Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

When the phone rang, M’sieur Pierre answered it.

‘You wish to speak to Liza Lawson?’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, madam, we have nobody of that name dining in our restaurant.’

‘Yes you do.’ Dulcie took a steadying breath. ‘Please, just get her.’

‘Excuse me, are you referring to Liza Lawson the restaurantcritic?’ As he spoke, M’sieur Pierre swept a practised eye over the female diners.

‘Yes, yes, that’s the one.’

‘But I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I can assure you we don’t have Liza Lawson here. Let me check the bookings for tomorrow—’

‘She’s there,’ Dulcie almost screamed. ‘Wearing a wig, looking like a librarian. Just get her to the phone, will you? Tell her it’s an emergency. A real emergency.’

When Liza put the phone down she was trembling uncontrollably. How could something like this have happened? How could Kit have been – oh God – shot?

She stared blindly at the row of multicoloured liqueur bottles lined up on the shelf above the bar, struggling to take it in, unaware of the maître d’ hovering ecstatically behind her.

‘Miss Lawson, my profound apologies ... I didn’t recognise you ... may I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you to our restaurant ...’

Kit’s been shot.

She was gazing up at the liqueurs. Eager to oblige, M’sieur Pierre reached for one of the bottles.

‘May I offer you a glass of strega, Miss Lawson? With our compliments, of course. Or maybe you would prefer a Courvoisier?’

‘I’m sorry.’ Like a zombie, Liza moved past him. She picked up her bag, then reached for her still-wet and deeply unfashionable raincoat.

Open-mouthed, M’sieur Pierre watched the heavy wooden door swing shut behind her. Through the window he saw her race through the pouring rain to her car.

‘She’s done a bunk! You let her scarper without paying,’ exclaimed the young waiter, delighted to witness stuck-up M’sieur Pierre getting his come-uppance at long last.

‘It’s not a problem,’ M’sieur Pierre replied with dignity. ‘That was Liza Lawson.’

‘Oh yeah! What makes you think that?’

‘There was a phone call for her." The waiter smirked. He drooled over Liza Lawson’s photograph in the paper every week. That blonde hair, that smile, that cleavage .. .

‘Nah, take it from me, that wasn’t Liza Lawson.’

M’sieur Pierre began to look discomforted. The waiter’s pleasure was complete.

‘A scam, that’s what that was,’ he announced happily. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve been had.’

It was four o’clock when Liza reached the Bath Royal United Hospital. Dulcie was waiting for her in the entrance lobby.

‘They’re still operating. We just have to wait. Oh, Liza, it’s so awful ... come and sit down, I’ll get you a coffee from the machine.’

Liza didn’t want to sit down, nor did she want a coffee, but a man with a camera was hovering, clearly trying to figure out if this white-faced woman with the terrible hair and clothes could really be Liza Lawson. She allowed Dulcie to lead her round the corner to a seat.

‘How did you hear about it?’

‘Leo Berenger rang his daughter. Claire rang Patrick. Patrick rang me. Luckily,’ said Dulcie, ‘I remembered the name of the restaurant you told me you were visiting. I didn’t want to wait until you got home in case it was ... it was ...’

She bit her lip. Liza nodded. She knew Dulcie meant in case it was too late.

The photographer from the local paper reappeared. ‘Are you Liza Lawson?’

‘No she isn’t,’ snapped Dulcie. ‘Piss off.’

Liza was spilling coffee all over the floor; it simply wouldn’t stay in its plastic cup.

‘Isn’t there somewhere else we could go? Where are Leo and Claire? Maybe they’ve heard something by now.’ Dulcie looked doubtful.

‘They’re in the relatives’ waiting room. I don’t know if weshould. Patrick told me Kit’s father’s in a terrible state.’

They both jumped as a flashbulb went off. Grabbing Liza’s half-full cup of coffee, Dulcie flung the tepid remains in the direction of the photographer’s groin. Without even bothering to look at him she seized Liza’s arm.

‘Okay, come on. I can’t go in but I’ll show you where it is.’

Liza didn’t go in either. When she knocked on the door it was opened by Leo Berenger. He stood in the doorway and she saw the terrible grief in his bloodshot eyes.

From the look of him Liza expected him to roar, but when he opened his mouth the words hissed out quiet and deadly.

‘You. You can get out of here. Haven’t you done enough damage already?’

‘I just wanted—’

‘I don’t care what you want,’ said Leo Berenger. ‘First you tried to destroy my family. Now you’ve destroyed my son. Isn’t that enough?’

Horrified, Liza watched the tears streaming down his face. ‘But—’

‘You killed him as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.’ Leo Berenger’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘So just go.’

That night, as Claire wept in his arms, Patrick tried to imagine how he would feel if she were to die. To be literally here one moment and gone the next.

She was good and kind, humorous and intelligent, hardworking and successful. She was liked by everyone because there was nothing about Claire Berenger for anyone to dislike. If she were to disappear from his life he would miss her, of course he would.

Feeling horribly disloyal, Patrick stroked her shining hair and tried to imagine how he would feel if Dulcie died.

Frivolous Dulcie, who was wilful and tactless, scatty and impetuous, not in the least hardworking and an incurable meddler to boot. Plenty of people, in their time, had raised their eyebrows in amazement at the antics of Dulcie Ross.

But...

But she was also generous, wildly loyal to her friends, beautiful and wickedly funny. Dulcie may have been bored by him but he had never, ever been bored by her. Nor, for so much as a single moment, had he stopped loving her.

As he bent to kiss Claire’s hair, Patrick knew which of the two of them he would miss the most.

Chapter 50

‘Over here, gorgeous! Five tequila and blackcurrants, five bottles of Pils and a packet of pork scratchings when you’re ready.’

Talk about the height of sophistication. And this was two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon.

It was only the first week in December but in the Cat and Mouse, Christmas was being celebrated early.

‘Oh, and one other thing,’ said the lad with the bleached blond hair. He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his blue Armani jacket.

Dulcie was busy flipping the lids off the bottles of Pils. ‘What?’

‘A date with you.’

She glanced up.

‘On your bike.’

‘No, I’m serious. Tomorrow night, anywhere you like.’ The boy grinned at her. Flicking his fringe out of his eyes he waved his wallet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of this. We could have a wild time.’

He was twenty if he was a day.

‘Don’t you have to be in bed by nine?’

Too late, Dulcie realised her mistake. His grin broadened. ‘My mother always told me if I’m not in bed by midnight, to give up and come home.’

‘Oh ha ha.’

‘Go on,’ he urged, ‘you’re just my type.’

‘I’m too old for you.’

‘That’s all right, I go for older women.’

‘I meant mentally,’ said Dulcie, pouring the last tequila. ‘That’ll be sixteen pounds seventy.’

‘Last chance,’ offered the boy, waving a twenty-pound note under her nose in what was presumably a beguiling manner, a hint of things to come. He wheedled, ‘You can keep the change.’

‘No thanks.’

His lips curled in disgust. ‘Huh, didn’t want to go out with you anyway. I only said it for a bet.’