by Jill Mansell
Lying back on the sun-lounger, far too lazy to get up, Dulcie lifted her head and shielded her eyes in order to watch Patrick appear.
When he did, moments later, he was wearing dark-blue chinos and a yellow shirt she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if thingy had bought it for him.
The next thing Dulcie noticed he was wearing was an odd look on his face.
‘Nice shirt.’
‘Don’t you think you should put this on?’ Reaching down and picking up the top half of her pink and purple bikini, Patrick held it towards her.
Dulcie tried not to smile.
‘Why? Will it stop me getting cold?’
‘It’ll keep you decent,’ said Patrick evenly. To her amazement she realised he was keeping his eyes deliberately averted from her breasts.
‘Patrick, you’re my husband! You have seen them before.’
‘Things are different now.’
Gosh, thought Dulcie, he sounded weird. Stunned into obedience, she took the bikini top from him. Damn, there was a mark on it where she’d spilled chocolate ice cream.
Put it on,’ repeated Patrick.
He waited until she had, before looking down at her.
‘Is something wrong?’ Dulcie wondered if this sudden and bizarre obsession with decency meant someone had died.
‘I thought I should come over. There appear to be things we need to sort out.’
‘Things? What things?’
‘The divorce,’ Patrick said quietly, because Dulcie clearly didn’t have a clue.
Dulcie swallowed. She hadn’t actually given it much thought. Okay, it had been her New Year’s resolution but once she’d left Patrick it hadn’t seemed important.
Then another thought struck her. Rather unpleasantly, like malaria.
He wants a divorce so he can marry Claire, Dulcie realised, stunned. And I can’t object because he’s been so nice to me. Now it’s my turn to be nice back .. .
She managed to nod.’Okay.’
‘I’ve spoken to Simon,’ said Patrick. Simon was a solicitor friend of his. ‘Basically, if we want it over quickly and we aren’t going to argue about money, the easiest thing is to go for a no-fault, two-year separation. It’s simple and it costs hardly anything. Are you happy with that?’
Two years, that’s fine, thought Dulcie, suddenly finding it easier to breathe. That was eighteen months away.
‘Fine.’
‘Right. So that’s settled, we can be divorced by September.’ Dulcie sat bolt upright.
‘What about the two years?’
‘All you have to do,’ Patrick explained wearily, ‘is say you’ve been separated for two years.
Then it just goes through.’
‘But that isn’t true! That’s ... lying!’ yelped Dulcie.
‘Oh dear, how terrible. How will we live with ourselves?’ Patrick mocked. ‘Lying. Tut tut, that would never do.’
Dulcie hated it when he was sarcastic. She swallowed her pride and lay back down again. Patrick wanted to be free of her so he could marry Claire. He didn’t want to look at her bare boobs any more, he only wanted to look at Claire’s.
‘How is she?’ said Dulcie, to prove she was a grown-up. ‘Claire?’
‘Fine.’ Patrick nodded briefly. A muscle was going in his jaw. At last he said, ‘And Liam?’
If Claire was fine, Dulcie decided, Liam was more than fine.
‘Very well indeed. Brilliant.’ She nodded strenuously. ‘Great.’
‘Congratulations, by the way.’
Dulcie looked up, startled. There was that muscle again, twitching away.
‘On ...?’
‘The baby,’ said Patrick.
‘Oh. Right.’
Dulcie was glad she had her sunglasses on. Somehow she’d managed to persuade herself that Patrick wouldn’t get to hear about this.
She wondered how he had.
‘Word gets around,’ Patrick went on after an awkward pause. ‘One of the girls from the office downstairs is a member of Brunton.’ He cleared his throat and managed a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a weird way to find out, but still bit her lip. She felt terrible. Half of her wanted to blurt out the truth, to tell Patrick that it was okay, she wasn’t really pregnant, it was just a scam, a desperate attempt to hang on to Liam.
The other half of her knew she had to keep her mouth shut because the humiliation, the look of disdain on Patrick’s face, would be too much to bear.
He’s happy with Claire, thought Dulcie. The last thing I need is Patrick feeling pity for me.
She kept her mouth well and truly shut.
‘Anyway, I guessed you’d be anxious to get things settled.’ Dulcie nodded.
Patrick nodded too.
‘Are you going to marry him?’
‘I expect so.’ Bloody hope so. ‘Maybe. No hurry.’
‘How are you feeling?’
Dulcie shrugged again. Actually, she was feeling a bit peculiar. She was lying, and for the first time in her life not enjoying it much at all.
‘How am I feeling?’ Dulcie forced herself to concentrate. She even managed a smile. ‘Great. Bit sick ... you know, but otherwise fine. Looking forward to the big day.’
‘And Liam?’
‘Oh, he’s thrilled. Pleased as Punch.’
‘Well, that’s good news. I’m happy for you,’ said Patrick, not looking it. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. I really hope it all works out.’
‘Thanks.’ The sun was hot but Dulcie was suddenly cold. She couldn’t quite believe she was having this stiltedconversation with Patrick. She was also beginning to feel uncomfortably underdressed. Before, it hadn’t mattered. Now, a few layers of protective clothing — a couple of sweaters, a pair of jeans and a thick duffel coat, say — wouldn’t have gone amiss.
In a strange way too, Dulcie realised, she was miffed that he hadn’t seen through the lie. Liza and Pru had, effortlessly, and they were only her friends.
I was married to you for nearly seven years, she silently accused Patrick. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone — so how come you can’t tell I’m lying to you now?
Chapter 31
Pru was asleep when the ringing sound started. In her dream, a fire engine was racing round and round her bedsit but instead of going nee-naa nee-naa, it was making a noise like a doorbell.
Then the fire engine screeched to a halt. A dozen firemen leapt out and surrounded her bed.
‘There isn’t room for all of you in here,’ protested Pru, which, even if she didn’t know it was a dream, was a pretty Freudian thing to say. ‘I’m sorry, but some of you will have to wait outside.’
The fireman in charge, who looked weirdly like Eddie Hammond, said, ‘Can I stay?’
‘I’ve only got a single bed,’ Pru told him, and he broke into a smile.
‘Fine with me. Except you’d better answer that door bell first.’ Pru woke up, jack-knifing into a sitting position as the bell — her door bell — shrilled again.
She looked at the luminous green figures on her radio alarm: 3.42.
Up through the floorboards floated the voice of Donovan’s greatest fan shouting blearily: ‘Will somebody get that, for Chrissake?’
Pru fell out of bed and stumbled across to the window. Pulling back the flimsy curtain, she peered down to the street below.
The next second she yanked the window open so fast a shower of old paint flakes parted company with the half-rotted wooden frame.’Phil? What are you doing here?’
Phil Kasteliz heard the words but was in no state to locate them. Puzzled, hanging on to the front door for support, he looked left, then right, then behind him.
‘Pru?’
‘Up here,’ hissed Pru. He was extremely drunk, she could tell by the way his head moved in a kind of slow-motion swivel. ‘Phil, go home. It’s four o’clock in the morning.’
She heard him laughing to himself. Too late, Pru remembered his penchant for singing.
‘It’s four in the
mor-ning,’ warbled Phil, ‘and da da da da da. Damn, forgotten the words. How does it go, Pru? It’s four in the morning ...’
He was standing unaided now, his arms outstretched as he tried to conduct her.
From below Pru’s feet came the plaintive wail: ‘Man, get that guy out of here ...’
If Pru had been Dulcie she would have yelled back that it served him bloody well right and one night of Phil Kasteliz in exchange for all those months of drippy Donovan was a pretty good swap.
But Pm, who wasn’t Dulcie, was terrified at the prospect of upsetting a neighbour, even if he was a dope-head devoted to Donovan.
‘Stop it,’ she yelled in a strangled whisper, waving her arms at Phil in an attempt to hush him up.
‘I’m coming down.’
When she opened the front door, he tripped over the step. She practically had to carry him upstairs to her room.
‘How did you find this place anyway?’ Pru gasped.
Fumbling in his jacket pocket, Phil finally pulled out his wallet. He showed Pru the letter she had written to him months earlier letting him know her new address.
‘Showed it to the taxi driver,’ Phil confided. ‘He brought me straight here.’
Pru marvelled at her own lack of response. She had written that letter with tears streaming down her cheeks. At the time, she would have given anything in the world for Phil to show it to a taxi driver and be brought straight here. Fantasising that it might happen had been about the only thing that had kept her going.
And now he was here ..
She felt nothing.
‘Why?’ said Pru.
‘Had a row with Blanche.’ Phil collapsed heavily on the bed, still clutching his wallet.
‘What about?’
‘She’s just a bad-tempered bitch.’ He shrugged and shook his head. ‘Honestly, all she did was yell at me. Just because I was a bit late home.’ He looked up at Pru, his eyes bloodshot. ‘You never yelled at me.’
‘I know I didn’t.’ To yell, or not to yell, thought Pru. Which was best?
‘She’s mad because I had a couple of drinks. Bloody cow wouldn’t let me into the house.’
Phil shook his head again in disbelief and tried to fit the bulging wallet back into his pocket.
When it wouldn’t do as he wanted, he gave up and chucked it on to the pillow behind him.
Pru’s eyes widened as the wallet fell open, revealing a great wodge of notes.
‘Got something to drink, Pru? Brandy, Scotch, anything like that.’
‘Nothing, sorry.’ She was still staring in disbelief at the wallet.
‘What?’ Alarmed, Phil tried to look over his shoulder. ‘What is it, a spider?’
‘That money! Have you been to the casino?’
He grinned and nodded, and put an unsteady finger to his lips.
‘Sshh.’
‘You won?’ said Pru, astounded.
‘Course I won. Didn’t I tell you I’d get there in the end?Only don’t tell Blanche, okay? That stroppy bitch isn’t getting her hands on this. It’s my money, I won it fair and square.’ Phil doubled up with laughter. ‘Except roulette wheels aren’t square. Better say I won it fair and round, ha ha ha.’
‘How much did you win?’ whispered Pru, all the hairs at the back of her neck standing up.
‘Don’t know. Haven’t had a chance to count it yet.’ He laughed again. ‘Bloody loads. Pru, come on, have a drink with me to celebrate. You must have a bottle hidden away somewhere.’
‘Oh man, I don’t believe this.’
Donovan was wearing a grubby grey T-shirt and – yuk – a pair of ancient maroon Y-fronts. He groaned and rubbed his hands over his face as if needing to convince himself Pru was real.
‘I’m sorry, I know it’s late,’ said Pru sweetly, marvelling at her own bravery. Here she was, out of the blue, doing it again. Being Assertive.
‘Whadya want, man? It’s, like, the middle of the night.’
‘We need something to drink.’ Pru got straight to the point. ‘I don’t have anything. I thought perhaps you might.’
Donovan stared at her. He’d never managed to figure out what Pru was doing living above him, a posh bird in a dump like this. And now here she was, cool as a cucumber on his doorstep at four in the frigging morning, acting like one of those women who wave collecting tins under your nose, asking if he could spare a bottle or two for a good cause.
‘Like what?’ he said warily. "Cause I’m fresh out of Bollinger, if that’s what you’re after.’
‘Anything,’ said Pru.
She made her way back upstairs clutching two cans of Special Brew and a half-empty flagon of cider which Donovan assured her had only been opened a couple of days ago, so it still had some life in it.
Pru only hoped, as she nudged open the door with her foot, that Phil still had some life left in him. Since she’d gone to the trouble of getting him something to drink, he’d better still be awake enough to drink it.
He had, but only just. While Pru chattered brightly away to him, Phil lolled across the bed and finished off the cider. Then he opened one of the cans of lager but most of it went down the front of his crumpled white shirt. Pru mopped at the duvet cover with a towel.
‘You’ll look after me, won’t you?’ mumbled Phil, his eyes closing. ‘You always looked after me.’
And look where it bloody got me, thought Pru as his head sank back on to the pillow and the can slid to the floor.
Within seconds he was snoring like a walrus, out like a light and oblivious to the tugging going on as Pru yanked his shoes off. She managed, after a struggle, to get the duvet out from under him. Then she smoothed it over his sleeping form, straightened the pillow and put the still unfastened wallet on the bedside table.
Since Phil had commandeered the bed, Pru could either sleep in the chair or on the floor.
But she didn’t sleep. She couldn’t. Her mind was working overtime. Her conscience was having an all-out battle with itself.
After staring at the wallet for an hour, Pru reached over and picked it up. She emptied the fat bundle of twenty-pound notes into her lap and, hands shaking, counted them.
Good grief, there was almost two thousand pounds there. Pru looked at Phil, still snoring so loudly it was a wonder the rest of her neighbours hadn’t called the police.
Two thousand pounds. Won, fair and square.
Now was that fair?
It had been a long and uncomfortable night. At eight o’clock Pru was still hopelessly undecided.
She made herself a cup of tea; maybe that would help.
At nine o’clock, with Phil still dead to the world, sherummaged in her purse and found a couple of twenty-pence pieces. Then she slipped out of the room and made her way downstairs to the phone box in the hall.
The number she wanted was listed in Yellow Pages.
‘Hello,’ said Pru, when the call was answered, ‘I wonder if you can help me. I just need to know how much something costs.’
Minutes later, replacing the receiver, she crept back up the stairs and silently opened the door.
This was it. It was up to fate now. If Phil was awake she wouldn’t be able to do anything. If he was still asleep .. .
‘Oh God, my head. Blanche ... Blanche, where are you? Any chance of sticking the kettle on?’
‘Blanche isn’t here,’ said Pru. ‘Will I do instead?’
Phil rolled over, bleary-eyed and stubble-chinned. Pru was holding out a mug of tea, a plate of buttered toast and a packet of paracetamol.
Confusion reigned in Phil’s brain. He rubbed his bloodshot eyes and winced.
‘She wouldn’t let you in last night so you came here,’ said Pm.
‘Christ. Did I ... um, did we ...?’
‘No.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘Here, drink this.’ Pru passed him the tea, popped three paracetamol out of their foil wrapper and pressed them into his free hand.
‘I feel terrible,’ said Phil in h
is penitent, little-boy voice.
‘You’ll feel better after some toast. I’ll nip down to the corner shop, shall I, and get you some tomato soup?’
Twenty minutes later, when Phil had finished the soup, he fumbled in his jacket pocket. Pru, washing up at the tiny sink in the corner of the room that served as a kitchen, heard him locate his house keys and wallet.
‘Bloody hell,’ she heard him exclaim.
Far too flushed and scared to turn round, Pru frantically scrubbed at the pattern on the soup plate.
‘What is it?’
‘Eight hundred quid!’
More rustling as Phil re-counted the notes.
‘Ready for another cup of tea?’ said Pru, her heart going like a giant woodpecker against her ribs.
‘I must have won it at the casino,’ Phil marvelled, and Pru breathed again.
She dared at last to look over her shoulder at him. ‘You did say something about a win at roulette.’
‘Brilliant!’ Phil beamed at her. ‘See? I knew I was due for a bit of luck.’
‘Good for you.’
‘Yeah, more tea’d be great. And a couple of biscuits if you’ve got them.’
While Pru made the tea, he sat on the narrow bed and surveyed his surroundings.
‘This place is a dump.’
‘I’m getting used to it.’
Pru stirred in sugar and handed him the mug.
‘Thanks.’ Phil shook his head. ‘Pru, I’m sorry. You don’t deserve to live in a place like this.’
‘It’s okay.’
‘You must hate me.’
‘I don’t hate you.’ She opened the packet of custard creams she had picked up at the corner shop.
‘Here, help yourself.’
‘You’re so ...’ Phil shook his head again, searching for the right word, ‘... so nice. You always were. Always forgiving me.’
Pru said nothing.
‘It got on my nerves in the end,’ he went on. ‘Did you know that?’
‘No.’
‘That’s why I went off with Blanche. She doesn’t take any crap. Stands up for herself, Blanche does.’’Right.’