Mixed doubles

‘What can I get you?’ said Dulcie, wiping her hands on her jeans and realising she didn’t even have the energy any more to be bitchy to Imelda.

‘You’re working here now?’ Evidently taken aback, Imelda forgot to be bitchy too. Well, almost.

‘What is it with this urge, all of a sudden, to get a job? Did you lose a ton of money with Lloyd’s or something?’

Fifty people were going frantic, waiting to be served. Since Imelda always drank G and T, Dulcie stuck a glass under the Gordon’s optic.

‘No, I just decided there was more to life than the country club. It was time to move on.’

‘To this place?’ Imelda raised immaculately plucked eyebrows and glanced around the Cat and Mouse, clearly unimpressed.

Dulcie shrugged and shovelled ice cubes into the glass. ‘Why not? You’re here.’

‘Christmas shopping with my sister.’ Imelda indicated another section of the pub. ‘She’s over there, waiting for me. Better make that two gin and tonics. Plenty of ice, please.’

Imelda had actually said please!

‘Christmas shopping.’ Dulcie suppressed a shudder. ‘I can’t bear the thought.’

Gosh, this felt strange, exchanging polite social chit-chat with Imelda and not a pot of ratatouille in sight.

By the look of her, Imelda was finding the situation equally odd, but if Dulcie – of all people –

was managing to be civil, then so could she.

Clearing her throat, she rested her elbows on the bar and lowered her voice.

‘How is Liza coping?’

‘As well as can be expected.’ Dulcie was used to being asked. She dropped slices of lemon into each glass and shrugged. ‘Not great. How does anyone cope, when something like that happens?’

‘Poor Liza. It must be terrible for her. Is she still staying with you?’

‘No, that was just for the first few weeks. She’s down with her parents now, in Devon. I think she needed to get away from Bath.’

‘Oi! Any danger of getting served in this place?’ demanded a bolshie-looking man in a brown suit.

Dulcie gave him a saccharine smile.

‘I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.’

‘Sorry, I’m going to get you the sack.’ Imelda looked rueful.

Dulcie handed over her change. ‘I won’t get sacked. The slimeball manager fancies me rotten and I’m the hardest worker he has.’ And speaking of slimeballs ... ‘How’s Liam, by the way?’

‘Oh, we broke up. Well, it was pretty mutual,’ said Imelda, not very convincingly.

‘Some of us are dying of thirst over here,’ yelled another irritated customer.

‘... we were heading in different directions ...’

‘Sixteen pints of best and a medium sherry, when you’re ready.’

.. wanting different things out of life ...’

‘You mean he dumped you too,’ said Dulcie. To her amazement she found herself actually feeling sorry for Imelda.

Imelda’s shoulders drooped, but she managed a flicker of a smile.

‘Yeah. Bastard.’

‘Bastard,’ Dulcie agreed, nodding sympathetically. How stupidly they’d both behaved, vying with each other over such a total waste of space. ‘Who’s he moved on to now?’

‘Fifi Goodison-Blake.’

‘You’re kidding! That nymphet! How old is she, seventeen?’

‘And a half,’ said Imelda. ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’

Fifi, a promising tennis player, was the impressionable daughter of Betsy, a long-standing member of the club. Even though she was a nymphet, Dulcie felt sorry for her. She remembered all too well how Liam had first broken her own, frantically pounding teenage heart.

Well, chipped the edges a bit anyway.

‘Poor kid,’ she mused, ‘she’ll be devastated when it’s over.’ Imelda picked up her drinks.

‘And it isn’t as if she’ll be able to cry on her mother’s shoulder,’ she said, unable to resist sharing the latest bit of gossip with her erstwhile rival. ‘Rumour has it he’s having it off with Betsy on the quiet too.’

Robert and Delia Cresswell were social workers; they lived in a three-storey Georgian townhouse with three children and seven cats, and nobody collected friends like Robert and Delia.

They were people people, endlessly enthusiastic, interested in everyone and so essentially good-hearted that rebuffing them made anyone who tried it feel a complete heel.

It was a kind of blackmail, but it was extremely efficient blackmail. When Robert and Delia held one of their legendaryparties, they invited everyone they knew. And everyone turned up.

James spotted Liza across the crowded drawing room. For a split second he wondered how long it had been since he’d last seen her, then it came back to him. The night of Patrick’s fortieth birthday, when he had walked out on Bibi. The surprise party to end all surprise parties, thought James. Christ, how could he forget?

Now, Liza was wearing a plum-coloured crushed-velvet dress and her thick blonde hair, tumbling over her shoulders, had grown longer since January. Otherwise, to the casual observer, she looked as untroubled and effortlessly sexy as ever.

Only when James moved closer did the difference become apparent. The pain might be carefully concealed but it was still there.

Liza, he realised, had been dragged into a heated discussion with a group of Delia’s fellow social workers about the various vegetarian restaurants in Bath. Alarmingly critical and determined to prove they knew just as much about food as Liza, they were now arguing loudly about the relative merits of buffalo and ordinary mozzarella.

James watched Liza’s dark eyes glaze over. Sympathising totally, he reached past the noisiest of the social workers and touched her arm.

He was rewarded by her face lighting up.

‘James! How lovely to see you.’

‘Need rescuing?’ he murmured as he kissed her cheek, and felt Liza’s answering nod.

‘Thanks.’ She breathed a sigh of relief when he had extricated her from the circle. ‘Phew. The great mozzarella debate. I couldn’t have taken much more of that.’

James shook his head. ‘What are you doing here?’

‘If you know Robert and Delia, you know why I’m here,’ Liza said with a wry smile. ‘Since I’ve known them, they’ve invited me to every party they’ve had. I’m actually staying with my parents at the moment, down in Devon, but I drive back every week to keep an eye on the flat. Delia spotted me and insisted I came along here tonight. The more I tried to tell her I didn’t feel up to it, the more convinced she became that a party was what I needed to buck me up.’

Poor Liza, fallen helpless victim to Robert and Delia’s bulldozer approach.

‘And has it?’

‘Of course it hasn’t. But they meant well,’ said Liza. ‘It’s my own fault anyway for being too much of a wimp to say no.’

She had lost some weight, James noticed. The famously voluptuous figure had been pared down, that mesmerising cleavage had shrunk. Being thinner didn’t particularly suit her, but since he knew she hadn’t done it on purpose he didn’t point it out.

‘I read about you and Kit Berenger in the paper, of course. I was so sorry to hear about ... you know, what happened.’

James felt awkward; it was always hard to know what to say. But Liza simply nodded. She understood.

‘He was the love of my life, James. You know what I used to be like. Kit changed all that. Then, suddenly, something like that happens ... and he’s gone. There was nothing I could do about it. I never even had a chance to say goodbye.’

There was a catch in her voice. She was pale and not far from tears, he realised, but determined not to break down in public.

‘Come on.’ James took her hand. ‘You’ve done your duty. I’ll drive you home.’

‘It’s okay, I’m not going to cry.’

‘Do you want to stay?’

Wearily Liza smiled and shook her head.

‘Oh no. I’d definitely prefer to go home.’

Outside, frost glistened on the road. Their breath came out in white puffballs of condensation and hung in the air before them. Shivering, Liza waited at the top of the steps for James to find whatever he was searching for in his coat pocket.

Finally, pulling out his keys, he aimed at a blue Mazdaparked twenty yards down the road on their right. The central locking beeped and clicked open.

‘You don’t have to drive me home,’ said Liza.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Really, there’s no need.’

James led her gently but firmly down the flight of stone steps and pointed her in the direction of the Mazda.

‘Liza, don’t argue. It’s no trouble. I want to drive you home.’

She took the keys from him, zapped the car and locked it again.

‘Dear James,’ Liza’s smile was affectionate, ‘you’re a gentleman, but what I mean is, there’s really no need.’ She patted the railings in front of the house they were just passing. ‘I live here.’

They chatted easily together in the kitchen of Liza’s flat while she made coffee and poured each of them a brandy.

‘I met the Cresswells at the opening of an exhibition at the Pelican Gallery,’ James explained.

‘Robert introduced me to Delia’s sister. You know what they’re like when it comes to matchmaking.’

Liza knew.

‘Did it work?’

‘No,’ said James simply. ‘Oh, she was a nice enough girl. But she just ...’

She just wasn’t Bibi.

Liza poured the coffee and carried the cups through to the sitting room. James followed with the glasses of brandy.

As she reached down to switch on a red shaded lamp, Liza said, ‘Do you still miss her?’

Bibi’s name hadn’t been mentioned but James didn’t need to ask who she meant.

He still missed Bibi terribly.

He looked at Liza, and shrugged.

‘All the time.’

They sat down next to each other on the sofa. With her left hand, Liza pleated and repleated the velvet hem of her dress. ‘Are you involved with anyone else?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘I spoke to Patrick last week. Bibi isn’t seeing anyone either.’ James’s heart leapt, then fell again. It was what he wanted to hear, of course. But then again .. .

‘What’s the point?’ Wearily he stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘Even if I do still love her — and God only knows how she feels about me — what would be the point? She’s still thirteen years older than I am.’ He sounded resigned. ‘She’ll always be thirteen years older than me.’

‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ Liza said bluntly. ‘No, hang on, I’ll tell you. You’re afraid that in ten or twenty years’ time Bibi will either go loopy and need looking after, or die.’ She paused, fixing James with her steady gaze. ‘So what am I, spot on?’

It was impossible to lie to Liza. James had had long enough to think about it now. He had got over his initial outrage at being deliberately deceived.

‘I suppose so.’ Reluctantly he nodded.

‘But in the meantime you’re miserable and Bibi’s miserable,’ Liza went on, ‘and the whole of this last year has been a waste.’

‘Look, I know what you’re saying. I just—’

‘Please, James. I wasted time too, agonising over the fact that I was older than Kit.’ She shrugged. ‘And look what happened.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘If you have a chance to be happy, take it,’ Liza told him, ‘and sod what might happen in twenty years’ time. Believe me,’ she said simply, life’s too short.’

It was midnight when James finally made a move to leave. Opening the front door to let him out, Liza rubbed her arms as the icy night air swirled into the hallway.

In the dim porch light, she saw the flecks of silver glinting in James’s neat dark beard. They hadn’t been there last year.

She reached up and touched the soft bristles.

‘You’re going grey.’

He pulled a face.

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No, it suits you.’

‘I’ve spent the last year feeling pretty grey.’

‘You could do something about that,’ said Liza.

‘What, Grecian 2000?’

‘I mean get in touch with Bibi.’

James reached for her hand. He held it for a few seconds then kissed her fingertips, breathing in the faint oriental scent of her perfume.

‘You’re thinking something,’ said Liza. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘How beautiful you are. And how desirable.’ He smiled and shook his head, marvelling at the fact that he was able to say the words aloud. ‘I was thinking that if things had been different, if it hadn’t been for Bibi ... and Kit ... I wonder if we could have got together.’

‘How weird, that’s what I was thinking too.’

‘And?’

‘Well,’ said Liza, ‘with my track record, I’d say it would definitely have been on the cards. But there again, with my track record ...’ She bit her lip and smiled.

‘... we’d have lasted all of two weeks.’ James finished the sentence for her.

‘Who knows, maybe even three.’

He grinned.

‘Three. I’m flattered.’

Liza’s mouth was inches away from his own. He could have kissed her, but he didn’t.

‘It’s better this way.’ Liza was still smiling but her teeth were starting to chatter. ‘Friends last longer than lovers.’

Across the road, a group of partygoers who had spilled out of Robert and Delia’s house were now piling noisily into their cars.

‘You’re shivering. Time I was gone,’ said James. He gave Liza a hug.

She returned the hug and kissed him fondly on the cheek.

‘Have a good Christmas.’ Giving him a meaningful look, she added, ‘Make it a good Christmas.’

James wondered what kind of a Christmas Liza could look forward to this year. He nodded, feeling desperately sorry for her.

‘You too.’

Chapter 51

There were two weeks to go and everyone within a fifty-mile radius of Bath had decided to do all their late-night Christmas shopping tonight.

At least that was how it felt to Dulcie. The streets were crammed with frenzied spenders, the queues to even get inside some of the shops were diabolical. Worst of all, there was no point in giving up and going home, because from now until Christmas Day itself, it was only going to get worse.

Dulcie, stuck in the middle of this mayhem, wasn’t sure what she was experiencing but it was some kind of rage.

Not road rage, because this area of the city was pedestrianised.

Not trolley rage, because she didn’t have a trolley. Although one would have come in incredibly useful.

Maybe Yule rage, thought Dulcie, battling her way through BabyGap and cracking her ankle on a pushchair being steered by a hopeless learner.

Grimly, she elbowed a stockbroker type out of the way and bagged a brilliant Santa scarf for her three-year-old goddaughter. The last pair of matching mittens had just been snatched up by the scowling stockbroker. Dulcie watched him fling them into his wire basket, on top of a pile of other clothes. Her fingers itched. Polly would love a pair of mittens to match the scarf .. .

Oh no, that’s sick, thought Dulcie, horrified by the thoughts flashing through her mind. What kind of pond life was she to even think of doing something so-

‘Are you going to stand there all day?’ hissed the stockbroker, ramming the basket against Dulcie’s hip as he barged past.

She whisked the mittens out of the basket and out of sight. The irritable stockbroker headed for the queue at the till and Dulcie melted away in the opposite direction. Two minutes later, while she was investigating denim dungarees, she heard a bellow of fury over by the till.

‘Who the buggering hell has made off with my sodding gloves?’

He didn’t sound so much like a stockbroker now.

Dulcie kept her face averted. She didn’t want to get embroiled in a nasty attack of mitten rage.

By seven thirty Dulcie was carrying fifteen bags, her arms were practically out of their sockets and the soles of her feet hurt so much they burned.

Queueing in a newsagent’s for a can of Coke, she overheard a woman say there had been a pile-up outside the Blenheim Street car park. Apparently the place was gridlocked, no one was getting in or out.

With a sigh Dulcie paid for two cans of Coke, carried them outside and looked around for somewhere to sit down. She may as well rest her feet and wait for the car park to unblock itself before heading back to the car.

A Salvation Army band was playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ in the centre of the precinct, and all but one of the benches around them were full. Limping, Dulcie lugged her bags over to the only bench that wasn’t, and realised her mistake two seconds too late.

‘Here, let me give you a hand with those,’ said the boy who was the only other occupant. From a distance he’d looked okay, but now she was close up, Dulcie saw the mousy matted dreadlocks, the filthy clothes and the bottle of Tennant’s Export sticking out of his coat pocket. He smelled awful and — oh help — something furtive was going on in the vicinity of his lap.

Dulcie tried to hang on to her bags but they were out of control, slithering in all directions.

Leaning over, the boy helped her to pick them up. She wondered if he was about to do a runner, make off with her Christmas shopping, and if he did would he be pleased with the Penhaligon’s bluebell soap and foaming bath oil?

‘Been buying presents?’ His tone was conversational. Dulcie nodded, flipped the ring pull of the first Coke, and determinedly didn’t look at his trousers.

‘Wish I had money to buy presents.’ His tone was sorrowful. ‘Some Christmas we’ll be having this year.’

‘Mm,’ said Dulcie.

‘Couldn’t spare a few coppers, could you? Not for me,’ the boy assured her earnestly, ‘for my dog.’

Daring to look at last, Dulcie saw that the movement in his grubby lap was in fact a squirming beige puppy. Relieved that he hadn’t been exposing himself to her, she fished around in her pocket for change.

‘Sixty-five pence?’ The boy gazed at the coins in the palm of his hand. He looked disappointed.

‘I mean thanks, but I’m not going to be able to buy little Squatter much of a Christmas present with that, am I?’

Dulcie was beginning to feel like a plague victim. She appeared to be sitting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle; everyone was giving her bench an extraordinarily wide berth. Some were shooting her sympathetic glances. Others, observing her predicament, were clearly thinking: sucker.

She took her purse out of her handbag and opened it while the boy looked on, his eyes bright with interest. She had, of course, used up the last of her change buying the cans of Coke.

Hating herself, knowing she was being half conned, half intimidated, Dulcie gave him a fiver and prayed he’d go away.

The boy grinned, revealing surprisingly white teeth, and tucked the rolled-up note into his sock.

‘The thing is,’ he said chattily, ‘if you can afford a fiver, you can afford a tenner.’

‘What?’

‘That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?’

‘This is called pushing your luck,’ said Dulcie.

‘It’s called trying to get by. Come on, look at you,’ the boy drawled, indicating the fifteen glossy carrier bags with a grubby thumb. ‘Look at the places you shop. How can it be fair, eh? You’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. So tell me, how can that be fair?’

The Salvation Army band, having stopped for a breather, now picked up their instruments and launched into a jaunty version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.

‘You haven’t got nothing.’ Dulcie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the sound of the brass instruments oompa-ing away with gusto. ‘You’ve had a fiver from me and you’re not getting any more, so just leave me alone, okay?’

The façade of friendliness had gone now. His eyes were cold as he jeered at her.

‘Oh help, I’m sooo scared.’

Damned if she was going to be the one to get up and leave, Dulcie stared back. If he’d been one of the yuppie types at the Cat and Mouse, she would have told him exactly what she thought of him by now. But because he was hungry and homeless, she couldn’t bring herself to do it.

Which was weird, because he could.

‘Go on, you can afford it. Don’t be such a selfish bitch,’ he snarled. ‘Give me a tenner and I’ll go.’

‘There are two policemen over there,’ Dulcie lied coolly. ‘Shall I tell them you’re harassing me, demanding money with menaces?’

He snorted with laughter.

‘Menaces! I’ll deny it. I’ll tell them you were harassing me.’

‘Oh right. And who do you think they’ll believe?’ Dulcie retaliated. ‘The woman with everything, or a repulsive little creep like you?’

‘You can’t call me that,’ said the boy, stunned by the derision in her voice. ‘I’m homeless.’

‘I can call you anything 1 like,’ Dulcie snapped back, ‘because you’re a git.’

He went, loping off with his Tennant’s Export in one hand and the wriggling puppy in the other.

As he made his way across the precinct to the off-licence he turned and winked at Dulcie, and mouthed, ‘Worth a try.’

Dulcie stayed where she was. The encounter had depressed her; she wasn’t proud of the way she’d reacted to the beggar’s taunts. I’m just a horrible person, she thought wearily. No wonder Patrick prefers Claire.

The Salvation Army band played on, and when a young girl came round shaking a tin, Dulcie slid a tenner in. Anyone who wore one of those unflattering bonnets, she decided, deserved all the help they could get.

‘That’s really kind of you,’ whispered the girl in the bonnet, and all of a sudden Dulcie wanted to cry. She shook her head. ‘No it’s not.’

The girl moved on. Dulcie took another swig of Coke. What had the beggar called her, a selfish bitch?

Well, that was true enough.

His bitter, accusing voice rang again in her head: ‘You’ve got everything,’ and Dulcie felt a lump expand in her throat.

‘I don’t, she thought, feeling horribly sorry for herself. ‘I used to have everything, but I don’t any more.

A mother with two young children came and sat on the bench. Dulcie shifted her bags to make room for them.

‘Mum. Mum, I’m thirsty, can I have a Coke?’ clamoured the boy.

‘Me too, Mum, I’m thirsty too,’ his younger sister chimed in.

The woman, who had just eased off her shoes with a groan of relief, closed her eyes and groaned again.

‘Robbie, we’ve just sat down. Can you wait five minutes?’ Dulcie wasn’t a mother but even she knew this was a request doomed to failure.

‘N000! Mum, I’m thirsty now.’

‘So am I, so am I, Mum, so am I-I-I!’

‘Oh God,’ croaked their mother, wearily fumbling around for her shoes. ‘Okay, okay.’

‘Here, they can have this one.’ Dulcie leaned across and offered the woman her second can. ‘I bought two but I’m not thirsty any more.’

‘Are you sure?’ The woman’s gratitude was overwhelming. ‘Oh, thank you so much. You’ve saved my life! That’s really kind of you.’

Another really kind. Two really kinds, thought Dulcie, and one selfish bitch.

The children fought over the Coke and guzzled it down, while the woman waggled her pop-socked feet, making the most of five minutes’ rest.

Dulcie watched the brass players shake spit out of their trumpets and ready themselves for the next carol.

‘I know this one,’ exclaimed the girl next to her on the seat, swinging her legs in excitement.

‘It’s "Silent Night". We sing it at playgroup. I’m nearly four,’ she informed Dulcie proudly.

‘We’re having a navitivy play next week and I’m an angel.’

‘Really?’ said Dulcie. ‘That’s brilliant. I’ve always wanted to be an angel.’

The girl jumped off her seat and stood in front of Dulcie. ‘I’ll sing it for you,’ she announced, eyes shining. ‘Si-lent night, Ho-ly night, All is calm, All is bright ...’

Not to be outdone, her brother joined in, his clear, true soprano ringing out in the cold night as he guided his young sister’s reedy warble through the second and third verses.

Dulcie had to swallow hard as he soared into the descant; she’d always had a weakness for descants. She watched the two of them singing their hearts out and felt her bottom lip begin to quiver. What in heaven’s name was the matter with her today?

. . sleep in heavenly pee-eace, sle-ep in heavenly peace,’ concluded Robbie and his sister, romping home well ahead of the band.

Dulcie plastered a bright smile on to her face and applauded. ‘That was terrific. Thank you!’

‘Couple of show-offs,’ said their mother with a grin. ‘Guess what Father Christmas is bringing me,’ chirruped her daughter, ‘a Barbie and a bicycle.’

‘With stabilisers,’ Robbie interjected brutally. ‘My bike won’t have stabilisers.’

‘And he’s bringing it on his sleigh and the reindeers are going to help him get it into our chimney.’

Robbie was looking superior, as if he was itching to tell his sister Father Christmas didn’t exist.

Noticing this, their mother forced her feet back into her too-tight shoes and stood up.

‘Right, you two, we’ve got a bus to catch. And Robbie, sshh.’ Ruffling her son’s hair and raising her eyebrows in mock despair, she said to Dulcie, ‘Have you got any?’

Children, presumably. Not buses, Dulcie decided. She shook her head.

‘No, ‘I haven’t.’

‘Lucky you,’ said the woman, plainly not meaning it. She smiled. ‘Thanks again for the Coke.

‘Bye. Merry Christmas.’

For the second time that evening, shoppers gave Dulcie’s bench a seriously wide berth. They glanced out of the corners of their eyes at the woman sitting on it and hurried past determined not to get involved.

Dulcie saw them and didn’t care. She carried on sobbing, unable to help herself. She didn’t know why it was happening, she just knew she couldn’t hold it in a minute longer.

Tears streamed unstoppably down Dulcie’s icy cheeks. They ran down her neck and soaked into her black polo-necked sweater. She searched blindly in her coat pockets for a tissue and pulled out something soft and knitted instead.

Dulcie stared at what she saw. That was it; she’d really hit rock bottom now. You couldn’t sink much lower than shoplifting Father Christmas mittens from BabyGap.

‘Honestly, it’s a bit much,’ hissed an irritated middle-aged woman to her friend. ‘1 mean, why doesn’t somebody do something about her? That’s what we pay our taxes for, isn’t it?’

‘It’s all care-in-the-community these days,’ tut-tutted her friend, ‘but what good does it do them?

‘I bet she’d far rather be in a nice psychiatric hospital than out in public like this.’

‘Poor thing.’ The first woman’s voice softened. ‘You can’t help feeling sorry for her.’

Her friend chivvied her along. ‘Come on, Jean, don’t get involved. I told Edward we’d be home by nine.’

Bibi, who had overheard this conversation, glanced briefly over her shoulder to see who the two women were talking about.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she saw it was Dulcie.

Dulcie, in turn, thought she was hallucinating when she looked up and saw, through a haze of tears, Bibi standing two feet in front of her.

Chapter 52

But Bibi was definitely real. Recalling the last time they had faced each other — the night of Patrick’s fortieth birthday, the night she had managed ... oh God ... to ruin Bibi’s life — Dulcie covered her face and flinched away.

‘Dulcie, whatever’s happened?’

Bibi’s voice, when it came, was gentle. She crouched down in front of Dulcie and peeled away one of her hands.

Dulcie kept the other one clamped over her eyes.

‘Sweetheart, you can’t sit here like this. Tell me what’s wrong.’

Between gulps and shuddering sobs, Dulcie muttered something under her breath.

Bibi leaned closer.

‘What was that?’

‘I s-s-stole something from B-B-BabyGap,’ whispered Dulcie. She pushed the mittens, by this time soggy with tears, into Bibi’s hands. ‘I d-didn’t mean to. It w-was an accident.’

‘Oh, Dulcie, of course it was an accident! You’d never do anything like that on purpose.’ Bibi shook her head, her forehead creased with concern. ‘Did they call the police? Were you arrested?

Darling, don’t cry, we’ll tell them you aren’t the shoplifting type.’

Dulcie couldn’t imagine for the life of her why Bibi was being so nice. She wiped her streaming nose on her sleeve and said weakly, ‘I wasn’t caught. Nobody saw me do it. ‘I found them in my pocket just now. Have you got a tissue?’

Bibi never went anywhere without her Handy Andies. She unzipped her bag and gave Dulcie the whole packet.

‘But if you weren’t caught,’ she frowned, ‘why are you crying?’

‘I don’t know.’ Dulcie blew her nose and shrugged. ‘I’m j-just miserable. I’ve made a complete and utter balls-up of everything. Dammit, I’m a walking j j jinx.’

‘If you were jinxed,’ said Bibi, trying to cheer her up, ‘you’d have been caught pinching those mittens. There, you see? You weren’t, were you? That’s something to be grateful for, for a start.’

It didn’t work.

‘But what am ‘I going to do?’ sniffed Dulcie. ‘It’s too late to go back and pay for them now.

Everywhere’s shutting.’

Bibi peered at the damp price ticket. All this fuss over six pounds fifty.

‘I could pop in there tomorrow,’ she offered, ‘explain what happened and give them the money.

Or you could send them a cheque.’

Dulcie wiped her mascara-stained eyes and sighed. ‘Okay, I’ll do that.’

Bibi straightened up.

‘And are you just going to carry on sitting there,’ she eyed the pile of carriers from Casa Pupo, Jolly’s, Janet Reger and Diablo, ‘like an upmarket bag lady?’

‘I’ll go home in a minute.’

‘Or we could stop off at Leander’s if you like.’

Dulcie looked up at her, astounded.

‘You mean go for a drink? What, both of us ... together?’ Bibi smiled.

‘Well, we could sit at opposite ends of the bar if you preferred, but I think you need to talk to someone about whatever’s troubling you.’ She paused, then bent down to pick up Dulcie’s bags.

‘And now we’ve broken. the ice ...’

Leander’s wine bar was dimly lit and not too busy. It also had plenty of tables tucked away in secluded corners where bedraggled, mascara-stained women could hide without frightening the other customers.

Bibi beamed at the waiter and ordered vodka and tonics, then turned to Dulcie.

‘They still do that amazing white chocolate ice cream. How about it?’

Dulcie shook her head. She was too depressed to eat ice cream.

‘No thanks, just a drink’s fine.’

‘You used to have both,’ chided Bibi. ‘Always. Darling, you were the queen of ice cream! Come on, just have a little bowl...’

Every time she thought she’d stopped crying, Dulcie started again. She was getting through Bibi’s Handy Andies at a rate of knots.

‘I’m sorry,’ she blubbed, ‘it’s because you’re being kind. ‘I still can’t believe you’re even speaking to me.’

Bibi’s expression softened. She and Dulcie had always been so fond of each other. She gave her daughter-in-law’s icy fingers a squeeze.

‘I’ve missed you,’ she said simply.

More tears dripped down Dulcie’s cheeks.

‘Oh, Bibi, I’ve missed you too. I’m so, so sorry about James. I didn’t mean to—’

‘I know you didn’t. You meant well.’ Bibi patted her hand reassuringly. ‘It was a good plan; it just didn’t quite come off.’

The young waiter brought their drinks and a bowl of the famous ice cream for Dulcie. She smiled damply and thanked him. This had been one of her and Bibi’s favourite pit stops during their shopping blitzes, and he had remembered she liked extra wafers and extra-extra roasted almonds.

Unless of course it’s Bibi’s face he remembers and he’s getting me muddled up with someone else .. .

‘I expect you come here with Claire now,’ she said bravely, to prove to Bibi how civilised she could be.

‘No.’ Bibi looked surprised.

‘But ... the two of you do go shopping together. I saw you, that ... er, time outside your house.’

‘Oh, we went once.’ Bibi nodded, remembering. ‘Patrick had mentioned you and ‘I used to shop together so Claire offered to go with me. That was all.’

Dulcie was intrigued by the lack of detail. Bibi was to gossip what Joan Rivers was to face lifts.

So intrigued she forgot to cry, Dulcie took a mouthful of ice cream instead and said, ‘And?’

Bibi sighed.

‘Oh Lord, I’m supposed to be impartial.’

‘Don’t be impartial, it’s boring.’ Dulcie loaded one of the wafers with ice cream and decided she was hungry after all. ‘Tell me why you only went shopping with her once.’

‘Oh, it was a disaster.’ Bibi came clean. ‘I did my best, Dulcie, really ‘I did, but what can you do with a girl whose idea of splashing out is two pairs of tights and a navy cardigan from Littlewoods?’

Dulcie gazed at her, speechless with pleasure.

‘She’s very keen on value for money,’ Bibi went on, ‘and comfortable clothes that won’t fall apart after five minutes. And she likes to decide in advance exactly what she needs to buy, because it saves time.’

‘Saves time ...’ Dulcie echoed faintly.

‘I’ve never met anyone so efficient.’ Bibi shook her head and looked sorrowful. ‘The whole trip lasted ninety-five minutes.’

‘Good grief.’

‘She’s a lovely girl,’ Bibi added hastily, ‘don’t get me wrong. Absolutely charming.’

‘Just not shopping-compatible.’ Dulcie nodded to show she understood, valiantly forcing herself not to say anything bitchy.

‘That’s it. We might not be shopping-compatible but she’s still terribly nice.’

‘Oh yes, ‘I know what you mean. Terribly, terribly nice.’

‘Mmm.’

‘For example, that amazingly ugly man over there with the huge wart on the end of his nose makes me want to start telling Quasimodo jokes,’ said Dulcie, ‘but if Claire was here now, I just know she’d say, "Oh, I didn’t even notice that massive wart, ‘I was just thinking what lovely kind eyes he has." ‘

‘She would,’ said Bibi solemnly. ‘She certainly would. Claire was the one, actually, who told me that you hadn’t meant to split me and James up. She said ‘I should make things up with you, heal the—’

‘Oh please!’ wailed Dulcie. ‘Pass the sick bag. I’ve heard enough about Saint jolly-nice Claire for one night.’

Bibi watched Dulcie – now well on the road to recovery – scrape her bowl.

‘More ice cream? More vodka?’

‘Yes please.’

‘Feeling better?’

Dulcie nodded.

‘I was so jealous,’ she admitted shamefacedly, ‘when I saw the two of you together.’

‘It was nothing. Just a one-morning stand,’ said Bibi with a grin.

‘Still, Patrick seems happy enough with her.’

Bibi attracted the attention of their waiter. When she’d reordered, she shrugged.

‘That’s men for you. Talk about going from one extreme to the other.’

Was this a compliment or not? Dulcie was still trying to puzzle it out when Bibi went on casually, ‘I mean, look at James. One minute he’s with me, the next he’s having a fling with some mini-skirted blonde in her twenties.’

Dulcie squirmed, her skin prickling with guilt.

‘Oh God.’

‘Doesn’t matter. It didn’t last long anyway.’

‘How do you know?’

‘He’s living in the flat above Margaret Taylor, in Devenish House.’ Bibi managed a slight smile.

‘She’s kept me up to date with his ... er ... comings and goings.’

More guilt, a great tidal wave of the stuff this time. ‘I did this, thought Dulcie. It’s all my fault.

‘Do you still miss him terribly?’ Her voice was small. Bibi said nothing for a moment. She studied her immaculately polished nails. Then she nodded.

‘Yes.’

‘But ... have you tried contacting him? I mean, have you seen him at all?’ Dulcie persisted.

‘Of course ‘I haven’t.’ Bibi’s eyes were full of pain but she spoke with dignity. ‘What would be the point of that? Dulcie, I didn’t end it. James was the one who dumped me.’

But there were a million other things to talk about. The conversation moved on. Unhappily for Dulcie it didn’t take long to get around to Liam McPherson.

‘Anyway,’ said Bibi when they had finished discussing Pru and Eddie’s wedding, ‘while we’re on the subject of perfect men, what happened to that dishy tennis pro of yours?’ She lowered her voice. ‘And what was all this I heard about you expecting a baby?’

Dulcie swallowed hard. She wasn’t proud of that little piece of deception. God, she did some stupid things sometimes.

Bibi was looking at her with a mixture of concern and sympathy.

‘We don’t have to talk about it if you don’t want to, darling. But sometimes it helps.’ She paused then said delicately, ‘Was it a miscarriage, or did you ...?’

‘I wasn’t pregnant. ‘I just pretended to be,’ Dulcie confessed with a sigh. What the hell, she may as well admit everything. Bibi knew her well enough; she wasn’t likely to be too shocked by the depths to which her errant daughter-in-law was capable of sinking.

Bibi looked confused.

‘You mean ...?’

‘I was desperate,’ said Dulcie bleakly. ‘Liam was up for itwith any woman who so much as smiled at him in the street. He couldn’t keep his tracksuit bottoms on if his life depended on it.

But you hear about some men who are totally transformed when they become fathers,’ she ploughed on, avoiding Bibi’s gaze, ‘and ‘I thought, what if Liam’s one of them? What if it jolts him into realising he doesn’t want to lose me?’

‘You hoped he’d turn into Mr Ever-Faithful.’

Dulcie nodded.

‘That was the plan. It didn’t work, of course. And then he found out, so it was all over between us anyway.’ She sat back in her chair and groaned. ‘I wasn’t upset about losing him. ‘I didn’t even care by that time. ‘I just can’t get over the fact that ‘I did something so awful, so pathetic and underhand. I’m so ashamed ... ‘I still can’t believe I thought it was a reasonable thing to do.’

‘Oh Dulcie, an unfaithful lover is enough to drive anyone to desperation,’ Bibi said consolingly.

She leaned closer. ‘Look on the bright side. At least you didn’t shoot him.’

Dulcie dredged up a smile.

‘No, there is that.’

‘And at least you weren’t really pregnant.’

Dulcie’s smile did an abrupt U-turn and disappeared. ‘No, I know.’

‘Oh darling, what’s wrong?’ Bibi looked alarmed.

It sounded ridiculous, but Dulcie knew she had to say this too.

‘Those children I told you about, the ones who sang "Silent Night" to me,’ she faltered, trying to explain. ‘It made me realise how much ‘I do want a family ... and then ‘I thought what if God decides to punish me for pretending to be pregnant? What if he makes sure ‘I never have children of my own?’

‘Sweetheart, you can’t possibly think that!’ exclaimed Bibi, before Dulcie’s eyes could fill up again. ‘Heavens, I’m sure God has more on his mind than your latest bit of plotting. ‘I mean, what were you doing really?’ she argued. ‘Just sussing Liam out, seeing if he’d make a good husband and father. If you look at it that way, it’s a perfectly sensible thing to do.’ With a reassuring smile, Bibi tapped her forehead. ‘Like most of your bright ideas, darling. If they come off, fine. Everybody’s happy.’

‘And if they don’t,’ Dulcie concluded ruefully, ‘they’re not.’

By the time they reached the car park it was almost empty. Dulcie gave Bibi a lift home.

‘I’m so glad we’re friends again,’ said Bibi when they pulled up outside her house.

‘So am I.’

Bibi gave her a kiss and opened the passenger door. ‘Now all we have to do is sort you out and cheer you up.’

‘I will cheer up, I promise.’

Dutifully, Dulcie produced a convincing smile. Even admitting she was depressed made her feel bitterly ashamed. Compared with Liza, what the hell did she have to be depressed about?

On her own again in the car, Dulcie switched on the radio. Whitney Houston was belting out:

‘And eye-eye-eye will always love y000ooo0u.’ Vividly Dulcie recalled the party she and Patrick had held at the house a couple of years ago, when all the furniture had been pushed back and everyone had got spectacularly legless on the punch she had concocted. She remembered Bibi and James dancing to this song, this very song. Bibi, her arms thrown around James’s neck, had smiled dreamily up at him and he had bent his dark head and kissed her...

And I, Dulcie recalled with startling clarity, yelled out, ‘Ugh, no lovey-dovey stuff allowed in this house! Less of the snogging if you don’t mind.’

She waited until the song came to an end, drove up to the traffic lights and signalled left.

Then she changed her mind – luckily there were no other cars around – and signalled right instead.

Chapter 53

‘Good grief.’ James looked astonished when he opened his front door. ‘Dulcie. Is something wrong?’

Yes, something’s wrong, thought Dulcie, but not in the way you think.

‘I haven’t wrapped the car round a lamp post, if that’s what you mean. ‘I just needed to talk to you.’ She spoke brightly, as if the last year hadn’t happened. ‘Okay if I come in?’

Bemused, James stood to one side and Dulcie slid past him, heading for the sitting room. The television was on. The coffee table in front of the sofa was littered with Christmas cards, an address book, a half-empty pack of M&S prawn sandwiches and an even emptier tumbler of Scotch.

James’s suit jacket was flung over the back of a chair. He had undone the top button of his green and white striped shirt and loosened his tie. Dulcie watched him spin the top off a bottle of Glenfiddich and refill his glass. He paused and glanced up.

‘Drink?’

‘Better not. I’m driving.’

James frowned slightly.

‘You look terrible.’

About to get indignant Dulcie realised she still had mascara all over her face.

‘Can ‘I use your bathroom?’

He shrugged.

‘Be my guest.’

In the bathroom – rather nicely done out in mulberry and jade green — Dulcie washed her face, which at least stopped her looking like a madwoman, and pressed James’s wrung-out flannel over her puffy eyes. Next, she checked out the toiletries on show and had a brisk rummage through the bathroom cabinet.

No sign of any girlie stuff. Promising.

‘Better,’ James remarked when she returned to the sitting room. He had made her a coffee in the meantime. As she spooned in sugar, Dulcie couldn’t help wondering if he’d heard her clunking around in his bathroom cabinet.

‘Thanks.’

The cards had been pushed to one side, to make way for the tray.

‘Well, I’m fairly sure you didn’t knock on my door just to ask if you could use my bathroom.’

James raised his tumbler, drank, and gave her a quizzical look. ‘So why are you here?’

‘I came to say sorry.’

‘You said it before.’

‘You didn’t want to hear it last time,’ said Dulcie. ‘Now I’m trying again.’

James stood with his back to the fireplace. He was studying her, apparently deep in thought, and rubbing the heel of his hand over his close-cut beard.

It occurred to Dulcie that he was the only man she knew who had a beard she actually liked.

‘Fine. Okay,’ he said at last. ‘It’s in the past. What is this anyway, some kind of guilt trip? A quest for absolution? You can’t rest until everyone whose lives you ever meddled with has forgiven you?’

That was another thing about James, Dulcie remembered, his dry sense of humour. As in Sahara-dry. It wasn’t always easy to know when he was joking. For instance, he definitely sounded serious now, but wasn’t there just the teeniest hint of amusement in his eyes?

Best to grovel, she decided, to be on the safe side. ‘Something like that,’ Dulcie admitted. ‘I know what ‘I did was wrong." She glanced up at James. ‘But ‘I wasn’t the only one.’ His dark eyebrows went up a couple of millimetres. ‘Oh?’

‘Bibi made a mistake, not telling you how old she was. My big mistake was letting you find out.’

Bluntly, no longer penitent, she concluded, ‘And finishing with Bibi was yours.’

James shook his head.

‘Oh, Dulcie, you haven’t changed.’

‘Actually, ‘I have.’ She risked a wry smile. ‘You wouldn’t believe it.’

‘Tell me why you’re really here.’

Finishing her coffee first, Dulcie put the cup back down on the tray and picked up a handful of the envelopes James had already addressed.

‘Sending me one this year?’ she enquired idly.

‘You won’t find your name on any of those. Come to think of it,’ said James, side-tracked, ‘how did you know ‘I was living here?’

Dulcie shrugged and carried on shuffling through the cards. ‘Just clever. Sending one to Bibi?’

When James didn’t reply, she looked up. His mouth was set in an ominously narrow line.

‘Is that why you’re here?’

‘It’s a good enough reason, isn’t it?’ Dulcie decided to just go for it; she — or rather Bibi — had nothing to lose. ‘James, I saw her today. And she isn’t happy. She misses you. And you know you miss her. I mean, talk about screamingly obvious.’

James said slowly, ‘You drove over here to ask me to send Bibi a Christmas card?’

‘Don’t you see?’ Dulcie babbled on, really getting into her stride now. ‘You tried to forget her, you tried going out with other women — well, more like teenagers from what I hear — but it didn’t work, it couldn’t work, because they just weren’t Bibi.’

‘Hang on, did Liza tell you this?’ James was looking bewildered.

‘No, Bibi did.’

Bibi ...?’

‘Doesn’t matter.’ Impatiently Dulcie brushed the interruption aside. She was on a mission; all she needed now was for James to do as he was told. Now look, you were the one who finished with her, so it’s up to you to make the first move.’

‘Can ‘I get you another drink?’ James’s mouth twitched with amusement as he topped up his own glass once more. He sat down on the arm of the sofa and watched Dulcie sort frenziedly through the box of as yet unwritten-on Christmas cards.

‘No thanks. Here, this one. And here’s a pen.’

She was holding a glossy cherub-laden card towards him. She had even helpfully opened it out, and was pointing with his pen to the place where he should write.

‘My mother used to do that to me when I was seven.’

‘Please,’ said Dulcie. ‘It’s a start, don’t you see? Bibi’s speaking to me again. If she can break the ice with me, you can break the ice with her.’

But James was shaking his head and turning away. Dulcie couldn’t believe it. This was his chance – he couldn’t turn it down now!

The silver Sheaffer fountain pen went whistling past James’s head and ricocheted with a CLACKKK off the wall.

‘How dare you!’ Dulcie leapt recklessly to her feet, cracking both shins against the edge of the coffee table. ‘How bloody dare you?’ she yelled, outraged. ‘How can you be so stupid, so stubborn, so ... so ... oh hell, what’s that?’

Gasping with pain, doubled up and clutching her poor bruised shins, Dulcie collapsed back on the sofa. James had taken another envelope, already stamped and addressed, down from the fireplace. Wordlessly he held it out to her.

‘It’s for Bibi, isn’t it?’ she groaned, feeling stupid. ‘God, James, you are so annoying. Why wasn’t it down here with the rest of them?’

He grinned and tapped the address book on the coffee table. ‘These are the people ‘I need to look up.’ Then, pointing to the other slim stack of envelopes propped up on the fireplace, he added simply, ‘And these are the ones ‘I don’t.’

‘Does it give you a huge amount of pleasure to watch me make an idiot of myself?’

‘Huge isn’t the word for it.’

‘Is my card up there, then?’ said Dulcie, ever the optimist. ‘Ah,’ James’s grin broadened, ‘have to wait and see.’

They had another drink. By this time it was getting on for ten o’clock.

‘You’ll be so glad you did this,’ Dulcie told him reassuringly. ‘I mean it, when Bibi gets your card, she’ll be able to send you one back. Then you can either phone her or accidentally-onpurpose bump into her ... I can arrange that if you want me to, ‘I could have a—’

‘Dulcie, don’t you think you should give up on the arranging front?’ James commented drily.

‘Wouldn’t it be an idea to let people make their own arrangements from now on?’

Dulcie pulled a face. She was raring to go.

‘I know, ‘I know, but you men are so hopeless at this kind of stuff. If we leave it to you, you’ll take months to do anything. Trust me, do it my way and ‘I could have this whole thing sorted out by ... well, maybe even by Christmas!’

‘What if I don’t want it all sorted out by Christmas?’

‘You see?’ Dulcie was ready to explode with frustration. ‘That’s exactly what ‘I mean. James, please – oh!’

She gazed down at her car keys, which had just landed unexpectedly in her lap. James was putting on his jacket and looking masterful. He slid Bibi’s card into his inside pocket, switched off the television and indicated with a brief businesslike gesture that Dulcie should shift herself, pronto, in the direction of the front door.

Smiling at the uncomprehending look on her face, he said quietly, ‘What if I want to sort it out now?’

Three massive Scotches had given James just enough Dutch courage to do what he had been wanting to do for months. When Dulcie pulled up outside Bibi’s house for the second time that evening she leaned across and gave him a kiss on the cheek.

‘Go for it.’

‘Wish me luck.’

‘You don’t need luck. The two of you belong together.’

‘Yes, well. Thanks for the lift.’ James reached for the door catch before what felt like a nasty attack of stage fright could get a grip.

He appeared to be one Scotch short of total confidence. ‘Got the card?’ said Dulcie.

He patted his pocket.

‘Er ... yes.’

‘What a waste of a stamp.’

Beginning to panic, James wondered if this was wise. Maybe he should post the thing first after all.

Dulcie realised what was going on. He needed encouragement. Reaching past him, she flipped open the passenger door. And pushed him out.

There were lights on inside the house and Bibi’s car was there on the drive but nobody was answering the doorbell.

James began to feel sick. Did this mean she was too engrossed in the man who was in there with her to come to the door? Or that she had seen him climbing out of Dulcie’s car and was now hiding upstairs, cursing her daughter-in-law for getting it so spectacularly wrong again?

Dulcie had, of course, driven off and left him to it. To get home, he would have to flag down a passing cab. Taking a deep breath, James rang the doorbell one last time.

Finally, he heard the sound of footsteps running downstairs – ha, so she’d been in bed with him, had she? – and Bibi’s voice calling out, ‘Who is it?’

Should he? Shouldn’t he? James hesitated.

‘Hello, who’s there?’

Bloody Dulcie, taking off like a bat out of hell, leaving him stranded .. .

‘Bibi, it’s me.’

The door was flung open. Bibi stood in the doorway, visibly stunned.

She had been in the bath, James realised. Her ash-blonde hair was up in a loose topknot and damp tendrils framed her face. Her skin glowed from the heat of the bath and she was clutching the front of her white dressing gown with both hands, clinging to the lapels as if for dear life.

‘James! This is ... this is ...’

‘Unexpected. I know.’ He took a deep breath. Desperate to appear cool, he pulled the envelope from his inside pocket, realising too late that his hands were trembling. ‘Christmas card. Thought I’d deliver it in person.’

‘There’s a stamp on it.’

James smiled slightly. ‘I know, but what the hell. I was passing.’

Peering over his shoulder, Bibi said, ‘Where’s your car?’

‘Ah... ‘I was passing in someone else’s car.’

He couldn’t tear his eyes from her face. She didn’t look a day older than she’d ever looked. God, she was beautiful .. .

‘Well, it’s nice to see you again.’ Bibi knew she sounded like a travel agent greeting an old customer. She hesitated, at a complete loss. Did James mean he was literally dropping the card off before jumping back into someone else’s car – whoever Someone Else might be – or could she invite him in for a drink?

‘Gosh, this is a coincidence!’ Her heart was pounding. Confused, she heard herself beginning to babble. ‘You’ll never guess who else ‘I bumped into today! Extraordinary really, after all this time—’

‘Dulcie,’ said James. Bibi was as nervous as he was. Quite suddenly he knew everything was going to be all right. ‘I was passing in Dulcie’s car.’

Bibi closed her eyes for a second, and leaned her head against the door. When she opened her eyes once more, she said shakily, ‘That girl, don’t tell me. I suppose she’s been interfering again.’

James smiled and nodded and moved towards Bibi. He cupped her face in his hands and said in a low voice, ‘Oh yes, she’s been interfering again.’

As Bibi fell into his arms and lifted her mouth to his, she murmured back, ‘Thank God ...’

Chapter 54

You knew a lot had happened in the last year, Dulcie thought wryly, when the first person to greet you at a party, shouting, ‘Oh brilliant, you’re here!’ was Imelda.

But that was life for you. Since Liam had become a thing of the past, it had seemed a bit pointless carrying on such high-octane rivalry. Neither Dulcie nor Imelda had had the heart to maintain their feud. Some men, they decided, simply weren’t worth it.

‘Mwah mwah.’ Imelda clutched her now, air-kissing both cheeks and looking overjoyed to see her. ‘Quick, take your coat off and I’ll buy you a drink. You’re missing out on all the fun ... I’ve just met the most gorgeous chap ...’

It was still weird, though. Definitely weird.

But having been promised by Eddie that this year’s Christmas Eve party at Brunton Manor would be the best ever, Dulcie had felt obliged to turn up. Her half-hearted attempt at an excuse had been briskly squashed by Pru.

‘Don’t be silly, of course you’re coming,’ she had scolded. ‘And don’t give me any rubbish about wanting to avoid Liam because he won’t even be there. He’s skiing in Zermatt.’

In the end Dulcie had decided to make the best of it. Sometimes you just had to put on your party face and best frock, drum up a bit of enthusiasm and go for it. Maybe – who knows? – if she tried hard enough, she might end up having a good time after all.

It was already ten o’clock; she was one of the late arrivals. Pausing at the entrance to the packed ballroom, Dulcie surveyed the throng. Imelda, having barged on ahead, was over at the bar buying drinks and flirting outrageously with a huge fair-haired rugby type. All the bar staff were wearing furry antlers. The ballroom had been decked out in silver and white and the DJ was wearing a Father-Christmas-meetsJean-Paul-Gaultier fur-trimmed red PVC cape and matching jockstrap.

The dance floor bulged with guests leaping around like lunatics to Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’. Bellowing out the few words they knew, they were clearly well away.

Dulcie felt horribly sober. She hoped Imelda was getting her a large one.

Pru, spotting her from the dance floor, came over and gave her a hug. The difference with real friends, thought Dulcie, was their kisses actually touched your cheeks.

‘Thank goodness, I thought you weren’t coming,’ Pru yelled above the noise.

Dulcie smiled. ‘Oh no, I’m here. With my new best friend.’

Pru glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of Dulcie’s brief nod. Imelda was making her way towards them with two glasses held triumphantly aloft.

‘Hmm. Just so long as you don’t forget your old best friends.’

‘Don’t worry.’ Dulcie’s tone was dry; Imelda had phoned her up three times in the last week.

‘She’s single, I’m single. She’s only doing it because she’s desperate for someone to go around with.’

‘Here we are!’ Imelda plonked a brimming glass into Dulcie’s hand. ‘Cheers! Look, I’ll be back in a sec, okay? That dishy guy over at the bar’s just asked me to dance.’

Dulcie wondered if a grown man sporting a bow tie that lit up and spun around like a Catherine wheel could ever truly be described as a dish.

‘Is that the gorgeous one you were talking to earlier?’

‘No, I’ve lost him.’ Imelda shrugged and grinned. ‘Never mind, this one will do nicely until ‘I find him again.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘He’s a doctor, too. Dreamy or what?’

‘I bet he’s a porter,’ said Dulcie. ‘Porters always tell girls they’re doctors.’ Unable to resist the dig, she added, ‘What did the other one tell you he was? Airline pilot, polo player or something in the SAS?’

Imelda wrinkled her nose.

‘Bit of a disappointment, actually. He said he was unemployed.’

‘I spoke to Liza this afternoon,’ said Dulcie when Imelda had sashayed off. ‘Couldn’t persuade her to come along. She’s driving down to Devon tonight, spending Christmas and New Year with her parents.’

‘And Eddie and ‘I will be up in Manchester with his family over the New Year,’ said Pm. ‘I mean, I’m looking forward to it, but it won’t be the same. We’ll miss our usual get-together.’

She looked worried. ‘I feel awful, as if we’re abandoning you. What will you do this year, made any plans yet?’

‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,’ Dulcie said firmly. ‘If she isn’t off playing doctors and nurses, I’ll go out with Imelda. Or if ‘I really want to have fun,’ she added with forced cheerfulness, ‘I can work a double shift in the pub.’

Eddie came up to them, grinning and waving a fax. He kissed Dulcie and give the fax to Pru to read.

‘How are you, darling? Oh dear, I know I shouldn’t laugh, but this just came through from Zermatt.’

‘What is it?’ asked Dulcie curiously as Pru began to giggle. ‘It really isn’t funny.’ Eddie tried hard to sound severe. ‘Poor Liam—’

‘What is it?’ demanded Dulcie, making a grab for the sheet of paper.

‘He sent it from his hospital bed. He’s in traction,’ said Pru. ‘Apparently he fell off a ski lift and broke both his legs.’

‘I told him skiing was dangerous,’ said Eddie, ‘but he assured me he was an expert. He said only people who were unfit had accidents.’ He shook his head, brushing away tears of laughter. ‘I told him only idiots slide down mountains on skis. Lazing around on a hot beach – now that’s my idea of a holiday.’

Until that moment, Dulcie had cheered up. Now she experienced a pang of misery.

‘That’s what Patrick’s doing right now. He’s in Bali,’ she struggled to sound normal, ‘with Claire.’

Pru frowned.

‘I don’t think he is.’

‘Well, somewhere like that. Bali ... Barbados ... somewhere hot and exotic. Not Skegness,’

Dulcie added bitterly, ‘that’s for sure.’

‘No, I mean ‘I don’t think he’s away. He phoned me this morning. Asked me if you were going to Roger and Abby Alford’s party tonight.’

‘Roger and Abby Alford?’ Bewildered, Dulcie said, ‘I haven’t seen them for years!’

‘Well,’ Pru shrugged, ‘I said no, anyway. ‘I told him you were coming here.’

Imelda was still on the dance floor, all but undressing her dishy doctor. Dulcie bought herself another drink and found a wall to lean against; she picked abstractedly at the polish on one of her thumb nails and tried without much success to ignore the horrid lurching sensation in her stomach.

It had come as a shock, discovering that Patrick had actually reached the stage where he wanted to avoid her. Pretty obviously, he was only prepared to go to the Alfords’ party if he knew for sure that she wouldn’t be there.

I’ve really lost him now, thought Dulcie miserably. He doesn’t even want to be friends any more.

‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’

‘Oh fuck off.’ Dulcie didn’t even bother to look up. She was studying her thumb nail, with its unattractive picked-off burgundy polish. Really, tonight was turning into one disaster after another.

‘Dulcie!’ exclaimed the voice, half-amused, half-shocked, and this time she recognised it.

She gave Rufus a hug. He was looking somewhat out ofplace in his blue woolly sweater and a pair of worn-at-theknee fawn corduroy trousers, but his eyes were bright and he was evidently delighted to see her.

‘I’m sorry, I thought ‘I was about to be chatted up by a prat.’ Dulcie smiled and touched his bristly cheek. ‘You’re growing your beard back! What on earth are you doing here?’

‘I know, hardly my scene. Some friends dragged me along.’ He sounded abashed. ‘And now I look an idiot. I must say, I didn’t realise it was going to be quite so smart.’ He indicated Dulcie’s jade-green satin dress and added admiringly, ‘Not like you, of course. You look fantastic. I’d ask you to dance, but I’d only show you up.’

He was right. Over his woolly shoulder, Dulcie saw a group of Brunton Manor regulars — a particularly snotty group — nudging each other and smirking. She took Rufus’s hand and led him past them, saying loudly as they went ‘... darling, that’s the whole point of being a multi-millionaire, you can get away with wearing anything you like.’

They danced to George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’.

‘Oh Lord, was that your foot? Sorry ... oops, done it again ... sorry!’

But it was so nice to see him again, Dulcie didn’t even mind her toes being broken.

She grinned at Rufus. ‘Ever thought of taking up wine-making? You’d be brilliant at trampling grapes.’

He looked anxious. ‘Would you rather sit down?’

‘No, you might get the hang of it in a minute. Anyway, you’ve cheered me up. Tell me what’s been happening in the café. Tell me what you’re doing for Christmas.’

Tell me anything to stop me thinking about Patrick...

Aargh!’ yelped Dulcie as Rufus whirled her round, managing to step on both feet at once and —

astonishingly — trying to pull the front of his baggy sweater over her head. Half suffocating beneath the scratchy wool she screeched, ‘What’s going on?’

‘Shh, stay there, don’t let her see you,’ he hissed urgently.

‘That blonde over there – she’s the one you splattered from head to foot with ratatouille ...’

Standing slightly away from the dance floor, surrounded by noisy revellers setting off party poppers, Patrick watched Dulcie. She was laughing and chattering away, clearly enjoying herself and not in the least bothered by the fact that the object of her attentions appeared to have at least three left feet.

A pretty young girl not long out of her teens brushed past, making deliberate contact. She smiled mock-apologetically up at Patrick, giving him his cue to say something in return.

Patrick pretended not to notice and carried on watching Dulcie, who was now affectionately stroking her partner’s beard. Since she had always loathed beards, this was less than promising.

She certainly seemed fond of this one.

Patrick, tight-lipped with disappointment, wondered if coming here tonight had, after all, been a huge mistake.

‘Hi!’ The girl who had just brushed past him was back, making eye contact for all she was worth and waving a menthol cigarette. ‘Got a light?’

Dulcie was being twirled rather over-ambitiously around in circles when she thought she saw Patrick.

At first she thought she might be imagining it, maybe suffering a lack of oxygen to the brain as a result of all that centrifugal force. She dug her heels in and stopped twirling. Caught off-guard, Rufus almost fell over.

‘Sorry, was ‘I going too fast?’

‘Just felt a bit dizzy,’ murmured Dulcie. It was true. Her heart was racing too. She craned her neck, searching the sea of faces around the dance floor, seeking out the only one that mattered.

Then she saw him again and her heart did a tremendous swallow dive. It hadn’t been a hallucination after all. ‘Had enough?’ panted Rufus.

‘Um ... sorry?’

Rufus saw her staring at someone in the crowd. The expression on her face was unmistakable.

His face fell.

‘Have you seen someone you like?’

‘What?’ Dulcie shook her head and forced herself to concentrate. Then she smiled at Rufus.

‘Well, you could put it like that.’

Chapter 55

‘Hello, you,’ said Dulcie.

‘Hello,’ said Patrick, dry-mouthed.

‘You’re here.’ Oh help ... inane, inane. ‘I mean, ‘I thought you were going to the Alfords’ party.’

Patrick, who had never had any intention of going to the Alfords’ party — chiefly because they weren’t having one — shook his head slightly.

‘Decided against it. Too far to drive.’

So where’s Saint Claire? Dulcie longed to blurt out. Why isn’t she with you?

But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, didn’t dare. It might break the spell.

Instead she nodded, quite unable to remember where Roger and Abby Alford lived.

‘Oh definitely, much too far to drive. Much easier to come here. Er ... how’s ... how’s work?’

Good grief, thought Dulcie, am ‘I a contender for Sparkling Conversationalist of the Year or what?

Her only consolation was that at least this was her husband she was making a fool of herself in front of. At least Patrick knew her, knew she could do better than this. If he’d been a total stranger he’d be off like a shot.

‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you again, but ‘I just wondered if you had the time?’

Dulcie turned and looked at the young girl gazing besottedly up at Patrick. She recognised the expression on Patrick’s face too; he looked trapped and faintly uncomfortable.

He’d always been hopeless at being chatted up.

‘It’s ten past eleven,’ said Dulcie, reaching over and consulting Patrick’s watch on his behalf.

She gave the girl a brief smile. ‘Time you picked on someone your own age.’

‘This is my wife,’ Patrick cut in hurriedly as the blonde girl, looking indignant, opened her mouth to reply. ‘She bought me this watch last Christmas ...’

‘Oops,’ Dulcie announced cheerfully when the girl had flounced off. ‘Don’t say I upset her.’

‘Sorry about the wife bit.’ Patrick sounded embarrassed. ‘It was just to get rid of her.’ He hesitated, wondering what his next move should be. ‘Do you need a drink?’

Dulcie was easing off one of her shoes, seeing if she could still wriggle her trampled-on toes.

‘I need crutches. Rufus isn’t much of a dancer.’

Patrick wondered where Rufus had got to. He forced himself to sound casual.

‘Who is he, new boyfriend?’

‘God, no!’ Dulcie shook her head so hard her earrings rattled. ‘New boyfriend? Definitely not!

And yes, Id love a drink.’

When Patrick had been served, they moved away from the bar to a less crowded area by the entrance to the ballroom. Still dying to know where Claire was, Dulcie was about to open her mouth when Patrick said, ‘Sorry, you asked me how work was going.’

Oh yes, that inspired conversation-opener. One of the all-time greats, along with ‘What about this weather we’ve been having lately?’ and ‘Where did you get that tie?’

But Dulcie, succumbing to the gin, was finally beginning to relax. She tilted her head to one side.

‘Well, to tell you the truth, I’m amazed you’re here. ‘I mean, it is only half past eleven on Christmas Eve. I’d have thought you’d still be in your office, slaving away over your computer, up to your eyes in work ...’

‘I sold the business.’

.. and what about tomorrow? Don’t tell me you’re taking Christmas Day off too. Good grief, Patrick, is this any way to build an empire? Does Bill Gates take time off on Christmas Day?

How can you ... you ... you did what?’

Dulcie’s voice faltered and died as – at long last – his words sank in.

He shrugged.

‘I sold the company.’

‘But ... but when?’

‘Signed the contract yesterday afternoon.’

Aware that she was asking the wrong questions in the wrong order but unable to do a thing about it, Dulcie said inanely – as if she cared – ‘Who to?’

‘An American company: MegaCorps, in Dallas. They made an offer to buy me out ... and ‘I said yes.’ Patrick spoke casually as if the decision had been effortless, the simplest in the world to make. ‘They want me to work for them, do some freelance design stuff—’

‘You’re going to work in America?’ Dulcie felt sick. Within milliseconds her brain conjured up images of Patrick and Claire moving into their new home, a Southfork type of house with a huge pool and lots of cowboys striding about in stetsons, calling Claire ma’am and lassoing anything that mooed.

Dulcie blinked but the mental image wouldn’t go away. Now she saw Patrick and Claire hosting their annual barbecue, joining in the hoedown, cheering on the riders in the rodeo and hoisting excited children up on to their shoulders ... children with Patrick’s good looks, Claire’s saintly temperament and high-pitched Texan accents you could grate ice on .. .

‘No.’ Patrick’s voice dragged her back to earth. ‘God, ‘I wouldn’t live in Dallas if you paid me.’

Firmly, he shook his head. ‘I’m staying here.’

Just as well, thought Dulcie, light-headed with relief. He’d be useless at hoeing-down.

‘But why?’ she finally managed to say. ‘What made youdecide to sell the company after you worked so hard to build it up?’

Patrick shrugged again.

‘I just thought it was time to take a break. Work isn’t the be-all and end-all; there are more important things in life. So that’s it, from now on I’m going to keep the hours down, take things easy and enjoy myself.’

Dulcie stared at him, white-faced, wondering if she could possibly be hearing these words issuing forth from this mouth. She wanted to hit him.

‘What?’ said Patrick. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Dulcie spoke through gritted teeth.

‘That’s what ‘I spent the last five years telling you to do. How many times did I say you shouldn’t be working so hard? But did you take a blind bit of notice? Like hell you did. You ignored me—’

‘I know, ‘I know,’ Patrick cut in. He held up his hand. ‘I made a mistake. You were right and I was wrong. There, does that make you happy?’

Was he serious?

Oh yes, great, thought Dulcie wildly, I spend five years telling you not to work so bloody hard, you take no notice at all, our marriage goes down the tubes, then you meet the girl of your dreams and decide you needn’t work so hard after all ... and you seriously expect me to be happy?

The urge to slap was overtaken by the urge to grab Patrick by the lapels, shake him until his teeth rattled, scream hysterically and call him a lot of names, stupid, selfish bastard being the least of them.

Either that or change the subject.

‘Oh yes, ecstatic,’ said Dulcie, tight-lipped. ‘So where’s Claire tonight?’

Off ministering to the poor, probably. Visiting orphans and sick children, something saintly like that. Well, the world needed another Princess Di.

‘Bali.’

Dulcie nodded. Of course, he’d had to stay behind to sign the contract. Bored already with the subject of Saint Claire, she said dully, ‘When are you flying out, tomorrow?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘I’m not going.’

‘Oh.’ Dulcie felt her heart begin to accelerate. ‘Why not?’

‘It’s over. We aren’t seeing each other any more.’

‘Oh!’ By this time her heart was in serious overdrive. In a ridiculous high-pitched voice, she heard herself saying again, like a parrot, ‘Wh-why not?’

Patrick shrugged, avoiding her gaze. His dark eyes were absolutely expressionless.

‘It didn’t feel right, I suppose. She didn’t do anything wrong, ‘I just knew we weren’t going anywhere. Claire’s a lovely girl, but in the end ‘I suppose I realised she just isn’t my type.’

Dulcie was glad she was leaning against the wall. She was in serious danger of keeling over.

‘But ... why not?’ She stared up at Patrick, desperately searching his face for clues. He still wasn’t looking at her. He was, Dulcie realised, concentrating on a particularly riveting patch of wallpaper instead.

‘It’s hard to explain.’ He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.

Oh God, Dulcie thought helplessly, ‘I love your eyebrows so much.

‘Try.’

‘Well,’ Patrick sounded reluctant, ‘she’s always in a good mood. Always cheerful.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Always happy to go along with anything anyone suggests. God, this is ridiculous ... what am I saying?’

Unable to stop herself, Dulcie suggested, ‘That Princess Perfect leaves you cold?’

Heavens, he actually smiled!

‘I suppose so. When someone’s always the same, there are never any surprises.’ Patrick cleared his throat. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is, it just felt ... well, predictable.’

Dulcie bit her lip. Oh, hooray for predictable!

‘So how did Claire take it when you told her it was over?’ As if ‘I care! ‘No – hang on, don’t tell me – she took it wonderfully well. Like a trouper, like a real star.’

‘She did, actually.’ Patrick looked as if he was trying not to laugh. As Dulcie turned and began heading in the direction of the entrance hall he called out, ‘Where are you going now?’

‘Follow me and find out.’

Outside the main doors, at the top of the stone steps, he caught up with her. It was an icy night.

The grounds glistened with frost and when Dulcie spoke, clouds of condensation hung in the still night air.

‘Hang on to this.’

‘Hang on to what?’ Patrick wondered why her hands were behind her back. The next moment he heard the hiss of a zip being undone, and Dulcie’s jade-green satin dress landed in a shimmering pool at her feet.

‘Dulcie—’

‘Sshh!’

Patrick stood and stared as she skipped down the flight of steps, made for the fountain in the middle of the circular gravel drive, kicked off her shoes and jumped in.

The fountain was still flowing, but only just. Icicles had formed from the spouting stone statues and a thin film of ice on the surface of the water crackled and broke up as Dulcie danced in the pale moonlight.

By the time Patrick reached her she was soaked and shivering but her eyes were as bright as stars.

‘P-p-predictable enough for you?’ said Dulcie, through teeth that chattered like castanets.

Heavens, she hadn’t expected ice-cold water to be quite this ice-cold. Even her eyelashes were going numb .. .

She almost fainted with relief when Patrick scooped her out of the fountain, threw his suit jacket around her shoulders, lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back up the steps.

‘You are completely mad.’

‘I love it when you’re m-masterful,’ Dulcie murmured. ‘You Tarzan, me Jane.’

‘Mad.’

She grinned. ‘Better than boring. No – sorry, what was the word you used? The polite way of putting it? Ah yes .. . predictable.’

‘Frostbite, that’s what’s predictable.’ Patrick pushed through the doors. ‘Which way’s the sauna?’

Chapter 56

Once they were inside the sauna, Dulcie – still in his arms – watched him turn the dial up to maximum.

‘I s-suppose I ought to get out of these w-wet things.’ Her teeth were still chattering dramatically.

Patrick glanced down at her wet, brown, goose-pimply body and sodden peacock-blue bra and knickers.

‘Don’t they have any towels in here?’

The towels were kept in the linen cupboard next door. Dulcie opened her eyes wide.

‘Can’t remember where they keep them.’

At least the sauna was heating up fast. Patrick put Dulcie down on one of the wooden benches, sat down beside her and loosened his tie.

‘Am ‘I underdressed or are you overdressed?’ she said lightly. If she could persuade him to take his clothes off too, maybe-

‘Dulcie.’ He turned to look at her, his tone neutral. ‘Why did you jump into the fountain?’

Help, thought Dulcie, nitty-gritty time. Here we go.

‘Why did ‘I jump into the fountain?’ Uh oh, doing the parrot thing again. ‘Well, to prove I wasn’t boring. I mean, how many frozen fountains do you suppose Claire’s had a close encounter with in the last twenty years?’

Patrick ignored this. He undid the top button on his white shirt.

‘But why,’ he said slowly, ‘did you need to prove it?’ Dulcie took a deep breath.

‘Because leaving you was the stupidest thing I ever did in my life. Because ‘I miss you terribly.

Because I still love you,’ she went on, her voice suddenly developing a bit of a wobble. ‘I love you and I wish we’d never split up.’

She flinched as Patrick stood up. He had his back to her now, his body half obscured by the swirling clouds of steam, his dark head slightly bent. He was engrossed in yet another wall, it appeared. This time a pine-panelled one.

‘How long have you felt like this?’ he said finally, still turned away from her.

‘Months.’ Struggling to be honest, Dulcie thought back. ‘Five, six months, I suppose. ‘I tried not to,’ she added resignedly, ‘but it just kept getting worse.’

She saw Patrick shaking his head. Then he turned.

‘So why didn’t you do anything about it? Why didn’t you tell me?’ He spoke quietly. ‘Dulcie, it’s not like you to keep your feelings to yourself. If you want something, you don’t normally stop until you get it.’

Dulcie was beginning to feel at a horrible disadvantage. She’d told him everything, blurted out the lot, and bloody Patrick had ignored it. She’d done the whole humiliating Istill-love-you bit, and here he was, playing twenty sodding questions.

And it wasn’t easy to know for sure, what with all the steam swirling around, getting denser by the second, but he didn’t actually look that happy about it.

‘Come on,’ Patrick said irritably when Dulcie didn’t reply, ‘you didn’t say a word. Why not?’

She glared back at him.

‘It was all Claire’s fault! If she’d been a cow ‘I could have done it ... she wouldn’t have known what had hit her.’ Dulcie bit her lip and thought how much fun it had always been, sparring with Imelda. ‘You see, you can bitch about a bitch,’ she went on, struggling to explain, ‘but you càn’t fight someone who makes Mother Theresa look like Cruella de Vil. Anyway,’ she sighed heavily, ‘everyone kept saying how terrific the two of you were together, how good she was for you. ‘I felt like thebad fairy — I half expected everyone to start hissing and booing whenever ‘I walked into a room. And you were so happy and settled with Claire ... ‘I suppose I just thought you didn’t deserve the hassle. ‘I felt like I’d done enough damage,’ she concluded with a look of resignation. ‘From now on, the least ‘I could do was keep out of your way.’

For a long moment Patrick didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He gazed at Dulcie — in her peacock-blue bra and knickers and with her spiky dark hair still dripping wet from the fountain

— and marvelled at her logic. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that he might have welcomed the hassle ... that hassle from his beautiful, wilful, impulsive estranged wife was what he might have been longing for more than anything else, ever since the day she had walked out of his life.

‘You’ve changed,’ he said at last.

Dulcie hung her head, unsure whether this was good or bad. ‘I know.’

A furious hammering on the door made them both jump. ‘Dulcie! Dulcie, is that you in there?

For heaven’s sake, what are you up to? What’s going on?’

It was Imelda’s voice. Tempted though Dulcie was to say nothing, she knew Imelda would only persuade Eddie to unearth the master key.

‘Nothing,’ she called back. ‘Just ... felt like a bit of peace and quiet, that’s all. Somewhere to sit down ... on my own ...’

‘Ahem,’ Imelda coughed, ‘I’ve got your dress here.’

‘Oh.’

‘Someone found it outside, at the top of the steps.’

‘Ah.’

‘Kind of the nineties version of Cinderella’s slipper,’ Imelda remarked archly.

‘Mm.’

‘And someone else saw you being carried into the sauna.’

‘Did they?’

‘Quite masterfully, by all accounts.’

‘Really.’

‘So tell me who you’re with,’ shrieked Imelda, ‘and what you’re doing in there!’

‘Oh be serious, what do you think we’re doing in here?’

‘But ... but who with?’

‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ shouted Dulcie, ‘he won’t tell me his name.’

They heard Imelda’s footsteps go click-clacking off down the corridor. Patrick frowned, trying to place her voice. It had definitely sounded familiar.

‘Is she blonde?’ he asked Dulcie.

Good heavens, he was looking interested! What was this, ditch the old girlfriend and wheel on the new?

‘You wouldn’t like her,’ Dulcie said hurriedly. ‘She’s not your type. She’s even more boring than Claire.’

Amused, Patrick said, ‘Don’t you mean predictable?’

‘You’d hate her.’ Rattling on, Dulcie ticked each point off on her fingers. ‘She gets her legs waxed every Monday at ten thirty ... plucks her eyebrows every Thursday night ...’

Still trying to identify the voice, Patrick said, ‘Does she have terrific legs?’

. a bucket of fat liposuctioned out of each thigh every September ...’

‘How old is she, around thirty?’

‘... has her face lifted every April.’ Dulcie shook her head sorrowfully. ‘She might look thirty but she’s really seventy-three.’

‘Oh well,’ said Patrick, ‘sounds like you’re right, then. Definitely not my type.’

‘Oh hell, listen to me! I’m lying again ... being a bitch,’ Dulcie blurted out. ‘Dammit, none of those things are true. ‘I didn’t even mean to say them – they just came out!’

‘Dulcie—’

‘Oh, it’s no good,’ she wailed, burying her face in her hands, ‘Talk about a hopeless case :.. ‘I was so sure I could do it ... tell the truth, always be nice ... and how long did ‘I last? About thirty seconds, that’s how long. God, I’m pathetic.’’Dulcie, are you crying?’

‘No wonder you weren’t bothered when we split up.’ Dulcie’s voice broke. She kept her fingers clamped over her eyes. ‘I bet you were glad to get rid of me. I’m just an all-round hideous person

—’

‘Dulcie, I know you aren’t crying.’ Reaching over, Patrick prised her fingers away from her face.

‘See?’ She stared at him, dry-eyed and anguished. ‘I’m still doing it, even now.’

‘Why?’

‘Because ‘I don’t know why you’re here,’ Dulcie yelled, ‘and it’s driving me MAD!’ She stopped and hung her head. This time she was speaking the truth. Quietly, avoiding his gaze, she whispered the words again. ‘Because I don’t know why you’re here.’

Looking at the ground, she didn’t see it coming. When it happened, the kiss caught her totally unawares.

Delirious with joy, Dulcie clung to him. Now the tears running down her cheeks were real. She never wanted the kiss to end, she wouldn’t let it end ..

‘You’re strangling me,’ said Patrick gently.

‘Sorry.’ She hid her face in his neck, breathing in the heavenly, unique Patrick-type smell of him. God, if Calvin Klein could bottle that smell ...

‘Okay,’ Patrick’s mouth was against her hair, ‘shall I tell you what you are?’

In an instant Dulcie’s blood ran cold. The kiss had made her think everything was going to be all right; it had made her happy. Now, clearly it was time for the pay-off.

Her voice was muffled.

‘Will ‘I like it?’

‘Probably not.’

But he was going to say it anyway, so what choice did she have?

Dulcie shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’

‘You’re tactless.’

Pressed tightly against his shoulder, Dulcie nodded. ‘Hopelessly impatient.’

Nod.

‘You never think before you act.’

Nod.

‘You eat far too many salt and vinegar crisps.’

Dulcie frowned. How could anyone eat too many salt and vinegar crisps?

‘And you’re always so sure you know best,’ he went on. Another nod.

‘The trouble is, despite all that,’ Patrick said slowly, ‘you’re still my type.’

‘Dulcie, Dulcie, guess what?’

Imelda again. Like the Terminator, she was back.

Dulcie smiled at Patrick, rolled her eyes and carried on unbuttoning his white shirt.

The hammering on the door redoubled.

‘DULCIE, SPEAK TO ME AT ONCE THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.’

‘Probably found a bit of cellulite,’ whispered Dulcie. She finished removing Patrick’s shirt, crumpled it into a ball, flung it over her shoulder and called out, ‘What?’

‘We-ell, I’ve just managed to find out who that gorgeous man was, the one I was drooling over earlier.’ Imelda sounded excited.

Some emergency.

‘And?’ said Dulcie, unfastening Patrick’s trousers and deftly pulling the belt out through the loops.

‘You’ll never believe this ... it’s your ex-husband!’ Dulcie and Patrick looked at each other.

Dulcie said, ‘What?’

‘I know, isn’t it a scream! Talk about great minds think alike! But listen, it’s all over between you two — ‘I mean, that’s ancient history now — so you wouldn’t mind if ‘I have a crack at him, would you?’

Dulcie tried not to smile.

Patrick pulled her towards him, unfastened her wet bra and lobbed it in the general direction of his shirt.

‘I don’t know,’ Dulcie called out. ‘You might not be his type.’ Patrick’s trousers joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

‘Ha! Bet I am.’ Imelda sounded smug.

Tiring of the interruption, Patrick glared through the swirling steam at the door.

‘Go away,’ he told Imelda bluntly, ‘you’re not.’

‘You should be nicer to her,’ murmured Dulcie when Imelda had stalked off.

‘Why?’

‘She’s got my dress.’

In the dim distance, a clock struck twelve. They heard people cheering, hooters hooting and a lot of party poppers going off like fireworks.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Patrick, tracing the outline of his beautiful wife’s mouth with one finger.

Dulcie’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t imagine a happier Christmas than this. And the weird thing was, maybe they really had needed this year apart, because how else could they have discovered that the grass wasn’t necessarily greener on the other side?

I’ve changed, thought Dulcie, I’ve grown up.

And Patrick? Well, he’s changed too. He’s realised that working too long and too hard isn’t always the most important thing in life, and that sweet, kind, saintly, perfect women aren’t necessarily the kind you want to share your life with, that sometimes a slightly imperfect one is more fun . . .

By this time there were no more clothes left to take off. With a bewitching smile, Dulcie pushed Patrick gently down on to the floor and slid, naked, on top of him.

‘Now give me my present,’ she said.

* * *

‘It’s no good,’ sighed Pru.

Eddie reached across the bed to her. She was wearing the indigo satin bra and knickers, the topaz-and-emerald bracelet and the kingfisher-green shirt he had given her, and the bedroom was strewn with presents, glossy wrapping paper and ribbons. It was eleven o’clock on Christmas morning, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and Pru was looking worried.

‘Look, ‘I won’t be offended.’ Eddie rushed to reassure her. ‘If you don’t like anything you can take it back to the shop. Which one’s no good anyway? Is it the bracelet?’

Pru smiled at him.

‘I told you, the bracelet’s perfect. ‘I love all my presents. It’s Dulcie I’m worried about. She just vanished last night ... How do I know she’s all right?’

Eddie stroked the back of her neck. The skin was like warm silk but the muscles beneath it were knotted with tension. He had been looking forward, more than anything, to spending the day alone with Pru, but if she wasn’t happy, he wasn’t happy.

He shifted Arthur out of the way, leaned over and picked up the phone.

‘What’s her number?’

‘You’re going to ring Dulcie?’

‘If you invite her over, she’ll only say she doesn’t want to be a gooseberry,’ Eddie explained. ‘If

‘I do it, she’ll know we both want her here.’

Love and gratitude shone in Pru’s grey eyes.

‘You are brilliant.’

She watched Eddie dial and listen. Less than a minute later he replaced the receiver.

‘What?’ said Pru, more agitated than ever. ‘No reply? Oh God, what if she’s done something stupid?’

‘Message on the machine.’ Eddie cleared his throat and attempted an impression of Dulcie: ‘

"Hi! Happy Christmas – I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m having totally fantastic sex with my husband, but if you’d care to leave a message I’ll get back to you.

Don’t hold your breath, though – we shall definitely be busy for some time." ‘ Pru stared at Eddie.

‘I don’t understand. Dulcie’s having totally fantastic sex with her husband? With Patrick?’

‘Well.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘That’s what it says.’

‘But ... But ...’

He dialled again and held the receiver out to Pru.

‘Here, you have a listen. It’s either an old message,’ Eddie said with a grin, ‘or a very new one.’

Chapter 57

The comforting thing about staying with your parents was you could slob around just as you’d done as a teenager and they weren’t shocked.

It was mid-afternoon on New Year’s Eve and miserable outside. Liza, stretched out on the sofa and eating Sugar Puffs out of the packet, was watching the closing minutes of Brief Encounter and wishing that just this once Celia Johnson would throw her library book at her dreary husband and run off into the black and white sunset with Trevor Howard.

Margaret Lawson appeared in the sitting room doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel.

‘Silly woman, should have grabbed her chance while she had it,’ she observed briskly. ‘Should have gone off with the doctor.’

Liza scooped out another handful of Sugar Puffs and crammed them into her mouth.

‘Careful,’ said Margaret Lawson, ‘you’re getting them on your new jumper.’

Liza was wearing the turquoise and white zigzag-patterned jumper because her mother had knitted it for her and when someone gives you a jumper for Christmas you have to wear it, even if it does make you look like Roger Whittaker. Personally Liza felt a few Sugar Puffs dotted here and there amongst the zigzags didn’t go amiss.

‘Molly McKnight’s having a few friends round to her house this evening.’

‘Didn’t know she had that many,’ said Liza. Heavens, now she even sounded like a teenager. It must be the Sugar Puffs. ‘Well, she’s invited us,’ said her mother, ‘if you’d like to go.’

Molly McKnight’s booming voice still made Liza quail. Nothing had ever been said, but she had an uncomfortable feeling her parents’ eagle-eyed next-door neighbour knew exactly what had been going on in the back garden that night.

‘I don’t think so.’ Liza didn’t want to socialise anyway. The whole point of coming down here to Devon had been to avoid other people and the need to put on a brave face. Especially on New Year’s Eve.

‘Not even for an hour or two?’ Her mother looked disappointed. ‘We wouldn’t have to stay until midnight.’

‘Mum, you and Dad go. I’ll be fine. Honestly, Id rather be on my—’

‘No, no,’ Margaret Lawson cut in hurriedly, ‘we wouldn’t dream of doing that. Goodness, it was only a suggestion – you know us, we’re just as happy staying here.’

Liza hid a smile. So her mother had read the article in this morning’s Mail too, the one about more people committing suicide on New Year’s Eve than on any other night of the year.

‘Mum, I’m not going to kill myself.’

Margaret Lawson tried to react as though the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.

‘Liza, what an idea! Of course you’re not. I’m just saying we don’t want to go to one of Molly’s silly parties anyway. They’re fearfully dull. All she ever talks about is education cuts and bringing back the birch. And she serves home-made wine.’

When the doorbell rang an hour later, Liza was too engrossed in The Great Escape to answer it.

Maybe this time Steve McQueen could squeeze a few extra revs out of his bike and make it over that wire fence.

Vaguely she heard her mother, still busy in the kitchen, mutter, ‘Now who’s that at the blasted door?’

Moments later, the sitting room door swung open. A great waft of aftershave filled the room.

Liza, who was delving into a newly opened box of Cheerios, twisted round to have a look at whoever had just walked in.

She froze in mid-delve when she saw who it was. ‘Oh my God.’

‘I’ve got the Bentley outside,’ Leo Berenger announced. When Liza didn’t react he heaved an irritated sigh. ‘Well, come on then, woman, get a move on, will you? We haven’t got all bloody day.’

‘I phoned your friend Dulcie,’ he said brusquely. ‘She told me where you were. What are those things stuck to your front?’

‘Sugar Puffs.’ Liza picked them off her sweater. Far too agitated to eat them – her stomach was churning like a washing machine – she clutched them in the palm of her hand.

‘That’s a terrible sweater.’

‘Thanks. I already know.’

The Bentley raced on along the narrow country lanes. Leo Berenger clearly didn’t like to hang about. If he was doing sixty miles an hour now, thought Liza, toes curling, what kind of speed was he planning on when they hit the motorway?

She gazed out of the window at the stark black outlines of the trees whizzing past and wondered if this was really happening.

‘We flew back from Washington this morning.’ Leo interrupted her muddled thoughts.

So that’s where he’d taken Kit. Liza breathed out slowly, forcing herself to relax. Her toes were now gripped with cramp. ‘Why Washington?’

‘The doctors here couldn’t make me any cast-iron promises. Kit’s insides were a mess.’ As he spoke, Leo kept his gaze on the road ahead. ‘This surgeon was recommended to me. He’s one of the best thoracic guys in the world ... and Kit was in a bad way,’ he added grimly. ‘He needed the best.’

‘But he’s going to be all right?’ whispered Liza.

Leo Berenger nodded.

‘It’s been a rough couple of months. He’s been through a hell of a lot, but they reckon he’ll make a full recovery.’ The relief was indescribable.

Liza gazed down at the gluey mess of crushed Sugar Puffs in her hand. Light-headed, she addressed Leo Berenger’s grim profile.

‘Okay. So ... so why am ‘I here with you now?’

He blasted his horn at an old woman dithering in a Morris Minor, then leaned across and lit a cigarette.

‘I blamed you for what happened,’ he said finally, with characteristic bluntness. ‘If Kit had died,

‘I daresay I’d have carried on blaming you. But he didn’t die. He’s come through it, thank God.

And he’s still as bloody stubborn as his father.’ At this point Liza caught a glimmer of a smile.

‘All he talked about – when he could talk – was marrying you. Trying to tell him to forget you,’

Leo said gruffly, ‘was about as effective as persuading the Pope to use a condom.’ He cast a sidelong glance at Liza. ‘In the end I realised one of us had to give way.’

She shook her head, still dazed by what was happening. ‘I don’t imagine giving way is your style.’

Leo Berenger’s smile was brief. He indicated left and swung on to the M5.

‘Kit’s been through enough. And nothing on earth was going to make him change his mind about you. ‘I can’t keep the two of you apart any longer.’ He paused, cleared his throat and said reluctantly, ‘I’m sorry I didn’t let you know where he was, but...’

‘I understand. You were only doing what you thought best.’ Shades of Dulcie, thought Liza; always so sure she was doing the right thing, more often than not getting it horribly wrong.

‘He’s my son. He means everything to me. ‘I love him.’

‘I know. ‘I do too.’

A sign flashed past: Bath 85 miles.

‘It’ll be another hour yet.’ Leo put his foot down. ‘Grab some sleep if you want to.’

As if. Liza bit her lip, trying hard not to smile. ‘I won’t sleep,’ she said.

The nurse hired by Leo to look after Kit while he was still bedbound met them at the bottom of the staircase.

‘He’s been asleep for the last hour,’ she told them. ‘The flight tired him out. If you want to wait down here I’ll let you know when he wakes up.’

‘Could I see him anyway?’ Liza was trembling, holding on to the banister. ‘I’ll be quiet.’

The nurse glanced at Leo Berenger. He nodded.

‘You go on up,’ he told Liza. ‘Turn right at the top of the stairs. Third door on the left. Pauline, you can make me a coffee.’

Behind her, Liza heard Pauline saying with exaggerated patience, ‘Mr Berenger, my job is to take care of your son. I’m not employed to run around making you coffee.’

‘All right, all right,’ Leo sounded irritable, ‘make one for yourself then. And just do one for me as well while you’re there.’

Liza opened the door, slid noiselessly into the bedroom and closed the door again behind her.

Kit was still asleep.

A splayed-open Dick Francis paperback lay on the chair pulled up next to the bed. Removing it, Liza sat down and gazed at Kit’s face.

He was thinner, and paler, but she had expected that. What she hadn’t imagined was that he would look even more heartstoppingly handsome than she remembered. Every curve and angle of his face seemed somehow more perfect. His hair seemed glossier and thicker. Even his dark eyelashes seemed longer.

Liza realised she was holding her breath. She mustn’t disturb him. Still shaking, she leaned forward, closer to the bed.

Kit opened his eyes.

He blinked.

‘Are you having an affair with Noel Edmonds?’

‘No.’

‘So why are you wearing one of his jumpers?’

The smile was the same. It was still quirky and totally irresistible, and it still had the ability to make her stomach turn helpless somersaults.

Liza sat up, pulled the turquoise and white zigzagged sweater over her head and put it on the bedside table.

‘That’s better.’ Kit eyed her vest, appreciating the way the black Lycra clung to her golden breasts.

‘I’d be careful if ‘I were you,’ said Liza, her voice not quite steady. ‘If I tell my mother you commented on my jumper she’ll knit one for you too.’

Kit smiled again. Then he reached for her hand. ‘Are you really here?’

‘I’m really here.’

‘How?’

‘Your father came down to Devon. We’ve just driven back.’

‘My father.’ Kit sounded amused. He shook his head slightly. ‘Can you believe that man? He kidnapped me. Did you even know I was in America?’

‘No. No one knew,’ said Liza. ‘Not even the police. They were mad as hell.’

‘I couldn’t even phone you.’ Kit stroked her hand. ‘I tried to bribe the nurses but he’d got to them first. It was like being in Colditz. ‘I swear, ‘I used to dream of tunnelling out.’

‘You’re out now,’ whispered Liza.

He reached up and touched the side of her face. She leaned against his hand, knowing he could feel the pulse hammering frantically away in her jaw.

‘Something else ‘I used to dream about. Kissing you again.’

‘Are you up to it?’

‘I don’t care if I’m bloody up to it or not. Just get on with it,’ Kit murmured. ‘It’s New Year’s Eve, isn’t it? Kissing the woman you love is what you do on New Year’s Eve. Except’ — he hesitated — ‘hang on, let me take that Sugar Puff out of your hair first ...’