Lysander’s chin.
‘What the fuck is that?’
‘What does it look like? Sweet little thing. I had to trank her so she’s very dopey.’ Lysander dropped a kiss on the puppy’s head. ‘All the way from Palma, Jesus, if another hostess asks if she can take my coat! I’ve never had so many women trying to get my clothes off. Isn’t she adorable?’
‘And probably rabid,’ hissed Ferdie, then as the lift stopped, ‘cover it up for Christ’s sake.’
The row continued in the car.
‘Have you ever seen anyone with rabies?’ Ferdie was practically diving out of the window to avoid contact.
‘No, nor anything like this puppy. She’s got cigarette burns all over her back. Christ, people are bastards.’
‘You could go to prison for ten years, so could I for abetting you.’
‘Thanks for reminding me. I must have a bet.’ Lysander reached for Ferdie’s car telephone.
‘Put it down. Don’t change the subject. That dog could have rabies.’
‘Course she hasn’t. Her owners kept her locked in a cupboard. The boys from the boat took me clubbing and we heard her howling. We had to break in after-hours to rescue her. I really like gays. Basically they’re so brave and so kind to animals. It took Gregor and me an hour to wash the shit off.’
‘So it’s stolen as well,’ said Ferdie sternly. ‘That’s fifteen years.’
‘Anything’d be better than that bloody boat. I am not into bateau-ed wives.’
Ferdie didn’t smile. ‘You’re so fucking impulsive, like that time you hi-jacked the school cat. Jack will be wildly jealous.’
‘Jack will be delighted — once he knows she’s female.’
‘Then they can have lots of rabid puppies.’
Lysander giggled. ‘I’ve got you a huge bottle of Jack Daniels and some Toblerone for fat Jack and scent for Marigold. I can’t wait to see her. God, it’s bliss to be back. I hate abroad. People can’t understand me and I can’t understand the television. When are we going to see Georgie?’
‘About half-past six.’
‘How exciting. She looked so stunning at her launching party. Perhaps she’ll write a song about me called “Cock Star”!’
‘You are not allowed to bonk her.’
‘No, well. I better have a shower before we see her. I’ve got pee all over my shirt.’
‘What have you called that puppy, Death Threat?’ asked Ferdie.
‘Maggie.’
‘After Thatcher?’
‘No, after this girl in
‘What are you reading that for?’
Lysander, who was now marking runners in Ferdie’s
‘How far have you got?’
‘Page three. He’s quite a good writer, this George Eliot.’
Lysander was very hurt when Ferdie roared with laughter. He knew he was thick but he’d just executed a dangerous assignment with great skill and put a lot of dosh into Ferdie’s pocket.
‘Mrs Gunn was so grateful this morning, she’s given me twenty grand to spend at Ralph Lauren so I can buy lots of sharp suits.’ If he’d been bitchy he’d have added that Ferdie had put on a lot of weight and there was no way he could get into any of them. ‘And she offered me a yacht with my own mooring at the Hamble whenever I want, which I told her I didn’t.’
‘You dickhead!’ exploded Ferdie. ‘Ring her up and accept and we’ll flog it.’
Marigold was overjoyed to see Lysander.
‘Chanel Number Fayve, oh you remembered, oh Laysander.’
As she flung herself into his arms, Lysander noticed that she had, like Ferdie, put on a lot of weight. But as they had been held up in traffic there was no time to do more than bath and change before setting off to Georgie’s. Maggie the puppy, who was still dopey, having devoured a bowl of bread and milk and been inspected by Jack and Patch, had now fallen asleep on the sofa.
‘Poor little thing came from the National Canine Defence Kennels in Evesham,’ lied Ferdie, as Lysander, still a bit pale and black under the eyes, came downstairs rolling up the sleeves of a dark blue shirt.
‘God, Gregor knows how to iron.’
‘You look gorgeous,’ sighed Marigold. ‘Lucky Georgie.’
She wanted to come along to effect the introductions. It
‘Well, at least nag Georgie about the village fete,’ said Marigold. ‘We desperately need any clothes she doesn’t wear any more for the Nearly New Stall.’
Georgie watched a dying wych-elm showering yellow leaves on the burnt lawn. It hadn’t rained since the storm that had delayed Flora the first day she’d had singing coaching with Rannaldini. Honeysuckle buds like bloody red hands clawed at the terrace walls. The hay had been cut for a second time in Rannaldini’s field below, the bales like yellow coffins symbolizing the death of the summer. Georgie had had a terrible day — not a note of music or a word written. Having made a dropped telephone call earlier she had found out that Julia was back in the cottage at Eldercombe. So Guy’s compulsive mowing, even though there was no grass, would go on.
She didn’t know what had made her agree to see Lysander and Ferdie. The whole enterprise would distract her from work and cost a fortune and her confidence had taken such a battering she’d never pull it off. There’s no way Guy was going to stop seeing Julia.
They were shooting clays across the valley in preparation for 12 August. Bang, bang, bang, like a relentlessly approaching army. She turned on the prom. It was the Tchaikovsky violin concerto, which Guy was always playing, probably because it was one of his and Julia’s ‘tunes’. Georgie started to cry.
‘Marigold looks well, doesn’t she?’ said Lysander as they stormed up a drive lit by hogweed and dog-daisies. ‘When you think what she looked like last February. I can’t wait to see Georgie.’
In nervous excitement Lysander smoothed his windswept hair in Ferdie’s wing mirror.
Georgie, however, was in a far worse state than Marigold had ever been. Even done up on their last notches, her belt and her watch hung loose. The stones of her engagement ring, fallen inwards, scratched against her wine glass. Like purple worms the veins rose on her thin hands. Her hair had lost its lovely Titian glow and had no life, like a dull village. She hadn’t shaved the back of one of her emaciated legs and her ankles were scratched with brambles from wandering aimlessly through the woods. It also looked as though someone had grated coconut on the shoulders of her black T-shirt.
Getting drinks took ages.
‘I’m sorry this tonic’s flat,’ she said when they’d finally sat down on the terrace. ‘There’s a bottle in the fridge,’ she added as Ferdie leapt up. ‘I’m sorry the place is a mess. Mother Courage, my cleaner, has gone to the Costa Brava for a week.’
‘Lovely dog,’ said Lysander, as Dinsdale wriggled along the bench until his head and shoulders were resting on Georgie’s lap. She winced as the dog’s elbows dug into her fleshless thighs.
‘I spend my time taking grass seed out of his eyes.’
Which are only marginally more red-rimmed than your own, thought Lysander. ‘We had a basset,’ he told her. ‘They’re terrible at getting up in the morning.’
‘You two should get along,’ said Ferdie, returning with the tonic.
In the fridge he had also found blackening avocadoes, tomatoes spotted with grey, whiskery sweetcorn and mouldy cheese. All the plants in the kitchen were dying. Phlox and night-scented stock drooped round the terrace unwatered. This was definitely a house out of control.
Lysander loathed the moment when Ferdie told the wives where they were going wrong. Rannaldini’s haybales reminded him not of coffins but of school trunks and sobbing into his pillow every night at prep school, until every boy in the dormitory had hurled their regulation black lace-up school shoes at him. No wonder he was brain damaged.
