by Jill Mansell
‘Oi! Any danger of getting served in this place?’ demanded a bolshie-looking man in a brown suit.
Dulcie gave him a saccharine smile.
‘I’ll be with you in just a moment, sir.’
‘Sorry, I’m going to get you the sack.’ Imelda looked rueful.
Dulcie handed over her change. ‘I won’t get sacked. The slimeball manager fancies me rotten and I’m the hardest worker he has.’ And speaking of slimeballs ... ‘How’s Liam, by the way?’
‘Oh, we broke up. Well, it was pretty mutual,’ said Imelda, not very convincingly.
‘Some of us are dying of thirst over here,’ yelled another irritated customer.
‘... we were heading in different directions ...’
‘Sixteen pints of best and a medium sherry, when you’re ready.’
.. wanting different things out of life ...’
‘You mean he dumped you too,’ said Dulcie. To her amazement she found herself actually feeling sorry for Imelda.
Imelda’s shoulders drooped, but she managed a flicker of a smile.
‘Yeah. Bastard.’
‘Bastard,’ Dulcie agreed, nodding sympathetically. How stupidly they’d both behaved, vying with each other over such a total waste of space. ‘Who’s he moved on to now?’
‘Fifi Goodison-Blake.’
‘You’re kidding! That nymphet! How old is she, seventeen?’
‘And a half,’ said Imelda. ‘Disgusting, isn’t it?’
Fifi, a promising tennis player, was the impressionable daughter of Betsy, a long-standing member of the club. Even though she was a nymphet, Dulcie felt sorry for her. She remembered all too well how Liam had first broken her own, frantically pounding teenage heart.
Well, chipped the edges a bit anyway.
‘Poor kid,’ she mused, ‘she’ll be devastated when it’s over.’ Imelda picked up her drinks.
‘And it isn’t as if she’ll be able to cry on her mother’s shoulder,’ she said, unable to resist sharing the latest bit of gossip with her erstwhile rival. ‘Rumour has it he’s having it off with Betsy on the quiet too.’
Robert and Delia Cresswell were social workers; they lived in a three-storey Georgian townhouse with three children and seven cats, and nobody collected friends like Robert and Delia.
They were people people, endlessly enthusiastic, interested in everyone and so essentially good-hearted that rebuffing them made anyone who tried it feel a complete heel.
It was a kind of blackmail, but it was extremely efficient blackmail. When Robert and Delia held one of their legendaryparties, they invited everyone they knew. And everyone turned up.
James spotted Liza across the crowded drawing room. For a split second he wondered how long it had been since he’d last seen her, then it came back to him. The night of Patrick’s fortieth birthday, when he had walked out on Bibi. The surprise party to end all surprise parties, thought James. Christ, how could he forget?
Now, Liza was wearing a plum-coloured crushed-velvet dress and her thick blonde hair, tumbling over her shoulders, had grown longer since January. Otherwise, to the casual observer, she looked as untroubled and effortlessly sexy as ever.
Only when James moved closer did the difference become apparent. The pain might be carefully concealed but it was still there.
Liza, he realised, had been dragged into a heated discussion with a group of Delia’s fellow social workers about the various vegetarian restaurants in Bath. Alarmingly critical and determined to prove they knew just as much about food as Liza, they were now arguing loudly about the relative merits of buffalo and ordinary mozzarella.
James watched Liza’s dark eyes glaze over. Sympathising totally, he reached past the noisiest of the social workers and touched her arm.
He was rewarded by her face lighting up.
‘James! How lovely to see you.’
‘Need rescuing?’ he murmured as he kissed her cheek, and felt Liza’s answering nod.
‘Thanks.’ She breathed a sigh of relief when he had extricated her from the circle. ‘Phew. The great mozzarella debate. I couldn’t have taken much more of that.’
James shook his head. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘If you know Robert and Delia, you know why I’m here,’ Liza said with a wry smile. ‘Since I’ve known them, they’ve invited me to every party they’ve had. I’m actually staying with my parents at the moment, down in Devon, but I drive back every week to keep an eye on the flat. Delia spotted me and insisted I came along here tonight. The more I tried to tell her I didn’t feel up to it, the more convinced she became that a party was what I needed to buck me up.’
Poor Liza, fallen helpless victim to Robert and Delia’s bulldozer approach.
‘And has it?’
‘Of course it hasn’t. But they meant well,’ said Liza. ‘It’s my own fault anyway for being too much of a wimp to say no.’
She had lost some weight, James noticed. The famously voluptuous figure had been pared down, that mesmerising cleavage had shrunk. Being thinner didn’t particularly suit her, but since he knew she hadn’t done it on purpose he didn’t point it out.
‘I read about you and Kit Berenger in the paper, of course. I was so sorry to hear about ... you know, what happened.’
James felt awkward; it was always hard to know what to say. But Liza simply nodded. She understood.
‘He was the love of my life, James. You know what I used to be like. Kit changed all that. Then, suddenly, something like that happens ... and he’s gone. There was nothing I could do about it. I never even had a chance to say goodbye.’
There was a catch in her voice. She was pale and not far from tears, he realised, but determined not to break down in public.
‘Come on.’ James took her hand. ‘You’ve done your duty. I’ll drive you home.’
‘It’s okay, I’m not going to cry.’
‘Do you want to stay?’
Wearily Liza smiled and shook her head.
‘Oh no. I’d definitely prefer to go home.’
Outside, frost glistened on the road. Their breath came out in white puffballs of condensation and hung in the air before them. Shivering, Liza waited at the top of the steps for James to find whatever he was searching for in his coat pocket.
Finally, pulling out his keys, he aimed at a blue Mazdaparked twenty yards down the road on their right. The central locking beeped and clicked open.
‘You don’t have to drive me home,’ said Liza.
‘Don’t be silly.’
‘Really, there’s no need.’
James led her gently but firmly down the flight of stone steps and pointed her in the direction of the Mazda.
‘Liza, don’t argue. It’s no trouble. I want to drive you home.’
She took the keys from him, zapped the car and locked it again.
‘Dear James,’ Liza’s smile was affectionate, ‘you’re a gentleman, but what I mean is, there’s really no need.’ She patted the railings in front of the house they were just passing. ‘I live here.’
They chatted easily together in the kitchen of Liza’s flat while she made coffee and poured each of them a brandy.
‘I met the Cresswells at the opening of an exhibition at the Pelican Gallery,’ James explained.
‘Robert introduced me to Delia’s sister. You know what they’re like when it comes to matchmaking.’
Liza knew.
‘Did it work?’
‘No,’ said James simply. ‘Oh, she was a nice enough girl. But she just ...’
She just wasn’t Bibi.
Liza poured the coffee and carried the cups through to the sitting room. James followed with the glasses of brandy.
As she reached down to switch on a red shaded lamp, Liza said, ‘Do you still miss her?’
Bibi’s name hadn’t been mentioned but James didn’t need to ask who she meant.
He still missed Bibi terribly.
He looked at Liza, and shrugged.
‘Al
l the time.’
They sat down next to each other on the sofa. With her left hand, Liza pleated and repleated the velvet hem of her dress. ‘Are you involved with anyone else?’
‘No.’ He shook his head.
‘I spoke to Patrick last week. Bibi isn’t seeing anyone either.’ James’s heart leapt, then fell again. It was what he wanted to hear, of course. But then again .. .
‘What’s the point?’ Wearily he stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘Even if I do still love her — and God only knows how she feels about me — what would be the point? She’s still thirteen years older than I am.’ He sounded resigned. ‘She’ll always be thirteen years older than me.’
‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ Liza said bluntly. ‘No, hang on, I’ll tell you. You’re afraid that in ten or twenty years’ time Bibi will either go loopy and need looking after, or die.’ She paused, fixing James with her steady gaze. ‘So what am I, spot on?’
It was impossible to lie to Liza. James had had long enough to think about it now. He had got over his initial outrage at being deliberately deceived.
‘I suppose so.’ Reluctantly he nodded.
‘But in the meantime you’re miserable and Bibi’s miserable,’ Liza went on, ‘and the whole of this last year has been a waste.’
‘Look, I know what you’re saying. I just—’
‘Please, James. I wasted time too, agonising over the fact that I was older than Kit.’ She shrugged. ‘And look what happened.’
‘I know, I know.’
‘If you have a chance to be happy, take it,’ Liza told him, ‘and sod what might happen in twenty years’ time. Believe me,’ she said simply, life’s too short.’
It was midnight when James finally made a move to leave. Opening the front door to let him out, Liza rubbed her arms as the icy night air swirled into the hallway.
In the dim porch light, she saw the flecks of silver glinting in James’s neat dark beard. They hadn’t been there last year.
She reached up and touched the soft bristles.
‘You’re going grey.’
He pulled a face.
‘Thanks a lot.’
‘No, it suits you.’
‘I’ve spent the last year feeling pretty grey.’
‘You could do something about that,’ said Liza.
‘What, Grecian 2000?’
‘I mean get in touch with Bibi.’
James reached for her hand. He held it for a few seconds then kissed her fingertips, breathing in the faint oriental scent of her perfume.
‘You’re thinking something,’ said Liza. ‘What are you thinking?’
‘How beautiful you are. And how desirable.’ He smiled and shook his head, marvelling at the fact that he was able to say the words aloud. ‘I was thinking that if things had been different, if it hadn’t been for Bibi ... and Kit ... I wonder if we could have got together.’
‘How weird, that’s what I was thinking too.’
‘And?’
‘Well,’ said Liza, ‘with my track record, I’d say it would definitely have been on the cards. But there again, with my track record ...’ She bit her lip and smiled.
‘... we’d have lasted all of two weeks.’ James finished the sentence for her.
‘Who knows, maybe even three.’
He grinned.
‘Three. I’m flattered.’
Liza’s mouth was inches away from his own. He could have kissed her, but he didn’t.
‘It’s better this way.’ Liza was still smiling but her teeth were starting to chatter. ‘Friends last longer than lovers.’
Across the road, a group of partygoers who had spilled out of Robert and Delia’s house were now piling noisily into their cars.
‘You’re shivering. Time I was gone,’ said James. He gave Liza a hug.
She returned the hug and kissed him fondly on the cheek.
‘Have a good Christmas.’ Giving him a meaningful look, she added, ‘Make it a good Christmas.’
James wondered what kind of a Christmas Liza could look forward to this year. He nodded, feeling desperately sorry for her.
‘You too.’
Chapter 51
There were two weeks to go and everyone within a fifty-mile radius of Bath had decided to do all their late-night Christmas shopping tonight.
At least that was how it felt to Dulcie. The streets were crammed with frenzied spenders, the queues to even get inside some of the shops were diabolical. Worst of all, there was no point in giving up and going home, because from now until Christmas Day itself, it was only going to get worse.
Dulcie, stuck in the middle of this mayhem, wasn’t sure what she was experiencing but it was some kind of rage.
Not road rage, because this area of the city was pedestrianised.
Not trolley rage, because she didn’t have a trolley. Although one would have come in incredibly useful.
Maybe Yule rage, thought Dulcie, battling her way through BabyGap and cracking her ankle on a pushchair being steered by a hopeless learner.
Grimly, she elbowed a stockbroker type out of the way and bagged a brilliant Santa scarf for her three-year-old goddaughter. The last pair of matching mittens had just been snatched up by the scowling stockbroker. Dulcie watched him fling them into his wire basket, on top of a pile of other clothes. Her fingers itched. Polly would love a pair of mittens to match the scarf .. .
Oh no, that’s sick, thought Dulcie, horrified by the thoughts flashing through her mind. What kind of pond life was she to even think of doing something so-
‘Are you going to stand there all day?’ hissed the stockbroker, ramming the basket against Dulcie’s hip as he barged past.
She whisked the mittens out of the basket and out of sight. The irritable stockbroker headed for the queue at the till and Dulcie melted away in the opposite direction. Two minutes later, while she was investigating denim dungarees, she heard a bellow of fury over by the till.
‘Who the buggering hell has made off with my sodding gloves?’
He didn’t sound so much like a stockbroker now.
Dulcie kept her face averted. She didn’t want to get embroiled in a nasty attack of mitten rage.
By seven thirty Dulcie was carrying fifteen bags, her arms were practically out of their sockets and the soles of her feet hurt so much they burned.
Queueing in a newsagent’s for a can of Coke, she overheard a woman say there had been a pile-up outside the Blenheim Street car park. Apparently the place was gridlocked, no one was getting in or out.
With a sigh Dulcie paid for two cans of Coke, carried them outside and looked around for somewhere to sit down. She may as well rest her feet and wait for the car park to unblock itself before heading back to the car.
A Salvation Army band was playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ in the centre of the precinct, and all but one of the benches around them were full. Limping, Dulcie lugged her bags over to the only bench that wasn’t, and realised her mistake two seconds too late.
‘Here, let me give you a hand with those,’ said the boy who was the only other occupant. From a distance he’d looked okay, but now she was close up, Dulcie saw the mousy matted dreadlocks, the filthy clothes and the bottle of Tennant’s Export sticking out of his coat pocket. He smelled awful and — oh help — something furtive was going on in the vicinity of his lap.
Dulcie tried to hang on to her bags but they were out of control, slithering in all directions.
Leaning over, the boy helped her to pick them up. She wondered if he was about to do a runner, make off with her Christmas shopping, and if he did would he be pleased with the Penhaligon’s bluebell soap and foaming bath oil?
‘Been buying presents?’ His tone was conversational. Dulcie nodded, flipped the ring pull of the first Coke, and determinedly didn’t look at his trousers.
‘Wish I had money to buy presents.’ His tone was sorrowful. ‘Some Christmas we’ll be having this year.’
‘Mm,’ said Dulcie.
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‘Couldn’t spare a few coppers, could you? Not for me,’ the boy assured her earnestly, ‘for my dog.’
Daring to look at last, Dulcie saw that the movement in his grubby lap was in fact a squirming beige puppy. Relieved that he hadn’t been exposing himself to her, she fished around in her pocket for change.
‘Sixty-five pence?’ The boy gazed at the coins in the palm of his hand. He looked disappointed.
‘I mean thanks, but I’m not going to be able to buy little Squatter much of a Christmas present with that, am I?’
Dulcie was beginning to feel like a plague victim. She appeared to be sitting in the middle of the Bermuda Triangle; everyone was giving her bench an extraordinarily wide berth. Some were shooting her sympathetic glances. Others, observing her predicament, were clearly thinking: sucker.
She took her purse out of her handbag and opened it while the boy looked on, his eyes bright with interest. She had, of course, used up the last of her change buying the cans of Coke.
Hating herself, knowing she was being half conned, half intimidated, Dulcie gave him a fiver and prayed he’d go away.
The boy grinned, revealing surprisingly white teeth, and tucked the rolled-up note into his sock.
‘The thing is,’ he said chattily, ‘if you can afford a fiver, you can afford a tenner.’
‘What?’
‘That wouldn’t be too much to ask, would it?’
‘This is called pushing your luck,’ said Dulcie.
‘It’s called trying to get by. Come on, look at you,’ the boy drawled, indicating the fifteen glossy carrier bags with a grubby thumb. ‘Look at the places you shop. How can it be fair, eh? You’ve got everything and I’ve got nothing. So tell me, how can that be fair?’
The Salvation Army band, having stopped for a breather, now picked up their instruments and launched into a jaunty version of ‘O Come All Ye Faithful’.
‘You haven’t got nothing.’ Dulcie had to raise her voice to make herself heard over the sound of the brass instruments oompa-ing away with gusto. ‘You’ve had a fiver from me and you’re not getting any more, so just leave me alone, okay?’