and she spent a further twenty minutes digging Jack out, after which the little sod wasn’t remotely grateful and tried to shoot back down the hole again.
Hearing her master’s language, Maggie fled home in terror. Following her, Lysander found the chicken burnt out. How did people run restaurants? He’d have to take Kitty out. He was feeling so shivery, he better have a hot bath. All his problems that day had stemmed from feeling he ought not to ring Kitty every five minutes to ask her how to do things.
Unfortunately a frantic Georgie had just returned from London and, seeing lights in Magpie Cottage, chose that moment to ring. By the time Lysander had told her to fuck off, and his father had rung and been told roughly the same thing, and Ferdie had rung and been told Lysander was pushed for time, the bath had run over and flooded the light fitting below. Getting electric shocks every time he touched a switch, Lysander tried to mend the fuse and blew the lights.
Kitty was so behind with her Christmas preparations that she felt dreadfully guilty going out, particularly as she was abandoning Natasha on her first night home. To her amazement, Natasha couldn’t have been more amenable, even when they met on the landing, both reeking of scented bath oil with their bodies and their newly washed hair wrapped in towels.
‘I’m just popping out, Natasha.’
‘Have you got a meeting?’
‘Sort of.’ Kitty stood on one pink leg.
‘Have a nice time. Don’t hurry back.’
Natasha was also unbelievably complimentary about her appearance, saying, ‘You’ve lost so much weight. Papa won’t recognize you,’ that when Kitty found Magpie Cottage in total darkness, she suspected some fiendish practical joke to get her out of the house. As she stumbled up the overgrown path, she was knocked sideways with relief and by the stench of burnt chicken.
‘Oh Kitty, Kitty, talk about coq-up au vin!’ Nearly in tears, Lysander greeted her with a candle and was just thinking how sweet she looked despite the awful beige dress, when the wind blew the candle out. They had just groped their way to the fuse box when the telephone rang.
‘I’ll get it,’ said Lysander, knocking over a stool. ‘It’s bound to be Natasha.’
‘I’m desperately sorry, I can’t make it,’ Kitty could hear him saying. ‘Basically I’ve got the flu. Honestly, I’m best on my own. I’m really infectious. I’ll just crash out with a dozen Anadin Extra. See you in a bit.’
‘You are awful,’ said Kitty, who had found some matches and was pushing in plugs.
As the lights came on, she saw Lysander was once more pouring with sweat and shaking. Thinking it was probably delayed shock, she tucked him up in bed once more.
‘I’ll make it up to you, Kitty, I’ll take you to
Staggering down the following afternoon, he felt woolly legged, drained, but normal. It was as though the devil had left his body. The cottage was unrecognizable. Kitty had unblocked the sink and cleaned everything. As Jack had been muddy after his tunnelling, she had even given him a bath, and was drying him in front of a glowing crackling fire, as she chatted to Arthur who was peering in through the window. A delicious smell of shepherd’s pie reminded Lysander he hadn’t eaten for two days.
‘Oh, you angel. God, it looks wonderful and smells even better.’ Lysander hugged her. ‘I don’t know how to thank you, but please don’t get too thin.’
‘Chance’d be a fine fing,’ said Kitty, blushing.
Putting his fork down after a second helping, Lysander said, ‘What shall we do this afternoon?’
‘I thought you was ill,’ chided Kitty.
‘I’m too ill to do anything I don’t want to do, if you know what I mean.’
It was the first time he’d giggled since he’d come back from Australia, and it was such a lovely sound that Kitty giggled, too.
‘I’ve got to go back to Valhalla,’ she sighed. ‘Rannaldini’s bound to ’ave rung and I’ve got so much to do, and I promised Rachel I’d pick up her kids from school and keep them overnight. Poor fing’s got to go to London to see her solicitor.’
As she waited outside the school playground, Kitty was overwhelmed with tiredness. She’d have to spend the evening wrapping up the dozens of overseas presents to be despatched before the last day for posting. She could have done without Rachel’s children. For someone always banging on about the wickedness of nannies and not bringing up one’s own kids, Rachel was remarkably adept at palming her own off on other people.
‘Kitty, Kitty.’ Masha emerged from the coloured stream of children flowing out of the gates. ‘We learnt about the olden days today. You know when Jesus was alive and you were a little girl.’
‘Lo, Kitty,’ said Vanya. ‘Is it OK if Cosmo comes to tea as well?’
Sighing, Kitty agreed. Rachel’s children had speedily sussed out little Cosmo’s advantages as a companion. There was no way he’d put up with health foods or building castles out of 100 rolls.
‘Mummy says we’ve got to practise our carol for the nativity play,’ said Masha, as she and Vanya got into the back.
‘I hate music.’ Little Cosmo clapped his hands over his ears, as he jumped into the front. ‘All I hear in my house is fucking music.’
Over increasing clamour, Kitty drove wearily back to Valhalla to pick up some cash to get some supper that Cosmo would approve of. But as she came out of the house, Lysander’s Ferrari stormed up the drive, and he jumped out clutching an armful of Super Macs and chips, a video of
‘Here you are,’ he said chucking the tin at the children. ‘Have some Quality Street time, and if you’re good you can play football with Jack in the chapel.’
They all adored
‘
It was unfortunate for Rachel that on his way home to Magpie Cottage after the children had been tucked up in bed, Lysander saw a light ahead in Jasmine Cottage. Crawling past, because of a car casually parked outside, he saw a couple in a clinch in the doorway. Then the man ran down the steps. Turning, blowing a kiss to the woman, he was spotlit for a second in Lysander’s headlights. It was a triumphantly smirking Rannaldini.
Having dropped off the three children at school the following morning, Kitty set out for Tesco’s. As she staggered out half an hour later, pushing two groaning trolleys of food for supper after the nativity play which she was going to cook and freeze that day, she suddenly saw that a big pot of yoghurt was leaking. Leaning forward to remove it, she took her hand from the right-hand trolley which veered off with a mind of its own. Gathering speed it rolled down a small slope and, narrowly missing an ancient pensioner with a string bag, went slap into a dark green Porsche, scraping it down one side, then toppling over with a sickening crash of broken glass.
‘Oh, God,’ screamed Kitty, surveying the debris of pastry cases and cracked eggs, floating in a disgusting goo of double cream, yoghurt, Hellmann’s, whisky and red wine. ‘It’s not fair, it’s not bloody fair.’
It took her ages to clear up the chaos. Then she put a note on the Porsche’s windscreen:
That’s all my running-away money and more, she was thinking despairingly, when the note was whipped away.
‘Car looks much better that way. Gives it character,’ said a voice.
Springing round, Kitty saw Lysander. ‘Mrs Brimscombe said you were here,’ he said, opening the door of the Porsche for her.
‘That’s not your car,’ stammered Kitty.
‘Garage lent it to me,’ said Lysander. ‘Ferrari’s got engine trouble. Honestly, it couldn’t matter less.’
He was feeling very virtuous. Finding Georgie’s paying-in book under the bed at Magpie Cottage, he’d written her a cheque for fifty thousand, the sum she’d paid him overall for his services, and despatched it to her bank. He thus cancelled any debt between them.
‘Look what I’ve got!’ He waved two tickets for
