Bob, who was competent, and Ferdie, who was petrified but determined not to show it, had been given two of Rannaldini’s hunters, who were also getting fit, and who were less blown out with grass than in more fertile years. Sadly Ferdie’s courage did nothing to further his cause with Natasha. A wobbling, mane-clinging lump of dough, he was a sad contrast to Lysander who rode with the dash of a Cossack and with hands even lighter than Rannaldini’s pastry. Allotted Fräulein Mahler, a young bay mare who had already been very successful over hurdles, Lysander put her effortlessly over logs and little hedges.

‘This is a seriously good horse,’ he told Rannaldini. ‘You ought to run her in the Whitbread or the Rutminster next year.’

‘Perhaps you’d like to ride her,’ said Rannaldini.

‘Christ, I would, but basically I’ve got other plans,’ and he told Rannaldini about Arthur.

‘This is like something out of Tolstoy,’ sighed Flora as they cantered across the platinum stubble. Rannaldini’s farm workers were still harvesting. Tiny conkers were swelling on the chestnuts. Down drifted from thistle and willow-herb mingled with the blue hazy evening. Cows lumbered clumsily to their feet, like schoolboys when the headmaster comes into the room.

Finally they reached Rannaldini’s lake at the bottom of the valley, its flawless azure surface being ruffled by splashing Rottweilers. The level had dropped dramatically, only at the water’s edge were wild flowers: forget-me-nots, frogbit and soft mauve spearmint, still growing.

‘My livestock is dependent on thees water.’ Rannaldini told Bob. ‘D’you think it will dry up?’

‘Never has. I’ve no idea how deep it is in the centre.’

In answer, Lysander dug his heels into Fräulein Mahler’s sweating sides and galloped her into the lake, with a huge splash, down, down, hardly rippling the water until Lysander had completely disappeared and all that could be seen were the Fräulein’s brown nostrils just above the water.

‘He’ll drown,’ screamed Natasha.

‘That’s a valuable horse,’ said Hermione, outraged.

‘Help him, someone,’ pleaded Natasha.

Then both horse and rider emerged on the other side with Lysander roaring with laughter. Even when the mare shook herself like a dog, he didn’t shift in the saddle.

His eyelashes were separated like starfish, his hair slicked back from his face, his bare brown back glistened, weed dripped from his jeans belt and from the Fräulein’s bridle as he waited for them to catch up.

‘Like Venus from the foam,’ sighed Bob.

‘But much more beautiful,’ purred Rannaldini.

‘We know who to use if we ever want to make a film of the Paradise Lad.’

It was so hot that both horse and rider were dry by the time they got home. Natasha was adrift with love. Flora and Hermione were equally diverted but both mildly irked that Lysander had shown nothing beyond politeness towards either of them. Rannaldini rode The Prince of Darkness home in silence, pondering how he could manipulate this charming but clearly naïve boy to his own ends.

Over at Angel’s Reach, Georgie looked out of the drawing-room window in that particular despair that overwhelms unhappily married women in the country on Sunday nights, knowing there won’t be anyone, even to row with, until Friday.

Guy had just announced he was going to London, she’d been so bitchy she couldn’t blame him. For the first time since March, ‘Rock Star’ had dropped out of the Top Twenty. Nor were her spirits raised when a dark blue Ferrari drew up at the front door in a cloud of dust.

‘Hi, Mum,’ shouted Flora.

Elongated as a piece of asparagus between two slices of brown bread, she lolled between Ferdie and Lysander in the pistachio-green dress which Georgie had just spent hours looking for.

‘Boot, saddle to whore and away,’ sang Lysander in his high tuneless falsetto.

‘See you lot in a bit,’ said Flora as she clambered over Ferdie with much giggling.

‘Georgie,’ yelled Lysander, but Georgie had slammed down the window.

Babbling on about her gorgeous day, Flora met her mother in the hall.

‘Lysander rides so well and poor Ferdie so badly, I’m afraid Natasha’s been put off for life,’ and she went on to describe the plunge into the lake.

‘Stupid exhibitionist,’ said Guy coming downstairs with his suitcase.

‘As a result Rannaldini wants Lysander to ride for him.’

‘Supper’ll be ready in half an hour,’ said Georgie, ‘I thought we could watch Howard’s Way and have supper on our knees.’ Only possible because Guy, who disapproved of soaps, would be gone.

‘Oh Mum, I’m sorry. I’m going out with Ferdie and Lysander. They want me to meet Arthur and then we’re going to the cinema.’

‘Good idea!’ Guy was absolutely delighted. ‘If you buck up I’ll drop you off on the way.’

‘That’s really kind.’ Not wanting to witness her mother’s disappointment, Flora bolted upstairs.

‘Still stupid exhibitionism,’ said Guy, pouring himself a weak whisky. ‘But I’m glad Lysander and Flora have got together. They’re the right age.’

Somehow Georgie managed not to cry until they’d left. She knew Guy was off to see Julia. He’d deliberately played squash with Larry after tea as an excuse to shower and change before going to London. She was ashamed how depressed she felt that suddenly Guy and Flora were getting on. But most painful of all was that Flora had obviously got off with Lysander. Georgie had grown so fond of him over the past three weeks, although, despite Guy’s suspicions, he hadn’t laid a finger on her. Admittedly when they’d disappeared into the wood yesterday he’d squeezed her waist and, with his lovely infectious laugh, said, ‘Shall we play it for real?’ But she knew he was joking. Young boys didn’t fancy hoary wrinklies, although it was clear from the suicidal way she felt now the reverse was possible. She couldn’t even win Guy back like Marigold had recovered Larry. She was an utter, utter failure.

Ferdie returned to Fountain Street three days later in even lower spirits. He’d just taken Natasha out for a ludicrously expensive dinner. Her first course of two scallops had cost twenty-five pounds. She’d spent the whole evening quizzing him about Lysander and bitching about Kitty. Unfortunately Ferdie’s increasing dislike did nothing to diminish his lust. Lunging with all the finesse of a grisly bear, he was rewarded with a slapped face.

It was after midnight but the telephone was ringing as he let himself in. Hope that it might be Natasha apologizing gave way to fury when it turned out to be Lysander.

‘Oh Ferd, I’m so depressed. I don’t think this campaign’s going to work. Guy’s showing no sign of giving up Julia and Georgie’s really ratty with me and she’s losing weight again. Basically I think we should scrap the whole thing and pay her her money back.’

‘Don’t be so fucking wet.’ Ferdie had already invested his 10 per cent. ‘Rome wasn’t built in a day. Try a bit harder. Take Georgie on some decent jaunts. You’ve got the church fête on Saturday, haven’t you?’

‘The party of the decade,’ said Lysander gloomily. ‘I want to go clubbing, Ferd. I need some fun.’

‘You’re to beat Guy at everything — shooting, chucking coconuts, tug of war, guessing the weight of the pig.’

‘You’ll have to tell me how much Natasha weighs.’

‘Shuddup, and you’ve got to win the best-chocolate-cake-made-by-a-man competition.’

‘Don’t talk bollocks, I can’t cook.’

‘Oh Jesus,’ howled Ferdie. ‘So I have to make it for you. I can’t get down till late Friday. Get the recipe from Marigold.’


32



Georgie’s mood did not improve the following week when Marigold kept borrowing Lysander to pick up stuff for the fête and then roping him in to set up stalls. Why the hell should she pay Lysander to give Marigold kudos?

Having savagely prayed for rain on the day, Georgie was ashamed to find her hopes fulfilled. But the rain only chucked down for a couple of hours, leaving puddles all over the rock-hard ground and the weather hotter and closer than ever.

Georgie found opening the fête even more frightening than her own launching party. Embarrassed to show the world such a diminished version of the abandoned beauty on the Rock Star album, she was also desperate to shine in front of Hermione, Marigold, Joy Hillary and, most of all, Guy — particularly as she had repeatedly refused both his and the vicar’s offers to rehearse in front of them. If by some miracle she did it well, she didn’t want them taking the credit.

Guy spent Saturday morning commuting between Angel’s Reach and the vicarage. Every vegetable had been dug up in the garden to find longer carrots and larger marrows than Rannaldini’s, Larry’s and Bob’s. He’d even tried his hand at some elderflower wine. But competition was at its fiercest in the class for the best chocolate cake made by a man. Guy had baked four cakes last night before he was satisfied. Larry was rumoured to have enlisted the help of Anton Mosimann and to be flying the cake down from London. Rannaldini had made his cake last weekend and Kitty, having removed it from the deep freeze, had just delivered it to the flower-tent wondering if she should leave Tabloid on guard.

She now despondently surveyed her bric-à-brac and was wondering how she was going to sell cracked 78s, single book-ends, cake knives, jigsaw puzzles of Norwegian fjords, purple plastic roses and a flowered vase she had given Hermione last Christmas, when Lysander came rushing up.

‘Kitty, Kitty, help, help. Ferdie’s going to murder me. He stayed up all night making me the perfect chocolate cake and I’ve just dropped it in a puddle.’