Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘Did I heck! The cottage was let out to a pair of geriatric spinsters. No sign of Liam or his friends anywhere ... and God knows I spent enough time looking for them.’

‘You never told us any of this.’

‘What, that I was dumped?’ Dulcie started to laugh. ‘Excuse me, I did have some pride. I’d have told you about Liam if there’d been anything to tell.’

The photograph of Brunton Manor’s new tennis pro was back up on the noticeboard, having been plucked from Dulcie’s grasp by an irate receptionist.

‘And now he’s coming here to work,’ Pru marvelled. Dulcie hugged herself. ‘It’s fate.’

‘It didn’t work out brilliantly last time.’

‘I was fifteen,’ Dulcie rolled her eyes in exasperation, ‘he was seventeen. I had spots and the haircut from hell – how could it have worked out?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That’s why it’s fate. We’re adults now. This is our second chance,’ she looked smugly at Pru, ‘a chance to make a real go of it. You’ll see.’

Chapter 17

Pru called Terry Lambert her mystery client because she had never seen him. Terry, brother of Marion Hayes over at Beech Farm, was a solicitor who lived alone in a picturesque Bath-stone cottage high on one of the hills surrounding the city.

‘I’ve been telling him for years to get someone in. Men, they’re hopeless,’ Marion had robustly declared, before phoning Terry and informing him that she had found him a cleaner.

Marion had given Pru the spare key to Terry’s house. Every Tuesday afternoon Pru let herself in, spent four hours restoring order from chaos, took the money her absent employer left for her on the kitchen dresser and let herself out again.

Even if she hadn’t met him, however, she felt she knew Terry Lambert quite well, having hung up his clothes, dusted his bookshelves, washed up his breakfast things and put endless CDs and videos back in their cases. Divorced four years earlier, he was in his mid-thirties, with no children. He earned a jolly good salary and drove a metallic-green Scorpio. Pru knew all this because Marion had told her. According to Marion, her brother was quite a catch: handsome, generous and kind to animals.

‘Once you’re back on an even keel,’ she told Pru with an encouraging wink, ‘you could do a lot worse, you know, than our Terry.’

Pru couldn’t imagine ever getting back on an even keel, nor was she the least bit interested in getting to know another man. Anyway, kind to animals he might be, but with the best will in the world you could never classify Terry Lambert as handsome.

She didn’t say this to Marion; it didn’t seem polite to point out that if the photo in Terry’s bedroom was anything to go by, he was half-man, half-anteater.

But the photograph of Terry and Marion with their now-dead parents was clearly of sentimental value. Whenever she polished the ornate silver frame Pru couldn’t help studying it, touched by the similarities between father and son. Both had dark eyes and thick, straight eyebrows, pronounced laughter lines and mouths that curved upwards when they smiled. They also shared the same nose, big and beaky and truly attention-grabbing.

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.