Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘I know,’ said Eddie. ‘I’m just letting him out for a two-minute mn.’

‘Two-minute widdle, more like.’ Still smirking, the old dear held out a gnarled hand. ‘Here, you can leave him with me. I’ll look after him.’

‘His name’s Arthur.’ Eddie passed her the lead.

‘My late husband’s name.’ Up close, the woman’s eyes were astonishing, almost kingfisher blue.

‘He used to widdle everywhere too, come the end.’

Cautiously, Arthur sniffed her lisle-stockinged leg.

‘Not me,’ the woman told the dog briskly. ‘Still continent, thank you very much.’

By the time Eddie re-emerged from the nursing home he found Arthur draped across the rest of the bench with his head on the old woman’s tweed lap. He was fast asleep and snoring like a train.

‘Getting more like my husband by the minute.’ The woman fondly stroked Arthur’s ears.

‘Well, thanks for keeping an eye on him,’ said Eddie. ‘So where is she?’

‘Who?’

‘That pretty girl of yours. Dumped you, has she? All over now?’

‘You mean Pm?’ Eddie hesitated then said awkwardly, ‘She’s away on holiday. A fortnight in Majorca.’

‘Why didn’t you go with her?’

‘Well ... she’s gone to stay with a friend. A female friend.’ The old woman’s straggly eyebrows lifted in amusement. ‘What, you mean she’s a lesbian?’

‘No. Of course not.’

‘So. D’you miss her?’

‘No ... well . ..’ Eddie wasn’t often at a loss for words but it was pretty daunting being interrogated by an octogenarian. Flustered, he went on, ‘It’s only a holiday. She’ll be back in a couple of weeks. Anyway, we aren’t involved in that way.’

‘But you wish you were,’ said the old woman.

‘Not ... not necessarily—’

‘Bull. Get a grip, man! Life doesn’t last forever, you know. And you’re no spring chicken.’

‘Are you always this bossy?’ Eddie retaliated, relieved to see that Arthur had at last opened his eyes.

The old woman gave him a long, measured look.

‘I’m eighty-four years old, young man. I can say whatever I like.’

‘You don’t even know me.’

‘Ah, but that’s it, I do. You’re Edna Peverell’s son-in-law. What d’you think we do all day in this place, play table tennis?’ Mockingly, remorselessly, she went on, ‘We talk, young man. I know everything there is to know about you. And if you ask me, it’s high time you got yourself another wife.’

Chapter 33

Hearing from Liam after three days of nail-biting silence made Dulcie’s heart do an extra jubilant hop, skip and jump. Just the sound of his voice on the phone – those melting Irish syllables – was enough to remind her how hopelessly smitten she still was.

‘How about if I come round about eight-ish?’ said Liam beguilingly. ‘We could have a romantic evening together, just the two of us.’

Romantic evening? Did that, Dulcie wondered, suggest a big dazzling engagement ring to go with the rampant sex?

She glanced across the sitting room at Pru, who was lying on the sofa watching a wildlife documentary. Her hair, desperately in need of a wash, was sticking out at all angles around the bandages.

What with that, no make-up and a Julio Iglesias T-shirt, she looked a sight.

Furthermore, Dulcie remembered, she was here incognito. As far as the rest of the world was concerned, Pru was in Majorca.

‘Actually, my grandmother’s staying with me for a few days. It’s easier if I come to you.’

‘Okay.’ Liam realised he would have to go through the flat first, removing any evidence of Imelda’s recent stay. ‘Better make it nine then, the place is a mess. I’ll have a clear-up before you arrive.’

He must love me, Dulcie thought joyfully, to care about tidying up.

As the end credits of the wildlife documentary began to roll, Pru heard Dulcie wail, ‘Oh bum,’

from upstairs. ‘What?’ she said when Dulcie reappeared looking disconsolate.

‘So much for a romantic evening. My period’s started.’

‘What will you do?’

Dulcie said gloomily, ‘Have a headache, I suppose.’

‘A what?’ Liam grinned, clearly thinking it was a joke. He waited for the punchline.

‘A headache. Right here.’ Dulcie clutched her temple and winced. ‘It’s throbbing like mad.’

‘I know how it feels.’

‘Ouch, it really hurts. Maybe I’m getting migraine, like Liza.’

Playfully Liam pulled her on to his lap.

‘Lucky I know a cure for headaches.’

His hand was travelling to the nape of her neck. In one smooth movement her dress was unzipped. Dulcie tried not to squirm with pleasure.

‘I can’t ... I can’t.’ As the magic fingers slid lower she wriggled frantically away, gasping,

‘Please don’t! The doctor said I mustn’t—’

Liam’s hand shot out of her dress as if he’d been electro- cuted.

‘What?’

Phew, mission accomplished.

‘The doctor.’ Dulcie shook her head slightly, the reluctant bearer of bad news. Greta Garbo had done something similar in one of those films where she died at the end. ‘When I saw him yesterday he said we shouldn’t ... you know. To be on the safe side.’

‘Is everything all right?’ Liam stared at her stomach.

‘Oh yes, as long as I take it easy. Just for the next week or so.’

He was looking stunned. Touched by his concern, Dulcie gave him a reassuring kiss.

‘Don’t worry, everything’s going to be fine. All I need is a bit of ... of cosseting.’

Liam thought for a moment.

‘I’d have said move in with me for a couple of weeks, but I suppose that isn’t really on.’

Dulcie’s eyes widened with excitement. She couldn’t imagine why not.

‘Well—’

‘Not if you’ve got your grandmother staying with you.’ Oh. Bugger.

No.’ Disappointed, Dulcie dredged up a smile. ‘I suppose not. Well, she’ll just have to cosset me instead.’

It was blissful, anyway, being looked after by Liam that evening. While Dulcie lay on the sofa with her feet up, he cooked a rice, fish and vegetable casserole so healthy and bursting with vitamins it could have won a triathlon. After dinner, when Dulcie assured him her doctor had told her she must give in to her cravings, he even jogged down to the petrol station and bought her two packets of crisps and a Bounty ice cream bar.

While Liam washed up, Dulcie embarked on stage two of her plan.

‘Finlay?’ she suggested, holding up the book of babies’ names she had bought yesterday. ‘Look, it’s Gaelic for fair soldier. Is Finlay better than Xavier, do you think?’

Liam wasn’t wild about Xavier. As far as names were concerned, maggot was better than Xavier.

Honestly, pregnant women had some funny ideas, presumably because their hormones were up the creek.

‘Finlay’s not too bad.’ He rejoined Dulcie in the sitting room and leaned his elbows on the back of the sofa, wishing he could summon up more enthusiasm for the task. It was weird trying to choose a name for something currently the size of a centipede.

But Dulcie, it seemed, had enthusiasm to spare.

‘And now, raising the Wimbledon championship trophy proudly above his head, this year’s triumphant winner ...’ she fanfared ‘... Finlay Fackrell!’

‘Jesus Christ.’

‘What?’ Dulcie abruptly twisted round and gazed up at him in concern. The expression on his face was one of utter horror. ‘What’s wrong? Don’t you want him to win Wimbledon?’

‘It’s not that,’ spluttered Liam, ‘it’s ... it’s Fackrell!’

Dulcie looked wounded.

‘That’s my name.’

‘Yes, but—’

‘I’m sorry.’ Dulcie tried hard to ignore the triumphant little voice in her head yelling Bingo! ‘I just kind of assumed, under the circumstances, he’d have my name.’