The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

As Lysander grabbed a bottle from a passing waitress, Martha noticed a badge saying: ‘Birthday Boy’ pinned to his grey T-shirt. Clutching her glass of champagne as though it was boiling tea and she a shipwreck victim, she took a great gulp.

‘There’s a nice fire in the garden,’ said Lysander seeing the goose-flesh on her thin freckled arms.

Outside, the dull aquamarine of the swimming-pool reflected a few faint stars. Rain had bowed down the hibiscus and the oleander bushes, but their flowers, pink, red, amethyst and yellow, glistened jewel-like in the floodlighting. Great drenched pelts of purple and magenta bougainvillaea clung to the house and the garden fences.

To an almost overpowering scent of orange and lemon blossom was added a tempting smell of roast pork, garlic and rosemary as half a dozen sucking pigs jerked above the glowing coals of the barbecue. Apart from an inscrutable Mexican houseboy who occasionally plunged a skewer into their shining gold sides, the place was deserted.

Caressed by the warm night air Lysander gave a sigh of pure joy.

‘Such bliss to go outside and not shiver, but I expect it’s cold for you.’ Solicitously, he edged her towards the fire.

‘Poor little things,’ Martha looked sadly at the sucking pigs, then, pulling herself together, ‘You’re kind a tanned for someone just arrived from England.’

‘It’s fake,’ confessed Lysander, lifting the light brown hair flopping over his forehead. ‘Look how it’s streaked on the hairline and turned my eyebrows orange. I borrowed the stuff from Dolly, my girlfriend. She’s a model and always having to turn herself strange colours. I wanted to terrorize everyone into thinking I’d got brown playing in Argentina all winter. But I was pissed when I put it on last night.’

She’s so sweet when she smiles, he thought. To hell with Seb and Dommie.

‘And it’s your birthday?’ she asked.

‘No,’ Lysander glanced down at his birthday-boy badge, ‘but it gets me lots of free drinks.’ He opened his blue-green eyes very wide and then roared with such infectious laughter that people standing in doorways and sitting in windows and even the inscrutable Mexican houseboy looked up and smiled.

‘When is your birthday?’ asked Martha.

‘25 February, I shall be twenty-three.’

‘You’re a Pisces.’

Lysander nodded. ‘Friendly, warm, considerate, easygoing, but cross me and you’ll see how tough I can be. My father who’s a classical scholar pronounces it, “Piss-ces”.’

‘What does your daddy do?’

‘He’s a headmaster. Supposed to be a great teacher, but he spends most of his time raising funds and wowing mothers.’

‘Does your mother wow the fathers?’

For a second an expression of utter anguish spilled over the boy’s sunny, innocent, charming face. Shutting his eyes he took a couple of deep breaths as though trying to survive some horrific torture without crying out.

‘She just died,’ he mumbled, ‘last October.’

‘Ohmigod!’ Martha put a hand on his arm which was clenched like cast iron, ‘Whatever happened?’

‘She had a fall on the road. The horse went up. She wasn’t wearing a hard hat.’

As the Mexican plunged in another skewer the boiling fat dripped on to the red coals which hissed and flared up, lighting Lysander’s face like a soul in hell.

‘You poor little guy,’ said Martha. ‘Were you very close?’

Lysander nodded. ‘She was more like my sister. All my friends were in love with her.’

‘Your father must have been devastated.’

Lysander’s face hardened. ‘Dad doesn’t show his feelings. Basically we don’t talk. He prefers my brothers, Hector and Alexander. They’re better at things.’

From inside the house the band struck up. ‘I get no kick from champagne,’ crooned a mellow tenor.

‘I do,’ said Lysander, emptying the bottle into Martha’s glass.

‘What d’you do?’ asked Martha.

‘Estate agent.’

‘Not much fun with the recession.’

‘Best thing that ever happened to him.’

Gliding up, Seb Carlisle topped up both their glasses. ‘Recession enables Rip-Off Van Winkle here to sleep and sober up all day in the office when he’s not ringing Ladbroke’s or sloping off home to watch Neighbours. He couldn’t do any of that if he had to sell houses.’

‘Oh shut up, Seb,’ said Lysander. ‘Now guard Martha for a minute.’

Turning, he was nearly sent flying by the predatory blonde in the fire-engine-red dress.

‘If you’ve finished with your toy boy,’ she said pointedly to Martha, ‘I’d love to dance with him.’

‘You’re sweet,’ said Lysander, ‘but I must have a slash.’

‘He’s just adorable.’ Martha watched Lysander drifting gracefully as smoke across the lawn.

‘Isn’t he?’ agreed Seb. ‘Unfortunately his boss put him on commission only and as he’s not selling any houses he’s running up terrible debts, betting and going out clubbing every night.’

‘He ought to do something else.’

‘He’s about to go to a new job working in the City for some merchant bank which specializes in pretty, personable young men; but he’ll never last. He’s not cut out for the City. He ought to be a jump jockey or a polo player. You saw what a beautiful horseman he was this afternoon, but it took him four chukkas to get his act together.’

‘He’s very upset about his mother.’

‘Devastated,’ agreed Seb. ‘Completely lost his base, drinking himself stupid; can’t settle to anything. Unlike his pompous achieving brothers, he’s pretty dyslexic and he left school without an O level. His mother spoilt him rotten — the worse the prank the more she laughed, but she always bailed him out when he ran out of money. Pity Elmer can’t sign him up for the whole season. Pedro Cavanali broke his leg falling on the boards this afternoon. He plays medium goal with Elmer.’

‘I’ll see what I can do,’ said Martha.

The Mexican had carved two of the sucking pigs. Maids were carrying bowls of salad and baked potatoes through to the dining room as Lysander bounded through the french windows brandishing another bottle.

‘Clear the lawn for ballet,’ he shouted, then standing on one leg executed a pirouette, spilling a lot of champagne and only just avoided collapsing on the grass.

‘You need an early night,’ said Seb pointedly.

Inside the house, Lysander could see Elmer bending over Bonny, playing with the ends of her hair, no doubt boasting that Mrs Ex’s equine ancestors had come over in the Mayflower.

‘I’ll stick around,’ said Lysander.

‘Well, at least behave yourself,’ warned Seb.

‘Some hope,’ said Dommie, who wandered over tearing the flesh off the leg of a sucking pig with very white teeth. ‘Grub’s up. It’s very good, although,’ he dropped his voice so only Seb could hear, ‘our patron seems to have started already. He’s eating that slag alive.’

Going towards the house, Martha caught sight of Elmer and went into reverse.

‘That Bonny’s a bucket,’ said Lysander in outrage. ‘You’re much, much prettier.’

‘She’s newer.’ Martha took out a cigarette with a trembling hand. ‘Have you got a light?’

Lysander hadn’t, but, before Martha could stop him he’d plunged a twenty-dollar bill into the coals of the barbecue.

‘You’re crazy but awful sweet,’ reproached Martha, as he almost burnt his fingers getting the charred paper to her cigarette in time, but she was too immersed in her own misery.

‘It’s my fault,’ she confessed. ‘My last husband was faithful and dull and I was bored out of my skull, so I ran off with Elmer, who had a roving eye and I haven’t slept since.’

‘Elmer’s a shit,’ said Lysander with such disapproval that Martha looked up. ‘Dad was a shit to my mother and he’s already found someone else, a Mrs Colman, an army widow. She’s got veiny ankles and wears shirts with pie-frill collars,’ he went on in disgust. ‘The boys call her “Mustard” because she’s so keen on Dad. She helps him