world avoiding tax and outraged mistresses, when he’s not terrifying the London Met into submission. Rumour has it,’ he added knowingly, ‘that if things get too hot in England, Rannaldini’s got his sights on the New York or Berlin Philharmonics.’
‘I get it,’ said Lysander, shoving Jack inside his coat. ‘Rannaldini’s house might go on the market and you’d get it on your books first and make a killing.’
‘Exactly,’ said Ferdie, getting back into the car. ‘It’s always worth watching this area.’
Driving down the hill he turned off at a signpost saying: PARADISE 2 MILES.
‘You make a killing,’ he went on, ‘selling a house here to a couple. Then, when the marriage breaks up in a few years, you make another killing finding them two separate houses and, if you’re lucky, flogging the old one for them.’
Paradise, which had been voted Best-Kept Village in Rutshire for the last ten years, lived up to its name. Even on the bleakest day it was sheltered by the towering tree-covered hills. The churchyard and the gardens that lined the main street were already crowded with aconites, snowdrops and early crocuses. Winter jasmine and evergreen honeysuckle climbed to the roofs of the cottages, from whose chimneys, opal-blue smoke rose straight up, hardly ruffled by the wind. Although the duck pond was frozen, there were fat ruby buds on the black spiky branches of the lime trees which framed the village green.
Next to the church behind ancient stone walls hung with tuffets of mauve aubrietia lurked a charming rectory. As well as an excellent village shop called The Apple Tree, which stocked everything from videos to vine leaves, Paradise boasted a garden centre called Adam’s Pleasure which sold petrol, and a restaurant, called The Heavenly Host, with its duck-egg-blue shutters drawn, which opened only in the evenings.
Ferdie and Lysander, however, shot with indecent haste into the saloon bar of The Pearly Gates Public House.
‘Morning, Ferdie,’ said the landlord who had tipped him off about local houses on several previous visits.
Sustained by a couple of large whiskies and a plate of very hot steak-and-kidney pie and chips in front of a roaring fire, Lysander began to feel slightly more cheerful.
Apart from a couple of pensioners gazing at half-pints of beer, the place was deserted except for the vicar, who, in between drinking large glasses of red wine and writing Sunday’s sermon, gazed surreptitiously at Lysander.
‘They ought to invent a killer cocktail called the Holy Spirit,’ murmured Ferdie, whose pink cheeks had turned bright scarlet in the warmth.
On the walls, dominating the coaching scenes, village cricket elevens and gleaming horse brasses, were two framed photographs. One was of a haughty-looking, grey-haired man with his eyes shut waving a stick, the other of a strikingly handsome woman with dark, curly hair and her mouth so wide open that Lysander was tempted to toss her the piece of the pastry he was feeding to Jack.
‘Who are they?’ he asked Ferdie.
‘Rannaldini conducting Mahler and Hermione Harefield, his mistress, singing it. That’s her house on the left.’
Out of the window, Lysander could see tall yellow chimneys, beckoning like fingers between two great black yew trees.
‘She’s a world-famous diva,’ continued Ferdie mopping up gravy with a third piece of bread. ‘She met Rannaldini when he was conducting
‘Hermione’s incredibly beautiful and a pain in the ass, which Rannaldini probably enjoys because he’s rumoured to go both ways. Hermione’s husband, Bob, is the orchestra manager of the London Met. He’s a seriously nice guy with the flattest stomach in Rutshire. He should have the narrowest shoulders, shrunk by so many musicians sobbing on them as a result of Rannaldini’s tantrums.’
Ignoring Lysander’s reproachful glances at his empty glass, Ferdie picked up the car keys.
‘Come on, I haven’t finished the tour.’
Outside, the sun had gone in. The cottages along the High Street huddled together for warmth. As they drove out of the village up the south side of the valley, they passed a cottage with a waterfall and a swing hanging from a bent apple tree.
‘That’s Jasmine Cottage,’ said Ferdie slowing down, ‘which also belongs to Hermione and Bob Harefield. Last year they rented it out to your pianist friend Rachel and her Russian husband Boris. Then Rachel went abroad on a concert tour, and Boris was left behind, babysitting and writing incomprehensible music no-one wanted, so he started looking around sexually. In the autumn they moved back to London hoping it might be easier to find work, but it doesn’t seem to have helped the marriage, if yesterday’s eye-gel incident is anything to go by.
‘And that ravishing house, hidden in the willows on the left belongs to Valentine Hardman. He’s a top lawyer with a mistress up in London, so his wife Annabel threatens daily to throw herself into the River Fleet.
‘And that vulgar pile up on the left,’ Ferdie nearly ran over a pheasant as he peered through vast electric gates up a long drive, ‘is Paradise Grange. It belongs to Larry Lockton, chief executive of Catchitune Records who make a fortune out of Rannaldini and Harefield. Larry keeps buying companies, but I suspect he’s hopelessly overleveraged and riding for a fall.
‘Now Larry’s another bloke Rannaldini’s led astray,’ added Ferdie, driving on. ‘Larry used to be a fat little man who never smiled because he had bad teeth. But he was so jealous of all Rannaldini’s mistresses, he wanted one, too. So he had his teeth fixed, lost three stone and got a new haircut like Mel Gibson and started bonking his secretary. He’s even bought her a bonkerie in Pelham Crescent. I sold it to him,’ explained Ferdie, not without complacency. ‘Ground floor with a nice garden and fitted cupboards for all the skeletons. Larry’s wife, Marigold, used to be very pretty. She was his childhood sweetheart, but once he started to make his pile and began climbing socially, she got Weybridged and dressed like the Queen, eating too many white chocolates, and throwing herself into charity work like a rugger ball with a difficult bounce.’
‘Why are you telling me all this?’
‘Hang on — there
Driving on up the hill Ferdie pulled into a gap. Through the trees across the valley half a mile to the right of Valhalla they could see a Georgian house, smaller than Fleetley, but exquisitely proportioned, with soaring stone angels on each corner of the roof.
‘That house, Angel’s Reach, was totally unmodernized with a fantastic wild garden,’ said Ferdie. ‘It’s been bought by Georgie Maguire and her husband, Guy Seymour, who are spending an absolute fortune on it.’
Lysander opened a bloodshot eye. ‘Even I’ve heard of her. Wasn’t she a pop singer in the sixties? Mum had all her records.’
‘That’s right. Now she writes songs as well.’
‘I’ve always thought she was seriously attractive,’ said Lysander.
‘Georgie and Guy paid a million five.’ Ferdie edged the car on until they could see a long lake glinting gold in the falling sun below the house.
‘My guess is they can’t afford it, but they’re gambling on her new album, which is produced by Larry Lockton and Catchitune, being a massive hit.’
‘Aren’t Georgie and Guy supposed to be the happiest couple in show business?’ sighed Lysander enviously.
‘Which probably means they’re both screwing around,’ said Ferdie cynically.
Lysander shook his head in bewilderment. ‘It’s quite awful. What’s the point of getting married if you spend your time bonking other people?’
‘This monstrous regiment of womanizers,’ said Ferdie with a shrug. ‘Paradise husbands ring up from London on Thursdays to remind the housekeepers to get their wives out of the freezer so they’ll be unfrosted by the time the master returns on Friday night.’
‘Why the hell do the wives put up with it?’ asked Lysander with a shudder. ‘At least Dad didn’t bonk other women.’
‘When your husband’s as rich as Croesus, you get used to a certain lifestyle and you can’t bear to give it up.’
‘I’ve got Croesus in my face,’ said Lysander, peering gloomily in the driving mirror. ‘Let’s go home, Ferd, I
