She loved the elegant way he draped himself over sofas and window seats, and suddenly dropped off to sleep like a puppy. And he was so appreciative of her cooking even if it was clear soup, fennel and kiwi fruit.
‘I got a tip-off about some seriously good dope, in Cathedral Lane in Rutminster of all unlikely places,’ Lysander told Marigold as they jogged up the north side of Paradise a fortnight later, ‘and this nutter pressed his face against the car window and said “Are you looking for Jesus?” I said, “No, I’m looking for No. 37.” Anyway, they’re offering an eighth of an ounce for the price of a sixteenth. If they’re discounting drugs, the recession must be biting.’
He was trying to cheer up Marigold, who, despite the beauty and incredible mildness of the day, had been thrown into black gloom by the display of crocuses on the lawn below the house. Specially planted by herself and Mr Brimscombe, it spelled out the word: CATCHITUNE in the record company’s purple-and-yellow colours.
‘It was the sort of gesture Larry adored. Ay was going to floodlight them as a surpraise, so he could see them from his helicopter when he landed on Frayday neight.’
And now bees were humming in the crocuses which were arching back their petals and thrusting forward their orange stamens to welcome the sun, if not a returning Larry.
‘Where’s Rannaldini?’ asked Lysander, as they pounded past the secretive grey abbey shrouded in its conspirator’s cowl of woods.
‘Whizzin’ round the world avoiding ex-waives and tax,’ said Marigold sourly. ‘Rannaldini plays on people’s weaknesses. He realized Larry was socially insecure. He made us go ex-directory for a start, said bein’ unlisted was the done thing. Just meant that no-one could phone us. Then he told Larry it was common to put up the name of one’s house. Ay’d just had a board carved in poker work for Larry’s birthday. Larry put it in the attic. So no-one can faind the house to drop in. Then he encouraged Larry to ’ave electric gates to keep out the public, so if people could faind the house, they couldn’t get in anyway. Phew, it’s hot.’
Marigold’s green track suit was dark with sweat.
‘Is he attractive, Rannaldini?’
‘In a horrid sort of way,’ said Marigold disapprovingly. ‘Not may taype, far too edgy makin’. Doesn’t Angel’s Reach look lovely in the sunshine?’
Stopping to rest on a mossy stile, they gazed down at the big Georgian house which was to be the future home of pop star Georgie Maguire. As well as the stone angels guarding the roof and the gates at the bottom of the drive, more angels had been clipped out of the lowering yew battlements which protected the house from the east wind. And, tossing their yellow locks, a row of weeping willows seemed about to tumble into the lake like glorious Swedish blondes racing down to bathe.
‘It’ll be lovely having another celeb in the village to vie with Hermione and Rannaldini,’ said Marigold. ‘I must make sure Georgie opens the church fête this summer to irritate Hermione. Georgie’s my best friend,’ she went on proudly. ‘She and Guy bought the house so she’d know someone near by in the country. Ay don’t know what she’ll say when she comes back from the States and fainds out Larry’s trying to chuck me out.
‘People are so competitive round here,’ sighed Marigold, breathing in the faint sweet heady smell of damp earth, burgeoning leaves and violets. ‘Rannaldini was jealous of Larry’s executive jet, so he got a bigger one. Then Larry got a Land-Rover with three telephones, so Rannaldini got a Range Rover with four.’
Below them the River Fleet lay like mother of pearl along the bottom of the valley. Black-headed gulls congregated on its banks.
‘Our grounds extend to the river,’ said Marigold, ‘so Rannaldini bought another twenty acres so he could have a mooring, too. Then Rannaldini had Hermione and God knows who else so Larry had to have Nikki.’
‘Who’s Rannaldini married to at the moment?’ asked Lysander, watching the gulls rising and resettling on the opposite bank like a snowstorm.
‘Well, his second wife, Cecilia, was an incredibly glamorous Italian soprano, but she made scenes rather than beds, and Rannaldini likes an ordered life. And not meanin’ to boast, I think he was a bit jealous that Larry’s home ran more smoothly than his did.’
‘I bet he was.’ Lysander squeezed Marigold’s shoulder. ‘Basically you know how to make a man happy.’
‘Well, Ay don’t know, but anyway, Rannaldini divorced Cecilia and married Kitty, his PA. In her case it stands for permanently available. She’s a poppet, an absolute gem, runs Rannaldini’s houses, sorts out his finances, checks his contracts, protects him from importunate fans and ex-mistresses, looks after his hoards of fraightful kiddies, and whisks up supper whenever he invaites entire orchestras home without any warning.’
‘I could do with someone like that,’ said Lysander. ‘I don’t understand the poll tax at all.’
‘And she puts up with Hermione treating her laike a housemaid. Oh sugar, talk of the devil.’
There was a whirl and chug like the last spin of a huge washing-machine, as a helicopter appeared over the woods.
‘That’s Hermione coming home,’ said Marigold furiously. ‘She’s also been on tour. No doubt she’ll be over in a flash, boastin’ what a success she’s been and how many men have fallen madly in love with her — “One can never have too many men in love with one, Marigold” — and bringing me her latest tape to cheer me up, which my husband has already produced in its thousands, and saying, “How are you? How are you?” when she doesn’t give a shit. Whoops, penny in the swear box. Hermione must be the most irritating person since the nurse in Romeo and Juliet.’
Next moment, the helicopter landed on the lawn of the big yellow house with beckoning chimneys, which lay between Valhalla and Paradise Village. They could see a tiny figure getting out and people running across the lawn to meet her and could hear voices and laughter echoing round the wood.
‘Let’s stop off at The Apple Tree and get some Mars bars,’ said Marigold, through gritted teeth.
‘Better not. Ferdie’s coming down to weigh you tomorrow.’
Back home, Marigold changed out of her track suit and had a long, comforting bath. When she came very apprehensively into the kitchen, wearing some new jeans, Lysander gave a Tarzan howl of joy.
‘My God, they’re great. You’ve got such a terrific ass — I mean figure.’
‘Not so good with all this flesh spillin’ over like uncooked pastry,’ said Marigold, raising her dark blue cardigan above the waistband.
‘That’ll be gone in a week,’ said Lysander, thinking what a lovely mouth Marigold had when it was laughing and not hidden in a hard line brooding about Larry. She looked ever less like a Beryl Cook lady now the regimented curls had been straightened and streaked and fell in a shiny blond bob over one eye. The hot bath had unleashed the Arpège she had splashed all over her body.
‘If Ferdie’s comin’ tomorrow, I better take a ton of Ex-Lax tonaight,’ said Marigold.
Heavens, who would have thought she’d ever discuss laxatives with a man? But having ridden races, Lysander knew all about getting weight off. He really was a very sweet boy.
10
Half an hour later Lysander and Marigold were in Larry’s study, smoking like mad to dull their appetites, and watching the runners in the 3.00 at Wincanton circling in the paddock.