Mixed doubles

‘Oh. Thanks.’

Like a small boy reluctantly unwrapping a birthday present from a great-aunt, knowing it’s going to be socks, Patrick opened the package.

‘If I’d known,’ said Dulcie, to break the suddenly awkward silence, ‘I’d have bought you a beachball instead.’

Recovering himself, as if realising he didn’t have to feel guilty, Patrick held up the polystyrene box of microchips and grinned.

‘No really, these are fine. Just what I wanted.’

Dulcie felt something twist and tighten in her stomach. ‘You’ve closed the office.’

‘Just for the day.’

The something, she realised, was jealousy.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Devon.’ He glanced out of the window, at the traffic-clogged street below. ‘It’s hot, it’s sunny.

We thought we’d drive down, find a beach.’

And play fucking frisbee, thought Dulcie, biting her lip until it hurt.

‘You and Claire?’

‘Me and Claire.’ Patrick nodded.

‘Sure you can remember how to swim?’ She mimed the breaststroke. ‘It’s a leisure pursuit, you do it in water. Sometimes you splash about a bit and have something known as fun. Maybe if I drew a diagram—’

‘Dulcie, stop,’ said Patrick, but not crossly. He was being – ugh, far worse, Dulcie realised –

patient with her. ‘You always told me I worked too hard. Well, now I’m taking a bit of time off to enjoy myself. You of all people should approve.’

Inexplicably, Dulcie’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted to scream at his stupidity. He wasn’t supposed to take time off and enjoy himself now.

‘Are you crying?’ Patrick looked shocked. ‘You never cry.’ He unzipped the holdall, pulled out the beach towel and gave it to her to wipe her eyes on. Then he smiled briefly. ‘Must be your hormones.’

Wrong, thought Dulcie, it’s you.

Dammit, how thick could an intelligent man get?

Chapter 34

Since she was supposed to be in Majorca where the temperature was up in the nineties, Pru realised she was going to look pretty odd if she reappeared without at least some kind of a tan.

By eleven o’clock, Dulcie’s back garden had turned into a suntrap. Reassured by its total seclusion, Pru dragged one of the padded sunloungers into pole position, slathered on half a tube of Factor 8, arranged herself so as to catch the maximum number of rays, and closed her eyes.

She almost fainted twenty minutes later when a man’s voice said, ‘Jesus Christ, what happened to you?’

Pru opened her eyes and shrieked. Liam was standing over her looking appalled, which was fairly understandable given that she was wearing her least exotic white bra and a pair of ancient green pants.

‘I wasn’t asleep!’ Gabbling, stalling for time, Pru sat bolt upright and tried to cover herself with her hands. Being found naked would have been better than being spotted in these pants. She peered across at the gate which led through from the front garden. ‘I didn’t hear the gate! How did you open it without clicking the latch?’

The wooden gate was only four feet high. Liam gave her a pitying look.

‘I jumped over.’

‘Oh.’

‘I thought you were Dulcie.’ He paused. ‘From a distance.’ Highly likely, thought Pru.

‘Dulcie isn’t here.’

Liam was still staring at her head. Pru braced herself for the next question. In the event of emergency, she had an explanation ready. She had been in a car crash.

But Liam said, ‘I thought you were supposed to be in Majorca.’

‘Yes, I ... well, I ...’

‘So what’s with the bandages?’

Pru swallowed.

‘I ... had an ...’

Accident, prompted her brain. You had an accident.

‘You had an operation,’ Liam suggested helpfully. ‘What, to pin your ears back?’

Pru was outraged.

‘Who told you? Bloody Dulcie, I suppose—’

Liam grinned.

‘Relax. Lucky guess. Actually, my cousin had it done years ago. You look like she looked afterwards.’ The grin broadened. ‘Drove her mad not being able to wash her hair.’

Praying he’d go away wasn’t doing much good. Liam was now making himself comfortable on the grass beside her sunlounger.

‘Dulcie might not be back for ages.’

He shrugged. ‘That’s okay. I’ll keep you company instead.’

‘Oh.’

In contrast with Liam, Pru was feeling more and more uncomfortable. She sensed he had something to say that he hadn’t yet said.

‘So you’re the grandmother, I take it?’

‘Sorry? Oh ... yes.’ Unhappily, Pru nodded. ‘I didn’t want anyone to know I was here.’

A glimmer of a smile. ‘I won’t breathe a word.’

‘Thanks.’

Liam idly picked a daisy from the lawn and rolled the stem between his finger and thumb.

‘You aren’t much good at lying, are you? Not as good as Dulcie.’

Oh Lord.

‘I’m not sure what you m-mean,’ stammered Pru.

‘You know,’ Liam prompted. He sounded amused. ‘Fibbing. Bending the truth. Making up stories.’

Helplessly, Pru shrugged. She didn’t need a mirror to know her cheeks were absolutely scarlet.

‘No ... well, I suppose I’m not great at it. I just . .. just didn’t want people to know I’d had my ears done, that’s all. I’m very sensitive about my ears—’

‘You see,’ Liam’s tone, as he cut through the gabble, was conversational, ‘I know Dulcie isn’t pregnant.’

Pru stared at him.

‘What? How do you know?’

He shrugged.

‘How?’ repeated Pru, redder than ever.

‘The wonder of the double-bluff You just told me.’

This was a nightmare. This was truly awful. Pru began to shake.

‘You mean you didn’t know? It was a guess?’

Again the rueful half-smile.

‘Well, call it an educated one.’

‘Oh shit!’ wailed Pru. Dulcie was going to kill her.

‘Come on, calm down. The thing is, how I react depends on the reason she’s doing it,’ Liam soothingly explained. ‘I mean, if the whole thing was a con-trick, an attempt to trap me, I wouldn’t be too pleased. But if it was just for a joke, some kind of girly bet ... well,’ he shrugged, ‘I can take a joke.’

‘It was, it was a joke!’ The words tumbled out breathlessly. ‘Of course it wasn’t serious!’

Liam’s blue eyes were cool.

‘Like I said, you’re a lousy liar.’

Defeated, Pru fell back on the sunlounger. Somehow her horrible green pants didn’t matter any more. She watched him bat away a persistent wasp.

‘So how did you guess she wasn’t ... um ... telling the truth?’

‘Put it this way. What would you think if your pregnant girlfriend spent the night with you and the next morning you found a bit of cellophane bobbing around in the loo?’

‘What?’

‘The kind of cellophane that comes wrapped round Lil-lets,’ said Liam. ‘The kind that’s hard to flush away.’ He paused. ‘Bit of a giveaway, that.’

‘Oh!’ Pru breathed a sigh of relief. ‘You mean Dulcie already knows you know?’

He shook his head.

‘I needed time to think. I had to make sure I was right.’ Again, he almost looked amused. ‘Lucky you were here.’ Not lucky for me, thought Pru miserably. Somehow she knew she was going to end up taking the blame for this.

‘So what will you do now?’ she whispered.

Liam stretched out on the grass, knees bent, and began performing energetic sit-ups.

‘What people normally do when they’ve had a narrow escape, I imagine,’ he said. ‘Celebrate.’

Dulcie arrived home fifteen minutes later. Liam had by this time progressed to one-armed press-ups. Unable to bear the look of joy on Dulcie’s face when she saw him in her back garden, Pru rushed up to her room. Burdened with guilt and shame, sticky with perspiration and sun cream, she lay on her bed with the windows shut, terrified of overhearing what was going on outside.

Whatever it was, it didn’t take long. Pru heard the slam of a car door and the crunch of wheels on gravel. When she dared to peer out of the window – through a crack in the curtains like some neighbourhood watcher – she saw Liam tearing off up the road in his red Lamborghini. Alone.

The door to the spare bedroom was flung open. Dulcie, barely recognisable with her face streaked with mascara and tears, erupted into the room.

Pru cringed.

‘He’s gone! He’s bloody gone,’ wept Dulcie, stubbing her toe on the leg of the bed and letting out a renewed howl of pain. ‘Oh! Ow! I can’t bear it ... he’s really gone.’ Clutching her toe, collapsing on to the bed, she stared wild-eyed at Pru. ‘And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.’

Pru couldn’t handle this. Too racked with guilt to argue – she knew it was her fault – and too stunned by the bitterness of Dulcie’s attack to even attempt to fight back, she knew she had to escape. Racing downstairs, dragging on a long red T-shirt as she went, she grabbed her bag and stumbled barefoot across the stinging gravel to her car in the garage.

So much for being cosseted.

Back at the bedsit, fusty and unaired, Pru discovered the money in the electricity meter had run out and everything in the fridge had turned to slime.

She spent two hours cleaning out the stinking fridge and frenziedly scrubbing the floor. Not having worked for the last week and a half meant she was perilously low on funds. This reduced her to fresh tears of despair.

How could I have been so stupid? she thought hopelessly. I’ve got new ears, and no food.

As she was washing the grimy windows, Dulcie’s car rounded the corner. Pru leapt away from the window like a frightened rabbit and crouched on the floor, trembling. She wasn’t up to another tirade of abuse, she just wasn’t.

‘Oh, Pru, I’m so sorry. Can you ever, ever forgive me?’

Dulcie, still looking a sight with mascara tracks dried on her cheeks, gazed miserably at Pru.

‘I’m such a stupid bitch. I’m so, so ashamed of myself. It wasn’t your fault, it was all mine. If you want to,’ she offered in desperation, moving closer to Pru on the front doorstep, ‘you can slap my face.’

Pru made a noise halfway between a sob and a snort of laughter.’Go on,’ Dulcie said humbly, ‘I mean it. Hard as you like.’ She offered her cheek.

‘Don’t be such a berk,’ said Pru. ‘You’d better come in.’ When they reached the bedsitter, Dulcie wrinkled her nose at the overpowering smell of bleach.

She watched as Pru filled the kettle at the sink.

‘I know I’m a berk. Are you still my friend?’

‘Stupid question,’ said Pru, dangerously close to bursting into tears all over again. ‘Lend me fifty pee and I’ll make you a cup of tea.’

When Dulcie had finished shovelling coins into the meter – ‘Not that you’re staying here. You’re coming home with me’ – she delved into her massive handbag and pulled out a dark-green Jolly’s carrier.

‘I was going to buy you flowers, but that’s what guilty husbands do when they’ve cheated on their wives. So I got you these instead.’

Pru opened the carrier containing six Lancôme lipsticks, four Clinique eyeshadows and seven Chanel mascaras.

‘Bit of a job lot. I was parked on double yellows in Milsom Street, didn’t want to get clamped,’

Dulcie apologised. ‘I just raced in and grabbed what I could. Still, more useful than a bunch of roses.’

‘You went into Jolly’s looking like that?’ Pru was touched. ‘Like what?’

Dulcie screamed when she saw her reflection in the mirror.

‘My God, no wonder they asked me if I wanted my mascara waterproof! I’m amazed I wasn’t arrested,’ she said ruefully, ‘for wearing make-up without due care and attention.’

Over cups of tea that tasted faintly of bleach, Dulcie told Pru just how cruel and hurtful Liam had been.

‘He called me a sneaky, low-down, conniving bitch,’ she said with a sigh. ‘He told me I was a sad case who needed to get a life. He said I was desperate and lazy and a pathological liar, and he felt sorry for the next stupid bastard I got my claws into because nobody deserved that much grief’

‘What did you say?’ Pru, who would have been finished off completely by such a slating, particularly one so perilously close to the truth, marvelled at Dulcie’s matter-of-fact tone. She had, it appeared, already got the worst of her misery out of her system.

‘I told him he was a washed-up, over-the-hill, failed ball-basher with delusions of celebrity,’ said Dulcie. ‘I said he was boring and health-obsessed, with about as much personality as a salad sandwich.’ She thought for a moment. ‘Oh, and I told him he was crap in bed.’

Pru’s eyes widened.

‘Was he?’

‘Of course he wasn’t,’ said Dulcie, ‘but you always tell them that.’

‘Crikey.’

‘It niggles away at the back of their mind. They hate it but they can’t help wondering if— Who’s that?’

The doorbell was ringing.

Pru’s hands flew instinctively to her bandaged ears. No one knows I’m here. Don’t answer it.’

But Dulcie, ever curious, was already hanging out of the open window, peering down to the street below.

‘Dulcie, hi!’

‘It’s Eddie,’ Dulcie murmured incredulously.

‘Don’t let him in,’ squeaked Pru.

‘I was just passing,’ Eddie called up, shielding his eyes from the sun. ‘Saw the windows open.

Hang on ...’

As Dulcie watched, the front door opened. A hippy in a drooping Woodstock T-shirt emerged and Eddie grabbed the door before it could slam shut.

‘Wait there,’ he yelled, waving cheerfully to Dulcie, ‘I’m coming up.’

Dulcie greeted him clutching a can of Mr Sheen in one hand and a pair of Pru’s knickers in the other.

‘How on earth could you be just passing?’ she demanded, eyeing Eddie with suspicion. ‘This road isn’t on the way to anywhere.’

‘Well ... you know how it is. Promised Pru I’d keep an eye on the place.’ Eddie was waffling.

‘Make sure it’s secure .. .

in case of burglars, that kind of thing.’

Dulcie’s expression changed to incredulous. Would any self- respecting burglar be seen dead breaking into this hideous dump?

Eddie had taken to driving slowly past Pru’s bedsit every day. He didn’t know quite why, it just gave him an odd sense of comfort. When he had seen the windows open he had experienced a thrill of almost teenage proportions. Pru was home early! She was back! He was going to see her again .. .

now!

Except she wasn’t and he wasn’t. He was being interrogated by Dulcie instead.

‘Anyway,’ Eddie decided the best method of defence was attack, ‘what are you doing here?’

‘Me? I’m polishing.’ To prove it, Dulcie aimed Mr Sheen inexpertly at the peeling paint on one of the window frames. She squirted for several seconds, rubbed vigorously at the paint with the scrunched-up knickers and leapt back as a shower of brittle flakes flew at her like shrapnel, just missing her eyes.

Eddie frowned. As scenarios went, this was fairly unlikely.

‘Why?’

‘Pru’s due back on Saturday,’ Dulcie replied airily. ‘I thought I’d give the place a good clean.’

She gestured to the gleaming floor. ‘I’ve been busy for hours.’

This was positively surreal. The idea of Dulcie scrubbing floors was on a par with Cherie Blair swigging meths from a bottle.

‘Have you heard from her?’ Eddie was suddenly overcome with longing, desperate for news of Pru. He hadn’t had so much as a postcard from Spain. ‘I thought she might have been in touch.’

But Dulcie, shaking her head, looked infuriatingly unconcerned.

Not a word.’

‘Too busy enjoying herself, I expect,’ said Eddie, a brave smile concealing the inner turmoil.

‘I expect.’ Spring-clean evidently completed, Dulcie began closing the windows.

Out of sheer desperation, he said abruptly, ‘I swear, my memory’s like a sieve. I’ve forgotten the name of the friend she’s staying with.’

‘Me too.’

But Eddie noticed Dulcie was smiling to herself, the kind of secretive smile that made you want to shake the person doing it until their teeth rattled.

‘What? Why are you looking like that?’

‘Me?’ Dulcie shrugged and looked innocent. ‘I was just thinking how badly Pru needed this holiday. I bet it’s doing her the world of good.’ She chucked Pru’s knickers over her shoulder into the sink and grinned at Eddie. ‘She’ll come back a different person, you’ll see.’

Eddie gazed dispiritedly at the Mr Sheen-soaked knickers dangling over the hot tap. Just so long as Pru didn’t come back with a different person, he didn’t care.

‘You know, I reckon Eddie’s got a bit of a thing for you,’ said Dulcie mischievously as she hung out of the window once more. ‘He’s gone, by the way. It’s safe to come out now. Ooh, naughty boy. I thought he must be.’

Pru crawled out from under her bed, shuddering as a cobweb draped itself across her face.

‘Must be what?’

‘Driving.’ Gleefully, Dulcie watched his Jag disappear around the corner. ‘Tut tut.’

Pru looked worried.

‘He’s breaking the law.’

And all because the lady might get burgled,’ Dulcie intoned, Milk Tray-style. She swivelled round and broke into a grin. ‘He couldn’t take his eyes off your knickers either. See, it must be love.’

‘My Janet Regers,’ wailed Pru, spotting her favourite pair hanging over the sink.

Dulcie looked indignant. ‘It was an emergency, I couldn’t find a duster. I had to look authentic, didn’t I?’

‘They’re my seducing knickers,’ Pru said sadly, trying to imagine a time in the dim and distant future when she might feel up to a spot of seduction. Maybe in fifty or sixty years ...

‘Take it from me, said Dulcie, ‘if you want to seduce a man, the best way is no knickers at all.’

Chapter 35

One way and another, it had been an eventful day. By the time Liza arrived at Dulcie’s house, Dulcie was getting stuck into her second bottle of wine. Half-smoked, irritably stubbed-out cigarettes were piling up in the ashtray, which was only brought out in moments of great crisis.

The more cigarettes she smoked and the more wine she put away, the more sorry for herself Dulcie became.

‘... and not just any old frisbee,’ as she thumped the kitchen table, ash cascaded down the front of her black T-shirt, ‘a pink frisbee with go-faster stripes round the side! I mean, can you picture it?

Patrick, playing with a pink frisbee on a beach .. . on a Tuesday? Has Saint-sodding-Claire been slipping happy pills into his cocoa or what?’

To divert her, Liza said, ‘Never mind Patrick. Tell me what happened with Liam. Careful—’

Dulcie’s co-ordination had gone AWOL. Red wine splashed across the table as she tried to pour and missed. The bottle clunked against her glass, which in turn toppled over, drenching an almost full packet of Silk Cut.

The trouble is, thought Dulcie, I do mind Patrick. I especially mind him being happy with Claire.

Forcing her attention back to Liam, she related the morning’s events to Liza. Dulcie left nothing out because that was the beauty of best friends; you could moan for as long as you wanted, you never felt compelled to rush.

‘All that skulking off to the other side of Bath and secretly getting fit was a waste of time,’ she complained, drawingunsmiley faces in the spilled wine with her finger. ‘He said he knew all along I was a fraud. I bet bloody Imelda told him. Cow.’

Liza watched as Dulcie tried inexpertly to light a sodden cigarette.

‘Let her have him,’ said Liza. ‘You can do better than that. Okay, he looked good, but the charm was all on the surface. Where was the real personality?’

Dulcie gave up on the cigarette. She managed a brief smile. ‘In his jockstrap.’

‘There, you see?’ Heartened by the attempt at humour, Liza sat back in her chair and raised her glass. ‘Feeling better already. You don’t need him.’

Dulcie knew that. She just wished Liam hadn’t laid into her quite so ruthlessly. Those hurtful things he’d come out with ... well, they’d hurt.

‘I told him he was obsessed because all he cared about was boring old sport.’ She kept her eyes fixed on the wet table. ‘And he said at least he was obsessed about something, and didn’t I ever wonder if there was anything missing in my life?’

‘Like what?’ said Pru.

Dulcie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. He just looked at me in this weird way, then he shook his head and said: "You don’t do anything, Dulcie. That’s your problem. You just don’t do anything." ‘

‘Well,’ said Liza, breaking the awkward silence that had greeted this last statement – cruel, but true – ‘you’ve got something to do now. Get Liam McPherson right out of your system and find yourself someone a hundred times better.’

‘Oh right, it’s that simple.’ Wearily Dulcie rubbed her face. What with this morning’s encounter with Patrick, followed by the Liam thing, then the fight with Pru, she didn’t know if she had the energy to even think about finding herself another man. ‘Tell you what, you give Brad Pitt a ring, let him know I’m unexpectedly back on the market and ask him if he’ll meet me for dinner on Friday night. I’m free then.’

‘What you need,’ said Pru, ‘is someone kind. Easy-going. Not goody-goody,’ she argued because Dulcie, predictably, was already pulling I’m-going-to-be-sick faces, ‘but ... well, decent.’

‘Decent!’

Pru refused to be put off. Having learned her lesson months ago, she was determined to get the message across.

‘You want someone you can trust,’ she said firmly. ‘The kind of man who turns up when he says he’ll turn up.’

‘The kind who doesn’t come home with lipstick on his tennis shorts,’ put in Liza.

Dulcie groaned and covered her eyes. She knew, she knew what they were saying. It was just those words: decent, dependable, honest, trustworthy ... linked inextricably in her mind with a vision of some bumbling, good-hearted history teacher, always eager to help, in his woolly jumper, baggy corduroys and folkweave sandals.

Men like that, thought Dulcie, decent men, simply didn’t do it for her. They didn’t make her heart beat faster and her stomach contract with longing. Apart from anything else, they were always ugly.

‘There’s nothing wrong with decent,’ Pru insisted, ploughing on, refusing to give up.

Dulcie refilled her glass with Fitou and drank it quickly before it could get spilled. As she did so, it occurred to her that she did know someone decent and not ugly. Someone of whom Pru and Liza both hugely approved. Someone who had in the past been eminently capable of making her heart beat faster and her stomach tie itself in lustful knots.

Curiously, when she had bumped into him this morning, it had happened again.

Decent, mused Dulcie, turning the thought over in her mind. Like Patrick.

‘Like Claire,’ announced Liza, who had also been mulling the word over. Helping herself to a handful of peanuts from the bowl Pru had just placed in the centre of the table, shemissed the startled expression in Dulcie’s eyes. ‘That’s what Claire is. And look how happy she’s made Patrick.’

‘Hang on,’ Dulcie said slowly. ‘How do you know he’s happy?’

Too late, Liza realised she’d said aloud something she should have kept to herself.

‘You said he was,’ she countered with a half-hearted bluff. ‘Anyway, if he’s playing frisbee with her, she must make him happy.’

Dulcie sat up. She might be a bit pissed but she wasn’t a total dimwit. Not completely stupid.

What was going on here that she didn’t know about?

Her green eyes narrowed.

‘You mean you’ve met her?’

Liza gave up. She nodded.

‘Well, only once or twice.’

Pru managed to catch the bottle of Fitou, sent reeling across the table by Dulcie’s twitching elbow.

‘And you didn’t tell me?’ Dulcie gazed at her in bewilderment. ‘I don’t get this at all. How did you meet her?’

It had been one of those silly situations where the longer you put off mentioning something relatively insignificant, the more significant it became. Liza wished now she’d told Dulcie straight away.

‘Okay.’ She hesitated. ‘But the only reason I didn’t say it before was because I didn’t think it would last.’

Trembling, Dulcie lit a cigarette.

‘Go on.’

‘Her name’s Claire Berenger. She’s Kit’s sister,’ said Liza. Dulcie screamed. The foul-smelling cigarette landed in her glass of wine.

‘You lit the wrong end,’ said Pru as the filter sizzled and went out.

‘How could you know that and not tell me?’ Dulcie shouted. Pru jumped – she hadn’t had time to tell her – but Dulcie wasn’t yelling at her, thankfully. She was yelling at Liza.

‘I’ve just said, I thought it wouldn’t last. There didn’t seem much point.’

Liza was on the defensive. Dulcie could imagine why. She had never felt so betrayed.

‘But now you know it will last, because she makes him so fantastically happy.’ Dulcie spoke through gritted teeth. Hot on the heels of betrayal came a great surge of jealousy. She imagined the cosy dinner parties for four, Liza and Kit sitting around a candlelit table with Patrick and Claire, gossiping together, about her.

Laughing at her.

And now that I’ve been dumped by Liam, Dulcie felt sick at the thought, they can even feel sorry for me, too .. .

‘You’re supposed to be my friend,’ she hissed across the table at Liza. ‘I thought you were my friend! What’s happened – did it all change while I wasn’t looking?’ Dulcie’s eyes flashed with contempt. ‘Are you Claire’s friend now?’

‘Don’t be stupid,’ said Liza defensively. ‘I’ve met her a couple of times, that’s all. She seems okay. Not dazzling, but ... nice. You can’t not like her,’ she struggled to explain to a stony-faced Dulcie, ‘because there’s nothing to dislike.’

‘I met her too, don’t forget. She looks like an overgrown Girl Guide,’ sneered Dulcie.

‘I used to be a Girl Guide,’ said Pru.

But Dulcie wasn’t listening. Her overwrought imagination had moved on. Now, instead of picturing Liza and Claire having a good old girlie gossip, she saw Liza and Patrick indulging in a meaningful heart-to-heart:

‘Oh, Liza, I never knew I could feel like this,’ Patrick confided. ‘Being with Claire is just incredible. She’s made me the happiest man in the world.’

‘I know, I can see she has,’ Liza murmured, ‘and I’m so glad for you. You deserve it, after everything you had to go through with Dulcie. You and Claire make a brilliant couple. She’s lovely, Patrick. You really are the perfect match.’

‘I can’t believe this,’ snapped Dulcie, fumbling in the soggypacket for yet another cigarette. ‘I can’t believe you’ve been sneaking off behind my back, whispering about me to my husband—’

‘Oh come on.’ Liza heaved an exasperated sigh. ‘You don’t seriously imagine I’d do that. Grow up, Dulcie!’

‘Me? Me grow up?’ Dulcie jabbed herself in the chest. ‘Oh right, that’s a good one,’ she jeered.

‘You’re the one making an idiot of yourself with a boy ten years younger than you are, but for some reason I’m the one who needs to grow up!’

Liza went very still. All the colour had drained from her face. Pru, in the middle of mopping the wine-logged table top, realised this had gone far beyond the usual level of good-natured bickering.

‘Okay,’ said Liza, ‘it’s nine years actually, but point taken.’ Her voice was low and not altogether steady. ‘Now let me just say this. Liam might be a jerk of the first order but he was right about one thing. You definitely need to get yourself a life.’

‘What—?’

‘Because you are wasting the one you’ve got, and it isn’t doing you any favours,’ Liza continued remorselessly. ‘What Liam said was true: you don’t do anything. You’re bored out of your skull and you don’t even know it. I mean, what’s the plan, Dulcie? When we’re sixty and we look back over our lives, what will you be able to say?’ Mimicking Dulcie’s flippant manner, she chirruped, ‘Well, I was good at shopping and brilliant at telling lies ...’

Pru stared in horror as Dulcie, red-cheeked, leapt to her feet.

‘You are a bitch,’ Dulcie shouted at Liza, ‘and you are way too old for Kit Berenger—’

‘At least I’d never dream of telling a man I was pregnant—’

‘He’s too young for you, he’s too young for you—’

‘And Patrick’s definitely well rid of you—’

‘STOP IT!’ shrieked Pru, launching herself across the table and pushing herself between the two of them like a boxing referee. She grabbed one of Dulcie’s wrists and shook it, forcing Dulcie back into her chair. ‘Just stop this AT ONCE.’ Dulcie rubbed her wrist. Ouch, it really hurt.

‘Why should I? She started it.’

‘I did not start it,’ Liza snapped back. She glared at Dulcie. ‘This is all your fault. Just because you were dumped by Liam.’

Liam. Dulcie conjured up a mental picture of him playing a brilliant backhand cross-court volley, blond hair flying, eyes flashing .. .

She closed her eyes. No, this had nothing to do with Liam. When Dulcie didn’t speak, Liza rose to her feet. Pointedly she addressed her words to Pru.

‘Time to go.’

Clearly still shaken by her own bravery, Pru went with her to the front door.

Left alone at the kitchen table, Dulcie heard them murmuring together in the hall. Ah well, she was getting used to it.

She stubbed out the cigarette she’d forgotten to smoke in all the excitement, and refilled her almost empty glass.

Straining to overhear, Dulcie managed to make out Liza’s words: ‘No, no, I’m fine. Kit’s waiting at home for me.’

Dulcie took a great slurp of wine. Raising her own voice, she called out, ‘Don’t forget to warm his bottle before you tuck him into bed.’

Chapter 36

Unlike Pru’s bedsitter, which – as Dulcie had pointed out to Eddie Hammond – wasn’t on the way to anywhere, Bibi’s house was situated on the main road leading into Bath.

This meant you couldn’t help passing Bibi’s house even when you didn’t want to.

Like today.

Dulcie felt her stomach begin to tense up as she approached the first bend in the road. One twist to the left, one twist to the right, then the traffic lights. And there, on the left if you were unlucky enough to be caught at the lights, was Bibi’s house with its sloping front garden and narrow, hard-to-get-into drive.

Dulcie had a thumping headache, thanks to finishing off all the red wine Liza hadn’t stayed to drink last night. She had woken up sensing something was wrong, then groaned as the awful memories seeped back.

Pru hadn’t helped.

‘You should apologise to Liza,’ she told Dulcie.

‘Oh God, why do I always have to be the one to apologise?’ Dulcie wailed.

Pru hadn’t stated the obvious, she had simply given Dulcie a long look.

And since in view of the Liam thing it seemed sensible to steer clear of Brunton Manor for a while, Dulcie could think of only one other sensible way to pass the time.

Go shopping.

She especially didn’t enjoy passing Bibi’s house today because it served as a horrible reminder of yet another occasion when she had tried to improve a situation, only to end up making it much, much worse instead.

At first, in the weeks following Patrick’s eventful surprise party, Dulcie had crossed her fingers each time she approached the traffic lights, praying that when she rounded the second bend she would see James’s car parked on Bibi’s drive.

But this hadn’t happened, which just went to show what a waste of time praying and crossing your fingers was. These days Dulcie simply hoped she wouldn’t see Bibi.

Now, as the house came into view, she saw a different car on the drive.

This was interesting, because it might mean there was a new man at last in Bibi’s life.

Dulcie braked, even though the traffic lights — for once in their contrary lives — were on green.

A blue Renault behind her tooted irritably but Dulcie ignored it, far too intrigued by the car on the drive.

This was good news, this was promising news. If Bibi’s found herself a new man, thought Dulcie, perking up at the idea, I can stop feeling guilty about James.

The lights changed to red and she drew to a halt. The driver of the Renault gave a blast on his horn in disgust.

And Dulcie realised, too late, that the car on Bibi’s drive wasn’t unoccupied, as she had at first thought. Those headrests weren’t head-rests at all, they were heads.

Claire Berenger hadn’t only snapped up her husband, Dulcie realised miserably; she’d gone for the job lot and bagged her mother-in-law too.

Jealousy wasn’t an emotion Dulcie had ever had much to do with, but she couldn’t help feeling it now. It hurt too, like a serrated knife twisting in her ribs.

Unable to tear her eyes away, she watched Bibi and Claire jump out of the car, laughing and weighed down with glossy carriers. Dulcie recognised several of them; in the old days she and Bibi had indulged in delicious spending sprees, visiting all their favourite shopping haunts and stopping for lunch somewhere gossipy and glamorous. They had both enjoyed their days out together almost as much as the actual buying of the new clothes.

We always got on so well, thought Dulcie, feeling horribly bereft. Bibi was the best mother-in-law anyone could wish for. And now she doesn’t need me any more. She’s got herself another potential daughter-in-law, a new best friend.

The lights had changed to green again without Dulcie noticing. The blare of the Renault’s horn behind her made her jump. When she lifted her foot from the clutch, the car jerked in protest and promptly stalled.

More horns were tooted. Beginning to perspire, Dulcie turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

She tried again.

And again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

From the sound of it, every car in Bath was blasting its horn at her now. The prickle of perspiration had turned into a torrent of sweat. And although Dulcie couldn’t bear to look, she knew Bibi and Claire would be watching with interest. Interest that would turn to amusement, no doubt, the moment Bibi recognised her car. This would make her day.

The traffic lights, almost with a shrug — ‘You had your chance, you blew it’ — turned back to red.

To her horror, Dulcie realised the man behind her was climbing out of his Renault. Next moment he hammered on her window, his face as shiny and purple as an aubergine.

‘You stupid cow,’ he bellowed. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at? Bloody women drivers — bimbos like you shouldn’t be allowed on the road!’

Dulcie wasn’t up to defending herself. She was up to here with being shouted at.

She burst into tears and jumped out of the car, almost cannoning off the Renault driver’s great barrel of a chest.

‘The car’s broken down. It won’t go.’ Hating herself for being such a wimp, Dulcie heard her voice go higher and higher. ‘And don’t yell at me because it’s not my fault, okay?’

‘Bloody women, nothing’s ever your fault, is it?’ sneered the man, whose wife had run off with a taxi driver, taken the kids with her and stung him for so much alimony his business had gone down the tubes.

Dulcie lifted her chin. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bibi and Claire watching the goings-on.

‘If you’re so clever,’ she said bitterly to the man, ‘you have a go.’

He climbed into Dulcie’s car, flicked the key in the ignition and pumped the clutch a couple of times.

The engine sprang obediently into life.

The look on the man’s face was unbearable. Nobody, thought Dulcie, should be allowed to do a look like that. She wanted nothing more than to slap his horrid purple cheek.

‘Here,’ sneered the beastly man as he climbed out, ‘think you can manage to get past the traffic lights this time, or would you like me to do that for you as well?’

Gritting her teeth, Dulcie slid back into the driver’s seat. Glancing across one last time she saw that Bibi and Claire were still there, witnessing her humiliation and no doubt enjoying it hugely.

The lights turned green.

As nervous as a learner taking her test, Dulcie pulled tentatively away and made it over to the other side.

A motley bunch of teenagers on bikes who had stopped to watch the free show jeered and whistled and gave her an ironic round of applause.

And you can all get stuffed too, thought Dulcie. Her lower lip began to wobble again out of sheer relief as she drove past them and headed on into Bath.

Finding somewhere to park took for ever. By the time she had finished shoe-horning the car into a cramped space outside a wholefood café on Mortimer Street, Dulcie’s yellow shirt was sticking to her back and her palms were so damp she could barely grip the steering wheel.

Since a mopping-up operation appeared to be in order, Dulcie went inside the café, ordered an orange juice and dived into the loo. There wasn’t much to be done about the shirt but at least she could wash her hands, hold her wrists under the cold water tap, run a comb through her hair and quickly re-do her face.

The man behind the counter grinned at Dulcie when she reappeared.

‘That’s better. Been one of those mornings by the look of it.’

Nice to know you looked as dreadful as you felt, thought Dulcie, managing a brief nod in return as she paid for the orange juice.

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ he ventured, ‘are you going to stay long?’

This is all I need, Dulcie thought resignedly. A nosy, chatty health-food freak. What’s more, one with a beard.

‘It’s just the car,’ he went on, gesturing apologetically towards the window. ‘You see, I’m afraid it’s blocking my garage.’

Dulcie stared at him in disbelief.

‘It took me ten minutes to squeeze into that space! Why didn’t you come out and tell me in the first place?’

‘I’m sorry ... I was busy in the kitchen. There is a notice .. . anyway it doesn’t matter,’ he hurried to reassure her. ‘I don’t need my car for the next couple of hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.’

Dulcie wondered if anything nice would ever happen to her again, or if she truly was on the downward spiral to hell. Parking restrictions and time limits did her head in. She especially couldn’t cope with them today.

‘It’s okay.’ She resigned herself to queueing up to get into the NCP. ‘I’ll move the car.’

The car, however, had other ideas.

‘I don’t believe this, it’s done it again,’ yelled Dulcie, stalking back into the café and hurling her bag on to the counter. ‘The bloody thing won’t start!’

At table four a group of wholefood enthusiasts glanced up disapprovingly from their nut cutlets and garden-sized salads.

‘Well.’ On the defensive, Dulcie tugged down the hem of her short skirt. ‘Sorry, but it pisses me off.’

‘Rufus!’ a woman’s voice yelled from the kitchen. ‘Two lentil and broccoli bakes.’

Rufus, his beard twitching with amusement at the expression on table four’s faces, said, ‘Hang on a sec,’ to Dulcie, and went to fetch the order.

‘Now,’ he said, when the lentil and broccoli bakes had been dispatched, ‘tell me what’s wrong.’

Dulcie wanted to wail, Bloody everything! Instead, she rummaged in her bag.

‘Look, it’s okay. If I could just borrow your phone, I’ll call a garage. They can tow it away and fix it.’

‘Come on.’ Gently, with a hand in the small of her back, Rufus guided her to the door. ‘Garages cost money. At least let me have a look.’

Dulcie relayed the stalling-at-the-traffic-lights story and Rufus had another go at starting the engine, without luck. ‘When did you last check the oil?’

Dulcie looked at him. Having first removed his apron, he had lifted the bonnet and was now peering underneath. As he wiped his oily hands on a piece of kitchen roll, Rufus returned her gaze.

Slowly he said, ‘Okay, put it another way. Do you check your oil?’

It was all right for him, thought Dulcie. He was wearing a weird hand-knitted grey jersey and brown corduroy trousers. There was grey in his hair. He had a beard, for heaven’s sake...

Without beating about the bush, he was a man.

She glanced down at her sunflower-yellow shirt and whiteskirt. Her legs were brown, her sandals gold and her toenails Pomegranate Pink.

‘Do I look like the kind of person who checks the oil?’ The dipstick was duly hauled out, wiped on kitchen roll and re-dipped.

‘There is no oil in this engine,’ Rufus announced gravely.

For the first time, Dulcie suppressed a smile. The way he said it sounded like No Wheels On My Wagon. She looked suitably ashamed.

‘Oh.’

‘I mean really no oil.’ Rufus shook his head. ‘It’s a miracle the engine hasn’t blown up.’

‘Ah.’

He tut-tutted, then straightened up and smiled.

‘My ex-wife was the same.’

Bored with lessons in car maintenance, Dulcie found herself wondering what his ex-wife looked like. Wholesome, presumably. Like Rufus, only without the beard. She tried to imagine how he would look if he shaved it off.

With a start, Dulcie realised he was still talking about oil.

.. a five-litre can of Castrol GTX Protection Plus. They sell it in the garage down by the river. Bit of a hike back up the hill, but that can’t be helped.’

That was the trouble with these do-it-yourself types: they always wanted you to do it yourself too. Dulcie leaned wearily against the wall.

‘Can’t I just phone the garage, get them to do all that?’

Rufus was looking at her thin arms. In return, Dulcie wondered how old he was – around thirty-five at a guess, though with beards it was always hard to tell. Then she wondered if the grey sweater was older or younger than Rufus.

‘Look, you’ll never carry a five-litre can all that way. I’ll go.’

‘What about the café?’ said Dulcie, startled.

Sounding amazingly unconcerned, Rufus said, ‘You’ll just have to take over until I get back.’

Chapter 37

It was like visiting your granny in hospital then suddenly being hauled into the operating theatre and told to take over while the surgeon went off for his lunch break.

Well, Dulcie conceded, maybe not quite like that, but along those lines. Luckily the café wasn’t crowded so she didn’t have to get into a flap. All the prices were chalked up on the blackboard behind the counter, the till was ancient and straightforward to use, and any questions Dulcie had were answered by Maris, who worked in the kitchen.

‘How long have you and Rufus been together?’ asked Dulcie during a quiet five minutes. She leaned against the freezer and watched Maris, who was fluffy-haired and energetic, chop a mound of onions.

Maris looked amused.

‘We aren’t together. Rufus’s wife left him six months ago.’ She wiped her eyes, streaming from the onion fumes. ‘They used to run this place together, and I worked here part-time. Now it’s just the two of us keeping the place going.’ She finished chopping, and deftly slid the onions into a pan of sizzling oil, adding fondly, ‘Bless him, he works so hard. Trying to get over his wife, that’s what it is. He still misses her like mad.’

‘Why did she leave?’

Dulcie wondered if it had been the beard.

‘Louise? Ran off with the bank manager over the road. You wouldn’t have thought it, to look at her.’ Maris, clearly a gloriously indiscreet gossip, glanced at Dulcie for encouragement.

Avid for details, Dulcie said, ‘What, was she the prim and proper type? Or a sour-faced old prune?’

‘Hairy legs.’ Maris lowered her voice. ‘She never shaved them. Well, you’d have needed a lawn mower.’

‘Didn’t put the bank manager off,’ remarked Dulcie. ‘Or Rufus.’

‘Poor Rufus. He adored her.’ Energetically Maris stirred the sizzling onions, then reached for a Sabatier and a bulb of garlic. ‘He’s a lovely chap.’

‘Seems nice.’ Dulcie nodded. If you liked that kind of thing. ‘Do anything for anyone, Rufus would. Got a heart of gold.’

‘Does he drink?’ said Dulcie.

‘What, you mean is that why Louise left him? N0000!’ Maris looked shocked. ‘Nothing like that.’

Dulcie grinned.

‘I didn’t mean does he get paralytic and beat up his wife. I was just asking, does he drink?’

She was busy clearing tables when Rufus reappeared ten minutes later, out of breath but beaming. He poured the oil into the engine, tried the key in the ignition and gave Dulcie a jubilant thumbs-up as the engine burst into life.

‘Thanks,’ said Dulcie before she drove off. ‘That was really kind.’

‘My pleasure.’ Rufus, still pink-cheeked from climbing the hill, smiled at her over the wound-down driver’s window. ‘And thank you for looking after the café. Take care of this car now,’ he reminded her good-naturedly. ‘Try and check the oil at least once every ten years.’

‘I met someone really nice today,’ Dulcie told Pru over supper that evening.

Pru looked doubtful.

‘You mean Liam-type nice?’

Dulcie imagined Rufus and Liam standing next to each other.

‘The opposite of Liam.’ She smiled, thinking that if Liam was a pin-up, Rufus was a quick-wash-and-brush-up. ‘He’s not a bit good-looking. Just ... kind.’

Pru silently marvelled at this piece of information. He didn’t sound Dulcie’s type at all.

‘Where did you meet him?’

Dulcie helped herself to more cannelloni. She offered the rest to Pru.

‘He mended my car.’

‘You mean he’s a mechanic?’

More and more unlikely, thought Pru. But useful.

‘No, I just broke down and he offered to help. He runs a wholefood café in Mortimer Street.’

Dulcie scraped greedily around the edges of the dish for the best bits and added, ‘He’s got a beard.’

Pru was beginning to suspect a set-up. Was Dulcie serious?

‘Hang on, let me get this straight. You fancy a man who isn’t good-looking. He has a beard and he runs a wholefood café.’ She shook her head. ‘I’m getting a horrible mental picture here of David Bellamy.’

‘Don’t be daft, of course I don’t fancy him.’ Forking up her cannelloni with characteristic speed, Dulcie avoided Pru’s eye. ‘He’s just a nice bloke, that’s all. Kind.’

Pru was by this time struggling to keep a straight face. ‘I see.’

‘I don’t fancy him,’ Dulcie repeated stubbornly. ‘I just like him. And you know what?’

‘What?’

Dulcie had been puzzling over it all afternoon. She had only just worked it out. She gazed across the table at Pru.

‘All the time we were talking, he didn’t look at my boobs or my legs once.’

Remembering that she was supposed to be apologising to Liza, and taking advantage of feeling unusually saintly, Dulcie decided to ring her after supper.

‘Who do you keep trying to phone?’ said Pru twenty minutes later.

Still no reply. Fretfully Dulcie hung up.

‘Liza. But the bloody selfish, ungrateful old bag’s buggered off out.’

Maris was serving a family of six when Dulcie came into the café the next day. Up to her elbows in plates, and therefore unable to wave, she waggled her eyebrows instead and called out cheerfully, ‘Rufus is in the kitchen. Go on through and tell him he owes me fifty pee.’

Rufus was wearing different clothes today. The sleeves of his blue and brown checked shirt were rolled up and he was kneading vast quantities of bread dough. There was flour in his hair and on his brown corduroys.

‘You owe Maris fifty pee,’ said Dulcie.

He looked delighted to see her.

‘Hi! Car okay? No more problems?’

‘The car’s fine.’ Dulcie held out the box she’d been clutching. ‘Here, this is for you. Just to say thanks for yesterday.’

Rufus wiped his floury hands on a clean cloth and took the whisky.

Glenmorangie. My word, what a treat! Dulcie, you shouldn’t have. I wasn’t expecting anything.’

‘I know. But I asked Maris and she said you enjoyed a drop of whisky. She thought—’

‘Did she indeed!’ interrupted Rufus. ‘In that case, the bet’s off.’

Dulcie was puzzled.

‘What bet?’

The doors separating the kitchen from the dining area swung open. Maris stood there grinning.

‘Rufus said we’d never see you again. I said we would.’

‘Unfair,’ Rufus protested. ‘You had inside information. That’s cheating.’

Unperturbed, Maris squeezed behind Dulcie, opened the door to the utility room and hauled out a high chair. ‘Table four need this. Hang on and I’ll be back in a sec.’ She gave Rufus a triumphant smile and winked at Dulcie. ‘For my fifty pee.’

The crash was followed by a scream, closely followed by a baby’s piercing wail. As Rufus and Dulcie simultaneously rushed to the swing doors a terrible dropped-baby scenario flashed across Dulcie’s mind. Her heart leapt into her throat as she tried to remember how you were supposed to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a comatose toddler. She was sure she’d seen it on ER.

But when they catapulted through the swing doors they found the baby perched safely on his father’s lap, pointing an outraged finger down at the broken bowl containing the remains of his aubergine and tomato bake.

On the floor next to the two halves of the bowl lay Maris in an undignified position. The high chair was on top of her, her scarlet knickers were on show and one arm was twisted behind her back.

Dulcie heard Rufus murmur, ‘Oh thank God,’ under his breath. Aloud, he said, ‘Is everyone all right?’

The party of six, appearing somewhat dazed, nodded. ‘I’m not all right,’ Maris shouted indignantly. ‘Will someone get this bloody high chair off me? Ow, my arm!’

Dulcie helped Rufus to lift the high chair. Maris, white-faced, gritted her teeth and tried to sit up.

‘What happened?’ said Dulcie.

Maris, with heavy irony, said, ‘Well, I was riding my unicycle ...’

Crouching down, Dulcie inspected the sole of Maris’s sensible shoe. She peeled off a slice of aubergine and held it up.

‘This is what you slipped on.’

The party of six looked uncomfortable. The baby, recognising the bit of aubergine as one he had spat out and flung down earlier, crowed with delight and made a grab for it.

‘Uh-uh.’ Shaking her head, Dulcie whisked it out of reach. ‘This is evidence, for when we take you to court.’

The baby’s father said hurriedly, ‘It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t see him drop it—’

‘Joke,’ said Dulcie.

‘Look, this is all very entertaining,’ Maris murmured, ‘and I’m sorry to spoil the fun, but my arm’s hurting like hell here. I think it’s broken. Any chance of a lift to hospital?’

Rufus helped her on to a chair.

‘I can take you,’ offered Dulcie. She brightened at the thought of all the gorgeous young doctors she might meet in Casualty.

‘Sorry.’ Maris looked at Rufus. ‘Now I’ve mucked up your plans.’

‘I was going to visit a friend at the hospital this afternoon,’ Rufus explained to Dulcie, who was looking blank. ‘My next-door neighbour actually. Poor soul’s having a heart by-pass later today.

She’s petrified. I promised to drop in.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘I suppose I could close the café.’

Without even thinking, Dulcie said, ‘No need. You can take Maris to Casualty, then visit your neighbour. I’ll keep things ticking over here.’

How extraordinary, she thought, listening to the words slip quite casually from her mouth.

Maybe I’m having an out-ofbody experience. Did I really just say that?

But Rufus was looking so delighted, she must have. ‘Really, are you sure? That’s great!’

Dulcie felt positively heroic, like Anna Neagle in one of those black and white Britain-at-war films. Spurred on by this, she said in a brisk, competent, Anna Neagley voice: ‘Of course I’m sure. Just leave everything to me. I’ll be absolutely fine.’

Chapter 38

Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Kensington, Kit lay in bed watching Liza turn herself into a frump. Having travelled up to London the night before, they had visited a West End theatre, gorged themselves on Peking duck afterwards in Soho, and walked arm in arm all the way back to their hotel, finishing the evening off with some pretty amazing sex.

Today, pleasure gave way to business. Kit had a one o’clock meeting in Highgate with the directors of a construction company hoping to win a contract with Berenger’s. Liza was visiting a restaurant in Covent Garden, a celebrity haunt called Beaujolais. The maître d’ at Beaujolais had recently snubbed Liza’s editor, who was now hell-bent on revenge.

‘That bastard turned me away,’ he had told Liza furiously. ‘Bloody nerve! Then, the next minute, he’s welcoming Tristan Acheson with open bloody arms!’ Tristan Acheson was the editor of a rival newspaper with a legendary appetite for one-upmanship. There was no love lost between the two men. ‘You go there,’ he went on, jabbing a pudgy finger at Liza, ‘and you make sure you find fault with everything on that poncey fucking menu of theirs. I mean it, Liza. I want you to hit ‘em where it hurts. Nobody turns their nose up at me.’

‘Do any of your relatives work at Beaujolais?’ Liza had asked Kit, as a precaution, when she had booked her table.

‘What, Beaujolais in Covent Garden? That’s my Aunt Isobel’s restaurant.’

‘You’re kidding!’

Kit grinned.

‘Of course I’m kidding. Don’t worry, you can be as bitchy about Beaujolais as you like.’

Now, as Liza put the finishing touches to her unflattering make-up and adjusted the fringe of her wig, Kit slid out of bed and came to stand behind her. He looked at their joint reflections in the mirror.

‘I have this terrible urge to undress you, take off that wig, wipe off that make-up and drag you back into bed.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Liza drew in her breath, trying hard to ignore his warm fingers sliding inside her blouse. ‘It’s almost twelve already and they won’t keep my table if I’m late. Anyway, you have to be in Highgate by one.’

Kit had just emerged from the shower ten minutes later when his mobile rang. Dripping and gloriously naked he answered it. The next moment, grinning, he rang off.

‘That was Dan, one of the directors of BilCom. Seems they spent last night celebrating being in London away from their wives. They got totally plastered, ended up in some strip joint and ate some dodgy chicken. Apparently they’ve all spent the night bringing their boots up. So the meeting’s cancelled.’ He dropped the phone back on the bed and pinched Liza’s bottom.

‘Hooray for dodgy chicken.’

‘What’ll you do instead?’ She darted out of his way as he began unfastening her skirt.

‘Ah well.’ Kit’s yellow eyes regarded her with teasing amusement. ‘Since I’m not allowed to do what I really want to do, I may as well come to Beaujolais with you.’

‘I’ve only booked a table for one.’

Her copy of the latest MICHELIN GUIDE lay open on the dressing table. Kit found the number of the restaurant and dialled it. When he switched off the phone he said, ‘There, no problem.

Table for two.’

Liza did up her zip.

‘Better put some clothes on first.’

Beaujolais was red and white, big and brash, and sported the obligatory volatile chef. A hugely popular meeting place for models and actresses, it was never without its share of paparazzi.

Every so often the surly chef would erupt from his kitchen to hurl abuse at them, which kept everyone entertained. If they ever showed signs of defecting to the pavements outside other celebrity restaurants, he wooed them back with free meals.

Liza recognised the maître d’ from her editor’s curt description: ‘Middle-aged. Ugly too. Looks like he’s got a wasp down the back of his shirt and a poker up his bum.’ Her brief concern, however, that he might be sufficiently appalled by her drabness to refuse her entry, was soon swept away. He couldn’t have been more welcoming.

Confused, Liza murmured, ‘He can’t possibly have recognised me,’ as they were seated.

Kit grinned.

‘He hasn’t recognised you.’

She looked at Kit, so handsome in an indigo shirt and beige chinos and with his dark hair still damp from the shower. ‘I know,’ said Liza. ‘He fancies you.’

‘Wrong again.’ Kit grinned. He reached across and patted the tweedy sleeve of Liza’s jacket. ‘He fancies you.’

‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my editor,’ said Liza an hour later. Not only had the maître d’ been charm itself, she had barely been able to find fault with their lunch. The menu was unpretentious, the food expertly cooked and presented with understated elegance.

‘I hope the meal is to your satisfaction,’ murmured the maître d’, materialising at their side.

Somehow he managed to ignore Kit completely.

‘He was looking at your hand, to see if you’re wearing a wedding ring.’

Liza didn’t find it as amusing as Kit. She was beginning to get a complex about looking old.

Damn, she really wished she hadn’t worn her disguise today. Even being recognised would be preferable to this.

‘He’s still not sure about me,’ Kit confided in a whisper. ‘Next time he comes over I’ll call you Auntie. Then he’ll know the coast’s clear. Bet you a tenner he asks for your phone number before we leave.’

The next moment they both turned as a girl’s breathless voice squealed, ‘Kit Berenger! What are you doing here?’

Recognising her, Kit started to laugh. Liza’s heart sank. The girl, brown-eyed and with hair cut in a glossy burgundy bob, was as thin as a bit of spaghetti. She was wearing pink shorts, a minuscule black rubber waistcoat, black lacy tights and patent leather boots with spiked heels.

‘Never mind what I’m doing here,’ Kit told her, as she threw her arms around him, ‘what are you doing wearing stuff like that?’

‘Bloody old fogey,’ retorted the girl, undaunted. ‘What do you want me to wear, a tweed skirt and lace-ups? Oh ... sorry.’ She turned and grinned at Liza, a friendly, uncomplicated grin revealing flawless white teeth. ‘Foot-in-mouth time again! I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal. I was at college with Kit.’ Holding out her hand she added, ‘I’m Abby. Hi.’

The maître d’ was hovering within earshot.

Kit said, ‘Abby, this is my Aunt Elizabeth.’

As Liza dealt with the bill, Abby rushed up again.

‘Hey, you two! Listen, Oliver has to get back to his office, but I’m free. How about catching up on old times over a drink? We could go to the Pyramid bar, it’s just round the corner.’

As the maître d’ had managed to exclude Kit earlier, so Liza found herself being ignored now.

She willed him to say no.

But Kit, clearly tempted, gave Liza a ‘shall we?’ look in return.

‘Come on, let’s go for it!’ This time Abby touched Liza’s arm. ‘They do brilliant cocktails.’

Laughing, she added, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you, won’t we, Kit? We won’t let you get squiffy!’

‘You’d be surprised,’ said Kit, ‘a couple of cocktails and Aunt Elizabeth’s a different person.’

He winked at Liza in her awful wig. ‘Quite a changed woman, in fact. Once she lets her hair down.’

Liza had forgotten about the photographers camped outside. As they emerged from the restaurant she found herself being elbowed out of the way. Since they were both young and strikingly attractive, Abby and Kit were the couple they focused their attentions on. Abby they recognised as an up-and-coming children’s TV presenter. Kit — well, okay, maybe they didn’t recognise him yet, but with those looks and that smile it could only be a matter of time.

‘You two go ahead,’ said Liza, when they caught up with her further down the road. ‘Really, I don’t feel like a drink. I’d rather just go back to the hotel.’

Kit looked at her. Abby, still clinging to his arm, pretended to be disappointed.

‘Oh no! Are you sure?’

Liza nodded at Kit, signalling that she was fine, she wasn’t jealous and of course he should go for a drink with Abby. ‘I’m sure. I’ll see you later.’

‘Okay.’ Brightly Abby waggled her fingers at her, just as she waved to the millions of adoring young fans who watched her Saturday-morning TV show. "Bye, Aunt Elizabeth. You take care.

See ya!’

Chapter 39

‘That girl’s as daft as a brush. Three years ago I told her they made rum from fermented coconuts and she still believes it. How she ever landed that job of hers is beyond me, although I suppose I can hazard a guess. Anyway,’ said Kit, abruptly changing the subject, ‘are you all right?’

Liza had washed her blonde hair — the wig always flattened it — and re-done her make-up. She had also changed into a black scoop-necked T-shirt, a clinging red velvet skirt and high heels.

She looked luscious and desirable again, Kit realised, and every man in the hotel lobby was visibly lusting after her. He kissed her on the mouth and sat down next to her.

‘Of course I’m all right.’

‘Not peed off because of ... you know?’

‘What?’

‘The old maître d’ guy at Beaujolais, not making a move. Admit it,’ Kit nudged her, ‘you thought you’d pulled. You were gutted when he didn’t ask for your phone number.’

Liza had to smile.

‘When you book a table at Beaujolais, they automatically take your number. Anyway, speaking of pulling ... is Abby an old girlfriend of yours?’

Kit shrugged.

‘I went out with her for about two minutes. Got bored. She’s a nice enough girl, but ...’

Another shrug.

I’m not bored with you yet, thought Liza, watching him carefully, looking for signs. Are you bored with me?

.. like I said, thick as two planks,’ Kit concluded with a yawn.

‘I’m going down to Devon this weekend. It’s my mother’s birthday.’

This made him sit up.

‘When did you decide this?’

‘An hour ago. I rang her.’ Liza nodded at the pay phone just beyond the bar. ‘She was really pleased. I haven’t been to see them for ages.’

‘Something’s wrong,’ said Kit.

‘Nothing’s wrong.’

‘Okay. I’m free this weekend. I’ll come too.’

‘No you won’t.’

‘Why not?’

‘You just can’t,’ Liza said flatly.

He raked his fingers through his dark hair.

‘But I have to meet them at some stage.’

She raised an eyebrow. ‘Who says you do?’

Exasperated, Kit almost shouted, ‘Liza, it has to happen sooner or later. Why not now?’

‘Okay.’ Liza held up one hand. She began steadily counting off on her fingers. ‘We’ll make a list. One, the chances are this relationship of ours won’t last, so there isn’t much point in meeting them. Two, they’re just ordinary parents. They aren’t rich or famous, or remotely glamorous.

They aren’t brilliantly witty and they don’t tell jokes.’

‘Meaning?’ said Kit, stunned.

‘Meaning you’d probably be bored witless.’

He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious.’

‘Three,’ Liza went on, still counting fingers, ‘my mother is seventy years old, my father’s seventy-two. They have traditional ideas. They want me to settle down and get married and have children. Knocking around with a twenty-three-year-old boy isn’t something they’d understand

—’

‘Come on,’ chided Kit, finally figuring out what it was she was doing. ‘These aren’t reasons, these are excuses. Shouldn’t you give your parents the benefit of the doubt? Introduce me to them and let them make up their own minds.’

‘I know them. Trust me. If I rolled up with you in tow,’ Liza said bleakly, ‘they’d just be embarrassed.’

‘I see. So they’d be embarrassed and I’d be bored.’

‘Right.’

‘And all this has nothing – nothing whatsoever to do with today.’

Liza wanted to cry. Of course it did; it had everything to do with today. She was accustomed to being in control of her life. She definitely wasn’t used to feeling insecure. Lack of confidence was Pru’s speciality, not hers.

And the stupid thing is, Liza realised frustratedly, nobody’s making me feel like this. I’m doing it all by myself.

‘I’ve just had enough,’ she told Kit, her fingernail tracing obsessive spirals on the topaz velvet-upholstered arm of her chair. ‘It’s too difficult. Relationships shouldn’t be difficult.’

‘You’re ashamed of me,’ said Kit. ‘Is that it? I’m an embarrassment to you?’

His yellow eyes narrowed, regarding her with mock amusement. Liza felt sick; he thought he was going to be able to coax her out of this and he couldn’t. It was too late. She’d started and now she couldn’t stop.

‘Yes, I’m ashamed,’ she said quickly, and saw that she had startled him. ‘I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, okay? So it’s over. I’m a grown woman, Kit. Time I found myself a grown man.’

‘You missed a brilliant fight this afternoon,’ Susie the receptionist said gleefully when she handed over to Bella at the end of her shift.

Bella looked interested.

‘What, a punch-up?’

‘Better than that. The couple booked into 201 had the most amazing slanging match, right here in the lobby in front of everyone. We were all riveted! Anyway, the woman was hell bent on finishing with him ‘

‘Hang on, room 201? I checked them in yesterday. He was gorgeous!’

Susie gave her a there-you-go look.

‘That’s it then, isn’t it? Bet you he’s been playing away and she’s only just found out.’

‘So how did it end? Did they make up?’

‘Did Tom make up with Jerry?’ Susie mimed slitting her throat. ‘I’m telling you, it’s over. He did his best, but there was no stopping her. She ended up yelling that she never wanted to see him again. Then she stalked out.’

‘Leaving him here all on his own, you mean?’ Ever hopeful, Bella’s eyes lit up. ‘Shall I ring his room and make sure he’s okay?’ She beamed. ‘I bet I could cheer him up.’

The train journey back to Bath was a nightmare. Huddled in a corner seat behind dark glasses, Liza wondered if it was possible to feel more miserable than this. But it had needed to be done and she had done it. Now all I have to do, she thought unhappily, is get used to being on my own again. Pretend I never met Kit Berenger in the first place.

‘Are you sure you’re all right, dear?’ said the nosy middle-aged woman in the next seat.

Tears were sliding out from under Liza’s dark glasses. She wiped them angrily away with her sleeve.

‘Fine, thanks.’

She turned and gazed out of the window but the woman began tapping her, woodpecker-style, on the arm.

‘If you want to talk about it, dear, I don’t mind. I’d be happy to listen.’ Avidly she studied Liza’s averted profile.

‘All my friends tell me how sympathetic I am— Hang on, don’t I recognise you? Aren’t you that girl who writes about food?’

The train was crowded. Liza ended up three carriages along, squashed against a huge man in an anorak reeking of wet labrador. The smell was awful but at least he didn’t interrogate her.

She couldn’t cry properly until she reached home. It was over, it was all over.

There were half a dozen messages on her answering machine.

None of them was from Kit.

‘Dulcie, where on earth have you been? It’s eight o’clock!’ wailed Pru, standing in the front doorway like an indignant wife. ‘I thought you were only popping out for a pair of tights.’

Dulcie, struggling to keep a straight face, collapsed on to one of the kitchen chairs.

‘I went to see Rufus, to thank him for yesterday.’

Pru recognised that smirk. Dulcie was looking ridiculously pleased with herself.

‘Don’t tell me, you seduced him. You’ve spent the entire day in bed with Mr Nice-Guy-with-a-beard.’

‘Actually,’ Dulcie adopted a not very convincing casual air, ‘I’ve been working.’

‘At getting the poor chap into bed, you mean.’

‘I mean working in the café. Running it singlehanded, in fact.’

‘Are you hallucinating,’ said Pru, ‘or am I?’

Dulcie could no longer contain herself. She jumped up and grabbed a bottle of wine from the fridge.

‘I did, I really did,’ she cried ecstatically. ‘I knew you wouldn’t believe me – I can hardly believe it myself – but I was brilliant! I didn’t make any mistakes. Oh, Pru, you should have seen me, I did everything. What’s more,’ Dulcie’s green eyes glittered as she sloshed wine into the glasses,

‘I loved every minute!’

This was hard to believe, but as Dulcie continued to sing her own praises, it became apparent that she meant every word. It wasn’t an elaborate set-up, or an April Fool. Quite by chance, Pru realised, and rather later in life than most people, Dulcie had discovered that work needn’t be awful after all.

‘I don’t know where the day went,’ she gabbled on, shaking her head in disbelief. ‘Seriously, the hours just galloped by. One minute Rufus was helping Maris into his car, and the next thing I knew, it was seven o’clock, time to close up! No thanks, better not.’

Here was another first: Dulcie holding her hand over her glass. Startled, Pru said, ‘Sure?’

‘The café opens at seven, for breakfast. I promised Rufus I’d be there by six.’

‘Six?’ squeaked Pru.

‘Mans has broken her arm. She’s going to be out of action for weeks,’ Dulcie explained serenely.

‘I offered to help out.’

‘You mean ... every day?’

‘Only six days a week. They’re shut on Sundays.’

It was a struggle taking it in. Pru couldn’t help wondering if she’d somehow got hold of the wrong end of the stick. ‘Dulcie, are you sure about this?’

Dulcie didn’t reply. Instead, she studied the rim of her almost empty glass for several seconds.

When she finally spoke, the jokiness, the glittering façade, was gone.

‘It’s what I want right now. It’s what I need. Something to stop me thinking about the godawful mess I’ve made of my life.’

Pru experienced a twinge of alarm. This wasn’t like Dulcie at all.

‘Oh no, you haven’t—’

‘Come on, Pru. What else am I going to do with myself? If I go to Brunton I’ll see Liam. If I stay here I’ll only think about him.’ Dulcie’s eyes were sad. This wasn’t the whole truth; she would mainly be thinking about Patrick. Oh, she’d been such an idiot...

‘You know what you need,’ said Pru.

Me too, thought Dulcie. A kick up the bum for being a prize wally.

Aloud, she said, ‘What?’

Pru grinned.

‘An alarm clock.’

Chapter 40

Having the stitches out didn’t hurt a bit.

‘There,’ said the doctor soothingly. Finished at last, he dropped the scissors into a stainless-steel kidney bowl and reached for a mirror. ‘Have a look. Tell me what you think.’

Pru looked at her wild-haired, bandageless reflection in the mirror and promptly burst into tears.

‘I know, I know.’ The doctor patted her on the shoulder. ‘I’ve done a good job, if I say so myself.’

‘Can I go home and wash my hair no*?’ sniffed Pru. It had been the longest two weeks of her life.

He smiled.

‘Only if you really want to.’

Terry Lambert was in his office working his way through a pile of letters that needed signing when his secretary popped her head around the door.

‘Someone to see you, Mr Lambert. A Mrs Kasteliz. She doesn’t have an appointment but she wondered if you might have a few minutes to spare.’

‘That’s fine, Dora.’ Terry Lambert carefully recapped his fountain pen. ‘Please send her in.’

‘Hi,’ said Pru, looking smart in a white cotton shirt tucked into dark-green jeans, and with a red silk scarf around her neck. ‘Thanks for seeing me.’

‘My pleasure. Sit down, Pru.’ Terry held the chair for her. Glancing up, he caught his secretary’s eye. ‘No need to wave your eyebrows at me like that, Dora,’ he remarked easily. ‘Mrs Kasteliz is my cleaning lady.’

Tight-lipped, Dora closed the door behind her.

‘Sorry about that,’ said Terry. ‘They know I’m involved with someone, they just don’t know who. It kills the secretaries to be left in the dark. Now then, you’re looking well. Good holiday?’

‘Actually, that was a fib,’ Pru admitted. ‘I didn’t really go on holiday.’

As a solicitor, Terry Lambert was nothing if not diplomatic. He leaned back in his leather chair and said, ‘I see.’ Pru smiled.

‘Apart from my doctor, you’re the first person to see these.’ He looked faintly alarmed.

‘See what?’

But Pru was scooping her hair up and away from her face. Her grey eyes shone.

‘The stitches came out this morning.’

Terry broke into an enormous grin.

‘They’re great. You look great. Well done.’

‘It’s all thanks to you,’ Pru said happily.

‘Is that why you came here? To show me your ears?’

‘Well, that too.’ Pru let her hair fall back down over her shoulders. Then she took a deep breath.

‘But the other reason is I want a divorce.’

Having been reduced to crossing the days off on his calendar, Eddie had come to the conclusion that this was as bad as being back at boarding school yearning for half-term. Worse, in fact, he thought now as he stood gazing out of his office window. This was like yearning for half-term and, praying that during the course of the holiday you were going to be deftly relieved of your virginity.

It was Saturday. It was — he glanced at his watch — three minutes to ten. Any minute now, if all went according to plan, Pru would rattle up the drive in her ancient Mini. She wouldbe bronzed and relaxed from her holiday. He would tease her about the non-arrival of her postcard. She would make a fuss of Arthur and he, Eddie, would try hard not to wish it was his ears she was fondling.

And at some stage, somehow, he would pluck up enough courage to tell Pru Kasteliz how he felt about her.

Because he had put it off and off and there came a time when you had to brace yourself and force yourself to make some kind of move.

Because if I don’t, thought Eddie, nervously thrusting his hands into the pockets of his brand-new trousers, nobody else is going to do it for me.

As she swung into the cobbled courtyard, Pru had to brake hard to avoid Liam. Dulcie, she thought briefly, would be disappointed with her.

Liam wasn’t. His eyes lit up when he saw Pru.

‘Terrific timing, darling! I have to get my car to the garage, some problem with the gearbox. Be an angel and follow me down, would you? Then you can give me a lift back.’

Pru glanced up automatically at the office window. There was Eddie, with his hands in his pockets, standing there watching them. At the sight of him, in his crumpled blue shirt and habitually loosened tie, something in Pru’s stomach went ping.

‘I can’t. Eddie’s expecting me.’

‘Ah, never mind Eddie. He won’t sack you.’ Grinning, Liam followed the direction of Pru’s gaze. Catching Eddie’s eye he mimed opening the window then yelled up, ‘Okay if I borrow her for a bit?’

Eddie didn’t say it but the schoolboy riposte ran through his mind: ‘A bit of what?’

He watched Pru giving the Mini’s dashboard a vigorous polish with a tissue. She looked beautiful and totally absorbed in her task, as if buffing up the dashboard was more important than anything else in the world.

‘All right,’ Eddie said finally, and with extreme reluctance.

He felt like a prisoner whose parole has been revoked at the last minute. Or maybe a schoolboy who has just been told that half-term’s been postponed.

Dammit, he was ready to tell Pru how he felt about her now...

‘Great. Just dropping the car off at Pargeter’s. Won’t be two ticks.’ Liam gave him a cheerful thumbs-up before turning back to Pru. ‘Meet me down there, okay?’

‘Okay.’

Standing at his window, Eddie wondered what he was saying to her. Now that Liam was no longer shouting, he couldn’t hear a thing.

He watched Liam pause, studying Pru in silence for a second.

‘There’s something different about you,’ Liam told Pru. He frowned. ‘Can’t think what it is.’

That was the thing about Liam, she thought, he was never going to win Mastermind.

‘New lipstick, probably,’ said Pru.

Eddie, up in his office, thought agitatedly, Just stop yakking and get on with it. The sooner you’re out of here, the sooner you’ll be back.

Pargeter’s, the ultra-smart garage catering for cars like Liam’s, was on the other side of Bath.

Predictably, by the time Pru pulled up on the forecourt, Liam was already leaning against the front desk, heavily engaged in chatting up the glossy blonde receptionist.

‘Don’t let me interrupt you,’ Pru observed drily when he leapt – several minutes later – into the Mini’s passenger seat.

‘You didn’t see what she was hiding under that desk.’ Liam mimed a hugely bulging stomach.

‘Seven months gone, no less.’ He pulled a face. ‘One way and another, I’ve suffered enough baby talk to last a lifetime.’

Pru concentrated on doing a U-turn against the prevailing flow of traffic. She wondered if he’d ask her how Dulcie was.

It seemed not.

‘Damn,’ said Liam. ‘Take the next right.’

When Pru glanced across, she saw him examining the front of his white Nike sweatshirt.

‘Oil,’ he sighed. ‘Bloody garage, filthy place. You don’t mind, do you, darling?’ he added with a beguiling smile. ‘My flat’s only half a mile from here. Won’t take me two minutes to change.’

Pru shrugged, indicated right and changed down into second gear. But Liam was still looking at her.

‘Of course!’ he exclaimed, so suddenly that Pru almost did an emergency stop.

‘Of course what?’

‘You. Your ears! The last time I saw you, they were wrapped in five miles of bandage ...’

‘Left or right here?’

‘Left.’ He grinned at her, shaking his head in mock disbelief. ‘And you weren’t even going to tell me. Are you happy with them?’

‘Very happy,’ said Pru.

‘I knew you looked different.’ Liam sounded pleased with himself, but puzzled. ‘So why aren’t you showing them off?’

‘I don’t need to.’ Pru was wearing her hair in its customary heavy bob. She knew she looked different. She also knew the only reason she looked different was because she felt different.

‘You look great, really great.’ Liam was still grinning broadly. ‘Okay, we’re here, pull in behind the Scimitar.’

‘Don’t be ages,’ Pru warned him, but before she could flip open the glove compartment and get out her latest paperback, Liam’s warm fingers had closed around her wrist.

‘Come up with me. I’ll show you my flat.’

What was wrong with etchings? wondered Pru. ‘It’s okay, I’m fine here.’

‘Don’t be silly.’ Masterfully, he took the keys from the ignition. ‘Anyway, I’ve got a present for you.’

A present? Was this a joke?

‘What kind of a present?’ Pru looked suspicious. Liam winked.

‘Just a little something to celebrate you getting your new ears.’

‘I was invited out to Kuwait last year, to play in a pro-am tournament,’ Liam explained over his shoulder as he rummaged through the chest of drawers in his bedroom. ‘Everyone taking part was given a memento by the sheikh. Solid-gold razors for the blokes, earrings for the girls. Ah

— here they are.’

Pru, leaning against the door frame, said, ‘So what was there, some kind of misunderstanding? I mean, you don’t look like a girl.’

‘My mixed doubles partner,’ Liam explained, ‘was a very hairy lesbian. She had her heart set on a razor. On the last night she got me drunk, challenged me to a camel race and won.’ He shrugged and held the leather box out to Pru. ‘That was it. I was left with the earrings.’

Pru laughed.

‘I can’t imagine why you haven’t given them to someone else.’

Liam opened the box. The earrings, pink-gold studded with diamonds, were each the shape of a stylised letter P.

‘My tennis partner’s name,’ he said simply, ‘was Paula.’

Pru stood in front of the bathroom mirror admiring her reflection. She had tucked her hair behind her ears. When she turned her head from side to side the earrings caught the light, glittering like ... well, like diamonds.

‘This is really kind of you.’

‘My pleasure.’ Liam moved up behind her, his breath warm on the back of her neck. Gently, he lifted Pru’s dark glossy hair further away from her ears and examined the still-reddened but scalpel-fine scars.

‘Your surgeon did a good job,’ he told her. ‘If you didn’t know, you’d never know.’

His mouth was inches from her neck. Now it was moving closer. Pru, watching in the mirror, held her breath and told herself she was imagining things. Liam couldn’t possibly be about to do what it looked as if he was about to do.

She let out a squeak as his warm tongue flickered against her neck.

Chapter 41

‘Liam—!’

‘You know, you really are an incredibly attractive woman.’ He murmured the words as if confiding a tremendous secret, then dropped a kiss on to her shoulder. ‘Dulcie’s told me all about you and that miserable husband of yours. You know, all you need is someone to give you a confidence boost.’

Pru smothered a giggle.

‘You mean—?’

‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Liam hastily, ‘nothing serious, nothing long-term. Just, you know, a bit of fun.’

‘You mean you?’

His dark-blue eyes met Pru’s astonished grey ones in the mirror. He gave her his most irresistible smile.

‘I mean exactly that. Aren’t I the perfect man for the job? Come on, sweetheart, how about it? To celebrate the new you?’

Pru tried hard to imagine doing it with Liam. He was blond and blue-eyed, deeply tanned and quite extraordinarily handsome. He had wall-to-wall muscles. He was superfit. And she had heard a thousand times from Dulcie how fabulous he was in bed.

Physically, he was indeed the perfect man for the job.

Pru sighed. What a shame he had to be Liam. Anyone else with those attributes wouldn’t have stood a chance of escape.

‘Oh dear,’ Liam murmured, teasing her. ‘Big sigh. Decisions, decisions.’

His arms were sliding around her waist. Carefully, Pru extricated herself.’No thanks, Liam.’

He looked perplexed.

‘Are you sure?’

She unclipped the earrings and held them out to him. ‘I’m sure.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘You’d better have these back,’ said Pru.

Liam started to laugh.

‘Keep them! I don’t bribe women to sleep with me. I was only trying to do you a favour.’ Still smiling, he clipped the earrings back on to Pru’s ear lobes.

‘Ouch.’ She winced as his fingers slipped. The left one pinched like a crab claw.

‘Sorry. There, that’s better. Like I said, you’re an attractive girl. All you need is that extra boost of confidence.’

I think you just gave me that when I turned you down, thought Pru, returning his smile. Good old Liam, you couldn’t hate him. What you saw was what you got. He’d certainly never pretended to be anything other than what he was – the ultimate good-time boy.

Aloud she said, ‘Thanks.’

They had been gone for almost an hour. Quite unable to concentrate on work, Eddie was pacing his office like a caged leopard when he heard the familiar sound of Pru’s decrepit Mini rattling into the courtyard. In less than a second he was at the window, his hands pressed against the cold glass.

Liam was wearing a different sweatshirt, a yellow one.

He and Pru were laughing together about something.

Now Liam was leaning across, pushing his fingers through Pru’s dark hair.

Eddie’s stomach executed a violent double somersault. What was going on? Why was Liam stroking Pru’s left ear in that uncharacteristically tender fashion?

More to the point, thought Eddie frantically, why the bloody hell is she letting him?

* * *

‘Do you know,’ said Liam, ‘I’ve never been turned down before.’

‘Oh dear.’ Pru looked sorrowful. ‘Have I blotted your copybook?’

He grinned. ‘Bloody right. Do me a favour, will you? Keep it to yourself.’

‘I won’t tell. And you,’ Pru reminded him, ‘mustn’t say anything about my ears.’

‘Deal,’ said Liam. He managed to yank open the passenger door. When he had climbed out, he turned and added cheerfully, ‘It’s our secret, sweetheart. Just between us.’

The wind had changed. Earlier when Eddie had strained to overhear Liam’s conversation with Pru, he hadn’t been able to catch any of it.

This time, having heard only too clearly more than he wanted to hear, he turned away from the window. There was a feeling in the pit of his stomach like a lorryload of wet sand.

So much for thinking he had a chance with Pru. Liam — God help her – had clearly got there first.

‘Hi,’ said Pru, appearing in the doorway still breathless from the stairs. ‘I’m back.’

Her cheeks glowed pink. She looked bright-eyed and incredibly happy. Like a fresh-faced teenager in love with the school cricket captain, thought Eddie. He felt horribly old and tired in comparison.

‘Hi.’ He forced a smile. ‘Good holiday?’

Pru’s flush deepened.

‘Great, thanks.’

She wasn’t particularly brown, but she looked well. Eddie noticed she was wearing her hair differently, tucked behind her ears. All the better for Liam McPherson to fondle them, no doubt, he thought with a spasm of jealousy.’Nice earrings.’

‘Oh! Thanks.’ Pru’s eyes sparkled, and all of a sudden Eddie knew who had given them to her.

The sick feeling in his stomach intensified and he sat down behind his desk, flicking abstractedly through his diary.

‘Is everything all right?’

‘Fine. Just fine.’

‘Um ... it’s almost midday,’ Pru ventured. Something was wrong but she couldn’t imagine what.

‘Aren’t I supposed to be driving you to a meeting in Oxford?’

Eddie had cancelled the meeting. He had planned, in a surge of hopeless optimism, to whisk Pru out somewhere wonderful for lunch.

‘It’s been rescheduled,’ he said brusquely. ‘I’m seeing them on Monday instead.’

‘Oh.’ Pru watched him, apparently engrossed in the contents of his diary. ‘So, you don’t need me then?’

Yes, I need you, Eddie longed to blurt out.

He shook his head, wishing he were thirty-five again, with less paunch and more hair. He wondered if his life would have turned out differently if he’d cultivated muscles and blond highlights.

‘Eddie.’ She sounded hesitant. ‘Have I done something to upset you?’

YES. YES. YES.

‘No.’

‘Okay.’ Pru wasn’t convinced. ‘So what time on Monday?’

When he looked up, she was fiddling with one of her earrings. It occurred to him that if he wanted to, he could sack Liam McPherson. Lay-’em McPherson, he thought bitterly. But what would be the point?

‘Ten thirty.’

‘And roughly when will we be back?’ Pru was mentally juggling her cleaning jobs. She had some serious catching-up to do after her fortnight off.

Listen to her, she just can’t wait to rush home to him.

‘Don’t worry.’ Eddie kept his tone even to hide the pain. ‘You’ll be back by six.’

‘Liza, you look terrible,’ said Margaret Lawson.

‘Thanks, Mum.’

Liza was in the kitchen huddled next to the Rayburn, clutching a mug of tea and watching her mother peel onions for a shepherd’s pie. Her offer to take her parents out to dinner had been met with the usual brisk refusal. Restaurants, according to Margaret Lawson, were a ridiculous waste of money. Anyway, she insisted, cooking for her family was never a chore. ‘I enjoy it,’ she told Liza. ‘And shepherd’s pie is your father’s favourite. He doesn’t care for all that fancy, faffedabout-with food.’

Liza had had this argument too many times before to think she could change their minds. She offered, they refused. That was the unalterable pattern of her visits.

She didn’t want to eat out anyway.

Margaret Lawson began vigorously chopping the onions.

‘I mean it. Terrible,’ she declared, glancing over her shoulder at her daughter. ‘You look as if you’ve been crying for a week.’

Wrong, thought Liza. I’ve only been crying for three days. ‘Been sacked, have you?’

‘No.’

‘Pregnant?’

‘No.’

‘So it’s man trouble,’ her mother concluded, turning her attention back to the onions.

Liza didn’t say anything. She had been on the receiving end of the find-yourself-a-decent-man-and-settle-down lecture almost as often as the restaurants-are-daylight-robbery one. The high turnover of men in her life and her inability to stay interested in any of them was a source of deep concern to her parents, she knew. Nothing would make them happier than to see her safely married. They weren’t fussy either; any niceforty-year-old lawyer, bank manager, accountant or even architect would do.

‘What was it this time, then?’ Margaret persisted lightly. ‘What did this one do to deserve the push? Drum his fingers on the steering wheel? Part his hair on the wrong side? Sing off-key?’

This was her mother’s attempt at humour. It was her way of trying to help. And at the same time have a bit of a dig.

Liza thought of Kit and pressed her lips together. She mustn’t, mustn’t cry.

‘No.’

The onions landed in the frying pan and were expertly tossed in hot butter. Margaret Lawson reached for the carrots. ‘You don’t want to talk about it.’

‘Not really.’

‘So he’s married.’

God, thought Liza, when it comes to interrogation, the KGB have nothing on my mother.

As she shook her head, a single tear slid down her cheek. ‘Did he finish with you?’

‘No. I ended it.’ She heaved a shuddery sigh. ‘You don’t usually ask this many questions.’

‘You don’t usually look like a wet fortnight in Fishguard,’ Margaret Lawson replied with asperity.

Mothers. Who’d have them?

‘I’m sorry,’ said Liza.

The carrots were pushed to one side. Margaret Lawson wiped her hands on a tea towel and turned to face her daughter.

‘Liza,’ she said quietly, ‘you’re frightening me. Tell me what it is. Please.’

‘Oh, Mum ...’

‘This one was special, was he?’

Helplessly Liza nodded.

‘It doesn’t matter. Just remember your father and I will still love you. Liza ... is it that disease?’

Liza stared at her.

‘What?’

Her mother’s face was creased with concern.

‘Do you ... have you got Aids?’

‘No!’ gasped Liza, laughing and crying at the same time. She jumped up from the chair and threw her arms around her mother. ‘Mum, no, of course I don’t have Aids!’

Margaret hugged her back, before reverting to type.

‘No "of course" about it, my girl. These things happen, and we all know how they happen. You haven’t exactly led a settled life, have you?’

Liza smiled. There, she had something to be grateful for after all. She didn’t have Aids.

Mini-lecture received and understood.

‘He’s nine years younger than me.’

The words were out before she could stop them. Amazed, Liza wondered how it had happened.

Probably because compared with Aids it didn’t sound quite so terrible after all.

Chapter 42

Slowly, Margaret Lawson digested this information. She wiped her reddened hands on her apron and leaned back, thoughtfully, against the sink.

‘You mean ... he’s twenty-one.’

‘No.’ Liza managed another weak smile. Maths had never been her mother’s strong point.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘Oh. Still young though.’

Why am I smiling? thought Liza. Nothing’s changed.

She nodded. ‘I know. It would never have worked. It didn’t bother me at first because I thought I’d get bored with him. Except I didn’t.’ She shook her head. ‘But it really wouldn’t have worked. I knew I had to end it. Rather now than in a few years’ time . .. like cutting off a toe that’s gangrenous,’ she went on helplessly, her eyes filling up again. ‘Better to lose a toe than the whole leg.’

‘Yes, well, I can see the sense in that.’

‘I just didn’t realise it was going to hurt this much.’ Liza sniffed, found a shredded tissue in her pocket and blew her nose.

‘This young lad. What’s his name?’

‘Kit. Kit Berenger.’

Even the name sounded young.

‘Hmm. Got a job, has he?’

‘Family firm. Builders,’ mumbled Liza. ‘His father hates me.’

Margaret Lawson nodded.

‘It’s so unfair,’ Liza went on. Extraordinarily, now she’d started she found she couldn’t stop. ‘If he was older than me it wouldn’t matter a bit. That wouldn’t bother anyone.’

‘I know.’

There were dark shadows under Liza’s eyes. She hadn’t been able to sleep.

‘I shouldn’t have come down here,’ she mumbled. ‘It’s your birthday.’

‘You’re my daughter,’ said Margaret. ‘It’s not often I get the chance to comfort you. Isn’t that what mothers are for?’

‘I don’t think you can.’

‘Maybe I can’t.’ Margaret sat down opposite Liza. ‘But I do understand how you feel. I went through it too, you know.’

‘What?’

The look on Liza’s face was almost comical. Margaret smiled.

‘Liza, I may be your mother but I am human. I was thirty-five when I married your father. What do you think I was doing until then, sitting up on a high shelf gathering dust?’

‘Um ... er ...’

Well, yes.

‘I was working as a secretary in London.’ Margaret leaned back in her chair and gazed past Liza.

‘When I was thirty I fell in love with my landlady’s son. Michael, his name was. My bathroom window got broken and he came round to fix it. There was a spark between us right away. Of course, he knew how old I was, so he told me he was twenty-eight. We started seeing each other,’ she went on. ‘Neither of us had much money of course, but we’d meet in coffee bars, go for walks in Regent’s Park, see the occasional film. We were so happy together, but I always wondered why we had to keep it a secret from his mother. Michael said she’d only make a fuss if she knew, he said she was the possessive type.’

She paused.

‘And?’ prompted Liza when the pause lengthened. Good grief, this was unbelievable. Her own mother ..

‘Oh well, she found out, of course. One of the neighbours saw us together one day in the park, holding hands. The neighbour told Michael’s mother and she turned up on my doorstep that night demanding to know what I thought I was doing to her precious son.’ Without realising it, Margaret Lawson was twisting her narrow wedding ring round and round her finger. ‘So I tried to make her understand. I told her we loved each other and said wasn’t it time she let him live his own life? He was twenty-eight, after all, I argued, hardly a little boy any more. Well, you can guess the next line. She wiped the floor with me, didn’t she? Michael wasn’t twenty eight at all, he was twenty-one.’

‘Oh God,’ gasped Liza.

Her mother’s smile was dry.

‘Quite. And that was that. She called me all the names under the sun, gave me a week to get out of the flat and told me never to speak to Michael again.’

‘And did you?’

Margaret Lawson shook her head.

‘No. I was so ashamed. I was as appalled as she was.’

‘But he ... did Michael try to contact you?’

Another weary shake.

‘He couldn’t have, even if he’d wanted to. I left London, moved to Bath. And a year later met your father.’

‘Mum!’ Liza was still struggling to take this in. It was like something out of a novel.

Her mother shrugged.

‘It’s in the past. This was forty years ago.’

‘But ... but you’ve been happy with Daddy?’

‘Oh yes. Your father’s a good man; of course I’ve been happy with him.’ Her mother hesitated for a second; only her fingers moved as the wedding ring went on going round and round. She looked suddenly pale and tired. ‘You just – well, I’ve never stopped thinking about ... what happened. Or wondering if I would have been happier with Michael.’

* * *

There was only one Berenger listed in the Bath area, which was handy.

‘Berenger.’

It was the voice of a man in charge. Brisk, brusque and not to be trifled with. He certainly didn’t sound like a twenty-three year-old.

‘Hello. Could I speak to Kit Berenger, please,’ said Margaret calmly.

‘Who’s speaking?’

Next to the phone was her Grattan’s catalogue waiting for her to order a size fourteen ribbed cotton cardigan in shell pink.

‘Margaret Grattan.’

‘Hold on.’

Margaret hung on for what seemed like an hour. It was a good job Liza was in the bath. Finally, at the other end, the phone was picked up again.

‘Kit Berenger speaking.’

A younger voice this time, but well-spoken and self-assured. ‘Hello, Kit, my name’s actually Margaret Lawson. I’m Liza’s mother.’

Margaret glanced out of the sitting room window. In the garden her husband was meticulously dead-heading the gone-over peonies.

‘I see.’

The voice acquired a cool edge. Instantly he was on his guard. Maybe I’m too late, she thought.

Interfering with a lost cause.

‘If you have a couple of minutes,’ said Margaret, ‘I wonder if we could talk.’

‘That’ll be Rose Tresilian from over the• road. I promised to lend her my catalogue,’ said Margaret when the doorbell rang at nine o’clock that evening. ‘Answer it for me, would you, dear?’

Liza’s hand flew to her mouth when she opened the door.It wasn’t Rose Tresilian from over the road.

‘Oh my God.’

‘Sorry I’m late.’ Kit’s hair gleamed in the porch light; his tone was carefully casual. ‘I would have been here sooner, only I couldn’t find my A to Z of Trezale.’

Liza was glad of the door frame, keeping her upright. She leaned against it and stared at Kit, almost afraid to blink. If he was a mirage, fine. Better a mirage, thought Liza shakily, than no Kit at all.

He was wearing a crumpled denim shirt and white jeans. There were dark shadows under his eyes, she noticed. He looked tired, drawn and somehow sexier than ever.

‘Unfair,’ said Liza, desperate to throw herself at him but not quite daring to. ‘How come men can get bags under their eyes and look great? When it happens to women, we end up looking like Clement Freud with a hangover.’

‘You haven’t asked me how I found you.’ Kit ignored her off-at-a-tangent ramblings.

Hesitating, Liza pushed a flopping strand of hair out of her eyes. Following her bath, she hadn’t bothered to blow-dry it. Or put on any make-up.

‘I think I can guess,’ she replied finally. ‘Only it’s kind of hard to believe.’

‘Your mother rang me.’

Liza nodded. She’d guessed right. It was just so unlike her mother to do such a thing.

‘She isn’t normally the interfering type.’

Liza sensed rather than saw him tense up.

‘When you say interfering,’ Kit fixed her with his unswerving yellow gaze, ‘there’s welcome interference and there’s unwelcome interference. Liza, listen to me. I came down here because your mother told me I should. I love you and I want to spend the rest of my life with you, but you already know that. So,’ he said pointedly, ‘now it’s up to you. If you want me to leave, I will. I’ll turn around and drive back to Bath. You, meanwhile, can go inside and tell your mother she has no business meddling with your life. You can explain to her that this is an example of unwelcome interference.’

‘Okay,’ murmured Liza, nodding like an attentive pupil. ‘And what’s the other one?’

‘Welcome interference.’ Kit ticked the second alternative off on his fingers. ‘This is the one where you realise I was right and you were wrong,’ he explained, ‘and so what if I’m a few years younger than you? I mean, who gives a toss, really? I don’t. And your mother certainly doesn’t.’

Helplessly Liza shook her head.

‘No, she doesn’t.’

‘Anyway, you apologise to me for making the last few days possibly the worst of my life,’ he continued. ‘We kiss and make up and all that stuff, and you throw yourself at your mother’s feet, thanking her over and over again for meddling in your life and forcing you to come to your senses.’

Having listened carefully, Liza nodded again.

‘Okay. I’ll have that one.’

‘Sure?’ said Kit.

‘Definitely that one.’

‘The I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong one?’ Kit persisted, the corners of his mouth lifting as he spoke.

‘Yeah, yeah. You were right and I was wrong and I’m sorry and I love you,’ murmured Liza, tears of happiness rolling down her cheeks. ‘I love you so so much, you have no idea ...’

He held out his arms and she threw herself into them. It was the best feeling, Liza thought, absolutely the best feeling in the world.

When Kit had finished kissing her he lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. They were both trembling.

‘Never do this to me again,’ he said in a low voice, brushing Liza’s wet eyelashes with his thumb. ‘Promise me you won’t.’

‘What, no more fights, no more arguments, ever?’

‘We can bicker. Bickering’s allowed.’ He shrugged. ‘We’re talking about the rest of our lives here, after all. Fifty years minimum.’

‘Oh, is that all?’ mocked Liza. Reaching up, she kissed each corner of his narrow, curving mouth and wondered if it was legal to feel this happy.

‘Maybe sixty. But we’re not going through this again. No more it’s-all-over stuff. I mean it, Liza.

You have to promise me. I never want to hear you say that—’

They jumped apart as the sitting room door opened.

‘Don’t mind us,’ said Margaret Lawson, as she and her husband reached for their coats. ‘Hello, Kit, nice to meet you. Liza dear, you can’t spend the rest of your life on the doorstep. Why don’t you invite Kit in and make him a nice cup of tea? Your father and I are just off to the pub.’

When they had gone, Kit said, ‘She winked at me.’

‘This is seriously weird.’ Liza shook her head in renewed amazement. ‘My parents have never been inside a pub in their lives.’

‘We’ve been Left Alone Together.’ Grinning, Kit grabbed Liza around the waist. ‘Just as well really, since I have this overwhelming desire to rip all your clothes off. You,’ he told her as he edged her backwards, ‘are about to experience the best sex of your life—’

‘Not here!’ gasped Liza, cornered between the grandfather clock and her mother’s carved oak bookcase.

‘God, you’re beautiful. Even in that hand-knitted cardigan.’ Playfully, Kit slid it off her shoulders. ‘There, see how much I’ve missed you?’

‘Stop it!’ squeaked Liza, struggling frantically to keep both of them decent. ‘I’m serious, Kit, we can’t do it here. Not in my parents’ house!’

Without saying a word, Kit led her by the hand across the hall, into the kitchen and out through the back door.

‘I’m serious too,’ he told Liza, one hand roaming beneath her T-shirt while the other deftly unfastened the button on her jeans. ‘Is the garden okay?’

Outside, the air was warm and heady with the scent of late roses. They were in total darkness.

This is our grand reconciliation, thought Liza, it’s supposed to be torrid and passionate and ultra ultra romantic.

As it was, things were turning out rather less glorious than she had imagined.

Getting the giggles didn’t help.

‘You’re supposed to be gasping in ecstasy,’ Kit complained.

‘I can’t help it. Dad mowed the lawn this afternoon, I’m covered in grass cuttings.’ She clung to Kit, helpless with laughter. ‘You’ve got leaves in your hair. And I can hear a million insecty things—’

‘Ugh! What was that?’ Kit winced as something weightier than an insect landed with a hideous plop on the back of his hand and leapt off again.

Their eyes had by this time adapted to the darkness.

‘Frog,’ squealed Liza, watching it hop into the bushes. She flinched as the wings of a moth brushed her bare shoulder.

The rasping noise of a grasshopper sounded, inches from Kit’s ear. He gave up.

‘Talk about coitus interruptus.’

‘Insect interruptus,’ said Liza, dancing her fingertips across his taut stomach.

‘Bloody alfresco sex. Remind me never to try this again.’ Liza was feeling around on the grass behind him. ‘I can’t find my bra.’

At that moment the bushes to the left of them began to rustle ominously.

‘Don’t tell me,’ murmured Kit, ‘it’s the Beast of Exmoor.’

‘Sounds big.’ Still hunting in vain for her favourite black bra, Liza managed to locate one of her shoes. ‘Must be a dog.’

They both leapt a mile as the powerful beam of a torch snapped on.

‘Right. Stay where you are! Don’t move a muscle,’ barked a female voice.

‘Oh my God,’ hissed Liza, instinctively ducking behind Kit, ‘it’s Mrs McKnight from next door.

Oh shit shit shit—’

‘Good grief,’ announced the female voice, which was deep, assertive and extremely effective when it came to bossing people about; forty years in teaching had seen to that. ‘Thought you were burglars! What on earth do you think you’re doing in my neighbour’s back garden?’

There was a horrid clammy silence. All Liza could hear was her heart beating frantically against her ribs.

‘We aren’t burglars,’ said Kit. He reached for his white jeans and put them on.

Mrs McKnight’s eyes boggled. ‘You’re trespassing!’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Calmly Kit found the rest of Liza’s clothes and handed them to her. Molly McKnight flicked the torch in the direction of the blackcurrant bushes into which the frog had hopped earlier. Dangling from one of the higher branches was Liza’s bra.

‘Whatever possessed you?’

‘It was a dare,’ Kit said simply.

The lad was as cool as a cucumber. With merciless precision Molly McKnight swung the beam of the torch back to his girlfriend, skulking on the ground behind him, struggling frantically to get into her clothes. With her head bent and all that blonde hair tumbling over her face, it was impossible to see what she looked like.

‘Is your companion going to apologise too?’ The demand was brisk.

‘She’s Romanian.’ Kit shrugged. ‘Doesn’t speak any English.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘I should jolly well hope not.’

‘Sorry again,’ said Kit, grinning as he took Liza’s hand and led her towards the back gate.

Shaking her head, half amused by his chutzpah, Molly McKnight watched them go.

‘Young people today, I don’t know,’ she sighed, just loudly enough for them to hear.

The gate clicked shut behind them. Young people.

What utter bliss.

I love that woman,’ murmured Liza.

Chapter 43

Dulcie wondered if she was suffering from empty nest syndrome. Funny, she’d never imagined she’d miss Pru so much, but the house really did seem awfully empty.

It was early on Sunday morning and the rest of the day stretched ahead. Deeply resentful that some inner alarm clock had been insensitive enough to wake her at six — she’d never had an inner alarm clock before — Dulcie poured herself a fourth cup of coffee and tried not to feel sorry for herself. This was her hard-earned day off, after all. She was supposed to be enjoying it.

The trouble was, as Dulcie was belatedly discovering, enjoying yourself was more fun if you weren’t on your own. And now, for the first time in her life, she was.

Patrick was busy being deliriously happy somewhere with Claire Berenger. Liam was doubtless busy being a prize stud somewhere with any number of women. Pru was working, catching up on her backlog of cleaning jobs.

And Liza ... well, Liza hadn’t spoken to her since their fight and wasn’t likely to, considering the snide — and deeply unfair — remarks she’d made about Kit Berenger.

Altogether, what with avoiding Brunton Manor because of Liam — not to mention being unable to face all those women who knew what a prat she’d made of herself over him — her remaining options were limited.

I could go shopping, thought Dulcie, but even the prospect of spending money on unnecessary luxuries failed to exert its usual seductive pull.

She bit her lip and gazed out of the window. The alternatives were equally dreary.

She could – heaven help her – Go For A Nice Walk. This had always been her mother’s antidote to terminal teenage boredom.

The answer was still no thanks.

Or she could have a bath, eat biscuits and lie on the sofa watching wall-to-wall rubbish on television.

At that moment the phone rang. Dulcie’s spirits soared as she raced to answer it. Talk about fate.

‘Hi, Dulcie? Brad Pitt speaking. You must come to my party ...’

Or:

‘Dulcie, hey! It’s me, Sting. I’m sending the helicopter for you, okay? You’re spending the day with us.’

Anything like that, really. Just something fun.

‘Dulcie. Good, you’re at home. All right if I drop by in about half an hour?’

Okay, so it wasn’t Sting, but Dulcie still felt her heart do a clumsy somersault.

Half an hour, she thought breathlessly. I can either shower, get dressed and do my face, or lie in the bath until he gets here and saunter downstairs in a towel.

When the doorbell rang exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Dulcie sauntered downstairs in a towel. Her black hair was slicked back from her face and her wet, Floris-scented skin glistened.

Her green eyes, with their ultra-white whites, were bright with anticipation and half a bottle of hastily flung-in Eye Dew.

The dark-blue velour towel, fetchingly clutched around her in a just-got-out-of-the-bath kind of way, could have been larger but it set off Dulcie’s tan beautifully.

‘Hi.’ Patrick barely glanced at either the towel or the tan. He strode past Dulcie into the hall.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. Won’t be a sec; I just need to pick something up.’

He sounded distant and briskly efficient, like a bankmanager. As she closed the door, Dulcie’s suspicions were confirmed. Claire Berenger was sitting in the passenger seat of Patrick’s car.

When she saw Dulcie she smiled and waved.

‘Off to play frisbee in the park?’ Dulcie couldn’t help it. The taunt slipped out as Patrick made his way through to the sitting room. Leaving a trail of wet footprints, she followed him.

‘Liam not around?’ Patrick countered.

‘Oh ha ha,’ said Dulcie bitterly. ‘Please don’t pretend you don’t know.’

He turned.

‘Don’t know what?’

‘Come on, your spies must have told you. It’s over between me and Liam.’

He looked genuinely shocked.

‘I had no idea. The girl from the office downstairs is away on holiday.’

‘Funny, you’d think Liza might have mentioned it.’ Dig dig.

Patrick ignored this. ‘I haven’t seen Liza for weeks. When did it happen?’ His eyes darkened with concern. ‘God, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry. How are you coping?’

Pride welled up. Defiantly, Dulcie lifted her chin. ‘Fine. I’ve got myself a job.’

‘But the baby—’

Oh hell, this wasn’t going to plan at all. She’d completely forgotten about the baby.

‘There isn’t one.’ Best to just blurt it out, she decided wearily.

But the look on Patrick’s face was extraordinary. ‘Oh, Dulcie ...’

As he said her name, his voice broke. The next thing Dulcie knew, he had his arms around her.

He was holding her, hugging her. She breathed in the blissfully familiar smell of his skin. It felt wonderful, but she knew she had to get a grip. She had to start telling the truth.

‘I didn’t lose the baby,’ Dulcie muttered, wishing the hug could go on forever. ‘There never was one in the first place.’

‘What?’

‘I thought I was pregnant.’ She kept her face buried against his chest. Oh well, she’d told enough truth for one day. ‘But I wasn’t. It was a mistake.’

The comforting hug was taken away. Uncertain now, Patrick stepped back and pushed his fingers through his dark hair as he always did when faced with a dilemma.

‘Oh. Right. Well, sorry anyway.’

‘No need,’ said Dulcie. ‘Liam’s a jerk. He’s no loss, and who wants a screaming baby anyway?’

There was a huge lump in her throat but she resolutely ignored it. Pulling the dark-blue towel more securely around her she went on in a businesslike manner, ‘What was it you needed? I thought you’d taken all your clothes.’

‘Passport.’ Patrick turned his attention to the old oak dresser, whose top drawers were crammed with a motley collection of old bills, out-of-date MOTs, rolls of Sellotape and a million rubber bands. With any luck, this was also where he’d find his passport.

Dulcie heard her voice go all high and unnatural, as if she’d just taken a furtive gulp of helium.

‘Really? Going away somewhere? Anywhere nice?’

‘Amsterdam.’

She said the first words that came into her head. ‘Watch out; lots of prostitutes in Amsterdam.’

‘I’ll have Claire with me,’ Patrick remarked drily, ‘so maybe she’ll be able to beat them off with a stick.’

He had his back to her as he searched through the drawer’s muddled contents. Suffused with misery and longing, Dulcie watched him for as long as she dared. He was going away on holiday with Claire. This, from the man who regarded interrupting work to grab a sandwich as a waste of time.

‘Hang on, I think I’ve seen it upstairs,’ said Dulcie. She knew exactly where his passport was, filed away along with a stash of expensive half-used make-up in a silver basket on top of her dressing table.

Earlier, in the bath, she had fantasised a dozen different ways of enticing Patrick upstairs to the bedroom they had once shared.

Now, clearly, this idea was no longer on.

The bath towel had been a mistake too.

‘Wait there, I’ll get it,’ said Dulcie.

When she reappeared, she handed Patrick the passport. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Dulcie nodded.

‘Of course I am.’

‘And ...’ he frowned, looking doubtful, ‘sorry, but did you say you had a job?’

Another nod.

‘This I’ve got to see.’ Patrick’s smile was sceptical; it was the one he’d generally used when Dulcie had insisted on reading him his horoscope.

‘It’s nothing special.’ She spoke with a trace of defiance. ‘Just a spot of waitressing. More of a social thing, really.’

‘I’d still like to see it with my own eyes.’

Dulcie, who had her image to think of, definitely didn’t want him to see her sweating away in the café’s cramped kitchen. She pulled open the front door.

‘Mustn’t keep Claire waiting. Enjoy your holiday.’

Evidently still entertained by the idea of Dulcie doing anything and actually getting paid for it, Patrick said, ‘And you enjoy your job. One thing, though, Dulcie.’

‘Yes?’

He grinned. ‘Don’t let them work you too hard.’

It was remarks like that, thought Dulcie as she closed the door, that made you wish you’d chucked your husband’s precious passport down the nearest loo.

As soon as she settled herself back in the bath, the phone shrilled again. One of life’s major irritations, Dulcie was reminded, was the fact that you bought a cordless phone specifically so you could take the thing into the bathroom with you, but you never actually remembered to bloody well do it.

By the time she reached the phone it had stopped ringing. Dripping all over the carpet as she dialled 147I, Dulcie was astounded to be told by the metallic voice that the number of the last person to ring her was Liza’s.

This was frustrating, because if Liza was calling to apologise for the other night, she now thought Dulcie was out.

If I ring her back, thought Dulcie, I might have to apologise first.

Instead she dialled Liza’s number, let it ring twice and hung up.

Now Liza could call 147I.

Less than a minute later, Dulcie’s phone rang again. ‘It’s me,’ said Liza. ‘I’m returning your call.’

‘Oh. hello,’ Dulcie said airily. ‘I was only returning yours.’

‘You rang me.’

‘You rang me first.’

‘Oh what, so you want me to apologise for the other night?’

‘Isn’t that why you phoned?’

Silence. Dulcie heard a brief scuffle at the other end. Then Kit came on the line.

‘Dulcie, Liza’s sorry she had a go at you. I’m sure you’re sorry too, for those cruel and uncalled-for remarks you made.’

Wincing, Dulcie wondered if he knew the remarks had been about him.

She cleared her throat.

‘Well, I—’

‘You are? Good, that’s that sorted out. Now you can be friends again,’ Kit announced cheerfully.

‘Now, what are you doing at the moment?’

‘Trying to have a bath.’

‘Okay, so put the phone down and go and have one. We’ll be round in twenty minutes. And make sure you’re decent when we arrive.’ Kit sounded amused. ‘I’m far too young to cope with the sight of a middle-aged woman naked.’

Chapter 44

‘I’m sorry I was a cow,’ said Dulcie.

Liza gave her a hug.

‘Me too.’

‘And I’m not middle-aged,’ Dulcie told Kit, who was carrying in two bottles of Bollinger.

‘You are to me.’ He grinned. ‘But never mind, I’ll let you off. If you find some glasses you can help us celebrate.’

It wasn’t hard to guess what they were celebrating. Liza was looking radiant and ridiculously happy.

‘You made up. You’re back together.’

‘Back together for good,’ said Kit. ‘All very Mills and Boon. Even her parents like me.’

‘Good grief. How about your father?’ Dulcie asked him. ‘Oh well, no change there. He’s a stubborn old bugger but we’ll work on it. Give him a few years.’

‘I can’t believe you’ve met Liza’s parents.You are honoured,’ Dulcie marvelled. In the past, the rapid turnover of men in Liza’s life had meant she’d never bothered.

‘That’s nothing,’ Kit winked. ‘I met their next-door neighbour too.’

Although Dulcie was glad to see them back together, she refused their offer to take her out to lunch. The sexual chemistry between them was overwhelming. They were having difficulty keeping their hands off each other and Kit was clearly dying to take Liza home to bed.

By the time both bottles had been emptied and all the gossip caught up on, it was almost a relief to stand on the doorstep and wave goodbye.

Depressed and light-headed from drinking on an empty stomach, Dulcie dozed on the sofa. She woke up at four o’clock depressed and heavy-headed instead, and with a raging thirst to boot.

Worst of all, it was still Sunday. Talk about dragging on.

There was nothing on television. To pass a bit of time she meticulously painted her nails a dramatic shade of red. Only when she’d finished the third coat did she remember she couldn’t work in Rufus’s kitchen wearing nail polish. It all had to come off.

This time when the phone rang, it was Rufus.

‘Oh hi,’ said Dulcie listlessly. She was currently trying to decide whether to peel off the kitchen wallpaper just for something to do, or have another bath.

‘I wondered what you were doing,’ said Rufus. ‘Any plans?’

‘No.’ Dulcie made it sound as if she’d had hundreds of offers, of course, but she’d actually wanted to stay in and go out of her mind with loneliness and boredom. ‘Why?’

He said eagerly, ‘I wondered if you’d like to come to the theatre with me. They’re doing a special charity performance of the new Poliakoff with Brian Blessed.’

Dulcie was almost certain Poliakoff wasn’t her cup of tea. And she absolutely knew she hated going to the theatre.

She frowned. ‘Brian Blessed? Is he the one with the beard? I can’t stand beards.’

‘Okay,’ Rufus replied equably, after a moment’s silence. ‘Are you saying you’d prefer a night in?’

‘I’m saying I’d prefer the cinema.’ Brightening, Dulcie said, ‘The new Demi Moore film’s on at the Odeon. It’s supposed to be great.’

‘Demi Moore? Does he have a beard?’

Dulcie hesitated, wondering if Rufus was joking. ‘I’m joking,’ said Rufus.

Dulcie grinned. It wasn’t until they had arranged to meetoutside the cinema and Rufus had hung up that she realised what she’d said.

What was it Patrick used to murmur whenever she made one of her famous faux pas? ‘Dulcie, are you sure you want to be a diplomat when you grow up?’

Dulcie experienced a brief pang of guilt. Rufus, bless him, hadn’t said a word.

‘Oh my God ...’

Any faint hope she might have harboured that the remark had slipped by unnoticed was extinguished when Dulcie spotted him waiting for her on the pavement outside the Odeon.

‘You’ve shaved it off!’

Rufus shrugged and looked embarrassed, as if he hadn’t expected her to notice.

‘I’ve been meaning to for ages. When I woke up this morning I just thought today’s the day.’

‘You look so different.’ Dulcie examined his face from all angles.

Carefully casual, Rufus said, ‘Different better or different worse?’

She was lost for words. The answer was neither, his face looked ... well, naked.

But this was no time to dither. Feeling horribly responsible — because all this stuff about having done the deed this morning was clearly untrue — Dulcie reached up and touched his pink, baby-smooth jaw.

‘Much, much better. It’s brilliant. I love it. Really.’

Rufus flushed with pleasure. Dulcie, congratulating herself on having got away with it, grabbed his hand and dragged him into the plush crimson foyer.

‘Come on, we’ll be late. You don’t want anything to eat, do you?’ This as they sped past the popcorn and bags of sweets. ‘I can’t stand people stuffing their faces in cinemas; they always sound like pigs at a trough.’

Rufus, a secret popcorn addict, was already reaching into his pocket. He promptly let the wallet drop. He was out on a date with Dulcie and that was all that mattered.

‘Nor me.’

‘I just wanted to see this with my own eyes,’ said Liza at eight forty-five the next morning.

‘You and the rest of the world,’ Dulcie muttered, clearing the table and signalling Liza’s order for coffee and a bacon roll to Rufus as he headed back to the kitchen.

‘I thought he had a beard.’

Briefly, Dulcie said, ‘He did.’

Rufus emerged a couple of minutes later with Liza’s breakfast. The bacon, he assured her, was locally cured and free range; it had come from a happy pig.

‘He seems nice,’ Liza observed when he had gone.

‘He is.’ Dulcie whipped out her order pad as another table clicked their fingers at her. ‘Sorry, I’ll have to deal with this lot.’

‘You could do worse,’ said Liza.

Dulcie, shiny-faced and with the harassed air of someone rushed off their feet for the last two hours, said, ‘What, than Rufus?’ She grinned as she moved off. ‘Oh yeah, he’s really my type.’

Dulcie probably wasn’t Rufus’s type either, Liza decided twenty minutes later, but that hadn’t stopped him developing a massive crush on her.

‘Of course I’m serious,’ she repeated patiently, amazed that Dulcie could have remained so blithely unaware of the situation. What was she, blind? ‘Look at the way he looks at you. He fancies you rotten.’

Dulcie’s heart sank. Damn, she hated it when that happened. Being fancied rotten was only fun when it was mutual. ‘I thought we were just good friends.’

Sorrowfully, Liza shook her head.

‘You told him you weren’t wild about beards, didn’t you?’ She raised an eyebrow. ‘Think about it. If some just-goodfriend said it to you, would you shave your beard oft?’

When Eddie and Arthur appeared in the courtyard at ten thirty, Pru was already waiting in the Jag. She was wearing a sage-green cotton shirt, a narrow black skirt and black sandals. And, Eddie noticed at once, the diamond earrings from Liam.

He felt the muscles in his jaw tighten. He’d behaved like an idiot on Saturday. Whatever Pru was getting up to was her own affair, even if it was with Liam.

It’s none of my business, Eddie told himself fiercely. They’re both free agents, they can do as they like.

He watched Pru emptying the ashtray of sweet wrappers and thought, I’d never have a chance with her anyway.

Arthur leapt into the car, woofing with delight and burying his nose frantically in Pru’s handful of wrappers in search of any remaining trace of chocolate.

Eddie shoved Arthur over into the back seat. He decided to come straight to the point.

‘Look, I’m sorry I was a moody sod. Saturday was a bad day. Can we forget it happened?’

Pru looked relieved.

‘I didn’t know what I’d done wrong.’

‘You didn’t do anything wrong.’

Bloody stupid, maybe. But not wrong.

Forgiving him instantly, Pru smiled. ‘Unlike you, you mean.’

‘What?’ Eddie protested when she held up the sweet wrappers. ‘Are you saying I’m not allowed to eat?’

‘I’m saying you’re not allowed to drive.’

He looked suitably abashed.

‘Just practising for when I get my licence back.’

Pru made up her mind at that precise moment. The tentative plan she had formulated during her stay at Dulcie’s had ground to an abrupt halt on Saturday when Eddie had gone weird on her.

But now everything was back to normal ... well, why not? She covered her face with her hands and sneezed.

Then she sneezed again.

‘Sorry about this. Must be the moulting season.’ Fishing in her bag, Pru wiped her eyes with a tissue. Between sneezes, she glanced over her shoulder at a bemused Arthur then turned apologetically to Eddie.

‘It’s the dog hair. Would you mind awfully if we left him behind?’

‘You’re allergic to Arthur?’

Pru blew her nose and nodded. Looking regretful, she said, ‘It doesn’t last long. Every year I get this, just for a few days. By next week I’ll be fine, I promise.’

Without a word, Eddie opened the door again and shooed Arthur out. It wasn’t as if the dog minded; Arthur was a great favourite around Brunton Manor, not least with Lolita, the gardener’s flirtatious black and white spaniel.

Eddie, though, was hurt. He knew Pru wasn’t the world’s greatest dog lover but did she really hate Arthur that much? Because those sneezes definitely weren’t real.

It was late September but Oxford still teemed with tourists, particularly the American kind who appeared to love the place almost as much as they loved Bath. Pru, window-shopping to pass the time and take her mind off what she had planned for later, overheard a couple of undergraduates in a coffee shop discussing a mutual friend.

‘She slept with eight men last week,’ complained one. ‘I mean, is that fair? At this rate she’s going to work her way through everyone in college. There won’t be any left for the rest of us.’

‘What we’ll do,’ said the other, ‘is put the word around that she’s HIV’

Heavens, eight men in one week. Pru, who had only slept with one man in her life, almost choked on’ her coffee.

One man, and that had only been Phil. Not much of a conquest quotient.

Still, these days you couldn’t be too careful. Sliding out ofher chair and plucking up every last molecule of courage, Pru went into Boots and bought a packet of condoms. She felt incredibly slutty doing so but — as she longed to inform the disapproving-looking old woman next to her in the queue — at least she was a safe slut.

‘Good meeting?’ said Pru when Eddie emerged from the Randolph Hotel at four thirty. The meeting had been held to discuss the setting-up of conference facilities at Brunton Manor.

Eddie nodded, yawned and chucked his heavy briefcase on to the back seat. One lousy cup of tea three hours earlier was all he’d been offered by way of refreshment. He could kill for a large whisky and soda, followed by steak and chips. After that, hot apple crumble and custard would fit the bill, finished off with a couple of Irish coffees and a decent cigar. Eddie had tried to appreciate the finer points of nouvelle cuisine but he was a Berni man at heart.

He was about to suggest this before they headed home when he remembered Pru was anxious to get back to Bath — and no prizes for guessing why. Closing his mouth again, willing himself not to imagine Pru and Liam together, Eddie fastened his seat belt, casting a surreptitious glance in the direction of Pru’s slim bare legs as he did so. He’d promised she’d be home by six. Food —

and his own happiness — would just have to wait.

Chapter 45

Ready. Steady. Go.

Nothing happened. Pru felt the adrenalin buzzing around her body like a million fireworks poised to go off, but every time she reached Go — and this was the seventh time she’d reached it

— her courage failed her.

If she didn’t act soon, she’d miss her chance completely. The M4 was already behind them. They were racing along the A46 and in less than fifteen minutes they’d be back at Brunton Manor.

Okay, this is it, Pru told herself, slowly breathing out. This time I’m really going to do it. The next side road we reach, I indicate, brake, turn off .. .

Here comes one now.

Ready. Steeeeady .. .

Her foot wouldn’t do it. It stayed glued to the accelerator and the side road zipped past them.

Turning her head helplessly, watching it go, Pru felt the back of her neck prickle with perspiration. Maybe a bit of casual conversation would help.

‘Look, that lorry’s from Andover. I don’t even know where Andover is.’

Eddie, who was wondering how long this Liam thing was likely to last, grunted and said,

‘Hampshire.’

Pru tried to think of something else to say about Andover but the more she thought of it, the smuttier the name sounded. She glanced, instead, at her reflection in the wing mirror. The earrings Liam had given her looked amazing; they really glittered in the sunlight.

Admiring her earrings and chattering on about nothing in particular, Pru decided, was a lot less fraught than all that Ready Steady Go business. Her heart was practically back to normal.

‘Will you renew Liam’s contract at the end of the season?’ she asked idly.

The effect on Eddie was astonishing.

‘For God’s sake!’ he exploded. ‘Pru, I’m sorry, I know this is none of my business but you really are making the biggest mistake OF YOUR LIFE!’

Amazed, Pru said, ‘What?’

‘Did Liam ask you to find out?’

‘No, no ...’

‘Does Dulcie know what you’re up to?’

‘Eddie,’ she shook her head, utterly bewildered by the outburst, ‘what exactly am I supposed to be up to?’

‘Oh come on,’ he seethed, the words hissing out through clenched teeth. It sounded like a radiator being bled.

‘Tell me,’ said Pru, ‘because I don’t know.’

He couldn’t look at her.

‘You and Liam.’

‘Me and Liam what?’

This was not good grammar, but she was by this time too intrigued to notice.

‘You, having an affair with him.’

‘Oops.’ Pru almost drove into the back of the lorry from Andover. She braked in the nick of time. ‘Eddie, that isn’t true!’

‘I know you are,’ Eddie said wearily.

‘Well I know I’m not. If I was,’ Pru added steadily, ‘I think I’d have noticed.’

Eddie sat up. He gave her an odd look.

‘Liam gave you those earrings, didn’t he?’

Pru said, ‘Okay, yes, he did. But I didn’t have to earn them.’

Still suspicious — though more of Liam than of Pru — Eddie said, ‘Why, then? Why would he give you a pair of diamond earrings?’

She shrugged.

‘He doesn’t know anyone else whose name begins with a P.’

The relief was phenomenal. When he rubbed his stubbly jaw, Eddie realised he was shaking.

Pru, glancing sideways at him, saw it too.

She smiled, understanding why. As if by magic, her own fears melted away. Moments later she flicked the indicator, braked and turned left, completely forgetting to go through her Ready Steady Go ritual first.

‘Where are we going?’

Pru drove on, pretending not to have heard.

‘Pru, this isn’t a short cut.’

It was a narrow country lane bordered by hedgerows eight feet high. Pru swerved to avoid a squirrel darting across the road and drove on.

‘Pm? Are you okay?’

She pulled into a gateway overlooking an empty field and switched off the ignition.

Eddie looked worried.

‘Are you going to be sick?’

‘No,’ said Pru, ‘I’m going to seduce yon.’

I can’t have heard right, thought Eddie. I must be hallucinating.

Pru turned to look at him.

‘If you’d like me to, that is.’

Eddie felt as if he’d forgotten how to breathe. He took a huge gulp of air.

‘I’m sorry, could you say that again?’

‘Which bit?’

‘The whole bit.’

‘I’m not sure I can. Anyway, I think you heard.’ Pru’s courage began to fail her. What if she’d just made the most humiliating mistake of her life? ‘Look, if you don’t want to, just shake your head and we’ll go.’

Her fingers were creeping towards the key, still swinging merrily in the ignition. Eddie launched himself across the car, grabbing her hand before she could reach it.

‘Pru, are you serious?’

The look on his face told her all she needed to know.

‘I’ve never been more serious in my life,’ said Pru, touching the side of his face with trembling fingers. She leaned over and kissed him.

Eddie, still trapped by his seatbelt, fumbled to release it. He threw his arms around her and kissed her until they were both panting and out of breath.

‘Oh, Pru, I’ve dreamed of this happening.’ There was a catch in his voice. ‘I’ve wanted to do this for so long ...’

And then, incredibly, she was climbing across the gap between the seats. As he helped her, Eddie wondered if she could hear his heart pounding against his ribs. He kissed her neck and her chin, shifting slightly to accommodate her as she sat astride him.

‘I knew I’d find a use for this one day,’ said Pru, pressing the switch to recline the seat.

Eddie’s hands stroked her bare brown legs and gasped as she wriggled herself into a more comfortable position.

Then he gasped again as he realised that beneath the short black skirt she was naked.

If this is a hallucination, thought Eddie wonderingly, I don’t care. Just don’t let it stop; whatever’s happening here, don ‘t let it stop.

Much later, when the first car drove past and gave them a jaunty toot, Pru buried her smile in the front of his shirt and said, ‘I hope that wasn’t someone who recognised your Jag.’

‘I don’t care.’ Eddie couldn’t stop grinning. ‘I hope it was. I want everyone to know I’ve just been seduced in my car.’

‘By a shameless hussy,’ Pru said happily. ‘I’m sorry if I frightened you half to death. I just had to do it.’

‘Thank God you did. Oh, Pm, I do love you.’ Eddie gave her a hug. ‘I’ve never felt this way about anyone before. I just never dreamt you’d be interested in me. I still can’t believe this is really happening.’ He shook his head, marvelling at the fact that it had. Then, gently pinching one of Pru’s thighs, he said, ‘And speaking of hussies, when on earth did you stop wearing knickers?’

She went pink.

‘In Oxford. I took them off in the car outside the Randolph.’

‘Good grief.’

‘I got the idea from that paperback of Dulcie’s,’ Pru confessed. ‘The one that bossy old woman nicked from me outside Elmlea nursing home.’

‘Let’s hope she doesn’t try it out too. She could give the male residents heart failure.’

Eddie stroked Pru’s ears, smoothing back her glossy dark hair.

‘What?’ The urge to flinch was strong, but she resisted it. Why was he looking at them in that way?

‘Nothing. I like your hair like that. You’ve got beautiful ears.’

Pru smiled. She knew she could tell him about the surgery; he wouldn’t laugh. But there was no need now. Another day. Reluctantly she looked at her watch.

‘I could stay here for ever, but we really should get back.’ Eddie didn’t want to.

‘Why?’

‘Houses to clean,’ she reminded him lightly. ‘Sinks to scour, floors to scrub.’

He didn’t want Pru doing that either. She shouldn’t have to. She deserved so much better.

‘Give it up,’ he said flatly.

‘Oh right, great idea, why didn’t I think of that?’ Pru laughed at the expression on his face. ‘Why pay rént when you can live in a cardboard box?’

‘Come and live with me.’

‘Eddie!’

‘I mean it. Please, don’t laugh, I’m serious. I want you to live with me.’ The words came tumbling out. He had been so unhappy for so long and Pru was everything he’d ever dreamed of.

‘I want you to marry me. Oh, Pm, you’d make me the happiest man on earth. Of course, I know I’m not much of a catch ...’

He really did mean it. Pru’s eyes filled with tears. Frantically Eddie kissed them away. ‘God, don’t cry! I don’t want to make you cry. I love you—’

Pru wiped her wet cheeks on his shirt. How on earth could this kind, wonderful, adorable man think he wasn’t much of a catch?

‘—and if you really couldn’t bear to 1-live with Arthur,’ this time Eddie stumbled on the words; this was the ultimate sacrifice, ‘well, I understand. I’m sure we could find him a good home.’

She stared at him, astounded.

‘Why couldn’t I bear to live with Arthur?’

‘You know ... the allergy thing ...’

Pru struggled to keep a straight face.

‘I’m not allergic to Arthur. I just didn’t want him leering at us from the back seat while we were ... well, otherwise engaged. I thought we could do without an audience.’

It took a while to get themselves respectable again. Finally they were ready to leave.

‘I’ll drive,’ said Eddie.

‘That’s silly. What if you get stopped?’

He flicked open his wallet and showed her his licence. ‘You had it all this time.’ Pru’s eyes widened. ‘You cheat!’ Eddie kissed her as he reached for the car keys. ‘I know. But it did the trick.’

Chapter 46

As she plunged her reddened hands into the washing-up water, fishing for the last elusive teaspoon, Dulcie marvelled at the idea that only a month ago she had actually possessed nails capable of wearing polish. Twelve hours a day in Rufus’s kitchen had changed her hands beyond all recognition and the rest of her had taken a bit of a battering too.

With no time for any more sunbeds, facials or mud treatments, Dulcie was feeling pale and decidedly uninteresting. Her hair, badly in need of a cut, flopped into her eyes. Finding the teaspoon at last, she held it up and studied her reflection in it.

I look like Liam Gallagher, she thought miserably, on a bad day.

Not that this seemed to bother Rufus.

It hadn’t taken Dulcie long to realise that Liza had been right. Thankfully though, Rufus’s crush on her was a discreet one. He was clearly the bashful type. He hadn’t tried to push his luck and Dulcie, not wanting to hurt his feelings, simply pretended she hadn’t noticed. When he asked her out — in extremely casual, just-good-friends fashion — she invented plausible excuses. When she mentioned in passing one day that her favourite aftershave was Eau Savage and Rufus came into the café the next morning reeking of it — rather than his usual Old Spice — she didn’t say a word. And when he confided in her that he was lonely, Dulcie sympathised and pretended she wasn’t.

‘Finished? Great.’ Rufus came charging through the swingdoors with a pile of dirty plates.

Dumping them on the drainer, he turned his attention to the oven packed with trays of whole-wheat samosas and foil-wrapped garlic baguettes. ‘It’s getting busy out there. Could you take the order from table three?’

Dulcie ached all over; she actually felt as awful as she knew she looked. Praying she wasn’t going down with flu, she dried her hands on a towel and reached for the order pad.

‘If they’re undecided,’ said Rufus over his shoulder, ‘push the samosas. We’ve got enough here to feed India.’

Wholefood cafés tend to attract a particular breed of customer, the kind that favour natural dyes and fabrics. There were usually plenty of long, droopy cotton dresses and even droopier hand-knitted sweaters in every shade of brown. The choice of perfume ranged between anything from the Body Shop, the musty tang of patchouli oil, and dope.

It wasn’t difficult to spot Liam in his dazzling Persil-white tracksuit, and Imelda in a shocking-pink Lycra dress. Even if she’d been blind, Dulcie would still have been able to find her way to table three. Nobody else on the planet doused themselves in Obsession like Imelda.

‘My God, it’s true!’ Imelda squealed when she saw Dulcie watching them from the doorway.

Giggling, she nudged Liam. ‘She’s really here. Dulcie, it’s been ages! And you look .. . you look ...’

Lank-haired, knackered and altogether skivvyish, thought Dulcie, who was under no illusions. At this rate she could end up giving Ruby, the maid from Upstairs Downstairs, a run for her money.

‘Are you ready to order?’ She forced herself to sound polite, loathing the way Imelda was gazing around the tiny café, as if she expected a mouse to run over her feet any minute.

Imelda waved a manicured hand dismissively in the direction of the menu.

‘Nothing for me thanks, darling. We only dropped by to see how you are. Everyone back at the club’s simply dying of curiosity. When they heard you’d actually got yourself a job’ — here Imelda adopted a mocking, EastEnders-type accent – ‘in a caff, like, they thought it must be some kind of April Fool.’

Smiling thinly, Dulcie turned her attention to Liam, who was basking in the surreptitious attention of the other customers. He had had his hair streaked again, and his tracksuit top was unzipped to show off, through his T-shirt, the chiselled outline of his tautly muscled torso. Liam was intensely proud of his six-pack.

Dulcie was ashamed of herself for having once fallen for that awful pseudo charm. You prat, she thought wearily. What did I ever see in you?

‘I’ll have a coffee,’ said Liam, ‘black, and a green salad.’

‘Please,’ said Dulcie.

‘And no free-range caterpillars.’ Imelda shrieked with laughter and squeezed Liam’s knee. The smell of Obsession was suffocating but Liam didn’t seem to notice. Maybe, thought Dulcie, he’s been injected with the antidote.

‘Go on then, I’ll have a glass of mineral water,’ Imelda said generously. She watched Dulcie write it down. ‘With a slice of fresh lime. Got all that? Sure you can manage?’

‘I’m going to spit in her water,’ seethed Dulcie when she was safely back in the kitchen.

‘You are not!’ Rufus looked up, startled. ‘What are you talking about? Whose water?’

When Dulcie had finished telling him, he said, ‘Do you want me to serve them?’

‘What, and let them think they’ve got to me? No thanks.’

Table four needed clearing and the floor beneath it was strewn with coleslaw and bits of chewed-up, spat-out radish. Silently cursing the two small children who had left the mess, Dulcie crawled under the table on all fours with her dustpan and brush.

It wasn’t dignified and she knew her bottom was sticking out at a less than flattering angle, but she still had to exert every ounce of self-control when she heard Imelda behind her murmur to Liam, ‘Darling, if this is what wholefood cafés doto you, remind me never to work in one.’

Dulcie carried on grimly sweeping up debris. When she heard Rufus’s voice, saying breezily,

‘Everything okay here?’ and Liam replying, ‘Fine thanks, couldn’t be better,’ she knew Rufus had come out of the kitchen to keep an eye on the situation. He was making sure she was okay.

When Rufus had gone and she had finished clearing up the mess, she rose creakily to her feet.

By this time, Imelda had thought up another jibe.

‘Well, well. Now we know why you’re working here,’ she declared with a smirk. ‘Who’d want anyone as boring and ordinary as Liam when they could have a hunk like your new boss?’

Having to listen to their sarcastic remarks about her had been bad enough, but Dulcie had gritted her teeth and willed herself not to react.

Making fun of Rufus, though, was too much.

‘I think it would be nice if you apologised for that.’ Glancing down at the contents of her dustpan, Dulcie now found herself wishing the children could have made a bit more mess.

Liam was smirking like a sixth-former.

‘What, apologise for calling your boss a hunk?’ Imelda’s eyes widened in mock amazement.

‘Darling, why so sensitive? Don’t tell me you really are having a thing with him. You can’t seriously be serious,’ she affected horror, ‘about a man who wears weave-your-own sandals and a Fair Isle tank top.’

Dulcie spun round and marched into the kitchen. She was back in less than three seconds with a thirteen-pint stock pot and a ladle.

The café went quiet.

‘This,’ said Dulcie, conversationally, clutching the stock pot to her chest and dipping the ladle in,

‘is ratatouille.’

‘Oh Christ,’ muttered Liam, his fork clattering on to his salad plate. His chair scraped back like chalk on a blackboard.

‘Dulcie, it was a joke,’ Imelda protested lightly. ‘Come on, where’s your sense of humour?’

‘I don’t have one any more. I lost it along with my brain when I got involved with him.’

To indicate who she meant, Dulcie flicked a ladleful of ratatouille at Liam. It went splat against his chest and slid down inside his tracksuit top.

Imelda screamed and tried to dodge behind Liam but Dulcie was too quick for her. Splat went the second ladleful against the pink Lycra dress.

‘Terrific shot,’ someone murmured admiringly on table six. ‘She’s mad,’ shrieked Imelda,

‘someone stop her!’

‘Come on, we’re out of here.’ Liam grabbed her by the arm and yanked her towards the door.

‘Dulcie, where are you going?’ shouted Rufus from the kitchen doorway, but she was already outside.

The gleaming red Lamborghini was parked across the entrance to Rufus’s garage. For all Liam’s obsession with exercise, he never parked his car an inch further away from his destination than was humanly possible.

Imelda was still struggling into her seat when Dulcie launched the contents of the stock pot through the open passenger door.

A tidal wave of garlicky ratatouille shot everywhere, drenching the inside of the car. It looked, Dulcie realised, pleased with the effect, like John Travolta’s famous accident in Pulp Fiction.

And oh, how Liam loved his precious Lamborghini. Almost as much, Dulcie thought happily, as he loved himself.

‘My car!’ howled Liam, clawing lumps of courgette and tomato out of his hair. ‘My fucking car.

You bitch!’

‘Never mind your car,’ Imelda screamed, ‘what about my dress?’ Her voice rose another octave.

‘It’s a Galliano!’

‘You’re blocking a garage,’ said Dulcie. She pointed to the No Parking sign Rufus had pinned up only last week. ‘I’d move if I were you. Before you get clamped.’

‘Sorry about the ratatouille,’ she told Rufus, dumping the empty stock pot in the sink and running the taps.

‘Lucky it wasn’t hot.’

Dulcie pushed her sleeves up and began scrubbing the pot clean.

‘I wish it bloody had been.’

She was white-faced and shaking. Rufus’s heart went out to her; he knew how awful she must be feeling. When his wife had left him for the bank manager he would have given anything to have flung a pot of ratatouille in their faces. He just hadn’t had the nerve.

When he saw the tears sliding down Dulcie’s face, Rufus didn’t hesitate. Crossing the kitchen, he put his arms around her, as he had dreamed of doing for so long.

‘There, there.’ He patted Dulcie’s heaving back as if she were a child. ‘Don’t let them upset you.

You deserve better than him.’

As he murmured the soothing words, Rufus wondered if they were a mistake. A naturally modest man, it felt odd to be telling Dulcie she deserved someone better when what he really meant was: someone like me.

On the other hand, when was he likely to get another opportunity like this? Dulcie was a woman in distress, in desperate need of comfort, and he wanted nothing more than to be the one providing it.

His heart raced. Maybe, thought Rufus, this is fate .. . ‘Whmmph,’ gasped Dulcie as his mouth fastened eagerly and unexpectedly on hers. She tried to pull away but it was a real sink plunger of a kiss. Rufus was giving it his all.

‘Oh, Dulcie,’ he breathed, when he at last came up for air.

He clutched her joyfully to his Fair Isle chest. ‘Forget Liam!

I’d never cheat on you. I’ll make you happy, I swear!’ Oh dear.

Carefully Dulcie extricated herself from his grip. Rufus was panting like a boisterous St Bernard and he had sampled the ratatouille at regular intervals during the making of it. The great wafts of garlic he was breathing all over her were strong enough to strip paint.

‘I wasn’t crying because I was upset.’ It was hard to talk, Dulcie discovered, when you were trying to hold your own breath. ‘I was just so ... so mad.’

‘Because he left you.’ Fervently, Rufus’s eyes searched her stricken face. ‘But Dulcie, I wouldn’t leave you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.’

This was awful. Dulcie, who couldn’t tell him the real reason she had snapped, wiped her wet hands on her jeans and tried again.

‘I don’t want to hurt you either,’ she said gently, ‘but Rufus, it wouldn’t work. I’m sorry.’

‘Why? Why wouldn’t it work?’ Having finally plucked up the courage to declare himself, Rufus found the prospect of rejection unbearable. ‘We could be so good together. A great team.

Dammit, Dulcie, I’ll make it work!’

Dulcie wondered what was going on beyond the kitchen door. Fifteen astonished customers had been left out there to fend for themselves for the last ten minutes.

‘Table two are still waiting for their vegeburgers.’

‘Sod table two,’ Rufus declared frantically. ‘And bugger the vegeburgers. Tell me why you think it wouldn’t work.’

She knew he wouldn’t understand if she tried to tell him he was just too nice. Unhappily Dulcie cast around for another reason, one he couldn’t argue with.

‘Okay.’ Keeping her head down, she gazed at the frayed holes in her jeans. ‘If you must know, I’m in love with my husband.’

‘But your marriage is over.’ Rufus looked bemused. ‘You told me he’s found someone else.’

Dulcie nodded.

‘Oh, he has. And it’s all my own fault, I know that. But I can’t help the way I feel. I still love him.’

As she said it, she realised with a sickening jolt that it was the truth.

Chapter 47

The morning of Pru and Eddie’s wedding dawned grey and cold. By midday, thunder was rattling around a charcoal sky. When the storm finally broke, halfway through the register office ceremony, the sound of rain on the windows was like gunfire, almost drowning out the solemn words of the registrar as he conducted the ceremony.

But nothing could dim the joyousness of the occasion. It was the happiest day of Pru’s life, and it showed.

‘Look at her,’ Liza murmured. ‘Can you believe this is the same girl who last New Year’s Eve was so desperate to stay married to Phil?’

Dulcie smiled and nodded, because if anyone deserved happiness it was Pru, but inwardly she winced at the memory of that night. Was she the same girl who had so blithely announced that all she wanted was a divorce?

‘Don’t forget your resolution.’ She nudged Liza. ‘You’re next.’

‘Next to what?’ said Kit when the service was over and they were splashing their way across the car park. ‘What were you two whispering about in there?’

‘Don’t say Liza hasn’t told you.’ Dulcie grinned, ignoring the jab in her back from Liza’s umbrella. ‘Her New Year’s resolution was to get married. Once a spinster reaches a certain age, you see, she starts to panic and get a bit desperate.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Liza.

‘And since it’s October now,’ Dulcie pulled a face, ‘I’d watch out if I were you. If you’re not careful you could end up being It.’

* * *

Dulcie was putting on a brave face but the wedding reception – at Brunton Manor, where else? –

was something of a trial. When Pru, making up her guest list the other week, had said longingly,

‘It’s a shame, I would like to have invited Patrick,’ Dulcie had felt obliged to do the decent thing.

Acting as though the outburst with Liza had never happened, as if it really couldn’t matter less, she’d replied, ‘Don’t be daft, if you want him, you invite him. And Claire too.’ Her intestines were frantically tying themselves into reef knots but she gave Pru a bright smile. ‘It’s fine with me.’

Delighted, Pru had added Patrick and Claire to her list. She sucked her pen for a bit then added tentatively, ‘How about Liam?’

Dulcie gave her a meaningful look.

‘Don’t push it.’

When Dulcie left the reception in full flow and pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo, she came face to face with Imelda.

‘Oh great,’ Imelda drawled, ‘it’s the madwoman.’

Dulcie took comfort from the fact that at least this time she was wearing a short navy-blue silk dress and full going-to-awedding make-up. She had also had her hair cut. Imelda, on the other hand, had clearly just come off the squash court and was looking decidedly sweaty and dishevelled.

‘Don’t get mad, get even. That’s my motto.’

‘Ah, but who won in the end?’ Imelda looked triumphant. ‘I’ve got Liam.’

Witch.

Dulcie had been determined to maintain an air of dignified calm, but her nerves were terribly on edge. Before she knew it she heard herself saying silkily, ‘I know, aren’t you lucky? Tell me, when he’s screwing you, does he still count the number of press-ups under his breath?’

The cloakroom door had opened behind her. Dulcie just had time to watch with pleasure as bright spots of colourappeared in Imelda’s cheeks – so he did! – before a hand clutched her arm.

‘Dulcie, there you are! Quick, they’re about to cut the cake!’

‘Thanks,’ muttered Dulcie when they were safely out of the cloakroom.

‘My pleasure.’ Claire Berenger’s grey eyes sparkled. ‘Not that you looked as if you needed rescuing, but I thought it might be a good moment to leave.’

Awkwardly, wishing she wasn’t so nice, Dulcie returned her smile.

‘I’m glad you did. Are they really cutting the cake?’

‘No. And I’m still dying for a pee. Come on, let’s find another loo,’ Claire said companionably,

‘then we’ll get ourselves a drink.’

In a daze of happiness, Pru watched the guests milling around her. Eddie’s mother-in-law, Edna Peverell, had been too frail to leave the nursing home but upon hearing about the wedding, and with characteristic bluntness, her irascible fellow resident Marjorie Hickman had announced to Eddie on his next visit to Elmlea that she would be delighted to come instead.

‘Told you he fancied you,’ she had announced, waving her walking stick at Pru as she hobbled into the ballroom, resplendent in an emerald-green ruffled blouse and ankle-length tweed skirt.

‘Said he’d got the hots for you, didn’t I? Good grief, child, what’s happened to your ears? When did you get those done?’

Pru, who was wearing her hair up, started to laugh. ‘What is the old bird on about?’ hissed Eddie, perplexed. Pru shrugged.

‘I’m wearing earrings. Maybe she thinks I’ve had them pierced.’

‘And if you’ve got any more of those saucy books,’ Marjorie declared in a loud voice, ‘bring ‘em with you on your next visit.’

‘Doolally,’ Eddie murmured to Pru. ‘Totally shot away.’ Pru smiled to herself now as she watched Marjorie stuffing asparagus rolls from the buffet into her handbag. She saw Eddie make his way over and whisper something in her ear, and knew he was telling her she could take as much food as she liked back to Elmlea, he had already instructed the staff to make up a box.

Marjorie looked miffed; being given a food parcel wasn’t half so much fun as squirrelling it away in her bag. Glancing across at Pru, Eddie rolled his eyes good-naturedly and gave up.

I’ve just married the kindest, sweetest man in the world, thought Pru. Blanche was right; I have done all right for myself.

Pru had bumped into her last week. She had been loading the wedding cake into the back of the Jag when Blanche had emerged from the Sue Ryder shop. She was wearing skin-tight jeans and yellow stilettos and her hair was even blonder than Pru remembered.

‘Oh ... hello.’ Blanche was only momentarily taken aback. For something to say, she had held up one of her carrier bags. ‘I’ve just bought a pair of leggings for fifty pee.’

Pru recognised the pretty gold chain around her neck as one that had gone missing a year ago.

When Phil had come home to find her sifting through the contents of the Hoover bag he had said,

‘You’re useless, Pru. What’s the point of buying you nice things if all you’re going to do is lose them?’

Blanche had taken her husband but she wouldn’t have taken the chain. Pru knew Phil must have given it to her. She made sure the box containing the wedding cake was wedged securely in the boot of the car and straightened up.

‘Blanche, how are you?’

Blanche half smiled. ‘Oh, we’re fine. Got your divorce, then. Just in time from the sound of things. Phil says you’re getting married on Saturday.’

The decree absolute had come through the week before. As she stared at the all-important piece of paper, Pru had marvelled at her own lack of emotion. It was the weirdest thing,but she could barely remember how it had felt, being married to Phil.

Now, gazing at the carrier bag Blanche was holding, she recognised the distinctive label of a can of Heinz tomato soup, just visible through the thin plastic. The memories came flooding back, accompanied by a blissful sensation of release, because it wasn’t her problem any more.

Blanche, meanwhile, was admiring Eddie’s gleaming topof-the range Jag.

‘Nice car. Got a bit of money, this fellow, has he?’ Pru shrugged. Then she nodded.

Blanche looked envious. ‘You’ve done all right for yourself, then.’

‘Yes, I have,’ said Pru, simply. Silently she added, but not in the way you mean.

‘What happened to the job?’ said Patrick. ‘I called into that café a couple of weeks ago and the waitress said you weren’t working there any more.’

Dulcie wondered if he had gone along to snigger, as Liam and Imelda had done.

‘Too much like hard work,’ she replied flippantly. ‘I broke a fingernail.’

As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Patrick was exchanging a ‘see-what-I-mean?’

look with Claire.

‘Actually,’ said Dulcie, ‘I left because the owner developed a crush on me. It got a bit embarrassing.’

She could tell he didn’t believe her.

‘I don’t blame you for giving it up.’ Claire’s tone was consoling. ‘I worked in a restaurant when I was at college. Jolly hard graft.’

‘Dulcie isn’t much of a fan of hard graft,’ Patrick remarked drily.

Dulcie was beginning to feel got at. She longed to yell, But it never bothered you before! You were the one who said I didn’t need to get a job ... you wanted me to stay at home!

Pride prevented her, too, from informing him that she was now working as a barmaid in one of Bath’s busiest city-centre pubs, crammed with horrible yuppie types who pinched her bottom and chatted her up and gabbled non-stop into their stupid mobile phones. Because how could she boast about holding down a job at last when everyone else had been doing it for years?

Anyway, if I did tell them how vile it all was, Dulcie thought wearily, Patrick would only say in that case why did I bother?

She was damned if she was going to tell him the truth, that she was so lonely and miserable that even slogging her guts out in a stinking pub was better than moping alone at home.

To change the subject Dulcie said, ‘How was Amsterdam?’ and instantly regretted that too.

‘Oh, we had the most fabulous time!’ exclaimed Claire, her face lighting up. She clutched Patrick’s arm. ‘Didn’t we, darling? I actually think I’ve managed to convert this one here to the idea of holidays,’ she confided merrily to Dulcie. ‘We’re looking at brochures for something over Christmas and the New Year now. A real get-away-from-it-all break.’ Her grey eyes shone.

‘I’ve always wanted to visit Barbados.’

‘You’ve got a face like a wet weekend in Weston,’ Marjorie announced, plonking herself down on a chair next to Dulcie and holding her glass out to be refilled by a passing waitress. ‘Friend of the bride or groom?’

‘Both.’ Dulcie glanced at the breast pocket of the old woman’s green ruffled blouse. It was bulging with mini seafood tartlets. ‘Bride mainly. Pru and I have been friends for years.’

‘So you’re not one of Eddie’s jealous exes. Thought you might be, from the look of you.’

Dulcie smiled. Did Eddie have any jealous exes? ‘No.’

‘So what’s the problem? Don’t you approve of him?’

‘Of course I do. Eddie’s lovely,’ exclaimed Dulcie. ‘And perfect for Pm.’

Marjorie gulped down her drink and nodded in agreement.

‘They look all right to me. Not that I know them well, but his mother-in-law’s very fond of him.’

She looked around hopefully for the waitress with the drinks tray. ‘Says he’s a poppet.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Can’t argue with that, can you? Anyone adored by their mother-in-law must be okay.’

A vision of Bibi flitted into Dulcie’s mind. In the vision, Bibi was looking less than happy.

She said gloomily, ‘My mother-in-law hates me.’

‘Oh, so you’re married, are you?’ Marjorie’s thin grey eyebrows went up. ‘Where’s your husband then?’

Dulcie pointed.

‘Over there, with his girlfriend. He hates me too.’

Claire was admiring Pru’s dress, which was cream lace, knee length and beautifully cut to show off her slim figure.

‘You could always dye it,’ she said, ‘then you’d be able to wear it to other people’s weddings.’

‘I’ll wear it to Liza and Kit’s.’ Pru grinned at Eddie. Claire looked astonished.

‘They’re getting married? I haven’t heard about this!’

‘Not really. It’s kind of a joke. When we made our resolutions last New Year’s Eve, Liza’s was to get married,’ explained Pru.

Claire laughed. ‘Dad will be pleased.’

‘What was Dulcie’s resolution?’ Patrick’s dark eyes were expressionless.

Oo-er. Pru fiddled with her new, terrifically shiny wedding ring.

‘Um ... can’t remember.’

‘Well, who cares about Dad anyway? I love weddings.’

Spotting Kit not far away, Claire dragged him over. ‘Congratulations.’ She winked at Liza. ‘I hear I’m about to gain a sister-in-law.’

‘Is this some kind of conspiracy?’ murmured Kit. Liza cringed.

‘I didn’t—’

‘No, no excuses.’ Claire gave her brother a playful pinch on the arm. ‘Pru told me all about it.

You have until the end of the year and that’s an order. Otherwise,’ she added soothingly, ‘Liza will dump you and marry someone else and you’ll regret it for the rest of your miserable life.’

‘You’ll never find anyone else to marry you,’ Kit announced. ‘Not before the end of the year.’

It was still pouring down with rain. Pru and Eddie had just driven away. All the wedding guests, who had piled out on to the steps to wave them off, had promptly belted back inside again to avoid getting drenched.

Liza and Kit were the only ones still outside but Kit had his back to the door. He kept one arm firmly around Liza’s waist.

She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I have the most embarrassing friends.’

‘So I suppose Id better do it.’

‘Do what?’

There were drops of rain on Kit’s eyelashes. He looked ridiculously handsome and very serious.

‘Marry you.’

‘Oh God, no! It was only supposed to be a joke.’ Liza pulled a face. ‘Don’t take any notice of them ... we don’t have to get married!’

‘Actually, we do. And not because your friends think we should.’ He paused and lifted a strand of Liza’s wet blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Because I do.’

‘But – but we could just live together!’

‘Why?’ said Kit. ‘Don’t you want to marry me?’

Liza stared at him. What a question. Lowering her gaze, she studied the lapels of his dark suit instead. This was easier, since they didn’t stare unnervingly back.

The look on her face told Kit everything he needed to know. He smiled; she hadn’t kicked up nearly as much of a fuss as he’d thought she would.

‘So that’s it. All settled,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘December all right with you?’

Dulcie had been chatting to Terry Lambert for several minutes before she realised who he was.

‘I’ve got it now. You’re the one who persuaded Pru to have her ears done.’

‘Well, in a manner of speaking.’ Terry looked amused. ‘I wouldn’t like to claim sole responsibility. We in the legal profession prefer to avoid that if we can.’

Of course, he was a solicitor, remembered Dulcie. He had handled Pru’s divorce.

‘Isn’t dealing with endless marriage break-ups depressing?’ she asked.

‘Not necessarily. It isn’t all slanging matches and squabbling over who gets the Monopoly set.

Some couples manage to stay on good terms, which always helps.’ He smiled. ‘A bit of civility goes a long way.’

As she gazed across the room at Patrick and Claire, Dulcie realised it was time to prove she could be civil too. As civil as Patrick was to me when I told him our marriage was over, she thought sadly. Patrick hadn’t argued or punched her or started shouting about money; he had simply moved out.

Dulcie wondered if it had been easy for him to stay civil because he hadn’t felt that much for her anyway.

Imagining that this was true made her want to cry. Hastily she pulled herself together.

Either way, it’s my turn to do the decent thing, Dulcie realised. Patrick hasn’t put the pressure on, but that’s just the way he is. And he’s with Claire now. Of course it’s what he wants.

As Terry offered to refill her glass, she tried not to look at his nose. He seemed charming, and he had organised Pru’s divorce from Phil with admirable speed and minimum fuss.

‘Maybe I could come and see you at your office,’ Dulcie said casually.

Terry didn’t seem surprised, he just reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His brief smile as he passed her one of his business cards was sympathetic.

‘You want a divorce as well?’

No, but my husband does, thought Dulcie with an ache in her chest like homesickness. And under the circumstances it seems the least I can do.

Chapter 48

The next morning Liza had to be up early. She had an appointment with her publishing editor in London at ten and a restaurant in Windsor to review at one thirty. To save time, she was wearing her frump gear and wig.

‘You remind me of someone I got chatted up by yesterday,’ said Kit, taking a bite out of Liza’s toast as he squeezed past her in the kitchen. ‘Old dear with a walking stick, kept nicking stuff from the buffet.’

‘Marjorie.’ Liza nodded and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth; she was already running late. ‘She told me if she was fifty years younger she’d give me a run for my money. You wouldn’t believe the comments she made about your bum.’

‘That’s me,’ said Kit with a broad grin. ‘Irresistible to older women.’ He grabbed Liza around the waist as she tried to rush past him. ‘Hang on, I haven’t had a kiss yet from my future wife.’

Liza, who was on her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth, kept her lips clamped together.

‘Was that it?’ Kit looked appalled. ‘If that’s how you kiss future husbands, forget it.’

He leaned against the door frame and watched her brushing her teeth.

‘I want to see a dramatic improvement in kissing technique by this evening,’ he warned.

‘Who would you like me to practise on, my gay editor?’ Liza spoke through a mouthful of toothpaste.

Kit grinned.

‘Practise on the back of your hand. Dulcie told me yesterday it’s what you used to do when you were eleven.’

‘We all did!’ Liza looked indignant. ‘Why, what did you practise on?’

The grin broadened.

‘Girls.’

From the radio in the kitchen came the sound of the eight o’clock pips. Liza groaned and brushed faster.

‘God, I love the way your bottom wriggles when you do that.’

The toothbrush clattered into the basin. Liza wiped her mouth on a towel, grabbed her coat and bag from the hall and almost fell over putting on her shoes.

‘I’m late late late.’ Whirling around, she planted a speedof-light kiss on Kit’s face, missing his mouth by an inch. "Bye. Back by six.’

As she raced out to the car, almost sending a pensioner flying, Kit stood in the doorway and yelled, ‘What is it with you call girls nowadays? That was another crap kiss.’

Leo Berenger was at his desk when Kit turned up at nine for their meeting with a new firm of architects. The plans for the latest Berenger development, on the outskirts of Oxford, were already well underway. Leo had been studying the proposed drawings for a selection of four- and five-bedroomed Tudor-style properties since before breakfast and was impatient to bounce several ideas off his son before the architects arrived.

The last thing he needed to hear was Liza Lawson’s name.

‘No, no.’ The impatient wave of his arm swept several drawings to the floor. Dammit, hadn’t Kit got that woman out of his system yet? ‘I don’t want to meet her. Why the hell should I?’

Kit shrugged. He hadn’t seriously expected any other reaction.

‘No reason. We’re getting married, that’s all.’

Leo Berenger didn’t go in for double-takes. Yelling ‘You’regetting what?’ wasn’t his style. He simply shook his head and leaned back in his chair, his expression grim.

‘When?’

‘December.’

‘If you do, you’re a bloody fool.’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Kit. ‘I think I’m bloody lucky.’

‘I suppose she’s pregnant.’

‘No.’

‘So what’s she after, a share of all this when I kick the bucket?’ This time his irritated gesture encompassed the view from the windows, the offices occupying the whole of the top floor, the house itself. ‘Because I tell you now, she’ll have a bloody long wait.’

‘Dad.’ Wearily, Kit picked up the scattered drawings. Argument or no argument, the architects who had produced them would be here at any minute. ‘This has nothing to do with your money. I love Liza and I’m going to marry her.’

‘And nothing I say will make a blind bit of difference, I suppose.’

Was this his father’s way of acknowledging and finally accepting the situation? Kit wasn’t sure; all he knew was there needn’t be a rift between them.

Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Kit smiled slightly and said, ‘No. I’ll marry her anyway.’

He got no smile in return. The expression on Leo’s face was one of undiluted disgust.

‘Go on then, do it. Make your own mistakes, see if I care.’ He leaned forward in his chair and jabbed a solid finger at his son for emphasis. ‘Just don’t ever ask me again if I want to meet her.’

The meeting was over by eleven. Relieved, Kit saw the architects to their car. When he returned to the office, his father was barking instructions down the phone to one of the contractors, swigging black coffee and chewing his way irritably through a pack of Rennies.

‘Okay if I disappear for an hour or two?’ asked Kit, when he had hung up the phone.

‘You can disappear for the next twenty years if you want to.’

Kit decided to ignore this. He reached for his jacket.

The last Rennie was noisily crunched up and swallowed. ‘Don’t bother sending me an invitation to the wedding, by the way.’

His father was clearly still simmering with fury, his face red, his fists clenched on the desk. Kit wondered if he was about to have a heart attack.

To placate him, and maybe lower his blood pressure a couple of notches, he said, ‘Dad, it doesn’t have to be like this. If you got to know Liza, you’d understand—’

‘Christ almighty, what is this?’ Leo roared, thumping the desk with his hand. ‘Who d’you think we are, the bloody Waltons?’

So much for making an effort. Kit shrugged.

‘Fine, have it your way,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll be back around one.’

Marriott’s was the smartest jewellery shop in Bath, occupying a prime position on one of the smartest streets. Inside, the décor was opulent and suitably restrained, all slate-grey velvet, gleaming silver and the kind of lighting that made the most miserable diamond chip glitter like the Koh-i-noor.

Not, of course, that Marriott’s went in for diamond chips, Kit thought wryly. He wasn’t likely to forget this fact either, since as a child – and with Christmas approaching – he had heard his mother say Marriott’s was her favourite shop. He had duly trotted along with his pocket money the following week and asked one of the assistants to show him some necklaces. Very sweetly refusing to accept Kit’s seventy-three pence, the assistant had popped a Bic biro into one of Marriott’s sumptuous satin-lined, slate-grey velvet boxes and sent Kit happily on his way.

Now he was browsing with rather more than seventy-three pence in his pocket, and just as well.

There were some pretty startling price tags on display.

One of the assistants approached noiselessly across the plush, pale-grey carpet.

‘Diamond rings ... er, engagement rings,’ Kit murmured, slightly embarrassed.

She smiled.

‘Certainly, sir. How many?’

Kit relaxed and grinned back.

‘Just the one, for now.’

The woman, who was in her early forties, began unlocking cabinets. She was plump but attractive, with baby-blue eyes and a dimply smile. Kit wondered how long she had worked here and if she was the one who had given him the biro in the velvet box all those years ago.

The first tray of rings was brought out for Kit’s inspection. He picked up one, a fire-flashing oval solitaire, and turned it this way and that, imagining it on Liza’s finger.

The assistant was wearing L’Air du Temps. She smiled at Kit. ‘I know, it’s a beautiful ring.’

The more he thought about it, the more he felt she could be the same woman. Kit glanced at the other customers in the shop – a smart American couple, an old man and a middle-aged woman in a crumpled green Barbour – and said, ‘Have you been working here long?’

There was suppressed laughter in the assistant’s eyes. ‘Fifteen years. Why?’

‘Sorry,’ said Kit, ‘it wasn’t meant to sound like a chat-up line. I just wondered if—’

‘Everybody FREEZE!’ screamed a male voice as the door was flung open and two men in balaclavas burst into the shop.

One of the other assistants let out a terrified whimper. The American couple, like something out of a gangster movie, put their hands up.

‘Nobody move!’ yelled the second balaclava-ed figure, yanking open a black leather bag and grabbing the tray of rings Kit had just been looking at. The oval solitaire disappeared into the bag along with the rest. The first man pointed a sawn-off shotgun at the assistant who had whimpered.

‘Unlock the rest of the cases,’ he ordered roughly. ‘Go on, do it NOW’

When the second robber had pushed past him, the rank stench of sweat had filled Kit’s nostrils.

Now the man had moved away he could smell L’Air du Temps again.

Jewellery and watches were being hurled into the bag. Kit’s assistant watched the men, her expression petrified.

Kit, in turn, watched her trembling fingers slide with agonising slowness off the counter. He knew she was reaching for the panic button. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shotgun swing in their direction.

‘Get away from the counter!’ screamed the balaclava-ed face. ‘Don’t touch anything!’

Since it was a silent alarm system, no one knew whether or not the button had been pressed.

Kit’s assistant moved as instructed towards the wall.

‘Not that far! Christ, she’s going for the pressure pads,’ the robber yelled. He charged towards her bellowing, ‘You asked for this, you stupid bitch,’ and brought the butt of the shotgun down on her blonde head.

The sickening THWACK and the sound of her scream as she crumpled to the floor was awful.

‘Des, for fuck’s sake get a move on,’ yelled the robber, turning his back on Kit for a split second.

Kit hurled himself forward, rugby-tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun out of his hands. Everyone in the shop watched it shoot across the carpet, ricochet off one of the ebony cabinets and slither to a halt at the feet of the other robber.

Kit watched him pick up the gun and take aim. He heard the woman in the green Barbour exclaim, ‘Don’t do this, please don’t do it!’

He heard the muffled voice of the man on the ground snarling, ‘Just kill the bastard.’

As he turned his head, still in that same split second, Kit saw the blonde assistant struggling to sit up. Blood was pouring from her head, the collar of her white shirt glistened crimson and one of her dark-blue shoes had come off.

Kit turned back. He still had his arms around the legs of the robber he had tackled to the ground.

‘Let go of him,’ yelled the one with the gun.

‘Jesus Christ,’ screamed the American woman, gibbering with fear, ‘can’t somebody do something?’

Kit watched the man’s eyes through the holes in his balaclava; they were wild with terror and panic.

Des, in turn, stared at the two figures on the ground, at the brother he idolised – only just out of Strangeways after a five-year stretch for armed robbery – and at the dark-haired boy clinging to him like a bloody leech, preventing his escape.

In the distance, Des heard the faint sinister wail of police sirens.

The American bitch was right; somebody had to do some- thing.

He cocked the gun. Then, his finger shaking, he pulled the trigger.

Chapter 49

If there was anything less alluring than a frumpy wig, it was a wet frumpy wig. Liza, admiring her reflection in the ladies’ room of the Queen of Puddings in Windsor, resisted the temptation to run a comb through the straggly mess. The condescending manner of the maître d’, who clearly regarded her as some kind of eccentric bag lady and wasn’t bothering to conceal his distaste, deserved a special mention, she felt.

Otherwise the Queen of Puddings couldn’t be faulted. The chef, a young Australian who had previously trained under Michel Roux, had a sublimely light touch. Liza had given the flash-fried smoked salmon with lime sauce top marks and the roast gigot, pink and tender, had been served with possibly the best potatoes – baked with olive oil, garlic and sage – she had ever eaten in her life.

Looking forward to a pudding, a buttermilk bavarois with raspberry coulis, Liza made her way back to the dining room. She saw the maître d’ mutter something under his breath to one of the young waiters and knew she was being talked about. He was probably warning the boy to keep an eye on the cutlery, make sure none of it walked.

When the phone rang, M’sieur Pierre answered it.

‘You wish to speak to Liza Lawson?’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, madam, we have nobody of that name dining in our restaurant.’

‘Yes you do.’ Dulcie took a steadying breath. ‘Please, just get her.’

‘Excuse me, are you referring to Liza Lawson the restaurantcritic?’ As he spoke, M’sieur Pierre swept a practised eye over the female diners.

‘Yes, yes, that’s the one.’

‘But I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I can assure you we don’t have Liza Lawson here. Let me check the bookings for tomorrow—’

‘She’s there,’ Dulcie almost screamed. ‘Wearing a wig, looking like a librarian. Just get her to the phone, will you? Tell her it’s an emergency. A real emergency.’

When Liza put the phone down she was trembling uncontrollably. How could something like this have happened? How could Kit have been – oh God – shot?

She stared blindly at the row of multicoloured liqueur bottles lined up on the shelf above the bar, struggling to take it in, unaware of the maître d’ hovering ecstatically behind her.

‘Miss Lawson, my profound apologies ... I didn’t recognise you ... may I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you to our restaurant ...’

Kit’s been shot.

She was gazing up at the liqueurs. Eager to oblige, M’sieur Pierre reached for one of the bottles.

‘May I offer you a glass of strega, Miss Lawson? With our compliments, of course. Or maybe you would prefer a Courvoisier?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Like a zombie, Liza moved past him. She picked up her bag, then reached for her still-wet and deeply unfashionable raincoat.

Open-mouthed, M’sieur Pierre watched the heavy wooden door swing shut behind her. Through the window he saw her race through the pouring rain to her car.

‘She’s done a bunk! You let her scarper without paying,’ exclaimed the young waiter, delighted to witness stuck-up M’sieur Pierre getting his come-uppance at long last.

‘It’s not a problem,’ M’sieur Pierre replied with dignity. ‘That was Liza Lawson.’

‘Oh yeah! What makes you think that?’

‘There was a phone call for her." The waiter smirked. He drooled over Liza Lawson’s photograph in the paper every week. That blonde hair, that smile, that cleavage .. .

‘Nah, take it from me, that wasn’t Liza Lawson.’

M’sieur Pierre began to look discomforted. The waiter’s pleasure was complete.

‘A scam, that’s what that was,’ he announced happily. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve been had.’

It was four o’clock when Liza reached the Bath Royal United Hospital. Dulcie was waiting for her in the entrance lobby.

‘They’re still operating. We just have to wait. Oh, Liza, it’s so awful ... come and sit down, I’ll get you a coffee from the machine.’

Liza didn’t want to sit down, nor did she want a coffee, but a man with a camera was hovering, clearly trying to figure out if this white-faced woman with the terrible hair and clothes could really be Liza Lawson. She allowed Dulcie to lead her round the corner to a seat.

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘Leo Berenger rang his daughter. Claire rang Patrick. Patrick rang me. Luckily,’ said Dulcie, ‘I remembered the name of the restaurant you told me you were visiting. I didn’t want to wait until you got home in case it was ... it was ...’

She bit her lip. Liza nodded. She knew Dulcie meant in case it was too late.

The photographer from the local paper reappeared. ‘Are you Liza Lawson?’

‘No she isn’t,’ snapped Dulcie. ‘Piss off.’

Liza was spilling coffee all over the floor; it simply wouldn’t stay in its plastic cup.

‘Isn’t there somewhere else we could go? Where are Leo and Claire? Maybe they’ve heard something by now.’ Dulcie looked doubtful.

‘They’re in the relatives’ waiting room. I don’t know if weshould. Patrick told me Kit’s father’s in a terrible state.’

They both jumped as a flashbulb went off. Grabbing Liza’s half-full cup of coffee, Dulcie flung the tepid remains in the direction of the photographer’s groin. Without even bothering to look at him she seized Liza’s arm.

‘Okay, come on. I can’t go in but I’ll show you where it is.’

Liza didn’t go in either. When she knocked on the door it was opened by Leo Berenger. He stood in the doorway and she saw the terrible grief in his bloodshot eyes.

From the look of him Liza expected him to roar, but when he opened his mouth the words hissed out quiet and deadly.

‘You. You can get out of here. Haven’t you done enough damage already?’

‘I just wanted—’

‘I don’t care what you want,’ said Leo Berenger. ‘First you tried to destroy my family. Now you’ve destroyed my son. Isn’t that enough?’

Horrified, Liza watched the tears streaming down his face. ‘But—’

‘You killed him as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.’ Leo Berenger’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘So just go.’

That night, as Claire wept in his arms, Patrick tried to imagine how he would feel if she were to die. To be literally here one moment and gone the next.

She was good and kind, humorous and intelligent, hardworking and successful. She was liked by everyone because there was nothing about Claire Berenger for anyone to dislike. If she were to disappear from his life he would miss her, of course he would.

Feeling horribly disloyal, Patrick stroked her shining hair and tried to imagine how he would feel if Dulcie died.

Frivolous Dulcie, who was wilful and tactless, scatty and impetuous, not in the least hardworking and an incurable meddler to boot. Plenty of people, in their time, had raised their eyebrows in amazement at the antics of Dulcie Ross.

But...

But she was also generous, wildly loyal to her friends, beautiful and wickedly funny. Dulcie may have been bored by him but he had never, ever been bored by her. Nor, for so much as a single moment, had he stopped loving her.

As he bent to kiss Claire’s hair, Patrick knew which of the two of them he would miss the most.

Chapter 50

‘Over here, gorgeous! Five tequila and blackcurrants, five bottles of Pils and a packet of pork scratchings when you’re ready.’

Talk about the height of sophistication. And this was two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was only the first week in December but in the Cat and Mouse, Christmas was being celebrated early.

‘Oh, and one other thing,’ said the lad with the bleached blond hair. He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his blue Armani jacket.

Dulcie was busy flipping the lids off the bottles of Pils. ‘What?’

‘A date with you.’

She glanced up.

‘On your bike.’

‘No, I’m serious. Tomorrow night, anywhere you like.’ The boy grinned at her. Flicking his fringe out of his eyes he waved his wallet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of this. We could have a wild time.’

He was twenty if he was a day.

‘Don’t you have to be in bed by nine?’

Too late, Dulcie realised her mistake. His grin broadened. ‘My mother always told me if I’m not in bed by midnight, to give up and come home.’

‘Oh ha ha.’

‘Go on,’ he urged, ‘you’re just my type.’

‘I’m too old for you.’

‘That’s all right, I go for older women.’

‘I meant mentally,’ said Dulcie, pouring the last tequila. ‘That’ll be sixteen pounds seventy.’

‘Last chance,’ offered the boy, waving a twenty-pound note under her nose in what was presumably a beguiling manner, a hint of things to come. He wheedled, ‘You can keep the change.’

‘No thanks.’

His lips curled in disgust. ‘Huh, didn’t want to go out with you anyway. I only said it for a bet.’

Wondering for the millionth time why she was working in this dump with these idiots – and knowing the answer – Dulcie dropped the change into his sweaty hand and glanced past him.

‘Next please.’

‘I’m next ... oh!’

Until that moment all Dulcie had been able to see was a perma-tanned arm poking out from behind pork scratchings, clutching a termer. Then she caught a waft of Obsession and Imelda’s head popped into view.