Mixed doubles

by Jill Mansell

  Chapter 18

  The bad news about dark glasses is the way people can’t tell when you’re asleep.

  Seeing Dulcie apparently engrossed in the book on her lap — and recalling her earlier interest in Liam’s marital status — Eddie said, ‘Now there’s someone I must introduce you to.’

  Leading the way across the terrace he announced jovially, ‘Here we are, then! Dulcie, meet our new tennis pro, Liam McPherson. Liam, this is Dulcie Ross. Dulcie?’ When she didn’t move, he hesitated, peering down at her more closely. ‘Dulcie, are you awake?’

  Jerked into consciousness, Dulcie’s eyes snapped open. Seeing Eddie looming over her, red-faced and shouting her name, she snatched off her sunglasses and struggled to sit upright.

  Her confusion was only momentary. As she put her hand up to her mouth, checking she hadn’t been dribbling in her sleep, Dulcie’s gaze fixed on the tall blond figure standing behind Eddie Hammond.

  Hastily she wiped her mouth. Her sunglasses clattered to the ground. Jane Austen was already lying there, face down, next to her shoes.

  Bugger, bugger, thought Dulcie, this isn’t how it was supposed to happen. She had planned on smiling enigmatically, like Ava Gardner, then slowly and sensually removing her glasses so that Liam McPherson could admire her for a few seconds before doing a double-take and gasping,

  ‘My God, it’s you...!’

  From then on he would be too awestruck, too overcome by emotion to make much sense. When he eventually stopped kissing her, and she was free to speak again, Dulcie would simply say to Eddie, ‘We knew each other once. A long time ago.’ Then, there would be more hugs, more kissing, and hopefully a convincing explanation for his lack of correspondence after Tenby. Like his parents had suddenly emigrated to Australia, dragging Liam with them and ruthlessly ignoring his desperate pleas to stay behind .. .

  Something along those lines anyway.

  ‘Sorry, darling, didn’t realise you’d crashed out.’ Grunting as he bent down, Eddie retrieved her glasses. ‘They aren’t broken. Jane Austen, eh? Dulcie, I’m impressed. Had you down as more of a Jackie Collins girl myself Anyway, where were we? Ah yes – Dulcie, this is Liam McPherson.’

  Grinning, Liam held out his hand.

  ‘Hi. Good to meet you.’

  ‘Dulcie’s one of our most regular ... er, regulars,’ Eddie said with some pride.

  ‘Terrific. I hope we’ll have a game soon.’ Nodding in the direction of the tennis courts, Liam swished an imaginary racket. ‘Are you entered for the doubles tournament, Dulcie?’

  Not a flicker of recognition. Not a double-take in sight. Dulcie told herself that this was actually a good thing, because who wanted to look like a fifteen-year-old with chip-shop hair and rampant acne anyway? Not being recognised was proof that she had changed for the better.

  It wasn’t the most promising of starts, but at least she hadn’t dribbled in her sleep. As she took Liam’s hand – heavens, what a firm shake - Dulcie gave him her mysterious Ava Gardner smile and said, ‘Actually, we’ve met before. Many years ago.’

  ‘Really?’

  Liam was smiling too, but she could tell he was being polite; he clearly wasn’t racking his brains to remember when or where this might have been. He was a tennis pro, after all. He had once, albeit flukily, reached the quarter-finals at Wimbledon.

  During his years on the circuit he must have met thousands of devoted female fans. He had probably signed so many autographs it was a wonder he had enough strength left in his arm to hold a racket.

  ‘Sixteen years ago,’ prompted Dulcie. ‘In Tenby.’

  Liam frowned. He’d never played a tournament in Tenby. Hang on, sixteen years ago ... ?

  ‘You were there on holiday with your friends. I was staying in the cottage next to yours.’

  Light dawned.

  ‘You’re kidding me!’ Liam pointed at her in amazement. ‘You were the skinny little kid ... oh, what was your surname, something totally weird ...?’

  ‘Fackrell,’ said Dulcie. God, it was a wonder she hadn’t developed a massive complex about that name. One sniggering clique at school had called her Fuckall Fackrell. Everyone else had called her Mackerel.

  Marrying Patrick had been no hardship at all.

  ‘I’m Dulcie Ross now.’

  ‘We used to send you into the nettles to fetch our lost tennis balls,’ Liam recalled. ‘Your arms and legs were covered in stings but you swore they didn’t hurt. And on the night before you left, the other lads bet me a fiver I wouldn’t kiss you.’

  Eddie roared with laughter. Dulcie tried hard to look as if she couldn’t remember this bit.

  ‘And did you?’ said Eddie.

  ‘Damn right I did. We’re talking sixteen years ago. In those days a fiver was a lot of money.’

  Rather beginning to regret this trip down memory lane, Dulcie decided a detour was in order.

  She said brightly, ‘And now here we are, all these years later. How are you settling—?’

  ‘Hang on, didn’t you write me a truckload of letters?’ Looking delighted, Liam nodded his head.

  ‘It’s all coming back to me now. I think you had a bit of a crush on me, Dulcie Fackrell. Is that so?’

  This was mortifying stuff, but what could she do, throw a tantrum? Mentally gritting her teeth, Dulcie gave in with good grace.

  ‘Of course I did. I slaved over those letters,’ she protested. ‘I suppose you laughed your head off and showed them to all your friends, you heartless beast.’

  ‘Well, maybe. It was kind of funny at the time.’ Liam’s grin was apologetic. ‘I mean, you weren’t exactly Debbie Harry, were you?’

  This was true, but Dulcie still wished he’d stop harping on about it.

  ‘I was fifteen years old.’

  ‘Little Dulcie Fackrell.’

  ‘Ross now,’ she reminded him. Then, in case he got the wrong idea, ‘I was married, but we’ve been separated for some time.’ It was Eddie Hammond’s turn to look amazed.

  ‘Some time?’ He raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘Darling, it’s only been a couple of months!’

  Cheers, Eddie.

  ‘Ten weeks,’ said Dulcie. ‘Anyway, the marriage was over long before that. You know when things aren’t right.’

  ‘Hey, I hope you weren’t upset when I never wrote back,’ said Liam.

  ‘I can’t remember.’ Dulcie attempted the Liza Lawson smoulder. For good measure, she quivered a provocative lower lip. ‘But if I was, I forgive you.’

  He grinned. ‘What a relief.’

  ‘We’ve both grown up since then.’

  ‘Well, you certainly have.’

  The look he gave her this time was frankly appreciative. Hooray, thought Dulcie, getting somewhere at last. She hoped Imelda was watching and taking note.

  ‘Right,’ said Eddie Hammond, rubbing his hands together in that’s-enough-of-that fashion,

  ‘we’d better be moving on. Still plenty of people waiting to be introduced. Maybe catch you later, sweetheart.’

  ‘There is that small chance.’ Dulcie nodded vaguely. As ifa wagonload of wild horses stood a chance of dragging her out of the bar tonight.

  ‘See you around.’ Liam winked as he turned to leave.

  ‘If I do bump into you later,’ she casually called after him, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’

  ‘This is going to be awful.’ Patrick spoke through gritted teeth as he and Bibi made their way up the crimson-carpeted staircase of the Aston Hotel, where the dinner dance was being held. They were supposed to be meeting their dates in the Kavanagh Bar, directly ahead of them. The place was heaving already. Patrick flinched as a girl with yellow teeth and popping-out eyes turned and beamed expectantly at him. Oh please God, don’t let that be her .. .

  ‘There they are,’ exclaimed Bibi, veering to the left and waving.

  Patrick could hardly bear to look. He felt sick, and hopelessly unprepared. He glimpsed a flash of turquoise satin, a skinny girl plastered in more make-up t
han a Come Dancing contestant.

  ‘Not her.’ Observing the expression of undiluted horror on his face, Bibi pointed past the vision in turquoise. ‘The one in the red.’

  Having performed the necessary introductions, Leo Berenger bore Bibi off to the bar, ostensibly to help him with the drinks but in reality to give Patrick and his daughter a few uninterrupted minutes together.

  ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this,’ sighed Claire Berenger as soon as they were alone. ‘I don’t know how much pressure you were put under to come here tonight, but I can guess. I’m thirty years old and my father’s beginning to panic.’ She paused and pulled a face. ‘Actually, that’s wrong. He’s been panicking for the last five years. As far as he’s concerned, his daughter is up there on that shelf, in serious need of dusting. I’m afraid I’m breaking his heart.’

  Miraculously, Patrick felt himself begin to relax. Maybe the evening wasn’t going to be quite such an ordeal after all. Claire Berenger had a sense of humour. She was no dog either. With her glossy brown hair fastened in a plait, her pale skin and clear grey eyes, she exuded health and vigour. She was attractive in an unflashy way. Her red velvet dress was plain but close-fitting enough to reveal a good figure. She looked like an off-duty gym mistress. At school, thought Patrick, she would definitely have been house prefect.

  Amused by Claire’s world-weary air, he said, ‘Has he done this before?’

  She gave him a look.

  ‘My father’s mission in life is to get me up that aisle. Then, nine months later, into the nearest maternity ward. I’m afraid his idea of sexual equality is letting the little woman choose the colour of the wallpaper for the downstairs loo.’

  ‘I’m already married,’ Patrick apologised.

  ‘You are? Heavens, where’s your wife?’

  ‘Well, we separated a few weeks ago.’

  Claire said, ‘I’m sorry.’ Then, keeping a straight face, she added, ‘Still, my father will be pleased. He probably thinks that’s my only hope now, catching some poor chap on the rebound.’

  Patrick smiled, charmed by her self-deprecating manner. He had, after all, just emerged from a seven-year marriage. And they didn’t come much less self-deprecating than Dulcie.

  ‘Anyway,’ Claire glanced over her shoulder, checking that her father wasn’t making his way back, ‘I felt I should explain. Now you needn’t be embarrassed when he starts dropping hints the size of Land Rovers. All we have to do is humour him.’

  She was an accountant, Patrick discovered over dinner. And an excellent cook, Leo Berenger informed him proudly. Oh yes, she knew how to cook, his daughter. She would make some lucky man a truly wonderful wife.

  As their coffee was being served, Claire leaned over and whispered in Patrick’s ear, ‘He’s slipping. He hasn’t told you yet about my child-bearing hips.’

  She was wearing Chanel 19. Patrick breathed it in.

  ‘We shouldn’t be making fun of him. He’s just a proud father.’

  ‘Who can’t wait to be a proud grandfather,’ murmured Claire. ‘Go on, I dare you. Tell him you’ve had the snip.’

  Chapter 19

  Dulcie was busy being vivacious at the bar when Liam McPherson finally made his way over to her corner of it.

  He appeared before her, wearing a white Nike tennis shirt and black tracksuit bottoms and looking — if it were possible — even more tanned and super-fit than he had earlier.

  ‘We meet again,’ he told Dulcie with a grin.

  ‘Amazing. Aren’t some coincidences just too spooky for words?’

  ‘What about that drink you promised me?’

  ‘I lied,’ said Dulcie. ‘I don’t buy men drinks. They buy them for me.’

  Liam laughed.

  ‘You have changed. You always used to buy me drinks.’

  Dulcie remembered running to the corner shop, counting out her precious pocket money and dashing back to the tennis court where Liam and his friends lay sprawled on the grass, waiting.

  ‘Cherry Corona doesn’t count.’

  His tone was affectionate.

  ‘You were a funny little kid.’

  She ran an index finger idly around the rim of her almost empty glass.

  ‘Like I said, I’ve grown up.’

  One eyebrow was raised. Liam smiled his havoc-making smile.

  ‘Indeed. And I’m beginning to think we have some serious catching-up to do.’

  While Dulcie’s stomach was still churning with pleasure, he attracted the barman’s eye and had her vodka and tonic topped up. Somewhat alarmingly, he ordered a pint of orange juice for himself.

  ‘So tell me what you get up to these days. You said you were divorced, didn’t you?’ Liam looked sympathetic. ‘Any children?’

  Dulcie loved the way he spoke to her, giving her his undivided attention. It was exhilarating, being made to feel you were the most fascinating and desirable girl in the world, after years of neglect.

  That was the difference between him and Patrick, Dulcie realised. Liam was interested in her as a person. He actually cared.

  ‘Almost divorced,’ she fibbed. ‘And no, no children.’

  He nodded and put his arm out, shielding her back from a carelessly held cigarette. Dulcie felt absurdly protected. ‘Career girl, is that it? What line of work are you in?’

  ‘No line of work,’ she said with a playful smile. ‘Just ..

  you know, idle rich.’

  ‘Not too idle, by the look of things.’ Liam cast a professional eye over her slender body. He ran the flat of his hand over Dulcie’s bare shoulder, nodding approval. ‘Taking care of yourself, that’s good ... although those deltoids could do with a bit of working on. What’s your regime?’

  Dulcie said, ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Your keep-fit regime.’ Liam tilted his head, studying her through narrowed eyes. Dulcie felt like a racehorse being given the once-over. ‘Eddie said you spend a lot of time here. Are you lifting weights?’

  Dulcie returned his speculative gaze. Her keep-fit regime went something like: Get out of bed ...

  eat cake . .. lie in bath ... eat chocolate Hob Nobs.

  After that she generally got dressed and went out to lunch. But something told her Liam wouldn’t be too impressed. ‘Not every day,’ she said truthfully. ‘I don’t actually have a ... a regime, as such. Just a few sit-ups here, a bit of .. um ... jogging there.’

  ‘Exercise,’ announced Liam. ‘Exercise is the key. A healthy body is a happy body, am I right?’

  ‘Oh, yes.’ Dulcie nodded, unable to tear her eyes from his muscular brown arms.

  ‘If there’s one thing I can’t stand,’ Liam confided, ‘it’s a woman who lets herself go.’

  Dulcie, who would never let herself go – she would rather die than step outside her front door minus mascara – nodded more confidently this time.

  ‘People who don’t take care of themselves make me sick,’ Liam went on. ‘I mean, what is wrong with them? They stuff themselves with the wrong food, can’t be bothered to exercise and then have the nerve to complain when their arteries clog up.’

  Dulcie looked suitably outraged. Inwardly, she was experiencing mild stirrings of panic. Gosh, he was serious.

  Liam’s smile was rueful. ‘I’m sorry, it just bugs me. I don’t understand people who aren’t interested in looking after themselves. I mean, if they can’t be bothered to respect their own bodies, why the hell should I respect them?’

  This was ominous stuff. Worse still, the harder Dulcie tried not to think about salt and vinegar crisps, the more she craved some. Hastily she changed the subject.

  ‘Tell me about you. Tell me all about the tennis circuit. I bet it was brilliant fun ...’

  Luckily it worked. Liam finished his pint of orange juice, ordered another and began regaling Dulcie with stories. A natural raconteur with a wonderful line in self-deprecating humour, this was much better. It must be the Irish blood in him, Dulcie decided dreamily. Liam really did have it all: looks, wit and cha
rm by the bucket load. She could gaze into those dark-blue eyes, admire that amazing body and listen to that melting Dublin-accented voice of his all night.

  * * *

  Leo Berenger was okay. He was polite, he was presentable and he was certainly prosperous, but it didn’t take Bibi long to realise he wasn’t the man for her. When there was no spark, no chemistry, it didn’t matter how loaded the man was, you couldn’t make it happen.

  This was a shame because Leo was sixty-one, a perfectly suitable age for the suitor of a sixty-year-old widow. As they danced, Bibi forced herself to make witty conversation and to concentrate on Leo’s replies, but it was hopeless. While her mouth did the talking and her ears listened, her rebellious brain was conjuring up depressing pictures of Leo Berenger, sixty-one years old and stark naked. Then it compared them with pictures of James, her darling James, so much younger and more attractive, all tanned and gorgeous and infinitely beddable.

  Bibi carried on dancing, averting her gaze from Leo’s and determinedly blinking back tears. She hadn’t seen James for almost three months. It was no good moping; life went on.

  Sadly though, not with Leo Berenger.

  ‘Look at those two,’ he said with some pride. Turning, he allowed Bibi to see Patrick and Claire at the far end of the dance floor. ‘Reckon we might have started something there. They seem to be enjoying themselves, anyway.’

  Every cloud ... thought Bibi.

  Patrick had been so certain the evening would he a nightmare, he couldn’t get over how easy to talk to Claire Berenger had turned out to be.

  Having expected the worst, he had been pleasantly surprised.