The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

up with Macbeth and the machinations of the New York job, which still hadn’t been confirmed, to notice.

Like a pickpocket, Kitty’s hand kept edging towards the telephone, longing to dial Rupert’s number, just to hear Lysander’s voice. She was watching him win a small race at Cheltenham that afternoon when Clive marched in, so she hurriedly switched over to an Australian soap opera.

Lassie was her only comfort. Getting up in the middle of every night to carry her outside, feeling the little creature covering her face with gentle licks, as she lay warm and sleepy in her arms, Kitty thought she had never loved anything except Lysander so much.

At night Lassie curled up against her on her counterpane. Running her hand along the tiger-striped back, as smooth and silky as a banister, Kitty dreamt of racing down the great Valhalla staircase out of the front door across the valley into Lysander’s arms.

60

In the second week in March doughty little Penscombe Pride trounced The Prince of Darkness in the Cotchester Cup by ten lengths, bringing great glory to the yard, and putting a welcome forty thousand pounds into Rupert’s pocket. Rannaldini, who’d watched the race on satellite, while attempting to hammer out terms with the New World Phil, was so furious he promptly faxed his trainer to say he was taking The Prince of Darkness and his other horses away and would also be seeking a new jockey.

The two equine Titans were due to meet next in the Rutminster Gold Cup in the first week in April. Arthur, who had been reluctantly heaving his whale-like bulk over Rupert’s fences, had also been entered, but not declared. It was still a question of Lysander having enough races in the bag to qualify. Spirits at Penscombe plummeted when, ten days before the race, he had a punishing fall from Mr Sparky, putting his shoulder out and breaking a front tooth. Laid off for a week, he was nearly sacked on the Saturday before Mothering Sunday. His mind was so much on Pippa, as well as Kitty, that he forgot to pack the colours.

With only forty-eight hours left to qualify, however, he exonerated himself by winning a selling plate at Leicester so brilliantly that the owner was forced to buy the horse back for three times what he’d paid for it. Then he came third in the 3.15, and finally notched up his quota by finishing, as he thought, second in the handicap hurdle. But he was so elated he raised a clenched fist to punch the air, whereupon a startled Hopeless, thinking he was going to whack her, shot past the dark brown gelding in front to win by a nose.

The only person in the yard not overjoyed was Rupert. ‘How many times have I told you to get past before you start waving your arms about like a fucking politician,’ he yelled at Lysander as he caught up with him on the way to the winner’s enclosure. ‘And where was your head during the first circuit? Between Mrs Rannaldini’s fat legs, I suppose.’

A very nasty punch-up was averted when a pretty brunette from The Scorpion shoved her tape recorder under Rupert’s nose.

‘Is Penscombe Pride going to beat The Prince of Darkness on Saturday?’

‘Not a question of whether he’ll beat him,’ snapped Rupert, ‘but by how many lengths.’

‘Is he the best horse you’ve ever had?’

‘Yes, now buzz off.’ The prettier the reporter, the more Rupert distrusted them.

‘We do have another runner in the race,’ protested Tabitha indignantly, as she gave Hopeless a congratulatory hug.

‘Oh, right, King Arthur, 200-1.’ The brunette consulted her notebook. What had Timeform said about him that morning: ‘Campbell-Black’s white elephant, gigantic grey gelding of little account.’

‘Fucking hell!’ Lysander, on his way to being weighed in, swung round glaring at the brunette over Hopeless’s saddle. ‘How dare they?’

‘He’s your horse, Lysander,’ she said slyly. ‘How d’you rate his chances?’

‘Negligible if he rides like he did just now,’ snapped Rupert. Then turning to Lysander. ‘Piss off and get weighed in.’

‘People are saying the Rutminster’s a grudge match between you and Rannaldini,’ the brunette quailed slightly under Rupert’s chilling ice-blue glare, ‘for taking Lysander under your wing.’

‘So?’

‘You were in Monthaut with Lysander and Kitty Rannaldini.’

‘Don’t you say anything against Kitty,’ said Lysander coming back again.

‘Fuck off,’ hissed Rupert.

‘Why are you entering Lysander on a no-hoper just to irritate Rannaldini?’ asked the brunette, delighted at what she’d stirred up.

As Lysander opened his mouth, desperate to think of a really crushing reply, Rupert spoke first.

‘Arthur isn’t a no-hoper,’ he said coldly. ‘He’s a stayer. He stays even longer than my mother-in-law.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Tabitha whispered to Lysander. ‘Daddy’s always in strop before a big race.’

Daddy got stroppier. On the last gallops before the Rutminster, little Penscombe Pride was so well and above himself that he carted Bluey off the end of the all-weather track across two fields of barley on to the Penscombe- Chalford Road in the rush hour. Arthur, by contrast, didn’t try at all, slopping along at the back of the field, listening to the larks singing in a cloudless sky. He was still outraged that because caffeine was a banned substance, Rupert had stopped his morning cup of coffee. Far worse, having despatched Lysander to the dentist yesterday to get his tooth capped, Rupert had taken the opportunity to sharpen Arthur up himself, giving the old horse a good hiding when he refused to jump a row of fences at the gallop.

Lysander was in despair as he rode back to the yard. The cracks in the paths were as bad as last summer. Rain, which would make the going soft enough for Arthur, had been forecast for days, but showed no sign of appearing. Wild garlic was spreading over the floor of the wood like a thousand green hangover tongues. Lysander hadn’t had a hangover since the morning after Valentine’s Day. Nor a drink, nor any dope, nor magic mushrooms, nor even a fuck. Last night he had reached his target weight of nine stone six, but what was the point of all this self-denial if Rupert wasn’t going to declare Arthur? He glanced at his watch. It would be too late in half an hour. In the distance he could hear Tiny yelling her head off because Arthur had deserted her. She’d give him hell when he got back.

‘Can’t someone strangle that fucking Shetland?’ Rupert stalked into the kitchen where Taggie was turning sausages and frying eggs.

‘There are about thirty press messages on the machine,’ she said desperately, ‘asking if you’re going to run Arthur.’

‘Not after the way he went this morning,’ snapped Rupert, pouring himself a cup of black coffee and disappearing into his office.

The morning’s papers didn’t make Lysander any happier. There was a lot of guff about Rupert’s ‘Rutminster raiding party’ and how many winners he would get during the meeting. The tabloids all concentrated on the contrast between Penscombe Pride and Arthur. ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ said the Mail. ‘David with an Exocet faces Goliath with a sling,’ quipped the Sun. ‘Why do the handsomest men choose the ugliest horse?’ wrote the brunette from The Scorpion.

‘How dare they pick on Arthur?’ Lysander was practically in tears. ‘I’ll sue them.’

‘Hush.’ Shoving a piece of fried bread spread with marmalade into Lysander’s protesting mouth, Taggie led him to the door of Rupert’s office. ‘Just listen.’

‘It’s Race 31161,’ Rupert was saying in his flat drawl, ‘Rutminster Gold Cup, King Arthur, owned by Lysander Hawkley, ridden by Lysander Hawkley — that’s right. You still don’t know who’s riding The Prince of Darkness yet?’