The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

part, but key. Can you learn it by tomorrow? Ad lib if you like.’

‘Ferdie was brilliant as Shylock at school,’ Lysander told Kitty.

‘How are you anyway?’ he asked Ferdie.

‘Exhausted with electricity privatization, I’ve been stagging all week.’

‘I’ve been staggering all week, moving scenery,’ said Lysander. ‘But Rupert Campbell-Black’s turning up tomorrow and I know he and Arthur are going to get on. Aren’t you, boy?’ He gave Arthur a hug.

‘What’s happening?’ hissed Ferdie, drawing Lysander aside. ‘No-one’s paying. Not a bean out of Marigold, nor Georgie. If they don’t cough up soon, we should cut our losses and pull out. The Brazil job’s still open — and that’s serious dosh.’

But Lysander was watching Kitty who had climbed up a ladder to put pieces of holly around a huge oil of one of Rannaldini’s alleged ancestors. She was wearing the black leggings and huge black-and-purple sloppy jersey he’d bought her in Way-In. He’d never seen her in trousers before. There was something infinitely touching about her plump little legs. As she stretched up he could see three-inch gaps of white calf above her Father Christmas socks. He suddenly longed to touch them. Just as he always wanted to stroke Arthur, Jack and Maggie, who was now chewing up a stray shepherd’s crook, he told himself firmly.

Putting down the Express he walked over to hold her ladder.

‘It’s Lysander, not electricity, who ought to be privatized,’ drawled Flora. ‘Having exhausted the other ladies of Paradise, he’s moved on to Kitty.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ snapped Rachel, Hermione and Natasha in unison. With their deep involvement in Rannaldini and Lysander, they found it impossible, as well as unbearable, to concede that Kitty had any pulling power.

However often Lysander banked up the fire in the great hall it was definitely getting colder. People’s breath rose in thick white plumes.

‘Cameron will be able to send up smoke signals from the back of the hall,’ said Meredith to his pal Flora. ‘I do hope she gets the script back to your mother’s version.’

But Flora was glaring at a new and splendid fur coat which Hermione had put on over her blue robes, which could only be a Christmas present from Rannaldini.

‘I’m going to report her to Animal Rights,’ she said furiously. She also noticed Rachel had disappeared and Cameron was yelling into a telephone in the summer parlour which was a good thing, as neither of them would have enjoyed Ferdie’s debut as he welcomed Mary and Joseph to the Inn, script in one hand, litre of red in the other.

‘Come in, come in,’ he was saying cosily. ‘Of course we take Amex. Just give me the keys to your donkey and I’ll park him. Sign in here.’

The orchestra, all in their overcoats, were in stitches. Kitty nearly fell off her ladder laughing.

‘I’ve got the video of Dirty Dancing,’ murmured Lysander, handing her up another branch of holly.

‘There’s a lot of shepherds in the next room who keep ordering pie on room service,’ Ferdie was now saying. ‘Bang on the wall if they get too noisy.’ Then, handing two room keys to a very disapproving St Joseph, ‘Oh, well, I better go back to watering the wine.’

‘Oh, please, don’t waste precious water,’ interjected Hermione, who was revving up for the birth of her Harrods doll.

Bob, who’d been laughing a lot, told Ferdie in future he’d better stick to the script.

‘And it’s about time for you to sing “Oh, come all ye faithful”,’ he shouted to Flora.

‘No-one’s faithful in Paradise except you and Kitty,’ shouted back Flora. ‘As we’re heavily into realism I better sing, “Come both ye faithful”.’

‘That is quite uncalled for,’ thundered Guy, turning brick red above his blond beard.

Flora strolled towards the stage, hands in her pockets. ‘Oh, come all ye faithful, joyful and triumphant,’ she sang softly.

‘Oh wow,’ murmured the leader of the orchestra to a neighbouring oboist, ’eat your stony heart out, Hermione.’

They had reached the part when the Angel Gabriel appeared to the shepherds abiding in the fields.

‘You ready, Perce?’ called Bob to the vicar in the gallery.

‘Ready,’ called the vicar, adjusting his halo in the window.

Outside it was snowing. How very appropriate in the bleak midwinter. He was glad he was wearing his thermals under his nightgown.

‘Chat amongst yourselves, shepherds,’ said Bob consulting his script.

‘What are you doing on New Year’s Eve, Reuben?’ asked Meredith who, as second shepherd, was holding Maggie.

‘That’s not in the script,’ hissed Georgie, burnous askew as she clung for grim death on to a terrified ewe.

Suddenly, like sulphur and brimstone, a waft of Maestro swept through the great hall, far stronger than frankincense or droppings of sheep or donkey.

Instantly the nearest flautist whipped the curly blond wig off Rannaldini’s bust. Georgie let go of her ewe, which bolted into the wings sending a peeping Mr Brimscombe flying. The star fused again.

Rannaldini, the astrakhan collar of his black coat turned up, framing a face white with barely controlled fury, strolled towards the stage.

‘I thought I told you all to be word and note perfect by the time I came back.’

‘My fault.’ Ferdie stubbed out his cigar and stood up in the stalls. ‘I was standing in for Larry and thought I’d jazz things up a bit.’

‘Well, don’t,’ said Rannaldini witheringly. ‘Hermione?’

‘Maestro?’ Hermione smiled at him, awaiting praise.

‘Piano, for God’s sake,’ snarled Rannaldini. ‘That lullaby would have woken every bambino in Judea and babies are fed every four hours not every four minutes, so put those boobs away. You’re playing the Virgin not Delilah.’

Then, not giving Hermione time to scream at him, he turned on Guy who was eating a flapjack in the stalls.

‘You’re even more wooden than that ludicrously overdecorated manger, Joseph. Your young wife’s having a baby, then everyone rolls up bringing him presents and ignoring you. Show some pride or some jealousy, and as for you, Percy,’ he looked up at the vicar who was still swaying helplessly from his beam, ‘talk about Fat Tum of the Opera.

‘Your belly’s too large and your voice too small. You’re being drowned by Hermione and Georgie and you couldn’t instil mighty dread into any mind, troubled or otherwise. I’m afraid you’ll have to join the angelic choir instead.’

Normally suntanned, Rannaldini’s extreme pallor was infinitely more sinister. The jet-black eyes glittered like holes into hell, but there was an air of purring satisfaction about him, not just due to the pleasure of bawling people out. Ignoring the equal hysterics of the vicar and Hermione, Rannaldini picked up Cameron Cook’s mobile and punched out long distance.

‘Carissima,’ he launched into a flood of Italian, only the occasional word like ‘network’ being comprehensible. Then, with a vicious smile, he changed to English so everyone could hear over Hermione’s squawking.

‘It only means arriving a day early for Chreestmas. The script? Eees excellent. I’ll get Keety to fax you a copy so you can learn it tonight. Ciao.’

Switching off his telephone, he turned evilly to face the cast. ‘Cecilia arrive tomorrow to take over Gabriel.’

Artistic integrity overcoming terror, Georgie tore off her head-dress.

‘The script is not excellent, Rannaldini,’ she protested. ‘We’ll be a laughing stock. Rachel’s wrecked it, Cameron Cook agrees with me. Someone’s got to tell Rachel.’

‘I will, my dear Georgie,’ said Rannaldini gently. ‘To me the scripts are much improved, more topical, more relevant, less trite.’ He turned to the back of the hall. ‘Well done, Rachel.’