The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

ran more smoothly than his did.’

‘I bet he was.’ Lysander squeezed Marigold’s shoulder. ‘Basically you know how to make a man happy.’

‘Well, Ay don’t know, but anyway, Rannaldini divorced Cecilia and married Kitty, his PA. In her case it stands for permanently available. She’s a poppet, an absolute gem, runs Rannaldini’s houses, sorts out his finances, checks his contracts, protects him from importunate fans and ex-mistresses, looks after his hoards of fraightful kiddies, and whisks up supper whenever he invaites entire orchestras home without any warning.’

‘I could do with someone like that,’ said Lysander. ‘I don’t understand the poll tax at all.’

‘And she puts up with Hermione treating her laike a housemaid. Oh sugar, talk of the devil.’

There was a whirl and chug like the last spin of a huge washing-machine, as a helicopter appeared over the woods.

‘That’s Hermione coming home,’ said Marigold furiously. ‘She’s also been on tour. No doubt she’ll be over in a flash, boastin’ what a success she’s been and how many men have fallen madly in love with her — “One can never have too many men in love with one, Marigold” — and bringing me her latest tape to cheer me up, which my husband has already produced in its thousands, and saying, “How are you? How are you?” when she doesn’t give a shit. Whoops, penny in the swear box. Hermione must be the most irritating person since the nurse in Romeo and Juliet.’

Next moment, the helicopter landed on the lawn of the big yellow house with beckoning chimneys, which lay between Valhalla and Paradise Village. They could see a tiny figure getting out and people running across the lawn to meet her and could hear voices and laughter echoing round the wood.

‘Let’s stop off at The Apple Tree and get some Mars bars,’ said Marigold, through gritted teeth.

‘Better not. Ferdie’s coming down to weigh you tomorrow.’

Back home, Marigold changed out of her track suit and had a long, comforting bath. When she came very apprehensively into the kitchen, wearing some new jeans, Lysander gave a Tarzan howl of joy.

‘My God, they’re great. You’ve got such a terrific ass — I mean figure.’

‘Not so good with all this flesh spillin’ over like uncooked pastry,’ said Marigold, raising her dark blue cardigan above the waistband.

‘That’ll be gone in a week,’ said Lysander, thinking what a lovely mouth Marigold had when it was laughing and not hidden in a hard line brooding about Larry. She looked ever less like a Beryl Cook lady now the regimented curls had been straightened and streaked and fell in a shiny blond bob over one eye. The hot bath had unleashed the Arpege she had splashed all over her body.

‘If Ferdie’s comin’ tomorrow, I better take a ton of Ex-Lax tonaight,’ said Marigold.

Heavens, who would have thought she’d ever discuss laxatives with a man? But having ridden races, Lysander knew all about getting weight off. He really was a very sweet boy.

10

Half an hour later Lysander and Marigold were in Larry’s study, smoking like mad to dull their appetites, and watching the runners in the 3.00 at Wincanton circling in the paddock.

‘I’ve backed Rupert Campbell-Black’s horse, Penscombe Pride,’ said Lysander. ‘That bay in the dark blue rug, doesn’t he look well? He won both the Rutminster and the Cotchester Gold Cups last year.’

‘Even I know that,’ said Marigold.

‘He’s favourite, but he’s carrying so much weight.’

Next moment Jack flew out of the basket he now shared with Patch and went into a frenzy of yapping as Hermione Harefield swept in.

‘What’s the point of electric gates,’ muttered Marigold, ‘when Mrs Brimscombe lets in the horrors?’

Hermione was fortunate to have looks that needed little maintenance. Her strong, glossy, dark brown curls fell naturally into shape. Her big eyes the colour of After Eights were fringed with thick lashes that never needed mascara. No spot nor red vein ever marred a complexion as smooth and creamy as Carnation Milk. Her splendid bosom soared above an enviously slim waist and she never wore trousers, because they would have emphasized a rather large bottom and hidden long, charmingly curved legs. She could easily have passed for the much admired younger sister of Michelangelo’s David, but in Hermione’s case, beauty was only rhinocerous-hide deep.

Embracing Marigold regally, she said: ‘How are you, how are you?’ in her deep, thrillingly rich voice, and presented her with a tape of herself singing sea shanties, including ‘Blow the wind southerly’. She then insisted on pressing the mute button of the television, and playing the tape fortissimo, while recounting details of her wildly successful tour.

‘Such love, such love, one could feel it reaching out to one,’ cried Hermione. ‘But it’s a responsibility to be so beloved. I must take my voice increasingly into the open air and bring music to the people. So I’ve decided to do Hyde Park and Wembley this summer.

‘But when I felt Paradise beneath my feet and little Cosmo rushed across the lawn crying, “Mummy, Mummy”, I knew that here was the real world.’ She smiled at Lysander, who, having risen when she came in, was now back with his feet on the table, listening to her non-stop flow with his mouth open.

Finally Marigold butted in: ‘Hermione, may I introduce Lysander Hawkley, my personal exercise trainer.’

‘But you never take any exercise,’ said Hermione in disbelief, which turned to disapproval when Marigold despatched Lysander to get a bottle of wine and some Perrier for herself.

‘You shouldn’t encourage workmen to watch television and drink in the middle of the afternoon, Marigold. What’s he doing here?’

‘Mending my heart.’

But Hermione wasn’t listening. ‘I need to get in touch with Larry. I’m recording Dido next week, and I want to know who’s singing Aeneas and which recording studio’s been booked.’

‘Ay haven’t a clue,’ snapped Marigold. ‘Ring Nikki’s new apartment. You’ll find Larry in bed there.’

‘Don’t be bitter, Marigold, it’s so ageing,’ chided Hermione, who loathed her friends having marriage problems because it gave them an excuse to talk about themselves rather than her.

‘I refuse to take sides,’ she went on. ‘I’m sure poor Larry’s as confused as you are.’

‘And sells millions of your records,’ said Marigold furiously.

‘Oh Marigold, you silly billy,’ sighed Hermione, looking at Marigold properly for the first time. ‘You’ve dyed your hair.’

‘I thought I needed a change.’

Hermione put her head on one side. ‘Well, if you like it that’s the main thing, and I’ve never seen you in jeans before. We are jazzing ourselves up.’

With a trembling hand Marigold reached for a Silk Cut. Hermione, who had a singer’s pathological horror of smoking, was about to reproach her when she was distracted by the tape reaching ‘Blow the wind southerly’.

‘This is my favourite, I never thought anyone could sing “Blow” as well as Kathleen Ferrier, but the American critics say my version is better.’

‘Oh, look,’ sighed Lysander, pausing in the doorway, his arms full of bottles and glasses, and nodding at an incredibly handsome man talking to a sardonic-looking jockey in blue-and-green colours. ‘That’s Rupert Campbell- Black. Isn’t he handsome? And seriously cool? And that’s Bluey Charteris who rides for him — lucky sod.’

Lysander was about to turn up the sound when the cameras switched to the latest odds. Penscombe Pride’s were shortening.

‘I was lucky to get that bet on early. God, I want to meet Rupert.’

Hermione refused a drink, but said pointedly that she’d like some tea, because she hadn’t had any lunch.

‘You’re out of luck,’ said Lysander. ‘Marigold’s on a diet.’

Hermione turned to Marigold. ‘I thought you were looking awfully tired.’