The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

‘That’s what I’m frightened of,’ said Lysander dolefully.

‘I’m off to raid that drinks cupboard.’ Meredith lowered his voice. ‘Like Captain Organic Oates, I may be gone some time. Keep our hostess occupied.’

But Lysander didn’t have to bother for, as Meredith sidled off, Rannaldini walked in. He looked feral and aggressively decadent in a black shirt and cords which matched his predatory eyes and a vast, almost floor-length coat made of wolf pelts which seemed an extension of his hair and set off his Monthaut suntan. And like a wolf entering the fold he mesmerized the room.

I can’t wait for everyone to go, thought Rachel, then he can make love with me in front of the fire.

Rannaldini nodded at Hermione and Bob, then, running his eyes over the long-faced carecrows from London, found nothing to interest him.

‘Where’s your much better half, Rannaldini?’ asked Meredith, sliding a cup of neat whisky into Lysander’s grateful hand.

‘In bed.’

‘Is Brickie ill?’ asked Guy.

‘Just pleasantly exhausted, she sent her apologies.’ Rannaldini smiled evilly at Lysander. ‘All Keety need was a leetle loving.’

Jack gave a yelp then understandingly licked Lysander’s face when his master apologized for gripping him so hard.

‘It’s disgusting the way they boil the roots of Christmas trees so they can’t be replanted,’ chuntered a London friend.

Looking at Lysander so white and distraught, Bob remembered the larky, radiant young blood who’d stopped even the music in its tracks at Georgie’s Rock Star party.

‘Come and have supper one day this week.’ He put a hand on Lysander’s arm. ‘Hermione’s off to Rome.’

‘Thanks, but I gotta go.’ Lysander emptied his cup of whisky. Through in the kitchen, he could see Scarlatti scraping his litter tray and, reminded of Aunt Dinah, nearly blacked out. Next moment Jack had wriggled out of his grasp and, scattering cat litter, chased Scarlatti out through the cat flap.

‘That’s no way to save planet earth box,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Shall I open a window and let in a little hot air? There’s a bit of a pong.’

‘I told you not to bring that dog,’ snapped Rachel. ‘You can’t go yet. The party hasn’t started.’

‘Sorry, I’ve got to. Bye, Bob, bye, Meredith, bye, Marigold,’ muttered Lysander and, gathering up his long coat from the hall chair, he rushed off into the night.

‘Well, we know who he likes,’ said Rachel, furious at losing her only heterosexual spare man, although it was good Rannaldini had come on his own, not that Kitty ever really inhibited him.

‘I’m not going to drink this goat’s piss,’ said Rannaldini, pouring his exotic fruit cup over a depressed-looking yucca. ‘Get me a whisky, Rachel.’ Then, turning to Larry, ‘How are things? I assume your tiny assets are frozen.’

Feeling neglected because Rannaldini hadn’t even come over and kissed her, Hermione decided to check her face before approaching him. Crossing the hall as she went upstairs to the bathroom, she found a letter on the carpet which a distraught Lysander had dropped on the way out. Seeing the letterhead: PARADISE GRANGE she read on. Ignoring the posters about banning additives from school dinners and protecting the natterjack toad, she sat down on the edge of the bath. A smile spread over her face and a glow suffused her body as she read.

Hermione had always been irked and mystified that Lysander had never made a pass at her, nor even chatted her up. Now she knew why. She was about the only wife in Paradise who hadn’t paid him to. Stepping into the bath she used the shower to wash between her legs and cleaned her teeth with Rachel’s organic toothpaste. Returning to the party, she whispered in Rannaldini’s ear, then turning to Rachel triumphantly: ‘Lovely do, darling. Must go. I’ve got work to do on Wozzeck. See you later, Bobbie.’

Almost immediately, to Rachel’s fury, she was followed by Rannaldini.

Half an hour later in the blissful warmth of the tower Hermione sipped a glass of Krug and watched Rannaldini reading Marigold’s letter to Lysander for the second time.

‘Well done,’ he said softly, as conflicting emotions of fury, excitement, passion, hatred and jealousy flickered across his face.

‘What a very silly letter to drop. So Georgie and Marigold paid little Mr Hawkley to retrieve their husbands; and Martha Winterton as well presumably. It always puzzled me how he lives so well.’

‘Georgie and Marigold must have paid him a fortune to make up to Kitty,’ said Hermione smugly. ‘I mean the others are at least attractive. And just to make you jealous. But Kitty must have collaborated.’

‘That was naughty,’ said Rannaldini. ‘Like Cavaradossi, Keety must be tortured. No-one makes a fool of me.’

Unplugging himself from Hermione after a rather perfunctory coupling he plugged in his telephone. He was going to enjoy this game.

Machiavellian as ever, Rannaldini planned an orgy at Valhalla. January was such a dreary month and everyone was so worried about impending war in the Gulf that they needed distraction. First he sent out the invitations: MRS ROBERTO RANNALDINI AT HOME ON TWELFTH NIGHT FOR A fin de siecle TOGA PARTY.

Then he offered Hermione the part of Lady Macbeth in his next film if she succeeded in seducing Lysander during the evening.

Rannaldini was not an unperceptive man. Lysander might have been paid vast sums to pretend to be in love with Kitty but it was clear from his increasingly desperate messages on the ansaphone and his illiterate passionate faxes which spewed out of the machine like tapeworm that the boy was utterly infatuated. Nor was there any doubt that Kitty was smitten, too. Yesterday she had singed his best shirt when they played Miss Saigon on the radio, and, typing out the list of acceptances, which didn’t include Lysander, she misspelt half the names and changed several people’s sexes.

Even though caterers and florists had been hired to save her work, she cleaned obsessively so the place would be sufficiently spick and span. More tellingly, Rannaldini had failed to bring her to orgasm since her return and helpless tears gushed out of her eyes throughout. His digital wife was on the blink.

Rannaldini did not upbraid her. He realized increasingly how dependent on her he was for his comfort and what other wife would run his life so efficiently and allow him such freedom? Certainly not Hermione. Just doing the seating plan together made him want to throttle her.

‘I want you to look pretty and enjoy yourself this evening and leave everything to me,’ he told Kitty on the afternoon of the party as he watched her dazedly digging up a poin-settia some fan had sent him and freeing its roots from the cruelly constricting plastic cage before repotting it.

‘I want to make a beeg sum of money over to you, Keety,’ he went on. ‘The royalties on Fidelio perhaps, to give you independence. I know I ’urt you horrible in the past, but let us try again. In the States we will leave all the eediots in Paradise behind and eef you cannot ’ave children, no matter, we will adopt.’ Which made poor Kitty feel more confused and guilty than ever.

Over at Magpie Cottage a despairing Lysander saw helicopters bringing Krug and most of Harrods Food Hall, landing all day as he kept his binoculars trained on Valhalla. By dusk snow was falling thickly, turning Georgie’s blond willows grey before his eyes, icing Rannaldini’s maze and weighing down his fruit nets like trampolines. Like a black tie of mourning the dark waters of the River Fleet halved the white valley.

Unable to remember when he’d last eaten, Lysander opened a tin of sweetcorn, then, after a spoonful, put it in the fridge. For the thousandth time he checked if the telephone was on the hook. Jumping violently at a pounding on the front door, he prayed as he never stopped praying that it might be Kitty. Instead in marched the next best thing.

‘Oh, Ferdie!’ Lysander stumbled forward, flinging his arms round his friend, drawing comfort from his solid bulk. ‘I’m sorry I’ve been such a shit. I didn’t mean to use you. Poor darling little Maggie.’ His voice broke.

‘My fault.’ Ferdie patted Lysander’s shoulder, shocked how bony it was. Then, bending down to scoop up an hysterically excited, yapping Jack. ‘Came on too strong. Choked about Maggie. Had to take it out on someone.’

‘Everything you said was right. I just couldn’t bear not to see you any more. I’ve missed you so much. Did Maggie suffer terribly?’

‘No,’ lied Ferdie, ‘and her puppy’s doing really well.’