‘E’s still got ’uge teef,’ sighed Kitty.
Lysander thought Kitty was as plain as Hermione was beautiful. She was probably younger than him, but she had a round pale face and eyes far too wide apart behind disfiguringly strong spectacles. Her fuzzy light brown hair was dragged off a rather spotty forehead into a bun. With her squashed snub nose and big generous mouth, the bottom lip of which she was nervously gnawing as she listened to Hermione, she resembled an apprehensive pug on the end of a chatterbox mistress.
A gold cross round her neck and a navy-blue polyester dress with a white collar gave her a prim look, but couldn’t disguise her heavy breasts and lack of waist. Plump legs were not flattered by flesh-coloured tights, nor by navy-blue high heels which thrust her forward like a plant desperately seeking the sunlight.
‘Cheers.’ She attacked her large glass of sherry. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to come to tea, I mean supper, next week, Marigold?’
‘Love to,’ said Marigold. ‘As long as you don’t cook anything fattening. Can I bring Lysander? He’s just moved into a cottage at Eldercombe.’
‘That’s nice. Near Ricky France-Lynch,’ said Kitty. ‘His wife Daisy’s just ’ad the most gorgeous li-el boy,’ she added wistfully.
‘You’ll be next,’ said Marigold reassuringly.
‘Eavens, I ’ope so,’ said Kitty, who, unlike Marigold, made no attempt to disguise a strong cockney accent.
Hermione, having finished reading about herself in the Domingo biography, cut another massive piece of chocolate cake and asked: ‘Do you play an instrument, Ly-sarnder.’
‘Yarss,’ said Lysander gravely. ‘I learnt the piano at prep. school, but I only play with one hand because I was always fending off Mr Molesworth, the music master, with the other one.’
‘What a pity,’ said Hermione, ignoring Marigold’s laughter. ‘I’m recording Beethoven’s Cycle “To the distant beloved” on Monday. I need an accompanist to rehearse with. Such a beautiful work. D’you know it?’
Lysander shook his head. ‘Can’t imagine anyone bicycling to see a beloved round here, particularly a distant one. The hills are so steep. It’s bad enough jogging.’
For a second, Kitty’s face crumpled up into a smile, then she quickly asked Hermione how little Cosmo was.
‘Magic, magic,’ said Hermione warmly. ‘Which reminds me, Kitty. Do you know definitely when Rannaldini’s getting back? I’ve got to learn Amelia Boccanegra at top speed so I need him to work with me on the character and the vocal demands.’
‘I fink he’s coming back for Georgie Maguire’s launching party,’ said Kitty.
‘I’d forgotten we’d got to be subjected to that,’ grumbled Hermione. ‘One meets such awful people at pop-record launches.’
‘I expect Larry needs you and Rannaldini to raise the tone,’ said Marigold acidly.
‘I expect he does,’ agreed Hermione. ‘But I still don’t really like Georgie Maguire’s voice.’
‘I love it,’ said Lysander.
‘So do I,’ agreed Kitty defiantly, then, seeing Hermione’s glare, ‘I must go.’
‘I’ve got a great pile of contracts at home,’ said Hermione to punish her, ‘so perhaps you could pop over tomorrow and check them for me.’
So you don’t have to fork out for a lawyer, thought Marigold furiously.
As Lysander showed Kitty out, Hermione reproached Marigold for fraternizing with young men.
‘He’s probably G-A-Y, the way he was going on about Rupert Campbell-Black.’ Then patronizingly as she refilled her glass, ‘You’re not in your first youth, Marigold.’
‘I’m about to be into my first youth,’ muttered Marigold through clenched teeth.
‘Blow the wind southerly,’ sang Hermione on the tape.
‘Who was that girl?’ asked Lysander returning.
‘Didn’t you realize?’ said Marigold. ‘That’s Kitty Rannaldini.’
‘Rannaldini’s daughter?’ Lysander took a cigarette from Marigold’s pack.
‘No, his wife.’
‘His wife!’ said Lysander. ‘Bloody hell, I thought Rannaldini was into fantastic-looking women.’
Hermione had been about to reproach Lysander for smoking. Instead she bowed in acknowledgement of the implied compliment, then added sententiously: ‘Some people think she’s rather common, but I maintain Kitty Rannaldini is very much her own woman.’
‘Hardly be anyone else’s, looking like that,’ said Lysander. ‘He must have got her from Pug Rescue.’
‘That’s unkind.’ Hermione laughed heartily.
‘Kitty’s sweet,’ protested Marigold angrily. ‘She’s such a good listener — unlaike some — and so kaind you forget how plain she is.’
Outside the setting sun, like a great red air balloon, was turning the mist which had suddenly filled the valley the softest rose-pink. Having polished off another drink, Hermione, known locally as the Great White Hinter, asked if the Ferrari outside the door was Lysander’s and whether he could run her home.
‘I walked here, but it’s a bit chilly, and we singers are paranoid about getting colds. Goodbye, Marigold, don’t take everything quite so personally.’
Lysander returned ten minutes later to find Marigold gibbering with rage. Her fury at Hermione’s jibes and smugness had been exacerbated by a sudden, violent explosion of jealousy because she had waltzed off with Lysander. This was the more appalling because after all she had suffered over Larry, Marigold thought she was immune from feeling jealous about anyone else.
‘The bitch,’ she stormed, ‘not taking saides indeed. “Don’t be bitter, Marigold, if you like your hair, that’s what matters.” And being so patronizing about Georgie and poor darling Kitty.’
‘Have a drink. One won’t hurt. What’s brought all this on?’
‘Then insistin’ you drove her home. God, I’m unhappy.’
Marigold was so upset, she unthinkingly picked up the remaining quarter of chocolate cake and was about to shove it into her face when Lysander grabbed her hand, squeezing it until she dropped the cake on the floor. Then he took her in his arms.
‘Don’t be miserable. She’s just jealous. I think you’re absolutely gorgeous.’
‘You do?’ whispered Marigold.
‘Yarss,’ said Lysander, and catching her off guard as she giggled, he kissed her, nearly losing his tongue in the process as Marigold clamped her teeth and lips together with a squeal of horrified rage.
‘How dare you?’ With shock fuelled by years of respectability and inhibition, she was fighting him off, pummelling his chest like Frank Bruno. ‘No, no, no!’
But Lysander grabbed her arms, and much stronger than her, drew her towards him, tantalizing her with the lithe, youthful warmth of his body, refusing to let go, until, panic-stricken, she raised her leg to knee him in the groin. But somehow her leg never reached its target, for far above it, Lysander was whispering words of such affection and desire into her hair.
‘I want you, Marigold. You creep into my thoughts like that pink mist stealing up the valley.’
Glancing up, amazed by such poetic sentiment, and seeing the gentleness in his adorably innocent eyes, and feeling his fingers stroking her face, seeking some loving message in braille, she let him put his beautiful mouth on hers.
As she kissed him back, the raised leg retreated and coiled itself round the other leg in ecstasy, and the pummelling Frank Bruno fists unclenched, and, ‘may goodness’, she was hanging from Lysander’s neck like a chimpanzee because she was so dizzy with lust it was the only way she could stand up.
Slowly, slowly like a Harrods lift at Christmas, Lysander progressed downwards. Worried that her breasts might be droopy, she clamped her arms back over them, but as Lysander caressed her neck, she couldn’t remember if she’d plucked out that bristle on her chin this morning. Raising her hand to check, she left her right breast exposed. Next moment it had fallen like a ripe pear into his hand, as he unhooked her bra.