The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

‘He’s old and evil.’

‘He needs me.’ Kitty took a tangerine from the fruit bowl and having peeled it threw the pigs into the waste- paper basket and started to eat the peel.

‘You’re like that spare blanket in the cupboard.’ Taking the peel from her, Lysander shoved a vodka into her shaking hand. ‘Rannaldini gets you down when he’s cold. I’ll look after you, Kitty. We can run over the hills and far away. I know you love me.’ Her face, when he forced it upwards, was as pale and filled with longing as last night’s moon.

‘That was infatuation.’

‘No, it wasn’t. Why did you waste an entire suitcase bringing Lassie out here?’ Triumphantly Lysander pulled a case from under the bed and unearthed the collie he’d bought her in Harrods toy department.

Kitty went scarlet. ‘I fort the kids might like to play wiv her.’

‘Why haven’t they then?’

‘I’ve got to go home tomorrow,’ whispered Kitty.

‘Then I’m coming with you.’

He wished Rupert hadn’t flown back to England, or he would have enlisted his help to persuade Kitty not to return.

The journey home was crucifixion, worse than going back to school, worse than his mother dying. Surrounded by children incensed to be going home four days early, aware of the Press everywhere, Kitty and Lysander didn’t touch each other and exchanged not a word. Both grey beneath their suntan, neither had slept.

In duty-free Lysander bought a large bottle of Diorissimo. Despite the number of times he’d bought it he still pronounced it ‘Diorimisso’, and the girl behind the counter smiled because he was so handsome.

‘It was Mum’s favourite scent,’ he said, handing it to Kitty. ‘I want you to wear it because,’ his voice broke, ‘because now I love you more even than I loved her.’

After the champagne air and the dazzling white and blue of the mountains, Heathrow was grey and bitterly cold. A vicious wind whipped Kitty’s green dress over her head as she stepped out of the plane. She was trembling so badly Lysander gave her his coat.

Worst of all, the customs men took one look at Lysander’s polo sticks and the mass of chattering Italian children and, opening everything, finally discovered Lassie.

‘Oh, please not,’ whispered Kitty.

‘Funny thing to hide in a suitcase,’ said a brutish-looking customs man.

‘I gave it to Mrs Rannaldini,’ snapped Lysander.

‘Pull the other leg.’

‘Leave it fucking alone.’

‘Don’t you get lippy with me, sunshine.’ The customs man took out a penknife, and with relish plunged it into Lassie’s defenceless fluffy white throat and proceeded slowly to rip her brown-and-white body to bits, finally even cutting off her shiny leather nose and gouging out her eyes.

Rannaldini’s children were all screaming hysterically. Lysander thought Kitty was going to faint. Only her desperate pleading stopped him leaping across the table and beating the customs man to a pulp, particularly when without a word of apology he handed back Lassie’s remains.

‘I’ll get you another one to replace her, and I’ll get you, you bastard.’ Lysander was nearly in tears, too. ‘Oh, Kitty, please don’t go back to Rannaldini. Let’s get a taxi to Fountain Street.’

Out in the airport they went slap into a cauldron of Press, seething for a story. But the ubiquitous Clive was waiting to pounce and soon had bundled Kitty and the children into a suitably funereal-black limousine and out on to the M4.

Rannaldini had had a nasty shock. He had never imagined anyone fancying Kitty. But in the photographs plastered all over Today and in the later editions of most of the papers, he noticed her gazing up at that winsome little snake with such happiness that she looked almost pretty.

He felt his publicity getting worse and worse. He was sure that shit Campbell-Black wouldn’t be able to resist circulating the pirate version of ‘Once in Royal David’s City’. He knew he was favourite for the New York job but Boris Levitsky’s Symphony had just won a prize for the best-orchestral work of the year (and Boris had conducted it himself at the Mozart Hall to ecstatic reviews and puzzled, but enthusiastic, applause). While Rannaldini had been skiing, according to Clive, Boris had also been over twice to see Rachel and the children. The last thing Rannaldini wanted was these two getting together.

If he was going to clinch the New York job he must mend his marriage at once.

He therefore curbed his initial instinct which was to beat Kitty up on her return. And when she came through the front door just holding back the tears and waiting, trembling violently, for the tolling of the punishment bell, Rannaldini promptly despatched the children to Mrs Brimscombe and roast chicken and chips in the kitchen and drew her into the red morning room.

After the bleak, bitter day, nothing could have been more welcoming. Apple logs crackled merrily in the grate, side lamps cast soft light on huge dark blue bowls of white hyacinths, and on the soft red roses and peonies of the Aubusson which flowed over the entire floor. Instead of the usual deafening Stockhausen or Shostakovitch the stereo was playing My Fair Lady. Even Rannaldini himself looked more approachable in old brown cords, a yellow-checked shirt and a dark brown cashmere jersey, which seemed to bring out softer brown flecks in the hard black eyes, and he was smiling at her with such tenderness.

‘I’m ever so sorry, Rannaldini,’ Kitty’s teeth were chattering so frantically she could hardly get the words out.

‘Hush, hush, all that matters is that you are home. Come here, my lovely child.’

Taking her blue frozen hands he drew her close, gently stroking her cheek, which was rigid with tension, as she waited for the first blow from the back of his hand.

‘I’m so sorry about the Press and fings.’

‘What does the stupid Press matter?’ sighed Rannaldini. ‘Seeing you in Lysander’s arms bring me to my senses. I ’ave the worst twenty-four hours of my life.’

Expecting screaming abuse, the thumbscrew, the stapler punched through the hand, Kitty looked up in bewilderment.

‘I’ve grown accustomed to her face, she seems to make the day begin,’ sang Rex Harrison.

‘My sentiments entirely,’ said Rannaldini, kissing her forehead and then her trembling lips.

‘You’re not angry?’

‘Only with myself for neglecting you. All my cheeldren adore you, even Natasha. She reeng me in such distress this morning. Papa, don’t let Kitty go. She is very upset, of course. Lysander ’ave often tell her he love her, and keep ringing up from Switzerland.’ That hurts her, thought Rannaldini with satisfaction, seeing Kitty flinch.

‘Of course he chase Natasha,’ he went on. ‘She will be very rich woman eef I die. So will you, Kitty, and that ees not so impossible.’ He waved away her protests. ‘Theenking you might not come back, I contemplate ending it all.’ Pulling open a desk drawer he pointed to a black pistol.

‘Oh no, Rannaldini!’ Kitty was horrified. ‘You mustn’t do anyfing like that.’

‘Not eef I have you.’ Banging the drawer shut Rannaldini went to the drinks table and poured Kitty a large brandy. ‘But I have many problems. Catchitune have gone belly-up. Larry is ruined.’

‘Oh, poor Larry and poor Marigold.’

‘Poor me,’ said Rannaldini fretfully. ‘Catchitune owe me meelions of pounds. We will have to find a new record company, theenk of the new contracts to be drawn up.’ Then, seeing the exhaustion on Kitty’s face, ‘But forget that. Theenk only of us, my Keety, and come with me to the tower.’ His hand slid round her waist, sliding upwards to caress her breast with infinite gentleness, then down to stroke her bottom, giving it a quick vicious pinch.

‘You are made for love, Keety, and now perhaps a leetle punishment for being such a naughty girl. Drink up your brandy and I will blot out all memory of that promiscuous greedy little gigolo.’

‘He’s not,’ gasped Kitty.

‘Oh, my dear!’ Picking up a woodlice crawling across the hearth, Rannaldini tossed it into the fire. ‘Don’t make me shatter any more of your illusions. You must promise never to see him again.’

Even worse was Lysander’s return to Magpie Cottage. Paradise had never looked bleaker. A sadistic east