by Jill Mansell
‘It’s all right. I knew you’d forgotten. Anyway, it doesn’t matter.’ Prue shrugged. ‘Why should I be bothered?’
Liza said admiringly, ‘You’ve got brave.’
‘My husband ran off with my cleaner. I live in a bug-infested bedsit. The hippy downstairs plays bloody Donovan records non-stop and apart from this dress I own precisely two jumpers, three nighties and a skirt.’ Pru hesitated, looking as if she didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. ‘You’d be surprised; after a while you can learn to not care about quite a lot.’
Liza stared at Pru. Pru gazed back.
Pru tried hard to keep a straight face.
Liza said slowly, ‘Donovan records?’
Pru nodded. Liza began to smirk. Within seconds Pru was in fits of giggles. Liza was helpless with laughter.
Holding her sides, barely able to get the words out, she said, ‘This hippy of yours. Do they call him Mellow Yellow?’
Pru was giggling so much her mascara had run.
‘That’s right.’
They were drawing attention to themselves. The family at the next table nudged each other, watching them. With a huge effort, Liza controlled herself.
‘I mean it,’ she told Pru when they had both recovered. ‘You are brave.’
‘I’m not,’ said Pru, mentally reliving the moment she had fled Eddie Hammond’s office. Oh yes, that had been brave, that had been breathtakingly courageous. Give the girl a VC.
‘You definitely can’t stay in that bedsitter,’ Liza persisted. ‘Death by Donovan, imagine. Come and live with me instead.’
‘What, in your one-bedroomed flat?’ Pru was touched by the offer but untempted. For the first time in her life — at the age of thirty-one — she was on her own. The least she could do was learn to cope with it.
‘My flat’s a jolly nice flat.’ Liza leapt to its defence. ‘It’s bijou.’
‘And if I moved in, it’d be more than your style that got cramped. Thanks,’ said Pru, ‘but I’m fine. Really.’
They were supposed to be ordering their meal. Liza forced herself to concentrate on the menu.
Every time she looked up, she realised Pru was glancing across the room.
‘Right, I’ll have the Stilton soufflé and the duck with kumquats. How about you?’ she said finally. Pru was doing it again. ‘Someone you know?’
Pru shook her head.
The blonde girl arrived to take their order. She was pretty and utterly charming and Liza, deciding she must be the cousin, wondered how she would react if she knew who’d she’d just been charming to.
‘Come on, who is it?’ she persisted, when the girl had left them. Pru’s eyes were still darting across the restaurant. ‘No idea. He just keeps looking over.’
‘Fancies me. Fatally attracted to my stunning wig,’ Liza smirked, ‘not to mention my cardigan.’
She glanced over her shoulder and found Kit Berenger staring straight at her.
Shit.’
‘It’s him, isn’t it?’
Liza nodded, white-faced. ‘How did you know?’
Embarrassed, Pru pleated her napkin. ‘Dulcie said he was gorgeous.’
‘More to the point,’ said Liza, ‘does he know who I am?’ But how can he, she wondered, when I’m looking like this?
‘What happens now?’ Pru’s stomach rumbled; she hadn’t eaten all day. The prospect of not staying after all almost made her want to cry.
‘Right, no need to panic,’ Liza announced firmly. ‘I mean, let’s be logical about this. He can’t possibly have recognised me. And we’ve ordered now, so we can’t leave.’ Fretfully she said,
‘What I don’t understand is why I didn’t spot him before.’
‘He wasn’t there when we arrived,’ Pru whispered back. ‘He came through that door.’ She nodded at one marked Private. The look Liza gave her was long and measured.
‘So you guessed who he was straight away.’
‘I didn’t think it mattered,’ Pru protested guiltily, ‘so long as he doesn’t know who you are. I didn’t want to put you off your meal.’
The Songbird was a forty-seater restaurant. Tonight – and Saturdays are the busiest night of any restaurant’s week – it was half full.
Or half empty, depending on your viewpoint.
Either way, it wasn’t great news. Liza wondered how many of the unoccupied tables were down to her.
She couldn’t fault the Stilton soufflé, which was creamy and light with an outer crust browned to perfection. The roast duck with kumquats was brilliant too.
‘This,’ declared Pm, prodding her poached salmon with a fork, ‘is divine.’
Liza wondered how on earth it could be physically possible to feel a pair of eyes boring into your back. She didn’t need to look round, she just knew it was happening.
‘If you want to leave,’ said Pru heroically, sensing her discomfort, ‘we can.’
Liza wanted to. The trouble was, she wanted to sample the puddings more.
‘Is he still looking over?’
‘Well, kind of.’
‘That means yes.’
‘He’s standing up,’ Pru murmured, watching covertly as he pushed back his chair.
‘Hell’s bells—’
‘It’s okay, he’s gone through that door again, the one marked Private.’
He was away for some time. When the door finally reopened, Liza had just taken her first mouthful of almond and apricot tart. Pm, who had chosen the honey ice cream, was so carried away by its miraculous taste and texture that her eyes were closed.
‘You don’t mind if I join you for a moment,’ said Kit Berenger, pulling out the empty chair next to Pru.
Liza wondered briefly if it was worth putting on a German accent. If he challenged her, she could simply deny everything, say she didn’t know vot he was tocking about.
But really, was there any point?
She wondered instead if Kit Berenger was about to rip her wig off. It wouldn’t be a pretty sight if he did; she was wearing an Ena Sharples hairnet underneath.
He didn’t. He looked hard at her for several seconds. Then with his index finger he tapped the dark-blue linen tablecloth, less than an inch from Liza’s wrist.
‘Very good, but that was the giveaway.’
Pru stared at the tablecloth. Heavens, was there a microphone hidden beneath it? Was the table bugged?
‘I heard you laughing. When I turned round I couldn’t see your face.’ He tapped again. ‘But I saw this.’
She had always worn her watch, a man’s steel Longines, on her right hand. On her little finger she wore a narrow platinum ring. Liza was so impressed by his powers of observation she almost smiled. Maybe this is it, she thought, my chance to apologise and make amends, to tell him what a terrific meal we’re having .. .
‘I don’t know what the fuck you think you’re doing back here,’ Kit Berenger went on icily, ‘but you certainly aren’t wanted. So I suggest you leave, this minute.’
‘Now look—’
‘Haven’t you done enough damage?’ he demanded, hissing the words across the table like poison darts. ‘Haven’t you already hurt Nicky enough?’
Liza flinched. Mortified, Pru stared down at her melting ice cream.
‘This restaurant doesn’t need customers like you,’ said Kit Berenger, standing up. ‘Come on, out.
And don’t start bleating about the bill because we don’t want your money either.’
‘Have you told your cousin who I am?’ asked Liza, feeling sick. So much for making amends.
‘Are you mad? Why do you suppose I want you out of here?’
‘You’re making a scene.’
‘I am not. I’m getting rid of you before I make a scene. Because if I did,’ Kit Berenger spoke through gritted teeth, ‘I promise you, it’d be a bigger one than this.’
Chapter 15
Eddie Hammond’s frighteningly efficient secretary had left the computer print-out of last month’s renewed memberships on his de
sk, together with an updated list of applications to join the club. This list was growing, which was a good sign. Since taking over the running of Brunton Manor last November Eddie had worked hard to raise the club’s public profile.
Only three people hadn’t renewed their lapsed memberships. He flicked the edge of the print-out with his thumb, to jog his memory. The Turner girl had got married and moved to Oxford.
Well, it was a reasonable excuse.
R. Cooper-Clark had emigrated last month to work as a flying doctor in the Australian outback.
Which was an improvement. This was what Eddie called a good excuse.
The third name on the list was P. Kasteliz.
So, Eddie wondered idly, what’s yours?
He found Dulcie indulging in her favourite pastime, swinging her legs on a stool in the bar and flirting outrageously with the captain of the local cricket club. The cricketer, who hadn’t been married long, looked relieved to make his escape.
‘You’re always working,’ Dulcie protested, eyeing Eddie’s crumpled grey suit and loosened tie.
‘You never have any fun.’ She pulled a face, remembering why the words sounded so familiar.
‘That’s what I used to tell Patrick. Eddie, how old are you?’
‘Forty-five. Too old to have fun,’ he said, humouring her.
Dulcie gave him a told-you-so look.
‘You men, all the same. And then you wonder why you end up on your own. I mean, you were married once, weren’t you?’ Eddie nodded.
‘Did you work non-stop?’
Nodding again, he caught the barman’s eye and ordered a refill for Dulcie, a Scotch for himself.
‘And she got more and more bored, until in the end she couldn’t stand it any more,’ Dulcie scolded, wagging a finger at him. ‘So when was that, how long ago did she divorce you?’
Their drinks arrived.
‘Cheers,’ said Eddie, clinking glasses. ‘Oh, she didn’t divorce me. She died.’
Dulcie clapped a hand to her forehead. Slowly, it slid down her face.
‘I’m sorry, I’m just so stupid. Does it ever happen to anyone else or am I the only one? I tell you, every time I open my mouth I manage to say the wrong thing. Honestly, I could kill myself.’
Eddie shook his head. ‘That’s all right. It doesn’t matter.’
‘But you poor thing, how terrible for you. Um ... how did she die?’
‘She killed herself.’
Dulcie was appalled. It wasn’t as if she’d even wanted to know, she had simply remembered that bereaved people got upset when you tried to pretend it hadn’t happened. They didn’t like you changing the subject.
But this was too much. For possibly the first time in her life Dulcie didn’t dare speak.
It seemed safest to keep her mouth shut and just look as sympathetic as she could.
‘Sorry,’ said Eddie, ‘that was awful of me:’I shouldn’t have said it.’
‘You mean it was a wind-up?’ squawked Dulcie, her eyes wide. ‘You total bastard.’
‘No, no, it wasn’t a wind-up.’ Hastily he shook his head.’She did kill herself. I meant I could have put it a bit more subtly. Not dumped it on you like that.’
Dulcie hung her head. ‘I kind of asked for it.’
She looked so forlorn Eddie began to wish he’d stayed in his office.
‘Anyway,’ clumsily he patted her arm, ‘that was all a long time ago. And it isn’t why I’m here now. Actually, I wanted to talk to you about your friend.’
Another one bites the dust, thought Dulcie with an indulgent smile.
‘You mean Liza?’
‘No,’ said Eddie. ‘Pru.’
What people say is true; word of mouth is the best form of advertising. No sooner had Marion Hayes at Beech Farm boasted about Pru to her friends than they were on the phone bagging Pru for themselves. Within a week she was booked up with two hours here, three hours there ... and as much extra work as she liked.
It wasn’t exactly a glittering career but at least she was in demand. And cleaning other people’s bathrooms all week had one major advantage; it definitely made you appreciate your days off.
Which was why, at eleven o’clock on Sunday morning, Pru was still in bed when the doorbell rang.
She buried her head under the pillows. Donovan had been bellowing up through the floorboards until the early hours. The bell continued to ring.
Finally — because what if it was Phil? — Pru crawled out of bed and flung a dressing gown over her nightdress. Since the building didn’t stretch to luxuries like intercoms and buzzers, she had to stumble downstairs and pull the door open herself.
If it was Dulcie, she thought with bleary outrage, she jolly well wasn’t going to let her in. It wasn’t even midday; this was too much.
It was weird, opening the door expecting to see thin, laughing, spiky-haired Dulcie and coming face to face with paunchy, thinning-haired Eddie Hammond instead.
‘Oh,’ exclaimed Pru, startled by the sight of him on her doorstep and characteristically wondering what she must have done wrong. ‘Is it the car, has something happened?’ Her huge grey eyes grew defensive. ‘That scratch on the boot was there before I borrowed it.’
‘I know.’ Eddie couldn’t help admiring her slender figure, wrapped in an obviously expensive sage-green satin robe. ‘Sorry if I woke you up. May I come in?’
Pru automatically ran her hands over her slept-on hair, checking her ears weren’t sticking out.
She nodded, bemused by the request, and led the way back upstairs.
‘Tea? Coffee? Um ... would you like to sit down?’
Hurriedly she swept last night’s clothes off the only chair in the room. God, the place was a pit.
It was horrible seeing it through a visitor’s eyes. She must look a berk, too, she realised, prancing around such a dump in her best La Perla nightie. Like Zsa Zsa Gabor camping out at Greenham Common.
‘Dulcie tells me she offered you a room at her house.’ Eddie didn’t think Pru looked a berk but he was shocked by the state of the bedsit. There was mould on the ceiling and strips of wallpaper were peeling themselves off the damp walls. ‘Why didn’t you go?’
Pru busied herself making coffee. She shrugged.
‘I don’t know ... pride? Shame? Something like that.’
‘Come on, she’s your friend. What d’you think she’s going to do, gloat?’
Pru turned and looked at him. Clearly Dulcie had brought him up to date with the story so far.
Where gory details were concerned, holding back wasn’t Dulcie’s style. She couldn’t exercise discretion if she was strapped to a Nautilus machine.
‘She might not mean to gloat, but she’d find it hard not to say I told you so. She and Liza did warn me, you see. They told me what my husband was getting up to and I refused to believe them.’’But still—’
‘Anyway,’ said Pru, handing him his coffee and sitting down on the unmade bed, ‘that’s not the only reason. Dulcie’s still got her house. She doesn’t have to worry about money. I couldn’t bear to feel like the poor relation.’
Eddie shook his head.
‘You’ve had a rough time,’ he said gruffly. ‘I had no idea, until Dulcie told me.’
Cheers, Dulcie, thought Pru. What could she look forward to next, she wondered, charity fundraising? Collecting tins being rattled outside Sainsbury’s? Give generously to the humiliated wives appeal?
Save Pru from Poverty?
‘Here,’ said Eddie Hammond, ‘I’m sorry about the other day, in my office. I shouldn’t have doubted you.’
Pru took the cheque for fourteen hundred pounds. She bit the inside of her mouth and smiled a wry, lopsided smile. Maybe Dulcie wasn’t so bad after all.
‘Thanks.’
‘And I noticed your club membership had run out,’ Eddie went on, handing her a card made out in her name, ‘so I renewed it for you.’
Pru felt herself going red.
‘The thing is ... I can�
��t really afford ...’
‘You don’t need to,’ Eddie cut in brusquely. ‘It’s my way of apologising. I’m not usually that crass.’
Pinker still, Pru said, ‘Well, thanks.’
‘My pleasure.’ He cleared his throat and looked embarrassed. ‘That’s when you need somewhere to go, after all. When your marriage has just broken up.’
Pru giggled.
‘Now you sound like Dulcie.’
‘It’s what she told me last night,’ Eddie admitted. ‘Still, it seems to work for her.’
‘She’s man-hunting,’ Pru said simply. ‘I’m not.’
* * *
‘Bloody taxis,’ stormed Eddie half an hour later. He peered out of Pru’s second-floor window and yanked up the aerial on his mobile, jabbing out the numbers he had soon grown to know by heart. ‘Hello, hello? Yes, it’s me again. Where the bloody hell’s my cab?’
Pru, still in her dressing gown, watched him scowl into the phone.
‘I said Medwell Crescent, not Street! Just get on to him, will you, and tell him it’s Medwell Crescent. What? You mean he’s picked up his next call? So how long am I supposed to wait before someone—? No, I cannot hang on another twenty bloody minutes!’
The unsatisfying thing about a mobile phone is you can’t slam the receiver down. Eddie, ready to explode with frustration, did the next best thing and tried slamming the aerial down instead.
It snapped off.
‘This is silly.’ Pru dangled her car keys at him. ‘Here, go and sit in the Mini. It’ll take me two minutes to get dressed.’
‘Thanks,’ said Eddie when she dropped him at the railway station with two minutes to spare. The Mini might be a banger but Pru knew how to handle it. She was, he had to admit, an extremely good driver.
As he struggled to open the passenger door he joked, ‘Next time I need a lift, I’ll phone you.’
Pru wondered if it was sitting at the wheel of a car that gave her more confidence. She said, ‘Lots of people hire chauffeurs when they’ve been banned.’