Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

The crash was followed by a scream, closely followed by a baby’s piercing wail. As Rufus and Dulcie simultaneously rushed to the swing doors a terrible dropped-baby scenario flashed across Dulcie’s mind. Her heart leapt into her throat as she tried to remember how you were supposed to do mouth-to-mouth resuscitation on a comatose toddler. She was sure she’d seen it on ER.

But when they catapulted through the swing doors they found the baby perched safely on his father’s lap, pointing an outraged finger down at the broken bowl containing the remains of his aubergine and tomato bake.

On the floor next to the two halves of the bowl lay Maris in an undignified position. The high chair was on top of her, her scarlet knickers were on show and one arm was twisted behind her back.

Dulcie heard Rufus murmur, ‘Oh thank God,’ under his breath. Aloud, he said, ‘Is everyone all right?’

The party of six, appearing somewhat dazed, nodded. ‘I’m not all right,’ Maris shouted indignantly. ‘Will someone get this bloody high chair off me? Ow, my arm!’

Dulcie helped Rufus to lift the high chair. Maris, white-faced, gritted her teeth and tried to sit up.

‘What happened?’ said Dulcie.

Maris, with heavy irony, said, ‘Well, I was riding my unicycle ...’

Crouching down, Dulcie inspected the sole of Maris’s sensible shoe. She peeled off a slice of aubergine and held it up.

‘This is what you slipped on.’

The party of six looked uncomfortable. The baby, recognising the bit of aubergine as one he had spat out and flung down earlier, crowed with delight and made a grab for it.

‘Uh-uh.’ Shaking her head, Dulcie whisked it out of reach. ‘This is evidence, for when we take you to court.’

The baby’s father said hurriedly, ‘It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t see him drop it—’

‘Joke,’ said Dulcie.

‘Look, this is all very entertaining,’ Maris murmured, ‘and I’m sorry to spoil the fun, but my arm’s hurting like hell here. I think it’s broken. Any chance of a lift to hospital?’

Rufus helped her on to a chair.

‘I can take you,’ offered Dulcie. She brightened at the thought of all the gorgeous young doctors she might meet in Casualty.

‘Sorry.’ Maris looked at Rufus. ‘Now I’ve mucked up your plans.’

‘I was going to visit a friend at the hospital this afternoon,’ Rufus explained to Dulcie, who was looking blank. ‘My next-door neighbour actually. Poor soul’s having a heart by-pass later today.

She’s petrified. I promised to drop in.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘I suppose I could close the café.’

Without even thinking, Dulcie said, ‘No need. You can take Maris to Casualty, then visit your neighbour. I’ll keep things ticking over here.’

How extraordinary, she thought, listening to the words slip quite casually from her mouth.

Maybe I’m having an out-ofbody experience. Did I really just say that?

But Rufus was looking so delighted, she must have. ‘Really, are you sure? That’s great!’

Dulcie felt positively heroic, like Anna Neagle in one of those black and white Britain-at-war films. Spurred on by this, she said in a brisk, competent, Anna Neagley voice: ‘Of course I’m sure. Just leave everything to me. I’ll be absolutely fine.’

Chapter 38

Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Kensington, Kit lay in bed watching Liza turn herself into a frump. Having travelled up to London the night before, they had visited a West End theatre, gorged themselves on Peking duck afterwards in Soho, and walked arm in arm all the way back to their hotel, finishing the evening off with some pretty amazing sex.

Today, pleasure gave way to business. Kit had a one o’clock meeting in Highgate with the directors of a construction company hoping to win a contract with Berenger’s. Liza was visiting a restaurant in Covent Garden, a celebrity haunt called Beaujolais. The maître d’ at Beaujolais had recently snubbed Liza’s editor, who was now hell-bent on revenge.

‘That bastard turned me away,’ he had told Liza furiously. ‘Bloody nerve! Then, the next minute, he’s welcoming Tristan Acheson with open bloody arms!’ Tristan Acheson was the editor of a rival newspaper with a legendary appetite for one-upmanship. There was no love lost between the two men. ‘You go there,’ he went on, jabbing a pudgy finger at Liza, ‘and you make sure you find fault with everything on that poncey fucking menu of theirs. I mean it, Liza. I want you to hit ‘em where it hurts. Nobody turns their nose up at me.’

‘Do any of your relatives work at Beaujolais?’ Liza had asked Kit, as a precaution, when she had booked her table.

‘What, Beaujolais in Covent Garden? That’s my Aunt Isobel’s restaurant.’

‘You’re kidding!’

Kit grinned.

‘Of course I’m kidding. Don’t worry, you can be as bitchy about Beaujolais as you like.’

Now, as Liza put the finishing touches to her unflattering make-up and adjusted the fringe of her wig, Kit slid out of bed and came to stand behind her. He looked at their joint reflections in the mirror.

‘I have this terrible urge to undress you, take off that wig, wipe off that make-up and drag you back into bed.’

‘Well, don’t.’ Liza drew in her breath, trying hard to ignore his warm fingers sliding inside her blouse. ‘It’s almost twelve already and they won’t keep my table if I’m late. Anyway, you have to be in Highgate by one.’

Kit had just emerged from the shower ten minutes later when his mobile rang. Dripping and gloriously naked he answered it. The next moment, grinning, he rang off.

‘That was Dan, one of the directors of BilCom. Seems they spent last night celebrating being in London away from their wives. They got totally plastered, ended up in some strip joint and ate some dodgy chicken. Apparently they’ve all spent the night bringing their boots up. So the meeting’s cancelled.’ He dropped the phone back on the bed and pinched Liza’s bottom.

‘Hooray for dodgy chicken.’

‘What’ll you do instead?’ She darted out of his way as he began unfastening her skirt.

‘Ah well.’ Kit’s yellow eyes regarded her with teasing amusement. ‘Since I’m not allowed to do what I really want to do, I may as well come to Beaujolais with you.’

‘I’ve only booked a table for one.’

Her copy of the latest MICHELIN GUIDE lay open on the dressing table. Kit found the number of the restaurant and dialled it. When he switched off the phone he said, ‘There, no problem.

Table for two.’

Liza did up her zip.

‘Better put some clothes on first.’

Beaujolais was red and white, big and brash, and sported the obligatory volatile chef. A hugely popular meeting place for models and actresses, it was never without its share of paparazzi.

Every so often the surly chef would erupt from his kitchen to hurl abuse at them, which kept everyone entertained. If they ever showed signs of defecting to the pavements outside other celebrity restaurants, he wooed them back with free meals.

Liza recognised the maître d’ from her editor’s curt description: ‘Middle-aged. Ugly too. Looks like he’s got a wasp down the back of his shirt and a poker up his bum.’ Her brief concern, however, that he might be sufficiently appalled by her drabness to refuse her entry, was soon swept away. He couldn’t have been more welcoming.

Confused, Liza murmured, ‘He can’t possibly have recognised me,’ as they were seated.

Kit grinned.

‘He hasn’t recognised you.’

She looked at Kit, so handsome in an indigo shirt and beige chinos and with his dark hair still damp from the shower. ‘I know,’ said Liza. ‘He fancies you.’