Again the children’s faces lit up, then faded as their mother said she didn’t allow them to watch television, then getting some 100 rolls and egg boxes out of her basket urged them to make a castle.
‘Want to watch television,’ grumbled Vanya.
‘Well, you can’t. I’ll start you off,’ said Rachel, getting out a bottle of glue. ‘This place is a tip. Don’t you ever clean it?’
‘Mother Courage comes once a week but we seem to spend our time gossiping. She says she doesn’t like to move things, so she doesn’t.’
There was a pause. It was terribly hot.
‘Perhaps you’d like a swim in the river,’ suggested Lysander. ‘I wouldn’t mind one.’
‘Polluted,’ snapped Rachel.
‘Well, we’d better have some supper.’
‘Oh God,’ Rachel clutched her head. ‘White baps are the worst thing you could give them, and haven’t you realized beef burgers are made from the pancreas, lungs and testicles of animals?’
Lysander looked at her meditatively. Easygoing to a fault, he was about to tell her he could see exactly why Boris had walked out. Then he caught sight of Masha and Vanya. They were like children on newsreels, so often photographed beside bomb craters and the dusty rubble of houses in foreign wars, children displaced because they’d been fought over.
‘There are plenty of eggs,’ he said gently. ‘Your mother can make us something she considers suitable for supper and we can play football with Jack, and then I’ll give you a ride on Arthur.’
This was a huge success. Jack could dribble a ball for hours and Arthur loved children. Sent to wash their hands before supper, Masha and Vanya came out shrieking with giggles.
‘Rachel, Rachel, come and see the willies.’
Storming into the downstairs lavatory, Rachel found the artistic fruits of Lysander’s drunken despair after the church fête when he had taken a can of red paint and sprayed cocks, balls and a vast nude lady with enormous tits and crossed eyes over the walls and then written I LOVE GORGY in huge letters.
‘Oh God, I forgot about that!’ Lysander tried not to laugh with the children.
‘Not only are you damaging the ozone layer and adding to global warming,’ stormed Rachel, ‘but you’re ejecting tiny particles of toxic paint into the environment.’
‘And you make the worst scrambled egg I’ve ever tasted,’ Lysander wanted to tell her as he emptied half a bottle of tomato ketchup, Rannaldini fashion, over the loose, tasteless mass. The only way Rachel used salt was to rub it into people’s wounds.
The dandelion salad was even more disgusting. Lysander found the only answer was to drink as much as possible and even Rachel mellowed a bit after two glasses and allowed the children to watch a Donald Duck video.
‘I identified with Donald like mad,’ Lysander told Rachel as he loaded the machine. ‘When I was a child no-one could understand what I said, like him.’
But Rachel was gazing across at Valhalla.
‘There’s that bastard Rannaldini’s place. He was the one who wrecked our marriage, persuading Boris it was de rigueur to have something on the side. He introduced Boris to Chloe.’
‘How does she get on with the children?’
‘Chloe? They adore her. Not surprising. She’s filthy rich and fills them up with sweets and junk food and battery-operated toys every time they visit her and Boris. How can they ever learn to reject consumerism with that going on? And she lets them watch television all day.’
‘They’re sweet children.’
‘I know. I just go crackers not being able to practise.’
To distract Rachel from the fact that both Jack and Maggie had climbed on to the children’s laps, Lysander took her outside. The sun was setting; tobacco plants and stocks, fighting a losing battle with nettles, scented the evening. Owls were hooting in the wood. Not daring to risk mosquito spray, Lysander lit a cigarette.
After a long pause, Rachel stammered: ‘I’m sorry. I’ve been bloody all evening. I’ve had to nag and nag Boris for maintenance. This morning a cheque arrived for the right money but signed by Chloe. It’s so humiliating but I can’t afford to tear it up.’
Lysander was shocked. ‘You poor thing. I’ll give you the money, then you can. I’m quite flush at the moment.’
But Rachel was too proud. ‘I’ve got teaching jobs, and Hermione pays when she’s around. God, she’s awful! She never opens her mouth except for dollars and all her conversation is about money.’
‘What’s the point of those balls outside her house?’
‘Self-aggrandizement,’ said Rachel sourly. ‘Rannaldini has griffins, Georgie Maguire has angels, Marigold has lions. Now Hermione has balls — probably Bob’s. She emasculates him enough.’
‘He’s a seriously nice guy,’ said Lysander. ‘Good cricketer, too.’
‘He’s the most attractive man in Paradise,’ said Rachel.
She looks beautiful again now, thought Lysander, with her sad foxy face warmed by the falling sun and her beautiful fox’s ankles beneath that shapeless dress.
‘By the way,’ he said, ‘I discovered what Hermione’s mega-crisis was.’
‘How?’
‘From Gretel, her hairy-legged nanny.’
‘Why on earth should she shave her legs?’
‘No reason at all, but if she wants me to be her Hansel, she better start waxing. Anyway, she told me that Rannaldini is making this film called Fidelio — should be called Infidelio — about some woman called Nora who dresses up as a boy and springs her husband from jug.’
‘She’s called Leonore — I know the story,’ said Rachel crushingly.
‘Of course you would. Sorry. Anyway, Hermione automatically expected to get the part, but Rannaldini told her: “You could hardly pass for a faithful wife, my dear, and with those outsize boobs no self-respecting gaoler would ever mistake you for a boy,” so he’s given the part to Cecilia.’
Rachel whistled. ‘But I suppose it figures. Rannaldini would far rather put Catchitune’s vast fee into the pocket of Cecilia, who’s always pestering him for more alimony, than into Hermione’s. No wonder Hermione’s livid.’
‘D’you think he’ll make Cecilia strip off again?’
‘Fidelio’s quite a different opera,’ said Rachel patronizingly. ‘On the one hand it’s about an individual living in chains being rescued by a loving woman, but Beethoven raises the story to a universal level in which the human race is saved by the female sex.’
‘Oh, right,’ said Lysander. ‘Rannaldini should love it. He’s turned on by chains. Pity some loving man can’t rescue poor darling Kitty.’
‘Kitty could walk out if she wanted to,’ said Rachel dismissively.
Yawning, surreptitiously looking at his watch, Lysander wondered how soon he could take her home. He looked longingly across at Angel’s Reach, blank now the sun had set, straining his eyes to see Georgie and Guy sitting on the terrace and Dinsdale snapping at flies.
‘If you never got to that interview,’ asked Rachel, ‘what are you doing for a living now?’
‘Playing a lot of polo,’ said Lysander evasively, ‘and hoping to get Arthur fit for the Rutminster next year.’
‘Lucky to have a private income. Are you in a relationship?’
‘No, well yes.’ Suddenly he desperately needed to tell someone. ‘Basically I’m mad about Georgie Maguire, she and I, well, we’re sort of an item.’
Rachel went rigid with disapproval.
‘But what about her wildly uxorious husband?’
‘He’s been screwing around.’
‘So, all that “Rock Star” rubbish is for commercial profit. United front for the world, screw like rabbits in private. I always thought Georgie was phoney.’
‘She didn’t know about the screwing around when she wrote “Rock Star”. She was devastated,’ said Lysander icily. ‘She’s the loveliest woman I’ve ever met.’