Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘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?’