Mixed doubles

by Jill Mansell

  You have to promise me. I never want to hear you say that—’

  They jumped apart as the sitting room door opened.

  ‘Don’t mind us,’ said Margaret Lawson, as she and her husband reached for their coats. ‘Hello, Kit, nice to meet you. Liza dear, you can’t spend the rest of your life on the doorstep. Why don’t you invite Kit in and make him a nice cup of tea? Your father and I are just off to the pub.’

  When they had gone, Kit said, ‘She winked at me.’

  ‘This is seriously weird.’ Liza shook her head in renewed amazement. ‘My parents have never been inside a pub in their lives.’

  ‘We’ve been Left Alone Together.’ Grinning, Kit grabbed Liza around the waist. ‘Just as well really, since I have this overwhelming desire to rip all your clothes off. You,’ he told her as he edged her backwards, ‘are about to experience the best sex of your life—’

  ‘Not here!’ gasped Liza, cornered between the grandfather clock and her mother’s carved oak bookcase.

  ‘God, you’re beautiful. Even in that hand-knitted cardigan.’ Playfully, Kit slid it off her shoulders. ‘There, see how much I’ve missed you?’

  ‘Stop it!’ squeaked Liza, struggling frantically to keep both of them decent. ‘I’m serious, Kit, we can’t do it here. Not in my parents’ house!’

  Without saying a word, Kit led her by the hand across the hall, into the kitchen and out through the back door.

  ‘I’m serious too,’ he told Liza, one hand roaming beneath her T-shirt while the other deftly unfastened the button on her jeans. ‘Is the garden okay?’

  Outside, the air was warm and heady with the scent of late roses. They were in total darkness.

  This is our grand reconciliation, thought Liza, it’s supposed to be torrid and passionate and ultra ultra romantic.

  As it was, things were turning out rather less glorious than she had imagined.

  Getting the giggles didn’t help.

  ‘You’re supposed to be gasping in ecstasy,’ Kit complained.

  ‘I can’t help it. Dad mowed the lawn this afternoon, I’m covered in grass cuttings.’ She clung to Kit, helpless with laughter. ‘You’ve got leaves in your hair. And I can hear a million insecty things—’

  ‘Ugh! What was that?’ Kit winced as something weightier than an insect landed with a hideous plop on the back of his hand and leapt off again.

  Their eyes had by this time adapted to the darkness.

  ‘Frog,’ squealed Liza, watching it hop into the bushes. She flinched as the wings of a moth brushed her bare shoulder.

  The rasping noise of a grasshopper sounded, inches from Kit’s ear. He gave up.

  ‘Talk about coitus interruptus.’

  ‘Insect interruptus,’ said Liza, dancing her fingertips across his taut stomach.

  ‘Bloody alfresco sex. Remind me never to try this again.’ Liza was feeling around on the grass behind him. ‘I can’t find my bra.’

  At that moment the bushes to the left of them began to rustle ominously.

  ‘Don’t tell me,’ murmured Kit, ‘it’s the Beast of Exmoor.’

  ‘Sounds big.’ Still hunting in vain for her favourite black bra, Liza managed to locate one of her shoes. ‘Must be a dog.’

  They both leapt a mile as the powerful beam of a torch snapped on.

  ‘Right. Stay where you are! Don’t move a muscle,’ barked a female voice.

  ‘Oh my God,’ hissed Liza, instinctively ducking behind Kit, ‘it’s Mrs McKnight from next door.

  Oh shit shit shit—’

  ‘Good grief,’ announced the female voice, which was deep, assertive and extremely effective when it came to bossing people about; forty years in teaching had seen to that. ‘Thought you were burglars! What on earth do you think you’re doing in my neighbour’s back garden?’

  There was a horrid clammy silence. All Liza could hear was her heart beating frantically against her ribs.

  ‘We aren’t burglars,’ said Kit. He reached for his white jeans and put them on.

  Mrs McKnight’s eyes boggled. ‘You’re trespassing!’

  ‘I know. I’m sorry.’ Calmly Kit found the rest of Liza’s clothes and handed them to her. Molly McKnight flicked the torch in the direction of the blackcurrant bushes into which the frog had hopped earlier. Dangling from one of the higher branches was Liza’s bra.

  ‘Whatever possessed you?’

  ‘It was a dare,’ Kit said simply.

  The lad was as cool as a cucumber. With merciless precision Molly McKnight swung the beam of the torch back to his girlfriend, skulking on the ground behind him, struggling frantically to get into her clothes. With her head bent and all that blonde hair tumbling over her face, it was impossible to see what she looked like.

  ‘Is your companion going to apologise too?’ The demand was brisk.

  ‘She’s Romanian.’ Kit shrugged. ‘Doesn’t speak any English.’

  ‘Hmmph.’

  ‘It won’t happen again.’

  ‘I should jolly well hope not.’

  ‘Sorry again,’ said Kit, grinning as he took Liza’s hand and led her towards the back gate.

  Shaking her head, half amused by his chutzpah, Molly McKnight watched them go.

  ‘Young people today, I don’t know,’ she sighed, just loudly enough for them to hear.

  The gate clicked shut behind them. Young people.

  What utter bliss.

  I love that woman,’ murmured Liza.

  Chapter 43

  Dulcie wondered if she was suffering from empty nest syndrome. Funny, she’d never imagined she’d miss Pru so much, but the house really did seem awfully empty.

  It was early on Sunday morning and the rest of the day stretched ahead. Deeply resentful that some inner alarm clock had been insensitive enough to wake her at six — she’d never had an inner alarm clock before — Dulcie poured herself a fourth cup of coffee and tried not to feel sorry for herself. This was her hard-earned day off, after all. She was supposed to be enjoying it.

  The trouble was, as Dulcie was belatedly discovering, enjoying yourself was more fun if you weren’t on your own. And now, for the first time in her life, she was.

  Patrick was busy being deliriously happy somewhere with Claire Berenger. Liam was doubtless busy being a prize stud somewhere with any number of women. Pru was working, catching up on her backlog of cleaning jobs.

  And Liza ... well, Liza hadn’t spoken to her since their fight and wasn’t likely to, considering the snide — and deeply unfair — remarks she’d made about Kit Berenger.

  Altogether, what with avoiding Brunton Manor because of Liam — not to mention being unable to face all those women who knew what a prat she’d made of herself over him — her remaining options were limited.

  I could go shopping, thought Dulcie, but even the prospect of spending money on unnecessary luxuries failed to exert its usual seductive pull.

  She bit her lip and gazed out of the window. The alternatives were equally dreary.

  She could – heaven help her – Go For A Nice Walk. This had always been her mother’s antidote to terminal teenage boredom.

  The answer was still no thanks.

  Or she could have a bath, eat biscuits and lie on the sofa watching wall-to-wall rubbish on television.

  At that moment the phone rang. Dulcie’s spirits soared as she raced to answer it. Talk about fate.

  ‘Hi, Dulcie? Brad Pitt speaking. You must come to my party ...’

  Or:

  ‘Dulcie, hey! It’s me, Sting. I’m sending the helicopter for you, okay? You’re spending the day with us.’

  Anything like that, really. Just something fun.

  ‘Dulcie. Good, you’re at home. All right if I drop by in about half an hour?’

  Okay, so it wasn’t Sting, but Dulcie still felt her heart do a clumsy somersault.

  Half an hour, she thought breathlessly. I can either shower, get dressed and do my face, or lie in the bath until he gets here and saunter dow
nstairs in a towel.

  When the doorbell rang exactly twenty-eight minutes later, Dulcie sauntered downstairs in a towel. Her black hair was slicked back from her face and her wet, Floris-scented skin glistened.

  Her green eyes, with their ultra-white whites, were bright with anticipation and half a bottle of hastily flung-in Eye Dew.

  The dark-blue velour towel, fetchingly clutched around her in a just-got-out-of-the-bath kind of way, could have been larger but it set off Dulcie’s tan beautifully.

  ‘Hi.’ Patrick barely glanced at either the towel or the tan. He strode past Dulcie into the hall.

  ‘Sorry to disturb you on a Sunday. Won’t be a sec; I just need to pick something up.’

  He sounded distant and briskly efficient, like a bankmanager. As she closed the door, Dulcie’s suspicions were confirmed. Claire Berenger was sitting in the passenger seat of Patrick’s car.

  When she saw Dulcie she smiled and waved.

  ‘Off to play frisbee in the park?’ Dulcie couldn’t help it. The taunt slipped out as Patrick made his way through to the sitting room. Leaving a trail of wet footprints, she followed him.

  ‘Liam not around?’ Patrick countered.

  ‘Oh ha ha,’ said Dulcie bitterly. ‘Please don’t pretend you don’t know.’

  He turned.

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘Come on, your spies must have told you. It’s over between me and Liam.’

  He looked genuinely shocked.

  ‘I had no idea. The girl from the office downstairs is away on holiday.’

  ‘Funny, you’d think Liza might have mentioned it.’ Dig dig.

  Patrick ignored this. ‘I haven’t seen Liza for weeks. When did it happen?’ His eyes darkened with concern. ‘God, that’s terrible. I’m so sorry. How are you coping?’

  Pride welled up. Defiantly, Dulcie lifted her chin. ‘Fine. I’ve got myself a job.’

  ‘But the baby—’

  Oh hell, this wasn’t going to plan at all. She’d completely forgotten about the baby.

  ‘There isn’t one.’ Best to just blurt it out, she decided wearily.

  But the look on Patrick’s face was extraordinary. ‘Oh, Dulcie ...’

  As he said her name, his voice broke. The next thing Dulcie knew, he had his arms around her.

  He was holding her, hugging her. She breathed in the blissfully familiar smell of his skin. It felt wonderful, but she knew she had to get a grip. She had to start telling the truth.

  ‘I didn’t lose the baby,’ Dulcie muttered, wishing the hug could go on forever. ‘There never was one in the first place.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I thought I was pregnant.’ She kept her face buried against his chest. Oh well, she’d told enough truth for one day. ‘But I wasn’t. It was a mistake.’

  The comforting hug was taken away. Uncertain now, Patrick stepped back and pushed his fingers through his dark hair as he always did when faced with a dilemma.

  ‘Oh. Right. Well, sorry anyway.’

  ‘No need,’ said Dulcie. ‘Liam’s a jerk. He’s no loss, and who wants a screaming baby anyway?’

  There was a huge lump in her throat but she resolutely ignored it. Pulling the dark-blue towel more securely around her she went on in a businesslike manner, ‘What was it you needed? I thought you’d taken all your clothes.’

  ‘Passport.’ Patrick turned his attention to the old oak dresser, whose top drawers were crammed with a motley collection of old bills, out-of-date MOTs, rolls of Sellotape and a million rubber bands. With any luck, this was also where he’d find his passport.

  Dulcie heard her voice go all high and unnatural, as if she’d just taken a furtive gulp of helium.

  ‘Really? Going away somewhere? Anywhere nice?’

  ‘Amsterdam.’

  She said the first words that came into her head. ‘Watch out; lots of prostitutes in Amsterdam.’

  ‘I’ll have Claire with me,’ Patrick remarked drily, ‘so maybe she’ll be able to beat them off with a stick.’

  He had his back to her as he searched through the drawer’s muddled contents. Suffused with misery and longing, Dulcie watched him for as long as she dared. He was going away on holiday with Claire. This, from the man who regarded interrupting work to grab a sandwich as a waste of time.

  ‘Hang on, I think I’ve seen it upstairs,’ said Dulcie. She knew exactly where his passport was, filed away along with a stash of expensive half-used make-up in a silver basket on top of her dressing table.

  Earlier, in the bath, she had fantasised a dozen different ways of enticing Patrick upstairs to the bedroom they had once shared.

  Now, clearly, this idea was no longer on.

  The bath towel had been a mistake too.

  ‘Wait there, I’ll get it,’ said Dulcie.

  When she reappeared, she handed Patrick the passport. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Dulcie nodded.

  ‘Of course I am.’

  ‘And ...’ he frowned, looking doubtful, ‘sorry, but did you say you had a job?’

  Another nod.

  ‘This I’ve got to see.’ Patrick’s smile was sceptical; it was the one he’d generally used when Dulcie had insisted on reading him his horoscope.

  ‘It’s nothing special.’ She spoke with a trace of defiance. ‘Just a spot of waitressing. More of a social thing, really.’

  ‘I’d still like to see it with my own eyes.’

  Dulcie, who had her image to think of, definitely didn’t want him to see her sweating away in the café’s cramped kitchen. She pulled open the front door.

  ‘Mustn’t keep Claire waiting. Enjoy your holiday.’

  Evidently still entertained by the idea of Dulcie doing anything and actually getting paid for it, Patrick said, ‘And you enjoy your job. One thing, though, Dulcie.’

  ‘Yes?’

  He grinned. ‘Don’t let them work you too hard.’

  It was remarks like that, thought Dulcie as she closed the door, that made you wish you’d chucked your husband’s precious passport down the nearest loo.

  As soon as she settled herself back in the bath, the phone shrilled again. One of life’s major irritations, Dulcie was reminded, was the fact that you bought a cordless phone specifically so you could take the thing into the bathroom with you, but you never actually remembered to bloody well do it.

  By the time she reached the phone it had stopped ringing. Dripping all over the carpet as she dialled 147I, Dulcie was astounded to be told by the metallic voice that the number of the last person to ring her was Liza’s.

  This was frustrating, because if Liza was calling to apologise for the other night, she now thought Dulcie was out.

  If I ring her back, thought Dulcie, I might have to apologise first.

  Instead she dialled Liza’s number, let it ring twice and hung up.

  Now Liza could call 147I.

  Less than a minute later, Dulcie’s phone rang again. ‘It’s me,’ said Liza. ‘I’m returning your call.’

  ‘Oh. hello,’ Dulcie said airily. ‘I was only returning yours.’

  ‘You rang me.’

  ‘You rang me first.’

  ‘Oh what, so you want me to apologise for the other night?’

  ‘Isn’t that why you phoned?’

  Silence. Dulcie heard a brief scuffle at the other end. Then Kit came on the line.

  ‘Dulcie, Liza’s sorry she had a go at you. I’m sure you’re sorry too, for those cruel and uncalled-for remarks you made.’

  Wincing, Dulcie wondered if he knew the remarks had been about him.

  She cleared her throat.

  ‘Well, I—’

  ‘You are? Good, that’s that sorted out. Now you can be friends again,’ Kit announced cheerfully.

  ‘Now, what are you doing at the moment?’

  ‘Trying to have a bath.’

  ‘Okay, so put the phone down and go and have one. We’ll be round in twenty minutes. And make
sure you’re decent when we arrive.’ Kit sounded amused. ‘I’m far too young to cope with the sight of a middle-aged woman naked.’

  Chapter 44

  ‘I’m sorry I was a cow,’ said Dulcie.

  Liza gave her a hug.

  ‘Me too.’

  ‘And I’m not middle-aged,’ Dulcie told Kit, who was carrying in two bottles of Bollinger.

  ‘You are to me.’ He grinned. ‘But never mind, I’ll let you off. If you find some glasses you can help us celebrate.’

  It wasn’t hard to guess what they were celebrating. Liza was looking radiant and ridiculously happy.

  ‘You made up. You’re back together.’

  ‘Back together for good,’ said Kit. ‘All very Mills and Boon. Even her parents like me.’

  ‘Good grief. How about your father?’ Dulcie asked him. ‘Oh well, no change there. He’s a stubborn old bugger but we’ll work on it. Give him a few years.’

  ‘I can’t believe you’ve met Liza’s parents.You are honoured,’ Dulcie marvelled. In the past, the rapid turnover of men in Liza’s life had meant she’d never bothered.

  ‘That’s nothing,’ Kit winked. ‘I met their next-door neighbour too.’

  Although Dulcie was glad to see them back together, she refused their offer to take her out to lunch. The sexual chemistry between them was overwhelming. They were having difficulty keeping their hands off each other and Kit was clearly dying to take Liza home to bed.

  By the time both bottles had been emptied and all the gossip caught up on, it was almost a relief to stand on the doorstep and wave goodbye.

  Depressed and light-headed from drinking on an empty stomach, Dulcie dozed on the sofa. She woke up at four o’clock depressed and heavy-headed instead, and with a raging thirst to boot.

  Worst of all, it was still Sunday. Talk about dragging on.

  There was nothing on television. To pass a bit of time she meticulously painted her nails a dramatic shade of red. Only when she’d finished the third coat did she remember she couldn’t work in Rufus’s kitchen wearing nail polish. It all had to come off.

  This time when the phone rang, it was Rufus.

  ‘Oh hi,’ said Dulcie listlessly. She was currently trying to decide whether to peel off the kitchen wallpaper just for something to do, or have another bath.