Mixed doubles

Marion, luckily for her, had followed her mother’s side of the family; her eyebrows were narrow, her nose pert.

It didn’t feel odd to Pru, talking to Terry Lambert on the phone, but she wondered if it was strange for him. After all, she knew a lot about her mystery client but he knew next to nothing about her.

In fact, Terry didn’t appear to find it strange. He sounded charming, and thoroughly relaxed.

‘... the thing is, I’m going to be working unpredictable hours,’ Pru explained, ‘so I won’t always be able to manage Tuesday afternoons. If it’s a problem—’

‘No problem,’ Terry replied easily. ‘I’m at work between eight and six, five days a week, so it doesn’t affect me. Come round any time you like.’

Relieved, Pru said, ‘Thanks.’

‘I’m the one who should be thanking you.’ He sounded amused. ‘I can’t believe what a difference you’ve made to the place.’

Pru felt herself going shy. Hopeless when it came to compliments, she mumbled her goodbyes and rang off.

He had definitely sounded nice though. Maybe when the time came to start thinking about a divorce she would ask Terry Lambert to handle it.

Oh God. Divorce.

Just not yet, thought Pru, swallowing panic. Not yet.

* * *

Liza’s editor was pleased with her. Beaming, he emptied the folder of letters on to his desk.

‘Great stuff, sweetheart. Controversy, that’s what we want. You caused quite a stir, you know.

And these are only the ones who’ve bothered to write.’

Liza picked up a couple of the letters, skimmed briefly through them – one, she noticed, was addressed to Ms Super-bitch – and dropped them back on to the desk.

‘What are you going to do?’

‘Bloody print ‘em.’ He reached for his jacket. ‘Come on, Superbitch, I’ll buy you lunch.’

Dulcie was doing her make-up when she saw Patrick’s car pull up outside. She smiled at herself in the mirror, confident that she had never looked better. This was what six days of extensive sunbedding, a brilliant ultra-short haircut, an even shorter lime-green dress and the promise, at long last, of a bit of serious fun did for you.

She sincerely hoped Patrick would notice and be impressed. He rang the doorbell like a stranger.

‘What happened to your key?’ said Dulcie, puzzled, as she opened the door.

He was wearing a deep-blue polo shirt and jeans. Despite the sun blazing down, Patrick never wore dark glasses, which he regarded as an affectation. Sunglasses were for cissies, according to Patrick.

Dulcie, who whipped hers on at practically the first hint of daylight, owned at least a dozen pairs.

They made her feel so Hollywood.

‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.’ Patrick followed her into the hall.

‘Nothing to interrupt.’ Yet, thought Dulcie, because you never knew, today could be the day.

‘Anyway, I just need to pick up my dinner jacket. Won’t be a sec.’

We might be separated but we can still be friendly, Dulcie reminded herself. She waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come back down.

Any man looks good in a dinner jacket. Patrick had always looked gorgeous.

‘Going somewhere nice?’ she asked ultra-casually when he reappeared.

Patrick shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Some charity thing, a dinner-dance.’

‘Not like you to be vague.’ Dulcie gave him a teasing look. ‘Come to that, it’s not like you to go to dinner-dances. You’ve always been far too busy.’

Dig, dig.

Looking deeply uncomfortable, Patrick shifted from one foot to the other.

Dulcie’s intrigue deepened.

‘Is it work? Or are you seeing someone else?’

His dark eyes narrowed as he gazed with intense concentration out of the hall window. Finally he said, ‘It’s allowed, isn’t it? You were the one who didn’t want us to be married any more.’

Astonished, feeling as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, Dulcie gasped, ‘You are seeing someone else?’

Patrick shook his head.

‘I’m not. I’ve just been invited to this thing tonight. I’m going with a girl.’

‘Who’ — Dulcie cleared her throat — ‘who is she, anyone I know?’

Another shake. Followed by a sigh.

‘Look, it feels pretty weird being single again. I’m not used to it yet. All this is down to Bibi, if you must know.’

‘Oh.’ Dulcie was confused.

‘Some chap invited her to the dance. She hasn’t been out much since . .. well, since James left ...

so she was um-ing and ah-ing a bit. Anyway, this chap happened to mention he had a daughter.

Bibi said something — God knows what — aboutme. He said how about if the four of us went together ... and the next thing you know it’s all bloody well arranged.’

The look on his face said it all. Dulcie started to giggle.

‘You’re double-dating. With your mother.’

‘Don’t laugh, it isn’t funny.’

‘This girl could be awful. She could be a complete dog.’

‘Better bloody not be.’

Dulcie’s kicked-in-the-stomach feeling had gone, magically disappeared. The thought of Patrick actually getting involved with someone else had been a bit weird, but this was okay. This wasn’t involvement, this was a blind date.

‘She might be stunning.’ Dulcie felt she could afford to be generous. She still hoped the girl would be a dog, but only because the idea of Patrick being set up on a blind date by his own mother was such a scream. Besides, Dulcie thought smugly, if the girl was so stunning what was she doing letting her dad fix her up?

Dulcie had more important things on her mind anyway, because today was the day Liam was due to arrive at Brunton Manor. At three o’clock this afternoon.

And he wasn’t married. In a rare burst of practicality she had checked with Eddie Hammond.

It was as well to find these things out in advance, Dulcie felt. Imagine wrapping yourself dramatically around the long-lost man of your dreams, only to be peeled off and hear him say,

‘Let me introduce you to the wife and kids ...’

At ten to three, Dulcie sauntered out on to the terrace with a drink and a book — Pride and Prejudice, because she didn’t want Liam to think she was the kind of girl who only read airport novels.

Cutler and Gross sunglasses in place and bare, freshly pedicured feet up on the chair opposite, she began to read.

The great thing about dark glasses was you could look as if you were lost in a book when in reality you weren’t missing a trick. Like the sight of Imelda Page-Weston three tables away, surreptitiously spraying the backs of her knees with Tresor and making sure she had more cleavage on show than anyone else. Silly moo.

Eddie was evidently giving Liam the full guided tour, introducing him to members en route. By three thirty Dulcie’s feverish anticipation had begun to flag somewhat. Too excited to sleep last night, too hyped-up to eat anything today, she now found herself struggling to stay awake. What with the afternoon sun beating down on her head and two glasses of Frascati nestling comfortably in an otherwise empty stomach, it was a job keeping her eyes open. Anyway, thought Dulcie with a yawn, what was the hurry? Liam wasn’t paying a fleeting visit, he’d still be here next week, next month, whenever she woke up ...

Chapter 18

The bad news about dark glasses is the way people can’t tell when you’re asleep.

Seeing Dulcie apparently engrossed in the book on her lap — and recalling her earlier interest in Liam’s marital status — Eddie said, ‘Now there’s someone I must introduce you to.’

Leading the way across the terrace he announced jovially, ‘Here we are, then! Dulcie, meet our new tennis pro, Liam McPherson. Liam, this is Dulcie Ross. Dulcie?’ When she didn’t move, he hesitated, peering down at her more closely. ‘Dulcie, are you awake?’

Jerked into consciousness, Dulcie’s eyes snapped open. Seeing Eddie looming over her, red-faced and shouting her name, she snatched off her sunglasses and struggled to sit upright.

Her confusion was only momentary. As she put her hand up to her mouth, checking she hadn’t been dribbling in her sleep, Dulcie’s gaze fixed on the tall blond figure standing behind Eddie Hammond.

Hastily she wiped her mouth. Her sunglasses clattered to the ground. Jane Austen was already lying there, face down, next to her shoes.

Bugger, bugger, thought Dulcie, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. She had planned on smiling enigmatically, like Ava Gardner, then slowly and sensually removing her glasses so that Liam McPherson could admire her for a few seconds before doing a double-take and gasping,

‘My God, it’s you...!’

From then on he would be too awestruck, too overcome by emotion to make much sense. When he eventually stopped kissing her, and she was free to speak again, Dulcie would simply say to Eddie, ‘We knew each other once. A long time ago.’ Then, there would be more hugs, more kissing, and hopefully a convincing explanation for his lack of correspondence after Tenby. Like his parents had suddenly emigrated to Australia, dragging Liam with them and ruthlessly ignoring his desperate pleas to stay behind .. .

Something along those lines anyway.

‘Sorry, darling, didn’t realise you’d crashed out.’ Grunting as he bent down, Eddie retrieved her glasses. ‘They aren’t broken. Jane Austen, eh? Dulcie, I’m impressed. Had you down as more of a Jackie Collins girl myself Anyway, where were we? Ah yes – Dulcie, this is Liam McPherson.’

Grinning, Liam held out his hand.

‘Hi. Good to meet you.’

‘Dulcie’s one of our most regular ... er, regulars,’ Eddie said with some pride.

‘Terrific. I hope we’ll have a game soon.’ Nodding in the direction of the tennis courts, Liam swished an imaginary racket. ‘Are you entered for the doubles tournament, Dulcie?’

Not a flicker of recognition. Not a double-take in sight. Dulcie told herself that this was actually a good thing, because who wanted to look like a fifteen-year-old with chip-shop hair and rampant acne anyway? Not being recognised was proof that she had changed for the better.

It wasn’t the most promising of starts, but at least she hadn’t dribbled in her sleep. As she took Liam’s hand – heavens, what a firm shake - Dulcie gave him her mysterious Ava Gardner smile and said, ‘Actually, we’ve met before. Many years ago.’

‘Really?’

Liam was smiling too, but she could tell he was being polite; he clearly wasn’t racking his brains to remember when or where this might have been. He was a tennis pro, after all. He had once, albeit flukily, reached the quarter-finals at Wimbledon.

During his years on the circuit he must have met thousands of devoted female fans. He had probably signed so many autographs it was a wonder he had enough strength left in his arm to hold a racket.

‘Sixteen years ago,’ prompted Dulcie. ‘In Tenby.’

Liam frowned. He’d never played a tournament in Tenby. Hang on, sixteen years ago ... ?

‘You were there on holiday with your friends. I was staying in the cottage next to yours.’

Light dawned.

‘You’re kidding me!’ Liam pointed at her in amazement. ‘You were the skinny little kid ... oh, what was your surname, something totally weird ...?’

‘Fackrell,’ said Dulcie. God, it was a wonder she hadn’t developed a massive complex about that name. One sniggering clique at school had called her Fuckall Fackrell. Everyone else had called her Mackerel.

Marrying Patrick had been no hardship at all.

‘I’m Dulcie Ross now.’

‘We used to send you into the nettles to fetch our lost tennis balls,’ Liam recalled. ‘Your arms and legs were covered in stings but you swore they didn’t hurt. And on the night before you left, the other lads bet me a fiver I wouldn’t kiss you.’

Eddie roared with laughter. Dulcie tried hard to look as if she couldn’t remember this bit.

‘And did you?’ said Eddie.

‘Damn right I did. We’re talking sixteen years ago. In those days a fiver was a lot of money.’

Rather beginning to regret this trip down memory lane, Dulcie decided a detour was in order.

She said brightly, ‘And now here we are, all these years later. How are you settling—?’

‘Hang on, didn’t you write me a truckload of letters?’ Looking delighted, Liam nodded his head.

‘It’s all coming back to me now. I think you had a bit of a crush on me, Dulcie Fackrell. Is that so?’

This was mortifying stuff, but what could she do, throw a tantrum? Mentally gritting her teeth, Dulcie gave in with good grace.

‘Of course I did. I slaved over those letters,’ she protested. ‘I suppose you laughed your head off and showed them to all your friends, you heartless beast.’

‘Well, maybe. It was kind of funny at the time.’ Liam’s grin was apologetic. ‘I mean, you weren’t exactly Debbie Harry, were you?’

This was true, but Dulcie still wished he’d stop harping on about it.

‘I was fifteen years old.’

‘Little Dulcie Fackrell.’

‘Ross now,’ she reminded him. Then, in case he got the wrong idea, ‘I was married, but we’ve been separated for some time.’ It was Eddie Hammond’s turn to look amazed.

‘Some time?’ He raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘Darling, it’s only been a couple of months!’

Cheers, Eddie.

‘Ten weeks,’ said Dulcie. ‘Anyway, the marriage was over long before that. You know when things aren’t right.’

‘Hey, I hope you weren’t upset when I never wrote back,’ said Liam.

‘I can’t remember.’ Dulcie attempted the Liza Lawson smoulder. For good measure, she quivered a provocative lower lip. ‘But if I was, I forgive you.’

He grinned. ‘What a relief.’

‘We’ve both grown up since then.’

‘Well, you certainly have.’

The look he gave her this time was frankly appreciative. Hooray, thought Dulcie, getting somewhere at last. She hoped Imelda was watching and taking note.

‘Right,’ said Eddie Hammond, rubbing his hands together in that’s-enough-of-that fashion,

‘we’d better be moving on. Still plenty of people waiting to be introduced. Maybe catch you later, sweetheart.’

‘There is that small chance.’ Dulcie nodded vaguely. As ifa wagonload of wild horses stood a chance of dragging her out of the bar tonight.

‘See you around.’ Liam winked as he turned to leave.

‘If I do bump into you later,’ she casually called after him, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

‘This is going to be awful.’ Patrick spoke through gritted teeth as he and Bibi made their way up the crimson-carpeted staircase of the Aston Hotel, where the dinner dance was being held. They were supposed to be meeting their dates in the Kavanagh Bar, directly ahead of them. The place was heaving already. Patrick flinched as a girl with yellow teeth and popping-out eyes turned and beamed expectantly at him. Oh please God, don’t let that be her .. .

‘There they are,’ exclaimed Bibi, veering to the left and waving.

Patrick could hardly bear to look. He felt sick, and hopelessly unprepared. He glimpsed a flash of turquoise satin, a skinny girl plastered in more make-up than a Come Dancing contestant.

‘Not her.’ Observing the expression of undiluted horror on his face, Bibi pointed past the vision in turquoise. ‘The one in the red.’

Having performed the necessary introductions, Leo Berenger bore Bibi off to the bar, ostensibly to help him with the drinks but in reality to give Patrick and his daughter a few uninterrupted minutes together.

‘Look, I’m really sorry about this,’ sighed Claire Berenger as soon as they were alone. ‘I don’t know how much pressure you were put under to come here tonight, but I can guess. I’m thirty years old and my father’s beginning to panic.’ She paused and pulled a face. ‘Actually, that’s wrong. He’s been panicking for the last five years. As far as he’s concerned, his daughter is up there on that shelf, in serious need of dusting. I’m afraid I’m breaking his heart.’

Miraculously, Patrick felt himself begin to relax. Maybe the evening wasn’t going to be quite such an ordeal after all. Claire Berenger had a sense of humour. She was no dog either. With her glossy brown hair fastened in a plait, her pale skin and clear grey eyes, she exuded health and vigour. She was attractive in an unflashy way. Her red velvet dress was plain but close-fitting enough to reveal a good figure. She looked like an off-duty gym mistress. At school, thought Patrick, she would definitely have been house prefect.

Amused by Claire’s world-weary air, he said, ‘Has he done this before?’

She gave him a look.

‘My father’s mission in life is to get me up that aisle. Then, nine months later, into the nearest maternity ward. I’m afraid his idea of sexual equality is letting the little woman choose the colour of the wallpaper for the downstairs loo.’

‘I’m already married,’ Patrick apologised.

‘You are? Heavens, where’s your wife?’

‘Well, we separated a few weeks ago.’

Claire said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, keeping a straight face, she added, ‘Still, my father will be pleased. He probably thinks that’s my only hope now, catching some poor chap on the rebound.’

Patrick smiled, charmed by her self-deprecating manner. He had, after all, just emerged from a seven-year marriage. And they didn’t come much less self-deprecating than Dulcie.

‘Anyway,’ Claire glanced over her shoulder, checking that her father wasn’t making his way back, ‘I felt I should explain. Now you needn’t be embarrassed when he starts dropping hints the size of Land Rovers. All we have to do is humour him.’

She was an accountant, Patrick discovered over dinner. And an excellent cook, Leo Berenger informed him proudly. Oh yes, she knew how to cook, his daughter. She would make some lucky man a truly wonderful wife.

As their coffee was being served, Claire leaned over and whispered in Patrick’s ear, ‘He’s slipping. He hasn’t told you yet about my child-bearing hips.’

She was wearing Chanel 19. Patrick breathed it in.

‘We shouldn’t be making fun of him. He’s just a proud father.’

‘Who can’t wait to be a proud grandfather,’ murmured Claire. ‘Go on, I dare you. Tell him you’ve had the snip.’

Chapter 19

Dulcie was busy being vivacious at the bar when Liam McPherson finally made his way over to her corner of it.

He appeared before her, wearing a white Nike tennis shirt and black tracksuit bottoms and looking — if it were possible — even more tanned and super-fit than he had earlier.

‘We meet again,’ he told Dulcie with a grin.

‘Amazing. Aren’t some coincidences just too spooky for words?’

‘What about that drink you promised me?’

‘I lied,’ said Dulcie. ‘I don’t buy men drinks. They buy them for me.’

Liam laughed.

‘You have changed. You always used to buy me drinks.’

Dulcie remembered running to the corner shop, counting out her precious pocket money and dashing back to the tennis court where Liam and his friends lay sprawled on the grass, waiting.

‘Cherry Corona doesn’t count.’

His tone was affectionate.

‘You were a funny little kid.’

She ran an index finger idly around the rim of her almost empty glass.

‘Like I said, I’ve grown up.’

One eyebrow was raised. Liam smiled his havoc-making smile.

‘Indeed. And I’m beginning to think we have some serious catching-up to do.’

While Dulcie’s stomach was still churning with pleasure, he attracted the barman’s eye and had her vodka and tonic topped up. Somewhat alarmingly, he ordered a pint of orange juice for himself.

‘So tell me what you get up to these days. You said you were divorced, didn’t you?’ Liam looked sympathetic. ‘Any children?’

Dulcie loved the way he spoke to her, giving her his undivided attention. It was exhilarating, being made to feel you were the most fascinating and desirable girl in the world, after years of neglect.

That was the difference between him and Patrick, Dulcie realised. Liam was interested in her as a person. He actually cared.

‘Almost divorced,’ she fibbed. ‘And no, no children.’

He nodded and put his arm out, shielding her back from a carelessly held cigarette. Dulcie felt absurdly protected. ‘Career girl, is that it? What line of work are you in?’

‘No line of work,’ she said with a playful smile. ‘Just ..

you know, idle rich.’

‘Not too idle, by the look of things.’ Liam cast a professional eye over her slender body. He ran the flat of his hand over Dulcie’s bare shoulder, nodding approval. ‘Taking care of yourself, that’s good ... although those deltoids could do with a bit of working on. What’s your regime?’

Dulcie said, ‘Sorry?’

‘Your keep-fit regime.’ Liam tilted his head, studying her through narrowed eyes. Dulcie felt like a racehorse being given the once-over. ‘Eddie said you spend a lot of time here. Are you lifting weights?’

Dulcie returned his speculative gaze. Her keep-fit regime went something like: Get out of bed ...

eat cake . .. lie in bath ... eat chocolate Hob Nobs.

After that she generally got dressed and went out to lunch. But something told her Liam wouldn’t be too impressed. ‘Not every day,’ she said truthfully. ‘I don’t actually have a ... a regime, as such. Just a few sit-ups here, a bit of .. um ... jogging there.’

‘Exercise,’ announced Liam. ‘Exercise is the key. A healthy body is a happy body, am I right?’

‘Oh, yes.’ Dulcie nodded, unable to tear her eyes from his muscular brown arms.

‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ Liam confided, ‘it’s a woman who lets herself go.’

Dulcie, who would never let herself go – she would rather die than step outside her front door minus mascara – nodded more confidently this time.

‘People who don’t take care of themselves make me sick,’ Liam went on. ‘I mean, what is wrong with them? They stuff themselves with the wrong food, can’t be bothered to exercise and then have the nerve to complain when their arteries clog up.’

Dulcie looked suitably outraged. Inwardly, she was experiencing mild stirrings of panic. Gosh, he was serious.

Liam’s smile was rueful. ‘I’m sorry, it just bugs me. I don’t understand people who aren’t interested in looking after themselves. I mean, if they can’t be bothered to respect their own bodies, why the hell should I respect them?’

This was ominous stuff. Worse still, the harder Dulcie tried not to think about salt and vinegar crisps, the more she craved some. Hastily she changed the subject.

‘Tell me about you. Tell me all about the tennis circuit. I bet it was brilliant fun ...’

Luckily it worked. Liam finished his pint of orange juice, ordered another and began regaling Dulcie with stories. A natural raconteur with a wonderful line in self-deprecating humour, this was much better. It must be the Irish blood in him, Dulcie decided dreamily. Liam really did have it all: looks, wit and charm by the bucket load. She could gaze into those dark-blue eyes, admire that amazing body and listen to that melting Dublin-accented voice of his all night.

* * *

Leo Berenger was okay. He was polite, he was presentable and he was certainly prosperous, but it didn’t take Bibi long to realise he wasn’t the man for her. When there was no spark, no chemistry, it didn’t matter how loaded the man was, you couldn’t make it happen.

This was a shame because Leo was sixty-one, a perfectly suitable age for the suitor of a sixty-year-old widow. As they danced, Bibi forced herself to make witty conversation and to concentrate on Leo’s replies, but it was hopeless. While her mouth did the talking and her ears listened, her rebellious brain was conjuring up depressing pictures of Leo Berenger, sixty-one years old and stark naked. Then it compared them with pictures of James, her darling James, so much younger and more attractive, all tanned and gorgeous and infinitely beddable.

Bibi carried on dancing, averting her gaze from Leo’s and determinedly blinking back tears. She hadn’t seen James for almost three months. It was no good moping; life went on.

Sadly though, not with Leo Berenger.

‘Look at those two,’ he said with some pride. Turning, he allowed Bibi to see Patrick and Claire at the far end of the dance floor. ‘Reckon we might have started something there. They seem to be enjoying themselves, anyway.’

Every cloud ... thought Bibi.

Patrick had been so certain the evening would he a nightmare, he couldn’t get over how easy to talk to Claire Berenger had turned out to be.

Having expected the worst, he had been pleasantly surprised.

When, at midnight, the band struck up the first notes of ‘We’ll Meet Again’ – it was that kind of band – Claire said, ‘Well, we made it. You’ve done your duty. And if my father slips my phone number into your pocket don’t worry. Feel free to chuck it in the bin; you don’t have to see me again.’

Much to his amazement Patrick heard himself say, ‘But I’d like to see you again.’

For a second Claire looked equally astonished. Then, endearingly, she blushed.

‘You would?’

Patrick nodded. ‘I would.’

‘Gosh.’

He smiled briefly. ‘Bit of a shock for me as well. I wasn’t expecting the evening to turn out like this. I’m horribly out of practice too,’ he apologised. ‘The last time I asked a girl out I wore flares and drove a two-tone Cortina.’

Coincidentally, it occurred to Dulcie much later that night that the last time she’d jumped into bed with a man she didn’t actually know terribly well, he’d worn flares and driven a blue and white Cortina.

That had been Patrick, of course, and she had carried on happily jumping into bed with him for years ... until his work had taken over and she’d grown used to going to bed alone while Patrick murmured ‘just-finish-this’ to his beloved computer and only came upstairs hours later when she was asleep.

Tonight, though, she wasn’t alone. She was with Liam McPherson. Dulcie lay back, closed her eyes and deliberately didn’t think of Patrick.

And after a briefly rocky start, Liam was living up to all her expectations. Her old feelings for him were as strong as ever. Better still — because even Dulcie had to confess it, it had been a bit of a one-sided relationship in the past — the attraction was now mutual.

It was so powerful you couldn’t fight it even if you wanted to ... which she certainly didn’t.

It was sheer chemistry.

This is more like it, thought Dulcie rapturously. This is what I need, a glorious Greek god of a man, all blond hair and rocksolid muscles, and not just some brainless hunk, either. A glamorous tennis pro, a star.

Liam had been modest, but as far as Dulcie was concerned, if the Duchess of Kent once watched from the royal box while you played on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, that definitely made you a star.

‘All this time and I never knew you were famous,’ Dulcie murmured dreamily, lying wrapped in Liam’s arms. She had never watched much tennis on television. ‘I wish I could’ve seen you in that quarter-final.’

‘Really?’ Liam sounded amused. ‘I’ve got the video around here somewhere. Want to watch it?’

Startled, Dulcie’s eyes snapped open.

‘What, now?’

But his hand was already travelling lazily up her warm thigh. As he began nuzzling her neck again, Liam murmured, ‘Maybe later.’

Phew.

Dulcie kissed him back, glanced at her watch — 4 a.m. -and shifted herself happily into a more accommodating position. Now this was the kind of exercise regime she liked.

And goodness, what a difference it made, being with someone who, in turn, actually enjoyed being with you.

Rather than with their sodding computer.

That morning-after scenario was something else with which Dulcie was drastically out of practice.

Her first thought upon waking was: Yes! Bingo! And yahboo-sucks to Imelda Page-Weston who had spent most of yesterday evening jealously eyeing Dulcie and Liam from afar.

Dulcie, her eyes still closed, couldn’t help feeling a bit smug; this was what she’d so desperately wanted to happen, but even she had never dreamt it would happen so soon. It was like settling down on the riverbank for a long day’s fishing and before you’d had a chance to unscrew your thermos, hooking and landing Jaws.

Oh, Mr McPherson, Dulcie smirked happily, this is all so sudden.

Her second thought was that something weird was going on. The earth appeared to be moving.

She opened her eyes. No, not the earth. It was the floorboards juddering. Rhythmically, every couple of seconds. There, it was happening again.

Liam’s side of the bed was empty. Moments later, wriggling across the crumpled dark-blue sheet and leaning over the edge, Dulcie found out why.

He was lying with his feet tucked under the bed, doing astonishingly energetic sit-ups.

‘... eighty-six, eighty-seven,’ muttered Liam. He grinned but didn’t stop when he saw Dulcie peering down at him. ‘Morning, sweetheart ... eighty-eight ...’

‘Two fat ladies,’ said Dulcie.

‘Ugh. Not in my bedroom, thanks.’

She sensed he wouldn’t be smitten by Liza. Voluptuous curves clearly weren’t Liam’s thing.

This, Dulcie decided, was a definite plus. Liza’s ability to reduce grown men to quivering masses of testosterone grew wearing after a while. In fact, if you didn’t have a strong stomach, all that hopeless devotion could make you quite sick.

‘... ninety-four ... sleep well?’

Dulcie nodded. Since it was only seven o’clock she had actually been asleep for less than three hours, but so what, who cared? Was she complaining? Not on her nelly.

‘You’re naked,’ she told him.

‘Well spotted.’

Dulcie grinned. ‘I couldn’t very well miss it.’

.. ninety-nine, a hundred.’ Not even out of breath, Liam leapt up and planted a smacking kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll make breakfast. Do feel free, by the way.’

It took a moment to realise he was offering her his space on the floor, now he’d finished with it.

‘Bit early for me.’ Dulcie slid back under the duvet with alacrity.

‘Saving it for later, eh?’ Liam made a playful grab for one of her ankles. ‘Tell you what, I’m free between twelve and one. When you’ve finished in the gym lll check you out, give you a game of tennis. How about that?’

Some men, thought Dulcie, gave you flowers. Some gave you chocolates. What she wanted to know was what she’d ever done to deserve a man whose idea of romance meant giving you tips on your backswing.

Chapter 20

Liza was pounced on by a starry-eyed Dulcie the moment she drew up outside the club. Dulcie, pink-cheeked with elation, dragged her through to the coffee shop.

‘My God, I suppose this means you pulled the pro.’ Liza resigned herself to missing her turn on the toning table.

‘Did I ever,’ declared Dulcie, realising she couldn’t keep the stupid grin off her face if she tried.

‘And he is divine, so funny and charming ... Wait till you meet him, he’s a dream come true! I’m telling you, this is the real thing. It’s love.’

The housewife, bored and starved of affection, and the gorgeous, bronzed country club tennis coach. Honestly, it was such a cliché. Then again, Liza realised, things like this happened all the time. It was how they became clichés in the first place.

Recognising a bad case of lust when she saw one, she nevertheless decided to humour Dulcie.

‘Good in bed?’

‘The best. Oh, and the body is to die for—’

‘And is it mutual?’ Liza felt it was her job to strike a note of caution. ‘Is he as besotted with you?’

Dulcie looked radiant.

‘That’s the best part, he really is! Honestly, we talked nonstop yesterday evening, then he took me back to his place .. . he’s rented a fantastic flat just behind Royal Crescent—’

‘And you bonked the night away.’

‘We did, we did,’ Dulcie agreed happily. ‘It was out of this world.’

’So when are you seeing him again?’

‘Midday. On the tennis courts.’

Liza raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re going to bonk on the tennis courts? Won’t you get in other people’s way?’

‘We won’t be bonking. He’s giving me a tennis lesson.’

Dulcie tried hard to sound casual, to pull it off. Somehow, though, the words came out lacking conviction, even to her own ears. It was like hearing Linda McCartney say, ‘Yum, bacon sandwich.’

Liza raised the other eyebrow and said, ‘Oh dear.’

Dulcie cracked at once. You could fool a lot of the people a lot of the time, but not Liza.

‘Okay, I know. He’s a health freak.’ She groaned and covered her face with her hands. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’

Liza hid a smile. The way Dulcie made it sound, health freak was on a par with mass murderer.

‘It’s his job to be fit, that’s all. You don’t have to join in.’

Dulcie wished she could be so sure. That was the thing about Liza, she never compromised herself. If she didn’t want to do something she simply didn’t do it.

But Liam’s idea of breakfast had been three Shredded Wheat, a handful of multivitamins the size of horse pills and a malt and wheatgerm milkshake, and although he hadn’t forced the horse pills on her, he had made her eat two Shredded Wheat. Without sugar either because he didn’t keep empty calories in the house.

From little hints dropped here and there, Dulcie had begun to suspect that coming clean with Liam wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do. He might not be interested in a health slob, a bone-idle junk-food junkie whose idea of a really good workout was trying on ankle boots in Russell and Bromley.

‘He’s everything I want,’ she told Liza. ‘I’m not going to risk losing him. Anyway, how hard can it be, getting fit? Come on, don’t laugh—’

‘You aren’t serious,’ said Liza, wiping her eyes. ‘You, of all people, a born-again Jane Fonda.’

But Dulcie wasn’t to be swayed. ‘You don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘He’s worth it.’

The coffee shop overlooked the tennis courts. Liza watched a tall, vaguely familiar-looking chap in a yellow and white tracksuit make his way out on to the court closest to them. Next to him walked Imelda Page-Weston, her sleek white-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight.

‘Is that him?’

Dulcie’s head swivelled round. You knew it was love when just the sight of him made your heart do Skippy-the-kangaroo impressions. She watched Imelda say something to Liam and swing her racket experimentally above her shoulder. Liam positioned himself behind her and showed her how she should be doing it. He grinned and whispered something in Imelda’s ear that made her shake with laughter.

You also knew it was love, Dulcie reflected, when the sight of him touching someone like Imelda made you want to bash that someone’s brains out with her own Slazenger.

She realised Liza was watching her.

‘He’s a tennis pro. It’s his job to flirt,’ Liza pointed out. ‘I know.’

‘And there are always going to be women who flirt back.’ Fit women. Healthy women. Women who took care of their bodies.

Women who liked salad.

‘I know that too,’ said Dulcie, gripped by a perverse longing. That only made her want him more.

Preparing to walk out on to the court was worse than any dental appointment. Having spent an hour in the on-site sports shop, Dulcie was kitted out in a new Lacoste shirt and a staggeringly expensive pink and white tennis skirt. What with the racket as well, she’d blown quite a hole in her credit card. Still, Dulcie reasoned, she’d be saving money on junk food.

Since her stomach was growling and she no longer ate crisps, she made her way back to the coffee shop and — ignoring the astonished eyebrows of the woman on the till — virtuously bought a couple of muesli bars instead.

The trouble with muesli bars, Dulcie discovered — apart from the fact that they were disgusting

— was the bits they left lodged in your teeth. Rushing to the changing room for a last nervous pee and to check her teeth in the mirror, she ran slap bang into Imelda.

Imelda, just out of the shower, was wearing an olive-green towel. She cast a look of amusement in the direction of Dulcie’s pristine skirt.

‘Don’t tell me you’ve booked a lesson too.’

‘I didn’t, actually. It was Liam’s idea,’ Dulcie replied as loftily as she could.

‘And you said yes,’ Imelda marvelled. ‘Well, well, wonders will never cease. Although you have to admit, he is gorgeous.’ As she spoke, she was drying herself with the towel, giving Dulcie the opportunity to see just how toned her own body was. ‘Looks like we’re both after him, then,’

Imelda went on, smiling as the towel dropped to the floor and she reached for her white satin bra and knickers. ‘May the best girl win, eh, Dulcie?’

Dulcie stared back at her. The bra was a 36D, which didn’t help. She had never liked Imelda, who was a man’s woman, a woman without female friends.

Dulcie said, ‘Maybe I already have.’

‘Oh dear, is this my fault?’ Liam laughed and shook his head at Dulcie. ‘Are you that exhausted after last night?’

Exhausted wasn’t the word. What Liam called a quick knock-up had felt to Dulcie like a marathon five-setter. She couldn’t understand, either, why the ball wouldn’t go where she wanted it to go. She’d played enough tennis at school to know she wasn’t that hopeless.

Liam leapt over the net and jogged over to her. Dulcie’s legs were trembling uncontrollably and she had a raging stitch in her side. Her racket, doing double duty as a walking stick, was the only thing propping her up.

‘Sweetheart, you look terrible.’ He was frowning now, clearly concerned. ‘What is it?’

Dulcie, thinking she would just die if Imelda was sitting in the coffee shop watching her make a spectacle of herself, croaked, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong. I f-feel awful.’

Liam put his arm around her waist and helped her off the court. Dulcie was sweating, trembling, as weak as a kitten and unable to hit a ball for toffee; it wasn’t hard to figure out.

‘Flu,’ he announced. ‘That’s what it is. You’re going down with flu.’

Dulcie almost collapsed with relief. ‘Oh I am, I am. I knew I wasn’t well! Flu, that’s it—’

‘Home,’ Liam instructed. ‘And straight to bed.’

‘Um, about tomorrow ... I was going to invite you round to my house for dinner?’ Dulcie began to panic at the thought of not seeing him.

But Liam shook his head.

‘Sweetheart, you’ll be in no state to cook dinner. I’ll see you when you’re better. Maybe next weekend,’ he gave her waist an encouraging squeeze, ‘or the week after that.’

Liza, who had caught the end of Dulcie’s lesson, was in the car park chucking her squash racket and sports bag on to the back seat of her white Renault.

‘This is my friend Liza,’ said Dulcie, gesturing weakly. ‘I’m sending Dulcie home,’ Liam explained. ‘She’s sick.’

‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Liza. Honestly, what was Dulcie like? Did she seriously expect to get away with this? Clinging on to Liam’s arm, Dulcie gasped, ‘We th-think it’s flu.’

‘Sure it’s not mad cow disease?’ said Liza.

Chapter 21

‘How’s the invalid?’ Liza asked gravely when she phoned the next morning.

‘Not funny,’ Dulcie wailed. ‘I’m telling you, flu would be a doddle next to this. I’m totally and utterly seized up.’

Since leaving school, reaching for the next custard cream had been about as energetic as Dulcie got. Hurling herself without warning around a tennis court for sixty minutes had sent every muscle in her outraged body into spasm.

‘I’m in bed,’ she groaned. ‘I crawled to the bathroom earlier. It took me an hour to get back.’

Liza grinned. ‘You need looking after. Want me to phone Liam and ask him to pop over?’

‘Don’t you dare. Ouch.’ It even hurt holding the phone up to her ear. ‘God, this is agony. I’ll never walk again.’

‘Can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Liza was cheerful and not the least bit sympathetic. ‘Told you not to overdo it, didn’t I? Take some paracetamol, you’ll feel better in a day or two.’

‘I can’t get to them, they’re downstairs.’ Dulcie pleaded feebly, ‘You could come over, couldn’t you, just for a few hours? I really do need looking after. I’m helpless.’

‘I think you mean hopeless. And no, sorry, I can’t.’ Having pulled open her wardrobe doors, Liza stood and surveyed the neatly lined-up contents. ‘I’ve got something else on.’

The peacock-blue silk shirt, she decided rapidly. Black leather trousers and her high-heeled black ankle boots. Why not? Just because she was joining the protesters didn’t mean she had to dress like one.

‘Something more important than your best friend starving to death in her own bed?’ Dulcie sounded hurt.

‘No, but I can’t back out now. If I did,’ said Liza, ‘then I’d really be a wimp.’

Driving towards West Titherton, Liza barely noticed the dazzling scenery, the white clouds drifting high in a duck-egg-blue sky, dappled sunlight sweeping over the rolling Mendip hills and the thousand different shades of green that made up the countryside in late spring.

She still didn’t know how Alistair Kline had managed to bamboozle her into going along today.

But that, Liza supposed, was what successful barristers were all about. It was their job to persuade you to agree with them, to convince you – against your better judgement – that they were right.

‘It’s simply a matter of following through.’ Alistair had been forceful. ‘You start something, you finish it. That letter to the paper generated a fair amount of publicity, if you remember. People will expect you to be there. They’d be disappointed if you didn’t turn up, Liza,’ he went on, his expression sorrowful. ‘Disappointed in you for not caring enough to make that small effort—’

‘Stop,’ Liza groaned, ‘this is worse than The Waltons. Okay, I’ll do it.’

Alistair instantly reverted to a normal tone of voice. ‘Great. See you there then. Ten o’clock sharp.’

She wondered despairingly how she could ever have thought he was shy.

Liza slowed as she reached the brow of the next hill. Below her lay West Titherton, a golden toy village surrounded by a patchwork of fields, some dotted with. immobile black and white cows, others with clusters of sheep.

To the left of the village the protesters were already gathered at the site of the proposed new development, milling around the yellow bulldozers that stood ready, waiting to swing into action.

It was very much a last-ditch protest. The amateurish ruse of planting a rare breed of wild orchid in the path of the diggers hadn’t worked. Berenger’s had their planning permission and that was that. Basically, the new estate was going to be built but – the protesters were determined – not before the last drop of bad publicity for Berenger’s had been squeezed out.

Parking the Renault at the roadside where everyone else had left their cars, Liza joined the rest of the group. Sixty or seventy in total, they were a mixed bag, ranging from New Agers to Nimbys (those outraged members of the middle classes who don’t mind anything being built so long as it doesn’t happen anywhere near them, i.e. Not In My Back Yard).

The ground was dry and the sun blazed down, but all the Nimbys were wearing Barbours and Hunter wellies. The New Agers wore holey jeans and layers of jumpers in various shades of black.

Everyone pursed their lips at the sight of Liza in her dazzling peacock-blue shirt. She couldn’t have looked more out of place if she’d worn a ball gown in a butcher’s shop.

Alistair bounded over to her.

‘Going on somewhere, are we?’ Eyeing the gold chains around Liza’s neck, disappearing into her cleavage, he looked as if he were itching to tell her to do a couple more buttons up.

‘Lunch with Liberace, by the look of it,’ Liza heard one of the dreadlocked New Agers murmur, nudging his friend.

‘Sure you won’t be cold?’ asked Alistair.

‘I’m fine.’ Pointedly Liza shielded her eyes from the sun. ‘Sure you won’t be warm?’

‘I’m wearing three sweaters,’ Alistair told her with pride, ‘in case they try setting the dogs on us.’

Liza kept a straight face.

‘If they set any dogs on me,’ she promised, ‘I’ll tie their paws up with my necklaces.’

‘Hmm. I don’t know how you’re going to climb bulldozers in those heels.’ He glanced disapprovingly at her boots. ‘Alistair! I’m here, okay? Supporting the protest. I am not climbing up on any bulldozers.’

Alistair looked resigned. She wasn’t taking this seriously at all. Liza had turned out to be a major disappointment, he thought sadly. All the more so since she had truly been the woman of his dreams. He adored her, he simply didn’t understand how she could not be as concerned about preserving the environment as he was. Together, Alistair thought sorrowfully, they could have made an unbeatable team.

Still, she was the nearest to a celebrity they’d got and the press were kicking their heels waiting for the action to begin. Signalling to the chaps from the Evening Post who were eating Big Macs

– any excuse to wind up the vegetarian New Agers – Alistair steered Liza towards them.

‘They want a photo of you waving a placard. And make a point of telling them how committed you are to the cause,’ he instructed briskly, ‘despite your clothes.’

For ten minutes Liza answered questions put to her by the reporter, who sounded almost as bored as she was. Then it was the photographer’s turn. He spent ages organising Liza in the foreground with a motley crew of placard-waving New Agers behind her and the bulldozers strewn with banners bringing up the rear.

He was halfway through the reel of film – and startled to find himself already half in love with Liza – when the contractors rolled up in two filthy white vans and the carefully arranged group photo promptly disintegrated.

Within seconds, the bulldozers were swarming with protestors. Minutes later the police arrived.

Scuffles broke out. Alistair punched one of the bulldozer drivers on the nose.

‘Want to wait in my car, love?’ the Evening Post reporter offered, clearly worried about blood getting spattered on Liza’s silk shirt. But the photographer was waving his arm, beckoning her over. A group of the less nimble protesters were staging a sit-in, blocking the path of the rumbling bulldozers.

‘Come on,’ bellowed the photographer, ‘it’ll make a great picture!’

‘Do as he says,’ Alistair bellowed even more loudly, from his precarious position on top of one of the diggers. ‘Get over there!’

Liza hesitated. She didn’t really mind joining the sit-in. She didn’t even mind getting her leather trousers muddy. What did bother her was being picked up and carried away like a struggling beetle by the police ... and being photographed in that position.

Talk about undignified.

All eyes were on the tremendous struggle in progress. Since no one’s attention was on the road behind them, and the noise of the heavy machinery drowned everything else out, nobody saw or heard the dark-green Bentley purr to a halt behind the police van.

Liza was still torn between not wanting to look a wimp and not wanting to look a prat. Most of all she wished she hadn’t been feeble enough to give in to Alistair’s emotional blackmail. She could be playing squash now, she thought with longing, or at home working on ideas for the new food book she had just been commissioned to write.

Damn, thought Liza, even waiting hand, foot and finger on dipstick Dulcie would be fun compared with this.

‘Liza, will you stop faffing around and JOIN THE BLOODY SIT-IN,’ roared Alistair, kicking out at one of the contractors who was trying to grab his ankles, and pointing imperiously down at Liza.

I could just turn round and leave, she thought, willing herself to do it.

The next moment she jumped out of her skin as a weirdly familiar voice inches from her ear drawled, ‘Is he your boyfriend? I’m amazed, I didn’t take you for the kind of girl who’d let men boss you about like that.’

Chapter 22

Liza’s heart began hammering wildly in her chest. Kit Berenger was standing next to her, arms crossed, feet apart, sunglasses in place as he calmly surveyed the scene of chaos spread out before them. He was wearing black jeans, a black and white striped shirt and that familiar aftershave.

Had it occurred to her that he might turn up today, the final day of the protest?

Of course it had.

So far, Kit Berenger had seen her sweating and out of breath after an hour on the squash court, and in her eating-out frump of-the-year disguise. Now for the first time he was seeing how she really looked.

Liza couldn’t quite bring herself to admit that this was why she had taken such care with her appearance today.

‘He’s not my boyfriend,’ she said as calmly as she could manage, ‘I don’t let him boss me about, and since I’ll be thirty-two next week, I’m hardly a girl.’

‘Well, you’re hardly an ancient old trout.’

Was there actually a flicker of a smile playing around his mouth? Sideways on, and never having seen Kit Berenger smile before, it was hard to tell.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, his tone conversational, ‘what are you doing here, dressed up like a Christmas tree?’

Liza ignored the jibe. ‘Same as everyone else. Protesting.’

‘You don’t look much like a protester. You’ve washed your hair for a start.’

Before she could move, one hand came up and touched her blonde hair, idly following the line of the curve between her left temple and shoulder.

Liza shivered and looked up at him, but the narrow mouth gave nothing away. The eyes were still hidden behind black glasses.

‘My cousin heard from your editor, by the way,’ said Kit. ‘Loads of people wrote to the magazine defending the Songbird. Nearly a hundred letters altogether, saying you were out of order.’

‘Really,’ said Liza, who had written most of them. ‘They’re printing a selection in next month’s issue.’

‘Well, there you go,’ said Liza steadily. ‘Looks like I was wrong and you were right.’

He took off his sunglasses. Liza waited for another smart remark. But he didn’t say anything, just gazed down at her.

Alistair, meanwhile, was being dragged down from his digger by a pair of sweating policemen, one thin, one burly, like Laurel and Hardy. Mid-tussle, he spotted Liza and a tall dark-haired boy making no effort to join in the protest.

‘Hey, you two! Get yourselves in front of that bulldozer, fast.’

Kit called back, ‘Actually, we’d rather not.’

The next moment, as Alistair disappeared beneath a heaving mound of navy-blue serge, Kit Berenger reached out and took hold of Liza’s hand. His strong fingers gripped her wrist.

‘What are you d-doing?’ Liza gasped, trying to snatch it away.

‘Taking your pulse.’ He raised a dark eyebrow. ‘Hmm, fast. Very fast.’

This was even more humiliating than being hauled into a police van in struggling-beetle position, as was now happening to Alistair. Liza stared hard at the goings-on at the back of the van and pretended she hadn’t heard Kit Berenger speak.

‘Mine too,’ he went on, releasing his grip on her wrist and offering her his own. ‘Have a feel if you want.’

‘No thanks,’ Liza replied faintly.

‘The thing is, there’s something I’ve been wanting to do rather badly for quite a while now,’ said Kit. ‘Is it okay with you if I give it a go?’

Liza could barely breathe.

‘Not if you’re going to slap my face.’

‘I don’t want to slap your face.’ He turned her slowly towards him, so there was no escaping the look in those extraordinary black-lashed, yellow-gold eyes. ‘I want to kiss your mouth.’

This, thought Liza, is ridiculous .. .

Then she stopped thinking because it was too late now to do anything, let alone think. Kit Berenger’s mouth came down on hers and Liza gave herself up to it, utterly helpless to protest.

Every nerve in her body was going zinnggg. She was only managing to stay standing because his arms were keeping her up. The knees had gone, the stomach had disappeared .. .

Just don’t stop, Liza silently begged him, willing the kiss to go on and on. Please don’t stop.

‘Bloody hell, it’s Kit Berenger,’ exclaimed the reporter, gazing in amazement at the scene confronting him as he made his way back to the car for a fag break. ‘Oi, Joe, over here,’ he yelled, beckoning frantically for the photographer. ‘Look who’s snogging Liza Lawson! Get a shot of this, for Chrissake.’

Alistair was still putting up a terrific struggle, resisting every effort to bundle him into the back of the police van. Hearing the journalist’s words, he twisted round and stared in horror at Liza who appeared to be clinging to Kit Berenger for dear life.

‘You bastard, take your hands off her this minute,’ roared Alistair. ‘Liza, what the hell d’you think you’re doing? Don’t you know who that is?’

In no time they were the centre of attention. The protesters had all stopped to watch. Joe was using up his last roll of film.

‘I always say you can’t beat a bit of privacy,’ Kit Berenger murmured against Liza’s mouth, his hand stroking the back of her neck.

When the Evening Post reporter had been eating his Big Mac earlier, a group of New Agers had hissed ‘murderer’ at him. Now, behind her back, Liza could hear them hissing ‘traitor’ at her.

‘I may not get out of here alive,’ she said, her voice still unsteady, her whole body quivering shamelessly with lust. ‘At least they’re vegetarians, they won’t eat you alive.’ A nightmare thought struck Liza.

‘Why did you do this, to make a fool of me?’

‘Come on.’ Kit half smiled down at her. ‘You don’t really think that. I did it because it had to be done. Before we both drove each other demented.’

Liza nodded. She could no longer deny it; the chemistry was simply there between them. It had been from the word go.

‘How old are you?’ she asked, needing to know the worst.

‘Twenty-three.’

‘I’m thirty-two.’ It sounded terrible. She had never been out with anyone younger than her before. Not even nine months younger, let alone nine years.

‘No you aren’t, you’re thirty-one.’

‘Only until next week.’

Kit grinned. ‘A week’s a long time in politics.’

The protest had by this time pretty much fizzled out. When the protesters’ attention had turned to Liza and Kit, the contractors had revved up their engines and got busy with the bulldozers, to-ing and fro-ing at surprising speed as they shifted great mounds of earth.

The police van, with Alistair’s outraged face glaring out of the tiny back window, bumped and jiggled its way across the churned-up ground on to the main road.

‘You must be joking,’ said Kit when the reporter from the Evening Post asked him for a quote.

‘Liza?’ The reporter looked not-very-hopefully hopeful. ‘She doesn’t have anything to say either.’

‘I think I’d better go home,’ said Liza, when they were alone again. She was floundering, unsure what was going to happen next. He might be nine years younger, but Kit Berenger had somehow automatically assumed control of the situation. If he were to bundle her into that dark-green Bentley of his, Liza thought with longing, and whisk her off somewhere – anywhere – to bed, she would willingly go.

‘I’ve got a heavy day too.’ Kit glanced at his watch – that ludicrous purple Swatch. ‘I’m already running late. Sorry,’ he smiled slightly as he led the way back to their cars, ‘if I’d known this was going to happen, I could have postponed a few meetings. You’d better give me your phone number.’

He leaned against the bonnet of the Bentley and wrote the number on the back of a crumpled ten-pound note pulled from the pocket of his jeans. Liza, who couldn’t bear men with namby-pamby handwriting, was passionately relieved to see how assertive he was with a pen, not nancyish at all.

As he helped her into the Renault, his lips brushed hers, thrillingly, once more.

‘I’ll be in touch,’ said Kit.

My God, you’d better be, thought Liza, far too proud to ask when.

Chapter 23

‘Did someone slip something into my cocoa?’ Dulcie demanded with suitable drama two days later. ‘Am I hallucinating? Or is this really a photo I see before me in the local paper – on the front page, no less – of my friend Liza snogging with the enemy?’

Liza bit her lip, gazed out of the window and said nothing.

‘And you can turn that sodding answering machine off for a start,’ Dulcie went on, ‘because it isn’t fooling anyone. We know you’re in there. Dammit,’ she wailed the next second, ‘do you want me to die of curiosity?’

That, thought Liza, would be too much to hope for. Chewing her pen, she leafed irritably through the research notes she was amassing in preparation for her new book, a history of Mediterranean cookery.

‘Fine, I get the message,’ said Dulcie in a sing-song voice when it became clear Liza had no intention of picking up the phone. ‘But don’t think you can hide for ever. The minute I can walk again, I’ll be over. I don’t know what you’ve been up to,’ she concluded briskly, – God, now she sounded like Joyce Grenfell on speed – ‘but I’m jolly well going to find out.’

Dulcie rang off at last. Wearily, since the kitchen table might be awash with reference books but that didn’t mean she was getting a stroke of work done, Liza snapped the file shut and switched the kettle on instead. For the millionth time she compulsively checked her watch.

What a hideous day. The phone hadn’t stopped ringing, the poor answering machine didn’t know what had hit it. The story had even been picked up by a couple of the nationals; at lunchtime a call had come through from the Daily Mail, who were keen to include Liza in a feature on star-crossed lovers.

‘We’ve got a pair of besotted MPs so far – one Labour, one Tory – and a vegan who’s fallen in love with a butcher,’ the journalist explained with maddening cheerfulness. ‘The third couple were going to be Catholic-Protestant, but to be frank,’ she lowered her voice to a confiding whisper, ‘your story sounds much more fun.’

Liza stood at the kitchen window, sipping lukewarm tea she didn’t even want. Her so-called story might sound fun to the girl from the Mail but it was a lot less entertaining being on the business end, Liza could promise her that.

She gazed out at the tiny patio garden bursting with tubs of geraniums and petunias, and tried to remember if exam nerves, the real stomach-churning kind when you actually felt sick with fear, had ever been this bad.

Except with exam nerves, at least you knew when the exam would be over.

She shuddered as something alien sloshed into her mouth. Ugh, she’d forgotten to fish out the tea bag.

Uselessly Liza checked her watch again. Still only twenty-six minutes to five.

I’m a grown woman, she thought, willing herself to believe it. In four days’ time I’ll be thirty-two. I can handle this.

But the sick feeling showed no sign of going away.

Liza bit her lip. It was fifty-four hours since Kit Berenger had oh so casually said he would phone her.

It hadn’t happened yet.

Three times a week Pru drove Eddie to Bristol, to Elmlea House, a nursing home in Clifton overlooking the suspension bridge. While she waited in the car, passing the time with one of Dulcie’s eye-boggling sex-and-shopping paperbacks, Eddie disappeared inside the ivy-fronted building to visit his mother- in-law, now frail and in her late eighties but still mentally all there.

‘She’s a darling,’ he told Pru when she had commented – quite daringly, for her – that not many men would put themselves out as much as he did for their mother-in-law.

Eddie had simply looked amused. ‘It’s no hardship. We’re great friends. Anyway, I’m all the family she has left.’

Their regular trips to and from Bristol had proved the ideal opportunity for him to talk to Pru about his marriage. Simply and without drama, Eddie described Catherine’s bizarre mood swings in the early days, and the difficulties he’d faced trying to control her when neither of them had had any idea there could be an actual medical reason for it all.

Then the petrifying roller-coaster of full-blown manic depression had taken hold. The first of many hospital admissions had given Eddie a few months’ much-needed respite.

‘The doctors would spend ages juggling her medication, getting it just right,’ he explained to Pru, ‘but as soon as she was well again, they’d discharge her. Catherine would then decide she felt so much better she didn’t need the medication any more. Even if I stood over her she’d just hide the capsules under her tongue and spit them out later.’ Eddie shook his head sorrowfully at the memory of those times.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, while Pru concentrated on the road ahead, ‘it got worse. Then, twelve years ago, she ran out of the house one night when I was trying to persuade her to take her pills.

She was only wearing a nightdress. My car keys were hanging up by the front door. She grabbed them, yelling that she’d had enough, and drove off. There was a high wall at the end of our cul-de-sac. Catherine must have been doing sixty when she smashed into it.’ For a second Eddie’s voice wavered. He cleared his throat. ‘Oh well, could have been worse. At least she was killed outright.’

Pru didn’t know what to say so she didn’t say anything. But her grey eyes filled with tears.

‘Hey, don’t you cry.’ Eddie sounded alarmed. ‘I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d cry.’

‘Sorry.’ Ever obedient, Pru wiped her wet face with the back of her hand.

He shook his head, half smiling as he passed her a clean handkerchief. ‘I thought you were tougher than that.’

She spluttered with surprised laughter. ‘Me, tough? I am the original wet lettuce!’

‘That isn’t true. Your marriage broke up. And in dramatic fashion,’ Eddie pointed out. ‘But you’re coping with it.’

‘Am I?’ Pru sighed and blew her nose. ‘Inside, I wonder if I’ll ever feel normal again.’ She glanced across at Eddie in the passenger seat. ‘How long before you did?’

It was Eddie’s turn to be stuck for words. Twelve years since Catherine’s death and he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to form any kind of emotional attachment. The barriers had gone up and stayed up. Well and truly up. The prospect of getting involved with someone else was still too terrifying to contemplate.

‘Well ... not long, not long at all,’ Eddie lied heartily. He gave Pru a clumsy pat on the arm to cheer her up. ‘You’re okay. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.’

The book Dulcie had passed on to her this week was all bonk and no plot. Pru waded through a couple more

Chapters then gave up, bored. She fiddled with the car radio instead, zipping from station to station in search of something – at 7.01 p.m. – that wasn’t the news. Next she tried out all the mysterious switches and buttons she’d never bothered to investigate before, unexpectedly locating the electronic wing mirror wagglers, a well-hidden lever to open the boot and an astonishingly efficient mechanism for tipping the seats back in a trice.

Whoomph, Pru was flat on her back. She pressed the switch a second time. Whoomph, upright again! What brilliant fun. Grinning to herself, Pru catapulted up and down a few more times.

Until, mortified, she realised she was being watched.

An ancient old dear, one of the residents presumably, was standing less than six feet away.

Indicating with a jab of her walking stick that she wished to say something, she moved creakily towards the car while Pru, crimson with embarrassment, slid open the driver’s window.

‘You’ll do yourself an injury, child,’ the old woman observed. ‘Whatever are you playing at?’

‘Trying out the seat recliner,’ mumbled Pru apologetically. ‘Well, it works.’

‘I know. Sorry.’

The woman, who was clutching a folded-up newspaper in her free hand, peered past her into the car.

‘What’s that, any good?’ Beadily she eyed the lurid paperback lying on the passenger seat.

The thought of this precisely spoken, autocratic old lady reading Dulcie’s bonkbuster was even more blushmaking than being caught playing with the seat recliners like a three-year-old.

‘No, actually, it’s awful,’ Pru said hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t like it at all.’

‘How do you know I wouldn’t? I might.’ The old woman’s expression was challenging. ‘I can see from the cover it isn’t a Barbara Cartland,’ she went on, almost irritably, ‘which makes a change in this place, I can tell you. Wall-to-wall Barbarabloody-Cartlands in here. Just because you’re eighty they seem to think that’s all you want to read.’

‘This definitely isn’t a Barbara Cartland.’ Pru was as firm as she dared.

‘Good. Well, if it’s awful, you won’t be wanting it. So can I have it instead?’

Pru was taken aback by the bluntness of the request. You expected to be stopped in the street by beggars and asked for spare change but you didn’t expect to be faced with imperious OAPs demanding pornographic paperbacks.

As if sensing her dilemma the woman said briskly, ‘I promise not to have a heart attack, if it’s the sex you’re worried about.’

Then, when Pru still hesitated, she held out her paper. ‘Go on, you can have this instead. I’ve done the crossword but at least you’ll have something to read.’

Pru’s eyes began to boggle as she saw the photograph on the front page. She grabbed Dulcie’s paperback and thrust it through the open window.

‘Thanks.’ The old lady looked immensely pleased with her swap. ‘Just one other thing.’

‘What?’

‘All that whizzing up and down in your seat’s played havoc with your hair, child. Better do something with it; your ears are sticking out.’

‘Liza, it’s me. Help, you know I hate these machines ...’

Hearing Pru’s voice, Liza picked up the phone. Pru was about the only person on the planet she could bear to speak to just now, she realised. Nobody was more au fait with public humiliation than Pru.

‘I’m here. I know, you’ve seen the Evening Post. Oh Pru, I think he did it to teach me a lesson.

He kissed me in front of all those people and I practically melted on the spot. He promised to phone me and I was so sure he would,’ Liza admitted brokenly, ‘but he bloody hasn’t.’

There was no need to pretend with Pru. Unlike everyone else, she wouldn’t make sympathetic noises and all the time be madly smirking and thinking ha ha, welcome to the real world and about time too.

Pru wasn’t like that. Her sympathy would be genuine. Desperate to unburden herself, Liza told her everything.

Sometimes a very old and completely trustworthy friend – which rather ruled out Dulcie – was the only person you could tell this kind of stuff to.

‘I mean, you know me,’ Liza rattled on. Having started, she now found she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m not promiscuous – well, not that promiscuous – but all I wanted to do was go to bed with him!

Dammit, how could he make such a fool of me? He’s nine years younger than I am, for God’s sake! And every time I think of him my knees still turn to jelly – why am I echoing?’

As Liza’s voice had risen, the echo had become more apparent.

‘Um ... I’m in the car.’

But Liza could hear someone else snorting with laughter in the background. Someone male.

‘What’s going on? It doesn’t usually echo like that.’ Her blood ran cold.

‘Sorry, darling, my fault.’ It was Eddie Hammond, chuckling unashamedly. ‘Couldn’t resist it. I switched you on to hands-free.’

Cold wasn’t the word for Liza’s blood now.

‘You eavesdropper,’ she hissed, mortified.

‘Come on,’ he protested, still laughing. ‘Pru showed me the picture in the paper. I was curious too.’

When Liza had slammed the phone down it occurred to her that although he wasn’t married, Eddie Hammond had never flirted with her.

First Eddie, now Kit Berenger, thought Liza gloomily. I must really be losing my touch.

Chapter 24

Dulcie hadn’t wanted to ring Liam at the club, it seemed a bit keen, but he’d forgotten to give her his home number so she didn’t have much choice.

Or much time to lose, Dulcie thought twitchily as she waited for him to come to the phone. She could just imagine what Imelda had been like over the last four days, throwing herself at Liam and making the most of Dulcie’s unexpected absence. The girl was shameless and desperate.

You could almost feel sorry for her.

Almost, but not quite.

Cheered by a mental image of Imelda in one of those Velcro suits you got at fairgrounds, hurling herself at a vast Velcro wall with Liam perched like Humpty Dumpty — only better-looking, of course — on top, Dulcie forgot to be nervous when he at last came to the phone.

‘Hi,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m better! How about me cooking you dinner tonight at my place, to celebrate?’

‘No more flu?’ She heard the smile in his voice. He was clearly pleased to hear from her.

‘No more flu,’ Dulcie said with pride. ‘So is that a yes?’

At Brunton Manor, Liam leaned against the receptionist’s desk and grinned at the prettier of the two receptionists. She promptly went pink and smiled back. Playfully he tapped the little emerald ring on her engagement finger and pulled a mock-sorrowful face.

‘Liam, are you still there?’

‘Dinner sounds great.’ It really did, he decided cheerfully. And he liked Dulcie a lot, she was sparky and fun. If she was as good in the kitchen as she was in bed, he was in for a treat. ‘Look, I promised to meet someone else for a quick drink at eight. Just a business thing, but I wouldn’t want to let them down. Is nine-ish okay with you?’

Almost bursting with happiness — ha! Imelda hadn’t got him yet — Dulcie replied triumphantly,

‘Nine-ish is fine.’

Not one of life’s Delia Smiths, Dulcie had nevertheless been forced during the course of her marriage to conjure up the odd decent meal or two. She even knew how to cook a proper dinner-party dinner, which might have impressed Liam if it hadn’t been mushrooms fried in garlic butter followed by chicken à la crème and chocolate mousse.

The prospect of cooking something healthy was fairly daunting but Dulcie refused to be intimidated. As she had told Liza — quite often, actually — Liam was worth it. Nothing was too much trouble. If all Liam ate was roast alligator, she would happily race to the nearest swamp, catch an alligator and roast it.

Anyway, he didn’t. All she had to do was grill a couple of fillet steaks, chuck a few baking potatoes in the oven and microwave a bowl of frozen peas.

It sounded simple enough but still somehow managed to take ages to do. Dulcie didn’t mind, she was in love with a glorious, glamorous vision of a man and you had to suffer for someone as heavenly as Liam, that was only fair. She even did a bit of salad to go with it, and cut the tomatoes painstakingly into zigzag halves so they looked like lilies — albeit slightly wonky lilies

— floating on an artistic lettuce and onion pond.

Dulcie wasn’t asleep when the hail of gravel rattled against her bedroom window but she was buggered if she was going to get up straight away.

She heard Liam scrunching across the drive, scooping up and flinging another handful of gravel at another window further along because he didn’t know which was hers. Torn between passionate relief that he hadn’t stood her up after all and indignation, because – let’s face it –

there’s late and there is late, Dulcie lay in bed for a few seconds more.

It was a retaliation, of sorts.

When she heard a shower of stones hit the bathroom window and a pane of glass go CRACK, she got up.

‘There you are,’ Liam exclaimed, peering up at Dulcie’s spiky-haired silhouette.

‘Sshh,’ Dulcie hissed.

He looked alarmed. ‘Why? Is your husband up there?’

‘Of course he isn’t.’ Men, honestly. ‘I was thinking of the neighbours. Anyway, what’s wrong with using the doorbell?’ He looked shocked.

‘It’s too late to ring doorbells.’ This was a hangover from Liam’s rowdy teenage years. His father had gone ballistic whenever he’d forgotten his front door key. Now, standing beneath Dulcie’s window, he checked his watch and offered up his wrist as proof. ‘See? One o’clock.’

‘You don’t say.’ Dulcie hadn’t forgotten she was supposed to be miffed. ‘Funny, I could have sworn you said you’d be here by nine. Or were you talking about breakfast?’

‘I’m late,’ said Liam. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He gazed up at her, utterly repentant in the moonlight.

‘But I’m here now. I came all this way. Angel, you have to let me in.’

‘I bloody do not,’ Dulcie retorted briskly, not meaning it for a second.

‘Okay, I’ll climb up.’ Grinning, he moved towards the drainpipe next to the porch. He stood on one of the flower-filled stone tubs and began testing the strength of the drainpipe.

‘All of a sudden he’s Milk Tray Man,’ mocked Dulcie, but her own mouth was beginning to twitch. In all honesty, how could she resist him? Before he managed to yank the drainpipe off the wall she said, ‘Okay, you win. Get down before you break a leg. I’ll open the front door.’

When she did, she was naked. Liam solemnly eyed each ofher small breasts in turn, bowed his head politely and murmured in his soft Irish drawl, ‘So pleased to meet you both, you’re looking wonderful—’

‘Berk,’ said Dulcie.

When he’d finished kissing her, Liam led her by the hand into the kitchen.

‘I’m starving. What’s for dinner?’

‘Is that a joke?’ She gave him an indignant prod in the ribs. ‘I fed your dinner to the foxes hours ago. You didn’t seriously expect me to save it?’

Seeing the expression on his face, Dulcie realised he had. She marvelled at the kind of life Liam must have led, the star tennis player so used to getting what he wanted, it didn’t occur to him that turning up four hours late might be considered a bit offish.

Although, actually he didn’t know how lucky he was. Having stupidly imagined Liam would arrive promptly at nine, she had first grilled the steaks then put them in the oven to keep warm.

By ten o’clock they had acquired the consistency of dog chews. Flinging them out through the kitchen window had been an act of mercy. If the foxes had got at them, thought Dulcie, serve them right.

‘Sweetheart, it was a business meeting. I was held up,’ Liam protested. In reality it had been an Imelda meeting and he had been held down, but some details were better glossed over. From what he could gather, there wasn’t much love lost between the two girls.

Dulcie was on the brink of making some cutting remark about the lack of phones where he’d been when she realised how it would make her sound. Like some nagging old wife, she thought with a shudder, the frumpy, bitter kind whose husbands you felt most sorry for, the kind where you wouldn’t blame their husbands for wanting to sneak off.

How awful, and this is only our second date. If it even counts as a date . . .

But Liam was here, and that was what mattered. When you were famous, Dulcie realised, you lived by different rules. It was like inviting the Queen to tea and expecting her to pitch in afterwards with the washing-up. If you ever wanted to see her again, bunging her a pair of Marigolds and telling her to get scrubbing wasn’t a smart move to make.

Liam was glad he’d made the effort to come round. Fish fingers and reheated baked potatoes might not set the pulse racing but they were an excellent source of vitamin B. Anyway, now she’d stopped sulking he had Dulcie to make his pulse race.

If he was honest, Liam preferred Dulcie to Imelda, who had spent most of the evening dropping hints the size of comets about holidays. Liam had marvelled good-naturedly at her train of thought; women were funny creatures. He’d taken Imelda to bed a couple of times, that was all.

Whatever made her think he’d want to spend a fortnight with her in Phuket?

Liam’s attitude to life was uncomplicated. All he wanted was to keep fit, play tennis and have as much fun as possible with the opposite sex. This, he decided, was where Dulcie definitely had the edge. He was genuinely fond of her. She was more laid-back, probably relishing her own new-found freedom, and hadn’t so much as mentioned holidays. Liam, very much a ‘so many women, so little time’ man himself, was mystified by the female preoccupation with — yawn —

monogamy and — bigger yawn — settling down.

Jesus, where was the fun in that?

With Eddie needing to be driven that morning to Swindon for a meeting at eleven which was likely to go- on for hours, Pru had consulted her diary and decided to get Terry Hayes’ cottage out of the way first. Ringing him beforehand to be on the safe side and getting no answer — he wasn’t kidding when he said he started work early — she pulled up outside his front door at seven thirty and let herself in.

The kitchen didn’t take long. When Pru had finished in thereshe moved on to the bathroom.

Terry had bought himself some new aftershave, she noticed. Ralph Lauren, Polo. Nice. And a bottle of hair-thickening shampoo. Trying to spruce himself up, Pru thought with an indulgent smile. Bless him. What’s the betting he’s splashed out on new underpants too?

Humming to herself, Pru fished the Hoover out from the cupboard under the stairs and hauled it upstairs. Elbowing the door open, she launched herself into Terry’s bedroom. Honestly, what was it with men? Why did it never occur to them to draw back the curtains before they left for work?

The Hoover landed with a crash on the floor. Two people abruptly jack-knifed into sitting positions on the bed. Only semi-covered by the tangled duvet, they were both naked.

And neither of them was Terry Hayes.

‘What’s going on?’ demanded the man, sitting bolt upright. ‘Who’s she?’ squeaked the girl next to him, pulling the duvet up to her ears.

‘I’m the cleaner.’ Pru told herself not to be so silly, they couldn’t possibly be burglars. In the semi-darkness she peered closely at the man, who was rather good-looking. Those heavy eyebrows and piercing dark eyes, now she came to think of it, were definitely familiar.

‘Who are you?’ said Pru. ‘Terry’s brother?’

‘Pru?’ The man began to relax. He grinned at her. ‘I’m Terry.’

‘No you aren’t.’ Pru hesitated, confused. This was like a John le Carré novel where the gardener suddenly whisks off his beard and turns into a KGB agent.

‘Actually, he is,’ volunteered the girl in the bed. ‘And I’ve worked with him for the last four years, so I should know.’

Having taken the intrusion amazingly calmly, considering, Terry asked Pru if she wouldn’t mind making them all a pot of coffee.

Ten minutes later, showered and dressed, he appeared in the kitchen.

‘Sorry about barging in,’ said Pru, going pink at the memory as she poured the coffee into green and gold cups. ‘I thought you were at work. I did ring.’

‘Day off. I never hear the phone when I’m asleep.’ Terry dismissed her apology with a good-natured shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m curious. Why didn’t you think I was me? What’s my bossy sister been telling you?’

‘Nothing,’ protested Pru. ‘Marion didn’t say anything. It’s my mistake. It was the photograph in your bedroom, that’s all. I just assumed the chap in it was you.’

Terry’s rather angular mouth twitched.

‘It was me.’

‘But—’

He tapped the side of his nose.

‘Before I had this done.’

Pru winced. She’d put her foot in it again.

‘You mean you had an ... an accident?’

‘No accident. You’re being wonderfully tactful,’ Terry looked amused, ‘but there’s no need.

You’ve seen the photo, Pru. Let’s be honest, I was born with one hell of a nose.’

‘Oh ... well ...’

‘Jokes? I heard them all. Witty nicknames? Honker, Concorde, Big Bird ... I’ve been called everything in my time. When I was at school, the other kids made my life hell,’ Terry went on.

‘Then you get older, and people might stop calling you names, but you know they’re still staring at you, trying to concentrate on what you’re saying to them and all the time thinking: "God, look at the hooter on him." ‘

Pru couldn’t stop staring either.

‘So ... so you had plastic surgery?’

‘It wasn’t a question of vanity.’ For the first time Terry sounded defensive. ‘I just wanted to look

... normal.’

‘Oh I know,’ cried Pru. She understood exactly how he must have felt. ‘I know. Did ... well, did it hurt?’

He shrugged.

‘A bit. But it was worth it. If it had hurt a hundred times more, it would still have been worth it.

You see, I don’t have tothink about my nose any more. Why are you crying?’ He looked worried. ‘Pru, stop it. You mustn’t cry. Your nose is fine.’

Unable to speak, Pru raised her arms and scooped her hair away from her face.

At that moment the girl who shared both Terry’s office and his bed came into the kitchen wearing his towelling dressing gown.

‘Good grief.’ She eyed Pru’s ears with alarm. ‘Shouldn’t you get those seen to?’

‘Karen is to diplomacy what Margaret Thatcher is to tap dancing,’ Terry apologised. ‘But this time I have to say she’s right.’

Pru covered her ears back up again. Funny how all it had taken to overcome a lifetime’s fear of surgery was a snapshot of a man with a beaky nose.

Typical, too, that all those years when money had been no object, she hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to have her ears fixed.

Now I’ve got the courage, Pru thought gloomily, and I can’t even afford a tube of UHU.

Chapter 25

Liza lay in the bath for an hour, watching her skin shrivel and marvelling at her spectacular stupidity. It was her birthday, she was thirty-two, and she was acting like a pathetic teenager.

Damn, worse than that. She was acting like ... Dulcie.

There had been plenty of offers over the course of the last few days, from various men eager to take her out on her birthday. Stupidly, still hoping against hope that Kit Berenger would be in touch, she had turned them all down. She had even invented ever more elaborate excuses on Kit’s behalf, every time the phone rang and it wasn’t him.

In the end Liza had run out of excuses. Reasonable ones anyway. The only excuse that would do now was if he were dead.

So here she was, a grown woman in the grip of a deeply embarrassing crush – an unrequited crush at that – all alone on her birthday and feeling more spinsterish by the minute.

Climbing out of the bath, Liza put on a baggy yellow sweater and a pair of pink shorts. Since it was sunny outside she took her work out into the tiny garden.

Seconds after she’d settled herself down with more reference books and a notepad, the post arrived. Sending her coffee flying, Liza raced to the door. Cards, cards, cards .. .

None of them from Kit Berenger.

Hating herself for being foolish enough to even think he might have sent one – how truly pathetic could you get? – Liza crammed her sunglasses on to her face and forced herself to work for two hours straight.

At midday she made herself another pot of coffee and phoned Mark.

‘Dinner tonight. Are you still up for it?’

‘I thought you were busy.’

‘Change of plan,’ Liza replied brightly. ‘I can make it now.’

‘Oh, shame, I made other arrangements.’ Bemused by her call – it didn’t occur to him for a second that she could actually have been stood up by another man – Mark added, ‘Of course, you’re welcome to join us. Suzie wouldn’t mind ...’

Dulcie was just as much of a let-down.

‘I can’t, I’m seeing Liam. He’s mad about me,’ she confided happily. ‘You should have seen him last night, trying to climb in through my bedroom window! He’s so romantic,’ she sighed, ‘so masterful.’

Not in the mood to hear this, Liza attempted a quick getaway. ‘Okay, doesn’t matter—’

‘Hang on! You still haven’t told me what’s been going on between you and Kit Berenger.’

‘Terrible line, I can hardly hear you.’ Liza bashed the phone against the wall a couple of times and hung up.

When the doorbell rang an hour later she was tempted not to answer it. Why bother when it was either flowers from Mark – a guilt gift to make up for not being able to see her tonight – or Dulcie determined to get the low-down on the Berenger affair.

Some affair, Liza thought miserably. Chance would be a fine thing.

The doorbell rang again. Heaving an irritated sigh, she went to see who it was. If it was flowers, she’d answer the door. If it was Dulcie she definitely wouldn’t.

It wasn’t Dulcie. It wasn’t flowers either. And the silhouette through the stained glass was man-shaped.

Pulling the door open, Liza came face to face with Kit Berenger.

‘Happy birthday.’

He was wearing a dark-green shirt with a fine crimson stripe and the most impeccably cut black suit.

‘Thanks.’ Liza wondered how he knew it was today. But who cared? He was here, he was here.

‘You could always invite me in,’ Kit suggested when she didn’t move.

‘I thought you were going to phone.’ Liza stayed where she was. ‘Don’t tell me, you spent the ten pounds and couldn’t remember my number.’

He grinned. ‘Oh ye of little faith. Actually, I learned it off by heart. And I nearly phoned, hundreds of times. Had to exert a fair amount of self-control, I can tell you.’

Liza took a deep breath. She was having to exert a bit of self-control herself, right at this moment.

‘Either way, phoning would have been the decent thing to do,’ she said evenly. ‘If you decide you don’t want to see someone again, you should still let them know.’

‘Come on,’ chided Kit, his tone humorous, ‘you didn’t think that for a second.’

Liza pulled him into the narrow hallway and slammed the door shut. They stood, inches away from each other, her dark-brown eyes fixed angrily on his yellow-gold ones.

‘I thought I didn’t think that for a second,’ she almost hissed at him, ‘until you didn’t ring. Oh for God’s sake,’ she blurted out furiously, ‘how could you do that to me?’

‘Look,’ said Kit, ‘I thought we both needed the time to think. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make a habit of feeling like this about someone. It’s pretty scary, if you want the truth.’ He hesitated, then half smiled. ‘Bloody scary, in fact.’

‘It’s only lust. You don’t have to be scared!’

‘Ah, but what if it isn’t only lust?’ Kit put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You said yourself, I was too young for you.’ Liza smiled up at him.

‘I meant I was too old for you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re hardly talking weddings here.

What’s wrong with a harmless fling?’

‘Is that all you’re interested in?’ demanded Kit. He began to sound annoyed.

Liza was just glad he was here. The relief was overwhelming. She decided to be frank with him.

‘Don’t take this personally, it’s just the way I am. And the age thing’s irrelevant; I’m the same with everyone. I get bored quickly, that’s all. So trust me, you don’t have to worry about getting involved, being scared,’ she told Kit, ‘because it won’t last long enough for that to happen.’

Inexplicably, Liza heard her voice break. She paused before finishing what she had to say. ‘My relationships never do.’

He touched her mouth with one finger, tracing the outline of her full lower lip.

‘How soon before you get bored?’

‘Three or four weeks.’ She tried to move her mouth away from his finger, found she couldn’t do it. ‘I’m a very shallow person.’

Kit frowned.

‘A month? Is that the longest you’ve ever been involved with someone?’

Liza nodded, ashamed.

‘Pretty much. I think I managed five weeks once.’ He shook his head.

‘That’s really sad.’

‘I’ve kind of got used to it,’ said Liza.

‘That’s even sadder.’

‘Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for me.’

‘I’m not.’ Kit grinned. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, you’ve met me now. Things could be about to change.’

That would be just my luck, thought Liza. After years of being left cold by endless hugely eligible men, how typical if I finally fell in love with a toyboy. How unsuitable could you get?

She didn’t seriously expect it to happen. It was hardly likely. All she wanted to do was enjoy the next few weeks for what they were and accept the inevitable ending with good grace.

But for Kit’s sake she pretended it was a possibility.

Smiling up at him, she said, ‘Who knows? Maybe they are.’

Kit’s eyes narrowed at once. ‘Don’t humour me.’ His voice sent shivers of longing down Liza’s spine. ‘I’m not.’

‘You are. You think I’m too young to understand what makes you tick.’

Liza wished he’d stop talking. All she could think about right now was how badly she wanted him to make love to her.

That, she decided, would definitely be a birthday present worth having.

She gave him her most sensual and bewitching smile, the one that no man could ever resist.

‘I’m telling you, you aren’t going to get tired of me,’ promised Kit, resisting it. ‘I’m going to keep you interested if it kills me.’

‘Really?’ Liza gazed at him dreamily, her fingers itching to start unbuttoning his shirt. ‘And how are you planning to do this? By hypnosis?’

‘Stop looking at me like that,’ Kit said with a grin. ‘By not sleeping with you, for a start.’

It was the first week in June. The significance of this only struck Pru as she sat on a wooden bench outside Elm lea House in Clifton, absently flipping through the Daily Mail.

‘Driving ban for vicar after peacocks get the chop’, read Pru, but it was less alarming than it sounded. An absent-minded vicar, his thoughts on next Sunday’s sermon rather than the road ahead, had managed to veer into a yew hedge and demolish thirty years’ worth of lovingly tended topiary. Six sculpted peacocks had promptly been decapitated. The Morris Minor had escaped unscathed. The vicar, his licence suspended for a month, was quoted as saying, ‘I feel terrible about this. Everyone in the parish knows how keen I am on birds.’

It suddenly occurred to Pru that Eddie’s ban must almost be up. He had served his time, paid his penance. Any day now, surely, he’d be getting his licence back.

Pru was surprised how disappointed she felt. She would miss driving Eddie around. Maybe she should pin up a card in her local police station, offering her services to anyone else about to be banned.

But it wouldn’t be the same without Eddie.

‘I know who you are now.’

Pru shielded her eyes from the setting sun and looked up to see who had spoken. Oh help, it was that bossy old woman again, the one who had commandeered Dulcie’s steamy paperback.

‘You’re with Edna Peverell’s son-in-law,’ the woman announced triumphantly. ‘You come here with him three times a week. Edna tells me he’s a damn fine chap.’

Unable to think of anything else to say, Pru put down her paper and nodded.

‘Oh yes, he is. Um ... damn fine.’

‘So what I want to know,’ the old woman’s eyes were shrewd, ‘is what’s wrong with you?’

‘Excuse me?’ said Pru.

‘Why hasn’t your chap introduced you to Edna? Too ashamed, is he? What are you, one of those topless models in your spare time?’ The old lady had a laugh like a fox’s bark. ‘Come on, child, you can tell me. Why does he always leave you waiting outside like a wet umbrella?’

The old dear was clearly a couple of sausage rolls short of a picnic, but Pru was still flattered.

She glanced down at her almost nonexistent chest.

‘Hardly a topless model.’

‘No, you’re right. Something else then. Traffic warden? Jehovah’s Witness?’ She pointed her walking stick accusingly at Pru. ‘Member of the SDP?’

‘Actually,’ said Pru, ‘he’s not my chap. I’m just Eddie’s driver. That’s why he hasn’t introduced me to his mother-in-law.’

‘Balls,’ declared the old lady. Inching arthritically around, she jabbed her stick in the direction of one of the ivy-clad second-floor windows overlooking the car park. ‘That’s my room up there.

I’ve been watching the pair of you for the last six weeks. I’m not blind, you know.’

No, just dotty, thought Pru.

‘How did you get on with that book?’ she said, changing the subject.

‘Not bad.’ The batty old dear had turned towards the heavy oak front door. Preparing to leave, she paused and gave Pru a sly smile. ‘Not enough sex.’

She muttered something else under her breath as she disappeared through the doorway.

‘What?’ Pru called after her retreating back. ‘What did you say?’

‘I said not enough sex.’ In an oddly regal fashion, the old woman waved her walking stick briefly at Pru. Then she snorted with laughter. ‘Rather like you and your chap.’

Pru didn’t mention this exchange to Eddie when he returned to the car. Instead she asked him when his three-month ban was up.

Eddie gazed out of the side window at the spectacular Clifton suspension bridge, stretched across the Avon gorge.

‘Did I tell you three months? That wasn’t quite true,’ he said, sounding awkward and still not looking at Pru. ‘Actually it was ... um ... six.’

Chapter 26

Dulcie surveyed herself carefully from all angles in the wardrobe mirror but she still didn’t look any different.

This was most annoying, because when you’d put in as much hard work as she had during the last month you expected to end up looking like an international Gladiator at least.

Still, she had to be fitter on the inside. The sweating was disgusting, the grunting and straining horribly reminiscent of childbirth and the sheer pain involved was unimaginable but if this was what it took to persuade Liam she was his kind of girl ... well, then it was worth every grunt and strain.

Following the flu fiasco, Dulcie had realised drastic measures were now called for. Some things you could bluff your way through, others you couldn’t, and attempting to pass yourself off as Bath’s answer to Steffi Graf when in reality you were Bath’s answer to a cross between Jo Brand and a walking Mars bar clearly wasn’t on.

As a result of this, Dulcie had joined another, less sumptuous sports club on the other side of the city and had booked daily lessons with the far less desirable middle-aged tennis coach there.

Biting the bullet, she had also enrolled herself in the beginners’ aerobics class. If she could still walk after this, she stumbled along to the gym and pumped iron for an hour.

It had been far and away the most hideous month of Dulcie’s life. The only consolation was that she was doing it where no one recognised her; she was working out at a club so un-smart she was unlikely ever to bump into anyone she knew.

But if hanging on to Liam McPherson involved keeping fit, Dulcie was prepared to suffer.

And now she had suffered, for a whole month. It was just such a bugger that it didn’t show.

Maybe she could squeeze Liam half to death with her thighs. Then he’d be impressed.

Having finished her inspection in front of the mirror, Dulcie wriggled her way into a new dress, a tiny clinging thing the colour of sherbet lemons. With it, she wore flat silver sandals and understated silver jewellery. She was meeting up with Liam at Poppers, the new wine bar on Pulteney Bridge, and she wanted to look good. Poppers was definitely the kind of place people went to be seen.

‘Dulcie? Are you here on your own?’

Turning, Dulcie came face to face with her estranged husband. Honestly, trust Patrick to make her sound like a prostitute.

‘No need to panic! I promise not to flash my knickers at any strange men. Anyway,’ she gave him a teasing smile, ‘this is a wine bar, not a street corner. I’m allowed to be here; it’s all quite legal.’

Actually, it was really nice to see him ... until the next moment when Dulcie realised the girl doing her best to look as if she wasn’t in any way connected with Patrick was connected with him after all.

‘Ah, sorry. Claire, this is Dulcie. My... er, wife. Dulcie, Claire.’

A bit of advance warning wouldn’t have gone amiss, Dulcie felt. She smiled as casually as she could at Claire and was surprised how hard it was to do. What a shame people didn’t wear beepers, like little personal radars, so you always had a few minutes’ notice that you were about to bump into them. That was all you’d need really, Dulcie thought, just a couple of minutes to gear yourself up, mentally prepare yourself for those awkward chance meetings. If Patrick was so clever with acomputer, maybe he should give it a whirl. There had to be a market for a beeper to let you know you were about to cross paths with your husband and his new bird.

‘It’s really nice to meet you,’ said Claire, reaching out and shaking Dulcie’s unsuspecting hand.

‘Look, if you two ‘d like to talk, I could leave you in peace for a few minutes ...’

‘No need for that.’ Patrick acknowledged the diplomatic offer with a brief smile and slid an arm around Claire’s waist.

Dulcie’s eyes almost fell out. Public displays of affection weren’t Patrick’s style at all. For heaven’s sake, it had taken her about four years to persuade him to put his arm around her waist.

‘Anyway,’ he went on, as if Dulcie had deliberately tried to change the subject, ‘why are you here on your own?’

‘I’m not on my own. I’m meeting Liam.’

‘Oh? Where is he?’

‘I got here early,’ Dulcie fibbed.

Patrick shot her a look of disbelief.

‘You’re never anywhere early.’

That was the trouble with husbands; they knew you too well. Dulcie cursed Patrick for knowing her. She began elongating the fib.

‘Well, I didn’t mean to be early but I was over at Liza’s and she had to go out so she gave me a lift. And Liam warned me he might be held up ... someone’s offered him a Lamborghini and if it looks good he’ll take it for a test drive ...’

This bit was actually true. The reason Dulcie was fibbing was to cover up the fact that Liam was over an hour late already. She just knew Patrick would disapprove.

Irritatingly, Patrick wasn’t as impressed as he could have been by her casual mention of the Lamborghini. Knowing him as well as he knew her, Dulcie sensed the lip curl, the slight air of amusement. He was wondering what she thought she was doing, getting herself involved with the kind of man who drove that kind of car.

Cringing inwardly, Dulcie remembered what Steve Ellis, the leering pro from Brunton Golf Club, had called them when Liam had mentioned he was thinking of getting one. ‘Hey, major babe-magnet!’

And Liam, grinning, had replied, ‘I’ve already got one of those.’

‘He probably won’t buy it,’ Dulcie told Patrick and Claire. ‘Not that he couldn’t afford to. It’s just not really his style, you know. Bit naff.’

‘My father had one. He sold it last year,’ said Claire. Realising her gaffe, she covered her mouth and let out a peal of laughter. Then she clutched Dulcie’s arm and, still giggling, whispered conspiratorially, ‘Please don’t be embarrassed. You’re right, of course. Too naff for words. He looked an absolute sight.’

Dulcie was trapped. By nine o’clock there was still no sign of Liam and Patrick was clearly determined to keep her talking until he turned up. Since she knew no one else there, Dulcie didn’t have much choice.

She thought men were supposed to go for a particular type of woman and stick with them, but Patrick certainly hadn’t; he’d managed to find someone the complete opposite of her.

Furthermore – it was irritating but she couldn’t help it; feeling miffed was a natural response –

he definitely seemed happy with Claire.

Maybe that’s all he ever wanted, the type he should have gone for in the first place, Dulcie realised. A sensible, cheerful, gosh-where-did-I-put-my-hockey-stick kind of girl. Intelligent, friendly towards everyone and with heaps of common sense. The type of person, Dulcie thought darkly, who held up her hand and said, ‘No thanks, really, one chocolate’s enough for me.’

She even had a real career, dammit, so Patrick’s ridiculous working hours wouldn’t bother her in the least. The chances were she wouldn’t even notice he was never home because she wouldn’t be there either, she’d still be working too.

They could be Executive Couple, thought Dulcie, and themost annoying part of all is they wouldn’t even think they were missing out on any fun, because when you’re that career-minded, work is fun.

Willing it to be Liam every time the door was pushed open hadn’t worked. By nine thirty Dulcie was growing desperate ... and trying even more desperately to hide it.

‘Looks like he’s stood you up,’ said Patrick, not sounding in the least sympathetic. ‘Come on, we’ll give you a lift home.’

How sad could you get? Dulcie suppressed a shudder – God, the humiliation – and gaily emptied her glass.

‘Don’t fuss! He’ll be here any minute now,’ she exclaimed. ‘Anyway, this party we’re going to doesn’t start until midnight ... it’s at the home of one of his rock star friends, did I mention that?

They live in this fantastic mansion outside Calne. Oh for heaven’s sake, Patrick! Stop looking at your watch. What difference does it make if someone’s a tiny bit late? Look, let me get you both another drink—’

‘We’ve got a table booked at the Blue Bowl.’ Patrick’s tone was curt; he wasn’t amused.

‘If you’d like to, you’d be more than welcome to join us,’ Claire said eagerly, her clear grey eyes reflecting genuine concern. She nodded as she spoke, so rhythmically that Dulcie wondered if someone behind her was tugging on her glossy brown plait, practising a spot of bell ringing on the nearest available rope.

Bloody, bloody Liam...

And bloody Claire, come to that, for being so caring, so jolly, jolly nice. Where had Patrick found her, anyway? Graduating with honours from the Jane Asher School of Charm and Utter Loveliness?

This reminded Dulcie that he hadn’t told her yet how things had gone the night his mother had fixed him up.

To divert Patrick’s attention from Liam’s lateness, Dulcie said brightly, ‘I forgot to ask, how was your awful blind date the other week, the one you were dreading so much? Total nightmare or what?’

Patrick looked at Claire. Ha, thought Dulcie, delighted. That’s caught you out! Been two-timing her already .. .

Claire, in turn, looked at Dulcie. There were dimples in her cheeks.

‘I don’t think it went too badly, considering,’ she said with a playful smile.

‘But—’

‘Oh, Dulcie, the awful blind date was me.’

‘Where have you been?’ hissed Dulcie when Liam finally appeared. ‘For God’s sake, you’re two hours late!’

Liam cupped a hand over one ear and shook his head. ‘Damn, I hate it when that happens.’

‘Hate what?’

‘That terrible noise in my ear. That nagging noise.’

‘I’m not nagging,’ Dulcie said crossly, ‘I’m just telling you, that’s all. You should have been here at nine.’

‘Why, what happened?’

The blonde standing with her back to Liam suddenly giggled and swivelled round to look at him.

Liam, happy to have his wit appreciated, grinned back.

‘My husband and his new girlfriend were here, that’s what happened,’ Dulcie wailed. ‘They insisted on waiting here with me until you turned up.’

Liam looked around.

‘So where are they?’

‘They left two minutes ago!’ She almost stamped her foot. ‘Phew, great timing.’

The blonde giggled again. Liam tried without much success to keep a straight face. Dulcie could have kicked the pair of them.

‘It isn’t funny. Dammit, they felt sorry for me.’

‘Am I going to get this earache all night?’ protested Liam.

There was an unfamiliar edge to his voice, as if he were on the verge of losing his patience. Suddenly overcome by a rush of fear – what if Liam turned round, grabbed the giggling blonde and disappeared with her out of the door? – Dulcie forced herself to calm down. Liam wasn’t the type to sit alone and mope. She held a privileged position. And if she didn’t want it there were plenty of other women queueing up to take her place.

‘I’m sorry. It was pretty embarrassing, that’s all. Forget it.’

His good humour instantly restored, Liam slid his arm around Dulcie’s hips and pulled her playfully towards him.

‘You mean I don’t get detention from teacher?’ he murmured in her ear. ‘I don’t have to write out a hundred lines: I must not be a naughty boy and upset Dulcie?’

She quivered helplessly. Oh, that soft, purring Irish drawl! It really should come with a government health warning .. .

‘I’ll let you off, this once,’ she said faintly as Liam began kissing the tips of her fingers. Damn, why couldn’t Patrick and Claire be here to witness this now?

‘In that case,’ his blue eyes crinkled at the corners, ‘I’ll let you have a ride in my new car.’

‘Oh dear, I’m afraid I don’t accept lifts from strange men,’ said Dulcie.

‘It’s a Lamborghini.’

‘What colour?’

‘Red of course.’

‘Oh, all right then.’

Chapter 27

Liza, rubbing her eyes and pulling open the front door, protested, ‘Good grief, it’s only seven o’clock.’

Kit looked as if he’d been up for hours. He winked, unperturbed by the grumpy welcome.

‘Do you know what today is?’

She had to think for a minute. ‘Tuesday.’

‘No. Well, yes,’ he admitted, ‘but what else?’

‘I give up.’

‘It’s time you got bored with me.’

Liza already knew that. She smiled.

‘Do I have to?’

‘It’s been a month,’ said Kit. ‘Aren’t you bored yet?’

Her arms went around his neck. When she had finished kissing him, Liza looked up into his extraordinary yellow-gold eyes.

‘You know I’m not. I’ve never been less bored.’ Or more frustrated, come to that.

‘The thing is,’ said Kit, reading her mind and looking amused, ‘you aren’t bad. I quite fancy you, in fact. Maybe we shouldn’t risk spoiling things.’

‘Meaning ...?’

He shrugged.

‘Well, I don’t know. Maybe we should stay as we are. Platonic friends. No sex for at least the next ten years. What are you doing?’

Ask a silly question.

‘Unfastening your belt.’’Oh. Not keen, then, on my idea?’

‘Not very keen, no.’

Kit kicked the front door shut and leaned back against it, his eyes fixed on Liza’s face.

‘What are you doing now?’ he said finally.

‘Just unzipping your trousers.’

‘Liza.’

‘Mm?’

‘I love you.’

Liza looked away, unable to speak. All these years and it had happened at last. She’d heard these words so many times before, but this was the first time she’d actually wanted to hear them. Until now, they’d always made her feel sick.

‘It’s almost killed me, waiting this long,’ Kit went on. ‘I want to make love to you more than anything in the world.’

Liza quivered helplessly. She knew it was corny, but a tingling sensation actually was going down her spine.

She cleared her throat and nodded. ‘Me too.’

‘But if it’s going to change things between us ... if it’s going to spoil all this ...’

‘I don’t think it is,’ said Liza, who had wondered the same thing herself. This time she shook her head, desperate to convince him she was right. ‘I really don’t think it is.’

‘Tell you what.’

‘What?’

Slowly, he slid the straps of her white nightdress off her shoulders.

‘You don’t get bored with me,’ whispered Kit, his breath warm against her neck, ‘I won’t get bored with you.’

He was so in control. Liza wondered how on earth a twenty-three-year-old could be so self-assured. Heavens, he acted older than she did.

‘Is that a promise?’ she said, dry-mouthed. The need to know was overwhelming.

As he carried her through to the bedroom, Kit said, ‘Cross my heart, hope to die.’

* * *

It wasn’t a let-down.

Thank God.

Not that Liza had seriously expected him to be lousy in bed; it was just when you built something up so much in your mind, your expectations soared so sky-high they became almost impossible to live up to.

Anyway, thought Liza, smiling with her eyes closed, it hadn’t been a let-down in any shape or form.

And she definitely hadn’t been bored.

‘By the way, my cousin wants to meet you,’ said Kit, much later that morning.

Liza was admiring his brown legs. Better legs, possibly, than any she had ever seen on a man.

‘Which cousin?’

‘Nicky.’

‘You mean from the Songbird?’

Kit mimicked her look of horror.

‘Yes, from the Songbird.’

‘Oh my God, does she want to kill me?’

‘Don’t panic, business is on the up. The restaurant isn’t going to close after all.’

Liza covered her face with the duvet. Her voice was muffled. ‘She must hate me.’

‘Actually, she agrees with you. As soon as I said you’d eaten there on New Year’s Day, it clicked. That was the day her chef turned up half-cut, apparently, and Nicky had to do most of the cooking herself.’

‘Poor thing.’

‘She’s okay. You’ll get on fine,’ said Kit.

Liza rested her head in the crook of his shoulder.

‘This is proper boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. Meeting the family.’ She smiled at the thought. This was something else she’d shied away from over the years, simply because there hadn’t seemed much point. ‘Whatever next?’

‘May as well mention it while we’re on the subject,’ Kitsaid evenly. ‘My father. This thing is, he

—’

‘Your father wants to meet me too? My God, talk about popular! How does—’

Kit put his hand gently over Liza’s mouth to shut her up.

‘Don’t jump to conclusions. I was about to say don’t expect anything like that from my father, because he absolutely doesn’t want to meet you.’

‘Oh.’

‘No offence.’

‘I’m not offended,’ said Liza, deeply offended.

‘Look, he’s pretty old-fashioned. Upsetting Nicky didn’t do you the world of good, for a start.’

‘Right.’ Liza nodded against his chest. She could understand that.

‘Well, so basically, he wasn’t thrilled when I told him I was seeing you.’ Kit paused and drew breath. ‘Then, when he found out how old you were ...’

Liza winced.

‘Don’t tell me. It was scrape-him-off-the-ceiling time.’

‘Like I said, he’s old-fashioned. He has these set ideas. Set in concrete,’ Kit amended wearily.

‘You know the kind of thing. My sister’s thirty so she should be married and having babies. I’m twenty-three so I should be playing the field.’

‘How does he know you aren’t?’

‘He wants me to play the field with nineteen-year-old girls. Twenty-year-olds. I said I wasn’t interested.’

‘Heavens, maybe he thinks you’re gay.’

‘Worse still,’ Kit looked down at her, ‘I told him I wasn’t playing the field. I told him this thing with you was serious. And, God knows, that’s a first for me.’

Liza’s stomach did a slow, snake-like somersault. Not normally superstitious, she was nevertheless terrified of tempting fate.

‘Isn’t that jumping the gun a bit?’

Kit shrugged.

‘Maybe, but I meant it.’

Oh please, please, thought Liza, squirming with pleasure as his hand trailed down her stomach, don’t ever get bored with me.

Everyone else always seemed to sneer at it, but Dulcie adored daytime TV. She loved the pointlessness of it all ... the viewers’ makeovers, the snippets of movie gossip, the panel of experts deciding which baked beans were the least disgusting. She also enjoyed the effortless jolly banter between her favourite presenters, the how-to-transform-a-box-room-into-a banqueting-hall items, and the cookery slots, which Dulcie found quite soothing to watch.

Best of all though, she liked Nancy, the five-times-married resident problem-solver, who was wonderfully motherly and quite unshockable. If anyone said anything shameful or embarrassing she immediately told them in her lovely soothing voice that she understood completely because that had once happened to her too.

‘Believe me, I know how you feel,’ Nancy was saying now to a tearful woman who had just discovered her husband had a bit of a predilection for lacy underwear. ‘Tell me, is it just the undies or does he wear frocks too?’

He did, he did, confessed the woman, between sobs. She’d found a flouncy yellow chiffon dress in the back of the wardrobe and wondered what on earth it was doing there. It was horrible, not her taste in clothes at all.

While Dulcie bit the chocolate off a jaffa cake, Nancy suggested to the woman that shopping together for clothes might bring her and her husband closer, and could also help to avoid costly mistakes.

The next caller was more up Dulcie’s street.

‘... the thing is,’ pleaded Greta from Scarborough, ‘I really love him, Nancy. If he left me I don’t know what I’d do, I just need someone to tell me how I can keep him ... I’ll do anything ...’

Dulcie ate another jaffa cake. She knew that feeling all right.

‘Right, Greta. I understand completely how desperate you must be feeling,’ said Nancy cosily. ‘I can hear it in your voice. But first of all I have to tell you what you mustn ‘t do.’

‘What mustn’t she do, Nancy?’ enquired one of the show’s presenters.

‘Yes, Nancy,’ said Dulcie, ‘what mustn’t we do?’

‘Please, please don’t be tempted into thinking all your problems would be solved if you had a baby.’ Nancy sounded sorrowful. ‘Because believe me, Greta, that would be the biggest mistake you could make.’

The jaffa cake was melting. Dulcie licked chocolate off her fingers and conjured up a mental picture of a tiny baby, the image of Liam, wearing tennis whites and waving a miniature racquet.

This was a possibility that hadn’t so much as crossed her mind.

‘It’s crossed my mind,’ admitted Greta from Scarborough. ‘Don’t let it,’ Nancy said firmly.

This was like being told not to think of pink elephants. Dulcie promptly imagined Liam showing off his new son, driving him around in the Lamborghini, proudly telling everyone how fatherhood had changed his whole life .. .

‘I know,’ said Greta, beginning to sound a bit desperate, ‘but it worked for my sister. She got pregnant and her bloke stuck by her. And she did it on purpose,’ she added defiantly. ‘He thought she was still on the pill but she stopped taking it.’

‘Deceit and trickery,’ Nancy looked sad and shook her head, ‘deceit and trickery. Trust me, pet, this isn’t the answer. Getting pregnant – when all you’re trying to do is hang on to a man – is a recipe for disaster. You’re just grasping at straws.’

Dulcie lifted up her white sweatshirt and gazed down at her flat stomach. Then she shoved the biscuit tin under the sweatshirt and surveyed the odd-shaped lump. Nancy had got rid of Greta now. She had moved on to John from Norwich who was forty-four but his mother had never let him have a girlfriend.

Dulcie knew from the tone of Greta’s voice that she would go ahead and do it anyway. You could always tell when people were going to ignore Nancy’s sound advice.

Dulcie pulled the biscuit tin out from under her sweatshirt, opened it and thoughtfully bit into a bourbon. There was no doubt about it, getting pregnant accidentally-on-purpose might not do the trick — but then again, what if it did? It could be a risk worth taking.

What a shame there wasn’t a Predictor pregnancy kit for men, a just-pee-on-this type of thing that would reliably inform you whether the prospective father of your child might actually be quite keen on the idea.

Or, on the other hand, if he was a fully paid-up member of the run-a-mile club.

Minutes later, it came to her.

Brilliant, thought Dulcie excitedly, amazed that a solution so perfect and simple hadn’t occurred to her before. Or, indeed, to Nancy.

Who needed a pre-pregnancy test? All she had to do was bend the truth a bit.

It wasn’t even fibbing, it was ... well, it was research.

Chapter 28

‘You’re what?’ said Liza, horrified, when Dulcie announced her momentous news the next day out in the back garden. ‘You’re kidding!’

‘I found out last week. Isn’t it terrific?’

Dulcie beamed at them both. Pru, sitting cross-legged on the grass, looked dazed. Liza, frowning, swirled the ice cubes around in her tall glass.

‘I don’t know,’ Liza said finally. ‘Is it terrific? How does Liam feel about it?’

Feeling quite pregnant already, and weirdly protective of her nonexistent child, Dulcie decided Liza was jealous.

‘I’m telling him tonight. I bet he’ll be chuffed.’

Pru was shielding her eyes from the sun, peering at Dulcie’s stomach.

‘How many weeks are you?’

‘Six.’ Dulcie was firm. She had consulted her diary and committed the necessary dates to memory. She had learned her lesson from the Bibi fiasco, the lesson being: If you’re going to lie, be thorough, be convincing and above all be consistent.

All the same, she was glad she had her RayBans on. It wasn’t so easy fibbing to your friends.

‘Morning sickness?’ said Liza, giving her a slightly odd look.

‘God, morning sickness!’ Dulcie groaned and clutched her stomach. You didn’t watch as many soaps as she had in her time without becoming something of an expert on the various signs and symptoms of pregnancy. ‘I’ve been throwing up like nobody’s business—’

‘Cravings?’

‘Cravings!’ Dulcie rolled her eyes. ‘Tell me about them! Custard creams, pickled beetroot dunked in chocolate spread, peanut butter and honey sandwiches—’

‘You’ve always eaten those.’

‘I know, but then I just fancied them,’ explained Dulcie. ‘Now I crave them, totally. Morning, noon and night. And cornflakes mashed up with double cream and marmalade.’

‘I read an article in the paper recently,’ Liza went on. ‘Some professor was saying women who crave green olives have boys, and if they go for lemons it’s a girl.’

Dulcie had already decided Liam would prefer a son. To start with, anyway. She patted her stomach and said happily, ‘I’m eating millions of olives. I know it’s going to be a boy.’

Then because Liza and Pru were both still exchanging furtive glances, she wailed, ‘Isn’t anyone going to congratulate me? Come on, I’m having a baby here! Is this exciting or what?’

Pru looked away, pretending to pick a bit of grass off her shirt. Finally Liza spoke.

‘It might be exciting,’ she said drily, ‘if it were true.’

‘But it is true!’

Liza reached across and whipped off Dulcie’s dark glasses. ‘You might be able to do it to everyone else, but you can’t lie to us.’

Oh bugger, so much for subterfuge.

‘Damn.’ Resignedly, Dulcie grabbed her glasses back. ‘How could you tell?’

‘You might be flippant,’ said Liza, smiling at the expression on Dulcie’s face, ‘but even you aren’t that flippant.’

‘Plus,’ Pru added, looking apologetic, ‘if you really were pregnant, you wouldn’t be able to keep it to yourself for an hour, let alone a week.’

‘I made up the bit about the olives, by the way,’ said Liza.

Feeling ganged-up on, Dulcie said nothing. She drank her glass of tonic and pulled a face. At least now the game was up, she could stick some gin in.

‘Sorry.’ Liza was trying not to laugh. ‘What were we, the practice run?’

Dulcie nodded.

‘Thought so. It’s a really sick thing to do, you know.’

Since Liza wasn’t Liam’s greatest fan, this came as something of a shock to Dulcie; it made her sit up a bit. Hang on, was she defending him here? Was she actually on Liam’s side?

‘I thought you’d approve,’ she protested. ‘I’m being responsible, aren’t I? If he’s thrilled, I’ll do it for real. If he isn’t .. . well, then I won’t.’

Pru looked at her.

‘Well, don’t you think it’s a good idea?’ said Dulcie defensively. ‘I’m testing the ground first.

You’d try on a dress, wouldn’t you, before you bought it?’

‘Except we aren’t talking about a dress here,’ said Liza, ‘we’re talking about a baby and that’s a pretty major deception.’ She shook her head. ‘I still think you’re mad.’

‘Some men just need a nudge in the right direction.’ Dulcie hugged her knees; she still thought it was a brilliant idea. ‘Look, how did you really know I was lying?’

‘We know you,’ said Liza with a shrug.

‘Okay, but Liam doesn’t. He’ll believe me, won’t he?’ Dulcie raised her eyebrows, pleading with them to be on her side. ‘So long as you two back me up.’

Pru looked flustered. Subterfuge didn’t come naturally to her.

‘Why don’t you just ask him if he’d like a baby?’ she said with an air of helplessness.

Sometimes Dulcie wondered about Pru. Was she from the real world or not?

‘Because,’ she explained patiently, ‘it just doesn’t work like that.’

* * *

Kit was taking Liza away to the Lake District for the weekend. He picked her up at four o’clock and chucked her case in the back of the Bentley.

‘We’re going to stay at this amazing hotel,’ he told her, ‘surrounded by woodland. The countryside’s fantastic. You’ll love it.’

Liza wondered jealously who he’d taken there before. She wondered how many times he’d been there and how many girls he’d been there with.

‘None,’ said Kit, glancing across at her as they headed for the motorway.

‘What?’

‘In case you were wondering.’

‘Wondering what?’ Liza unwrapped a packet of fruit pastilles.

He grinned. ‘The look on your face. Total giveaway.’

‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ she protested, but it was half-hearted.

‘Five years ago, the father of my best friend from school remarried,’ said Kit. ‘The reception was held at Egerton Hall and I was invited along. As soon as I saw the hotel I knew this was the place for me. When I met the right girl I’d bring her here.’ He paused, concentrating on the road ahead.

When they had navigated round a swaying horsebox, he added casually, ‘And now it’s happened.

You are that girl.’

‘I’m thirty-two. Hardly a girl.’

Kit shrugged.

‘Okay, you are that ancient old battleaxe.’

‘Oh God.’ Fearfully she pulled down the sun visor, studying her face in the mirror. ‘What if the chambermaids think I’m your mother?’

They were approaching a lay-by. Kit braked hard and pulled in. As the trundling horsebox overtook them, he took Liza in his arms.

‘Stop it,’ he said firmly. ‘I love you. I don’t care that you’re older than me. And if it bothers anyone else, then they’re theones with the problem. We’re talking nine years’ difference here, not ninety. I mean, so what? Big deal.’

He was still kissing her when the phone rang in the car. ‘Bugger,’ said Kit, then he grinned and flicked a switch. ‘Hooray for hands-free.’

But Leo Berenger’s autocratic voice, booming through the car, stopped them in their tracks.

‘Kit, you’ve gone off with the bloody keys to the safe.’

‘Shit.’ Kit’s hand went to his jacket pocket. He pulled out the keys and gazed at them in disgust.

‘You’ll have to bring them back,’ ordered Leo Berenger. ‘Lucky we stopped before the motorway.’ Kit winked at Liza. To his father he said, ‘Forty minutes, okay?’

‘We’re waiting for them now,’ roared Leo. ‘Make it twenty.’

‘Looks like it’s meet-the-folks time,’ Kit said cheerfully as he swung the Bentley into the gravelled drive. There, waiting for them on the front steps of Rowan House, was Leo Berenger.

Tall, burly and ominous-looking, even from this distance. Liza wondered about hiding herself under a blanket on the back seat – except there was no blanket to hide under. There was no anything. It was an incredibly clean car.

‘You should have dropped me off first.’ She shivered, unable to help herself.

Kit gave her thigh a reassuring squeeze.

‘Come on, he’s only my father. No need to be scared, just because he can’t stand the sight of you.’

‘Ha ha,’ said Liza, because Kit was grinning. She was glad someone found it funny.

Leo Berenger clearly didn’t, when they reached him at last. ‘Keys,’ Kit announced, sliding open the driver’s window and holding them out to his father. ‘Sorry about that.’

But although Leo Berenger took the keys, he appeared not to hear his son’s apology. He was too busy, instead, looking at Liza. Having rather hoped he would opt for ignoring her completely, Liza now found herself forced to return his gaze.

She tried to look friendly but not totally grovelly.

Leo Berenger’s expression, by way of contrast, was on a par with slicing open a peach and finding a nest of squirming maggots inside.

Rapidly, because he couldn’t very well not, Kit performed the introductions.

‘I already know who you are,’ Leo Berenger told Liza. ‘And I daresay my son’s told you how I feel about this ... relationship.’ His eyebrows were like caterpillars, his tone Yorkshire-blunt.

‘But I’ll say it again, just so you get the point. You all but wrecked my niece’s business, and you’re certainly the wrong sort for my son. I don’t know what you think you’re playing at, but the sooner he comes to his senses and finds himself a girl his own age—’

‘Thanks, Dad, that’s fine, we’ve got the message.’

‘Because believe me, the sight of you sitting there in that car where my late wife used to sit—’

‘Right,’ Kit said wearily, ‘I wondered when we’d get to that.’

He switched off the ignition, opened the driver’s door and climbed out. Within seconds, the boot was unloaded. Carrying four cases, Kit somehow managed to open the passenger door.

‘Come on,’ he told Liza without emotion, ‘we’ll go in mine.’

It made a change, anyway. Instead of feeling old, Liza now felt about fifteen. The last time she’d been told off by a boyfriend’s enraged father was when they’d been caught smoking in his garden shed.

‘She might not want to go in yours.’ Leo Berenger’s taunting voice followed them around the side of the vast Georgian house. ‘After all, it’s no Bentley.’

At the back of the house, across a cobbled courtyard, an old stable block had been converted into garages. They loaded the suitcases into Kit’s battered – and spectacularly untidy – slate-grey Peugeot.

‘He thinks I’m a gold-digger,’ Liza marvelled.

‘We could really gee him up,’ said Kit, slamming the boot shut, ‘we could tell him you’re pregnant.’’I’m not.’

Kit’s yellow-gold eyes glittered like a cat’s in the dusty sunlight. He kissed Liza’s warm mouth, then her neck, then her bare shoulder.

‘You’re not yet.’

Oh my God, thought Liza dazedly, marvelling at the effect he was having on her body. How does he do it? How can this be happening to me?

But when Kit drove the Peugeot around the side of the house, Leo Berenger was still standing there next to the Bentley, his arms folded across his barrel of a chest, his disapproving gaze fixed on Liza.

Kit lowered his window and said cheerfully, ‘See? It’s my body she’s after, not your cash. Bye, Dad.’

His father didn’t reply.

Making sure she spoke loudly enough to be heard, Liza said as they drove past, ‘Is he really your father? Sure you weren’t switched at birth?’

Chapter 29

It was one of Eddie’s visiting days. Pru picked him up at five o’clock that afternoon and gave Arthur’s ears a friendly scratch when he scrambled on to the passenger seat ahead of Eddie.

Arthur had formed a passionate attachment to Anita, the golden retriever belonging to the caretaker at Elmlea nursing home; for the past couple of weeks he had taken to yelping with excitement every time he spotted Pru, and hurling himself into the car like a frantic commuter hailing a taxi.

‘It’s love,’ said Eddie with a grin, shoving Arthur through to the back before he drooled over Pru’s pale-green shirt.

Pru was getting used to Arthur now. As dogs went, he was okay. How he’d ever managed to get himself a girlfriend though, was beyond her. Arthur had frightfully bad breath.

‘Down,’ Eddie commanded as the dog’s paws crept over the back of his seat. A long pink tongue lolled wetly, inches from his shoulder. For a mad moment he wished it could be Pru’s tongue.

Pru, extremely glad it wasn’t her shoulder, said, ‘You’re supposed to play it cool, Arthur. Look like you don’t give a damn.’

But with dogs there was no need for all that. The second Arthur spotted the object of his desire, he would howl with joy and scrabble in desperation at the car door until he was let out. Anita, in her turn, would leap up, eyes alight with pleasure, and race across the grass towards him, Hollywood style.

None of your complicated human stuff, Eddie thought, all this hiding your true feelings, preserving your pride and generally falling about.

‘Speaking of playing it cool,’ said Eddie, ‘how’s it going with Dulcie and Liam?’

He only asked because Liam’s new car was hard to miss and this morning he had spotted it racing out of the club’s car park. Eddie hadn’t paid a great deal of attention but even he hadn’t been able to help noticing that the mane of blonde hair attached to the girl in the passenger seat didn’t belong to Dulcie.

This is it, thought Pru, willing herself to stay calm and unflustered. This is my chance to see if I can pull it off.

‘Actually, I saw Dulcie this morning. She rang Liza and me, asked us to go and see her. She’s really excited’ — eyes on the road, just sound normal, don’t blush, don’t blush — ‘you see, she’s just found out she’s pregnant.’

‘Good God.’ Eddie sounded horrified. ‘What — who’s — I mean, is it Liam’s?’

Pru was hating this already. She felt hot and unhappy. Fibbing might come naturally to some people but she wasn’t one of them.

Except Dulcie had made her promise.

Pretending she was an actress playing her part on a stage, Pru nodded. Actually, it helped.

‘Of course it’s Liam’s. She’s thrilled!’

‘Is Liam thrilled?’

‘He doesn’t know yet. She’s telling him tonight. So don’t say anything,’ Pru warned him,

‘because I shouldn’t have told you.’

Eddie looked at Pru and decided not to mention the blonde in Liam’s car. It was none of his business anyway. If Pru relayed this information to Dulcie — and it all ended in tears — he would only be left with the finger pointed accusingly at him.

Safer not to get involved, he thought. Hear no shenanigans, see no shenanigans, that was the way to deal with these kind of adventures.

Pru wondered unhappily why Dulcie couldn’t have left her out of it. She had lied. Successfully, too.

And it felt horrid.

On the back seat, as they sped down the dual carriageway towards Bristol, Arthur let out an impatient whine, the doggie equivalent of: ‘How long before we’re there?’

Pru may have felt terrible at deliberately deceiving Eddie, but she didn’t feel as terrible as Liam did when Dulcie broke the momentous news to him that night.

In addition, her hearing appeared to have been affected.

‘Christ. A baby! I don’t know if this is a good idea—’

‘Isn’t it the most fantastic news ever?’ Dulcie rattled on regardless, ignoring his less-than-thrilled expression. ‘Just think, a son! You’ll be able to teach him to play tennis!’

‘Dulcie ... sweetheart, sit down. Stop yakking for a minute.’ Liam shook his head; he looked pained. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I’m ready to be a father.’

It was bound to come as a bit of a shock, thought Dulcie. She could understand that. She had to make allowances. When it began to sink in, the idea would grow on him. She just had to plant the right seeds.

‘Nobody’s ever sure they’re ready for children,’ she told Liam soothingly, ‘but once it’s happened, they wonder how they ever lived without them. Look at all your old tennis pals ...

John McEnroe, Pat Cash ... they’re devoted to their kids! And it makes men so attractive, too,’

she enthused. ‘Look at Sting, Simon Le Bon, Tom Cruise ...’

Dulcie had worked out the best way to play it, and she was right. Even in his shell-shocked state, Liam was drawn to the sexy-but-caring image. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; he could do it Rod Stewart style, have umpteen kids by a succession of drop-dead-gorgeous girlfriends .. .

Then he thought of the astronomical child support and shuddered.

‘Look, Dulcie, we do need to think about this.’ He paused, not wanting to upset her, choosing his words with care. ‘Weneed to think about it seriously. There are other ... well, other options, you know.’

Dulcie, her green eyes huge, gazed at him like a wounded fawn. Her lower lip began to tremble.

‘How could you even think that?’

Her hands clutched her stomach. Liam instantly felt dreadful, like an axe murderer.

With a sigh, he supposed he was lucky this hadn’t happened before. He was almost thirty-five, had been firing on all cylinders since he was fifteen ... well, that was a pretty good innings.

Okay, so he’d been let down by a faulty condom, but they were said to be only ninety-seven per cent effective anyway, weren’t they? And he’d certainly used more than ninety-seven condoms in the past twenty years.

Anyway, looking on the bright side – at least now he knew he wasn’t infertile.

Liam decided to give in gracefully, he may as well make the best of it. He’d been caught out, but so what? It might not be what he wanted but then neither was it the end of the world.

He relaxed, sat back in his chair and smiled at Dulcie.

‘So how are you feeling?’

Dulcie hurled herself at him as joyously as Arthur had hurled himself earlier at Anita, the glorious golden retriever of his dreams.

‘Oh I knew you’d be thrilled,’ she cried, covering his face with kisses. ‘Imagine, our very own baby! Our own future Wimbledon champion—’

‘Do you feel okay?’ Liam studied her face. Dulcie certainly seemed to be glowing.

‘Sick.’ Belatedly she remembered her long list of symptoms. ‘But that’s normal. Hundreds of food cravings, which the doctor says I should just go along with. Oh, and I’m tired so I have to rest a lot, mustn’t do too much.’

‘Really?’ Liam looked alarmed.

‘Otherwise your ankles swell,’ Dulcie explained. ‘It can be dangerous.’

He glanced at her ankles, which looked okay to him, but Dulcie was reaching down, miming them blowing up like balloons and exploding. She pulled a face and shook her head.

‘That’s what my doctor said. Yuk, imagine. So no more tennis, which is a real shame. Still, you have to do as you’re told, don’t you?’ Patting her stomach, looking regretful but at the same time serene, Dulcie added caringly, ‘The baby comes first.’

Never having had any involvement with pregnant women before, Liam’s knowledge of the subject was largely limited to the old black and white movies he had watched on TV as a teenager. Happily for Dulcie, their attitude towards mothers to-be was pretty much on a par with hers.

Liam racked his brains for a second and came up with, ‘You’d better lie down. Shall I make you a cup of tea?’

Dulcie, who had watched a lot of the same films, happily did as she was told. This was more like it. Liam was going to turn into Cary Grant, she’d be Audrey Hepburn and together they would live happily ever after ...

‘Tea, brilliant.’ She sank back on to the sofa and put her feet up. ‘Actually, I’m just craving a bowl of peanut butter ice cream. There’s some in the freezer.’

When he had switched the kettle on, Liam came back into the sitting room with a spoon and the tub of ice cream. He frowned as he read the list of calories per 100 mls. and the percentages of sugar and fat.

‘This stuff’s lethal. You’ll end up the size of a sumo wrestler.’

‘No I won’t.’ Reaching up, Dulcie grabbed the tub and the spoon. Liam watched her expertly peel off the lid and balance it on one knee.

‘I’ll go and get you a bowl.’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Dulcie, swooning with pleasure, ‘I’ll manage like this.’

Chapter 30

Liza hated the word toyboy. She wished it didn’t get to her, but it did. If you’re ugly you can wear make-up, if you’re bald you can wear a wig and if you’re short you can wear high heels .

But if you’re nine years older than the man in your life, Liza thought with rising frustration, there’s damn all you can do about it. Because you can’t wear anything to make you younger than you are.

It didn’t bother Kit at all. He really couldn’t care less.

‘You have to come to the party with me,’ he urged. ‘What’s the problem? Everyone knows I’m seeing you. Now I want them to meet you.’

The party was being held to celebrate the twenty-third birthday of one of Kit’s friends. Since the weather was dazzling, it was taking place outside in the garden of his home overlooking the river. As soon as they arrived, stepping out of the taxi on Sunday afternoon, Liza began to feel twitchy.

It didn’t take long for things to get worse.

Terrified of looking like mutton dressed as lamb, she had decided against wearing anything Dulcie-length. Instead, she had chosen a long, loose, topaz-yellow summer dress and strappy yellow high heels. The bad news was, her heels kept sinking into the lawn so to avoid toppling over backwards she ended up having to take them off. This meant the dress was now too long and trailed along the ground. Nobody else had made the same mistake. Everywhere Liza looked, girls in either tiny dresses or ultra-short tops and skirts showed off acres of midriff and conker-brown leg. They all seemed to have hair like spun silk that had to be continually flipped back.

There wasn’t a wrinkle or an ounce of flab in sight. Worst of all, hardly anyone else looked old enough to drink.

Liza felt like a Shetland pony amongst racehorses. Minus her heels, she wished desperately she’d worn her hair up, instead of loose, to give her a couple more inches. As friends of Kit stopped to chat, she fumbled in her handbag, her fingers desperately searching for a couple of stray hair combs.

She couldn’t bear to look round when she heard two girls behind her, discussing her in giggly cut-glass voices.

‘Is that really Kit’s latest?’

‘Must be. Hugh said he was bringing her.’

‘My God, she looks like thingummy from The Munsters. Cousin It.’

More giggles. Liza was surprised they knew who the Munsters were.

‘Wonder what Kit sees in her? She’s hardly his usual type.’

‘Oh well, you know Kit. Anything with novelty value. She won’t last long.’

‘It’s weird though,’ mused the second girl, ‘when he could have anyone he likes. Me, for a start.’

‘Give him time.’ The first girl sounded smug. ‘He will.’

It didn’t help that while Liza was listening to this going on behind her, she was being subjected to some serious chatting-up from the front. A blond, rather good-looking boy called Toby was giving every impression of being bowled over.

But Liza’s confidence had taken such a knock, instead of simply taking the attention for granted, she wondered if he was doing it for a bet.

Somehow she stuck the party out for the next hour and a half, hating every second but by some miracle managing to hide the fact from Kit. Having decided miserably that she was the oldest person there, Liza was hugely relieved to spot a late arrival making his way down the garden towards them.

The man, who was maybe forty, wore jeans and a blue andwhite striped shirt. He was definitely handsome. When she saw him, one of the blonde coltish girls ran across the lawn and threw her arms around his neck.

Liza didn’t care how handsome he was. She was just glad he was there. Older than her and there.

He approached Liza less than ten minutes later, while Kit was getting more drinks.

‘Hi, you’re Liza Lawson.’ He grinned and shook her hand. ‘Dominic Hunter-Greene. I’m a great fan of yours. Read you every Sunday.’

Liza chatted happily for several minutes. Kit was being waylaid at the bar by a couple of college friends but it didn’t matter a bit. She was fine. Dominic Hunter-Greene wasn’t chatting her up, he was simply being friendly while his young blonde girlfriend helped out with the barbecue.

‘Come on, I need to sit down,’ he said and Liza followed him over to a white wrought-iron table surrounded by matching padded chairs. Draped leggily across the chairs were two more mini-skirted blondes and their boyfriends, all drinking Becks and smoking Marlboro Lights.

He was clearly totally at ease with the fact that he was older than everyone else there. But then, Liza thought enviously, it was so different for men. Bag yourself a gorgeous young girlfriend and everyone goes ‘wey-hey, good for you’. When a woman, on the other hand, gets herself a younger boyfriend, everyone goes ‘yeugh, gross’.

‘Okay you lot, park yourselves on the grass,’ said Dominic. ‘Not fair,’ complained one of the girls.

‘Yes, Dad, we were here first,’ said the other.

‘I don’t care. This is my house and these are my chairs.’ Dominic expertly tipped his daughter off hers. ‘Anyway, you’re young, you can sprawl anywhere you like.’ Liza stiffened as he placed a protective hand on her forearm, drawing her into the conversation. ‘We oldies prefer something more dignified.’ He winked at Liza. ‘When you get to our age, you appreciate a bit of comfort.’

Liza saw the glances exchanged by the two girls, who knew she was here with Kit.

‘Who’s the girl helping with the barbecue?’ she said, when they had wandered off, no doubt leaving the wrinklies to it.

‘Has no one introduced you?’ Dominic looked despairing. ‘Honestly, kids today. That’s Sacha, my youngest.’

It was turning into one of those days. Feverishly planning her escape, the best excuse Liza had been able to come up with was a headache. Now, having fretted over the lack of originality, she realised her head actually was beginning to pound in ominous pre-migraine fashion.

Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Liza tried to concentrate on the story Dominic was telling her. As soon as he finished, she would find Kit and tell him she had to get home. Her migraine attacks didn’t strike often but when they happened they weren’t to be taken lightly. Within minutes, Liza knew, her vision would be distorted by flashing lights, the pain would become intense, her words would begin to slur and she would start to feel horribly sick.

‘I say, are you feeling all right?’ Dominic leaned towards her, concerned. Liza had suddenly gone quite pale. She forced a smile.

‘Bit of a headache, that’s all. I think I’m going to have to .. . oh, good grief ...’

Liza saw who was approaching and experienced a surge of nausea. This was truly turning into the party from hell. And her vision was already starting to go.

‘Surprise,’ said Kit, his shirt-sleeved arm around the shoulder of yet another stunning young.

blonde. Only this time it was one Liza recognised.

‘Nicky, this is Liza. Liza,’ Kit went on, grinning broadly, ‘meet my cousin Nicky.’

The flickering lights were moving like storm clouds across Liza’s field of vision. Hardly able to see the girl’s face, all she could do was pray her expression was friendly.

‘I’m sho em-embarrassed.’ Liza stumbled over the wordsas the pain behind her left eye intensified. Having struggled to her feet she now realised she was in danger of losing her balance. Swaying, she clutched Kit’s arm. Damn, now everyone was going to think she was pissed.

Kit was just saying, ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ when Liza abruptly let go of him and with a mumbled, ‘Excuse me,’ lurched past Nicky and disappeared inside the house.

Her head felt as if it was about to explode. Reaching the bathroom just in time, Liza threw up spectacularly into the toilet and stayed there, shuddering and retching, until there was nothing left to throw up.

Not until there was a discreet tap-tap and the bathroom door swung open did Liza realise she hadn’t locked it properly. She moaned and grabbed a handful of loo roll to wipe her eyes with, knowing how red and hideously puffed-up her face was.

‘Please, don’t come in.’

‘Sorry, too late.’

Within seconds Liza found herself being lifted off the floor and helped over to an uncomfortable chrome chair in the corner of Dominic Hunter-Greene’s stunning silver and white bathroom. The toilet — also chrome — was briskly flushed and a box of tissues thrust into her trembling hands.

‘I heard you being sick,’ said Nicky Berenger. Rummaging in her handbag she produced a packet of chewing gum and a bottle of eye drops and offered them both to Liza. ‘Here, these’ll help. What was it, too much Pimm’s?’

Liza tried to smile. God, it hurt. She gestured feebly at her head.

‘Migraine.’

Nicky looked appalled.

‘And there was me, thinking you were paralytic! Oh, you poor thing. My dad suffers from migraine ... he’s got special pills to take as soon as he feels an attack coming on.’

Liza managed a minuscule nod.

‘Me too, but my last headache was over a year ago.’ Gingerly, she smiled. ‘You forget what they’re like.’

‘Are you two okay in there,’ said Kit, minutes later, ‘or are you having a fight?’

Nicky unwrapped another chewing gum and gave it to Liza, who had just thrown up again.

‘She’s got a migraine. I’m doing my Florence Nightingale bit. You’ll need to borrow a bucket,’

she told Kit, ‘for on the way home.’

He looked horrified.

‘We came by taxi. What driver’s going to take someone carrying a bucket and bringing her boots up in the back of his cab?’

This was true.

‘Okay, I’ll give you a lift,’ said Nicky. ‘Come on.’

The migraine continued on its inexorable course. The journey home was hell. With Kit’s arms around her, Liza closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the agonising vice-like pain. She was sick twice more, luckily into the borrowed bucket. By the time they reached the flat, it was as much as she could do to mumble an almost unintelligible thank-you and let Kit carry her inside to bed.

When Liza arrived at the Songbird two days later, Nicky was perched on a stool at the bar going over next week’s bookings with the chef.

‘Still alive then.’ She grinned when she saw Liza, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, they’re amazing! You didn’t have to do this,’ as Liza put the cellophane-wrapped mass of orange roses into her arms.

‘I think I did.’ Liza kissed her flushed cheek. ‘You were brilliant on Sunday. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. For all your help, and the lift home.’ She hesitated, summoning up the courage to say the rest. It wasn’t made any easier by the chef, who clearly recognised her and was glowering away under fearsome eyebrows like Lurch from the Addams family. ‘I still can’t believe you’re even speaking to me after I almost wrecked your business. I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how terrible I felt about that.’

Nicky, her eyes gleaming, pushed back her blonde hair and gave Lurch a hefty prod in the ribs.

‘Well, don’t. It wasn’t your fault, it was Marcel’s. Wasn’t it, Marcel?’ she added teasingly. ‘If you hadn’t got legless on Newcastle Brown and turned up for work still half-cut, Liza wouldn’t have been able to criticise us, would she’?’

Marcel looked embarrassed. Apart from anything else, he was a Frenchman. How was he ever going to live down the humiliation of having got plastered on Newcastle Brown Ale?

Liza, who had to be in Cheltenham by midday, checked her watch.

‘Look, I have to go. Thanks again for everything. See you soon, I hope.’ She paused. ‘And if there’s ever anything I can do for you ...’

‘That’s an easy one,’ Nicky said promptly. ‘Marry Kit.’ Liza burst out laughing.

‘Any particular reason?’

Nicky’s smile was mischievous as she waved an arm, encompassing the restaurant.

‘Then you can hold your wedding reception here.’

Dulcie, sunbathing in the back garden on Tuesday afternoon, heard the sound of a familiar car engine. When it switched off in front of the house she experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.

Except it wasn’t déjà vu, of course; the reason she knew it so well was because she used to hear it all the time.

‘I’m round the back,’ Dulcie yelled when she dimly heard the front door bell being rung. She chucked down her empty crisp packet and licked her fingers. ‘Door’s unlocked, just come through.’

Lying back on the sun-lounger, far too lazy to get up, Dulcie lifted her head and shielded her eyes in order to watch Patrick appear.

When he did, moments later, he was wearing dark-blue chinos and a yellow shirt she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if thingy had bought it for him.

The next thing Dulcie noticed he was wearing was an odd look on his face.

‘Nice shirt.’

‘Don’t you think you should put this on?’ Reaching down and picking up the top half of her pink and purple bikini, Patrick held it towards her.

Dulcie tried not to smile.

‘Why? Will it stop me getting cold?’

‘It’ll keep you decent,’ said Patrick evenly. To her amazement she realised he was keeping his eyes deliberately averted from her breasts.

‘Patrick, you’re my husband! You have seen them before.’

‘Things are different now.’

Gosh, thought Dulcie, he sounded weird. Stunned into obedience, she took the bikini top from him. Damn, there was a mark on it where she’d spilled chocolate ice cream.

Put it on,’ repeated Patrick.

He waited until she had, before looking down at her.

‘Is something wrong?’ Dulcie wondered if this sudden and bizarre obsession with decency meant someone had died.

‘I thought I should come over. There appear to be things we need to sort out.’

‘Things? What things?’

‘The divorce,’ Patrick said quietly, because Dulcie clearly didn’t have a clue.

Dulcie swallowed. She hadn’t actually given it much thought. Okay, it had been her New Year’s resolution but once she’d left Patrick it hadn’t seemed important.

Then another thought struck her. Rather unpleasantly, like malaria.

He wants a divorce so he can marry Claire, Dulcie realised, stunned. And I can’t object because he’s been so nice to me. Now it’s my turn to be nice back .. .

She managed to nod.’Okay.’

‘I’ve spoken to Simon,’ said Patrick. Simon was a solicitor friend of his. ‘Basically, if we want it over quickly and we aren’t going to argue about money, the easiest thing is to go for a no-fault, two-year separation. It’s simple and it costs hardly anything. Are you happy with that?’

Two years, that’s fine, thought Dulcie, suddenly finding it easier to breathe. That was eighteen months away.

‘Fine.’

‘Right. So that’s settled, we can be divorced by September.’ Dulcie sat bolt upright.

‘What about the two years?’

‘All you have to do,’ Patrick explained wearily, ‘is say you’ve been separated for two years.

Then it just goes through.’

‘But that isn’t true! That’s ... lying!’ yelped Dulcie.

‘Oh dear, how terrible. How will we live with ourselves?’ Patrick mocked. ‘Lying. Tut tut, that would never do.’

Dulcie hated it when he was sarcastic. She swallowed her pride and lay back down again. Patrick wanted to be free of her so he could marry Claire. He didn’t want to look at her bare boobs any more, he only wanted to look at Claire’s.

‘How is she?’ said Dulcie, to prove she was a grown-up. ‘Claire?’

‘Fine.’ Patrick nodded briefly. A muscle was going in his jaw. At last he said, ‘And Liam?’

If Claire was fine, Dulcie decided, Liam was more than fine.

‘Very well indeed. Brilliant.’ She nodded strenuously. ‘Great.’

‘Congratulations, by the way.’

Dulcie looked up, startled. There was that muscle again, twitching away.

‘On ...?’

‘The baby,’ said Patrick.

‘Oh. Right.’

Dulcie was glad she had her sunglasses on. Somehow she’d managed to persuade herself that Patrick wouldn’t get to hear about this.

She wondered how he had.

‘Word gets around,’ Patrick went on after an awkward pause. ‘One of the girls from the office downstairs is a member of Brunton.’ He cleared his throat and managed a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a weird way to find out, but still bit her lip. She felt terrible. Half of her wanted to blurt out the truth, to tell Patrick that it was okay, she wasn’t really pregnant, it was just a scam, a desperate attempt to hang on to Liam.

The other half of her knew she had to keep her mouth shut because the humiliation, the look of disdain on Patrick’s face, would be too much to bear.

He’s happy with Claire, thought Dulcie. The last thing I need is Patrick feeling pity for me.

She kept her mouth well and truly shut.

‘Anyway, I guessed you’d be anxious to get things settled.’ Dulcie nodded.

Patrick nodded too.

‘Are you going to marry him?’

‘I expect so.’ Bloody hope so. ‘Maybe. No hurry.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Dulcie shrugged again. Actually, she was feeling a bit peculiar. She was lying, and for the first time in her life not enjoying it much at all.

‘How am I feeling?’ Dulcie forced herself to concentrate. She even managed a smile. ‘Great. Bit sick ... you know, but otherwise fine. Looking forward to the big day.’

‘And Liam?’

‘Oh, he’s thrilled. Pleased as Punch.’

‘Well, that’s good news. I’m happy for you,’ said Patrick, not looking it. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. I really hope it all works out.’

‘Thanks.’ The sun was hot but Dulcie was suddenly cold. She couldn’t quite believe she was having this stiltedconversation with Patrick. She was also beginning to feel uncomfortably underdressed. Before, it hadn’t mattered. Now, a few layers of protective clothing — a couple of sweaters, a pair of jeans and a thick duffel coat, say — wouldn’t have gone amiss.

In a strange way too, Dulcie realised, she was miffed that he hadn’t seen through the lie. Liza and Pru had, effortlessly, and they were only her friends.

I was married to you for nearly seven years, she silently accused Patrick. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone — so how come you can’t tell I’m lying to you now?

Chapter 31

Pru was asleep when the ringing sound started. In her dream, a fire engine was racing round and round her bedsit but instead of going nee-naa nee-naa, it was making a noise like a doorbell.

Then the fire engine screeched to a halt. A dozen firemen leapt out and surrounded her bed.

‘There isn’t room for all of you in here,’ protested Pru, which, even if she didn’t know it was a dream, was a pretty Freudian thing to say. ‘I’m sorry, but some of you will have to wait outside.’

The fireman in charge, who looked weirdly like Eddie Hammond, said, ‘Can I stay?’

‘I’ve only got a single bed,’ Pru told him, and he broke into a smile.

‘Fine with me. Except you’d better answer that door bell first.’ Pru woke up, jack-knifing into a sitting position as the bell — her door bell — shrilled again.

She looked at the luminous green figures on her radio alarm: 3.42.

Up through the floorboards floated the voice of Donovan’s greatest fan shouting blearily: ‘Will somebody get that, for Chrissake?’

Pru fell out of bed and stumbled across to the window. Pulling back the flimsy curtain, she peered down to the street below.

The next second she yanked the window open so fast a shower of old paint flakes parted company with the half-rotted wooden frame.’Phil? What are you doing here?’

Phil Kasteliz heard the words but was in no state to locate them. Puzzled, hanging on to the front door for support, he looked left, then right, then behind him.

‘Pru?’

‘Up here,’ hissed Pru. He was extremely drunk, she could tell by the way his head moved in a kind of slow-motion swivel. ‘Phil, go home. It’s four o’clock in the morning.’

She heard him laughing to himself. Too late, Pru remembered his penchant for singing.

‘It’s four in the mor-ning,’ warbled Phil, ‘and da da da da da. Damn, forgotten the words. How does it go, Pru? It’s four in the morning ...’

He was standing unaided now, his arms outstretched as he tried to conduct her.

From below Pru’s feet came the plaintive wail: ‘Man, get that guy out of here ...’

If Pru had been Dulcie she would have yelled back that it served him bloody well right and one night of Phil Kasteliz in exchange for all those months of drippy Donovan was a pretty good swap.

But Pm, who wasn’t Dulcie, was terrified at the prospect of upsetting a neighbour, even if he was a dope-head devoted to Donovan.

‘Stop it,’ she yelled in a strangled whisper, waving her arms at Phil in an attempt to hush him up.

‘I’m coming down.’

When she opened the front door, he tripped over the step. She practically had to carry him upstairs to her room.

‘How did you find this place anyway?’ Pru gasped.

Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Phil finally pulled out his wallet. He showed Pru the letter she had written to him months earlier letting him know her new address.

‘Showed it to the taxi driver,’ Phil confided. ‘He brought me straight here.’

Pru marvelled at her own lack of response. She had written that letter with tears streaming down her cheeks. At the time, she would have given anything in the world for Phil to show it to a taxi driver and be brought straight here. Fantasising that it might happen had been about the only thing that had kept her going.

And now he was here ..

She felt nothing.

‘Why?’ said Pru.

‘Had a row with Blanche.’ Phil collapsed heavily on the bed, still clutching his wallet.

‘What about?’

‘She’s just a bad-tempered bitch.’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Honestly, all she did was yell at me. Just because I was a bit late home.’ He looked up at Pru, his eyes bloodshot. ‘You never yelled at me.’

‘I know I didn’t.’ To yell, or not to yell, thought Pru. Which was best?

‘She’s mad because I had a couple of drinks. Bloody cow wouldn’t let me into the house.’

Phil shook his head again in disbelief and tried to fit the bulging wallet back into his pocket.

When it wouldn’t do as he wanted, he gave up and chucked it on to the pillow behind him.

Pru’s eyes widened as the wallet fell open, revealing a great wodge of notes.

‘Got something to drink, Pru? Brandy, Scotch, anything like that.’

‘Nothing, sorry.’ She was still staring in disbelief at the wallet.

‘What?’ Alarmed, Phil tried to look over his shoulder. ‘What is it, a spider?’

‘That money! Have you been to the casino?’

He grinned and nodded, and put an unsteady finger to his lips.

‘Sshh.’

‘You won?’ said Pru, astounded.

‘Course I won. Didn’t I tell you I’d get there in the end?Only don’t tell Blanche, okay? That stroppy bitch isn’t getting her hands on this. It’s my money, I won it fair and square.’ Phil doubled up with laughter. ‘Except roulette wheels aren’t square. Better say I won it fair and round, ha ha ha.’

‘How much did you win?’ whispered Pru, all the hairs at the back of her neck standing up.

‘Don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to count it yet.’ He laughed again. ‘Bloody loads. Pru, come on, have a drink with me to celebrate. You must have a bottle hidden away somewhere.’

‘Oh man, I don’t believe this.’

Donovan was wearing a grubby grey T-shirt and – yuk – a pair of ancient maroon Y-fronts. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face as if needing to convince himself Pru was real.

‘I’m sorry, I know it’s late,’ said Pru sweetly, marvelling at her own bravery. Here she was, out of the blue, doing it again. Being Assertive.

‘Whadya want, man? It’s, like, the middle of the night.’

‘We need something to drink.’ Pru got straight to the point. ‘I don’t have anything. I thought perhaps you might.’

Donovan stared at her. He’d never managed to figure out what Pru was doing living above him, a posh bird in a dump like this. And now here she was, cool as a cucumber on his doorstep at four in the frigging morning, acting like one of those women who wave collecting tins under your nose, asking if he could spare a bottle or two for a good cause.

‘Like what?’ he said warily. "Cause I’m fresh out of Bollinger, if that’s what you’re after.’

‘Anything,’ said Pru.

She made her way back upstairs clutching two cans of Special Brew and a half-empty flagon of cider which Donovan assured her had only been opened a couple of days ago, so it still had some life in it.

Pru only hoped, as she nudged open the door with her foot, that Phil still had some life left in him. Since she’d gone to the trouble of getting him something to drink, he’d better still be awake enough to drink it.

He had, but only just. While Pru chattered brightly away to him, Phil lolled across the bed and finished off the cider. Then he opened one of the cans of lager but most of it went down the front of his crumpled white shirt. Pru mopped at the duvet cover with a towel.

‘You’ll look after me, won’t you?’ mumbled Phil, his eyes closing. ‘You always looked after me.’

And look where it bloody got me, thought Pru as his head sank back on to the pillow and the can slid to the floor.

Within seconds he was snoring like a walrus, out like a light and oblivious to the tugging going on as Pru yanked his shoes off. She managed, after a struggle, to get the duvet out from under him. Then she smoothed it over his sleeping form, straightened the pillow and put the still unfastened wallet on the bedside table.

Since Phil had commandeered the bed, Pru could either sleep in the chair or on the floor.

But she didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Her mind was working overtime. Her conscience was having an all-out battle with itself.

After staring at the wallet for an hour, Pru reached over and picked it up. She emptied the fat bundle of twenty-pound notes into her lap and, hands shaking, counted them.

Good grief, there was almost two thousand pounds there. Pru looked at Phil, still snoring so loudly it was a wonder the rest of her neighbours hadn’t called the police.

Two thousand pounds. Won, fair and square.

Now was that fair?

It had been a long and uncomfortable night. At eight o’clock Pru was still hopelessly undecided.

She made herself a cup of tea; maybe that would help.

At nine o’clock, with Phil still dead to the world, sherummaged in her purse and found a couple of twenty-pence pieces. Then she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs to the phone box in the hall.

The number she wanted was listed in Yellow Pages.

‘Hello,’ said Pru, when the call was answered, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I just need to know how much something costs.’

Minutes later, replacing the receiver, she crept back up the stairs and silently opened the door.

This was it. It was up to fate now. If Phil was awake she wouldn’t be able to do anything. If he was still asleep .. .

‘Oh God, my head. Blanche ... Blanche, where are you? Any chance of sticking the kettle on?’

‘Blanche isn’t here,’ said Pru. ‘Will I do instead?’

Phil rolled over, bleary-eyed and stubble-chinned. Pru was holding out a mug of tea, a plate of buttered toast and a packet of paracetamol.

Confusion reigned in Phil’s brain. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and winced.

‘She wouldn’t let you in last night so you came here,’ said Pm.

‘Christ. Did I ... um, did we ...?’

‘No.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘Here, drink this.’ Pru passed him the tea, popped three paracetamol out of their foil wrapper and pressed them into his free hand.

‘I feel terrible,’ said Phil in his penitent, little-boy voice.

‘You’ll feel better after some toast. I’ll nip down to the corner shop, shall I, and get you some tomato soup?’

Twenty minutes later, when Phil had finished the soup, he fumbled in his jacket pocket. Pru, washing up at the tiny sink in the corner of the room that served as a kitchen, heard him locate his house keys and wallet.

‘Bloody hell,’ she heard him exclaim.

Far too flushed and scared to turn round, Pru frantically scrubbed at the pattern on the soup plate.

‘What is it?’

‘Eight hundred quid!’

More rustling as Phil re-counted the notes.

‘Ready for another cup of tea?’ said Pru, her heart going like a giant woodpecker against her ribs.

‘I must have won it at the casino,’ Phil marvelled, and Pru breathed again.

She dared at last to look over her shoulder at him. ‘You did say something about a win at roulette.’

‘Brilliant!’ Phil beamed at her. ‘See? I knew I was due for a bit of luck.’

‘Good for you.’

‘Yeah, more tea’d be great. And a couple of biscuits if you’ve got them.’

While Pru made the tea, he sat on the narrow bed and surveyed his surroundings.

‘This place is a dump.’

‘I’m getting used to it.’

Pru stirred in sugar and handed him the mug.

‘Thanks.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Pru, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to live in a place like this.’

‘It’s okay.’

‘You must hate me.’

‘I don’t hate you.’ She opened the packet of custard creams she had picked up at the corner shop.

‘Here, help yourself.’

‘You’re so ...’ Phil shook his head again, searching for the right word, ‘... so nice. You always were. Always forgiving me.’

Pru said nothing.

‘It got on my nerves in the end,’ he went on. ‘Did you know that?’

‘No.’

‘That’s why I went off with Blanche. She doesn’t take any crap. Stands up for herself, Blanche does.’’Right.’

‘I’m just trying to explain.’

‘You don’t have to,’ said Pru. ‘It doesn’t matter any more.’

He finished his tea and rose cautiously to his feet.

‘Time I made a move. Blanche’ll be waiting for me with a frying pan.’ His smile was crooked.

‘And it won’t be for making bacon and eggs.’

‘Well, good luck.’ Pru smiled back.

At the door Phil glanced around the room again, his estate agent’s eye taking in the rotting window frames and damp walls.

‘I really am sorry, Toby,’ he used his old nickname for her, ‘about this place.’

But not quite sorry enough, Pru couldn’t help noticing, to stick his hand in his pocket and maybe give her a couple of hundred pounds out of his winnings.

‘Take care of yourself,’ she said as Phil made his way downstairs.

He grinned, evidently at the prospect of having to avoid low-flying frying pans.

‘You too, sweetheart. And thanks for putting me up.’

‘My pleasure,’ said Pm. "Bye.’

Chapter 32

‘You’re doing what?’ squealed Dulcie later that afternoon when Pru turned up on her doorstep and explained the situation so far.

‘I saw the consultant at lunchtime. He’s booked me in for surgery tomorrow morning,’ Pru explained. ‘The only problem is, I thought I’d be flat out, but apparently they don’t do that any more, they only give you local anaesthetic.’

Dulcie’s stomach cartwheeled at the prospect.

‘Gross.’

‘I know.’ Pru pulled a face. ‘So I wondered if you’d come with me. Kind of hold my hand, give me a bit of moral support.’

Dulcie was moderately squeamish but she adored ER. Maybe if she pretended she was watching it on telly .. .

‘What’s the surgeon like?’

Pru half smiled.

‘Tall, dark, quite dishy actually.’

Dulcie briefly fantasised exchanging steamy looks over the operating masks with Dr Doug Ross.

‘Okay, of course I’ll come.’

‘I might ask Liza too.’

Liza, Dulcie decided, could exchange steamy looks with someone far less attractive, one of the hospital porters maybe. She wanted to keep Doug to herself.

‘We’ll both be there,’ she promised Pru. ‘We’ll have an ear each.’

‘And don’t tell anyone,’ Pru pleaded. ‘I’ve already spoken to Eddie. I told him a friend’s invited me to stay with her ather villa in Majorca. As far as he’s concerned I’m away on holiday for two weeks. That’s how long the bandages have to stay on,’ she added, looking embarrassed. ‘I know it’s stupid, but I just don’t want anyone to know.’

Dulcie mimed zipping up her mouth. Then a thought belatedly struck her and she unzipped it.

‘But how can you afford it? I thought you were strapped.’

Pru ran briefly through the events of last night. Dulcie listened agog. When Pru finished, she broke into applause.

‘But I had no idea you were so desperate to have it done! Why didn’t you say before? I could have lent you the cash.’

Pru said levelly, ‘I didn’t want to borrow the money.’

‘Oh, right.’ Dulcie’s expressive eyebrows said it all. ‘But you didn’t mind stealing it.’

Pru looked worried.

‘I only took as much as I needed, eleven hundred pounds—’

‘Pru, come on, I’m joking! What am I going to do, call the police?’

‘He still had eight hundred left,’ Pru rattled on, as if needing to reassure herself.

‘Well personally I think you’re mad,’ Dulcie declared. ‘If it had been me I’d have nicked the lot.’

Sadly for Dulcie the surgeon spent far too much time concentrating on Pru’s ears to have any left over for smouldering eye-meets with her. Performing the surgery appeared to be uppermost in his mind.

Since he was dishy, this was disappointing to say the least.

‘Why should you be bothered?’ said Liza, when they retired to the coffee room afterwards. ‘I thought Liam was the only man for you.’

Dulcie shrugged. The thing was, she was beginning to doubt if she was the only woman for Liam. Okay, so he’d gone out and bought her an exercise-your-way-through-pregnancy video, but that had been the most romantic gesture of the past fortnight. More and more often recently, he had been phoning up to tell her he had to work late at the club.

Dulcie’s fantasy – apart from the ER, Doug Ross-type one – that Liam would whisk her down to Mallory’s and tell her to choose a dazzling, money-no-object diamond ring had so far failed to materialise. Neither had he suggested living together.

Worst of all, when Dulcie had visited Brunton Manor last week, Imelda had been wearing a horribly self-satisfied smirk of the I-know-something-you-don’t-know variety.

It was hard to maintain the rosy glow of pregnancy when you suspected you were being laughed at -- or even worse, pitied – behind your back.

‘Here we are then,’ announced the surgeon, entering the coffee room with his arm around Pru’s shoulders. The pressure bandage holding her ears in place looked comical and her hair was sticking out like Ken Dodd’s but she was clearly relieved the ordeal was over.

‘All ready to go home,’ the surgeon purred. ‘Now I’ve explained to Pm, she has to take things easy for a few days. She needs cosseting.’

He beamed at Dulcie and Liza. He was using his jolly, be extra-nice-to-the-private-patient voice.

Dulcie decided he wasn’t so gorgeous after all without his sexy operating mask; he was just a smarmy, patronising git.

‘So, can I leave her in your safe hands, girls? Promise me you’ll take good care of her.’

Dulcie didn’t even care when she realised all his attention was on Liza. The man was practically drooling; he obviously fancied her rotten. And he was wearing a wedding ring. Unfaithful bastard.

‘We can’t cosset you in your bedsit,’ Dulcie told Pru, who was looking horribly pale and in need of rest already. ‘Come on,’ she reached for her thin arm, ‘you can come and stay with me.’

Telling Pru he had been banned for six months had been a panic reaction on Eddie’s part, simply the only excuse he’d been able to come up with to ensure he could carry on seeing her on a regular basis. If she were no longer driving him around, he would be reduced to catching the occasional brief glimpse of her at the club.

Eddie knew it was stupid, not to mention expensive, but he didn’t care. He looked forward to their time together. He could talk to Pru more easily than any other woman he knew. He could relax with her. She made him feel good.

He had felt horribly guilty when, on the phone yesterday, she had apologised over and over again for letting him down.

‘I know it’s short notice,’ she had falteringly explained, ‘but my friend begged me to go and see her ... I’m really sorry to let you down like this ...’

Pru was such a terrible liar, Eddie knew something was up. His stomach contracted with fear at the possibility that Pru might be heading off to the sun with another man ... though if this was the case, why would she feel the need to lie? She was effectively single, she could do whatever she liked, with whoever she liked.

Eddie hated the idea but he had no right to say so. Miserably he wished Pru a happy holiday; another big lie.

At least he had his licence back. Pru wasn’t inconveniencing him in the way she thought. Eddie just wished, as he drove Arthur and himself to Bristol that evening, he could stop torturing himself imagining what she might be getting up to on a sun-drenched beach in Majorca.

As he parked outside Elmlea nursing home he noticed one of the other residents, a bright-eyed old dear with a walking stick, sitting on one of the wooden benches watching him.

‘No dogs inside,’ she called across to Eddie when he let Arthur leap out of the car. ‘Matron won’t allow it; they might widdle on the lino. Then we’d have residents skidding in all directions.’ She cackled with laughter. ‘Fractured femurs galore.’

‘I know,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m just letting him out for a two-minute mn.’

‘Two-minute widdle, more like.’ Still smirking, the old dear held out a gnarled hand. ‘Here, you can leave him with me. I’ll look after him.’

‘His name’s Arthur.’ Eddie passed her the lead.

‘My late husband’s name.’ Up close, the woman’s eyes were astonishing, almost kingfisher blue.

‘He used to widdle everywhere too, come the end.’

Cautiously, Arthur sniffed her lisle-stockinged leg.

‘Not me,’ the woman told the dog briskly. ‘Still continent, thank you very much.’

By the time Eddie re-emerged from the nursing home he found Arthur draped across the rest of the bench with his head on the old woman’s tweed lap. He was fast asleep and snoring like a train.

‘Getting more like my husband by the minute.’ The woman fondly stroked Arthur’s ears.

‘Well, thanks for keeping an eye on him,’ said Eddie. ‘So where is she?’

‘Who?’

‘That pretty girl of yours. Dumped you, has she? All over now?’

‘You mean Pm?’ Eddie hesitated then said awkwardly, ‘She’s away on holiday. A fortnight in Majorca.’

‘Why didn’t you go with her?’

‘Well ... she’s gone to stay with a friend. A female friend.’ The old woman’s straggly eyebrows lifted in amusement. ‘What, you mean she’s a lesbian?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘So. D’you miss her?’

‘No ... well . ..’ Eddie wasn’t often at a loss for words but it was pretty daunting being interrogated by an octogenarian. Flustered, he went on, ‘It’s only a holiday. She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Anyway, we aren’t involved in that way.’

‘But you wish you were,’ said the old woman.

‘Not ... not necessarily—’

‘Bull. Get a grip, man! Life doesn’t last forever, you know. And you’re no spring chicken.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ Eddie retaliated, relieved to see that Arthur had at last opened his eyes.

The old woman gave him a long, measured look.

‘I’m eighty-four years old, young man. I can say whatever I like.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘Ah, but that’s it, I do. You’re Edna Peverell’s son-in-law. What d’you think we do all day in this place, play table tennis?’ Mockingly, remorselessly, she went on, ‘We talk, young man. I know everything there is to know about you. And if you ask me, it’s high time you got yourself another wife.’

Chapter 33

Hearing from Liam after three days of nail-biting silence made Dulcie’s heart do an extra jubilant hop, skip and jump. Just the sound of his voice on the phone – those melting Irish syllables – was enough to remind her how hopelessly smitten she still was.

‘How about if I come round about eight-ish?’ said Liam beguilingly. ‘We could have a romantic evening together, just the two of us.’

Romantic evening? Did that, Dulcie wondered, suggest a big dazzling engagement ring to go with the rampant sex?

She glanced across the sitting room at Pru, who was lying on the sofa watching a wildlife documentary. Her hair, desperately in need of a wash, was sticking out at all angles around the bandages.

What with that, no make-up and a Julio Iglesias T-shirt, she looked a sight.

Furthermore, Dulcie remembered, she was here incognito. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Pru was in Majorca.

‘Actually, my grandmother’s staying with me for a few days. It’s easier if I come to you.’

‘Okay.’ Liam realised he would have to go through the flat first, removing any evidence of Imelda’s recent stay. ‘Better make it nine then, the place is a mess. I’ll have a clear-up before you arrive.’

He must love me, Dulcie thought joyfully, to care about tidying up.

As the end credits of the wildlife documentary began to roll, Pru heard Dulcie wail, ‘Oh bum,’

from upstairs. ‘What?’ she said when Dulcie reappeared looking disconsolate.

‘So much for a romantic evening. My period’s started.’

‘What will you do?’

Dulcie said gloomily, ‘Have a headache, I suppose.’

‘A what?’ Liam grinned, clearly thinking it was a joke. He waited for the punchline.

‘A headache. Right here.’ Dulcie clutched her temple and winced. ‘It’s throbbing like mad.’

‘I know how it feels.’

‘Ouch, it really hurts. Maybe I’m getting migraine, like Liza.’

Playfully Liam pulled her on to his lap.

‘Lucky I know a cure for headaches.’

His hand was travelling to the nape of her neck. In one smooth movement her dress was unzipped. Dulcie tried not to squirm with pleasure.

‘I can’t ... I can’t.’ As the magic fingers slid lower she wriggled frantically away, gasping,

‘Please don’t! The doctor said I mustn’t—’

Liam’s hand shot out of her dress as if he’d been electro- cuted.

‘What?’

Phew, mission accomplished.

‘The doctor.’ Dulcie shook her head slightly, the reluctant bearer of bad news. Greta Garbo had done something similar in one of those films where she died at the end. ‘When I saw him yesterday he said we shouldn’t ... you know. To be on the safe side.’

‘Is everything all right?’ Liam stared at her stomach.

‘Oh yes, as long as I take it easy. Just for the next week or so.’

He was looking stunned. Touched by his concern, Dulcie gave him a reassuring kiss.

‘Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine. All I need is a bit of ... of cosseting.’

Liam thought for a moment.

‘I’d have said move in with me for a couple of weeks, but I suppose that isn’t really on.’

Dulcie’s eyes widened with excitement. She couldn’t imagine why not.

‘Well—’

‘Not if you’ve got your grandmother staying with you.’ Oh. Bugger.

No.’ Disappointed, Dulcie dredged up a smile. ‘I suppose not. Well, she’ll just have to cosset me instead.’

It was blissful, anyway, being looked after by Liam that evening. While Dulcie lay on the sofa with her feet up, he cooked a rice, fish and vegetable casserole so healthy and bursting with vitamins it could have won a triathlon. After dinner, when Dulcie assured him her doctor had told her she must give in to her cravings, he even jogged down to the petrol station and bought her two packets of crisps and a Bounty ice cream bar.

While Liam washed up, Dulcie embarked on stage two of her plan.

‘Finlay?’ she suggested, holding up the book of babies’ names she had bought yesterday. ‘Look, it’s Gaelic for fair soldier. Is Finlay better than Xavier, do you think?’

Liam wasn’t wild about Xavier. As far as names were concerned, maggot was better than Xavier.

Honestly, pregnant women had some funny ideas, presumably because their hormones were up the creek.

‘Finlay’s not too bad.’ He rejoined Dulcie in the sitting room and leaned his elbows on the back of the sofa, wishing he could summon up more enthusiasm for the task. It was weird trying to choose a name for something currently the size of a centipede.

But Dulcie, it seemed, had enthusiasm to spare.

‘And now, raising the Wimbledon championship trophy proudly above his head, this year’s triumphant winner ...’ she fanfared ‘... Finlay Fackrell!’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘What?’ Dulcie abruptly twisted round and gazed up at him in concern. The expression on his face was one of utter horror. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you want him to win Wimbledon?’

‘It’s not that,’ spluttered Liam, ‘it’s ... it’s Fackrell!’

Dulcie looked wounded.

‘That’s my name.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie tried hard to ignore the triumphant little voice in her head yelling Bingo! ‘I just kind of assumed, under the circumstances, he’d have my name.’

Liam looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘Yes, but Fackrell. Couldn’t you stick with Ross? Finlay Ross sounds all right.’

‘But it’s my married name! It’s Patrick’s name,’ she protested, ‘and this isn’t anything to do with Patrick.’

Another long silence. Dulcie could feel Liam’s warm breath on her shoulder. She could smell his aftershave. Mentally she willed him on; this was his cue, his big chance to say something impossibly romantic, something along the lines of, ‘I want my son’s name to be McPherson, I want your name to be McPherson, oh, Dulcie, I can’t bear it another minute .. . please divorce Patrick and marry me ...’

She couldn’t understand why it wasn’t happening. Was this a dream opportunity or what?

Liam stood up and ruffled her short hair in an awkward let’s-change-the-subject gesture.

‘Okay, you win. But if it’s going to be Fackrell you can’t have Finlay. Sounds like some character out of Sesame Street. You’d be better off with something plain,’ he concluded offhandedly as he disappeared into the kitchen, ‘like Rob or Tom.’

When Dulcie woke up the next morning, Liam was already out of bed and in the shower. She lay back against the pillows and fantasised pleasurably about him soaping his perfect body. As soon as the week was over, she would make up for this enforced celibacy, big-time.

Reaching across for the phone, Dulcie dialled home. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ protested Pru. ‘Actually, I’ve just defrosted your fridge. Do you have any idea how many Bounty ice cream bars there are in your freezer compartment?’

‘I hate running out.’

‘It’s a miracle you can run anywhere, the amount you eat.’

At that moment Liam appeared in the doorway, an odd expression on his face.

‘Anyway,’ said Dulcie, ‘I’ll be home soon, Granny. And don’t worry about the washing-up, I’ll do it when I get back.’ Pru sounded amused. ‘Careful, I might hold you to that.’

‘Are you all right?’ said Liam when she had hung up. ‘Great. Just checking up on Granny.’

Dulcie waved the phone at him. ‘She’s fine.’

‘Managed without you last night then?’

Why was he looking at her in that peculiar way?

‘Oh, no problem.’ Wondering if for some reason he didn’t believe her, Dulcie began to elaborate.

‘She went to bingo, actually. Won eighteen pounds fifty. Granny’s always been lucky ... last year she entered a competition on the back of a cornflakes packet and won a scuba-diving holiday in Tenerife.’

Liam, magnificently naked, pulled on a tracksuit. He didn’t appear to be listening.

‘I’ve got to get to the club.’

Dying to have a private snoop around the flat, Dulcie said brightly, ‘Don’t worry about me, I can let myself out.’

But he was already picking up her crumpled clothes, holding them towards her.

‘I’d rather we left together.’

This was a bit of a shame but Dulcie consoled herself with the thought that maybe it was Liam’s way of being romantic.

‘Headache gone, then?’ he said as the flat door slammed shut behind them.

Headache?

‘Oh!’ That headache. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Relieved, Dulcie beamed up at his unsmiling profile.

That must be why he’d seemed so odd; he was worried about her. ‘Completely gone, thanks.’

But Liam still didn’t smile. ‘Good.’

A gleaming red Parcelforce van was just driving off as Dulcie arrived home. Missing its bumper by a whisker as she screeched into the drive, she realised with a strange pang that the driver had strong brown forearms exactly like Patrick’s. No need for that V-sign though.

Pru was in the hall clutching a parcel.

‘It’s for Patrick,’ she said, ‘marked Urgent. I had to sign for it.’

Dulcie wondered what the driver had made of Pru’s bandaged head. With each passing day she was looking more and more like Frankenstein’s monster.

‘Some component for one of Patrick’s computers.’ Peering at the label on the parcel, she recognised the company’s logo.

Their own computer evidently hadn’t been updated with his change of address.

Dulcie dumped the parcel on the hall table and made her way through to the kitchen.

‘It says Urgent.’

Following her, Pru sounded agitated. Pru, Dulcie recalled, was the kind of person who felt compelled to pay the electricity bill the same day it arrived. Preferably with a first-class stamp.

‘Okay, okay. Breakfast first. You make the tea and I’ll defrost the doughnuts.’ It was still only nine o’clock, after all. ‘Then I’ll take it round.’

When Dulcie arrived at the office, however, the doors were locked. For a Tuesday morning this was unthinkable; Patrick had to have been abducted by aliens at the very least.

Except he hadn’t. When Dulcie climbed the next flight of stairs she found the door to Patrick’s flat open and Patrick there, standing with his back to her, packing decidedly un-computerlike things into a holdall.

Dulcie cleared her throat and he spun round.

‘Did I startle you? Sorry.’

‘Dulcie!’

She half smiled.

‘I’ve never seen you looking guilty before. What is it, a couple of kilos of heroin?’

The expression on Patrick’s face was exquisite. She couldn’t resist going over to the bag and taking a closer look.

A beach towel. Swimming trunks. Factor 4 Ambre Solaire. A bottle of wine and a corkscrew. A frisbee.

A frisbee, for God’s sake...

She looked at Patrick, who had never blushed in his life. He was blushing.

Dulcie said, ‘Don’t forget your bucket and spade.’ He zipped up the holdall.

‘What are you doing here, Dulcie?’

She held out the parcel.

‘It says Urgent. I thought you might be desperate.’