Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

Two years, that’s fine, thought Dulcie, suddenly finding it easier to breathe. That was eighteen months away.

‘Fine.’

‘Right. So that’s settled, we can be divorced by September.’ Dulcie sat bolt upright.

‘What about the two years?’

‘All you have to do,’ Patrick explained wearily, ‘is say you’ve been separated for two years.

Then it just goes through.’

‘But that isn’t true! That’s ... lying!’ yelped Dulcie.

‘Oh dear, how terrible. How will we live with ourselves?’ Patrick mocked. ‘Lying. Tut tut, that would never do.’

Dulcie hated it when he was sarcastic. She swallowed her pride and lay back down again. Patrick wanted to be free of her so he could marry Claire. He didn’t want to look at her bare boobs any more, he only wanted to look at Claire’s.

‘How is she?’ said Dulcie, to prove she was a grown-up. ‘Claire?’

‘Fine.’ Patrick nodded briefly. A muscle was going in his jaw. At last he said, ‘And Liam?’

If Claire was fine, Dulcie decided, Liam was more than fine.

‘Very well indeed. Brilliant.’ She nodded strenuously. ‘Great.’

‘Congratulations, by the way.’

Dulcie looked up, startled. There was that muscle again, twitching away.

‘On ...?’

‘The baby,’ said Patrick.

‘Oh. Right.’

Dulcie was glad she had her sunglasses on. Somehow she’d managed to persuade herself that Patrick wouldn’t get to hear about this.

She wondered how he had.

‘Word gets around,’ Patrick went on after an awkward pause. ‘One of the girls from the office downstairs is a member of Brunton.’ He cleared his throat and managed a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a weird way to find out, but still bit her lip. She felt terrible. Half of her wanted to blurt out the truth, to tell Patrick that it was okay, she wasn’t really pregnant, it was just a scam, a desperate attempt to hang on to Liam.

The other half of her knew she had to keep her mouth shut because the humiliation, the look of disdain on Patrick’s face, would be too much to bear.

He’s happy with Claire, thought Dulcie. The last thing I need is Patrick feeling pity for me.

She kept her mouth well and truly shut.

‘Anyway, I guessed you’d be anxious to get things settled.’ Dulcie nodded.

Patrick nodded too.

‘Are you going to marry him?’

‘I expect so.’ Bloody hope so. ‘Maybe. No hurry.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Dulcie shrugged again. Actually, she was feeling a bit peculiar. She was lying, and for the first time in her life not enjoying it much at all.

‘How am I feeling?’ Dulcie forced herself to concentrate. She even managed a smile. ‘Great. Bit sick ... you know, but otherwise fine. Looking forward to the big day.’

‘And Liam?’

‘Oh, he’s thrilled. Pleased as Punch.’

‘Well, that’s good news. I’m happy for you,’ said Patrick, not looking it. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. I really hope it all works out.’

‘Thanks.’ The sun was hot but Dulcie was suddenly cold. She couldn’t quite believe she was having this stiltedconversation with Patrick. She was also beginning to feel uncomfortably underdressed. Before, it hadn’t mattered. Now, a few layers of protective clothing — a couple of sweaters, a pair of jeans and a thick duffel coat, say — wouldn’t have gone amiss.

In a strange way too, Dulcie realised, she was miffed that he hadn’t seen through the lie. Liza and Pru had, effortlessly, and they were only her friends.

I was married to you for nearly seven years, she silently accused Patrick. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone — so how come you can’t tell I’m lying to you now?

Chapter 31

Pru was asleep when the ringing sound started. In her dream, a fire engine was racing round and round her bedsit but instead of going nee-naa nee-naa, it was making a noise like a doorbell.

Then the fire engine screeched to a halt. A dozen firemen leapt out and surrounded her bed.

‘There isn’t room for all of you in here,’ protested Pru, which, even if she didn’t know it was a dream, was a pretty Freudian thing to say. ‘I’m sorry, but some of you will have to wait outside.’

The fireman in charge, who looked weirdly like Eddie Hammond, said, ‘Can I stay?’

‘I’ve only got a single bed,’ Pru told him, and he broke into a smile.

‘Fine with me. Except you’d better answer that door bell first.’ Pru woke up, jack-knifing into a sitting position as the bell — her door bell — shrilled again.

She looked at the luminous green figures on her radio alarm: 3.42.

Up through the floorboards floated the voice of Donovan’s greatest fan shouting blearily: ‘Will somebody get that, for Chrissake?’

Pru fell out of bed and stumbled across to the window. Pulling back the flimsy curtain, she peered down to the street below.

The next second she yanked the window open so fast a shower of old paint flakes parted company with the half-rotted wooden frame.’Phil? What are you doing here?’

Phil Kasteliz heard the words but was in no state to locate them. Puzzled, hanging on to the front door for support, he looked left, then right, then behind him.

‘Pru?’

‘Up here,’ hissed Pru. He was extremely drunk, she could tell by the way his head moved in a kind of slow-motion swivel. ‘Phil, go home. It’s four o’clock in the morning.’

She heard him laughing to himself. Too late, Pru remembered his penchant for singing.

‘It’s four in the mor-ning,’ warbled Phil, ‘and da da da da da. Damn, forgotten the words. How does it go, Pru? It’s four in the morning ...’

He was standing unaided now, his arms outstretched as he tried to conduct her.

From below Pru’s feet came the plaintive wail: ‘Man, get that guy out of here ...’

If Pru had been Dulcie she would have yelled back that it served him bloody well right and one night of Phil Kasteliz in exchange for all those months of drippy Donovan was a pretty good swap.

But Pm, who wasn’t Dulcie, was terrified at the prospect of upsetting a neighbour, even if he was a dope-head devoted to Donovan.

‘Stop it,’ she yelled in a strangled whisper, waving her arms at Phil in an attempt to hush him up.

‘I’m coming down.’

When she opened the front door, he tripped over the step. She practically had to carry him upstairs to her room.

‘How did you find this place anyway?’ Pru gasped.

Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Phil finally pulled out his wallet. He showed Pru the letter she had written to him months earlier letting him know her new address.

‘Showed it to the taxi driver,’ Phil confided. ‘He brought me straight here.’

Pru marvelled at her own lack of response. She had written that letter with tears streaming down her cheeks. At the time, she would have given anything in the world for Phil to show it to a taxi driver and be brought straight here. Fantasising that it might happen had been about the only thing that had kept her going.

And now he was here ..

She felt nothing.

‘Why?’ said Pru.

‘Had a row with Blanche.’ Phil collapsed heavily on the bed, still clutching his wallet.

‘What about?’

‘She’s just a bad-tempered bitch.’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Honestly, all she did was yell at me. Just because I was a bit late home.’ He looked up at Pru, his eyes bloodshot. ‘You never yelled at me.’

‘I know I didn’t.’ To yell, or not to yell, thought Pru. Which was best?

‘She’s mad because I had a couple of drinks. Bloody cow wouldn’t let me into the house.’

Phil shook his head again in disbelief and tried to fit the bulging wallet back into his pocket.