Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

Pru shook her head.

The blonde girl arrived to take their order. She was pretty and utterly charming and Liza, deciding she must be the cousin, wondered how she would react if she knew who’d she’d just been charming to.

‘Come on, who is it?’ she persisted, when the girl had left them. Pru’s eyes were still darting across the restaurant. ‘No idea. He just keeps looking over.’

‘Fancies me. Fatally attracted to my stunning wig,’ Liza smirked, ‘not to mention my cardigan.’

She glanced over her shoulder and found Kit Berenger staring straight at her.

Shit.’

‘It’s him, isn’t it?’

Liza nodded, white-faced. ‘How did you know?’

Embarrassed, Pru pleated her napkin. ‘Dulcie said he was gorgeous.’

‘More to the point,’ said Liza, ‘does he know who I am?’ But how can he, she wondered, when I’m looking like this?

‘What happens now?’ Pru’s stomach rumbled; she hadn’t eaten all day. The prospect of not staying after all almost made her want to cry.

‘Right, no need to panic,’ Liza announced firmly. ‘I mean, let’s be logical about this. He can’t possibly have recognised me. And we’ve ordered now, so we can’t leave.’ Fretfully she said,

‘What I don’t understand is why I didn’t spot him before.’

‘He wasn’t there when we arrived,’ Pru whispered back. ‘He came through that door.’ She nodded at one marked Private. The look Liza gave her was long and measured.

‘So you guessed who he was straight away.’

‘I didn’t think it mattered,’ Pru protested guiltily, ‘so long as he doesn’t know who you are. I didn’t want to put you off your meal.’

The Songbird was a forty-seater restaurant. Tonight – and Saturdays are the busiest night of any restaurant’s week – it was half full.

Or half empty, depending on your viewpoint.

Either way, it wasn’t great news. Liza wondered how many of the unoccupied tables were down to her.

She couldn’t fault the Stilton soufflé, which was creamy and light with an outer crust browned to perfection. The roast duck with kumquats was brilliant too.

‘This,’ declared Pm, prodding her poached salmon with a fork, ‘is divine.’

Liza wondered how on earth it could be physically possible to feel a pair of eyes boring into your back. She didn’t need to look round, she just knew it was happening.

‘If you want to leave,’ said Pru heroically, sensing her discomfort, ‘we can.’

Liza wanted to. The trouble was, she wanted to sample the puddings more.

‘Is he still looking over?’

‘Well, kind of.’

‘That means yes.’

‘He’s standing up,’ Pru murmured, watching covertly as he pushed back his chair.

‘Hell’s bells—’

‘It’s okay, he’s gone through that door again, the one marked Private.’

He was away for some time. When the door finally reopened, Liza had just taken her first mouthful of almond and apricot tart. Pm, who had chosen the honey ice cream, was so carried away by its miraculous taste and texture that her eyes were closed.

‘You don’t mind if I join you for a moment,’ said Kit Berenger, pulling out the empty chair next to Pru.

Liza wondered briefly if it was worth putting on a German accent. If he challenged her, she could simply deny everything, say she didn’t know vot he was tocking about.

But really, was there any point?

She wondered instead if Kit Berenger was about to rip her wig off. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight if he did; she was wearing an Ena Sharples hairnet underneath.

He didn’t. He looked hard at her for several seconds. Then with his index finger he tapped the dark-blue linen tablecloth, less than an inch from Liza’s wrist.

‘Very good, but that was the giveaway.’

Pru stared at the tablecloth. Heavens, was there a microphone hidden beneath it? Was the table bugged?

‘I heard you laughing. When I turned round I couldn’t see your face.’ He tapped again. ‘But I saw this.’

She had always worn her watch, a man’s steel Longines, on her right hand. On her little finger she wore a narrow platinum ring. Liza was so impressed by his powers of observation she almost smiled. Maybe this is it, she thought, my chance to apologise and make amends, to tell him what a terrific meal we’re having .. .

‘I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing back here,’ Kit Berenger went on icily, ‘but you certainly aren’t wanted. So I suggest you leave, this minute.’

‘Now look—’

‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ he demanded, hissing the words across the table like poison darts. ‘Haven’t you already hurt Nicky enough?’

Liza flinched. Mortified, Pru stared down at her melting ice cream.

‘This restaurant doesn’t need customers like you,’ said Kit Berenger, standing up. ‘Come on, out.

And don’t start bleating about the bill because we don’t want your money either.’

‘Have you told your cousin who I am?’ asked Liza, feeling sick. So much for making amends.

‘Are you mad? Why do you suppose I want you out of here?’

‘You’re making a scene.’

‘I am not. I’m getting rid of you before I make a scene. Because if I did,’ Kit Berenger spoke through gritted teeth, ‘I promise you, it’d be a bigger one than this.’

Chapter 15

Eddie Hammond’s frighteningly efficient secretary had left the computer print-out of last month’s renewed memberships on his desk, together with an updated list of applications to join the club. This list was growing, which was a good sign. Since taking over the running of Brunton Manor last November Eddie had worked hard to raise the club’s public profile.

Only three people hadn’t renewed their lapsed memberships. He flicked the edge of the print-out with his thumb, to jog his memory. The Turner girl had got married and moved to Oxford.

Well, it was a reasonable excuse.

R. Cooper-Clark had emigrated last month to work as a flying doctor in the Australian outback.

Which was an improvement. This was what Eddie called a good excuse.

The third name on the list was P. Kasteliz.

So, Eddie wondered idly, what’s yours?

He found Dulcie indulging in her favourite pastime, swinging her legs on a stool in the bar and flirting outrageously with the captain of the local cricket club. The cricketer, who hadn’t been married long, looked relieved to make his escape.

‘You’re always working,’ Dulcie protested, eyeing Eddie’s crumpled grey suit and loosened tie.

‘You never have any fun.’ She pulled a face, remembering why the words sounded so familiar.

‘That’s what I used to tell Patrick. Eddie, how old are you?’

‘Forty-five. Too old to have fun,’ he said, humouring her.

Dulcie gave him a told-you-so look.

‘You men, all the same. And then you wonder why you end up on your own. I mean, you were married once, weren’t you?’ Eddie nodded.

‘Did you work non-stop?’

Nodding again, he caught the barman’s eye and ordered a refill for Dulcie, a Scotch for himself.

‘And she got more and more bored, until in the end she couldn’t stand it any more,’ Dulcie scolded, wagging a finger at him. ‘So when was that, how long ago did she divorce you?’

Their drinks arrived.

‘Cheers,’ said Eddie, clinking glasses. ‘Oh, she didn’t divorce me. She died.’

Dulcie clapped a hand to her forehead. Slowly, it slid down her face.

‘I’m sorry, I’m just so stupid. Does it ever happen to anyone else or am I the only one? I tell you, every time I open my mouth I manage to say the wrong thing. Honestly, I could kill myself.’

Eddie shook his head. ‘That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.’