The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

the mist, horses knocking over their buckets as she staggered into the yard. Going from box to box, she felt each horse’s legs for fullness or bumps, before giving it a bucket of fresh water and a scoop of racehorse nuts. When he was at home Rupert preferred to perform this duty and decide which horses should be pulled from the gallops and merely walked round the village or rested in their boxes. He was due back from London at midday. Taggie had arrived from Paris very starry-eyed last night. At seven-thirty the rest of the grooms would arrive to muck out and tack up the horses for everyone to ride out at eight.

But long before the grooms, Taggie had erupted into the yard wearing nothing but a red silk kimono covered in gold dragons.

‘Oh, Dizzy, Lysander’s bed hasn’t been slept in and he didn’t come home last night.’

‘And men are missing,’ intoned Dizzy, echoing the Gulf War bulletins.

‘What the hell’s Rupert going to say?’ she went on. ‘We had enough trouble covering up for him yesterday and when he left Pridie behind at Worcester. He’s a fucking liability.’ Dizzy slammed Penscombe Pride’s stable-door shut.

‘But such a sweet one,’ pleaded Taggie, ‘and he’s been such an interest and a morale boost for Rupert. Rupert was desperately upset about the baby,’ stammered Taggie.

‘I know.’ Dizzy put an arm round Taggie’s shivering silk shoulders. ‘But Rupert’ll have to sack him if he doesn’t turn up. He can’t risk such irresponsibility with the horses.’ Then, noticing Taggie’s blue, bare feet, ‘get dressed, I’ll finish feeding the horses. Then we’ll look for him.’

They both jumped as deafening snores rent the air from the direction of Arthur’s box. Both doors were bolted to stop Arthur chewing them. Opening the top one, Dizzy and Taggie found both Arthur and Lysander stretched out. Lysander was asleep. Arthur was not and was snoring to get attention and breakfast.

Giving a great rumbling whicker, he waved a hoof at them. Arthur was so lazy, and pretended to be exhausted by all the trotting up and down the Gloucestershire hills, that he often managed to persuade the grooms to feed him his racehorse nuts and even his bucket of water lying down. From the back of the stable, Tiny glared down on such debauchery with more disapproval than the vicar’s wife at the Valhalla orgy.

‘I hope he’s not ill from all that wasting. He’s awfully still,’ said Taggie alarmed.

Dizzy sniffed: ‘Not ill. Drunk and passed out cold. Wake up, you stupid fucker.’

When shaking Lysander had no effect, Dizzy turned the hose on him.

‘Go and get some warm clothes and some black coffee,’ she urged Taggie. ‘We’ve got to try and sober him up enough to ride out.’

‘Kitty won’t leave Rannaldini,’ mumbled Lysander.

‘Can’t say I blame her if you carry on like this,’ said Dizzy tartly.

It was a pity that Rupert’s helicopter had engine trouble, so no-one was alerted by the chug, chug, chug of his approach. Instead, arriving in the dark blue Aston Martin, he was mistaken for Jimmy Jardine or Bluey Charteris rolling up to ride out. His first sight was of his beautiful wife, still wearing nothing but a drenched, gaping red kimono frantically trying to dress a half-naked paralytically drunk Lysander in the kitchen. Rupert had no option but to sack him on the spot.

Rupert spent the afternoon venting his rage on owners who owed him nearly a million and whose alleged cheques-in-the-post would rival the mail on Valentine’s Day. He had already received tearful deputations from every groom and estate worker, Mr and Mrs Bodkin, even Jimmy and Bluey, and his own sweet wife who was now sobbing into the batter she was about to freeze for Shrove Tuesday pancakes. Any moment Beaver, Gertrude, Jack and the rest of the dogs, the stable cat and all the horses would troop out of the twilight waving banners in some candlelit protest march.

He was brought back to earth by Taggie knocking on the door.

‘You magazine are just going to press. They want to know what you’re giving up for Lent.’

‘Lysander Hawkley,’ howled Rupert. Then, as Taggie burst into tears, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, are you and my entire staff and livestock bewitched by this cretin?’

‘No,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘It’s just that he hasn’t got a mother any more and his father’s a pig to him, and he’s nowhere to go if we chuck him out.’

Shooting across the room, knocking over his out-tray, Rupert took her in his arms.

‘There, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Of course he can stay.’

Pulling her head against his shoulder, he stroked her hair. She’d been so incredibly brave since the baby died. She needed something to fuss over, and Lysander had been such an interest and a morale boost for her.

‘I love him, too,’ he muttered. ‘But he’s such a dickhead.’

At that moment Lysander appeared round the door hanging his head, clutching a large bottle of whisky as a peace offering. He could hardly move for hangover and misery.

‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I’ve made such a fool of myself.’

‘Get out,’ said Rupert irritably. Then, as Lysander shuffled desolately out again, ‘Go to bed, I want you on parade at eight tomorrow morning.’

Lysander turned in desperate hope. ‘Pridie needs more work,’ Rupert went on, ‘and Arthur’s come on so well he can start on the gallops tomorrow.’

59

With a huge lump in her throat, Georgie wrote THE END in capital letters on the score of Ant and Cleo. She had a faint, faint hope that it was the best thing she had ever done. Her head, her hand and her back ached dreadfully but not for once her heart. At least tomorrow she could go up to London to meet David with a clear conscience. Tonight she would spend several hours de-slagging herself.

Having steeped her hair in coconut oil, waiting for a mud pack to dry on her face, she noticed that the rain which had been lashing the windows all day had finally stopped. Outside the sun had broken through behind the woods and flooded the opposite side of Paradise in rosy gold light, turning the fields a brilliant, leaping emerald- green, and a lone grey horse and the departing clouds the softest pink. Then, as she watched, a rainbow soared between the clouds. My life is on the up, thought Georgie.

Picking up the telephone, she rang Relate.

‘I’m terribly sorry, I can’t make it this evening. You’ve been so kind. I’m sorry I’ve talked so much about myself.’

That’s fifteen pounds saved, she thought in jubilation, I can buy a new T-shirt from Miss Selfridge, something clinging and sludgy to match my eyes.

Money was dreadful at the moment. It was a good thing she hadn’t bothered to finish the album for Larry. Catchitune were in such deep trouble, despite the new board, that they would never have paid the rest of the advance on it. But as she was leaving for the station her agent telephoned saying that Dancer Maitland was interested in playing Ant and could they see an early score. Then Guy rang, delighted that she’d finished.

‘We’ll celebrate this evening, Panda.’

He was having lunch at the Athenaeum with his father, he said.

That’s far enough away from L’Escargot, thought Georgie, floating off to London.

Arriving at Paddington on the next train after Georgie, David Hawkley felt the need to stretch his legs — a headmaster’s favourite phrase — and decided to walk to Soho. The first daffodils waving at him from Hyde Park put a spring in his step. Overtaking a traffic jam in Oxford Street, he was amused to pass a taxi in which Georgie was frantically powdering, combing, scenting and trying to re-assure herself in a tiny smudged hand-mirror that her new khaki T-shirt wasn’t too juvenile. All the girls in Miss Selfridge had been so sweet about her records.

Feeling happy and excited for the first time in months, David bought an Evening Standard and a bunch of daffodils and followed a trail of Giorgio into L’Escargot.