The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

In the kitchen he was welcomed by Marks & Spencer’s Chicken and Asparagus and Bread and Butter Pudding, both in foil trays. He loathed asparagus.

There was also a note from Marigold:

‘Larry,’ (not even dear), ‘These will take five minutes in the microwave. Gone out to dinner, back around midnight. Make yourself at home.’

It’s my fucking home, thought Larry furiously.

He couldn’t even ring for someone to run him up steak and chips because he’d laid them all off, and even he wouldn’t summon Mrs Brimscombe from the lodge in the middle of Coronation Street.

There were no curtains drawn, nor a fire in the lounge. He couldn’t complain. It was so mild that in the old days, he would have bellyached about the central heating being left on or a fire lit.

Returning to the kitchen, he found an empty bottle of champagne in the bin, two glasses in the sink and a huge bunch of pink roses with a card on the draining board. ‘Marigold, you were out of this world. All love, L.’

His Harley Street consultant had warned him against stress, but Larry had never been nearer a coronary as he bolted upstairs and was knocked sideways by the smell of Joy. Marigold was tidy to the point of finickityness, but now carrier bags with new clothes littered the bed and the armchairs. In the bathroom he found the top off the scented body lotion, a razor clogged with hair that looked unpleasantly pubic, a Cellophane pack that had contained black, eight-denier, seamed stockings and a size ten label on the floor. Marigold used to be size sixteen. The hairdryer was still plugged in, and worst of all The Joy of Sex on the edge of the bath lay open at fellatio. It was no comfort to Larry that this was exactly the state in which Nikki left their new en suite bathroom in Pelham Crescent.

With a howl Larry hurled The Joy of Sex out of the window, whereupon the clockwork squawking of a pheasant reminded him of his clockwork wife running away. Not wanting to go home to Nikki, who thought he was looking at a new pop group in Bristol, he stormed down to The Pearly Gates and got so drunk he didn’t even notice Marigold, Lysander and Ferdie coming out of The Heavenly Host across the road around eleven.

‘Ay’ve got fraightful butterflies,’ gasped Marigold as Ferdie pulled up outside The Grange.

‘Should be moths at night,’ said Lysander, who’d been getting gloomier as the evening progressed.

‘No more lipstick,’ ordered Ferdie, as Marigold opened her bag.

Ruffling her hair, he undid several buttons of her red dress — ‘You’ve got to look as though you’ve been got at,’ — before allowing her out of the car.

‘Now play it cool, and remember no bonking. We’ll stick around for a sec in case you need rescuing.’

Watching Marigold going up the steps, Lysander felt the same sickness as when his mother, trying not to cry, had walked down the platform after putting him on the school train. But a minute later Marigold came rushing back.

‘He’s gone, without leaving a note,’ she sobbed. ‘Ay’ve blown it, Ay’ve blown it.’

Appalled to find Marigold so devastated, Lysander leapt out of the car.

‘He’ll be back.’ He put an arm round her. ‘Probably just stormed out in a strop.’

‘Must have been one hell of a strop, if he left the door open and the burglar alarm off with Picassos and Stubbs in the house,’ mused Ferdie. ‘Can you see anything missing?’

‘Only Larry,’ wailed Marigold, as Jack jumped into Patch’s basket, snuggling up to her.

Desperate to give Marigold comfort, Lysander poured her a glass of Sancerre.

‘I taped Casualty for you,’ he said. It was Marigold’s favourite programme.

‘Ay’m the only casualty round ’ere.’ Putting her chain-handled bag down with a clatter on the draining board, she was bashing the stems of Lysander’s pink roses with a rolling pin, when the telephone rang.

‘Don’t answer it,’ howled Ferdie. But faster than Nijinsky out of the starting gates, Marigold was across the room. The telephone stopped on the third ring.

‘It’s our secret code,’ squeaked Marigold.

As the telephone began again, she snatched it up before Ferdie could stop her, listened for a second, then put her trembling hand over the receiver.

‘Larry wants to come over. He’s in The Pearly Gates.’

‘That’s the nearest he’s going to get to heaven this evening,’ said Ferdie briskly. ‘Tell him no. You’ve got red eyes and a red nose, and you’re both so wasted it’ll only end in a punch or bunk-up and blow all your advantage. Say you’re tired.’

Ferdie’s square face could look very big and mean. His friends didn’t employ him as a bouncer at their twenty-firsts for nothing.

Meekly Marigold told Larry she was shattered. They arranged to have dinner next week.

‘Who’s that in the background?’ growled Larry, as Lysander sulkily crashed the door of the fridge.

‘Only Patch,’ said Marigold. ‘See you next week.’

‘We’ll plan the whole operation when the time comes,’ said Ferdie. ‘Come along, Lysander.’

And because Ferdie wasn’t supposed to know he’d been bonking Marigold, Lysander reluctantly had to comply. Jack, even more reluctant to be removed from Patch’s paws, bit his master sharply on the hand.

Alone in her pink-flounced four-poster, Marigold couldn’t sleep. She had envisaged a scene from Gone with the Wind, with herself being so provoking that Larry would sweep her upstairs like Clark Gable — well, at least the black moustache was the same — and ravish her — at this point admittedly his technique would become Lysander’s. Then, becoming Larry again, he would swear she was his only love and Nikki a fearful aberration.

Hepped up for conflict, twitching with desire, Marigold longed for Lysander’s tender and exuberant lovemaking after which she always fell into a wonderful sleep. Lysander was better than any pill, and he didn’t leave you feeling woozy and unable to drive in the morning.

Having spent so many nights alone at the Grange, Marigold was unafraid of the dark, and always left her curtains open because no-one could see in except the birds. Outside a full moon was admiring her reflection in the fish-ponds, and a gentle west wind was scratching the bare stems of the famous Paradise Pearl against the window.

Marigold had never masturbated in her life, thinking it a disgusting habit, but Lysander had made her come so wonderfully with his fingers and tongue, she thought she’d give it a whirl and put the duvet over Patch snoring beside her, so the dog wouldn’t be corrupted.

‘Think about something that really turns you on,’ Lysander always urged her.

So Marigold thought about Lysander. Goodness, it was nice and quite easy, her breath was coming faster and faster, when she heard a loud bang on the window, which couldn’t be just windswept wisteria twigs. Then to her horror she saw a man framed in the window, the moonlight behind him. Screaming her head off she whipped her finger from her clitoris to the panic button.

Mr Brimscombe, however, who slept lightly because of his rheumatism, had already heard a car going towards the house. The driver must have had a remote control to open the electric gates, but it wasn’t young Mr Hawkley because his red Ferrari always blared music. Remembering his ladder outside Marigold’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe set out to investigate.

The Paradise Pearl, a unique silver-pink wisteria, had been propagated by Mr Brimscombe’s grandfather who’d gone to the grave with the secret of its exquisite vigour and colouring. Gardeners came from all over the world to admire and attempt to copy it. Mr Brimscombe’s first ignoble thought when he saw a man up the ladder was not that he was attempting to break in or rape Mrs Lockton, but that he was taking cuttings off the Paradise Pearl.

Shooting across the lawn like a crab, he seized the ladder just as Larry was peering in at the incredibly erotic sight of his beautiful slimmed-down wife playing with herself, the lamplight warming her lovely breasts. Excitement turned to horror, however, when he saw the duvet moving beside her — it must be that young puppy Lysander, not even capable of satisfying her. As Larry banged furiously on the window, his ladder was suddenly shaken down below with even more fury.

‘Come down, you thieving bugger,’ screached Mr Brimscombe.

Instantly obeying, Larry missed the next rung, grabbed a gnarled branch of the Paradise Pearl, bringing it and