‘Stop that,’ snapped Rannaldini, aiming a kick at her.
Instantly Lassie flattened her ears, and seemed to become half her breadth, as she fled to Kitty’s side.
Having already read Lysander’s letter, which Clive had tracked down and photostated while Kitty popped out to the post, Rannaldini suspected the hand of Rupert Campbell-Black. According to the ubiquitous Clive, who frequently bunged the Rutminster florists, the roses sent to Rachel that morning had come from Boris, who had just returned from a successful tour of his homeland. The New York job wasn’t in the bag yet, so even when Kitty forgot to provide him with a white gardenia for the Gulf concert that evening, Rannaldini didn’t bawl her out, and Lassie was allowed to stay.
Returning from an equally successful but nerve-racking tour of Israel where she’d expected to be flattened by a Scud missile in the middle of a piano concerto, Rachel felt horribly depressed.
The war grew more dreadful. Only the night before the Allies had bombed a bunker full of civilians. The Americans intended to use napalm to ignite the Iraqi oil ditches on the front lines and the Iraqi hospitals had no electricity, so the baby incubators couldn’t function and syringes were having to be used several times.
Rachel knew she ought to go straight out that evening to a peace vigil in Rutminster, but she felt so tired, and the children, whom she had to collect from Gretel, would kick up if she left them again.
Perhaps the most nightmarish part of being a single parent was that she had no-one to tell things to — to boast that she had taken seven bows last night.
‘I had to take these in for you,’ said Gretel, handing Rachel a huge bunch of the palest peachy-pink roses.
Rannaldini or Guy? thought Rachel wearily, then read; Dearest Rachel, Happy seventh wedding anniversary, all love, Boris.
To Gretel’s amazement Rachel burst into a flood of tears.
‘Oh Gretel, he remembered,’ she sobbed. ‘He really, really remembered.’
Rising late on Valentine’s Day after a long stint the night before, Georgie wandered round the garden. The lake was as flat and grey as washing-up water. In the tub outside the kitchen window a lone mud-spattered daffodil swayed in the wind. She and Guy had been getting on so much better since the orgy. He’d shaved off his beard, so she didn’t think he was pursuing Rachel any more. But suddenly last Friday he was up to his old tricks again — coming back to Paradise early to go to the doctor about his headaches. Returning to Angel’s Reach an hour and a half later, he explained that the surgery queue had been so long that he couldn’t be bothered to wait — but he had the jubilant air of an aircrew flying in from a successful raid over Iraq without loss.
Georgie simply couldn’t cope with a return to the old uncertainties. She’d got to get out. Ant and Cleo was so nearly finished, then she’d make plans. Looking at the kitchen clock she decided to start work soon, but she’d promised to mince up the remains of Sunday’s leg of lamb for a shepherd’s pie. She felt she ought to practise wifely duties for when she was living alone or shacked up one day with someone less domesticated than Guy. At first, she didn’t hear the telephone over the Moulinex.
‘Georgie, it’s David Hawkley. Hallo, hallo, are you there?’
‘Just,’ stammered Georgie, wiping her hands on her Jeans.
‘Thank you for your Valentine card. It was sweet. You did send it, didn’t you?’
‘Unless you know some other Georgie. Look, I’m really sorry I lied to you about me and Lysander, but I was so frightened of losing you.’
‘It’s OK. How’s Lysander?’
‘I haven’t seen him, but he’s in love. She’s married and even more common than me, but at least she’s the same age as him and got the sweetest nature.’
‘I can’t get him on the telephone and Magpie Cottage is deserted.’
Georgie felt an air of gloom. David must have visited Paradise without coming to see her. He was only ringing to pump her about Lysander.
‘Where’s he living?’
‘With Rupert Campbell-Black.’
‘Good God!’ exploded David. ‘That’s worse than peddling dope.’
‘He won a good race yesterday. Didn’t you see The Scorpion?’
‘I don’t read The Scorpion,’ said David tartly. Then, he started to stammer, ‘I miss you — a lot. Let’s have lunch.’
In a daze of happiness, Georgie watched Dinsdale remove the leg of lamb from the kitchen table.
‘Are you still there?’
‘I’d adore to. How about the end of next week?’ She needed the time to give up booze, lose seven pounds and finish Ant and Cleo.
‘Fine. Where d’you want to go?’
‘What about L’Escargot?’ It was a restaurant Guy and she had frequented when they were first married.
‘Good idea, I’ll book. D’you know Rupert Campbell-Black’s address?’
It was still pitch black when Dizzy’s alarm clock went off the following morning. Cocks were crowing through the mist, horses knocking over their buckets as she staggered into the yard. Going from box to box, she felt each horse’s legs for fullness or bumps, before giving it a bucket of fresh water and a scoop of racehorse nuts. When he was at home Rupert preferred to perform this duty and decide which horses should be pulled from the gallops and merely walked round the village or rested in their boxes. He was due back from London at midday. Taggie had arrived from Paris very starry-eyed last night. At seven-thirty the rest of the grooms would arrive to muck out and tack up the horses for everyone to ride out at eight.
But long before the grooms, Taggie had erupted into the yard wearing nothing but a red silk kimono covered in gold dragons.
‘Oh, Dizzy, Lysander’s bed hasn’t been slept in and he didn’t come home last night.’
‘And men are missing,’ intoned Dizzy, echoing the Gulf War bulletins.
‘What the hell’s Rupert going to say?’ she went on. ‘We had enough trouble covering up for him yesterday and when he left Pridie behind at Worcester. He’s a fucking liability.’ Dizzy slammed Penscombe Pride’s stable-door shut.
‘But such a sweet one,’ pleaded Taggie, ‘and he’s been such an interest and a morale boost for Rupert. Rupert was desperately upset about the baby,’ stammered Taggie.
‘I know.’ Dizzy put an arm round Taggie’s shivering silk shoulders. ‘But Rupert’ll have to sack him if he doesn’t turn up. He can’t risk such irresponsibility with the horses.’ Then, noticing Taggie’s blue, bare feet, ‘get dressed, I’ll finish feeding the horses. Then we’ll look for him.’
They both jumped as deafening snores rent the air from the direction of Arthur’s box. Both doors were bolted to stop Arthur chewing them. Opening the top one, Dizzy and Taggie found both Arthur and Lysander stretched out. Lysander was asleep. Arthur was not and was snoring to get attention and breakfast.
Giving a great rumbling whicker, he waved a hoof at them. Arthur was so lazy, and pretended to be exhausted by all the trotting up and down the Gloucestershire hills, that he often managed to persuade the grooms to feed him his racehorse nuts and even his bucket of water lying down. From the back of the stable, Tiny glared down on such debauchery with more disapproval than the vicar’s wife at the Valhalla orgy.
‘I hope he’s not ill from all that wasting. He’s awfully still,’ said Taggie alarmed.
Dizzy sniffed: ‘Not ill. Drunk and passed out cold. Wake up, you stupid fucker.’
When shaking Lysander had no effect, Dizzy turned the hose on him.
‘Go and get some warm clothes and some black coffee,’ she urged Taggie. ‘We’ve got to try and sober him up enough to ride out.’