The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

himself crashing to the ground on top of a whole bed of Crown Imperials.

If Marigold hadn’t recognized Larry and rushed to open the double glazing and alert Mr Brimscombe to his master’s identity, Larry would have been cudgelled to death by a fox-headed walking-stick.

Next morning Marigold rang Ferdie to tell him what had happened.

‘Just a social climb,’ said Ferdie.

Marigold giggled. ‘Larry got off with a bruising and a sprained ankle. He’s just discharged himself from Rutminster Hospital. Oh, and Ferdie, he’s taking me to The Four Seasons tonaight.’

‘Well, play it cool.’

The following morning Marigold summoned Ferdie to The Grange.

‘We never made The Four Seasons. We ended up in bed.’

‘On the first date?’ Disapprovingly, Ferdie dipped a chocolate biscuit in his coffee. ‘You’re a slag, Marigold. When are you seeing him again?’

‘Tonight. He’s going to leave Nikki and come home. Oh, Ferdie, Ay can’t thank you both enough.’

‘We aim to please,’ Ferdie pocketed a ?10,000 cheque for mission accomplished and persuaded Marigold she must keep Lysander on a year’s retainer, so he could whizz back if Larry started acting up. ‘And we must return that diamond key to Cartier’s.’

‘How do I explain that to Larry?’

‘That it isn’t ethical to accept presents from young boys if one has made it up with one’s husband. It’s believing Lysander could afford one hundred thousand pounds for a brooch that rattled Larry.’

Marigold was brought up short. She was going to miss Lysander dreadfully. She had found it much easier to forgive Larry, because having Lysander around had made her realize how heady it must have been for Larry having Nikki. But at least if he was on a retainer, she’d see him occasionally. She decided to give him two polo ponies and a set of Dick Francis talking books as he was such a slow reader.

Lysander was so upset at the thought of Larry taking Marigold to The Four Seasons, and no doubt to bed, that he’d gone out and got plastered. Next morning, overwhelmed with hangover, clutching a cup of coffee, he’d gone out to see Arthur in his box.

He found the old horse had eaten all his bedding, a habit from his early days, when he didn’t know where his next meal was coming from, that he only reverted to when he felt very low and neglected.

‘I’m sorry, boy,’ said Lysander appalled, flinging his arms round Arthur’s neck, avoiding the green bits where Arthur had rolled. ‘I’m sorry, Mum and Uncle Alastair. I haven’t forgotten. I’ll bloody well get him sound and have another crack at the Rutminster.’

He emptied his cup into a bucket, because Arthur loved drinking coffee.

Having left Marigold and picked up a hamburger from the pub, Ferdie drove over to Lysander’s. He found him slumped, shivering in the corner of Arthur’s stable clutching Jack like a teddy bear, with Ferdie’s blue coat wrapped round him like a child’s dressing gown. Lysander was deathly pale and looked absurdly young. Arthur having abandoned silent sympathy, was lying flat out with his eyes open snoring loudly to get his master’s attention.

‘Here’s something to cheer you up,’ said Ferdie.

‘Marigold’s divorce papers?’

‘Even better.’ Having taken his ten per cent commission, Ferdie handed over a cheque for ?9,000, which Lysander pocketed listlessly.

‘Unlike you I don’t think dosh is the most important thing in the world.’

‘It comes a fucking good second.’ Ferdie handed Arthur a bit of hamburger bun. ‘Don’t be bloody ungrateful. Thanks to me you don’t owe a bean, in fact you’ve got a fat bank balance as well as a Ferrari and some really sharp suits. In the old days, you were always grumbling that you wanted to take Dolly to decent places and become a Lanson lout.’

‘I’ve grown out of that way of life. All those phoneys poncing around at the Catchitune party. I don’t want to be part of that scene any more. Why can’t I stay here and get Arthur sound?’

‘Larry’s coming back. It’ll be easier if you’re not around.’

‘She can’t go back to that overpaid clown.’ Lysander was nearly in tears. ‘He’ll have her back in pie-frilled collars in a week. I’m very fond of Marigold,’ he added defiantly. ‘Being with her reminded me of Mum. I wouldn’t mind settling down with her.’

‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Ferdie more gently. ‘You’d have to take her bopping on her zimmer in a few years’ time. And that accent would get seriously on your nerves.’

‘It would not,’ said Lysander furiously.

‘It’s like walking hound puppies. You have to send them back. You don’t have to go back to London. I’ve got another job for you in Cheshire rattling a drain billionaire who’s cheating on his wife.’

‘I’m not interested.’

‘You will be when you see the wife. She’s stunning. And you can take Arthur, Tiny and Jack. Evidently there’s a brilliant vet up there.’

Still lying down, Arthur snored even louder, opening an eye to see if Ferdie was prepared to relinquish any more hamburger bun.

‘Come on, you owe it to Arthur,’ persisted Ferdie. ‘Tomorrow to fresh woods and Porsches new.’

15

A fortnight later when Guy and Georgie moved into Angel’s Reach, all the removal men were whistling ‘Rock Star’ which now topped the UK as well as the American charts.

Guy, who took a week off work, masterminded the entire operation. Georgie drifted about getting in everyone’s way and going into poetic ecstasies over the lushness of the Rutshire spring. Blackthorn was breaking in dazzling white waves over the brightening green fields. On the first morning they were woken before dawn by the birds. Georgie had never seen so many lambs jumping in the fields or daffodils in a halo round their very own lake. A singer-songwriter could not but be gay in such a jocund company.

Euphoria, however, soon gave way to panic as she realized she’d lost Act One of her musical Ant and Cleo in the move. She daren’t tell Guy as he’d insist on helping her look, and there were all sorts of old love letters and the odd recent one in her boxes of papers which she didn’t want him to find. In the excitement of having a Number One record, she’d also agreed to deliver the new album by Christmas.

‘I’ll never get it done in time,’ she wailed to Guy, who was putting up some rather startling abstracts in the kitchen. The sink was still blocked with flowers wishing them luck in their new home, which Georgie would never get round to arranging.

Putting down his hammer, Guy took Georgie in his arms.

‘Larry’s just rung to say he’s going to bring in some whizz-kid producer to remix and revamp a lot of your old songs, so you’ll only have to write half a dozen or so new ones. It’s so restful here, you’ll do them in your sleep.’

‘No good if I can’t sleep,’ mumbled Georgie fretfully into Guy’s chest.

Having not arranged the making of a single curtain to fit the vast Angel’s Reach windows, she was getting increasingly irritated at being woken by the sun and the bloody birds at five-thirty in the morning.

So Guy, who knew where everything was, unearthed some swirling blue, olive and purple William Morris curtains which had hung in the house in Hampstead and charmed Kitty Rannaldini, who’d left a dozen new-laid eggs in the porch on their first morning, into letting them down.

As Kitty had promised to return the curtains as soon as possible, Guy, who felt sorry for her rattling around in that huge, supposedly haunted house, had invited her over for a late lunch on the Friday after they moved in. Following this, they would all drive over to the end-of-term concert at Bagley Hall, where Georgie’s and Guy’s younger daughter, Flora, and Kitty’s stepchildren, Wolfie and Natasha, were pupils.

Georgie, who’d been failing to work, hugged Kitty in delight as she staggered through the front door, the