Mixed doubles Page 3

There was a terrific restaurant, a cinema, sunbeds, saunas and a beauty salon. There were evening discos, impromptu parties and barbecues around the pool. It was the easiest place in the world in which to while away all those surplus hours. You could watch other members puffing and sweating their way through step classes or launching themselves around the squash courts.

  You could jeer – quietly – at the Wimbledon wannabes playing hopeless tennis. You could admire the miraculous tanned legs of the tennis coaches. You could laze in the sun drinking Pimm’s and pretending to read a book.

  Perhaps best of all – and Dulcie felt in this respect it had all the comradeship of an AA meeting, not of course that she had ever been to one – you could moan freely with the other wealthy, bored housewives about your workaholic husband and know they knew exactly what you meant.

  As far as Dulcie was concerned, Brunton Manor was the answer to all her prayers. Miraculously, and certainly unintentionally, it had even turned out to be economical, since every day spent lazing by the pool in a bikini was a day not spent shopping in Bath.

  The phone rang. Since Patrick was in his study working – well, it was New Year’s Day, a Bank Holiday, what else would you expect? – Dulcie picked it up.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Liza.

  ‘Oh well, I’m not speaking to you. That garlic totally wrecked my chances last night. Even Luigi in the wine bar pretended he couldn’t come near me because he’d got flu—’

  ‘Never mind your snogathon. I had lunch today at the Songbird and guess who was there?’

  ‘Cliff Richard and Angela Rippon. They were holding hands. No, wait, they were canoodling.

  Don’t you love that word?’ Dulcie sighed. ‘Canoodle-oodle-oodling—’

  ‘Sometimes I wonder about you,’ said Liza.

  ‘You started it. Go on then, so who was he with if it wasn’t Angela Rippon?’

  ‘Phil was there. With another woman. In a rubber skirt.’

  ‘You mean—?’

  Liza said firmly, ‘She was the one wearing the skirt. And it isn’t funny. She was awful.’

  ‘Oh,’ said Dulcie. ‘Were they... um ... canoodling?’

  ‘Big time.’

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  Dulcie decided there must have been some kind of a mix-up, a typographical error, when God or whoever organised life had been organising Pru’s. She was supposed to have been given a loving husband. Instead she’d been landed with a roving one.

  Poor Pru, it wasn’t what she deserved.

  ‘Did he see you?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So what happens now?’

  ‘We’re going to tell her.’

  When the phone had rung Dulcie had been draped across the sofa watching a trashy New Year’s Day-type film. Now, glancing across at the television, she saw the tear-stained heroine covering her face with her hands and sobbing: ‘But I love him, I love him! Please don’t do this to me ... I love him...’

  Dulcie thought uncomfortably that nobody loved anyone more than Pru loved Phil.

  ‘It’ll kill her.’

  ‘She should know. It’s only fair. Dulcie, we have to tell her.’ Liza wasn’t a fan of dishonesty.

  ‘Okay, you do it. If you really have to:’

  ‘We’ll do it,’ Liza corrected her briskly. ‘Together.’

  Pru and Phil Kasteliz lived in a modern detached house on the outskirts of Bath, on one of those exclusive keeping-up-with the-Joneses type of estates bristling with carriage lamps and bay trees.

  Anyone whose car was more than two years old was regarded with suspicion. If your curtains weren’t swagged and tailed and your windows not cleaned every week you were riffraff. If the grass on your front lawn exceeded an inch and a half in length ... well, you were scum. Any small children, needless to say, were expected to show consideration for their neighbours and play quietly. And tidily. But preferably not at all.

  It was that kind of estate.

  ‘What if he’s there?’ Dulcie peered ahead as they swung into Acacia Close. Loads of roads were called that, she really must find out what it meant. She wouldn’t know an acacia if it leapt up and bit her on the bum.

  ‘He won’t be. It’s Wednesday, everyone’s back at work. Anyway,’ Liza rounded the corner and nodded at the empty drive, ‘see? His car’s gone.’

  ‘I don’t know if we’re doing the right thing.’ Dulcie was already racked with guilt. It was all right for her, she wanted a divorce. Pru didn’t. ‘What if you got it wrong? It could have been an innocent meeting with a client.’

  ‘In a rubber skirt?’ Liza wasn’t having any of that. Her tone was dismissive. ‘And with her foot buried in his crotch? Come off it, the woman was a scrubber. If anyone was the client, it was Phil.’

  When they rang the bell and the gold and white front door was pulled open, Liza got something of a shock to come face to face with the rubber-skirted scrubber herself.

  Chapter 4

  Upstairs, Pru didn’t hear the doorbell. She was bent double with the hair dryer going full blast, putting the necessary lift into her straight conker-brown hair. Luckily it was thick and there was plenty of it; with a bit of tweaking and a lot of hairspray (maximum hold, what else?) the illusion would be complete. Her ears wouldn’t peep out, they wouldn’t even be glimpsed. There would not be the slightest tell-tale sign that they stuck out like jug handles at all.

  Pru hated it that Phil’s pet name for her was Toby.

  ‘Well, I can hardly call you jugs, can I?’ he had quipped, eyeing her 32A breasts. Playfully he had tweaked her awful ears. ‘Come on, Pru, where’s your sense of humour! Would you prefer Dumbo?’

  Pru would have preferred it if he’d stopped making perpetual fun of her ears. It was hard to have a sense of humour about something that had blighted your life since you were eleven when a group of boys in your class had asked how far you could fly.

  She had tried sleeping with a scarf tied round her head, praying nightly that by morning she would wake up with miraculously flattened ears. She had even been so driven to desperation one Friday night that she had gone along with one of Dulcie’s brilliant suggestions.

  This had involved superglue. ‘It’s what Clark Gable did,’ Dulcie had exclaimed, thrilled by her own cleverness. ‘It’ll be like instant plastic surgery, only pain free!’

  As the doctor had later drily remarked, maybe they should have practised first with UHU. They had ended up in the casualty department of Bath Royal United with Dulcie’s right hand glued to Pru’s left ear, Dulcie’s left hand glued to a great deal of Pru’s hair and Pru in floods of humiliated tears.

  Dulcie’s jokes that they were Siamese twins about to be separated didn’t help. Three hours of serious solvent abuse and intricate work with a scalpel later, they were allowed home.

  ‘Don’t do it again,’ warned the young male doctor, attempting to keep a straight face.

  ‘Oh well,’ Dulcie shrugged, ‘it was worth a try. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.’

  Pru, who had left most of her hair behind on the floor of the casualty department, was forced to endure the next six months with her ears on show while she sported the ultimate haircut from hell.

  She jumped as the bedroom door swung open and Liza and Dulcie came in.

  ‘Hi!’ Pru switched off the hair dryer, delighted to see them. ‘What are you two doing here? Hang on a sec, I’ve just about finished.’

  ‘Pru, what’s that woman doing downstairs?’ demanded Liza.

  ‘You mean Blanche? Hoovering, I think.’ Pru reached for the Elnett and sprayed vigorously, checking her reflection in the dressing table mirror. There, magic. No ears.

  But Liza, behind her, was looking grim. Pru swivelled round.

  ‘Why, what’s the matter? Don’t tell me you caught her pocketing the silver spoons?’

  ‘She’s ... your cleaner?’ Dulcie sounded dazed. Pru looked shamefaced.

  ‘I know. Mad, isn’t it? Here’s me, no job, at home all day .. . and I’ve got some
one coming in to do the housework. Honestly, it was Phil’s idea. He got it into his head just before Christmas that everyone who’s anyone has to have a lady-who-does. I told him it was stupid, we didn’t need a cleaner, but you know what Phil’s like. As far as he’s concerned it’s another status symbol, like a Gucci belt.’ She paused, frowning. ‘Is everything okay? She wasn’t really nicking spoons, was she?’

  Liza barely knew where to start. She’d never realised Phil could sink this low.

  Dulcie, needing something to occupy her hands and determined to leave Liza to do the dirty work, began investigating the make-up on Pru’s pretty dressing table. As she undid the top of a pink Chanel lipstick the sound of the Hoover being switched on drifted up from downstairs.

  ‘This Blanche person. How did you find her?’ Liza realised she was prevaricating.

  Dulcie closely examined a Lancôme mascara.

  ‘From an agency. She was highly recommended.’ Beginning to look flustered, Pru said, ‘She lives half a mile away, on the Everton estate. She’s divorced with two grown-up sons. I know she doesn’t look it, but she’s nearly forty ... Oh, for heaven’s sake, what’s wrong? What are you going to tell me, that she’s a mass murderer?’

  Estee Lauder translucent powder and a swansdown puff. Nice. Dulcie picked up Pru’s bottle of Youth Dew and gave herself an experimental squirt.

  ‘Pru, I’m sorry. This isn’t easy.’

  Get on with it, thought Dulcie.

  ‘The thing is ... the thing is ...’

  This was Liza for you. All mouth and no trousers. Dulcie, who was leaning into the mirror trying out a smoky Clinique eyeshadow, said, ‘What Liza’s trying to tell you is that Phil’s the one who’s got himself a lady-who-does. Except we aren’t talking vacuum cleaners and I don’t think you can call her a lady.’

  ‘That isn’t fair,’ Pru sounded almost. angry. ‘Blanche is a hard worker. Just because her clothes are a bit ... well, a bit skimpy—’

  ‘I’m not talking about her clothes,’ said Liza.

  ‘And she isn’t only a hard worker,’ Dulcie put in, ‘she’s fast, too.’

  Liza took the plunge.

  ‘Look, I saw them. Having lunch together on New Year’s Day.’

  Pru’s face was white. ‘No you didn’t. Phil was working. He told me.’

  ‘I saw them. And I heard them. He’s having an affair with her.’ Liza shook her head. ‘I’m sorry.

  I wish it wasn’t true, but it is.’

  Dulcie thought she might buy herself one of these Clinique eyeshadows. She couldn’t bring herself to look at the expression on Pru’s face. Downstairs the Hoover was switched off.

  Moments later there was a tap on the bedroom door.

  ‘All done, Pru. I’m off.’

  Pru rose slowly to her feet and went to the door. Liza and Dulcie exchanged alarmed glances.

  Liza swallowed. Dulcie held her breath.

  ‘Blimey, are you all right, love? You’re as white as a sheet.’

  ‘I’m fine, Blanche. I’ll come down with you. You’ll want your money.’

  Dulcie, wearing too much eyeshadow, collapsed on the bed.

  ‘Will she kill her in the kitchen, d’you think?’

  It was what Liza had had in mind at the Songbird. She moved across the room and opened the door a fraction. ‘If we hear a scream, we go down,’ she told Dulcie.

  But all they heard was the low murmur of voices, the sound of Blanche’s high heels tip-tapping across glossy parquet, and the front door slamming shut.

  Dulcie and Liza raced to the window in time to see Blanche, now wearing a red leather bomber jacket over her green top and short white skirt, making her way jauntily to the end of the road.

  Pru reappeared in the bedroom doorway. She watched them watching Blanche leave.

  ‘No, I didn’t say anything to her, if that’s what you’re wondering.’

  ‘But Pru—’

  ‘Don’t. I like Blanche. She’s friendly and she’s good company when I’m here on my own.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘And I love Phil.’ She was still pale but her jaw was clenched, her expression defiant. ‘He’s my husband and I love him. What was my New Year’s resolution, can you remember?’

  Of course they remembered.

  ‘Well, I’m sticking to it,’ said Pru. ‘I’m going to stay married. I still don’t believe what you told me about him and Blanche, but even if it is true, it doesn’t have to be the end of the world.

  Certainly not the end of a perfectly good marriage.’

  Liza had to say it.

  ‘Pru, it is true.’

  Her grey eyes bright with tears, Pru demanded, ‘Did you see them actually doing it?’

  ‘Practically. She had her shoes off, and her foot in his—’

  ‘Don’t say it!’ Her voice rose to a shriek, her hands went up, stopping Liza in her tracks.

  ‘Anyway, I’ve already told you. There are worse things a man can do than have an innocent fling. If you hadn’t seen them, no one would have known anything. If you hadn’t told me, I would never have found out.’

  ‘Pru, how can a fling be innocent when you’re married to the man?’ Liza blurted out. ‘He’s cheating on you, for God’s sake! I know how upset you must be, but—’

  ‘Don’t lecture me,’ Pru said coldly. ‘How can you possibly know how I feel? You’ve never had a proper relationship in your life.’

  ‘That went well,’ said Dulcie conversationally when they were back in Liza’s car. ‘Oh yes, I’d call that a great morning’s work. A raging success.’

  Liza shook her head. ‘How can she stand it? How can she hear that kind of news and stay so calm?’

  ‘She isn’t calm.’ Leaning across from the passenger seat, Dulcie commandered the rear-view mirror. ‘How about a spotof shopping?’ she said brightly. ‘I want to buy one of these eyeshadows. This colour really suits me.’

  ‘How can you be so shallow?’

  Dulcie grinned. ‘Sallow? I’m not sallow, I’m tanned.’

  Pru sat in the middle of the bed surrounded by photograph albums. Each album was full of pictures of herself and Phil, separately and together, at home or abroad, in Cornwall, in Tunisia, in Scotland, swimming, sunbathing, skiing, partying .. .

  How can Liza and Dulcie ever understand how I feel? thought Pru, carefully turning another page and smiling at photos of Phil and herself on holiday last year in Morocco. Phil, sunburnt and peeling, was balancing a glass on his head, showing off for her benefit. And here was one of the two of them, taken by someone they had become friendly with in the hotel bar. They were dancing, and Phil’s arms were clasped around her waist, and just looking at the photograph Pru was able to relive that blissful moment, experience again the feeling of utter security.

  No, neither Liza nor Dulcie could ever have understood how she felt about Phil, Pru decided.

  Dulcie had put herself about a fair bit before settling down with Patrick, and Liza... well, Liza was still putting herself about.

  But Pru, who had been with Phil for fourteen years, had never even looked at another man. He had been her first and only love, rescuing her from the terrors of teenage dating, and she had been more than happy to be rescued. Phil was all she wanted; he made her feel safe, she was Phil Kasteliz’s girlfriend, she belonged to him .. .

  Pru’s hand trembled as she took the photograph out of its cellophane casing and looked more closely at it. Phil was her whole life. Finding out about Blanche had been horrible, of course it had, but she wasn’t a complete innocent. Sometimes men did stupid things. Their hormones got the better of them, they took risks they shouldn’t have ... and were found out.

  But it doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving me, thought Pru. It’s a temporary weakness, that’s all.

  I’m his wife. He still loves me best.

  Slowly, she bit her tongue. Not enough to draw blood, but almost. Although it hurt, the pain was bearable.

  Like this thing with Phil a
nd Blanche, Pru thought, carefully sliding the photo back into the album. Dulcie and Liza were acting like it was the end of the world, but it didn’t have to be.

  She could bear this too.

  Chapter 5

  Telling your husband you no longer wanted to be married to him was proving less straightforward than Dulcie had imagined. When she had first envisaged the scenario, it had seemed simple. She would just deliver her speech and that would be that.

  Now she was ready to do the deed, however, a problem had cropped up.

  The problem was .. .

  ... timing.

  It would be so much easier, Dulcie thought, if Patrick was awful. If he used her as a punchbag, blacked her eyes and sent a few teeth flying, all she’d have to do was scream, Right, that’s it, get out of my life NOW.

  Ditto if she found out he was having an affair.

  But Patrick wasn’t awful and she didn’t want the break-up to be any more traumatic than it needed to be. Which was why the timing had to be right.

  Before Christmas had been a no-no. That would be too cruel, too inconsiderate for words.

  Knowing she couldn’t bring herself to do it in December was what had prompted Dulcie to make it her New Year’s resolution instead. Get the festive season out of the way and do it then.

  Except now it was the middle of January and Patrick’s birthday loomed. His fortieth, at that.

  Unhappily aware that only a complete cow would wreck her husband’s birthday, Dulcie realised she had to sit on her bombshell for a couple more weeks yet.

  Forty. God, the more she thought about it the more terrifying it sounded. Whoever said life began at forty must have been senile. Feeling sorry for her ancient husband, Dulcie made two mugs of coffee and wandered through to the study. Patrick was tapping lists of figures into one of the computers and peering intently at the screen. It probably wouldn’t be long before he started to need glasses.

  ‘It’s your birthday in ten days’ time.’ Dulcie perched on the edge of his desk, both hands clasped around her mug. ‘What do you want?’

  The least she could do, she had already decided, was buy him a really nice present.