Jill Mansell - Mixed doubles

The hammering on the door redoubled.

‘DULCIE, SPEAK TO ME AT ONCE THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.’

‘Probably found a bit of cellulite,’ whispered Dulcie. She finished removing Patrick’s shirt, crumpled it into a ball, flung it over her shoulder and called out, ‘What?’

‘We-ell, I’ve just managed to find out who that gorgeous man was, the one I was drooling over earlier.’ Imelda sounded excited.

Some emergency.

‘And?’ said Dulcie, unfastening Patrick’s trousers and deftly pulling the belt out through the loops.

‘You’ll never believe this ... it’s your ex-husband!’ Dulcie and Patrick looked at each other.

Dulcie said, ‘What?’

‘I know, isn’t it a scream! Talk about great minds think alike! But listen, it’s all over between you two — ‘I mean, that’s ancient history now — so you wouldn’t mind if ‘I have a crack at him, would you?’

Dulcie tried not to smile.

Patrick pulled her towards him, unfastened her wet bra and lobbed it in the general direction of his shirt.

‘I don’t know,’ Dulcie called out. ‘You might not be his type.’ Patrick’s trousers joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.

‘Ha! Bet I am.’ Imelda sounded smug.

Tiring of the interruption, Patrick glared through the swirling steam at the door.

‘Go away,’ he told Imelda bluntly, ‘you’re not.’

‘You should be nicer to her,’ murmured Dulcie when Imelda had stalked off.

‘Why?’

‘She’s got my dress.’

In the dim distance, a clock struck twelve. They heard people cheering, hooters hooting and a lot of party poppers going off like fireworks.

‘Happy Christmas,’ said Patrick, tracing the outline of his beautiful wife’s mouth with one finger.

Dulcie’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t imagine a happier Christmas than this. And the weird thing was, maybe they really had needed this year apart, because how else could they have discovered that the grass wasn’t necessarily greener on the other side?

I’ve changed, thought Dulcie, I’ve grown up.

And Patrick? Well, he’s changed too. He’s realised that working too long and too hard isn’t always the most important thing in life, and that sweet, kind, saintly, perfect women aren’t necessarily the kind you want to share your life with, that sometimes a slightly imperfect one is more fun . . .

By this time there were no more clothes left to take off. With a bewitching smile, Dulcie pushed Patrick gently down on to the floor and slid, naked, on top of him.

‘Now give me my present,’ she said.

* * *

‘It’s no good,’ sighed Pru.

Eddie reached across the bed to her. She was wearing the indigo satin bra and knickers, the topaz-and-emerald bracelet and the kingfisher-green shirt he had given her, and the bedroom was strewn with presents, glossy wrapping paper and ribbons. It was eleven o’clock on Christmas morning, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and Pru was looking worried.

‘Look, ‘I won’t be offended.’ Eddie rushed to reassure her. ‘If you don’t like anything you can take it back to the shop. Which one’s no good anyway? Is it the bracelet?’

Pru smiled at him.

‘I told you, the bracelet’s perfect. ‘I love all my presents. It’s Dulcie I’m worried about. She just vanished last night ... How do I know she’s all right?’

Eddie stroked the back of her neck. The skin was like warm silk but the muscles beneath it were knotted with tension. He had been looking forward, more than anything, to spending the day alone with Pru, but if she wasn’t happy, he wasn’t happy.

He shifted Arthur out of the way, leaned over and picked up the phone.

‘What’s her number?’

‘You’re going to ring Dulcie?’

‘If you invite her over, she’ll only say she doesn’t want to be a gooseberry,’ Eddie explained. ‘If

‘I do it, she’ll know we both want her here.’

Love and gratitude shone in Pru’s grey eyes.

‘You are brilliant.’

She watched Eddie dial and listen. Less than a minute later he replaced the receiver.

‘What?’ said Pru, more agitated than ever. ‘No reply? Oh God, what if she’s done something stupid?’

‘Message on the machine.’ Eddie cleared his throat and attempted an impression of Dulcie: ‘

"Hi! Happy Christmas – I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m having totally fantastic sex with my husband, but if you’d care to leave a message I’ll get back to you.

Don’t hold your breath, though – we shall definitely be busy for some time." ‘ Pru stared at Eddie.

‘I don’t understand. Dulcie’s having totally fantastic sex with her husband? With Patrick?’

‘Well.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘That’s what it says.’

‘But ... But ...’

He dialled again and held the receiver out to Pru.

‘Here, you have a listen. It’s either an old message,’ Eddie said with a grin, ‘or a very new one.’

Chapter 57

The comforting thing about staying with your parents was you could slob around just as you’d done as a teenager and they weren’t shocked.

It was mid-afternoon on New Year’s Eve and miserable outside. Liza, stretched out on the sofa and eating Sugar Puffs out of the packet, was watching the closing minutes of Brief Encounter and wishing that just this once Celia Johnson would throw her library book at her dreary husband and run off into the black and white sunset with Trevor Howard.

Margaret Lawson appeared in the sitting room doorway, drying her hands on a kitchen towel.

‘Silly woman, should have grabbed her chance while she had it,’ she observed briskly. ‘Should have gone off with the doctor.’

Liza scooped out another handful of Sugar Puffs and crammed them into her mouth.

‘Careful,’ said Margaret Lawson, ‘you’re getting them on your new jumper.’

Liza was wearing the turquoise and white zigzag-patterned jumper because her mother had knitted it for her and when someone gives you a jumper for Christmas you have to wear it, even if it does make you look like Roger Whittaker. Personally Liza felt a few Sugar Puffs dotted here and there amongst the zigzags didn’t go amiss.

‘Molly McKnight’s having a few friends round to her house this evening.’

‘Didn’t know she had that many,’ said Liza. Heavens, now she even sounded like a teenager. It must be the Sugar Puffs. ‘Well, she’s invited us,’ said her mother, ‘if you’d like to go.’

Molly McKnight’s booming voice still made Liza quail. Nothing had ever been said, but she had an uncomfortable feeling her parents’ eagle-eyed next-door neighbour knew exactly what had been going on in the back garden that night.

‘I don’t think so.’ Liza didn’t want to socialise anyway. The whole point of coming down here to Devon had been to avoid other people and the need to put on a brave face. Especially on New Year’s Eve.

‘Not even for an hour or two?’ Her mother looked disappointed. ‘We wouldn’t have to stay until midnight.’

‘Mum, you and Dad go. I’ll be fine. Honestly, Id rather be on my—’

‘No, no,’ Margaret Lawson cut in hurriedly, ‘we wouldn’t dream of doing that. Goodness, it was only a suggestion – you know us, we’re just as happy staying here.’

Liza hid a smile. So her mother had read the article in this morning’s Mail too, the one about more people committing suicide on New Year’s Eve than on any other night of the year.

‘Mum, I’m not going to kill myself.’

Margaret Lawson tried to react as though the thought hadn’t crossed her mind.

‘Liza, what an idea! Of course you’re not. I’m just saying we don’t want to go to one of Molly’s silly parties anyway. They’re fearfully dull. All she ever talks about is education cuts and bringing back the birch. And she serves home-made wine.’