The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

going. Ferdie always distances himself by reciting Shakespeare or Latin verbs, but I can never remember anything long enough to remember it. Anyway I can’t think of anything but you. Oh, Georgie.’ And he kissed her with such love, it was worth all the orgasms in the world.

As he lit them both cigarettes, a deep sigh came from the sofa. Jack, Maggie and Dinsdale, peering out from under Lysander’s shirt, were watching them with the utmost disapproval.

‘They look like Jack Tinker, Milton Shulman and Irving Wardle after the first act of a seriously bad play,’ said Georgie, ‘except it was seriously lovely.’ Bending over she kissed Lysander’s flat brown belly, then moving slowly upwards kissed each rib. ‘You are desirability incarnate, but it must be the last time. You’re less than half my age. It’s obscene.’

‘So what? Look at Rannaldini and—’ Lysander just stopped himself saying ‘Flora’. God, he must be careful. ‘And — er — all those groupies he’s always deflowering.’

‘According to Hermione, Rannaldini fulfils a woman’s every need.’

Chucking his cigarette into the fireplace Lysander stretched out on the rug, his cock pointing unambiguously heavenwards.

‘Come and sit on my need,’ he said, ‘and this time you’re going to come.’

Georgie’s life changed. Feeling herself wildly desired by someone she found wildly desirable, her confidence flooded back. She started looking sensational. She had never enjoyed sex so much. She’d never believed lust and larkiness could be so entwined.

Ferdie, on the other hand, was livid. ‘You’re not supposed to bonk them,’ he shouted at Lysander, ‘you’ll be done for enticement. Guy’ll take you to the cleaners.’

‘I don’t care, I love bonking Georgie.’

‘She’s ancient,’ snapped Ferdie. ‘You’re like a robin nesting in some rusty old kettle.’

Ferdie was somewhat surprised to find himself being shaken like a rat.

‘Don’t you ever talk like that about Georgie again.’

Guy was also seriously rattled. Georgie had cried wolf in the past, often threatening to walk out when she was plastered. But now she was never in when he rang. She claimed she was working, but he noticed exactly the same notes on her music-stand and the same words of lyric in her notebook on Fridays as there had been on Mondays.

‘You’re seeing far too much of Lysander Hawkley,’ he told Georgie, who was wearing a scarf on the hottest day of the year to hide the lovebites.

‘And you see too much of Julia Armstrong,’ said Georgie blithely. ‘Small tits for tat.’

‘We’re not talking about me. It’s juvenile to try and get your own back.’

‘Whoever said revenge was sweet was a smart cookie.’

Guy tried another tack. ‘We must do more things together, Panda.’

‘Right,’ said Georgie. ‘Let’s kick off by getting a divorce.’

34

The impossibly hot summer sweltered on and people wore as few clothes as possible. Georgie and Lysander spent a great deal of time in bed and his presence at Magpie Cottage kept the husbands of Paradise more on their toes than Baryshnikov. In particular, Guy and Larry started ringing solicitously night and morning, cutting down their sporting activities at weekends and getting home early on Friday with bunches of flowers. In Guy’s case it was dramatic how British Rail had suddenly improved their services.

Only Rannaldini carried on in his usual fashion making love to Flora in every possible position in every capital in Europe. Hermione and Cecilia, unaware of this new passion, joined Natasha in feeling more than a faint neglect and became increasingly demanding and histrionic — particularly towards Kitty, who was the one who had to cancel when Rannaldini was supposed to be seeing them.

The only pleasure afforded a chronically cuckolded wife, of witnessing the anguish of one’s husband’s current mistress when he moves on to a new one, was denied to poor Kitty because she felt that Rannaldini was far more smitten with Flora than any of the others.

A diversion was caused at the end of August by the launching of his film of Don Giovanni, promptly nicknamed Dong Giovanni because many of the leading characters appeared with nothing on. The critics, while full of praise for the production, pointed out that the wonderfully lit conductor appeared more than the Don. Paradise was electrified because their very own Hermione Harefield, and Cecilia Rannaldini, the ex-wife of their very own Rannaldini, appeared in the buff. Grin and Barefield, The Scorpion called it. Pirate versions were soon circulating Paradise with the sound turned down and much frame-freezing on Hermione’s bottom.

At a private and raucous late-night showing in The Pearly Gates, pats of butter and even darts were thrown at the screen. Hermione was not quite so beloved in Paradise as she believed.

Having borrowed the tape to show Georgie, Lysander wandered down to Paradise the following morning to hand it over to ancient Miss Cricklade who was next in the queue. Since the arrival of a vast box of chocolates, Miss Cricklade had forgiven Lysander for drinking her home-made wine at the fete and was now taking in his washing.

It was a day fit for a wedding. After heavy rain in the night, a newly washed blue sky arched over gold fields. Every blade of bleached grass and already turning leaves sparkled in the sunshine. Apples reddened like blushing brides in the orchards of Paradise.

Lysander had meant just to take the dogs but Arthur had looked so bored and eager for a jaunt and Tiny made such a din if left behind that in the end they all went. Jack, strutting out proudly with Arthur’s lead rope between his teeth, and Maggie, who was now three times larger than Jack, cavorted in front teasing Tiny and keeping out of the way of her gnashing jaws and lightning hoofs.

Lysander felt absurdly happy. Wearing just loafers and frayed denim shorts, he could feel the sun on his back which was now darker gold than the fields. He was in love. He had a mother to fuss over him once more and he adored living in Paradise. Since he’d mistaken the fete for a wedding reception and made the vicar’s wife, Marigold and Lady Chisleden (all regarded as bossyboots) look silly, his popularity had soared even higher.

‘In a world where nothing seems real, I have found you, I have found you,’ sang Lysander to Arthur, who waggled his big ears lovingly and didn’t remotely mind his master being out of tune.

Passing Bob’s and Hermione’s, Lysander noticed a pair of sweating workmen hoisting very large, new-looking white balls on to the greying flat-topped pillars on either side of the gates.

He was so busy staring he didn’t see anyone approaching. Giving a snort of irritation that Lysander’s pack was spilling over the road and pressing herself into the hedge like a cat when the hunt passes, was a very tall, very thin girl. Startlingly pale for such a hot summer, she had very short spiky beige hair and a fine-boned foxy face dominated by angry eyes. She was wearing a loose, earth-coloured dress, which totally disguised her figure. Somehow she seemed familiar. Lysander heard her footsteps halt, but when he turned, she’d disappeared. She must have gone into Jasmine Cottage, the sweet little house belonging to Hermione, which was hired out for expensive holiday lets.

By the time Lysander had had a cup of coffee and a glass of parsnip sherry with Miss Cricklade and dropped off his washing and had a glass of Sancerre with Miss Paradise ’89, who waited at The Heavenly Host and who’d saved the remains of last night’s bread-and-butter pudding for Arthur, and had a bet and a pint of Flowers at The Pearly Gates and reached The Apple Tree, he was in fine fettle. But as Tiny had eaten his shopping list he’d forgotten what he’d come down for.

Wandering round the shop throwing smoked salmon, frozen Mars bars and a bottle of Moet into his basket as treats for Georgie, Lysander bumped into Eve the owner who was as short, plump and jolly as the unknown girl had been tall, thin and disapproving. ‘Who’s taken Jasmine Cottage?’ he asked.

‘Mrs Levitsky’s come back,’ said Eve with a sniff. ‘She was married to Boris that Russian. They were so happy