Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘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.