The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

Flora had fallen under Lysander’s spell and ignored her, nodding on the other hand to Ferdie and the Ideal Homo, who said: ‘I agree with Lysander. That suit is to die for.’

‘Better watch out you’re not run over by a snowplough,’ mocked Flora, determined to disguise her longing.

‘Where’s Kitty?’ asked Lysander.

‘Organizing tea.’

‘Doesn’t she get to watch?’ demanded Flora disapprovingly.

‘Kitty doesn’t understand cricket,’ said Rannaldini.

‘Didn’t go to that kind of school,’ added Natasha bitchily.

The umpires, Mr Brimscombe and Rannaldini’s dog handler, Clive, neither of whom were paid to be impartial, were leading the players on to the field when Lysander was sent flying by two blond bullets, Marigold’s sons. Jason was wearing a T-shirt saying: I’m afraid of no-one in the world except my Dad. Markie was carrying a cricket bat almost bigger than himself.

‘We’ve got Rocky IV at home. Will you come and watch it after the match and will you bowl to us?’ asked Jason.

‘Wait till the tea interval.’ Lysander tucked his billowing shirt into his white trousers. ‘I’ve got to field. How was going back last term?’

‘Fine,’ said Markie. ‘Mummy cried so much, I felt I should cry too, but only to make her feel better. How’s Arfur?’

‘Come and see him. He likes your father’s grazing.’

‘Come on, Lysander,’ yelled the Archangel Mike.

He’s sweet with kids as well, thought Natasha as Lysander loped on to a pitch as emerald-green due to illicit sprinkling as Georgie’s new leotard which Flora was now wearing.

In the bandstand, sweating members of the London Met sawed their way through the Trout Quintet, wishing they, too, were under water. The group round the Ferrari were now joined by Marigold, who’d been working the crowd touting for the church fete.

She was feeling low because the jeans she and Lysander had bought in February were now within three inches of doing up. Telling herself they would have been too hot was no help at all.

‘How’s it going?’ she whispered, accepting a glass of Ferdie’s champagne.

‘Not as well as you and Larry,’ whispered Ferdie, ‘but watch out for fireworks this afternoon.’

‘I hope you girls are going to help at the church fete,’ said Marigold.

‘I’ll be abroad,’ said Flora hastily.

‘So will I,’ said Natasha.

‘Shame. And I thought you could decorate a room for free, Meredith.’ Marigold turned to the Ideal Homo. ‘It would make a lovely raffle prize.’

‘It would not,’ said Meredith huffily. ‘There’s a recession on, dearie, if you hadn’t noticed.’

Having met Lysander, he was not going to forgive Marigold for not calling him in to redecorate Magpie Cottage. ‘Talk about the reincarnation of the Paradise Lad,’ he muttered to Flora as he parked his small bottom beside hers on the bonnet of Ferdie’s Ferrari.

The wine waiter of The Heavenly Host opened the bowling. Squaring his shoulders Bob hit him for four.

‘Oh, well clouted,’ said Marigold, who got very hearty on such occasions. ‘Don’t eat all Ferdie’s Jaffa cakes, boys.’

‘Is Hermione here?’ asked Flora, who wanted to suss out the opposition.

‘No, thank God,’ shuddered Meredith. ‘She’s playing Salome in New York. When she gets to the seventh veil the entire audience rears up and yells: ‘“No, no, keep it on!”’

As Rannaldini was now well out of earshot, everyone howled with laughter.

‘Must be bliss for Bob having her away,’ said Marigold.

‘Bliss! Bobby’s got a good body, hasn’t he? Oh, well hit, that’ll be a six.’

‘Bob is nice looking actually,’ admitted Flora. ‘Pity he’s losing his hair.’

‘He’s just receding to match the recession. Bobby’s always been trendy,’ giggled Meredith. ‘Oh, good shot,’ as Bob snaked a single past first slip. ‘This is going to be a rout. Poor Paradise, more like Inferno in this weather.’

It was getting hotter. A silver haze writhed above the pitch. A sweep of mauve willow herb wilted beneath the smouldering ash-grey woods which bordered the ground. Birds, exhausted with feeding their young, were mute. Ferdie, running with sweat, wished he was thin enough to remove his shirt and get brown like all the other blokes. He couldn’t take his eyes off Natasha — he’d never seen anyone so pretty. Full of patter normally, he was suddenly so shy he could only fill her glass and ply her with cherries as dark red and shiny as her lips.

A hundred for no wicket. The village were getting tetchy. They’d hoped for a glimpse of Georgie, who’d been singularly elusive since she’d moved in. Rumours of marriage problems, spread by Mother Courage, were circulating faster than greyhounds on a track. Guy, however, was much in evidence, looking very cheerful. Batting only at number seven, rather to his irritation, he was now being sweet to the wives of the fielding Paradise players, admiring their tans and their babies, making a manly show of reluctance when asked to sign autographs, intimating that he hoped to be playing for Paradise this time next year.

By contrast, Larry, who was going in at number three, was sitting in the shade furiously shaking The Sunday Times Business section. He’d run out of people to shout at on the telephone and it didn’t look as though this stupid opening partnership would ever get out. He was livid to see Mr Brimscombe umpiring — the Judas. After the massacre of the honeysuckle round Flora’s bedroom, Mr Brimscombe had been tempted to return to his old boss, but had decided that Larry was a bad-tempered bugger. The Paradise Pearl cutting had taken in Rannaldini’s conservatory and the promise of a fat rise and an even taller mower from which he could look over the hedge at Natasha sunbathing topless by the pool had persuaded him to stay on.

The situation was getting desperate, a flustered Paradise had started dropping catches. Lysander’s supporters had moved back into the shade under the mulberry trees and, when he was sent to field on the boundary near them, barracked him because his side was doing so badly.

‘Can you ring Ladbroke’s for me?’ he shouted to Ferdie. ‘My card’s on the dashboard. Cover Point just told me Blue Chip Baby’s a cert in the 4.15. Can you put on five hundred pounds on the nose?’

In the light of his new bank balance, Lysander had considerably upped his stakes.

‘Rich as well,’ murmured Meredith excitedly.

‘Spoof you for him,’ sighed Natasha.

‘Bloody stupid putting on that kind of money,’ snapped Ferdie.

‘You got anything to eat?’ called Lysander, who’d already accepted an iced Carlsberg.

‘I’ll make you a sandwich.’ Natasha leapt down off the bonnet. ‘Would you like chicken or smoked salmon?’

Mulberries were falling on the parked cars. The crowd were melting. Bob and the horn player had put on 140.

‘If someone doesn’t get out soon,’ grumbled Marigold, ‘Larry won’t get a knock.’

‘God, she’s pretty,’ mumbled Ferdie, as Natasha sauntered on to the pitch with Lysander’s sandwich.

‘Quite,’ said Meredith, who’d hung two pairs of cherries over his ears like earrings, ‘but an awful bitch.’

Lysander, however, only had time for one bite. Things were getting so desperate that the Archangel Michael beckoned him over.

‘You bowl?’

‘A little.’

‘Can’t do worse than this lot.’ Mike lobbed the ball at him. ‘Wicket’s harder than Rannaldini’s heart. Try and keep the ball up to the bat.’

‘This should be interesting,’ said Ferdie, as he finished off Lysander’s sandwich.

‘Bowler’s name,’ shouted the scorer.

‘Hawkley,’ yelled Mike.

The crowd, particularly the women, perked up. So this was the gorgeous man who’d moved into Magpie Cottage. The London Met, bored with playing classical music, launched into ‘Hey, Goodlookin’.’

Meredith waved in time with a chicken drumstick.

‘Hi, Teddy!’ Lysander grinned at Mr Brimscombe as he paced out his run. The two had become great mates