by Jill Mansell
It was already ten o’clock; she was one of the late arrivals. Pausing at the entrance to the packed ballroom, Dulcie surveyed the throng. Imelda, having barged on ahead, was over at the bar buying drinks and flirting outrageously with a huge fair-haired rugby type. All the bar staff were wearing furry antlers. The ballroom had been decked out in silver and white and the DJ was wearing a Father-Christmas-meetsJean-Paul-Gaultier fur-trimmed red PVC cape and matching jockstrap.
The dance floor bulged with guests leaping around like lunatics to Slade’s ‘Merry Christmas Everybody’. Bellowing out the few words they knew, they were clearly well away.
Dulcie felt horribly sober. She hoped Imelda was getting her a large one.
Pru, spotting her from the dance floor, came over and gave her a hug. The difference with real friends, thought Dulcie, was their kisses actually touched your cheeks.
‘Thank goodness, I thought you weren’t coming,’ Pru yelled above the noise.
Dulcie smiled. ‘Oh no, I’m here. With my new best friend.’
Pru glanced over her shoulder, in the direction of Dulcie’s brief nod. Imelda was making her way towards them with two glasses held triumphantly aloft.
‘Hmm. Just so long as you don’t forget your old best friends.’
‘Don’t worry.’ Dulcie’s tone was dry; Imelda had phoned her up three times in the last week.
‘She’s single, I’m single. She’s only doing it because she’s desperate for someone to go around with.’
‘Here we are!’ Imelda plonked a brimming glass into Dulcie’s hand. ‘Cheers! Look, I’ll be back in a sec, okay? That dishy guy over at the bar’s just asked me to dance.’
Dulcie wondered if a grown man sporting a bow tie that lit up and spun around like a Catherine wheel could ever truly be described as a dish.
‘Is that the gorgeous one you were talking to earlier?’
‘No, I’ve lost him.’ Imelda shrugged and grinned. ‘Never mind, this one will do nicely until ‘I find him again.’ Her eyes lit up. ‘He’s a doctor, too. Dreamy or what?’
‘I bet he’s a porter,’ said Dulcie. ‘Porters always tell girls they’re doctors.’ Unable to resist the dig, she added, ‘What did the other one tell you he was? Airline pilot, polo player or something in the SAS?’
Imelda wrinkled her nose.
‘Bit of a disappointment, actually. He said he was unemployed.’
‘I spoke to Liza this afternoon,’ said Dulcie when Imelda had sashayed off. ‘Couldn’t persuade her to come along. She’s driving down to Devon tonight, spending Christmas and New Year with her parents.’
‘And Eddie and ‘I will be up in Manchester with his family over the New Year,’ said Pm. ‘I mean, I’m looking forward to it, but it won’t be the same. We’ll miss our usual get-together.’
She looked worried. ‘I feel awful, as if we’re abandoning you. What will you do this year, made any plans yet?’
‘Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine,’ Dulcie said firmly. ‘If she isn’t off playing doctors and nurses, I’ll go out with Imelda. Or if ‘I really want to have fun,’ she added with forced cheerfulness, ‘I can work a double shift in the pub.’
Eddie came up to them, grinning and waving a fax. He kissed Dulcie and give the fax to Pru to read.
‘How are you, darling? Oh dear, I know I shouldn’t laugh, but this just came through from Zermatt.’
‘What is it?’ asked Dulcie curiously as Pru began to giggle. ‘It really isn’t funny.’ Eddie tried hard to sound severe. ‘Poor Liam—’
‘What is it?’ demanded Dulcie, making a grab for the sheet of paper.
‘He sent it from his hospital bed. He’s in traction,’ said Pru. ‘Apparently he fell off a ski lift and broke both his legs.’
‘I told him skiing was dangerous,’ said Eddie, ‘but he assured me he was an expert. He said only people who were unfit had accidents.’ He shook his head, brushing away tears of laughter. ‘I told him only idiots slide down mountains on skis. Lazing around on a hot beach – now that’s my idea of a holiday.’
Until that moment, Dulcie had cheered up. Now she experienced a pang of misery.
‘That’s what Patrick’s doing right now. He’s in Bali,’ she struggled to sound normal, ‘with Claire.’
Pru frowned.
‘I don’t think he is.’
‘Well, somewhere like that. Bali ... Barbados ... somewhere hot and exotic. Not Skegness,’
Dulcie added bitterly, ‘that’s for sure.’
‘No, I mean ‘I don’t think he’s away. He phoned me this morning. Asked me if you were going to Roger and Abby Alford’s party tonight.’
‘Roger and Abby Alford?’ Bewildered, Dulcie said, ‘I haven’t seen them for years!’
‘Well,’ Pru shrugged, ‘I said no, anyway. ‘I told him you were coming here.’
Imelda was still on the dance floor, all but undressing her dishy doctor. Dulcie bought herself another drink and found a wall to lean against; she picked abstractedly at the polish on one of her thumb nails and tried without much success to ignore the horrid lurching sensation in her stomach.
It had come as a shock, discovering that Patrick had actually reached the stage where he wanted to avoid her. Pretty obviously, he was only prepared to go to the Alfords’ party if he knew for sure that she wouldn’t be there.
I’ve really lost him now, thought Dulcie miserably. He doesn’t even want to be friends any more.
‘Cheer up, it might never happen.’
‘Oh fuck off.’ Dulcie didn’t even bother to look up. She was studying her thumb nail, with its unattractive picked-off burgundy polish. Really, tonight was turning into one disaster after another.
‘Dulcie!’ exclaimed the voice, half-amused, half-shocked, and this time she recognised it.
She gave Rufus a hug. He was looking somewhat out ofplace in his blue woolly sweater and a pair of worn-at-theknee fawn corduroy trousers, but his eyes were bright and he was evidently delighted to see her.
‘I’m sorry, I thought ‘I was about to be chatted up by a prat.’ Dulcie smiled and touched his bristly cheek. ‘You’re growing your beard back! What on earth are you doing here?’
‘I know, hardly my scene. Some friends dragged me along.’ He sounded abashed. ‘And now I look an idiot. I must say, I didn’t realise it was going to be quite so smart.’ He indicated Dulcie’s jade-green satin dress and added admiringly, ‘Not like you, of course. You look fantastic. I’d ask you to dance, but I’d only show you up.’
He was right. Over his woolly shoulder, Dulcie saw a group of Brunton Manor regulars — a particularly snotty group — nudging each other and smirking. She took Rufus’s hand and led him past them, saying loudly as they went ‘... darling, that’s the whole point of being a multi-millionaire, you can get away with wearing anything you like.’
They danced to George Michael’s ‘Last Christmas’.
‘Oh Lord, was that your foot? Sorry ... oops, done it again ... sorry!’
But it was so nice to see him again, Dulcie didn’t even mind her toes being broken.
She grinned at Rufus. ‘Ever thought of taking up wine-making? You’d be brilliant at trampling grapes.’
He looked anxious. ‘Would you rather sit down?’
‘No, you might get the hang of it in a minute. Anyway, you’ve cheered me up. Tell me what’s been happening in the café. Tell me what you’re doing for Christmas.’
Tell me anything to stop me thinking about Patrick...
Aargh!’ yelped Dulcie as Rufus whirled her round, managing to step on both feet at once and —
astonishingly — trying to pull the front of his baggy sweater over her head. Half suffocating beneath the scratchy wool she screeched, ‘What’s going on?’
‘Shh, stay there, don’t let her see you,’ he hissed urgently.
‘That blonde over there – she’s the one you splattered from head to foot with ratatouille ...’
Standing slightly away from th
e dance floor, surrounded by noisy revellers setting off party poppers, Patrick watched Dulcie. She was laughing and chattering away, clearly enjoying herself and not in the least bothered by the fact that the object of her attentions appeared to have at least three left feet.
A pretty young girl not long out of her teens brushed past, making deliberate contact. She smiled mock-apologetically up at Patrick, giving him his cue to say something in return.
Patrick pretended not to notice and carried on watching Dulcie, who was now affectionately stroking her partner’s beard. Since she had always loathed beards, this was less than promising.
She certainly seemed fond of this one.
Patrick, tight-lipped with disappointment, wondered if coming here tonight had, after all, been a huge mistake.
‘Hi!’ The girl who had just brushed past him was back, making eye contact for all she was worth and waving a menthol cigarette. ‘Got a light?’
Dulcie was being twirled rather over-ambitiously around in circles when she thought she saw Patrick.
At first she thought she might be imagining it, maybe suffering a lack of oxygen to the brain as a result of all that centrifugal force. She dug her heels in and stopped twirling. Caught off-guard, Rufus almost fell over.
‘Sorry, was ‘I going too fast?’
‘Just felt a bit dizzy,’ murmured Dulcie. It was true. Her heart was racing too. She craned her neck, searching the sea of faces around the dance floor, seeking out the only one that mattered.
Then she saw him again and her heart did a tremendous swallow dive. It hadn’t been a hallucination after all. ‘Had enough?’ panted Rufus.
‘Um ... sorry?’
Rufus saw her staring at someone in the crowd. The expression on her face was unmistakable.
His face fell.
‘Have you seen someone you like?’
‘What?’ Dulcie shook her head and forced herself to concentrate. Then she smiled at Rufus.
‘Well, you could put it like that.’
Chapter 55
‘Hello, you,’ said Dulcie.
‘Hello,’ said Patrick, dry-mouthed.
‘You’re here.’ Oh help ... inane, inane. ‘I mean, ‘I thought you were going to the Alfords’ party.’
Patrick, who had never had any intention of going to the Alfords’ party — chiefly because they weren’t having one — shook his head slightly.
‘Decided against it. Too far to drive.’
So where’s Saint Claire? Dulcie longed to blurt out. Why isn’t she with you?
But she couldn’t bring herself to say it, didn’t dare. It might break the spell.
Instead she nodded, quite unable to remember where Roger and Abby Alford lived.
‘Oh definitely, much too far to drive. Much easier to come here. Er ... how’s ... how’s work?’
Good grief, thought Dulcie, am ‘I a contender for Sparkling Conversationalist of the Year or what?
Her only consolation was that at least this was her husband she was making a fool of herself in front of. At least Patrick knew her, knew she could do better than this. If he’d been a total stranger he’d be off like a shot.
‘Excuse me, sorry to bother you again, but ‘I just wondered if you had the time?’
Dulcie turned and looked at the young girl gazing besottedly up at Patrick. She recognised the expression on Patrick’s face too; he looked trapped and faintly uncomfortable.
He’d always been hopeless at being chatted up.
‘It’s ten past eleven,’ said Dulcie, reaching over and consulting Patrick’s watch on his behalf.
She gave the girl a brief smile. ‘Time you picked on someone your own age.’
‘This is my wife,’ Patrick cut in hurriedly as the blonde girl, looking indignant, opened her mouth to reply. ‘She bought me this watch last Christmas ...’
‘Oops,’ Dulcie announced cheerfully when the girl had flounced off. ‘Don’t say I upset her.’
‘Sorry about the wife bit.’ Patrick sounded embarrassed. ‘It was just to get rid of her.’ He hesitated, wondering what his next move should be. ‘Do you need a drink?’
Dulcie was easing off one of her shoes, seeing if she could still wriggle her trampled-on toes.
‘I need crutches. Rufus isn’t much of a dancer.’
Patrick wondered where Rufus had got to. He forced himself to sound casual.
‘Who is he, new boyfriend?’
‘God, no!’ Dulcie shook her head so hard her earrings rattled. ‘New boyfriend? Definitely not!
And yes, Id love a drink.’
When Patrick had been served, they moved away from the bar to a less crowded area by the entrance to the ballroom. Still dying to know where Claire was, Dulcie was about to open her mouth when Patrick said, ‘Sorry, you asked me how work was going.’
Oh yes, that inspired conversation-opener. One of the all-time greats, along with ‘What about this weather we’ve been having lately?’ and ‘Where did you get that tie?’
But Dulcie, succumbing to the gin, was finally beginning to relax. She tilted her head to one side.
‘Well, to tell you the truth, I’m amazed you’re here. ‘I mean, it is only half past eleven on Christmas Eve. I’d have thought you’d still be in your office, slaving away over your computer, up to your eyes in work ...’
‘I sold the business.’
.. and what about tomorrow? Don’t tell me you’re taking Christmas Day off too. Good grief, Patrick, is this any way to build an empire? Does Bill Gates take time off on Christmas Day?
How can you ... you ... you did what?’
Dulcie’s voice faltered and died as – at long last – his words sank in.
He shrugged.
‘I sold the company.’
‘But ... but when?’
‘Signed the contract yesterday afternoon.’
Aware that she was asking the wrong questions in the wrong order but unable to do a thing about it, Dulcie said inanely – as if she cared – ‘Who to?’
‘An American company: MegaCorps, in Dallas. They made an offer to buy me out ... and ‘I said yes.’ Patrick spoke casually as if the decision had been effortless, the simplest in the world to make. ‘They want me to work for them, do some freelance design stuff—’
‘You’re going to work in America?’ Dulcie felt sick. Within milliseconds her brain conjured up images of Patrick and Claire moving into their new home, a Southfork type of house with a huge pool and lots of cowboys striding about in stetsons, calling Claire ma’am and lassoing anything that mooed.
Dulcie blinked but the mental image wouldn’t go away. Now she saw Patrick and Claire hosting their annual barbecue, joining in the hoedown, cheering on the riders in the rodeo and hoisting excited children up on to their shoulders ... children with Patrick’s good looks, Claire’s saintly temperament and high-pitched Texan accents you could grate ice on .. .
‘No.’ Patrick’s voice dragged her back to earth. ‘God, ‘I wouldn’t live in Dallas if you paid me.’
Firmly, he shook his head. ‘I’m staying here.’
Just as well, thought Dulcie, light-headed with relief. He’d be useless at hoeing-down.
‘But why?’ she finally managed to say. ‘What made youdecide to sell the company after you worked so hard to build it up?’
Patrick shrugged again.
‘I just thought it was time to take a break. Work isn’t the be-all and end-all; there are more important things in life. So that’s it, from now on I’m going to keep the hours down, take things easy and enjoy myself.’
Dulcie stared at him, white-faced, wondering if she could possibly be hearing these words issuing forth from this mouth. She wanted to hit him.
‘What?’ said Patrick. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’ Dulcie spoke through gritted teeth.
‘That’s what ‘I spent the last five years telling you to do. How many times did I say you shouldn’t be working so hard? But did you take a blind bit of notice? Like hell
you did. You ignored me—’
‘I know, ‘I know,’ Patrick cut in. He held up his hand. ‘I made a mistake. You were right and I was wrong. There, does that make you happy?’
Was he serious?
Oh yes, great, thought Dulcie wildly, I spend five years telling you not to work so bloody hard, you take no notice at all, our marriage goes down the tubes, then you meet the girl of your dreams and decide you needn’t work so hard after all ... and you seriously expect me to be happy?
The urge to slap was overtaken by the urge to grab Patrick by the lapels, shake him until his teeth rattled, scream hysterically and call him a lot of names, stupid, selfish bastard being the least of them.
Either that or change the subject.
‘Oh yes, ecstatic,’ said Dulcie, tight-lipped. ‘So where’s Claire tonight?’
Off ministering to the poor, probably. Visiting orphans and sick children, something saintly like that. Well, the world needed another Princess Di.
‘Bali.’
Dulcie nodded. Of course, he’d had to stay behind to sign the contract. Bored already with the subject of Saint Claire, she said dully, ‘When are you flying out, tomorrow?’
Patrick shook his head.
‘I’m not going.’
‘Oh.’ Dulcie felt her heart begin to accelerate. ‘Why not?’
‘It’s over. We aren’t seeing each other any more.’
‘Oh!’ By this time her heart was in serious overdrive. In a ridiculous high-pitched voice, she heard herself saying again, like a parrot, ‘Wh-why not?’
Patrick shrugged, avoiding her gaze. His dark eyes were absolutely expressionless.
‘It didn’t feel right, I suppose. She didn’t do anything wrong, ‘I just knew we weren’t going anywhere. Claire’s a lovely girl, but in the end ‘I suppose I realised she just isn’t my type.’
Dulcie was glad she was leaning against the wall. She was in serious danger of keeling over.
‘But ... why not?’ She stared up at Patrick, desperately searching his face for clues. He still wasn’t looking at her. He was, Dulcie realised, concentrating on a particularly riveting patch of wallpaper instead.