The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (52 page)

    'Don't be ridiculous,' said Lysander with rare ill temper. 'It'd be a farce. There's no way I could get Rannaldini back for Kitty. He was never hers in the first place. For Marigold, for you, for Hermione, not that she needs it, for Rachel even, no problem. But not poor little Kitty, for Christ's sake.'

    With her sad, round, formless face, Kitty reminded him of the huge white moon hanging like a plate above Larry's woods, hardly discernible in the pale azure sky of the first

    dusk.

    'Go on,' urged Ferdie, scenting more cash. 'Give it a try.'

    If Lysander was refusing to leave Paradise and Georgie, this seemed a good way to supplement his income.

    Lysander scooped up Maggie who was trembling at the bangs of the clay shoot, cuddling her to his chest.

    'You just collect the ten per cent,' he said crossly. 'You get Rannaldini back if you feel so strongly. I'm having none of it.'

    The others proceeded to get drunk and noisy. Lysander sat in silence, watching the moon rising, turning from a pale pinky-orange to butter-gold like one of Miss Cricklade's sunflowers, to incandescent mother-of-pearl, and then flooding the whole valley while the sky deepened from smoky-blue to sapphire as the doomed, menacing notes of Rachmaninov's third and most difficult piano concerto floated up from Jasmine Cottage.

    'Rachel plays wonderfully well,' said Marigold. 'Larry says she's going to be a big star.'

    'Might cheer her up,' said Georgie. 'Better than grumbling about junk food and fending off passes from Rannaldini.'

    'You'd be a true knaight in shining armour if you rattled Rannaldini and made him naicer to Kitty,' said Marigold.At six o'clock the following morning, Kitty was woken by the hiss of illicit sprinklers defying the hose-pipe ban. The floodlights of Paradise Grange across the valley had been switched off, which would delight Rachel, but to the left Venus blazed golden, and as Orion, followed by his yawning dogs, pulled on his boots and climbed up the sky, Kitty could see Mr Brimscombe wearily picking up discarded underclothes round the pool. Natasha and a crowd of friends had gone skinny-dipping in the middle of the night. Their shrieks must have roused the whole neighbourhood.

    Glancing in the mirror, Kitty gave a wail. Desperate at the lankness of her hair, in her tiredness she had misread the home-perm directions and left the mix on too long. The result was a scorched, frizzy mass. If only she could hide behind the tea urn this afternoon, but, at the last moment, Rannaldini had asked the vicar, whose wife was away, and would expect Kitty to make up the numbers. Falling to her knees, Kitty prayed to God to make her less vain.

    'And let me not let my partner down too badly this afternoon and please don't let anyone find out it's my birthday or they'll be embarrassed.'

    It was already hot and airless as she crept downstairs. Amid the chaos of dirty glasses, mugs, beer cans and overflowing ashtrays, there was a note from Natasha about not singeing her tennis dress. Kitty wanted to scream, but at least she hadn't got the curse and Mrs Brimscombe was coming to help with tea.

    Matters were not improved by Cecilia wandering down at lunchtime wanting three exquisite tennis dresses she'd bought in Rome ironed, and Rannaldini arriving from a morning on the Fidelia set, finding fault with everything, and insisting she repack his suitcase should he decide to push off back to Germany tonight instead of early tomorrow.

    Now, in accompaniment to Richard Strauss's Arabella, Kitty could hear the buzz of three hairdriers upstairs, as, fearful of Rachel arriving early and bollocking her for using aerosols, she gave a closet squirt of Mr Sheen to the dining-room tables before laying out the tea things.

    The main tennis court at Valhalla lay some three hundred yards from the house beyond the swimming-pool. It was ringed by a thick high hornbeam hedge, which also encompassed grassy banks, where spectators could lie out, and a charming duck-egg-blue pavilion. Opposite this, a spyhole had been cut out of the hornbeam, giving a delightful view of the valley and Magpie Cottage. Although Valhalla was greener than anywhere else in Paradise on this stiflingly hot day, Rannaldini couldn't entirely stem the approach of autumn. Despite Mr Brimscombe's incessant sweeping, the lawn was strewn with gold leaves and chattering swallows lined up on the grey roof of the house. On the table in the pavilion Kitty had put a big blue bowl of greengages and plums from Rannaldini's orchard, a matching blue vase of yellow snapdragons and red dahlias and two big jugs of lemon barley water but

    no alcohol. Tennis was taken deadly seriously at Valhalla. Pained by such a hideous colour combination, Rannaldini removed the red dahlias from the vase, chucking them on the grass to be trodden underfoot by the first arrivals.

    As beautiful as the peacock butterflies crowding the Michaelmas daisies round the pavilion gathered the lass of Paradise, their limbs as smooth and shiningly brown as the conkers hanging in their prickly cases on the great golden chestnuts on the edge of Rannaldini's woods. Cecilia wore the palest pink dress, with hugecut-outs at the waist, Natasha a zip-up white mini with her dark hair in a long plait tied with a scarlet ribbon. Marigold had covered her bulges with a broderie-anglaise shift and flaunted her lovely legs in the tiniest of white shorts. She was kicking herself for lending an adorable white cotton-jersey dress with a lace neckline to Rachel, which clung to Rachel's figure and showed off her even lovelier, long, lily-white legs, which Rachel loathed herself for shaving. Nor had being gratuitously rude about the monstrous expense of the dress deterred Rachel from wearing it.

    Arriving late, Georgie instantly cursed herself for not making more effort. Touched because Guy had brought her breakfast in bed, exhausted but happy after a long, successful morning's work, she hadn't bothered to wash her hair. Unable to find the new white shirt and flowered Bermudas she'd specially hidden from Flora, she'd been forced to wear yesterday's grey T-shirt and a pair of cycling shorts which had looked fine in the bedroom mirror. Only outside did she realize how pallid the backs of her legs were. Flora looked her usual truculent sexy self in the baggiest of white T-shirts.

    The male players on the whole looked less glamorous. The vicar, sporting a nazareth carpenter seeks joiners sticker in the back of his ancient Ford, rolled up in baggy greying shorts of just the wrong length.

    'Tepid rather than hot pants,' murmured Georgie.

    'Do I look like a bender?' asked Ferdie as he trained his normally slicked-back hair forward to cover a large red spot.

    'Yes,' said Lysander, turning the Ferrari into Rannaldini's drive.

    Feeling horrendously overweight, having eaten last night most of the large curry he and Lysander had ordered, Ferdie had kitted himself out at Lillywhites before leaving London. He was now appalled to discover he was wearing the same jokey orange shorts and white T-shirt covered with orange, red and mauve squiggles and orange-and-mauve sweat band as Larry. The only difference was that Larry had dressed up his outfit with a great deal of gold jewellery and was weighed down by six black Hammer Wilson racquets. Guy was in stitches.

    'I've got a non-figurative exhibition coming up next month,' he told Ferdie and Larry. 'I'll have to hang you both in the gallery.'

    'Ferdie's certainly got a non-figure,' said Natasha, poking his beer gut with her tennis racquet.

    'Ferdie's brilliant at figures,' said Lysander sharply, seeing the hurt in Ferdie's eyes.

    Aware how white flattered his powerful body and ruddy, suntanned face, Guy was pleased with his appearance until he saw Rannaldini in a ten times more expensive cream polo shirt, shorts showing off his chunky, walnut-brown legs and a cream bomber jacket with terracotta piping flung over his muscular shoulders. No heat was ever too hot for Rannaldini. Getting into training for hell-fires, thought Guy sourly. At least that fucker Lysander looked hungover to the teeth, and had only taken the trouble to tug on a pair of trainers and frayed denim shorts.

    Unlike Georgie, Lysander was dreading the afternoon. Not being married, he got no buzz out of situations where he had to conceal his feelings. He hated not being able to kiss Georgie and tell her how much he adored her, and she had warned him to be particularly careful today, because she didn't want Flora to suspect anything. Lysander's dogs showed no such reserve. Leaping out of the Ferrari, they threw themselves noisily on Dinsdale, Maggie swinging on his ginger ears, Jack chiding him for being away from them for at least eighteen hours, until they all took off into the wood.

    By the time the stable clock struck three all the guests had arrived. Natasha, black plait flying, was knockingup with Marigold, Larry and Guy, the standard terrifyingly high, as Kitty tried surreptitiously to join the party. She was foiled by Cecilia.

    'Keety, I never see you een shorts before, an' you change your 'air. Let's see you.'

    Everyone turned to look.

    'Thunder and lightning the size of your thighs is frightening,' sang Natasha.

    Aware of Rannaldini's irritated indifference, Kitty wanted to turn and run. Guy made everything worse by charging off the court.

    'Brickie looks terrific. We missed you at matins, didn't we, Percy? And you missed a splendid sermon.'

    'Hell for you, Kitty darling, having Cecilia staying,' whispered Meredith, who was looking sweet in mauve shorts and his white Christopher Robin hat, 'worse than having the builders in,' he went on. 'At least you've got hot water and no Hermione, or rather you did have.'

    'Manaccia,' swore Cecilia, swallowing a greengage stone.

    Marigold and Georgie exchanged looks of horror.

    I can't bear it, thought Kitty.

    'Bloody hell,' murmured Flora, 'Rannaldini's forgiven her and not me.'

    For Hermione had emerged from the path which had once more been strimmed through the wood to her house. Trampling heavily on chucked-out red dahlias, like a goddess in search of an apple, she was ravishingly dressed in a pleated white tunic which left one big golden shoulder bare. Her shining dark curls were arranged most becomingly over a flamingo-pink sweat band, which echoed the flush in her glowing brown cheeks.

    'Hallo, Brickie,' cried Hermione, ignoring all the other women, then turning to curtsy to Rannaldini, 'Good afternoon, Maestro, sorry we're late.'

    'Horsey, horsey, don't you stop,' whispered Lysander to Ferdie. 'Do you think Rannaldini's going to school her over the tennis net?'

    And he had such difficulty in keeping a straight face that he had to wander off into the wood.

    Following Hermione, carrying her bag and racquets as well as his own, came Bob, smiling as usual and looking elegantly old-fashioned in white flannels, braces and a panama shading his tired, deep-set eyes.

    He really is handsome, thought Rachel.

    Cecilia, who was livid to see Hermione, said: 'We better get started, Rannaldini, I've got to be on the set by ten o'clock tomorrow.' And she launched into 'Mir ist so wunderbar' from the first act of Fidelia to rub in that she, and not Hermione, had landed the part of Leonore.

    His eyes glittering with malice, Rannaldini tapped the table with the handle of his racquet.

    'Welcome to our tournament. The procedure is seemple. There are sixteen of us here. We divide into two groups, each consisting of four couples who each play one set against each other. Group One play on this court. Group Two on a court round corner. This means six sets on each court, then we break for a quick cup of tea, followed by the finals in which the best couple in each group play against each other.

    'We then have proper tea, as much champagne as any of you feel fitting to dreenk on a Sunday night, then the couple who has lost the most matches will streep off and jump naked into the pool,' Rannaldini smiled evilly, 'and the punishment bell will be rung.'

    'Who plays with who?' asked the vicar, gazing longingly at Lysander.

    'I come to that. The man who draws longest straw has first choice of partner, him with second longest, second choice, and so on.'

    Natasha came round with the straws. As Lysander, who'd temporarily stopped laughing, stretched out a lazy hand, Natasha deliberately let hers touch his.

    'Lucky in love, you choose first,' she said as he drew the longest straw.Lysander glanced round at the charming expectant faces: Flora looking sulkily sexy; Natasha smouldering with promise; Hermione radiating certainty of

    course he'll choose me; Rachel trying to appear indifferent, but her eyes telling a different story; Marigold smiling at Larry who was ringing Japan on his mobile; Cecilia letting her pink slit-skirt fall open: 'I will excite you more than any of the others,' said her hot, lingering glance; and Georgie, fondly indulgent Lysander's

    dear love, and to him even lovelier because she looked tired and not her best. Then at the back, her fat legs as brick-red as the squashed dahlias she was clutching, her face topped by that frightful frizzy perm and shiny from racing around all day, cringed Kitty. Her very white aertex shirt and her pleated shorts strained over her large breasts and bottom. Dying of humiliation, she gazed down at her racquet knowing she would be the last to be chosen. Georgie, whom he longed to please, had begged him to look after her.