The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

‘They also serve,’ said a quiet voice at Guy’s elbow. It was Bob Harefield, Hermione’s long-suffering husband, who’d got hold of a whisky bottle with which he laced Guy’s glass.

Balding, round-faced, bow-tied, always smiling, Bob gave the impression of a Humpty Dumpty who’d survived a great fall by the skin of his teeth.

Because of his amiable egg-like face, people tended not to notice the lean beauty of his body. No-one could understand how he could put up with Hermione and Rannaldini, but certainly his tactful handling of the latter had stopped most of the London Met committing suicide. Guy would have liked to have had a heart-to-heart with him about the Catchitune royalty system, but unfortunately Bob had that bespectacled frump in tow.

‘I want you to meet the nicest lady in Paradise,’ said Bob, ‘Kitty Rannaldini.’

Guy nearly dropped his glass.

‘Rannaldini, did you say?’ He added in amazement. ‘I didn’t realize.’ He couldn’t really say, ‘Love your hair, you’re looking fabulous,’ short of total hypocrisy, so he thanked her for being nice to Georgie. ‘You are a brickette.’

‘I was just suggesting to Kitty,’ said Bob, ‘that we ought to start a second-fiddle club for people married to celebs.’

‘You’ve got the London Met to look after as well,’ said Kitty.

‘Well, you’ve got all Rannaldini’s children and ex-wives. That’s much worse,’ said Bob, then when Kitty protested, ‘you know they are.’

‘I’ve got used to the post and the telephone always being for Georgie,’ volunteered Guy. ‘I don’t even mind being shoved aside by people desperate to meet her. The only thing I find wearing is her constant need for reassurance, but all artists are like that.’

He watches her the whole time, thought Kitty wistfully, seeing she’s got a drink and talking to the right people.

‘I did like Georgie,’ she said timidly. ‘Will you be in London during the week?’

Guy nodded. ‘I hope you and Marigold will stop her getting lonely.’

‘Oh, I will,’ Kitty felt impossibly flattered, ‘and Angel’s Reach is so beautiful. All the angels was turning pink in the sunset as I was driving up this evening. As though they was flushed with excitement about you movin’ in.’

Guy smiled. ‘That’s sweet. I so look forward to being part of a community again. If you live in a village you must put something back.’

‘Marigold’ll rope you in. She does so much for others.’

‘Particularly at the moment,’ said Bob, looking in amusement at Marigold who was peeling Mediterranean prawns and handing them to Lysander. ‘That boy is the smoothest bit of trade I’ve ever seen, straight out of Fortnum’s toy department.’

Guy, who strongly disapproved of extra-marital frolicking, deliberately changed the subject.

‘What are you doing after this?’ he asked Kitty.

Kitty looked at her watch. ‘Driving back to Rutshire.’

‘Come dine with us, Larry’s booked a table at Hero’s.’

‘I’ve already eaten a ’ole paella.’

‘Have one course. I insist.’

Feeling his warm hand on her arm, Kitty thought Guy was one of the nicest men she’d ever met. It would be lovely having him in Paradise, as an island at parties who one wasn’t frightened of going up to.

Seeing Georgie was nose to nose with David Frost now, Guy said, ‘I’ve got to ring Brian Sewell of the Evening Standard and try and get him along to a preview tomorrow. Have you got any pound coins for a fiver?’

Returning five minutes later, he was grabbed by Georgie.

‘That bastard Larry’s having an affaire with that blonde.’

‘It’s not serious, I’ll explain later,’ murmured Guy. ‘Larry’s about to make a speech. Go and stand beside him.’

As ‘Rock Star’ boomed out from every speaker, people turned to watch the video on the monitor, which showed shoals of fish turning into ink-blot ghosts which, in turn, became boats being shipwrecked, sharks prowling through the deep, lusty fishermen pulling in nets. Then the waves pounded the rock to which Georgie was clinging, until there seemed no hope for her survival. Then slowly the seas calmed, the sun came out, and Georgie was draped against the rock, drenched in her grey rags but smiling.

‘Rock star, rock star, rock star, you are my rock star,’ sang Georgie in her husky haunting voice. And on the monitor appeared a close-up of Guy looking wonderfully macho in a blue denim shirt which brought out the strange light azure of his eyes, with the wind tugging at his arctic-blond hair.

Even people round the buffet, stopped eating and drinking and listened to the track, swaying and dancing to the beat.

At the end when Guy walked up to the rock, picked up Georgie and carried her away across the sands with her wet hair trailing, and a pack of basset hounds raced after them, everyone cheered and stamped their feet. Those who were holding glasses and couldn’t clap, banged their other hand on the table, and cried, ‘Speech, speech’.

Sweat glistening on his forehead, Larry grasped the microphone.

‘We’re very happy to be producing Georgie Maguire,’ he mumbled. ‘We think she’s a bit special, and she’s going to be around for a long time to come. Catchitune hope this album is the first of many. This party isn’t a hype, no big deal, but as we speak “Rock Star” is Number One in the American charts. I give you Georgie Maguire.’

That’s the first draft I wrote, thought the head of publicity indignantly, and I’ve been fired a dozen times today for my pains.

Georgie took the microphone and in a choked voice thanked everyone at Catchitune, and particularly Larry and his lovely wife, Marigold.

‘Hurrah,’ bellowed the Catchitune staff glaring at Nikki.

‘It’s been a long time in the wilderness,’ Georgie went on, ‘which makes tonight even more special. This is the second happiest day of my life. The happiest was when I married my husband, Guy Seymour’ — she emphasized Guy’s surname — ‘the loveliest, strongest man in the world. I’d like you to drink to Guy, my rock.’

Everyone clapped and cheered. Standing beside Marigold, Lysander noticed a girl in front removing her spectacles to wipe away the tears, and realized it was Kitty Rannaldini. He’d say hallo later. Then, in the lull that followed, out of the gloom, Marigold’s very distinct tones could be heard saying to the man on her other side, ‘Are you the chief buyer of Tower Records or a disc jockey for Radio 1? Well, take your ’and off may bottom then.’

There was a howl of mirth.

‘Marigold used to be such a dutiful wife,’ whispered Hermione in shocked tones. ‘What has got into her?’

‘I think that miraculous toy boy has,’ said Bob.

‘Larry’s having an affaire with that ghastly Nikki,’ hissed Georgie, as smilingly she and Guy posed for photographs.

‘Shut up,’ hissed back Guy. ‘The boot’s on the other foot.’

‘Lovely speech,’ said Nikki, coiling her hand into Larry’s.

‘Just going to check the other room,’ said Larry noticing Marigold was missing.

Next door, the smell of dope and hairy male armpits spilling out of sleeveless T-shirts was suffocating.

‘Rock star, rock star, my life would be a zero, without my steadfast hero,’ sang the writhing, gyrating couples in ecstasy.

Indifferent to such proof of a mega-hit on his hands, Larry scoured the room. Then suddenly the dancers parted like clouds at night to reveal two bright stars, Lysander and Marigold, in each other’s arms. Outraged, Larry watched Lysander put a joint in Marigold’s mouth and her breasts swelling provocatively as she inhaled, then Lysander taking a last puff before stamping it underfoot, then French kissing her on and on, with all Catchitune’s staff and distributors dancing round to have a better look. Larry was appalled at the pain. Stumbling upstairs, he roared at the General Manager to close the bar.

As Lysander and Marigold drifted back hand in hand, Georgie noticed the diamond brooch on Marigold’s black velvet coat.

‘Isn’t that lovely?’