by Jill Mansell
Then the petrifying roller-coaster of full-blown manic depression had taken hold. The first of many hospital admissions had given Eddie a few months’ much-needed respite.
‘The doctors would spend ages juggling her medication, getting it just right,’ he explained to Pru, ‘but as soon as she was well again, they’d discharge her. Catherine would then decide she felt so much better she didn’t need the medication any more. Even if I stood over her she’d just hide the capsules under her tongue and spit them out later.’ Eddie shook his head sorrowfully at the memory of those times.
‘Anyway,’ he went on, while Pru concentrated on the road ahead, ‘it got worse. Then, twelve years ago, she ran out of the house one night when I was trying to persuade her to take her pills.
She was only wearing a nightdress. My car keys were hanging up by the front door. She grabbed them, yelling that she’d had enough, and drove off. There was a high wall at the end of our cul-de-sac. Catherine must have been doing sixty when she smashed into it.’ For a second Eddie’s voice wavered. He cleared his throat. ‘Oh well, could have been worse. At least she was killed outright.’
Pru didn’t know what to say so she didn’t say anything. But her grey eyes filled with tears.
‘Hey, don’t you cry.’ Eddie sounded alarmed. ‘I wouldn’t have told you if I’d thought you’d cry.’
‘Sorry.’ Ever obedient, Pru wiped her wet face with the back of her hand.
He shook his head, half smiling as he passed her a clean handkerchief. ‘I thought you were tougher than that.’
She spluttered with surprised laughter. ‘Me, tough? I am the original wet lettuce!’
‘That isn’t true. Your marriage broke up. And in dramatic fashion,’ Eddie pointed out. ‘But you’re coping with it.’
‘Am I?’ Pru sighed and blew her nose. ‘Inside, I wonder if I’ll ever feel normal again.’ She glanced across at Eddie in the passenger seat. ‘How long before you did?’
It was Eddie’s turn to be stuck for words. Twelve years since Catherine’s death and he still hadn’t been able to bring himself to form any kind of emotional attachment. The barriers had gone up and stayed up. Well and truly up. The prospect of getting involved with someone else was still too terrifying to contemplate.
‘Well ... not long, not long at all,’ Eddie lied heartily. He gave Pru a clumsy pat on the arm to cheer her up. ‘You’re okay. You’ll be fine, you’ll see.’
The book Dulcie had passed on to her this week was all bonk and no plot. Pru waded through a couple more
Chapters then gave up, bored. She fiddled with the car radio instead, zipping from station to station in search of something – at 7.01 p.m. – that wasn’t the news. Next she tried out all the mysterious switches and buttons she’d never bothered to investigate before, unexpectedly locating the electronic wing mirror wagglers, a well-hidden lever to open the boot and an astonishingly efficient mechanism for tipping the seats back in a trice.
Whoomph, Pru was flat on her back. She pressed the switch a second time. Whoomph, upright again! What brilliant fun. Grinning to herself, Pru catapulted up and down a few more times.
Until, mortified, she realised she was being watched.
An ancient old dear, one of the residents presumably, was standing less than six feet away.
Indicating with a jab of her walking stick that she wished to say something, she moved creakily towards the car while Pru, crimson with embarrassment, slid open the driver’s window.
‘You’ll do yourself an injury, child,’ the old woman observed. ‘Whatever are you playing at?’
‘Trying out the seat recliner,’ mumbled Pru apologetically. ‘Well, it works.’
‘I know. Sorry.’
The woman, who was clutching a folded-up newspaper in her free hand, peered past her into the car.
‘What’s that, any good?’ Beadily she eyed the lurid paperback lying on the passenger seat.
The thought of this precisely spoken, autocratic old lady reading Dulcie’s bonkbuster was even more blushmaking than being caught playing with the seat recliners like a three-year-old.
‘No, actually, it’s awful,’ Pru said hurriedly. ‘You wouldn’t like it at all.’
‘How do you know I wouldn’t? I might.’ The old woman’s expression was challenging. ‘I can see from the cover it isn’t a Barbara Cartland,’ she went on, almost irritably, ‘which makes a change in this place, I can tell you. Wall-to-wall Barbarabloody-Cartlands in here. Just because you’re eighty they seem to think that’s all you want to read.’
‘This definitely isn’t a Barbara Cartland.’ Pru was as firm as she dared.
‘Good. Well, if it’s awful, you won’t be wanting it. So can I have it instead?’
Pru was taken aback by the bluntness of the request. You expected to be stopped in the street by beggars and asked for spare change but you didn’t expect to be faced with imperious OAPs demanding pornographic paperbacks.
As if sensing her dilemma the woman said briskly, ‘I promise not to have a heart attack, if it’s the sex you’re worried about.’
Then, when Pru still hesitated, she held out her paper. ‘Go on, you can have this instead. I’ve done the crossword but at least you’ll have something to read.’
Pru’s eyes began to boggle as she saw the photograph on the front page. She grabbed Dulcie’s paperback and thrust it through the open window.
‘Thanks.’ The old lady looked immensely pleased with her swap. ‘Just one other thing.’
‘What?’
‘All that whizzing up and down in your seat’s played havoc with your hair, child. Better do something with it; your ears are sticking out.’
‘Liza, it’s me. Help, you know I hate these machines ...’
Hearing Pru’s voice, Liza picked up the phone. Pru was about the only person on the planet she could bear to speak to just now, she realised. Nobody was more au fait with public humiliation than Pru.
‘I’m here. I know, you’ve seen the Evening Post. Oh Pru, I think he did it to teach me a lesson.
He kissed me in front of all those people and I practically melted on the spot. He promised to phone me and I was so sure he would,’ Liza admitted brokenly, ‘but he bloody hasn’t.’
There was no need to pretend with Pru. Unlike everyone else, she wouldn’t make sympathetic noises and all the time be madly smirking and thinking ha ha, welcome to the real world and about time too.
Pru wasn’t like that. Her sympathy would be genuine. Desperate to unburden herself, Liza told her everything.
Sometimes a very old and completely trustworthy friend – which rather ruled out Dulcie – was the only person you could tell this kind of stuff to.
‘I mean, you know me,’ Liza rattled on. Having started, she now found she couldn’t stop. ‘I’m not promiscuous – well, not that promiscuous – but all I wanted to do was go to bed with him!
Dammit, how could he make such a fool of me? He’s nine years younger than I am, for God’s sake! And every time I think of him my knees still turn to jelly – why am I echoing?’
As Liza’s voice had risen, the echo had become more apparent.
‘Um ... I’m in the car.’
But Liza could hear someone else snorting with laughter in the background. Someone male.
‘What’s going on? It doesn’t usually echo like that.’ Her blood ran cold.
‘Sorry, darling, my fault.’ It was Eddie Hammond, chuckling unashamedly. ‘Couldn’t resist it. I switched you on to hands-free.’
Cold wasn’t the word for Liza’s blood now.
‘You eavesdropper,’ she hissed, mortified.
‘Come on,’ he protested, still laughing. ‘Pru showed me the picture in the paper. I was curious too.’
When Liza had slammed the phone down it occurred to her that although he wasn’t married, Eddie Hammond had never flirted with her.
First Eddie, now Kit Berenger, thought Liza gloomily. I must really be losing my touch.
Chapter 24
Dulcie hadn’t wanted to ring Liam at the club, it seemed a bit keen, but he’d forgotten to give her his home number so she didn’t have much choice.
Or much time to lose, Dulcie thought twitchily as she waited for him to come to the phone. She could just imagine what Imelda had been like over the last four days, throwing herself at Liam and making the most of Dulcie’s unexpected absence. The girl was shameless and desperate.
You could almost feel sorry for her.
Almost, but not quite.
Cheered by a mental image of Imelda in one of those Velcro suits you got at fairgrounds, hurling herself at a vast Velcro wall with Liam perched like Humpty Dumpty — only better-looking, of course — on top, Dulcie forgot to be nervous when he at last came to the phone.
‘Hi,’ she said brightly, ‘I’m better! How about me cooking you dinner tonight at my place, to celebrate?’
‘No more flu?’ She heard the smile in his voice. He was clearly pleased to hear from her.
‘No more flu,’ Dulcie said with pride. ‘So is that a yes?’
At Brunton Manor, Liam leaned against the receptionist’s desk and grinned at the prettier of the two receptionists. She promptly went pink and smiled back. Playfully he tapped the little emerald ring on her engagement finger and pulled a mock-sorrowful face.
‘Liam, are you still there?’
‘Dinner sounds great.’ It really did, he decided cheerfully. And he liked Dulcie a lot, she was sparky and fun. If she was as good in the kitchen as she was in bed, he was in for a treat. ‘Look, I promised to meet someone else for a quick drink at eight. Just a business thing, but I wouldn’t want to let them down. Is nine-ish okay with you?’
Almost bursting with happiness — ha! Imelda hadn’t got him yet — Dulcie replied triumphantly,
‘Nine-ish is fine.’
Not one of life’s Delia Smiths, Dulcie had nevertheless been forced during the course of her marriage to conjure up the odd decent meal or two. She even knew how to cook a proper dinner-party dinner, which might have impressed Liam if it hadn’t been mushrooms fried in garlic butter followed by chicken à la crème and chocolate mousse.
The prospect of cooking something healthy was fairly daunting but Dulcie refused to be intimidated. As she had told Liza — quite often, actually — Liam was worth it. Nothing was too much trouble. If all Liam ate was roast alligator, she would happily race to the nearest swamp, catch an alligator and roast it.
Anyway, he didn’t. All she had to do was grill a couple of fillet steaks, chuck a few baking potatoes in the oven and microwave a bowl of frozen peas.
It sounded simple enough but still somehow managed to take ages to do. Dulcie didn’t mind, she was in love with a glorious, glamorous vision of a man and you had to suffer for someone as heavenly as Liam, that was only fair. She even did a bit of salad to go with it, and cut the tomatoes painstakingly into zigzag halves so they looked like lilies — albeit slightly wonky lilies
— floating on an artistic lettuce and onion pond.
Dulcie wasn’t asleep when the hail of gravel rattled against her bedroom window but she was buggered if she was going to get up straight away.
She heard Liam scrunching across the drive, scooping up and flinging another handful of gravel at another window further along because he didn’t know which was hers. Torn between passionate relief that he hadn’t stood her up after all and indignation, because – let’s face it –
there’s late and there is late, Dulcie lay in bed for a few seconds more.
It was a retaliation, of sorts.
When she heard a shower of stones hit the bathroom window and a pane of glass go CRACK, she got up.
‘There you are,’ Liam exclaimed, peering up at Dulcie’s spiky-haired silhouette.
‘Sshh,’ Dulcie hissed.
He looked alarmed. ‘Why? Is your husband up there?’
‘Of course he isn’t.’ Men, honestly. ‘I was thinking of the neighbours. Anyway, what’s wrong with using the doorbell?’ He looked shocked.
‘It’s too late to ring doorbells.’ This was a hangover from Liam’s rowdy teenage years. His father had gone ballistic whenever he’d forgotten his front door key. Now, standing beneath Dulcie’s window, he checked his watch and offered up his wrist as proof. ‘See? One o’clock.’
‘You don’t say.’ Dulcie hadn’t forgotten she was supposed to be miffed. ‘Funny, I could have sworn you said you’d be here by nine. Or were you talking about breakfast?’
‘I’m late,’ said Liam. ‘I know, I’m sorry.’ He gazed up at her, utterly repentant in the moonlight.
‘But I’m here now. I came all this way. Angel, you have to let me in.’
‘I bloody do not,’ Dulcie retorted briskly, not meaning it for a second.
‘Okay, I’ll climb up.’ Grinning, he moved towards the drainpipe next to the porch. He stood on one of the flower-filled stone tubs and began testing the strength of the drainpipe.
‘All of a sudden he’s Milk Tray Man,’ mocked Dulcie, but her own mouth was beginning to twitch. In all honesty, how could she resist him? Before he managed to yank the drainpipe off the wall she said, ‘Okay, you win. Get down before you break a leg. I’ll open the front door.’
When she did, she was naked. Liam solemnly eyed each ofher small breasts in turn, bowed his head politely and murmured in his soft Irish drawl, ‘So pleased to meet you both, you’re looking wonderful—’
‘Berk,’ said Dulcie.
When he’d finished kissing her, Liam led her by the hand into the kitchen.
‘I’m starving. What’s for dinner?’
‘Is that a joke?’ She gave him an indignant prod in the ribs. ‘I fed your dinner to the foxes hours ago. You didn’t seriously expect me to save it?’
Seeing the expression on his face, Dulcie realised he had. She marvelled at the kind of life Liam must have led, the star tennis player so used to getting what he wanted, it didn’t occur to him that turning up four hours late might be considered a bit offish.
Although, actually he didn’t know how lucky he was. Having stupidly imagined Liam would arrive promptly at nine, she had first grilled the steaks then put them in the oven to keep warm.
By ten o’clock they had acquired the consistency of dog chews. Flinging them out through the kitchen window had been an act of mercy. If the foxes had got at them, thought Dulcie, serve them right.
‘Sweetheart, it was a business meeting. I was held up,’ Liam protested. In reality it had been an Imelda meeting and he had been held down, but some details were better glossed over. From what he could gather, there wasn’t much love lost between the two girls.
Dulcie was on the brink of making some cutting remark about the lack of phones where he’d been when she realised how it would make her sound. Like some nagging old wife, she thought with a shudder, the frumpy, bitter kind whose husbands you felt most sorry for, the kind where you wouldn’t blame their husbands for wanting to sneak off.
How awful, and this is only our second date. If it even counts as a date . . .
But Liam was here, and that was what mattered. When you were famous, Dulcie realised, you lived by different rules. It was like inviting the Queen to tea and expecting her to pitch in afterwards with the washing-up. If you ever wanted to see her again, bunging her a pair of Marigolds and telling her to get scrubbing wasn’t a smart move to make.
Liam was glad he’d made the effort to come round. Fish fingers and reheated baked potatoes might not set the pulse racing but they were an excellent source of vitamin B. Anyway, now she’d stopped sulking he had Dulcie to make his pulse race.
If he was honest, Liam preferred Dulcie to Imelda, who had spent most of the evening dropping hints the size of comets about holidays. Liam had marvelled good-naturedly at her train of thought; women were funny creatures. He’d taken Imelda to bed a couple of times, that was all.
Whatever made her think he’d want to spend a fortnight with her in Phuket?
Liam’s attitude to life was uncomplicated. All he wanted was to keep fit, play tennis and have as much fun as possible with the opposite sex. This, he decided, was where Dulcie definitely had the edge. He was genuinely fond of her. She was more laid-back, probably relishing her own new-found freedom, and hadn’t so much as mentioned holidays. Liam, very much a ‘so many women, so little time’ man himself, was mystified by the female preoccupation with — yawn —
monogamy and — bigger yawn — settling down.
Jesus, where was the fun in that?
With Eddie needing to be driven that morning to Swindon for a meeting at eleven which was likely to go- on for hours, Pru had consulted her diary and decided to get Terry Hayes’ cottage out of the way first. Ringing him beforehand to be on the safe side and getting no answer — he wasn’t kidding when he said he started work early — she pulled up outside his front door at seven thirty and let herself in.
The kitchen didn’t take long. When Pru had finished in thereshe moved on to the bathroom.
Terry had bought himself some new aftershave, she noticed. Ralph Lauren, Polo. Nice. And a bottle of hair-thickening shampoo. Trying to spruce himself up, Pru thought with an indulgent smile. Bless him. What’s the betting he’s splashed out on new underpants too?
Humming to herself, Pru fished the Hoover out from the cupboard under the stairs and hauled it upstairs. Elbowing the door open, she launched herself into Terry’s bedroom. Honestly, what was it with men? Why did it never occur to them to draw back the curtains before they left for work?
The Hoover landed with a crash on the floor. Two people abruptly jack-knifed into sitting positions on the bed. Only semi-covered by the tangled duvet, they were both naked.
And neither of them was Terry Hayes.
‘What’s going on?’ demanded the man, sitting bolt upright. ‘Who’s she?’ squeaked the girl next to him, pulling the duvet up to her ears.
‘I’m the cleaner.’ Pru told herself not to be so silly, they couldn’t possibly be burglars. In the semi-darkness she peered closely at the man, who was rather good-looking. Those heavy eyebrows and piercing dark eyes, now she came to think of it, were definitely familiar.