Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

‘Stop it!’ squeaked Liza, struggling frantically to keep both of them decent. ‘I’m serious, Kit, we can’t do it here. Not in my parents’ house!’

Without saying a word, Kit led her by the hand across the hall, into the kitchen and out through the back door.

‘I’m serious too,’ he told Liza, one hand roaming beneath her T-shirt while the other deftly unfastened the button on her jeans. ‘Is the garden okay?’

Outside, the air was warm and heady with the scent of late roses. They were in total darkness.

This is our grand reconciliation, thought Liza, it’s supposed to be torrid and passionate and ultra ultra romantic.

As it was, things were turning out rather less glorious than she had imagined.

Getting the giggles didn’t help.

‘You’re supposed to be gasping in ecstasy,’ Kit complained.

‘I can’t help it. Dad mowed the lawn this afternoon, I’m covered in grass cuttings.’ She clung to Kit, helpless with laughter. ‘You’ve got leaves in your hair. And I can hear a million insecty things—’

‘Ugh! What was that?’ Kit winced as something weightier than an insect landed with a hideous plop on the back of his hand and leapt off again.

Their eyes had by this time adapted to the darkness.

‘Frog,’ squealed Liza, watching it hop into the bushes. She flinched as the wings of a moth brushed her bare shoulder.

The rasping noise of a grasshopper sounded, inches from Kit’s ear. He gave up.

‘Talk about coitus interruptus.’

‘Insect interruptus,’ said Liza, dancing her fingertips across his taut stomach.

‘Bloody alfresco sex. Remind me never to try this again.’ Liza was feeling around on the grass behind him. ‘I can’t find my bra.’

At that moment the bushes to the left of them began to rustle ominously.

‘Don’t tell me,’ murmured Kit, ‘it’s the Beast of Exmoor.’

‘Sounds big.’ Still hunting in vain for her favourite black bra, Liza managed to locate one of her shoes. ‘Must be a dog.’

They both leapt a mile as the powerful beam of a torch snapped on.

‘Right. Stay where you are! Don’t move a muscle,’ barked a female voice.

‘Oh my God,’ hissed Liza, instinctively ducking behind Kit, ‘it’s Mrs McKnight from next door.

Oh shit shit shit—’

‘Good grief,’ announced the female voice, which was deep, assertive and extremely effective when it came to bossing people about; forty years in teaching had seen to that. ‘Thought you were burglars! What on earth do you think you’re doing in my neighbour’s back garden?’

There was a horrid clammy silence. All Liza could hear was her heart beating frantically against her ribs.

‘We aren’t burglars,’ said Kit. He reached for his white jeans and put them on.

Mrs McKnight’s eyes boggled. ‘You’re trespassing!’

‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Calmly Kit found the rest of Liza’s clothes and handed them to her. Molly McKnight flicked the torch in the direction of the blackcurrant bushes into which the frog had hopped earlier. Dangling from one of the higher branches was Liza’s bra.

‘Whatever possessed you?’

‘It was a dare,’ Kit said simply.

The lad was as cool as a cucumber. With merciless precision Molly McKnight swung the beam of the torch back to his girlfriend, skulking on the ground behind him, struggling frantically to get into her clothes. With her head bent and all that blonde hair tumbling over her face, it was impossible to see what she looked like.

‘Is your companion going to apologise too?’ The demand was brisk.

‘She’s Romanian.’ Kit shrugged. ‘Doesn’t speak any English.’

‘Hmmph.’

‘It won’t happen again.’

‘I should jolly well hope not.’

‘Sorry again,’ said Kit, grinning as he took Liza’s hand and led her towards the back gate.

Shaking her head, half amused by his chutzpah, Molly McKnight watched them go.

‘Young people today, I don’t know,’ she sighed, just loudly enough for them to hear.

The gate clicked shut behind them. Young people.

What utter bliss.

I love that woman,’ murmured Liza.

Chapter 43

Dulcie wondered if she was suffering from empty nest syndrome. Funny, she’d never imagined she’d miss Pru so much, but the house really did seem awfully empty.

It was early on Sunday morning and the rest of the day stretched ahead. Deeply resentful that some inner alarm clock had been insensitive enough to wake her at six — she’d never had an inner alarm clock before — Dulcie poured herself a fourth cup of coffee and tried not to feel sorry for herself. This was her hard-earned day off, after all. She was supposed to be enjoying it.

The trouble was, as Dulcie was belatedly discovering, enjoying yourself was more fun if you weren’t on your own. And now, for the first time in her life, she was.

Patrick was busy being deliriously happy somewhere with Claire Berenger. Liam was doubtless busy being a prize stud somewhere with any number of women. Pru was working, catching up on her backlog of cleaning jobs.

And Liza ... well, Liza hadn’t spoken to her since their fight and wasn’t likely to, considering the snide — and deeply unfair — remarks she’d made about Kit Berenger.

Altogether, what with avoiding Brunton Manor because of Liam — not to mention being unable to face all those women who knew what a prat she’d made of herself over him — her remaining options were limited.

I could go shopping, thought Dulcie, but even the prospect of spending money on unnecessary luxuries failed to exert its usual seductive pull.

She bit her lip and gazed out of the window. The alternatives were equally dreary.

She could – heaven help her – Go For A Nice Walk. This had always been her mother’s antidote to terminal teenage boredom.

The answer was still no thanks.

Or she could have a bath, eat biscuits and lie on the sofa watching wall-to-wall rubbish on television.

At that moment the phone rang. Dulcie’s spirits soared as she raced to answer it. Talk about fate.

‘Hi, Dulcie? Brad Pitt speaking. You must come to my party ...’

Or:

‘Dulcie, hey! It’s me, Sting. I’m sending the helicopter for you, okay? You’re spending the day with us.’

Anything like that, really. Just something fun.

‘Dulcie. Good, you’re at home. All right if I drop by in about half an hour?’

Okay, so it wasn’t Sting, but Dulcie still felt her heart do a clumsy somersault.

Half an hour, she thought breathlessly. I can either shower, get dressed and do my face, or lie in the bath until he gets here and saunter downstairs in a towel.

When the doorbell rang exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Dulcie sauntered downstairs in a towel. Her black hair was slicked back from her face and her wet, Floris-scented skin glistened.

Her green eyes, with their ultra-white whites, were bright with anticipation and half a bottle of hastily flung-in Eye Dew.

The dark-blue velour towel, fetchingly clutched around her in a just-got-out-of-the-bath kind of way, could have been larger but it set off Dulcie’s tan beautifully.

‘Hi.’ Patrick barely glanced at either the towel or the tan. He strode past Dulcie into the hall.

‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. Won’t be a sec; I just need to pick something up.’

He sounded distant and briskly efficient, like a bankmanager. As she closed the door, Dulcie’s suspicions were confirmed. Claire Berenger was sitting in the passenger seat of Patrick’s car.

When she saw Dulcie she smiled and waved.

‘Off to play frisbee in the park?’ Dulcie couldn’t help it. The taunt slipped out as Patrick made his way through to the sitting room. Leaving a trail of wet footprints, she followed him.