The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

trop.’

If Larry had looked round he would have seen the tears in his wife’s eyes. Instead, trampling crocuses underfoot as he strode furiously out to his helicopter, he was incensed to see a red Ferrari, unleashed by a signal from Ferdie, storming up the drive. Larry had refused to listen to Hermione’s hints about an over-familiar workman. Workmen in his experience did not drive Ferraris. Only when he looked back from his helicopter did he read: CATCHITUNE in yellow and purple on the lawn and almost weep.

Five days later Lysander drove Marigold up to London for Georgie Maguire’s launching party. A huge sixties star, Georgie was now in her late forties. But from the posters plastered all over the walls of Hammersmith and Fulham: GEORGIE MAGUIRE — LIVE IN CONCERT, which showed her clinging to the same wet rock as on the CD sleeve, she was still seductive in a slightly blousy way.

‘How can one be dead in concert?’ asked Lysander, dodging and diving through end-of-rush-hour traffic.

‘She’ll be dead on her feet from touring and jet lag,’ said Marigold.

Georgie’s new album was already Number Two in America, because of the leading track, the actual ‘Rock Star’ of the title. The song, in fact, was not about a rock star, but a celebration of Georgie’s abiding love for her husband Guy, who was not only the rock on which she built her life, but the star who guided her. The sentiment would have been mawkish had not the lyrics and melody, written and sung by Georgie herself in her husky, mezzo- soprano voice, been so beautiful. With so many marriages breaking up, such a simple public confession of love had driven the Americans wild. The young in particular adored the song, because they craved the example of a happy lasting union in the same way they had loved ‘Lady in Red’, which Chris de Burgh had written about his wife.

To distract herself from the terrors of Lysander’s driving, and the party ahead, Marigold played the advance Rock Star tape all the way up to London. It still made her cry.

‘What’s Georgie’s husband like?’ asked Lysander, overtaking a startled chauffeur in a limo on the inside, as he stormed up the Lillie Road.

‘Oh, very attractive, rather stern, but incredibly kaind. Georgie used to be terribly wild before she married and for quite a whayle afterward. Guy got an honours degree at Cambridge and a boxing blue. His father was a bishop in some hot African country, so Guy’s used to givin’ orders. His family were horrifayed when he married Georgie, but he stuck bay her. He calmed her down, understood her need for freedom, yet yanked in the reins when she went too far. He was also big enough to handle her success and her failures. He was there when she went out of fashion in the late-seventies, and stopped her drinking heavily when she had one flop after another. Ay’ve never forgotten her last big launch in the early eighties. They hired the Hippodrome and none of the media turned up, just Georgie dancing by herself to her own music, then collapsin’ in a sozzled heap. It was terrible.’

‘Poor Georgie,’ Lysander was appalled. ‘I’d have danced with her.’

‘She’s a bit scatty, too,’ went on Marigold, checking her reflection for the thousandth time, ‘and Guy’s always given her so much back-up domestically, changing nappies, taking the kids out. He’s a wonderful cook, too. He should give Larry lessons.’

‘And me,’ said Lysander. ‘He sounds depressingly like one of my brothers. How did you and Georgie meet?’

‘She came as a temp to the office where Ay was working, tryin’ to support herself between gigs. She could only taype with two fingers, and used to come in and collapse on the taypewriter complainin’ that she’d been trippin’ all night. I tayped most of her letters. But she was such fun. She had lots of unsuitable musician boyfriends, but Guy was always in the background. Her Guyrope, she called him. Finally they got married.’

‘What does he do?’ asked Lysander, shooting a red light at the bottom of the North End Road.

‘Well, he was thinking of going into the Church. He’d have packed them in like Billy Graham, but the thought of Georgie as a vicar’s waife probably put him off, so he went into Sotheby’s, he was always arty and had a terrific eye. Now he’s got his own gallery. He’s pretty successful, discovering obscure painters, then making a killing when they become famous.

‘Their finances have always been a bit haphazard, but hopefully Rock Star will put them on a secure financial footing. They need it for all the money they’re pourin’ into Angel’s Reach. The trouble is they’re too generous. Guy’s always helping struggling artists, and he does so much for charity.’

‘Guy, Guy with the terrific eye,’, said Lysander. ‘When they move into Paradise, he can take your place on all those “Preservation of Rural Gentlecats” committees, and you can spend all day in bed with me.’

‘Whay d’you draive so fast?’ shrieked Marigold, as, narrowly avoiding a collision with an oncoming bus, Lysander screeched off right into Fountain Street.

‘Because I’m desperate to bonk you before Ferdie gets home.’

Waving a friendly two fingers at the gays opposite, who were peering out of their curtains, Lysander whisked her into the flat.

As it was they had plenty of time. Marigold was changing and Lysander was watching EastEnders and giggling over a postcard of the Eiffel Tower, signed: PLASTERED OF PARIS, which he and Marigold had sent Ferdie, when Ferdie himself walked in, bringing a new dark blue pin-stripe suit, made by Douglas Hayward, for Lysander.

‘They’ll all be bopping around in black leather and T-shirts. You’ll stand out much better,’ added Ferdie as he straightened Lysander’s new blue silk tie.

‘Oh, Laysander,’ gasped Marigold from the darkness at the top of the stairs. ‘Ay’ve never seen you in a suit before.’

‘Everyone’ll think I’ve stolen it,’ Lysander squinted at himself in the hall mirror.

‘You look scrumptious.’

It was true. As decent tailoring hides a multitude of turns on a middle-aged body, it can also marvellously elongate a broad-shouldered, willowy figure. On Lysander, the suit seemed to dance.

‘Well, come on down, Marigold. Let’s have a look at you,’ ordered Ferdie. ‘Jesus,’ he caught his breath, ‘you have worked hard.’

For the most gorgeous legs encased in black fishnet were coming down the stairs. Above them Marigold was wearing the black shorts Lysander had given her on Valentine’s Day, a white silk shirt and a black velvet coat slung over her shoulders.

Meeting her at the bottom, Ferdie took her hand and raised it to his lips. ‘You look sensational,’ he said slowly. ‘Marilyn Monroe’s face and body on Marlene Dietrich’s legs.’

‘Whay, thank you, Ferdie.’

‘And you’ve got into my black shorts.’ Lysander gave a whoop.

‘And look what I’ve borrowed from Cartier’s for you to pretend Lysander’s just given you.’ Ferdie pinned a diamond brooch in the shape of a key on her velvet lapel. ‘Now take off your wedding-ring, and remember to look happy.’

‘It’ll be strange not being a waife,’ said Marigold, sliding off the huge diamond and putting it in her handbag. ‘Ay tried so hard to be the perfect company waife. Ay wore Jaegar shirtwaisters and never yawned or swore or smoked too much. Ay always read Billboard and The Gramophone so Ay could talk to reviewers and distributors. Ay even trayed to laike Grand Opera.’

‘Well, it’s high time,’ Ferdie undid two more buttons of her silk shirt, ‘you kicked over the Traceys, or Nikkis.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Lysander, seeing Marigold trembling at Nikki’s name. ‘I’ll stay superglued to you all evening — and so will every man in the room — you look so beautiful.’

12

The one person not allowed to make an entrance at the party, which was held in a large blacked-out film studio in Soho, was Georgie Maguire herself. Her husband, who believed punctuality was next to Godliness, made