Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

We always got on so well, thought Dulcie, feeling horribly bereft. Bibi was the best mother-in-law anyone could wish for. And now she doesn’t need me any more. She’s got herself another potential daughter-in-law, a new best friend.

The lights had changed to green again without Dulcie noticing. The blare of the Renault’s horn behind her made her jump. When she lifted her foot from the clutch, the car jerked in protest and promptly stalled.

More horns were tooted. Beginning to perspire, Dulcie turned the key in the ignition. Nothing happened.

She tried again.

And again, harder this time.

Still nothing.

From the sound of it, every car in Bath was blasting its horn at her now. The prickle of perspiration had turned into a torrent of sweat. And although Dulcie couldn’t bear to look, she knew Bibi and Claire would be watching with interest. Interest that would turn to amusement, no doubt, the moment Bibi recognised her car. This would make her day.

The traffic lights, almost with a shrug — ‘You had your chance, you blew it’ — turned back to red.

To her horror, Dulcie realised the man behind her was climbing out of his Renault. Next moment he hammered on her window, his face as shiny and purple as an aubergine.

‘You stupid cow,’ he bellowed. ‘What the hell d’you think you’re playing at? Bloody women drivers — bimbos like you shouldn’t be allowed on the road!’

Dulcie wasn’t up to defending herself. She was up to here with being shouted at.

She burst into tears and jumped out of the car, almost cannoning off the Renault driver’s great barrel of a chest.

‘The car’s broken down. It won’t go.’ Hating herself for being such a wimp, Dulcie heard her voice go higher and higher. ‘And don’t yell at me because it’s not my fault, okay?’

‘Bloody women, nothing’s ever your fault, is it?’ sneered the man, whose wife had run off with a taxi driver, taken the kids with her and stung him for so much alimony his business had gone down the tubes.

Dulcie lifted her chin. Out of the corner of her eye she could see Bibi and Claire watching the goings-on.

‘If you’re so clever,’ she said bitterly to the man, ‘you have a go.’

He climbed into Dulcie’s car, flicked the key in the ignition and pumped the clutch a couple of times.

The engine sprang obediently into life.

The look on the man’s face was unbearable. Nobody, thought Dulcie, should be allowed to do a look like that. She wanted nothing more than to slap his horrid purple cheek.

‘Here,’ sneered the beastly man as he climbed out, ‘think you can manage to get past the traffic lights this time, or would you like me to do that for you as well?’

Gritting her teeth, Dulcie slid back into the driver’s seat. Glancing across one last time she saw that Bibi and Claire were still there, witnessing her humiliation and no doubt enjoying it hugely.

The lights turned green.

As nervous as a learner taking her test, Dulcie pulled tentatively away and made it over to the other side.

A motley bunch of teenagers on bikes who had stopped to watch the free show jeered and whistled and gave her an ironic round of applause.

And you can all get stuffed too, thought Dulcie. Her lower lip began to wobble again out of sheer relief as she drove past them and headed on into Bath.

Finding somewhere to park took for ever. By the time she had finished shoe-horning the car into a cramped space outside a wholefood café on Mortimer Street, Dulcie’s yellow shirt was sticking to her back and her palms were so damp she could barely grip the steering wheel.

Since a mopping-up operation appeared to be in order, Dulcie went inside the café, ordered an orange juice and dived into the loo. There wasn’t much to be done about the shirt but at least she could wash her hands, hold her wrists under the cold water tap, run a comb through her hair and quickly re-do her face.

The man behind the counter grinned at Dulcie when she reappeared.

‘That’s better. Been one of those mornings by the look of it.’

Nice to know you looked as dreadful as you felt, thought Dulcie, managing a brief nod in return as she paid for the orange juice.

‘If you don’t mind me asking,’ he ventured, ‘are you going to stay long?’

This is all I need, Dulcie thought resignedly. A nosy, chatty health-food freak. What’s more, one with a beard.

‘It’s just the car,’ he went on, gesturing apologetically towards the window. ‘You see, I’m afraid it’s blocking my garage.’

Dulcie stared at him in disbelief.

‘It took me ten minutes to squeeze into that space! Why didn’t you come out and tell me in the first place?’

‘I’m sorry ... I was busy in the kitchen. There is a notice .. . anyway it doesn’t matter,’ he hurried to reassure her. ‘I don’t need my car for the next couple of hours. You’re welcome to stay until then.’

Dulcie wondered if anything nice would ever happen to her again, or if she truly was on the downward spiral to hell. Parking restrictions and time limits did her head in. She especially couldn’t cope with them today.

‘It’s okay.’ She resigned herself to queueing up to get into the NCP. ‘I’ll move the car.’

The car, however, had other ideas.

‘I don’t believe this, it’s done it again,’ yelled Dulcie, stalking back into the café and hurling her bag on to the counter. ‘The bloody thing won’t start!’

At table four a group of wholefood enthusiasts glanced up disapprovingly from their nut cutlets and garden-sized salads.

‘Well.’ On the defensive, Dulcie tugged down the hem of her short skirt. ‘Sorry, but it pisses me off.’

‘Rufus!’ a woman’s voice yelled from the kitchen. ‘Two lentil and broccoli bakes.’

Rufus, his beard twitching with amusement at the expression on table four’s faces, said, ‘Hang on a sec,’ to Dulcie, and went to fetch the order.

‘Now,’ he said, when the lentil and broccoli bakes had been dispatched, ‘tell me what’s wrong.’

Dulcie wanted to wail, Bloody everything! Instead, she rummaged in her bag.

‘Look, it’s okay. If I could just borrow your phone, I’ll call a garage. They can tow it away and fix it.’

‘Come on.’ Gently, with a hand in the small of her back, Rufus guided her to the door. ‘Garages cost money. At least let me have a look.’

Dulcie relayed the stalling-at-the-traffic-lights story and Rufus had another go at starting the engine, without luck. ‘When did you last check the oil?’

Dulcie looked at him. Having first removed his apron, he had lifted the bonnet and was now peering underneath. As he wiped his oily hands on a piece of kitchen roll, Rufus returned her gaze.

Slowly he said, ‘Okay, put it another way. Do you check your oil?’

It was all right for him, thought Dulcie. He was wearing a weird hand-knitted grey jersey and brown corduroy trousers. There was grey in his hair. He had a beard, for heaven’s sake...

Without beating about the bush, he was a man.

She glanced down at her sunflower-yellow shirt and whiteskirt. Her legs were brown, her sandals gold and her toenails Pomegranate Pink.

‘Do I look like the kind of person who checks the oil?’ The dipstick was duly hauled out, wiped on kitchen roll and re-dipped.

‘There is no oil in this engine,’ Rufus announced gravely.

For the first time, Dulcie suppressed a smile. The way he said it sounded like No Wheels On My Wagon. She looked suitably ashamed.

‘Oh.’

‘I mean really no oil.’ Rufus shook his head. ‘It’s a miracle the engine hasn’t blown up.’

‘Ah.’

He tut-tutted, then straightened up and smiled.

‘My ex-wife was the same.’