he said, putting a sheaf of papers in front of Georgie. 'Can I have your autograph, please?'

    'For your wife, your daughter, your mother or your girlfriend,' said Georgie with a laugh.

    'For myself,' said Larry.

    It was a Catchitune contract for a million pounds.

    Not wanting to alert the whole of Paradise to his return, Larry drove rather than flew down the following evening. Arriving as the red flame of sunset finally gave way to the distant russet glow of the Rutminster streetlights, he caught a glimpse of Catchitune written in fading crocuses and breathed in a heady scent of polyanthus, narcissus and newly turned earth, as he got out of a borrowed Mini. The Grange might face north, but it was still the finest garden in Paradise. He noticed a ladder against the house, Mr Brimscombe, the finest gardener in Rutshire, although threatened with the sack, had been trimming the famous Paradise Pearl from around the master-bedroom windows. Across the valley he could see a single light burning in Valhalla. Kitty was still working, sorting out the tangled skeins of her husband's life. Soon Rannaldini, too, would be home studying and settling scores in his tower in the woods. Angel's Reach was in darkness, but shortly Georgie would be burning the midnight oil earning her million pound advance as she worked on her new album to be handed in by Christmas, and to the left he could see the jewel-coloured stained-glass hall windows of the River House. Bob and Hermione must be enjoying a rare evening at home.

    Larry gave a sigh of satisfaction all

    these people beavering away to put money into Catchitune's coffers. Despite the doom and gloom, this year's figures had been good, next year's should be spectacular. Only when he turned towards his own house did he realize that the only lights on were the carriage lamps by the door.Letting himself in, falling over one of Lysander's boots, he only just reached the burglar alarm in time. After initial woofing, Patch slumped back in her basket, sulking because Jack, her boyfriend, had been banished for the

    evening.

    Larry had skipped lunch anticipating a delicious dinner cooked by Marigold, but had planned on working up a further appetite by screwing her beforehand.

    In the kitchen he was welcomed by Marks & Spencer's Chicken and Asparagus and Bread and Butter Pudding, both in foil trays. He loathed asparagus. There was also a note from Marigold: 'Larry,' (not even dear), 'These will take five minutes in the microwave. Gone out to dinner, back around midnight. Make yourself at home.'

    It's my fucking home, thought Larry furiously. He couldn't even ring for someone to run him up steak and chips because he'd laid them all off, and even he wouldn't summon Mrs Brimscombe from the lodge in the middle of Coronation Street.

    There were no curtains drawn, nor a fire in the lounge. He couldn't complain. It was so mild that in the old days, he would have bellyached about the central heating being left on or a fire lit.

    Returning to the kitchen, he found an empty bottle of champagne in the bin, two glasses in the sink and a huge bunch of pink roses with a card on the draining board. 'Marigold, you were out of this world. All love, L.'

    His Harley Street consultant had warned him against stress, but Larry had never been nearer a coronary as he bolted upstairs and was knocked sideways by the smell of Joy. Marigold was tidy to the point of finickityness, but now carrier bags with new clothes littered the bed and the armchairs. In the bathroom he found the top off the scented body lotion, a razor clogged with hair that looked unpleasantly pubic, a Cellophane pack that had contained black, eight-denier, seamed stockings and a size ten label on the floor. Marigold used to be size sixteen. The hairdryer was still plugged in, and worst of all The Joy of Sex on the edge of the bath lay open at fellatio. It was no comfort to Larry that this was exactly the state in which Nikki left their new en suite bathroom in Pelham Crescent.

    With a howl Larry hurled The Joy of Sex out of the window, whereupon the clockwork squawking of a pheasant reminded him of his clockwork wife running away. Not wanting to go home to Nikki, who thought he was looking at a new pop group in Bristol, he stormed down to The Pearly Gates and got so drunk he didn't even notice Marigold, Lysander and Ferdie coming out of The Heavenly Host across the road around eleven.

    'Ay've got fraightful butterflies,' gasped Marigold as Ferdie pulled up outside The Grange.

    'Should be moths at night,' said Lysander, who'd been getting gloomier as the evening progressed.

    'No more lipstick,' ordered Ferdie, as Marigold opened her bag.

    Ruffling her hair, he undid several buttons of her red dress -'You've

    got to look as though you've been got at,' -before

    allowing her out of the car.

    'Now play it cool, and remember no bonking. We'll stick around for a sec in case you need rescuing.'

    Watching Marigold going up the steps, Lysander felt the same sickness as when his mother, trying not to cry, had walked down the platform after putting him on the school train. But a minute later Marigold came rushing back.

    'He's gone, without leaving a note,' she sobbed. 'Ay've blown it, Ay've blown it.'

    Appalled to find Marigold so devastated, Lysander leapt out of the car.