‘Kitty won’t leave Rannaldini,’ mumbled Lysander.
‘Can’t say I blame her if you carry on like this,’ said Dizzy tartly.
It was a pity that Rupert’s helicopter had engine trouble, so no-one was alerted by the chug, chug, chug of his approach. Instead, arriving in the dark blue Aston Martin, he was mistaken for Jimmy Jardine or Bluey Charteris rolling up to ride out. His first sight was of his beautiful wife, still wearing nothing but a drenched, gaping red kimono frantically trying to dress a half-naked paralytically drunk Lysander in the kitchen. Rupert had no option but to sack him on the spot.
Rupert spent the afternoon venting his rage on owners who owed him nearly a million and whose alleged cheques-in-the-post would rival the mail on Valentine’s Day. He had already received tearful deputations from every groom and estate worker, Mr and Mrs Bodkin, even Jimmy and Bluey, and his own sweet wife who was now sobbing into the batter she was about to freeze for Shrove Tuesday pancakes. Any moment Beaver, Gertrude, Jack and the rest of the dogs, the stable cat and all the horses would troop out of the twilight waving banners in some candlelit protest march.
He was brought back to earth by Taggie knocking on the door.
‘You magazine are just going to press. They want to know what you’re giving up for Lent.’
‘Lysander Hawkley,’ howled Rupert. Then, as Taggie burst into tears, ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake, are you and my entire staff and livestock bewitched by this cretin?’
‘No,’ sobbed Taggie. ‘It’s just that he hasn’t got a mother any more and his father’s a pig to him, and he’s nowhere to go if we chuck him out.’
Shooting across the room, knocking over his out-tray, Rupert took her in his arms.
‘There, sweetheart, I’m sorry. Of course he can stay.’
Pulling her head against his shoulder, he stroked her hair. She’d been so incredibly brave since the baby died. She needed something to fuss over, and Lysander had been such an interest and a morale boost for her.
‘I love him, too,’ he muttered. ‘But he’s such a dickhead.’
At that moment Lysander appeared round the door hanging his head, clutching a large bottle of whisky as a peace offering. He could hardly move for hangover and misery.
‘I’m sorry, Rupert. I’ve made such a fool of myself.’
‘Get out,’ said Rupert irritably. Then, as Lysander shuffled desolately out again, ‘Go to bed, I want you on parade at eight tomorrow morning.’
Lysander turned in desperate hope. ‘Pridie needs more work,’ Rupert went on, ‘and Arthur’s come on so well he can start on the gallops tomorrow.’
59
With a huge lump in her throat, Georgie wrote THE END in capital letters on the score of Ant and Cleo. She had a faint, faint hope that it was the best thing she had ever done. Her head, her hand and her back ached dreadfully but not for once her heart. At least tomorrow she could go up to London to meet David with a clear conscience. Tonight she would spend several hours de-slagging herself.
Having steeped her hair in coconut oil, waiting for a mud pack to dry on her face, she noticed that the rain which had been lashing the windows all day had finally stopped. Outside the sun had broken through behind the woods and flooded the opposite side of Paradise in rosy gold light, turning the fields a brilliant, leaping emerald-green, and a lone grey horse and the departing clouds the softest pink. Then, as she watched, a rainbow soared between the clouds. My life is on the up, thought Georgie.
Picking up the telephone, she rang Relate.
‘I’m terribly sorry, I can’t make it this evening. You’ve been so kind. I’m sorry I’ve talked so much about myself.’
That’s fifteen pounds saved, she thought in jubilation, I can buy a new T-shirt from Miss Selfridge, something clinging and sludgy to match my eyes.
Money was dreadful at the moment. It was a good thing she hadn’t bothered to finish the album for Larry. Catchitune were in such deep trouble, despite the new board, that they would never have paid the rest of the advance on it. But as she was leaving for the station her agent telephoned saying that Dancer Maitland was interested in playing Ant and could they see an early score. Then Guy rang, delighted that she’d finished.
‘We’ll celebrate this evening, Panda.’
He was having lunch at the Athenaeum with his father, he said.
That’s far enough away from L’Escargot, thought Georgie, floating off to London.
Arriving at Paddington on the next train after Georgie, David Hawkley felt the need to stretch his legs — a headmaster’s favourite phrase — and decided to walk to Soho. The first daffodils waving at him from Hyde Park put a spring in his step. Overtaking a traffic jam in Oxford Street, he was amused to pass a taxi in which Georgie was frantically powdering, combing, scenting and trying to re-assure herself in a tiny smudged hand-mirror that her new khaki T-shirt wasn’t too juvenile. All the girls in Miss Selfridge had been so sweet about her records.
Feeling happy and excited for the first time in months, David bought an Evening Standard and a bunch of daffodils and followed a trail of Giorgio into L’Escargot.
Having been told that his lunch guest had gone to the Ladies, he sat down at the table, ordered a glass of sherry and was soon engrossed in the racing pages, which described Lysander as Campbell-Black’s golden boy, and suggested people put their money on him and Mr Sparky the next day. Torn between pride, disapproval and sudden sharp envy of Rupert, he turned to the front pages and the war.
The land battle was about to start any minute, all Kuwait was aflame, burning the midnight and the midday oil.
David was so engrossed he didn’t notice a charming redhead sit down in an alcove round the corner, and then everything was forgotten because Georgie arrived with the price tag still on her T-shirt, but looking as beautiful, scented and shining as a woman in love.
‘How gorgeous!’ She took the daffodils from him.
‘Not as gorgeous as you.’ Cursing himself for being corny, David kissed her warm, scented, freckled cheek.
‘I’m manic. I’ve just finished Ant and Cleo.’
‘Oh Eastern Star, that calls for champagne.’ David waved to a waiter.
Although a place had been laid for her opposite him, Georgie wriggled between the tables so she could sit down on the bench-seat beside him. Sod being recognized.
‘Oh, it’s lovely to see you. Isn’t the war terrifying? Do you think the Israelis will retaliate?’
David shook his head. ‘The Americans have paid them too much money.’
‘Mother Courage was so funny this morning: “Oh, Mrs Seymour, the Iraqis are copulating.”’
David laughed, his face losing all its daunting sternness.
‘I liked Duck-billed Platitude best.’
‘You remembered!’
‘I remember everything about you. Look.’ He brought a little silver box out of his pocket, and for a worried moment Georgie thought he was about to inhale snuff. Instead she saw it was full of hair.
‘Do you remember the day I cut your fringe?’ Putting the box away, he broke a roll in half but didn’t eat it. ‘How’s Guy?’
‘Not great. We lie side by side at night not touching like apples in the attic because we’re so frightened of bruising.’
‘Sounds like Sappho.’
‘Did you finish Catullus?’
‘Yup. How’s Flora?’
‘Absolutely devastated,’ and she told him about the affair with Rannaldini. ‘He’s destroyed her,’ she said finally. ‘I wish you two could meet.’
‘We will soon.’