by Jill Mansell
Liza wished her glass wasn’t empty. Now she desperately wished he was only here to harangue her about that stupid letter to the local paper.
She didn’t want to hear what was coming next.
‘This,’ said Kit Berenger, ‘is why I’m here.’
Chapter 11
Liza’s jaw tightened in self-defence. Perspiration was breaking out on her upper lip. She didn’t take kindly to being sneered at by a mere boy.
‘Like I said, I write the truth as I see it.’
‘And does it give you a kick,’ Kit Berenger snapped back, ‘to write this kind of vindictive crap?
Do you have any idea how hurtful it can be, or is that all part of the fun?’
‘I don’t—’ began Liza.
‘No, shut up, just listen to me. What you wrote was complete bollocks anyway. I’ve eaten there dozens of times and there’s never been anything wrong with the food. The Songbird’s a great little restaurant struggling to make a name for itself, and your review was totally out of order.’
Liza already knew that, but she was damned if she was going to admit as much now. How dare this arrogant bastard give her such a public ticking-off?
‘Who runs that restaurant, your girlfriend?’ she demanded furiously. ‘Okay, you’re on her side because I gave the place a poor review and hurt her feelings. But I’m on the other side, the customer’s side. When a man scrimps and saves for a month to be able to afford to park the kids with a baby-sitter and take his wife out for a meal, he doesn’t want the food to be crap, does he?’
‘But the—’
‘No, your turn to listen to me.’ Liza pointed an accusing finger at him. ‘Don’t you see? That’s what my job’s about. I try out these places and give my honest opinion of them. If a place is good, I say it’s good. But I’m telling you, I ate at the Songbird on New Year’s Day. And if that married couple had spent their hard-earned cash on the meal I ordered, they’d have had their big night out ruined.’
Dulcie was still ogling away quietly in the background, admiring Kit Berenger’s long legs in white Levis and Timberlands. She liked his aftershave too. The wristwatch was a bit of a let-down but he was young, she could forgive him for that. Anyway, there was definitely something cool about a man driving a Bentley and wearing a purple Swatch.
Disappointing news about the girlfriend, Dulcie thought bravely, although to be honest you’d wonder if he didn’t have one. And it was sweet that he cared enough about her hurt feelings to come storming over here on her behalf.
Dulcie couldn’t help noticing that Liza, not at all used to being spoken to in such a manner, was looking more and more like an outraged cat whose tail has got caught in a cat-flap.
‘She isn’t my girlfriend,’ said Kit Berenger. ‘She’s my cousin.’
Dulcie cheered up at once.
‘And she’s worked bloody hard to get that restaurant on its feet. If you had any idea of the hours she’s put in—’
Liza’s lips were pressed together. ‘It’s a tough business.’
‘I know, I know. Restaurants go under all the time.’ His amber eyes bored into hers. ‘But humour me, okay? Just tell me when this review came out. How long since it hit the news stands?’
Liza didn’t speak.
‘I’ll tell you. Five days,’ said Kit Berenger. ‘Right, next question. Bit more tricky this time. In those five days, how many people do you suppose have phoned up and cancelled their bookings at the Songbird? Hmm?’
Dulcie began to feel sorry for Liza.
Liza shook her head.
‘Come on, make a wild guess,’ he coaxed silkily. ‘No? Give up? Okay, I’ll tell you. Eighty-two covers. Eighty-two fucking covers in five days.’
Dulcie swallowed. She didn’t know what a cover was, but all the little hairs on the back of her neck were standing to attention. Kit Berenger was awesome when he was angry. He was positively lethal .. .
‘So give yourself a pat on the back, Miss Lawson. As you say, it’s a tough business. And now, thanks to your hatchet job, it looks as if you’ve singlehandedly closed my cousin’s restaurant down.’
Dulcie was beginning to get seriously on Liza’s nerves. If she didn’t shut up soon she was going to get a squash racket jammed down her throat.
‘Cruel mouths, I just love cruel mouths.’ Dulcie swooned, ticking off each dubious asset on her fingers. ‘Calvin Klein aftershave, that’s my favourite too. Did you recognise that was what he was wearing?’
Liza was too busy smarting furiously and thinking up brilliant ripostes. It was too late now, of course, he’d gone, but there was always the horrible possibility she might one day bump into Kit Berenger again. It didn’t do any harm to keep a few ripostes up your sleeve anyway. Just in case.
‘... and he’s the exact opposite of Patrick, you know. I mean, talk about gallant. Look at the way he leapt to his cousin’s defence. Patrick never leapt to my defence ... in fact he leapt as far as possible in the other direction, that’s how bloody loyal and gallant he was.’
‘It’s the family thing. You upset Patrick’s mother. He was being loyal to her.’
‘Yes, but I’m his wife!’ Dulcie tore open another packet of crisps. ‘Well, I was. Well, still am, I suppose ...’
Liza wondered which would be worse if you were kidnapped and held hostage in a damp cellar for five years. Solitary confinement or being made to share with Dulcie.
‘... anyway, you have to admit he’s gorgeous. Imagine the fantastic-looking children you’d have.
God, I could definitely marry someone like him ...’
Solitary confinement, no question.
‘Whatever happened to being wild and irresponsible and changing your men as often as you change your nightie?’ Liza observed drily. ‘What happened to celebrating a whole new life?’
‘Yeah, but what a way to celebrate,’ sighed Dulcie, well ensconced on Fantasy Island now. ‘And who’d need a nightie?’
Pru had a whole new life and she didn’t much feel like celebrating. In the space of five weeks she had exchanged a perfect home, a loving, faithful husband (ha ha), no money worries and an N-reg Golf Cabriolet for a hideous bedsit, no husband and enough money worries to float the Titanic.
Ironically, she would still have forgiven Phil and stood by him. Together they could have battled their way out of debt. But in the end Pru hadn’t been given that option. You could only stand by a husband who wanted you there at his side, she had belatedly discovered. If he couldn’t bear the sight of you, regarded you with undisguised loathing and contempt and was only interested in the new woman in his life ... well, there didn’t seem much point.
Since a car was a necessity if she was going to find work, Pru had answered a newspaper ad and bought an ancient mini for a hundred pounds. Taxing and insuring it used up the rest of her modest savings. At least they were her savings to use up, Pru reminded herself. When they had bought the house, she had been inwardly hurt by Phil’s insistence that only his name went on the mortgage. Now, thanks to his greed, his debts were his alone.
In fact, Pru discovered, becoming broke in such sudden and spectacular fashion had its weird advantages. When you spent every waking moment in a blind panic, trying desperately to figure out how you were going to cope money-wise, you didn’t have much time left over to feel depressed about the fact your husband had done a bunk.
She hadn’t seen Phil since the day after Dulcie’s party, although she knew where he was living.
With Blanche.
He wasn’t working either. Pru wondered if, desperate for money, he had got caught doing some dodgy deal or other and been sacked.
She wished she could hate Phil. If she did, Pru was sure it would make her feel better.
But how can I hate him, she wondered miserably, when I’d give anything in the world to have him back?
The interview had been a nightmare, no way was she going to be offered the job.
‘Come on, come on,’ Pru urged through gritted teeth as she
turned the key in the ignition and prayed for the engine to catch. In the last month she’d had enough practice jump-starting the Mini to go on Mastermind (‘And your specialist subject, Mrs Kastelitz ...?’) but today she was pointing uphill. Anyway, her sadistic interviewers might be smirking out of their office windows, jeering at the moron who was as hopeless with cars as she was on the phone.
They had put a headset on Pru, given her a prompt sheet and instructed her to show them what she could do.
‘Come on! Give us your sales pitch ... show some enthusiasm!’ they had roared at her. ‘No, no, enthusiasm not exhaustion. Right, take a deep breath and try again! Give it all you’ve got! Okay, that’s enough.’ They had rolled their eyes at each other. ‘We’ll let you know.’
From the safety of her car, Pru looked up at the blank windows and mouthed bravely, ‘Well, fuck you.’
The engine, evidently stunned by this act of outrageous rebellion, coughed and spluttered and came to life.
Didn’t want to sell crappy conservatories anyway, Pru decided, determined to stay positive.
Especially not in some frightful office where every time you made a sale you were expected to jump up on your chair and go ‘Yee-haa!’
She made it home ... home! by five o’clock. Pru, used to a glistening, top-of-the range, fully fitted Neff kitchen, fed fifty pence into the ancient meter and made herself a mug of tea.
Clutching a copy of the evening paper in one hand and a couple of digestives in the other, she climbed into her narrow bed to keep warm.
I’ll be all right, thought Pru, astonished to realise that not getting the job hadn’t upset her nearly as much as she’d imagined. In fact it had quite cheered her up. So what if she wasn’t cut out for high-pressure telesales? There were plenty of other things she could do.
Definitely.
It was just a question of figuring out what.
Chapter 12
A fortnight later, at six thirty on a stormy Thursday morning, Pru was on her way to work when a car roared out of nowhere at her, smashing into the passenger side of the Mini and shunting it across the road into a ditch.
The road, a mile or so from Brunton Manor, was narrow and unlit. Pru screamed as the car toppled sideways and the headlights went out, plunging her into pitch darkness. The thick scarf around her neck flopped over her face. A can of Mr Sheen, catapulting off the back seat, hit her on the back of the head.
She wasn’t hurt. When she had scrambled out of the car she realised she didn’t have so much as a bump or a scratch on her. It was a miracle.
It was also raining stair rods.
‘... oh thank God! You’re out ... you’re alive ...’
A man was crashing through the blackness towards her. He slithered into the soggy ditch, colliding with Pru and almost knocking her flat.
He clutched frenziedly at her arms.
‘Are you hurt? Are you okay? The car just skidded—’
‘I’m all right.’ Pru’s teeth were chattering. ‘My car isn’t.’
‘Don’t worry, I’ll sort it out.’
Pru found herself being hauled none too ceremoniously back up the slope and on to the road.
Bewildered, she wondered if this meant he was a mechanic, about to roll up his sleeves and start sorting it out this minute. But could he? Surely it was going to take more than a couple of spanners and a monkey wrench to get her car out of the ditch?
‘We’ll h-have to phone the p-police,’ she told him, struggling and failing to control her chattering teeth.
‘No need for that. I said I’d deal with everything and I will.’
‘B-but you have to inform them after an ac-ac-accident.’
His voice strained, he replied brusquely, ‘Look, never mind the police for now. It’s Arthur I’m worried about. He needs help, fast.’
Pru was confused. Had Arthur been driving the other car? Oh God, don’t say he was dead .. .
‘Quick, get in.’ The man, evidently frantic with worry, pulled open the passenger door of his car.
Pru shivered and braced herself, but there was no visible corpse. No visible anyone, for that matter.
Fearfully, wondering if she was being kidnapped by a madman, she turned and opened her mouth to say, ‘Where’s Arthur?’
Instead, getting her first glimpse of the man who had crashed into her, she exclaimed, ‘Oh thank goodness, it’s you!’
Eddie Hammond peered in turn at Pru. The light inside the car was dim and she was pretty damp and bedraggled but he recognised her finally as a member of the club. Hopefully this would go in his favour.
‘That’s right. You’re one of Dulcie’s friends.’
‘Pru. Pru Kastelitz.’ Sticking out her icy hand – and feeling idiotic – she said, ‘Phew, I was starting to get worried. Thought you might be a kidnapper.’
Eddie made his way around the front of the car – a gleaming, pillarbox-red Jaguar – and climbed into the driver’s seat. He restarted the engine.
‘Hang on.’ Looking bemused, this time Pru remembered to say it. ‘Where’s Arthur?’
‘On the back seat.’
She swivelled round in alarm.
And saw, half-hidden beneath a rumpled tartan blanket, a golden labrador. Asleep.
‘Arthur’s a dog?’
Grimly Eddie nodded. ‘He’s ill. I have to get him to the vet.’
He was reversing, putting the Jag back on course. Pm, never a tremendous dog lover, said, ‘What about my car?’
‘I’ll get it fixed.’
‘But I haven’t even locked the doors! I’ve got loads of stuff in there—’
‘Flaming Nora! What’s more important, Arthur’s life or your ... stuff?’ Eddie stared across at his passenger, exasperated. Then, remembering he mustn’t alienate her, he forced himself to smile.
‘Pru, please. Let’s get Arthur to the vet first. As soon as he’s been seen to, I’ll sort everything out with you. That’s a promise, okay?’
Feeling horribly ashamed of herself, because as far as she was concerned Arthur’s life wasn’t nearly as important as the contents of her car, Pru nodded and gave in. She couldn’t help not being keen on dogs. An unprovoked attack on her as a child by a neighbour’s Alsatian had left vivid scars on her mind as well as her arm. But to be fair, that hadn’t been Arthur’s fault.
To make up for being heartless, Pru twisted round and took another look at the animal snoring on the back seat.
‘What’s wrong with him?’
‘I don’t know. I woke up half an hour ago and found him like that. Out cold on the kitchen floor.’
Eddie’s voice wavered. For an awful second Pru wondered if he was going to cry. He was desperately worried, she realised. No wonder he had been driving like a maniac along Brunton Lane.
And then, quite suddenly, something Dulcie had mentioned in passing last week popped into her head .. .
The vet, who lived above his surgery in Primrose Hill, was used to being woken up at unearthly hours by frantic pet owners.
‘He’ll live,’ he pronounced, when he had finished examining Arthur.
Arthur, opening a weary eye, looked appalled by the prospect and promptly closed it again.
‘Thank God, thank God.’ This time Eddie’s eyes filled with quivering tears of relief. ‘But what caused it? What did he have, some kind of convulsion?’
The vet shook his head.
‘More like some kind of cognac.’ Laconically he added, ‘Or it could’ve been Scotch.’
Pru, perched on a stool a safe distance from the examination table, exclaimed, ‘You mean he’s drunk?’
The vet nodded. Eddie stared at him, dumbfounded.
‘Glenfiddich,’ mumbled Eddie. ‘I was drinking it last night. I fell asleep in the armchair. When I woke up this morning I saw the bottle on its side. Thought I must have knocked it over with my foot.’
Arthur whined and rolled his eyes open again, the effort clearly immense.
‘Oh my poor boy,’ Eddie conso
led him, stroking his head. ‘You must feel terrible.’
‘Take him home and let him have plenty of water,’ said the vet. ‘No Scotch with it this time. The last thing Arthur needs is the hair of the dog.’
‘Right,’ said Pru, when they had loaded Arthur gently back into the car, ‘time to call the police.’
He gave her a pained look. ‘Could we just get Arthur home first?’
Pru gazed steadily at Eddie Hammond over the Jag’s glossy red roof. Then she held out her hand, palm upwards. ‘I’ll drive.’
He twitched visibly.
‘Why?’
‘Because you lost your licence last week.’
Staring back at her, Eddie said nothing. Finally, wearily, he nodded.
‘Yes.’
’What was it, drink-driving?’
Eddie looked offended.
‘Certainly not. Only speeding. And jumping a red light. Nothing desperate,’ he went on defensively. ‘No big deal. They got me on points. Three months and a bit of a fine, that’s all.’
‘No wonder you didn’t want me to call the police,’ said Pru. ‘Driving when you’ve been banned.
No insurance. Causing an accident. And how much did you have to drink last night, before falling asleep in your armchair?’ She consulted her watch. ‘It’s only seven thirty. You’re probably still over the limit.’
Wordlessly Eddie passed over the keys. He knew Dulcie but had never actually spoken to Pru before. Having assumed she was the quiet, biddable one, he was experiencing a distinct sense of unease. Right now she looked about as biddable as Rudolf Hess.
He waited until Pru was driving before trying to explain.
‘I knew it was stupid of me.’ All he could tell her was the truth. ‘I just panicked. I thought Arthur was dying. I was desperate.’
The Jaguar was bliss to drive after the temperamental Mini; the gears were heaven on a shift-stick. Marvelling at the metronomic sweep of the windscreen wipers – no hiccups, no judders, none of those awful screeching bird-of-prey noises her own wipers liked to make – Pru flicked a sidelong glance at Eddie.