Heart hammering, legs trembling and giving way, sobbing with terror, Lysander collapsed against the huge hedge wondering what the hell to do next. The practical answer was to put as much distance between himself and Elmer as possible, but, bollock-naked with no identification except bruises, he’d probably get arrested and slapped into a loony bin and get his brains sawn open like One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.

The streets were deserted, but the sky was lightening. Loping eastwards he was overtaken by yet another open stretch and, as he cringed into the nearest hedge, feeling the clipped twigs scraping his bare back, the driver stopped and reversed.

A blonde in a black strapless dress with huge sapphires hanging from her ears and circling her neck and wrists, she was a good deal older than Martha but almost as stunning.

‘What happened to you?’ she asked, looking him up and down in amusement.

‘The husband came home.’

‘Well, at least you’re not armed. You’d better get in.’

Lysander shot into the car.

Seeing the Wall Street Journal lying on the back seat, Lysander covered himself with the front page like a car rug.

‘Phew — it’s really kind of you.’

‘I figured I heard shots, or was that Elmer Winterton cracking his knee joints?’

‘He tried to kill me,’ said Lysander, perking up.

‘The guy’s an animal.’

‘No animal is that nasty. Christ!’ Glancing down at the Wall Street Journal Lysander saw Elmer’s photograph glaring up at him. ‘He’s following me. I could tear him out, then my cock would stick through.’

‘Feel free,’ said the blonde.

‘Martha said he was a clinical Nazi.’

‘I thought he was Dutch.’

‘Good thing that tree I shinned up didn’t have Dutch Elmer disease or the branch would have given way.’ Having started giggling, Lysander found he couldn’t stop. ‘I’m sorry. It’s nervous hysteria. Have you got a cigarette?’

‘Sure, in my purse. The name’s Sherry by the way, Sherry Macarthy.’

Protected back and front by more pages of the Wall Street Journal, Lysander slid into Sherry’s house which was bigger and more lushly decorated than Elmer’s with a back garden falling straight into the ocean.

‘I guess you’d like some breakfast and a pair of my husband’s shorts?’

‘You got a husband?’ Lysander shot into reverse.

‘He’s in San Francisco,’ said Sherry soothingly.

Lysander crept back. ‘Could I possibly have a shower? After all that sex and fear I must stink like a polecat.’

Upstairs he admired another vast four-poster, this time swathed in primrose-yellow silk and topped at its four corners by gilded cherubs, none of whom was protected by the Wall Street Journal.

‘Amazing room.’

‘It’s Franco’s, my husband’s,’ said Sherry, who was turning on the gold taps of a vast marble bath next door. ‘Help yourself.’

The doors of a fitted cupboard which took up a whole wall, and which had been lavishly handpainted with pale yellow and coral-pink roses, slid back to reveal hundreds of shirts. There were more scent bottles massed on the bathroom shelves than a duty-free shop. Franco also must have the snakiest of hips. Lysander had the greatest difficulty finding a pair of shorts he could zip up.

‘God, this is great! I haven’t eaten for forty-eight hours.’

Having downed three glasses of orange juice, Lysander was tucking into a huge plate of bacon, eggs, tomatoes, mushrooms and hashbrowns, while Sherry filled yellow-and-white cups with very black coffee.

They were sitting beside a beautiful blue pool guarded by four big blue china dragons. White geraniums spilled over the faded terracotta pots and little waves gambolled idly on the pale sand below them. Above, the palm trees rattled in their diffident fashion.

Sherry had also showered and had swapped her black taffeta and her sapphires for a flamingo-pink sarong which left bare her almost too brown shoulders. Her still-wet, short blond hair was slicked back Rudolph Valentino style, but was softened by a pink hibiscus behind her left ear. There were crow’s feet round her warmly smiling eyes and the skin was beginning to crêpe on her breast bones and her arms, but she was in great shape and a terrific listener.

‘You can kiss goodbye to that job with Elmer,’ she said when Lysander had finished his account of the night’s escapades.

‘I wouldn’t mind if I hadn’t got Jack, Arthur and Tiny to support,’ sighed Lysander as he spread black-cherry jam on a croissant.

‘You’ve got three kids?’

‘Jack’s my Jack Russell.’

‘Original name.’

The irony was lost on Lysander.

‘Arthur’s my horse. He’s a steeplechaser. He won a lot of races but he’s having a year off with leg trouble. I’m hoping to ride him next season. He’s such a character. Tiny’s a shetland. She’s Arthur’s stable-mate.’

‘They must miss you.’ Sherry edged nearer Lysander.

‘Not as much as I miss them. I’ve got another job to go to,’ he went on gloomily, ‘with Ballensteins, the merchant bank, but that doesn’t start till the first of March. Playing polo for Elmer would have paid off my overdraft and a few bills — and I wanted a suntan to wow the Ballenstein typing pool on the first day.’

‘You’ll wow them anyway,’ murmured Sherry. The boy was positively edible. ‘At least you can get brown round the pool today.’

‘I won’t be in the way?’

‘Have you looked in the mirror recently? But you mustn’t burn.’

The climbing sun had already given a pink glow to his white shoulders. Surreptitiously he undid the top button of Franco’s shorts; they’d castrate him in a minute. Having cleared away breakfast the maid returned with bottles of champagne and Ambre Solaire. Sherry patted the blue-and-white pool-lounger.

‘After such a disturbed night, you must be pooped. Lie down and I’ll oil you.’

Sherry had been trained as a masseuse and her provocative smiling eyes made Lysander even hotter than the sun as she kneeded and stroked his body. As her braceleted hands moved downwards, her sarong seemed to work loose so he could see straight down her deep brown cleavage and feel her bare thighs against his hip bone.

Only the constricting tightness of Franco’s shorts had hidden a large erection.

‘Do my back.’ Embarrassed, he rolled over.

Sherry laughed softly. ‘The maid’s going shopping in a minute, then you can get brown all over.’

Sticky with oil, her hand slid down his backbone and disappeared under Franco’s shorts. Lysander moaned. God, her fingers were going everywhere. She was doing such magical things any moment his cock would lift him into the air like a one-handed press-up. Then, as the sarong fell apart, he felt soft fur caressing his thighs and realized she was wearing no knickers.

Lysander never got a suntan. He and Sherry spent a lazy, boozy day, making love, watching racing on satellite, having outlandish bets and feeding each other spoonfuls of caviar and strawberries dipped in Dom Perignon.

Around five o’clock Lysander had given himself enough Dutch courage to go back to Elmer’s barn and collect his luggage and polo sticks. Hopefully, Elmer would be safely in Washington drinking vodka and electronics with George and Barbara. As Lysander could only pull up Franco’s jeans mid-thigh, Sherry drove him to Worth Avenue and, despite his protests, kitted him out in boxer shorts, Lacoste polo shirts, chinos, several pairs of loafers and a dark blue baseball cap with SAINTS on the front. She tried to buy him half a dozen suits.

‘You shouldn’t. I’ve had a really good time,’ he told her as she drove him back to Elmer’s.

‘Me, too. Franco’s gay, as you probably gathered,’ said Sherry. ‘He’d die of jealousy if he knew who I’d spent the day with.’

Lysander, who’d drunk a lot of Dom Perignon, had tears in his eyes. ‘But that’s awful. A beautiful woman like you wasted on some shirtlifter. Why don’t you leave him?’

Sherry shook her head. ‘Guys are like gold dust after you’re forty,’ she said, drawing up outside Elmer’s barn. ‘At least Franco’s a husband and as a couple you get asked out so you get the chance to meet new guys. The wages of single life is social death, I promise you.’

Flinging his arms round her bare neck, Lysander collapsed on her warm, gold, scented breasts. ‘As soon as I’ve sorted out things here, I’ll get a taxi back to your place.’

If she hadn’t dropped him at the bottom of the long white rose colonnade leading up to Elmer’s barn, he would have bolted straight back into her car.

Reluctant to admit he’d been cuckolded and that his impregnable security system had been violated, Elmer had tried to hush up last night’s escapade. But he’d reckoned without the Press, particularly when one of the maids, seeing such a stunning streaker, had leaked the story.

As Lysander weaved into the yard, a dozen camera lenses were turned on him and an immigration officer grabbed him, pinning his arms behind his back. ‘You’re going back to the UK, Lover Boy.’

‘I can’t,’ protested Lysander, ‘I’m going to Disneyland tomorrow. I’ve got to get Donald Duck’s autograph. Hallo, Mrs Ex.’ He waved at the long yellow face peering out of a nearby box.

‘You’re not going anywhere. Now walk.’

‘I’ll run if you like,’ said Lysander as a gun jabbed his spine.

‘Don’t smart ass me, Pretty Boy.’

‘What about my polo sticks?’

‘All your gear’s packed.’

‘But I haven’t said goodbye to Martha or Sherry. Talk about coming down to earth without a bang. Oh, Mr Deporter, whatever shall I do?’ sang Lysander tunelessly as he danced a few steps. ‘I wanted to go to Disneyland and you sent me back to—’