The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘He must have a massive private income to run a Ferrari,’ said Hermione with her little laugh, ‘and all those polo ponies, and he’s always buying diamonds for his numerous ladies. What delicious flapjacks! I just assumed Fleetley was doing so well, you were able to give him a huge allowance, or perhaps he’d made a killing on the horses.’

David choked on his Earl Grey, turned purple, but made no comment.

The moment Hermione left, Mustard, unaware that little Cosmo had emptied his Ribena into her word processor, came bustling in.

‘What a lovely lady. She wanted the recipe for my flapjacks. And what a dear little lad. Didn’t he look sweet in his sailor hat?’

‘Only if he wore it over his face,’ snapped David.

‘You know I never read the tabloids,’ went on Mustard, in almost orgasmic excitement, because of her pathological jealousy of Pippa Hawkley, ‘but Matron just showed me this.’ She handed David the Evening Scorpion. With a deep sigh, he put on his bifocals.

Across pages four and five were slightly blurred photographs of Lysander kissing Georgie on the dance floor at last night’s party and of Georgie showing a lot of leg as she straddled the wall at the bottom of the garden. There were clearer photographs of Martha Winterton and Guy and Georgie together.

‘FALL GUY,’ said the huge headline. ‘Hunky Hubby of the Year Guy Seymour,’ ran the copy, ‘is such a tolerant husband he allows wife, singer-songwriter Georgie Maguire to kiss and cuddle in candle-lit restaurants night after night with Lysander Hawkley, the man who makes husbands jealous. Last night they were spotted escaping from a Fulham rave-up during a drugs raid.

‘Fun-loving Lysander is the youngest son of “Hatchet Hawkley”, headmaster of snooty Fleetley (fees ?14,000 a year with extras).’

With a bellow of rage, David scrumpled up the paper. Lysander must be pushing drugs to make the kind of money Hermione was talking about. Degenerate rock stars like Georgie Maguire were always into that kind of thing.

Picking up the telephone, he dialled the deputy head.

‘I’m desperately sorry, Headmaster. I’ve seen the article.’

‘I better take twenty-four hours’ leave and try and sort things out.’

‘Absolutely. We’ll hold the fort till you get back.’

Alone at Valhalla, Kitty welcomed the prospect of a free evening. She had missed Lysander a lot — he was so lovely to have around — but he’d be pleased she’d lost another eight pounds, and had cheek-bones, ribs, ankles and flapping waistbands for the first time in her life. She must keep busy and not weaken. She had contracts to go through for Hermione, Rannaldini, and now Rachel; and darling Wolfie, having sent her a boomerang and a furry duck-billed platypus for her birthday, deserved a long chatty letter.

Yesterday, in a fit of despair, she’d taken the scissors to her fiendish perm. Shorn of its frizzy halo, her face looked even thinner, and all her features, the wide grey eyes still slightly inflamed by the contact lenses, the squashed nose and the sweet and generous mouth, much bigger. Peering in the mirror, she tugged tendrils of hair over her forehead and down her neck. It was dreadfully short, what would Rannaldini say? Probably wouldn’t notice. Someone was leaning on the bell. On the doorstep stood a distinctly attractive man.

‘For you,’ he said, handing her a bunch of carrots.

‘Ferdie,’ squealed Kitty in delight. ‘’Oo my goodness, you look terrific.’

The prospect of winning a bet had concentrated Ferdie’s mind and will-power amazingly. He had lost so much weight he was almost unrecognizable. He was also black-brown from the Algarve sun, with his dark hair streaked blond, and his bone structure re-appeared. The Laughing Cavalier was slowly turning into Mel Gibson.

‘Oh, Ferdie,’ sighed Kitty.

‘You don’t look so bad yourself.’ Ferdie whistled in amazement, as he walked round her. ‘Your hair’s so much better, and you’ve got your contact lenses in. Oh, Kittywake, we’re on our way. Let’s have a huge drink to celebrate.’

‘Lysander’d be ever so shocked,’ said Kitty.

‘I’ll take care of Lysander.’

Neither of them had touched alcohol for a month, but Ferdie persuaded Kitty to bring up a bottle of champagne already chilled by the dungeons.

‘We’ve got to weigh ourselves in a minute, so it’s only fair if you drink with me,’ said Ferdie, thinking how sweet she looked, not pretty at all, but appealing like his mother’s Boston Terrier.

By the time Kitty had filled him in with local gossip and Ferdie had produced his holiday snaps, they’d had another glass, and Kitty, who hadn’t eaten since breakfast, had become incredibly giggly. As they danced upstairs for the great weigh-in, they started squabbling over how much their clothes weighed.

‘Men’s clothes are heavier than women’s,’ said Ferdie, removing his shoes.

‘Not that much,’ said Kitty, kicking off her white high heels.

Ferdie took off his shirt to reveal a suntanned chest, solid as a bull terrier’s.

‘Oh, Ferdie, you look like Arnie Swart’s what’s it. ’Ave you been working out?’

Ferdie nodded. ‘Nearly killed me, I’ve still got love handles,’ he seized two chunks of flesh above his waist, ‘but they’re going.’ He filled both their glasses. ‘That dress must weigh a lot. Let’s have it off. Gosh,’ he gasped, as, after a little persuading, Kitty pulled her blue shirtwaister over her head, ‘you’re very voluptuous.’

‘That’s a nice way of saying I’m fat,’ came a muffled voice.

‘It’s a way of saying you’ve got gorgeous boobs.’

‘Have I?’ Kitty emerged scarlet.

‘Sure you haven’t hidden tangerines in your bra?’ Ferdie squeezed the ends. ‘No, blimey, it’s all you.’

Kitty screamed with laughter.

‘Tangerines would make me ’eavier, you dope, I want to be lighter than you.’

It was thus giggling hysterically with Ferdie down to his Ninja Turtle boxer shorts and Kitty in a very white bra and knickers that Lysander, dropping in after his jaunt with Georgie to check on Kitty’s weight loss, found them.

‘You’ve got a fantastic body,’ Ferdie was saying admiringly. ‘Take off your bra, it must weigh at least seven pounds.’

Lysander was absolutely livid. Ferdie had always been so stuffy about not bonking clients, and here he was almost at first base with Kitty. Only just managing to control his temper, he supervised the weigh-in. Kitty had lost a stone and a half, Ferdie a stone and five and a half pounds.

‘Bloody good,’ Ferdie conceded. ‘Rannaldini will have to eat his words.’

‘I wonder how many calories there are in them,’ said Kitty shrieking with laughter. ‘I’ve won the be-het, I won the be-het.’

‘You are both plastered,’ said Lysander icily, as Ferdie, forgetting what day it was, wasted three cheques, giving Kitty her hundred pounds. Having no intention of leaving them alone together in this state, Lysander insisted they come over to Magpie Cottage for supper.

‘I’m only allowed half a grapefruit and a boiled egg,’ said Kitty.

‘Georgie was thinking of doing a barbecue,’ said Lysander.

Knowing Georgie would get no further than thinking about it, Kitty put her blue shirtwaister back on, and returning to the kitchen, was loading cold chicken, tomatoes, baking potatoes and a big bag of peaches into a cardboard box, when an explosion shook the corridor outside.

‘Ferdie’s shot himself for losing the bet,’ cackled Kitty.

But he was only opening another bottle of Rannaldini’s champagne.

‘That’s more than I’ve eaten in a month,’ he said, peering into the cardboard box, then burst into song.’ ‘Join me dancing naked in the rain… cover me in ecstasy,’ and started bopping round the kitchen table.

‘I love that song,’ said Kitty. ‘D’you think it will ever rain again?’

Outside it was even hotter, with finches fluttering over the burnt stubble, like fleas crawling on a lion’s pelt. For the first time in her life, Kitty felt thin enough to sit on someone’s knee.

I’m under ten stone, she told herself hazily.