Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

In fact, Pru discovered, becoming broke in such sudden and spectacular fashion had its weird advantages. When you spent every waking moment in a blind panic, trying desperately to figure out how you were going to cope money-wise, you didn’t have much time left over to feel depressed about the fact your husband had done a bunk.

She hadn’t seen Phil since the day after Dulcie’s party, although she knew where he was living.

With Blanche.

He wasn’t working either. Pru wondered if, desperate for money, he had got caught doing some dodgy deal or other and been sacked.

She wished she could hate Phil. If she did, Pru was sure it would make her feel better.

But how can I hate him, she wondered miserably, when I’d give anything in the world to have him back?

The interview had been a nightmare, no way was she going to be offered the job.

‘Come on, come on,’ Pru urged through gritted teeth as she turned the key in the ignition and prayed for the engine to catch. In the last month she’d had enough practice jump-starting the Mini to go on Mastermind (‘And your specialist subject, Mrs Kastelitz ...?’) but today she was pointing uphill. Anyway, her sadistic interviewers might be smirking out of their office windows, jeering at the moron who was as hopeless with cars as she was on the phone.

They had put a headset on Pru, given her a prompt sheet and instructed her to show them what she could do.

‘Come on! Give us your sales pitch ... show some enthusiasm!’ they had roared at her. ‘No, no, enthusiasm not exhaustion. Right, take a deep breath and try again! Give it all you’ve got! Okay, that’s enough.’ They had rolled their eyes at each other. ‘We’ll let you know.’

From the safety of her car, Pru looked up at the blank windows and mouthed bravely, ‘Well, fuck you.’

The engine, evidently stunned by this act of outrageous rebellion, coughed and spluttered and came to life.

Didn’t want to sell crappy conservatories anyway, Pru decided, determined to stay positive.

Especially not in some frightful office where every time you made a sale you were expected to jump up on your chair and go ‘Yee-haa!’

She made it home ... home! by five o’clock. Pru, used to a glistening, top-of-the range, fully fitted Neff kitchen, fed fifty pence into the ancient meter and made herself a mug of tea.

Clutching a copy of the evening paper in one hand and a couple of digestives in the other, she climbed into her narrow bed to keep warm.

I’ll be all right, thought Pru, astonished to realise that not getting the job hadn’t upset her nearly as much as she’d imagined. In fact it had quite cheered her up. So what if she wasn’t cut out for high-pressure telesales? There were plenty of other things she could do.

Definitely.

It was just a question of figuring out what.

Chapter 12

A fortnight later, at six thirty on a stormy Thursday morning, Pru was on her way to work when a car roared out of nowhere at her, smashing into the passenger side of the Mini and shunting it across the road into a ditch.

The road, a mile or so from Brunton Manor, was narrow and unlit. Pru screamed as the car toppled sideways and the headlights went out, plunging her into pitch darkness. The thick scarf around her neck flopped over her face. A can of Mr Sheen, catapulting off the back seat, hit her on the back of the head.

She wasn’t hurt. When she had scrambled out of the car she realised she didn’t have so much as a bump or a scratch on her. It was a miracle.

It was also raining stair rods.

‘... oh thank God! You’re out ... you’re alive ...’

A man was crashing through the blackness towards her. He slithered into the soggy ditch, colliding with Pru and almost knocking her flat.

He clutched frenziedly at her arms.

‘Are you hurt? Are you okay? The car just skidded—’

‘I’m all right.’ Pru’s teeth were chattering. ‘My car isn’t.’

‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’

Pru found herself being hauled none too ceremoniously back up the slope and on to the road.

Bewildered, she wondered if this meant he was a mechanic, about to roll up his sleeves and start sorting it out this minute. But could he? Surely it was going to take more than a couple of spanners and a monkey wrench to get her car out of the ditch?

‘We’ll h-have to phone the p-police,’ she told him, struggling and failing to control her chattering teeth.

‘No need for that. I said I’d deal with everything and I will.’

‘B-but you have to inform them after an ac-ac-accident.’

His voice strained, he replied brusquely, ‘Look, never mind the police for now. It’s Arthur I’m worried about. He needs help, fast.’

Pru was confused. Had Arthur been driving the other car? Oh God, don’t say he was dead .. .

‘Quick, get in.’ The man, evidently frantic with worry, pulled open the passenger door of his car.

Pru shivered and braced herself, but there was no visible corpse. No visible anyone, for that matter.

Fearfully, wondering if she was being kidnapped by a madman, she turned and opened her mouth to say, ‘Where’s Arthur?’

Instead, getting her first glimpse of the man who had crashed into her, she exclaimed, ‘Oh thank goodness, it’s you!’

Eddie Hammond peered in turn at Pru. The light inside the car was dim and she was pretty damp and bedraggled but he recognised her finally as a member of the club. Hopefully this would go in his favour.

‘That’s right. You’re one of Dulcie’s friends.’

‘Pru. Pru Kastelitz.’ Sticking out her icy hand – and feeling idiotic – she said, ‘Phew, I was starting to get worried. Thought you might be a kidnapper.’

Eddie made his way around the front of the car – a gleaming, pillarbox-red Jaguar – and climbed into the driver’s seat. He restarted the engine.

‘Hang on.’ Looking bemused, this time Pru remembered to say it. ‘Where’s Arthur?’

‘On the back seat.’

She swivelled round in alarm.

And saw, half-hidden beneath a rumpled tartan blanket, a golden labrador. Asleep.

‘Arthur’s a dog?’

Grimly Eddie nodded. ‘He’s ill. I have to get him to the vet.’

He was reversing, putting the Jag back on course. Pm, never a tremendous dog lover, said, ‘What about my car?’

‘I’ll get it fixed.’

‘But I haven’t even locked the doors! I’ve got loads of stuff in there—’

‘Flaming Nora! What’s more important, Arthur’s life or your ... stuff?’ Eddie stared across at his passenger, exasperated. Then, remembering he mustn’t alienate her, he forced himself to smile.

‘Pru, please. Let’s get Arthur to the vet first. As soon as he’s been seen to, I’ll sort everything out with you. That’s a promise, okay?’

Feeling horribly ashamed of herself, because as far as she was concerned Arthur’s life wasn’t nearly as important as the contents of her car, Pru nodded and gave in. She couldn’t help not being keen on dogs. An unprovoked attack on her as a child by a neighbour’s Alsatian had left vivid scars on her mind as well as her arm. But to be fair, that hadn’t been Arthur’s fault.

To make up for being heartless, Pru twisted round and took another look at the animal snoring on the back seat.

‘What’s wrong with him?’

‘I don’t know. I woke up half an hour ago and found him like that. Out cold on the kitchen floor.’

Eddie’s voice wavered. For an awful second Pru wondered if he was going to cry. He was desperately worried, she realised. No wonder he had been driving like a maniac along Brunton Lane.

And then, quite suddenly, something Dulcie had mentioned in passing last week popped into her head .. .