rattled, which was what she had intended. Whoever had rung must have expected him to have left for the seven o’clock by now and meant to catch Georgie.
After an irksome week when he could hardly get Georgie on the telephone, he decided to catch her out by getting back earlier and was rewarded by having to stand all the way down in appalling heat, crushed against a woman who’d bought kippers for tea. Reaching home, sticky and bad-tempered, he found a dark blue soft-top Ferrari with A DOG IS FOR LIFE… NOT JUST FOR CHRISTMAS sticker on the windscreen parked outside the front door, at a contemptuous angle as though the owner had been in a frantic hurry to get inside. Despite its sleek exterior the car inside was a tip of tapes, race cards, chewed trainers, old copies of the
On the terrace Guy found a very suntanned, incredibly good-looking youth who looked vaguely familiar. Light brown curls clung to his smooth brown forehead and a black shirt to his marvellously elongated body. Georgie, who was totally transformed in a clinging leotard, which had just come into fashion and which flowed emerald-green into white-and-green flared trousers, was gazing into his eyes as though she’d like to be clinging to him as well. Her white ankles had turned a lovely gold and her toenails were painted softest coral. A shaggy, reddy-brown puppy lay between her thighs, and a half-full jug of Pimm’s stood between her and the beautiful youth. Dinsdale thumped his tail but didn’t rise; only a beady-looking Jack Russell went into a possessive frenzy of yapping.
It is my fucking house, thought Guy as Larry had done six months before.
‘Hi, darling,’ said Georgie happily. ‘D’you remember Marigold’s friend Lysander Hawkley? He came to the launching of “Rock Star”.’
Resisting kicking Jack in the ribs, Guy became extremely hearty and, after discovering Lysander had moved into the area, said: ‘You must meet my daughter,
‘I’m expecting her to ring from the station any minute,’ said Georgie.
‘D’you want a drink — er — sir?’ Lysander got to his feet. ‘Shall I get another glass?’
Guy was not amused, by the slightly piss-taking ‘sir’, nor by the strength of the Pimm’s when Lysander filled all their glasses.
‘Been playing at the Rutshire?’ asked Guy, looking at his dirty white breeches and bare feet.
Lysander nodded.
‘Got any ponies?’
‘Six,’ said Lysander. ‘I’m keeping them at Ricky France-Lynch’s at Eldercombe. I’ve just been playing practice chukkas there.’
Guy flickered. Ricky France-Lynch’s wife was a painter and a friend of Julia’s. They pushed prams together. It was the sort of connection that might suddenly push Georgie into orbit.
‘How was dinner with Larry?’ asked Georgie idly, thinking how hot, middle-aged and crumpled Guy looked beside Lysander.
Guy flickered again. ‘He cancelled.’
‘What did you do instead?’ demanded Georgie, suddenly feeling desperately insecure.
Gently Lysander’s foot nudged her ankle. Ferdie’s instructions were to be totally detached and never interrogate. But Guy was distracted by a huge emerald glittering on Georgie’s newly manicured right hand.
‘Isn’t it lovely?’ agreed Georgie dreamily. ‘I liked it so much, I decided to buy it with my royalty cheque.’
Maggie the puppy wriggled to be put down. Already plumper, sleeker and gaining in confidence after a fortnight of human food and sleeping on Lysander’s bed, she pounced on a yellow leaf from the dying wych-elm and, bounding up to Dinsdale, started swinging on his ginger ears. Raising a prehensile paw Dinsdale sent her flying. Covered in dust she righted herself, then seeing Charity emerge from the long bleached grass on the side of the lawn, took off after her.
‘Magg-ee,’ shouted Lysander.
‘Named after Thatcher,’ mocked Guy, who regarded himself as a champagne socialist.
‘No, Maggie Tulliver in
Guy was fazed. An Adonis who read! Georgie had always been an intellectual snob. He was dying for a pee and a change into something cooler, but he was loath to leave these two together.
‘Doing anything exciting this weekend?’ Georgie asked Lysander, removing a rose petal from his hair.
‘Playing cricket for the village on Sunday.’
‘Oh really.’ Guy perked up at a challenge. ‘We’re on opposing sides, I’m playing for Rannaldini.’
Lysander drained his glass. ‘You play a lot?’
‘Whenever work allows,’ said Guy. ‘I played for my old school and for Cambridge and the Free Foresters. What about you?’
‘I haven’t played since school. Georgie, I must go.’
‘I’ll get you a bag so you can take the Pimm’s fruit for Arthur,’ said Georgie. ‘Lysander’s horse,’ she added to Guy. ‘He’s such a duck. Lysander’s determined to get him fit for the Rutminster Gold Cup next spring.’
Standing up to hasten Lysander’s departure, Guy suddenly noticed several holes in his beloved lawn.
‘My God! Who did that?’
‘I think Dinsdale’s been trying to reach Melanie in Australia,’ said Georgie.
Next minute Maggie shot round the corner with a regale lily corm plus plant in her mouth, pursued by a panting Jack and Dinsdale.
Grinning, Lysander bent to kiss Georgie goodbye. ‘Thanks for the drink,’ then lowered his voice, ‘and remember be happy and distant and no sniping.’
‘Oh, there’s Rannaldini’s helicopter returning,’ said Georgie, as the great black crow landed on the other side of the wood.
Guy’s temper was not improved when Flora sauntered into the house twenty minutes later wearing nothing but flip-flops and a ravishing shirt in Prussian-blue silk over bikini bottoms.
‘Darling, you were going to ring from the station,’ said Georgie, hugging her.
‘I got a lift. Grania’s father was driving up to London.’
‘How was Cornwall?’ asked Guy. ‘You didn’t get brown.’
‘Too hot to sunbathe,’ said Flora, who’d spent most of last week in Rannaldini’s bedroom in his villa outside Rome.
‘Lovely shirt,’ said Georgie enviously.
‘Grania’s,’ lied Flora who, as a leaving present, had been taken to Pucci.
‘You’re always nicking people’s things,’ exploded Guy finding a genuine outlet for his irritation over Lysander. ‘Where the hell’s my Free Forester’s sweater?’
‘How should I know?’
‘You had it last at that dinner party—’ Guy stopped as he remembered the occasion.
‘When Julia Armstrong was the guest of dishonour,’ said Georgie. Oh hell, she wasn’t supposed to snipe.
‘I gave it back the next day,’ protested Flora.
‘You did not,’ spluttered Guy. ‘I’m playing cricket on Sunday, and I need it.’
‘No-one needs a sweater in this heat.’
‘After one has been making a lot of runs, or bowling, it’s easy to catch a chill.’
‘Borrow my pink shawl,’ said Flora kindly. ‘I’m not stuffy about lending things.’
Guy found that Lysander’s wide, untroubled smile like the Cheshire Cat seemed to linger unnervingly after he’d gone. He was further rattled by two dropped telephone calls which he’d no idea were Rannaldini, still in Rome, hoping to get Flora. Then he realized it would be too late for him to ring Julia. Ben would be home from London by now.
29
