The Man Who Made Husbands Jealous (70 page)

    'What part did you play?' asked Taggie, aware of the menace of Rupert's mood.

    'Oh, I just shifted scenery, but my horse, Arthur, carried the Third King. He was seriously good in the part, but that was only a sideline. It's Arthur I wanted to tell you about.' He looked at Rupert fair and square,

    After five minutes he realized that Rupert was yawning and tapping long fingers on the table.

    'Sorry. I'm talking too much.'

    'I wouldn't argue with that.'

    'He sounds really sweet,' said Taggie quickly, wishing Rupert wouldn't be so vile.

    Comforted, Lysander turned to her. God, she was lovely with all that cloudy dark hair and her soft, pink mouth and her kind, silvery-grey eyes and sweet, shy face.

    'You're so much prettier than your picture in the Express,' he stammered, 'and we saw your little boy. He's adorable. He'll be skiing for America soon and he looks just like you.'

    'Odd,' said Rupert coldly, 'he's no relation of Tag's. He's my grandchild.'

    That's torn it, thought Lysander. 'I know it sounds crass,' he stumbled on, 'but you don't look anything like old enough to be a grandfather.'

    Little bastard, patronizing me, thought Rupert.

    'He doesn't, does he?' Taggie put a hand over Rupert's clenched one. 'Eddie's parents are playing polo in Kenya, so we're looking after him for a few days. Good practice because we're hoping to adopt our own baby from South America soon.'

    Rupert was looking thunderous. He didn't like Taggie discussing their private life. The boy could easily be stringing for The Scorpion.

    'I spent Christmas in South America. Brazil actually,' Lysander told Taggie, 'in an incredible house with a swimming-pool and a polo field, running into the sea at one end and the mountains at the other. We were drinking on the terrace one evening and I pointed out that the mountain was dotted with stars. Gina, my hostess, just laughed. "Your stars are lights from the shacks of the poor," she "Don't ever grumble about being rich."

    That's really sad,' said Taggie.

    'Isn't it? I thought what the hell am I doing here?'

    Rupert yawned pointedly. 'One might ask the same question.'

    'Rupert!' reproved Taggie.

    Flushing, Lysander jumped to his feet.

    'I'm really sorry.'

    Suddenly Rupert twigged. This must be the boy who had cut such a swathe through the Paradise wives. There was no way he was leaving him on the loose to run after Taggie.

    'How well d'you ski?' he asked Lysander.

    'OK. I'm a bit rusty.'

    'I'll take you off-piste tomorrow if you like. Down the Chute des Fantomes, Chute d'Enfer, Descente des Diables it's

    got a lot of names. We could stop for lunch on the way down and talk about Arthur.'

    'That's seriously kind.'

    'I'll pick you up about nine-thirty then.'Lysander went up to his room to find lots of messages. Then he hung up on Georgie because he was still furious with her. Next Marigold rang scolding him for staying out there.

    'Rannaldini's back in England. He doesn't need rattling any more. We've got to talk, Lysander.' But he had hung up.

    Ferdie was even more disapproving.

    'Why the hell aren't you in Brazil? That's a half a I million pound deal,' he shouted.

    'Go and sell some more houses,' snapped Lysander.

    'The market's dead. Gina's just called. She's hopping you walked out, and Martha rang. Remember Martha, your first success? She needs a Refresher Course because Elmer's straying again. You can go on to Florida from Brazil. Gina said it was working fine when you buggered off. And office parties at Christmas have triggered off lots of unfaithful husbands who need bringing to heel when you get back from Martha's. Loadsamoney, boy.'

    'I'm not interested.'

    'This is a partnership,' said Ferdie angrily. 'I've worked my ass off for you. I deserve my cut. There's no way you'll be able to hold down any other job earning this kind of money. Remember the mess you were in this time last year. And you don't want to take on Rannaldini, he's a dangerous bugger you

    won't have any kneecaps left and

    Kitty's sweet, but frankly, she's not the right class and certainly not good looking enough. You shouldn't be giving her ideas.'

    'You're always grumbling I never have any. And shut up about Kitty.' 'I'll ring you when you re in a better mood.

    Outside it had started to snow, whitely blurring the gold lamps and windows lighting the town square, wrapping the church spire in cotton wool. Realizing he hadn't been to sleep for forty-eight hours and in need of Kitty's cheerful company, Lysander wandered off to the vast President de Gaulle suite which Rannaldini had taken for his holiday. He found her plumping the cushions of a huge dark green velvet sofa and in floods of tears. He was appalled. The only time he'd seen Kitty cry was after the tennis tournament when she'd discovered she wasn't pregnant. Perhaps she'd just got the curse again. Hell! He'd been hoping to get her into bed that evening. Then he felt furious with himself for being selfish.

    'Oh, Lysander, I'm in such a muddle.'

    Lysander was about to take her in his arms when the telephone rang. It was Rannaldini in a rage because Kitty hadn't cancelled the President de Gaulle suite. Why, after he'd left, should she live in the style befitting a great maestro?

    'I'm sorry, Rannaldini. We'll move into other rooms first fing.'

    Lysander was so angry that Kitty was being so placatory

    that he retreated to the vast bathroom next door, gazing

    stonily at the dewy bank of ferns and the red velvet

    steps leading up to a raspberry-pink Jacuzzi big enough

    to accommodate an entire string quartet. And the bastard

    wanted to move Kitty into some pokey little hole! He

    was tempted to pick up the telephone and join in the

    Instead, despite Kitty's frantic waving, he pulled

    the chain noisily and then turned up the television some

    French rock band far

    too loud.

    What's that noise?' asked Rannaldini sharply.

    'Nothing, one of the children,' stammered Kitty over the din.'They should be in bed.'

    Lysander had sulkily eaten all the strawberries in the fruit bowl and was starting on the nectarines when Kitty put down the receiver.

    'How dare you make all that noise,' she said furiously.

    Lysander looked up in amazement.

    'Kitty, you can actually be cross!'

    And like a bullet between the eyes he realized that he was in love with her.

    'I just hate you being so nice to him,' he mumbled.

    Wiping his hands on his jeans, he pulled her towards him. Despite her wriggling away like a piglet, he kissed her and she tasted so clean and sweet and her young skin smelt so like a wild rose that he went on kissing her until the wriggling stopped.

    'I haven't got any knees left.' Catching her off balance, he pulled her down on to the green velvet sofa and, kissing her again, began to explore her body.

    Beneath a dress drenched by the children's bath water, he discovered wonderfully full, bouncy breasts and a waist no longer belted by spare tyres.

    'Oh Kitty, I'm mad about you.'

    Then the wriggling started again.

    'You don't have to be nice to me,' sobbed Kitty. 'Just to rattle Rannaldini and give me a sheen.'

    'This had nothing to do with Rannaldini.' It was Lysander's turn to be outraged.

    Trapping her face between his hands, he forced her to look at him, 'I'm doing this because I can't not. I love you, Kitty. It crept up on me in Brazil. I was Kitty-sick, not homesick. From now on, you're where I belong.'

    Then seeing her utter amazement. 'You're as irresistible as Cambozola, you're' he

    snapped his fingers trying to be really poetic 'as comforting as a baked potato full of butter on Sunday night. As-as-as welcome as a glass of cold water in the middle of the night when the ham's been too salty. Oh, Kitty, I can't say clever things but I want to be the hot-water bottle that melts your frozen heart.'

    'Oh, blimey!' Kitty was fighting back the tears as she gazed up at him. 'You're so 'andsome, you oughta be on every Mills and Boon jacket but the girls the 'eroes gaze at don't look anyfink like me.'

    Now it was Lysander's turn to grit his jaw.

    'Of course they don't. They're pretty.' He ran his hand wonderingly over her blushing, squashed little face. 'But you're beautiful. And you're beautiful inside, too, like Arthur.'

    Realizing how huge a compliment this was, Kitty managed not to laugh.

    Encouraged, Lysander suggested they romp in the Jacuzzi. But Kitty's face clouded over.

    'We shouldn't. I'm married.'

    'Don't be ridiculous.' Lysander only just stopped himself cataloguing Rannaldini's women.

    'Anyway, it was so lovely, kissin' you,' sighed Kitty. 'I couldn't stop.'

    That's the general idea.' Lysander began to unbutton her dress then, seeing her apprehension, 'Let's discuss it over dinner. Go and change.' He yawned. 'I love you, Kitty.'

    But when she came out, jet lag had overtaken him. He was slumped, fast asleep, on the sofa, red juice running down his chin, a half-eaten pomegranate on the floor.

    'Good night, Suite Prince,' murmured Kitty, who had done Hamlet at school, wrapping her duvet round him. She was going to allow herself the luxury of watching him all night.

    At dawn she drifted into a heavy sleep in her armchair and was woken by the telephone. She remembered the clipped, contemptuous drawl from Rannaldini's answering machine.

    'I thought Lysander was coming off-piste with me,' said Rupert.The fact that Lysander was apologizing sleepily on the same telephone a few seconds later did nothing to assuage Rupert's suspicions. Lysander could use the money Kitty paid him as a gigolo to run after Taggie.

    'Where are you going?' asked Kitty, feeding Lysander croissant spread with apricot jam as he groggily tugged on his yellow ski pants.

    'Somewhere he called Chute des Fantomes, Shoot to Kill, I dunno. I'll ski down as fast as I can. At least I can bend Rupert's ear about Arthur.'

    It had snowed heavily in the night, blotting out yesterday's footprints and ski tracks, putting five inches on the parked cars and President de Gaulle's cap in the town square. Glancing out of the window, Kitty saw Rupert's dark blue Mercedes draw up. Getting out, he looked as chill and menacing as the day. Suddenly Kitty was frightened.

    'Please be careful,' she said, brushing crumbs off Lysander's chin and handing him his sweat band.

    Gazing down a cliff face steep as a lift shaft, three-quarters of an hour later, Lysander wondered why the hell he'd come.

    Deliberately sitting two seats away from Lysander in the helicopter on the way up, Rupert hadn't spoken a word. The putty-grey skies, liverishly tinged with yellow, presaged further heavy snow. A howling blizzard chucked glass splinters in their faces. Below, the skein of ski runs and the fir trees herring-boning the side of the valley blurred as the visibility grew worse. Far, far down, the houses of the village, one of them containing darling Kitty, lay like ants on the snow. Lysander's yellow ski clothes were the only note of colour in the black-and-white magpie landscape. Rupert's slit eyes through his dark glasses were anything but friendly.

    'OK?' he asked Lysander.

    Lysander nodded, teeth chattering far more from terror than the bitter cold.

    'I'll lead the way,' and Rupert was off, hissing down the valley like a falling meteor, hidden in a permanent spray of snow.

    'I love you, Kitty,' shouted Lysander to the whirling snowflakes. 'Dear God, take me back safe to her.'

    And he was off, careering after Rupert, crouched like a jockey so low over his skis that his hands were higher than his face, furiously stabbing with his poles as he tried to recapture his old skill and adjust to the rhythm.

    Within seconds, as Lysander streaked past him, Rupert realized he was outclassed. Although once almost Olympic standard, he was now nearly twenty years older and lacked the boy's suppleness, extreme fitness and split-second timing. Rupert really had to force himself to keep up and all the time was aware of going far too fast as trees rushed to meet him and crevasses loomed below. Only by straining every muscle did he avoid catapulting to his death. Almost more goading was that, once in his stride, Lysander started enjoying himself, showing off his miraculous control by going into a series of long, bounding jumps like a lurcher trying to see over the barley, each time landing perfectly. Going so fast round the final bend, he lost a ski and carried on with one, shooting straight into the bar three-quarters of the way down the mountain.

    He was waiting when Rupert arrived, giggling with nervous hysteria, his cheeks flushed, his hands round a glass of Kir.