Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

Liam looked deeply uncomfortable.

‘Yes, but Fackrell. Couldn’t you stick with Ross? Finlay Ross sounds all right.’

‘But it’s my married name! It’s Patrick’s name,’ she protested, ‘and this isn’t anything to do with Patrick.’

Another long silence. Dulcie could feel Liam’s warm breath on her shoulder. She could smell his aftershave. Mentally she willed him on; this was his cue, his big chance to say something impossibly romantic, something along the lines of, ‘I want my son’s name to be McPherson, I want your name to be McPherson, oh, Dulcie, I can’t bear it another minute .. . please divorce Patrick and marry me ...’

She couldn’t understand why it wasn’t happening. Was this a dream opportunity or what?

Liam stood up and ruffled her short hair in an awkward let’s-change-the-subject gesture.

‘Okay, you win. But if it’s going to be Fackrell you can’t have Finlay. Sounds like some character out of Sesame Street. You’d be better off with something plain,’ he concluded offhandedly as he disappeared into the kitchen, ‘like Rob or Tom.’

When Dulcie woke up the next morning, Liam was already out of bed and in the shower. She lay back against the pillows and fantasised pleasurably about him soaping his perfect body. As soon as the week was over, she would make up for this enforced celibacy, big-time.

Reaching across for the phone, Dulcie dialled home. ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m not an invalid,’ protested Pru. ‘Actually, I’ve just defrosted your fridge. Do you have any idea how many Bounty ice cream bars there are in your freezer compartment?’

‘I hate running out.’

‘It’s a miracle you can run anywhere, the amount you eat.’

At that moment Liam appeared in the doorway, an odd expression on his face.

‘Anyway,’ said Dulcie, ‘I’ll be home soon, Granny. And don’t worry about the washing-up, I’ll do it when I get back.’ Pru sounded amused. ‘Careful, I might hold you to that.’

‘Are you all right?’ said Liam when she had hung up. ‘Great. Just checking up on Granny.’

Dulcie waved the phone at him. ‘She’s fine.’

‘Managed without you last night then?’

Why was he looking at her in that peculiar way?

‘Oh, no problem.’ Wondering if for some reason he didn’t believe her, Dulcie began to elaborate.

‘She went to bingo, actually. Won eighteen pounds fifty. Granny’s always been lucky ... last year she entered a competition on the back of a cornflakes packet and won a scuba-diving holiday in Tenerife.’

Liam, magnificently naked, pulled on a tracksuit. He didn’t appear to be listening.

‘I’ve got to get to the club.’

Dying to have a private snoop around the flat, Dulcie said brightly, ‘Don’t worry about me, I can let myself out.’

But he was already picking up her crumpled clothes, holding them towards her.

‘I’d rather we left together.’

This was a bit of a shame but Dulcie consoled herself with the thought that maybe it was Liam’s way of being romantic.

‘Headache gone, then?’ he said as the flat door slammed shut behind them.

Headache?

‘Oh!’ That headache. ‘Oh, absolutely.’ Relieved, Dulcie beamed up at his unsmiling profile.

That must be why he’d seemed so odd; he was worried about her. ‘Completely gone, thanks.’

But Liam still didn’t smile. ‘Good.’

A gleaming red Parcelforce van was just driving off as Dulcie arrived home. Missing its bumper by a whisker as she screeched into the drive, she realised with a strange pang that the driver had strong brown forearms exactly like Patrick’s. No need for that V-sign though.

Pru was in the hall clutching a parcel.

‘It’s for Patrick,’ she said, ‘marked Urgent. I had to sign for it.’

Dulcie wondered what the driver had made of Pru’s bandaged head. With each passing day she was looking more and more like Frankenstein’s monster.

‘Some component for one of Patrick’s computers.’ Peering at the label on the parcel, she recognised the company’s logo.

Their own computer evidently hadn’t been updated with his change of address.

Dulcie dumped the parcel on the hall table and made her way through to the kitchen.

‘It says Urgent.’

Following her, Pru sounded agitated. Pru, Dulcie recalled, was the kind of person who felt compelled to pay the electricity bill the same day it arrived. Preferably with a first-class stamp.

‘Okay, okay. Breakfast first. You make the tea and I’ll defrost the doughnuts.’ It was still only nine o’clock, after all. ‘Then I’ll take it round.’

When Dulcie arrived at the office, however, the doors were locked. For a Tuesday morning this was unthinkable; Patrick had to have been abducted by aliens at the very least.

Except he hadn’t. When Dulcie climbed the next flight of stairs she found the door to Patrick’s flat open and Patrick there, standing with his back to her, packing decidedly un-computerlike things into a holdall.

Dulcie cleared her throat and he spun round.

‘Did I startle you? Sorry.’

‘Dulcie!’

She half smiled.

‘I’ve never seen you looking guilty before. What is it, a couple of kilos of heroin?’

The expression on Patrick’s face was exquisite. She couldn’t resist going over to the bag and taking a closer look.

A beach towel. Swimming trunks. Factor 4 Ambre Solaire. A bottle of wine and a corkscrew. A frisbee.

A frisbee, for God’s sake...

She looked at Patrick, who had never blushed in his life. He was blushing.

Dulcie said, ‘Don’t forget your bucket and spade.’ He zipped up the holdall.

‘What are you doing here, Dulcie?’

She held out the parcel.

‘It says Urgent. I thought you might be desperate.’

‘Oh. Thanks.’

Like a small boy reluctantly unwrapping a birthday present from a great-aunt, knowing it’s going to be socks, Patrick opened the package.

‘If I’d known,’ said Dulcie, to break the suddenly awkward silence, ‘I’d have bought you a beachball instead.’

Recovering himself, as if realising he didn’t have to feel guilty, Patrick held up the polystyrene box of microchips and grinned.

‘No really, these are fine. Just what I wanted.’

Dulcie felt something twist and tighten in her stomach. ‘You’ve closed the office.’

‘Just for the day.’

The something, she realised, was jealousy.

‘Where are you going?’

‘Devon.’ He glanced out of the window, at the traffic-clogged street below. ‘It’s hot, it’s sunny.

We thought we’d drive down, find a beach.’

And play fucking frisbee, thought Dulcie, biting her lip until it hurt.

‘You and Claire?’

‘Me and Claire.’ Patrick nodded.

‘Sure you can remember how to swim?’ She mimed the breaststroke. ‘It’s a leisure pursuit, you do it in water. Sometimes you splash about a bit and have something known as fun. Maybe if I drew a diagram—’

‘Dulcie, stop,’ said Patrick, but not crossly. He was being – ugh, far worse, Dulcie realised –

patient with her. ‘You always told me I worked too hard. Well, now I’m taking a bit of time off to enjoy myself. You of all people should approve.’

Inexplicably, Dulcie’s eyes filled with tears. She wanted to scream at his stupidity. He wasn’t supposed to take time off and enjoy himself now.

‘Are you crying?’ Patrick looked shocked. ‘You never cry.’ He unzipped the holdall, pulled out the beach towel and gave it to her to wipe her eyes on. Then he smiled briefly. ‘Must be your hormones.’

Wrong, thought Dulcie, it’s you.

Dammit, how thick could an intelligent man get?

Chapter 34