The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

instantly sat Kitty down on the blue and white striped sofa in the summer parlour, banked up the fire, poured her a glass of brandy and turned on Hansel and Gretel pianissimo which he knew she loved. He didn’t even kick up when Lassie joined her on the sofa. There were more important issues — like persuading Kitty to have an abortion.

‘But I couldn’t. It’d be wicked,’ she whispered in horror.

Rannaldini sat down beside her stroking her hair.

‘It is wonderful news that we know you can get pregnant,’ he said soothingly. ‘It means we can have loads of other cheeldren later, my Keety. But I do not know eef this kid is mine or Lysander’s. I am macho-man,’ he shrugged engagingly but menacingly, ‘I would find it hop-lessly deeficult to love another man’s child, or at least to be in doubt.’

And what about your pack of children that I’ve tried and tried to love, thought Kitty bitterly.

‘I can’t ’ave an abortion,’ she said, trembling at her own courage.

‘We’ll discuss it some other time. At least promise not to tell anyone about the baby until we decide what to do,’ said Rannaldini sharply. Then, changing tack and becoming conciliatory, ‘You are cold, you must ’ave a nice hot bath and I weel come and dry you like a leetle girl.’

Oh please, please no, thought Kitty in horror. Fortunately Rannaldini was distracted by the telephone. Emerging from the quickest bath in history, Kitty found that Lassie had shredded a roll of lavatory paper all over the landing carpet — white horses on an olive-green sea. Very pleased with herself, she bounced up to Kitty, seizing the bottom of her dressing gown and tugged it open to reveal her mistress still wet and naked.

‘My child.’ Rannaldini moved forward to touch her.

‘No,’ Kitty shrank away. ‘I still feel queer.’

‘Of course, I just wanted to ’old you in my arms. I bring you sleeping pill.’

Sulphur-yellow, it lay on the palm of his hands.

‘I don’t like takin’ those fings.’

‘My dear, James said complete rest.’

Kitty longed for time alone to mourn the passing of Arthur, but within a couple of minutes sleep engulfed her.

Downstairs, Rannaldini planned his next move.

The sooner Kitty was removed from Lysander’s clutches the better, but maddeningly Graydon Gluckstein had whizzed back to New York at Rannaldini’s expense without confirming his appointment. Having made himself a smoked-salmon sandwich, Rannaldini choked on his glass of Pouilly Fume as, catching up with the papers, he discovered a large piece in the weekend Times on the relative merits of his and Boris’s candidacies. The damaging implication was that while Rannaldini’s fame and explosive personality would draw the crowds, Boris was a far more interesting and creative musician.

How could they possibly think that? fumed Rannaldini as he turned up the new CD of Fidelio. No-one else made brass sing like that.

The pictures accompanying the weekend Times piece were even more damaging. Rannaldini, marvellously lit in perfect profile and exquisitely cut tails, was conducting on the rostrum. Boris, looking twenty years younger, had been photographed without a tie with his arm round Rachel, each holding a happy child by the hand. In a fury Rannaldini scrumpled up the page and, flipping through his address book, punched out a number.

‘Beattie, my leetle wild thing, we need to talk.’

Lying in Boris’s arms the following Thursday Rachel slowly came back to earth.

‘I must get up.’ She buried her lips in her husband’s shoulder.

‘No, no.’ He held her tightly.

‘I must practise for Saturday.’ She had a concert at a girls’ boarding-school in Sussex. She was going to play Chopin and Schumann’s Scenes from Childhood.

‘Play them for me now as you are.’

With the curtains drawn and one lamp casting a golden glow over his wife’s body, which was as smooth and as ivory as the keys over which she was running her fingers, Boris felt totally happy. Dreaming, The Song of the Reaper, Soldier’s March, Little Orphan, Child Falling Asleep, The Rocking-horse Knight, they were the charming little pieces his mother had played to him as a child.

‘Go on please.’

‘The Merry Peasant’s been re-titled The Happy Farmer,’ said Rachel flicking over the pages, ‘Quite right, “peasant” is much too demeaning and “merry” has connotations of alcohol.’

‘They’ll all know that one,’ said Boris.

There was a new passion to Rachel’s playing that Rannaldini must have unleashed. His wife, Boris decided, had the most beautiful body in the world, the longest neck, the slenderest waist, the softest bottom swelling out over the pansy-embroidered piano stool. He could see the gleam of her unpainted toenails as she worked the pedals. Chloe always painted hers.

Boris hadn’t told Rachel but on the way to Heathrow this evening he was going to pop in on Chloe to pick up some clothes and a pile of scores. He hadn’t seen her since they broke up several weeks ago. He knew she was in a bad way and she needed compassion and consideration, but he was determined not to start the affaire up again. Chloe was beautiful and would soon find someone else.

Rachel had launched into Important Event which entailed vigorous staccato octaves in the bass, with the right hand going right down below middle C. This meant she had to turn sideways and he could see her breasts jiggling in the firelight. Appropriately Rachel moved straight on to By the Fireside, but she got no further than the opening bars. Boris had pulled her down on to the carpet.

‘I swear I vill nevair love anyone else but you. Pleese one more time before I leave for the airport.’

The following evening Beattie Johnson sat in her large office at The Scorpion flipping through some photographs of Boris going into Chloe’s flat and embracing her tenderly on the doorstep as he left. Then she dialled a number and flicked on the recording machine.

‘Hallo,’ her voice thickened slightly, ‘Rachel Levitsky? I’m sorry, I know you like to call yourself Rachel “Grant”. It’s The Scorpion here. OK, OK, I understand, but before you ring off I wonder if you’ve got any comment about a story that your husband’s gone back to Chloe. Oh dear, she’s hung up.’

Beattie turned to the good-looking boy perched on her desk. ‘OK, Rod, you ring her now. Ask the same question and pretend to be the Mirror. Give it five minutes and you pretend to be the Mail, Kev. Then you can put on a posh voice and be The Sunday Times, Mandy, and finally I’ll do my refined Islington twang and be the Independent. That’s her favourite paper. That’ll really rattle her. She’ll soon crack under pressure.’

Rachel hadn’t cracked, but she hadn’t been able to get Boris in Italy because he’d checked out of his hotel and was obviously on his way to Israel. Despite a sleepless night she didn’t really believe the papers — they were just chasing old rumours — until she came out of Jasmine Cottage with the children on her way to Sussex. It was one of those perfect daffodil-lit mornings when the cuckoo might make his first appearance. Breathing in the sweet air Rachel suddenly noticed a bug-eyed blonde getting out of a car.

‘Rachel Grant, can we have a chat?’

‘No, go away,’ said Rachel, shoving the children and her music case into the back of her car which unfortunately was cold and took a bit of time to start.

‘What d’you think of this story about your husband and Chloe?’ The girl thrust The Scorpion through the window.

‘Cheating Boris fakes happy marriage to clinch New York job,’ read Rachel.

‘It’s not true,’ she whispered, driving off with a squeal of tyres.

‘Look at the pictures,’ yelled the blonde.

Half a mile away in Valhalla Kitty was in an increasing turmoil. For a week now she had been cut off from the outside world. As James Benson had prescribed complete rest, Rannaldini had employed a temp, a Miss Bates, who had very nice ankles and who fielded all telephone calls and visits.