‘In a place that won’t let us feel,
in a life where nothing seems real,’ sang Miss Saigon as they passed the record department. Next minute they were brought up short by Rannaldini’s cold unsmiling face, looking out from a montage of his record sleeves, as the haunting strains of the first movement of Mahler’s Fourth with its jangling sleigh-bells swept through the store.
Turning right, they saw huge blow-ups of Cecilia and Hermione as Donna Anna and Donna Elvira and even a cardboard cut-out of Georgie clutching a rock.
‘Fucking hell,’ said Lysander in outrage, and before reality could reassert itself, he dragged Kitty off to lunch at San Lorenzo.
Here her calm, sweet unmade-up face and full body were in total contrast to the slender, painted beauties around them, who all seemed to be wearing scarlet and crimson suits, lots of rouge, red lipstick and red nails, and seemed never to draw breath. They were obviously fascinated to see an utterly stunning man with such a nondescript girl.
They’re all so beautiful, thought Kitty.
She’s so peaceful, thought Lysander protectively, like a leveret, or a female mallard.
He also noticed, as her face, used to Rannaldini’s cold house, grew pink in the warm room that her spots had gone.
‘I do hope Joy Hillary tells Rannaldini she saw us on the train,’ he said, ‘and makes him seriously jealous.’
With a start, Kitty remembered they were only here because Lysander was being paid by Georgie and Marigold to glam her up. How very kind, she thought humbly, of him to make everything such fun.
‘It’s driving me crazy.’ A blonde paused at their table on the way out. ‘What part in EastEnders do you play?’ she asked Kitty.
But later when the helicopter landed on the stage of the Coliseum, she forgot everything except Miss Saigon, as she and Lysander cried their eyes out and went through a whole box of Kleenex and a box of Belgian chocolates.
‘That was the best fing I’ve ever seen,’ she said, as they had supper together afterwards in a Fulham wine bar. ‘I fink this is the nicest day I’ve ever had.’
She’s so sweet to take out, thought Lysander.
‘I wish you weren’t so terrified of horses, then we could ride together.’
‘I’m not frightened of Arfur,’ said Kitty, tucking into her cottage cheese salad. ‘But the way he drinks coffee, and snores wiv one eye open, and gets hisself dirty, he’s not really an ’orse, he’s more of a ’uman.’
‘I think that’s the nicest compliment Arthur’s ever been paid,’ said Lysander gravely. ‘Thank you, Kitty.’
They talked so long and drank so many cups of coffee, Kitty suddenly realized they’d missed the last train.
‘We’ll go back to my old pad,’ said Lysander. ‘I’ve still got a key. Ferdie’s away this evening. It’s all right,’ he added, seeing the look of panic on Kitty’s face, ‘you’re quite safe with me and there are two bedrooms.’
I’m chaperoned by my own plainness, thought Kitty sadly. No-one looking like me could cause talk.
‘No-one will see us,’ said Lysander as the taxi turned into Fountain Street. But as he rushed in to switch off the burglar alarm, the gays opposite parted their damask curtains and started waving frantically.
‘What a lovely little ’ouse,’ said Kitty, thinking how easy it would be to keep a place like this nice, ‘and you could put camellias in tubs in the little patio at the back.’
Lysander put Kitty in Ferdie’s room with the big bay window looking over the street. She could see the gays peering in as she drew the curtains. Lysander had found her a glamorous cream silk nightdress left behind by one of his girlfriends. It slithered over her like a skin. If only she could take on the beauty of its original owner.
All the same, she thought, as she set Ferdie’s alarm clock for six-thirty and snuggled down in bed with the toy Lassie stiff-legged beside her, it had been the nicest day of her life. Lysander had made her feel like one of the romantic heroines she so loved reading about, not a drag, nor a dog, nor even a brick. With a guilty start, as she was falling asleep, she realized she’d forgotten to say her prayers. Perhaps for once God would forgive her if she did it lying down.
‘Please God, bring Lysander happiness and find him a nice girl who’ll look after him and not take advantage of his sweet nature.’
Unused to London traffic crashing along the end of the street, Lysander woke at six, and was horrified to hear Ferdie coming in from a night on the tiles. Not wanting to get shouted at and still half-asleep, he pulled the duvet over his head, hoping the trouble would go away. He heard Ferdie’s bedroom door open, then after a long pause while he waited for an explosion, it shut again. Relieved, Lysander went back to sleep.
A couple of hours later, aware that they were supposed to get an early train back, he staggered downstairs, nursing his hangover, expecting to find Ferdie furious at having to sleep on the sofa, probably frozen stiff from not having a duvet. But to his horror there was no-one there; the cushions of the sofa were still smugly plumped up. Ferdie must have gone to work. But, opening the sitting-room curtains, Lysander saw the red Ferrari, which he’d bloody earned for Ferdie, and Ferdie’s black brogues were sitting on the kitchen table, together with the Ferrari’s car keys.
Lysander was appalled. Kitty was an innocent girl in his care. How terrible if Ferdie, in his new slimline sexual awareness, had come home tanked up and taken advantage. He remembered how he’d caught them half-dressed and giggling together over the weigh-in at Valhalla. Ferdie had always liked Kitty. In a fury, Lysander pinched one of Ferdie’s Marlboros and put the kettle on. His worst fears were confirmed when his old flatmate came down in a towel, showing off a still suntanned and increasingly svelte torso and smirking worse than Rannaldini emerging from Jasmine Cottage.
‘Black and no sugar for me,’ said Ferdie, getting a carton of unsweetened grapefruit juice out of the fridge. ‘I’ve got a terrific job coming up for you in Brazil in a couple of weeks.’
Lysander refused to admit how furious he felt.
Kitty was not the kind of person one got jealous about. He was even more irritated at the relief which overwhelmed him when Kitty rushed downstairs ten minutes later.
‘I feel shockin’. Poor Ferdie ’ad to sleep in the armchair in his room, an’ he must have turned off his alarm clock, because we’ve really overslept.’
When they finally got back to Valhalla around midday, she found the tape on the answering machine exhausted by increasingly outraged calls from Rannaldini.
‘Where zee fuck are you, Keety? Ring me at the Beverley Wilshire the eenstant you get in. Zee next time you rush off to your mother’s, leave a number.’
Even thousands of miles away, he terrorizes her, thought Lysander angrily, watching the frantically fluttering pages as Kitty fumbled through the Los Angeles telephone directory. Then she stopped, remembering it would be 2 a.m. in LA and Rannaldini would be asleep or more likely coiled round some female musician.
The last message on the machine, however, made Lysander forget everything. The voice was clipped, light, drawling and decidedly amused: ‘This is Rupert Campbell-Black ringing from Venturer Television for Rannaldini. We gather you’re doing a nativity play at Valhalla. We were wondering if we could come and film and put it out on Christmas Eve?’
Lysander gave a Tarzan howl of joy. ‘At last Rupert will have a chance to meet Arthur.’
46
Paradise was thrown into a complete tizz. Suddenly, at the prospect of millions of viewers and Rupert Campbell-Black in the audience, what Hermione airily described as ‘Making sweet sacred music together for the delight of a few friends’ had become a Steven Spielberg spectacular. Rannaldini, who’d always been insanely jealous of Rupert’s success both with money and women, was driven to a frenzy of rivalry. The rows were pyrotechnic.