by Jill Mansell
‘I know.’ Eddie sighed. ‘But I don’t need a full-time chauffeur.’
‘You could do with a part-time one. My hours are flexible,’ Pru went on rapidly. ‘The people I clean for don’t mind when I turn up, so long as the job gets done.’
Eddie saw the quiet determination on her face. With that straight dark curtain of hair and those serious grey eyes of hers, Pru looked more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman.
She was painfully thin too, beneath the man’s dark-blue sweater – her husband’s presumably –
and those battered black jeans. ‘Are you volunteering?’
‘I need the money,’ said Pru bluntly. ‘You need a driver. I could do the job.’ Leaning across, she jiggled the handle Eddie hadn’t been able to get to grips with, and opened the temperamental passenger door. The train he was in a hurry to catch was just pulling into the station. ‘Quick or you’ll miss it. Look, think it over. If you want me, give me a ring.’
Eddie grinned. ‘If I want you ... ?’
‘Oh well,’ Pru went pink again, as he had known she would, ‘you know what I mean.’
‘Of course I do.’ He pulled himself together. ‘And I’ve already thought about it. How soon can you start?’ The enormous slate-grey eyes widened.
‘As soon as you like.’
‘Terrific,’ said Eddie, knocking the gearstick expertly into reverse. ‘In that case, back to Brunton to pick up the Jag. We can’t stand bloody trains anyway.’
‘We?’ said Pru.
‘Arthur hates them too.’
Chapter 16
Pru was in the pool when Dulcie saw the latest notice up on the noticeboard, announcing the appointment of Brunton Manor’s new tennis pro.
Dulcie’s eyes flickered incredulously from the written announcement to the photograph pinned beneath it, of a blond male in tennis whites being presented with a trophy the size of a fridge.
Her heart went kerplunk. Ignoring the receptionist’s indignant squawk of protest, Dulcie grabbed the photo, clutched it to her chest and raced all the way to the pool. Everyone who saw her stopped and stared; Dulcie had never been known to run before. Whatever next, sit-ups?
Pru was instantly recognisable in her daffodil-yellow swimming hat. Her head bobbed up and down as she doggy-paddled her way laboriously up to the shallow end, completing her sixteenth length. The hat was a must for Pru. If she didn’t wear one, her hair would plaster itself to her head leaving her ears on show to the world. This way her long hair stayed dry. In fact, as Dulcie had once innocently pointed out, the yellow rubber cap flattened her ears so nicely, it was a shame she couldn’t wear it all the time.
Personally, Dulcie wondered why Pru persisted with this swimming malarkey, especially when she was so bad at it. All swimming did, as far as Dulcie was concerned, was wear you out and totally wreck your make-up.
She crouched at the edge of the pool, waiting for Pru to reach her. It was no good yelling, trying to hurry her up; the hat wasn’t only a jolly efficient ear-flattener. When it was on, Pru couldn’t hear a thing.
‘What?’ said Pru, hanging on to the side and blinking chlorinated water out of her stinging, pink-rimmed eyes. She peered up at the photograph Dulcie was dangling in front of her nose.
‘It’s you-know-who,’ said Dulcie triumphantly.
Pru peeled the edge of the yellow cap cautiously upwards, just enough to be able to hear but not enough to let her ear spring out.
‘What?’
‘You-know-who,’ repeated Dulcie, her voice loaded with meaning. ‘Come on, think back a bit.
New Year’s Eve, Pru! New Year’s resolutions.’
Pru looked blank.
‘I give up. Is it someone Liza might want to marry?’ Sometimes Dulcie despaired of Pru.
Honestly, if this was what swimming did to your brain.
‘I’m talking about my resolutions,’ she said impatiently. ‘The ones I wrote when I was fifteen, remember? Do more homework, keep room tidy, all that guff?’
Pru remembered.
‘Join the Starsky and Hutch fan club.’ She brightened. ‘I forgot to ask, did you ever join? I liked Starsky best. Didn’t you think he looked sexy in that wrap-around cardigan?’
‘I preferred Hutch. He was gorgeous. Nobody fancied Starsky.’ Dulcie was full of scorn.
Seriously, was it any wonder Pru’s marriage had failed? She’d always had diabolical taste in men.
Pru peered more closely at the photograph. The chap was blond and tanned, but .. .
‘Dulcie, that isn’t David Soul.’
‘Give me strength,’ sighed Dulcie. ‘Did I say it was? Now listen to me. One of my resolutions was to snog you-knowwho.You said who was he and I said I didn’t have a clue. Right? With me so far?’
Cautiously, Pru nodded.
‘Well, this is him. This is you-know-who.’ Dulcie broke into an uncontrollable grin. She still couldn’t believe it herself. It was the fabbest thing to happen since Pop Tarts.
Pru looked up at Dulcie, still clutching the photo lovingly like a teenager. She didn’t know who you-know-who was, but he must be famous for Dulcie to have had a crush on him for so long. A rock star or something. A tennis-playing rock star like Cliff Richard.
‘And you’ve joined his fan club?’ said Pru. It sounded a bit of an immature thing to do but ...
well, this was a free country...
Gazing down at her, Dulcie decided they were both in need of a stiff drink.
‘I haven’t joined his fan club,’ she told Pru. ‘He’s about to join mine.’
‘Remember how I always used to moan about our family holidays,’ said Dulcie when Pru emerged from the changing rooms at last and joined her in the bar.
‘In South Wales? Tenby, wasn’t it?’
Dulcie nodded. ‘Bloody yacht club. Talk about mental cruelty. I should have sued my parents for dragging me along with them every summer. All day, every day, out in that sodding boat of theirs—’
‘Maybe that’s what put you off swimming,’ Pru suggested. ‘You’re just generally anti-water.’
‘Anyway, when I was fifteen we stayed in our usual cottage and a group of boys were renting the place next door. There were four of them and I fell in love with the best-looking one—’
‘Fell in love?’
‘Figure of speech,’ said Dulcie. ‘Had a crush on. Fancied like mad. His name was Liam and he was seventeen. I was sure he fancied me back but you know what boys are like when they’re with their mates. We chatted on the beach a few times.
When they played tennis they let me be their ball girl, that kind of thing. The others used to tease Liam about me. I was so besotted I didn’t even care.’ Dulcie sat back dreamily in her chair. So dreamily she spilt red wine down her T-shirt. ‘On our last night, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "See you next year." I was so happy I almost died on the spot. I gave him my address and he promised to write to me. My parents couldn’t get over me crying buckets all the way home, when I’d always hated Tenby so much. I swear, that was the best holiday of my life.’
‘I don’t remember this,’ said Pru. ‘You kept pretty quiet about it. So what happened, did he write to you?’
‘Nope.’ Dulcie grinned. ‘I must have driven my mother mad. I kept accusing her of intercepting the post and destroying his letters. Poor Mum didn’t know what I was talking about.’
‘Did you write to him?’
‘Not often. Only about twice a day.’
‘Dulcie!’
‘Don’t go all feminist on nie. I was only fifteen.’
‘So this Liam ... he was the one you were so desperate to snog?’
‘He kissed me here.’ Half closing her eyes, Dulcie touched her cheek. ‘I can still remember how it felt. It was stupendous,’ she looked rueful, ‘but it wasn’t a snog.’ Then she smiled at the memory. ‘Can you imagine the sheer agony of having to wait a whole year to see him again? I was crossing off the days to August. Dammit, I was crossing off the hours.’<
br />
‘And did you?’ said Pru, by this time riveted. ‘Did you see him again?’
‘Did I heck! The cottage was let out to a pair of geriatric spinsters. No sign of Liam or his friends anywhere ... and God knows I spent enough time looking for them.’
‘You never told us any of this.’
‘What, that I was dumped?’ Dulcie started to laugh. ‘Excuse me, I did have some pride. I’d have told you about Liam if there’d been anything to tell.’
The photograph of Brunton Manor’s new tennis pro was back up on the noticeboard, having been plucked from Dulcie’s grasp by an irate receptionist.
‘And now he’s coming here to work,’ Pru marvelled. Dulcie hugged herself. ‘It’s fate.’
‘It didn’t work out brilliantly last time.’
‘I was fifteen,’ Dulcie rolled her eyes in exasperation, ‘he was seventeen. I had spots and the haircut from hell – how could it have worked out?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘That’s why it’s fate. We’re adults now. This is our second chance,’ she looked smugly at Pru, ‘a chance to make a real go of it. You’ll see.’
Chapter 17
Pru called Terry Lambert her mystery client because she had never seen him. Terry, brother of Marion Hayes over at Beech Farm, was a solicitor who lived alone in a picturesque Bath-stone cottage high on one of the hills surrounding the city.
‘I’ve been telling him for years to get someone in. Men, they’re hopeless,’ Marion had robustly declared, before phoning Terry and informing him that she had found him a cleaner.
Marion had given Pru the spare key to Terry’s house. Every Tuesday afternoon Pru let herself in, spent four hours restoring order from chaos, took the money her absent employer left for her on the kitchen dresser and let herself out again.
Even if she hadn’t met him, however, she felt she knew Terry Lambert quite well, having hung up his clothes, dusted his bookshelves, washed up his breakfast things and put endless CDs and videos back in their cases. Divorced four years earlier, he was in his mid-thirties, with no children. He earned a jolly good salary and drove a metallic-green Scorpio. Pru knew all this because Marion had told her. According to Marion, her brother was quite a catch: handsome, generous and kind to animals.
‘Once you’re back on an even keel,’ she told Pru with an encouraging wink, ‘you could do a lot worse, you know, than our Terry.’
Pru couldn’t imagine ever getting back on an even keel, nor was she the least bit interested in getting to know another man. Anyway, kind to animals he might be, but with the best will in the world you could never classify Terry Lambert as handsome.
She didn’t say this to Marion; it didn’t seem polite to point out that if the photo in Terry’s bedroom was anything to go by, he was half-man, half-anteater.
But the photograph of Terry and Marion with their now-dead parents was clearly of sentimental value. Whenever she polished the ornate silver frame Pru couldn’t help studying it, touched by the similarities between father and son. Both had dark eyes and thick, straight eyebrows, pronounced laughter lines and mouths that curved upwards when they smiled. They also shared the same nose, big and beaky and truly attention-grabbing.
Marion, luckily for her, had followed her mother’s side of the family; her eyebrows were narrow, her nose pert.
It didn’t feel odd to Pru, talking to Terry Lambert on the phone, but she wondered if it was strange for him. After all, she knew a lot about her mystery client but he knew next to nothing about her.
In fact, Terry didn’t appear to find it strange. He sounded charming, and thoroughly relaxed.
‘... the thing is, I’m going to be working unpredictable hours,’ Pru explained, ‘so I won’t always be able to manage Tuesday afternoons. If it’s a problem—’
‘No problem,’ Terry replied easily. ‘I’m at work between eight and six, five days a week, so it doesn’t affect me. Come round any time you like.’
Relieved, Pru said, ‘Thanks.’
‘I’m the one who should be thanking you.’ He sounded amused. ‘I can’t believe what a difference you’ve made to the place.’
Pru felt herself going shy. Hopeless when it came to compliments, she mumbled her goodbyes and rang off.
He had definitely sounded nice though. Maybe when the time came to start thinking about a divorce she would ask Terry Lambert to handle it.
Oh God. Divorce.
Just not yet, thought Pru, swallowing panic. Not yet.
* * *
Liza’s editor was pleased with her. Beaming, he emptied the folder of letters on to his desk.
‘Great stuff, sweetheart. Controversy, that’s what we want. You caused quite a stir, you know.
And these are only the ones who’ve bothered to write.’
Liza picked up a couple of the letters, skimmed briefly through them – one, she noticed, was addressed to Ms Super-bitch – and dropped them back on to the desk.
‘What are you going to do?’
‘Bloody print ‘em.’ He reached for his jacket. ‘Come on, Superbitch, I’ll buy you lunch.’
Dulcie was doing her make-up when she saw Patrick’s car pull up outside. She smiled at herself in the mirror, confident that she had never looked better. This was what six days of extensive sunbedding, a brilliant ultra-short haircut, an even shorter lime-green dress and the promise, at long last, of a bit of serious fun did for you.
She sincerely hoped Patrick would notice and be impressed. He rang the doorbell like a stranger.
‘What happened to your key?’ said Dulcie, puzzled, as she opened the door.
He was wearing a deep-blue polo shirt and jeans. Despite the sun blazing down, Patrick never wore dark glasses, which he regarded as an affectation. Sunglasses were for cissies, according to Patrick.
Dulcie, who whipped hers on at practically the first hint of daylight, owned at least a dozen pairs.
They made her feel so Hollywood.
‘I wouldn’t want to interrupt anything.’ Patrick followed her into the hall.
‘Nothing to interrupt.’ Yet, thought Dulcie, because you never knew, today could be the day.
‘Anyway, I just need to pick up my dinner jacket. Won’t be a sec.’
We might be separated but we can still be friendly, Dulcie reminded herself. She waited at the foot of the stairs for him to come back down.
Any man looks good in a dinner jacket. Patrick had always looked gorgeous.
‘Going somewhere nice?’ she asked ultra-casually when he reappeared.
Patrick shrugged. ‘Doubt it. Some charity thing, a dinner-dance.’
‘Not like you to be vague.’ Dulcie gave him a teasing look. ‘Come to that, it’s not like you to go to dinner-dances. You’ve always been far too busy.’
Dig, dig.
Looking deeply uncomfortable, Patrick shifted from one foot to the other.
Dulcie’s intrigue deepened.
‘Is it work? Or are you seeing someone else?’
His dark eyes narrowed as he gazed with intense concentration out of the hall window. Finally he said, ‘It’s allowed, isn’t it? You were the one who didn’t want us to be married any more.’
Astonished, feeling as if she’d been kicked in the stomach, Dulcie gasped, ‘You are seeing someone else?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘I’m not. I’ve just been invited to this thing tonight. I’m going with a girl.’
‘Who’ — Dulcie cleared her throat — ‘who is she, anyone I know?’
Another shake. Followed by a sigh.
‘Look, it feels pretty weird being single again. I’m not used to it yet. All this is down to Bibi, if you must know.’
‘Oh.’ Dulcie was confused.
‘Some chap invited her to the dance. She hasn’t been out much since . .. well, since James left ...
so she was um-ing and ah-ing a bit. Anyway, this chap happened to mention he had a daughter.
Bibi said something — God
knows what — aboutme. He said how about if the four of us went together ... and the next thing you know it’s all bloody well arranged.’
The look on his face said it all. Dulcie started to giggle.
‘You’re double-dating. With your mother.’
‘Don’t laugh, it isn’t funny.’
‘This girl could be awful. She could be a complete dog.’
‘Better bloody not be.’
Dulcie’s kicked-in-the-stomach feeling had gone, magically disappeared. The thought of Patrick actually getting involved with someone else had been a bit weird, but this was okay. This wasn’t involvement, this was a blind date.
‘She might be stunning.’ Dulcie felt she could afford to be generous. She still hoped the girl would be a dog, but only because the idea of Patrick being set up on a blind date by his own mother was such a scream. Besides, Dulcie thought smugly, if the girl was so stunning what was she doing letting her dad fix her up?
Dulcie had more important things on her mind anyway, because today was the day Liam was due to arrive at Brunton Manor. At three o’clock this afternoon.
And he wasn’t married. In a rare burst of practicality she had checked with Eddie Hammond.
It was as well to find these things out in advance, Dulcie felt. Imagine wrapping yourself dramatically around the long-lost man of your dreams, only to be peeled off and hear him say,
‘Let me introduce you to the wife and kids ...’
At ten to three, Dulcie sauntered out on to the terrace with a drink and a book — Pride and Prejudice, because she didn’t want Liam to think she was the kind of girl who only read airport novels.
Cutler and Gross sunglasses in place and bare, freshly pedicured feet up on the chair opposite, she began to read.
The great thing about dark glasses was you could look as if you were lost in a book when in reality you weren’t missing a trick. Like the sight of Imelda Page-Weston three tables away, surreptitiously spraying the backs of her knees with Tresor and making sure she had more cleavage on show than anyone else. Silly moo.
Eddie was evidently giving Liam the full guided tour, introducing him to members en route. By three thirty Dulcie’s feverish anticipation had begun to flag somewhat. Too excited to sleep last night, too hyped-up to eat anything today, she now found herself struggling to stay awake. What with the afternoon sun beating down on her head and two glasses of Frascati nestling comfortably in an otherwise empty stomach, it was a job keeping her eyes open. Anyway, thought Dulcie with a yawn, what was the hurry? Liam wasn’t paying a fleeting visit, he’d still be here next week, next month, whenever she woke up ...