Alpheus flipped. Not only was his Jaguar totalled but how dare Rannaldini also lie to Cheryl that he’d been humping Pushy, Chloe and Hermione? Cheryl was threatening to divorce him and expose him to the tax-man if he didn’t accede to her outlandish demands.
‘And she wants custody of Mr Bones, the family dog,’ Alpheus shouted finally.
‘I am not surprised.’ Admiring his beautiful hands, Rannaldini picked up a nail file. ‘Eef Mr Bones can hold down job worth two hundred thousand dollars a year on your books
‘I’ll get you, Rannaldini…’
Alpheus’s bellows of rage could be heard all over Valhalla.
Flora had just screwed up enough courage to punch out George’s number when Rannaldini catfooted up, suggesting a walk round the garden. Flora was so depressed she thought Rannaldini would be better than no-one to talk to. She was wrong.
As they reached the pond near the rose garden, Rannaldini said, ‘I wonder when Baby will tell his little friend Isa that he’s just tested HIV positive.’
Flora stopped in her tracks, breathing in a sudden stench of fox. ‘How d’you know?’
‘I recommended him to a doctor,’ said Rannaldini smoothly. ‘The poor boy only heard this morning. He’s demented, and so must you be, my darling.’
‘Are you sure?’
‘Well, if you swing all ways and sleep around as much as Baby does, it was only a matter of time.’
‘Oh, my God.’ Flora slumped on a stone bench.
Trevor had disappeared after the fox. In the almost non-existent water of the pond, a couple of carp gasped and writhed. Then, from his inside pocket, Rannaldini produced an even worse horror.
‘What will George theenk of these pretty pictures?’
Flora gave a groan because the top one was of Baby making love to her on the lawn at Angels’ Reach.
‘Give them to me,’ she screamed, snatching the polythene folder.
‘Have them.’ Rannaldini gave a sigh of delight. ‘I have the negs. They should make George relinquish his plans for a Paradise bypass. And, eef not, Gordon Dillon will adore them.’ And whistling ‘This is my last, my finest day,’ Rannaldini sauntered back to the house, pausing only to switch on his mobile:
‘Bussage, my dear, can you ring Fleet Water Board and get them to fill up the lake and the ponds?’
Flora whimpered with terror. Baby, who’d been mysterious about his weekend plans, always switched off his mobile. There was no way she could call him and check the truth. Looking round, she saw that Trevor was tossing something in the air.
‘Stop!’ she screamed.
But by the time she had got there it was too late. It was a little black mole, probably in search of water. Lost above ground, blinded by the sun, the earth was baked too hard for him to tunnel to safety. There was something so pathetic about his tiny pink hands. Sobbing helplessly followed by an insufficiently contrite Trevor, Flora set out to find a spade to bury him. She felt she had bypassed Paradise for ever.
Entering Valhalla, Rannaldini had bumped into his leading mezzo.
‘“Dear Chloe, how blubbered is thy pretty face,”’ he quoted, in amusement.
‘It’s all because of Beattie’s horrible piece,’ sobbed Chloe. ‘Howie’s just rung in his undertaker’s voice saying I haven’t got Delilah. Even worse he says the money’s on Gloria.’
‘She is a newer face, my dear. Your voice is not really strong enough to fill the Garden. The last thing we need is terrible reviews for
Chloe was the second person in twenty-four hours to slap Rannaldini’s face.
And now he was in his watch-tower, working on his memoirs, the evil smile playing constantly over his lips. Pushy had left several furious messages on his machine. Having had access to helicopter, orange Lamborghini Diablo and Rannaldini’s bank balance while they’d been having an affaire, she was now feeling the draught.
Rannaldini took her next call.
‘You promised Ay’d be the next Lady Rannaldini.’
‘You were queen for a night, my dear Gloria. Poor Eboli only had two minutes of bliss. You had two weeks. Count yourself lucky. Now, pees off.’
Rannaldini turned back to his memoirs. What a lot he had on the rest of the cast.
That very morning, poor, silly Granny had been so unhinged that Clive had snapped him doing something very stupid in Rutminster. There was no way Hype-along would be able to buy all the nationals once the story broke. And what a lot too he knew about goody-goody Rozzy.
Then there was Chloe’s frolic with the goat on the Internet. And Isa’s parents certainly wouldn’t want to know what he’d been getting up to with Baby, or Isa what Baby had been getting up to with Flora. How gay was Baby, really? And what a shame Mikhail had lapsed last night. That marriage would take a long time to repair.
Sighing with pleasure, Rannaldini picked up his photograph album. What a lot of beautiful women he’d slept with! There was Flora, a plump, ravishing schoolgirl, and Chloe, whose skin was white-hot in texture, but who had been almost too easy to bed. And Wolfie’s mother Gina, hangdog because she’d loathed being photographed in the nude. Not a beauty but incredibly rich, she had given him his start in life.
Sharing a page were Serena the nympho and Pushy, whose pillow talk had been very limited. Over the page was Beattie Johnson, who was helping him with his memoirs and who knew rather too much about him. Beattie had been a marvellous fuck, his second wife, Cecilia, an even better one. And there was his third wife, plump Kitty, so anxious to please, who had escaped to marry Rupert’s friend Lysander. One day he would get even with those two.
Across the centre spread was an emaciated Helen — what a contrast to Hermione: rosy, Rubenesque, probably the most beautiful of them all, and certainly the best in bed. Yesterday he had punctured her self-esteem, but she was turned on by punishment and would soon bounce back.
Before the end of filming he would screw Lucy. She deserved a treat. And what a wonderful evening he had had last night, watching Cheryl and Lara exploring each other’s bodies. He’d hardly been able to get a cock in edgeways.
But, flipping through the pages, there were two Everests still to conquer: Rupert’s women. There was only a head shot of the divine Taggie, taken at Tab’s wedding, but by secreting hidden cameras in both her bedrooms, at Valhalla and at Magpie Cottage, he had some stunning shots of Tabitha, naked, slender and most disdainful of them all.
Rannaldini felt chained to a lunatic by his lust, his cock about to detonate. He had fantasized recently of marrying Tab, and giving her blond, beautiful babies.
But things hadn’t gone to plan. Rannaldini found himself increasingly identifying with Philip II. He had ‘sought in the vast desert of men, for a friend’. He had found Tristan, but Tristan had flouted his authority and won Tab’s affection.
It was the same with Wolfie. Rannaldini had wanted his son back so much, but how could it happen that Flora once, and now it seemed Tabitha, had grown increasingly fond of such a ham-fisted, formal, slightly ridiculous, hopelessly romantic young man.
Tab was infatuated with Tristan, but Wolfie was busy gaining ground. In his son’s top drawer, under the lining paper, Rannaldini had found Polaroids of Tab in her dunce’s cap. He’d kill rather than relinquish her to Wolfie. Suddenly he had a brainwave and picked up the telephone.
‘Clive, I want you to make a trip to Penscombe.’
36
