The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

Clad in a dark red towel, scratchy from Mother Courage’s washing, he tiptoed along the landing. The creaking was awful. He jumped as Dinsdale in his basket let out a great snore. One, two, three doors. Rannaldini thought he would explode with lust. Feeling his way up the three uncarpeted stairs with his bare toes, he opened and softly closed the fourth door on the right.

‘Come to me, lovely creature,’ whispered a voice.

‘Leetle darling, it is I,’ answered Rannaldini.

Taking a flying leap in the direction of the voice, he found that Flora had shrunk and grown in the most improbable places. Next moment he realized his arms were full of naked Guy, who’d been banished to the spare room by an enraged Georgie and who’d been drunkenly rehearsing his lines. Guy was sober enough, however, to be extremely stuffy.

‘Flora’s only seventeen. How dare you run after schoolgirls like a dirty old man?’

‘And I saw you coming out of Langan’s with that painter girlfriend of yours on Monday,’ spat back Rannaldini. ‘I’d keep your trap shut if I were you.’

48

Both Rannaldini and Guy were furious with Flora, but had little opportunity to vent their rage on the day of the play.

Members of the cast, however, continued to spat. Cecilia, in her new role as Gabriel, had gone off to Valentino and bought a seductive, but totally inappropriate, thigh-length gold tunic and an even bigger halo than Hermione. In revenge, Hermione spent two hours in make-up, leaving little time for anyone else.

Marigold cried all day because Larry hadn’t come home the previous night. He must have gone back to Nikki.

Rachel was totally unsympathetic.

‘If you have a remotely attractive husband in the nineties,’ she snapped as she buttoned up her Second King’s velvet tunic, ‘you have to be prepared to share him.’

‘Rock Star, you are the rock, the star that guides me,’ sang the wireless.

‘Shut up, you bloody thing,’ screamed Georgie.

But by six-thirty the great hall was decked with greenery and hundreds of candles and camera lights were reflected in the gleaming dark panelling. The crew were ready, the London Met tuned up. A vetted collection of villagers, a sprinkling of local gentry including Lady Chisleden, the odd talent scout and a crowd of Meredith’s gay friends were among the audience. Mother Courage, thrilled at the prospect of appearing on television, was holding forth noisily.

‘Rattledicky stayed the night and Guy was furious that Flora delapidated herself all over the bath, and I only cleaned it yesterday, and Melanie’s sending Georgie a duck-billed platitude for Christmas.’

Standing in the wings, all dolled up in his red plumes and gemmy bridle, Arthur was itching to get on stage.

‘Don’t forget to look at the camera,’ Lysander urged him. ‘And whenever you see Rupert, wave a hoof. I’m really nervous for him,’ he told Cameron Cook as Arthur rested his head lovingly on his master’s shoulder.

‘Ever thought of becoming an actor?’ asked Cameron, handing him her card. ‘D’you mind sitting in the audience when it starts? Marigold can look after Arthur.’

She was determined to get reaction shots of him whenever they cut to the audience.

‘D’you actually know Rupert?’ pleaded Lysander.

‘You could say that.’

‘Is he seriously wonderful?’

Cameron thought for a second. ‘Only if he likes you. For Christ’s sake, see all the telephones are switched off,’ she added to her PA as her mobile rang.

‘Bloody hell,’ she whispered to the chief cameraman two minutes later. ‘Rupert’s not coming. He’s buggered off skiing.’

‘Well, don’t tell anyone,’ whispered back the chief cameraman. ‘We don’t want the entire female cast going on strike.’

But at last the cameras were rolling and the London Met were appropriately playing like angels, enjoying the novelty of the occasion and the relief of being conducted by Bob, whose bald head gleamed like a bathing cap above the dark river of the orchestra pit.

Everything, in fact, was going wonderfully. Neither Hermione in her blue robes nor Cecilia in her figure- hugging mini would have looked so radiant if they had known Rupert wasn’t going to make it, even for ‘Brickie’s spread’, which included two vats of boeuf bourgignon, whose delicious smell was stealing up from the kitchen.

‘Hail Mary, Full of Grace,’ called Cecilia who preferred the beauty of the old language, ‘thou art with child.’

‘Joseph will be very supportive, and present at the birth,’ said Hermione who did not.

Kitty caught Lysander’s eye and giggled.

‘There’s a Christmas tree with nothing on,’ said Mother Courage as the curtains jerked back on the stable at Bethlehem.

The play was nearing its end. Although the shepherds and inn staff had been rather too reminiscent of Iraqi and Saudi agitators in the Gulf, Meredith’s gay cronies were in ecstasies over the sets and the beauty of little Cosmo as a shepherd boy unaccountably trying to strangle Hermione’s white cat. The animals had all behaved impeccably, except Dinsdale who had lifted his leg twice on the manger.

Flora had sung ‘O come all ye faithful’ and ‘O little town of Bethlehem’ so magically that she had earned a round of applause each time. But the real coup de theatre was when Rannaldini, Rachel and Marigold, singing the most ravishing three-part arrangement of ‘We Three Kings’, cantered in on their splendid bejewelled horses.

Rannaldini and Rachel looked so glamorous that the audience hardly noticed the reddened eyes and streaked moustache of the Third King, whom Arthur carried with such sympathy and gentleness.

‘Look at the old boy really acting,’ said Lysander proudly. ‘Don’t look at the camera, Arthur.’

‘Will you be quiet,’ hissed Lady Chisleden.

The Prince of Darkness, who’d had a good win at Lingfield the previous week, was jumping all over the place as Rannaldini, perfectly capped teeth flashing above his black beard, bent down to hand Hermione a gold casket.

‘Bet Hermione pockets it,’ whispered Lysander.

‘I’d give that Prince of Darkness a wild berth if I was ’er,’ said Mother Courage.

As everyone lined up to gaze at the Virgin and Child, Hermione brandished a large breast in the direction she imagined Rupert to be sitting.

‘Wasted on us,’ chorused Meredith’s cronies in unison.

As the Kings remounted their horses, Flora, hovering in the wings, noticed Rachel shoot Rannaldini a smile of uncharacteristic lasciviousness.

For the final tableau, Flora came forward to sing ‘Once in royal David’s city’. She was wearing black jeans and a black polo-neck with her hair slicked back off her incredibly pale face.

Playing Death and the Maiden, thought Bob, raising his baton. The poor child looked extraordinarily bleak.

The orchestra gave her the introductory bars, then put down their instruments in anticipation of a treat. Guy folded his arms, happy to claim ownership when Flora brought him credit. For a second she glanced around, waiting for total silence. Her voice, cool as an icicle, was so exquisite it was several seconds before anyone took in the words.