The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous

What a poppet, thought Guy, as Rachel bent down at the net to retrieve a ball. She had delightful legs. It was so hot he’d remove his shirt for the finals and ask her to rub in some Ambre Solaire to show his awareness of the ultra-violet rays. And as all the matches had ended on Court Two they now had an admiring audience to watch them thrash Brickie and that little pipsqueak who’d been fawning over Georgie. He was gratified Rannaldini was watching. Guy arranged his sweat band as Rachel waited for service. In deference to a woman, Lysander tempered his thunderbolt.

‘Oh well hit, Rachie,’ shouted Guy as she clouted it back to Kitty. So lost was he in admiration, he mishit Kitty’s gentle lob. A split second later Lysander had murdered it.

From then on he had both Guy and Rachel racing all over the court. Rachel, upset at how aware she was of Rannaldini’s smiling scrutiny, started hitting wildly. Lysander, who had an uncanny ability to guess when a ball was going out, took every advantage.

‘Mr Hawkley and Mrs Kitty lead, 5–0,’ announced Mr Brimscombe.

‘In a place where nothing seems real, I have found you,’ sang Lysander happily to himself as they changed ends.

‘Miss Saigon,’ said Kitty longingly.

‘I’ve got the tape at home if you want to borrow it,’ said Lysander. ‘I’d stand further back for this game. The sun’s tricky and Guy’s going to step up the pace.’

He was right; but when even Guy forgot his Ace-Caring role so much that he served and hit really hard balls to Kitty, fired by Lysander she managed to get them back.

‘Good li-el Prince,’ she said, looking down at her ancient racquet at set point.

Guy was hurtling towards her, smiting a great shocking pink cannon ball in her direction. Shutting her eyes, Kitty stuck out her Prince and prayed. Next moment she heard cheers and clapping.

‘Game, set and match to Mrs Kitty and Mr Hawkley,’ said a delighted Mr Brimscombe.

Neither Rachel nor Guy could crack a smile as they all shook hands.

39

‘Pile up on the motorway,’ Lysander said to Kitty, as Bob, Guy and Larry all converged on Rachel two minutes later with cups of black tea and lemon.

Not that she was very grateful, and when they started to compete in telling the most grisly recession story, she stalked off to bend the vicar’s ear about PVC coffin liners giving off noxious fumes. The vicar pretended to listen but was much more interested in eavesdropping on the frightful row Georgie was clearly having with Lysander.

‘What the fuck are you playing at?’ she hissed. ‘You’re paid a bomb to rattle my husband and he’s been crawling over that ghastly vegan all afternoon. How the hell did he know she didn’t have milk in her tea?’

‘I’m sorry, Georgie.’ Lysander was flabbergasted. ‘I was so sorry for Kitty. I thought that was what you wanted. I wish we hadn’t got into the finals. When’s Guy going back to London? I miss you.’ He tried to take her hand, but Georgie snatched it away.

‘For God’s sake, everyone’ll see us.’

Flouncing off, Georgie found herself in a gaggle of women.

‘How’s Ant and Cleo going?’ asked Hermione, radiant with smugness at being in the final.

‘Fine,’ said Georgie shortly.

‘I just wonder if the musical is quite the right vehicle for Shakespeare.’

‘Kees me Kate grossed a few million,’ interrupted Cecilia. ‘Brush up your Shakespeare,’ she sang softly. ‘Start quoting him now. When you ’ave a score for Ant and Cleo, I like to see eet, Georgie.’

‘Oh — you’d be a wonderful Cleo.’

‘I would enjoy eet. Kiri ’as been Eliza Doolittle.’

‘The Verdi Requiem was fantastic, both you and Boris,’ said Georgie in wonder.

Hermione was furious.

‘It’s amazing how you manage to inject sex into everything, Cecilia.’ She gave a little laugh. ‘Your “Libera Me” was more like Come and Get Me. You’re not doing too much, are you? Your voice sounded tired in Rannaldini’s rushes yesterday.’

This was a body blow. One only saw rushes in Rannaldini’s tower.

‘Don’t talk crap,’ said Flora rudely. ‘Mrs Rannaldini sang wonderfully. She lifted the Verdi every time she opened her mouth. And at least she doesn’t duck out at the last moment because of a lovers’ tiff.’

‘Why zank you, Carissima,’ said Cecilia in amazement.

Abandoned by the vicar, who had beetled off on seeing Lysander looking miserable and standing by himself, Rachel was screwing up courage to ask Cecilia how Boris was, but, hearing arguing voices, didn’t think this was a good moment. Putting her cup down on the table, she idly fingered a yellow snapdragon, squeezing its mouth open as she had when she was a child. Like a cloud over the sun, Rannaldini glided up.

‘Enjoying yourself, Meesis Levitsky?’

‘Not particularly.’

His smile was mocking, his thighs as hard and thick as the magnums of champagne that Mr Brimscombe was now opening for those who had finished playing. She’d never met a man who upset her more.

‘This place is a disgrace,’ she fumed. ‘We’re in the middle of a drought. Your garden is an oasis.’

‘I know how to look after my own,’ said Rannaldini softly. ‘I thought you like things green.’

‘Not at other people’s expense. Don’t be fatuous.’

Rannaldini noticed the slight down on her upper lip and the underarm hair inside her sleeve as she scratched a midge bite in her hair.

Smiling slightly, he edged a finger into the snapdragon’s gaping, furry mouth. Instantly Rachel let go, and the mouth shut, gripping him.

‘One day, amore, a more exciting part of you will greep me, and you will love every minute of it,’ he said softly.

‘Don’t be disgusting.’

‘In fact, you will beg for eet.’

‘Your host not looking after you?’ said Guy arriving with a magnum and two glasses. ‘Presumably you want to keep your eye in until after the final, Rannaldini?’

‘Won’t make any difference. ’Ermione,’ he called out, ‘we’ll start in five minutes.’

‘The grass was very “Kitty” this morning,’ announced Natasha, collapsing on the bank beside Flora to watch her fat stepmother make a fool of herself in the finals.

‘Kitty?’ asked Ferdie, squatting down beside her.

‘Stands for “wet”,’ snapped Natasha.

‘Why are you so vile to Kitty?’

For a second, real pain flared in Natasha’s face.

‘I can’t bear to think of her in my father’s bed.’

‘I shouldn’t think she is very often,’ said Flora reasonably.

‘Fancy Kitty, do you?’ Natasha taunted Ferdie. ‘If she rolled over in bed, she’d squash you flat. Although you’d probably do the same to her.’

Ferdie got to his feet.

‘Can I give you a word of advice?’ he said politely. ‘If you’re trying to pull Lysander, he’s never been attracted to bitches.’

The sun dropped into the towering Valhalla woods, the shadow of the abbey with its tall chimneys stretched