Mixed doubles Page 7

  And the third.

  She read all of them, forcing herself to keep going until she reached the end.

  It was unbelievable. Phil owed money everywhere. The gambling she had always taken to be a harmless pastime had clearly rocketed out of control.

  ‘I didn’t know you’d remortgaged the house,’ she said stupidly.

  ‘Why would you?’ Phil, the traditionalist, had always taken care of the bills.

  Well, until he’d stopped paying them and started stuffing them into the dustbin instead.

  ‘Anyway, now you see why you have to get out.’ He shrugged. ‘This place is being repossessed on Tuesday.’

  ‘But they can’t—’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody naive,’ Phil shouted at her. ‘Of course they can. Anyway, losing the house is the least of my worries. By this time next week I could be jobless, car-less ... minus a few other vital bits and pieces too, if that mob from the casino have their way.’

  In the space of five minutes Pru had lost her home, her husband ... her whole life.

  ‘How much altogether?’ She spoke through chattering teeth. ‘How much do you owe?’

  Phil shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

  ‘Oh God.’

  ‘Look, it’s a hiccup, that’s all. I was doing okay until last summer. Then I hit a bad patch. The longer it lasted the bigger the bets had to be to cover my losses. But it’ll come good again, you’ll see.’

  His eyes had lit up. God, thought Pru, even talking about it makes him more cheerful.

  ‘Phil, you have to go to Gamblers Anonymous.’

  ‘No I don’t. Listen, my luck has to change soon. It has to. Then as soon as that happens, I’ll get the house back—’ Pru’s eyes brimmed with tears.

  ‘Is this why you’re doing it? You’re leaving me because you’re ashamed of what’s happened?’

  She felt a wild surge of hope. ‘Phil, gambling is an illness, you mustn’t blame yourself! Together we can get through this, we can get through anything—’

  ‘You’ve got it wrong.’ Phil shook his head. ‘This isn’t to protect you. I’m going because I don’t want to be married to you any more. I used to think you were my type. But you aren’t,’ he concluded coldly. ‘Blanche is.’

  Dulcie knew she was really going to go ahead and do it when she arrived home and Patrick, looking supremely unconcerned, said, ‘Where have you been, stayed at Liza’s I suppose?’

  So much for passion, possessiveness, an explosion of red-blooded jealousy, thought Dulcie.

  She imagined his reaction if she told him she’d spent the night being happily ravished by the Bath first fifteen. That would capture Patrick’s attention all right. ‘Really? What, in the clubhouse? Did you happen to get a look at their computer system while you were there?’

  Explosions of red-blooded jealousy weren’t Patrick’s scene. ‘Yes, at Liza’s.’ Dulcie couldn’t even be bothered to make up a more riveting story. What was the point?

  ‘Coffee?’ said Patrick, when she followed him into the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’

  This was his contribution towards clearing the air. It was how they overcame arguments. A bit of stilted small talk executed in an I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong-but-I’ll-forgive-you kind of voice, followed by a hug and a kiss. Then everything would be back to normal.

  Except this time it wasn’t going to happen.

  ‘No thanks, said Dulcie, ‘but I’d love a divorce.’

  ‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer a KitKat?’

  Patrick had his back to her. She watched him pour boiling water into a mug. He was wearing a dark-green and white rugby shirt and his semi-respectable jeans, the ones patched together at the bum.

  Oh, she was going to miss that bum.

  Dulcie sat down, all of a sudden feeling terribly tired. It had been an eventful morning so far and it wasn’t over yet.

  ‘That wasn’t a joke,’ she said, when she finally had his attention. ‘Come on, Patrick. Look at the way things have been.

  This marriage isn’t working, you know that as well as I do Time to call it a day.’

  It was a no-win situation. If there was anything more futile than trying to knit fog, it was persuading Dulcie to change her mind. Patrick hadn’t been married to her for seven years without learning this much. Once Dulcie made decision, that was that. Nothing he could do or say would have any effect.

  He did try, but not for long. Dulcie was immovable am Patrick couldn’t bring himself to beg.

  Pride was one reason Another was the knowledge that — as far as Dulcie was concerned —

  there was no bigger turn-off in the world than grovelling man.

  So instead he had remained outwardly calm and heard her out. Oh yes, Dulcie’s mind was definitely made up.

  ‘Okay, if that’s what you want,’ said Patrick at last, his tone neutral. Anyway, how could he argue? She had a point, he hat neglected her. The knowledge that he was at least partly to blame for all this had knocked him for six.

  Dulcie looked at him. ‘Fine, that’s settled then.’ She bit her lip, determined not to cry. ‘Good.’

  ‘Are you going to spend the rest of the day in there?’ she shouted, hours later, outside Patrick’s office.

  All the computers were switched on but Patrick hadn’t don( a stroke of work. All he could think about was Dulcie, who wanted out of their marriage. Who, for God’s sake, wanted divorce .. .

  He wiped his eyes, glad he’d remembered to lock the door The last thing he needed was for her to see him like this. ‘I’m busy.’

  Dulcie could have kicked the door down with her bare feet How bloody dare Patrick be busy?

  As she turned away she said bitterly, ‘What’s new?’

  * * *

  How can this be happening to me’?

  Pru stood in the doorway and gazed at the bedsitting room being offered to her. It was hideous

  — cramped and filthy and three floors up — but it was available. She could move in straight away.

  ‘I’ll take it,’ said Pru, and even the grimy-looking landlord had the grace to sound surprised.

  ‘You sure? When from?’

  ‘Today.’ Dry-mouthed, she opened her purse and counted out the deposit from her rapidly dwindling sheaf of notes.

  ‘And the first month in advance.’ The landlord cleared his throat, salivating at the sight of cash.

  When he had pocketed the notes he handed Pru the key and gestured vaguely at the cracked pane of glass in the window. ‘I was ... um ... going to get that fixed. If I did it this afternoon, you could move in tomorrow.’

  God, how can this be happening to me?

  Pru shook her head.

  ‘I have to move in today.’

  Not even mildly curious, her new landlord shrugged and headed for the stairs.

  ‘Suit yourself.’

  Suit myself, thought Pru when he had gone. Did he really think that was what she was doing?

  She had to move into this dismal room and she had to move in today.

  Because between Phil, the bailiffs and the building society, she didn’t really have much choice.

  Chapter 10

  I’m single, thought Dulcie. Weird.

  Technically, of course, she was still married, but separated. Morally, as far as Dulcie was concerned, that meant she was single again. And free to do as she liked.

  It was exactly five weeks since Patrick’s party. Yesterday he had moved out of the house and into a flat above his office in the centre of Bath. The flat was tiny but the commuting time was four seconds. It would be two if he installed a fireman’s pole.

  Dulcie still felt guilty about this. She had wanted out of the marriage and he was the one who’d had to find somewhere else to live. But Patrick had insisted.

  ‘Your parents gave us the deposit for this house,’ he had reminded her. ‘It’s more yours than mine. Anyway, you need the wardrobe space.’

  He had been so damn reasonable Dulcie had wante
d to hit him. If she had been expecting him to argue, to fight to save their marriage, she would have been bitterly disappointed.

  Except she knew Patrick too well.

  He never would.

  So, it was done. She was on the market again, the sun was shining and the sky was blue.

  Bring on the dancing boys. Dulcie stuck her Reeboked feet up on the chair opposite and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and waiting for Liza to finish her game of squash. The conservatory at Brunton Manor adjoined the bar. It was where people relaxed over Perriers —with ice if they were being decadent — after knackering themselves on the tennis courts. It was where Dulcie — in a fetching white tracksuit — relaxed over gin and tonics and a constant supply of salt and vinegar crisps.

  Liza appeared looking hot and tousled but pleased with herself.

  ‘Hammered the bitch, six one. That’ll teach her to say I’ve put on weight. Another drink?’

  Dulcie nodded. ‘And more crisps. Anyway, talking of bitches,’ she waved the Herald on Sunday’s colour supplement at Liza, ‘what happened to you? In a bit of a pooey mood, were we, when we wrote this?’

  Liza cringed. The edition featuring her review of the Songbird had come out last week. Every time she read it, it sounded nastier. Her editor had been thrilled — ‘This is more like it, sweetheart! This is what gets people talking’ — but Liza was awash with guilt. The food hadn’t been perfect, but it wasn’t that bad, not as terrible as she had made out.

  ‘That was New Year’s Day, the place where I saw Phil and Blanche.’

  ‘Oh, I get it now.’ Dulcie grinned. ‘It’s the restaurant’s fault for letting them eat there. This is your revenge.’

  ‘Of course it isn’t. It was my editor’s bright idea.’ Liza, looking defiant, edged towards the bar.

  ‘He wanted me to be controversial, that’s all.’

  Eddie Hammond, bumping into Dulcie earlier, had checked that Liza was meeting up with her for lunch. Someone had phoned, he explained, wanting to know when she would be around.

  ‘One of Liza’s besotted boyfriends,’ Dulcie guessed, but Eddie had frowned. ‘I don’t know about that. He didn’t sound besotted to me.’

  Dulcie watched Liza flirting with the bar manager. He was gay, but she still flirted with him.

  Even more weirdly, he was flirting back.

  She hoped the phone call Eddie had taken wasn’t from a hit man, hired by the furious owners of the Songbird. It’s all right for Liza’s editor, urging her to be controversial, thought Dulcie; his kneecaps aren’t the ones at risk.

  Liza made it back to their table by the window overlooking the entrance to the club. Since she could hardly put a PS in next week’s column saying ‘Oh by the way, that stuff I wrote about the Songbird was a bit mean, it wasn’t that bad really’, she chucked the magazine on to a spare chair and changed the subject.

  ‘So how do you feel, now Patrick’s gone?’

  Dulcie ripped open her crisps and started crunching.

  ‘He was never there anyway. It’ll take me a year to notice the difference.’

  Bravado. Liza said, ‘Are you looking for someone else?’

  ‘No way.’ Dulcie’s silver and tiger’s-eye earrings – not very sporty – rattled from side to side as she shook her head. ‘Play the field, that’s all I want to do. This is the start of my new life. I want to celebrate by being wild and irresponsible! I’m going to have more fun – with more men – than you could shake a stick at. Please, another relationship’s the last thing I need.’

  More bravado. Actually, Liza amended, more like bullshit. Until Patrick, Dulcie had spent her life crashing from one wildly unsuitable man to the next. She craved excitement but she needed security.

  She wasn’t nearly as independent as she liked to make out.

  But this wasn’t the kind of thing people liked to hear about themselves. Diplomatically Liza changed the subject yet again.

  ‘Did you speak to Pru? Is she coming up here this afternoon?’

  Dulcie shook her head. ‘Gone for an interview, some awful telesales thing. Can you imagine Pru selling, for heaven’s sake? She won’t get it.’

  ‘She needs to get something. That bedsit of hers is an awful tip.’

  ‘I know, I asked her to move in with me.’ Dulcie, gazing out of the window, watched a dark-green Bentley turn into the tree-lined drive. Crikey, look at it, who was visiting the club, the Queen? ‘It would’ve been ideal but Pru turned me down, said she couldn’t. She’s determined to stay where she is. Something to do with pride, I suppose.’ Dulcie tipped back her head, emptied the last crisp crumbs down her throat, wiped her hands on her tracksuit trousers and shrugged.

  ‘Maybe it’s just as well. If I’m going to be bringing men home all the time she might feel in the way. And I don’t want my style cramped, do I?’

  ‘Mm.’ Liza was no longer paying attention. She was peering out of the window along with Dulcie as whoever was driving the Bentley screeched to a halt and parked at a reckless angle in front of the entrance.

  If this is the Queen, thought Dulcie, she’s desperate not to miss her step class.

  It wasn’t the Queen.

  ‘Blimey,’ Dulcie whistled, ‘I thought only old codgers drove those kinds of cars. Mayors and stuff. I wasn’t expecting something like that.’

  Having jumped out of the car and made his way rapidly up the flight of stone steps leading into reception, the driver was soon lost from view. Liza, who didn’t ogle like Dulcie, only had time to glimpse a fit-looking boy in his early twenties with longish dark hair. If the Bentley belonged to him, the chances were he had to be either a footballer or a rock star, Liza decided. The kind that liked to be noticed and bought his old mum a Barrett home in Basingstoke.

  Dulcie was already looking excited.

  ‘I wonder who he is?’

  ‘No idea, but I know what he is.’

  ‘What? Tell me!’

  Liza grinned and retied her ponytail, which had come loose. ‘Far too young for you.’

  Dulcie had forgotten all about Eddie’s mystery phone caller. There were so many other riveting things to discuss, like Liza’s latest ex-lover (was there any bigger turn-off in the world, Liza argued, than discovering that the new Mr Wonderful in your life banked with the Co-op?) and how Pru was well shot of Phil, even if she didn’t yet appreciate this fact, and which clubs in Bath Dulcie should hang out in if she wanted to meet millions of seriously hunky men.

  ‘... not forgetting this place, of course,’ said Dulcie charitably as she ticked venues off on her fingers. ‘You do get the odd one or two dishy ones who aren’t married. Oh wow—’

  ‘What?’ Liza had scooped the slice of lemon out of her drink and was busy sucking it. She raised her eyebrows at Dulcie, who’d gone all glazed and stupid-looking.

  Next moment Liza realised someone was standing behind her. She swivelled round, the strip of lemon peel still dangling from one corner of her mouth.

  ‘Are you Miss Lawson?’

  ‘That’s right.’ She smiled, deftly removing the peel. ‘Liza, please. And we know who you are; we saw you arriving just now. You’re the boy with the Bentley.’

  Up close he was even more spectacular-looking than Dulcie had suspected. Hungrily she drank in every detail: yellow-gold eyes, the colour of freshly minted pound coins; thick black lashes; cheekbones to die for; a tan like peanut butter; and a narrow, fabulously cruel-looking mouth.

  Cruel mouths were Dulcie’s favourite kind. She loved the transformation when they broke into a smile.

  Except this one didn’t seem in much danger of doing that. ‘My name’s Kit Berenger, Miss Lawson.’

  Oo-er, thought Dulcie, none the wiser but realising from the icy tone of voice that he was every bit as cross as he looked.

  Liza, who recognised the name at once, stopped smiling. All of a sudden she knew what this was about.

  L. B. Berenger was a Bath-based property-development company which s
pecialised in tacking new estates on to existing picturesque villages. The people living in the villages– and those whose prized views were threatened by the springing-up of these new estates – had begun campaigning furiously against the company’s bulldozer approach.

  In his New Year’s Eve letter to her, Alistair Kline had neglected to mention that his weekends were spent leaping into the paths of Berenger’s bulldozers and grappling with security guards.

  Far from being shy, he had turned out to be a die-hard protester. He was eloquent too, persuading Liza – as a high-profile journalist – to write to the local paper publicly denouncing L. B.

  Berenger’s latest plans.

  She hadn’t minded doing that, but weekends ankle-deep in mud with only a thermos to keep her warm weren’t Liza’s idea of heaven. Her relationship with Alistair Kline had lasted three weeks.

  Quite good, for her.

  ‘I see,’ she said now, surveying what must be the son-of Berenger. ‘And you’re the heavy mob, are you? Come to tell me to mind my own business and leave your family alone to make money in peace?’

  Dulcie stared at Liza. What in heaven’s name did she think she was up to? If this was Liza’s idea of a new chat-up line, she had to be told it completely and utterly stank.

  Kit Berenger clearly thought so too. His cruel upper lip curled with distaste. ‘Funny, that. You think we should be ashamed of the way we make our money. Does it never occur to you to be ashamed of the way you earn yours?’

  Dulcie gazed at the pair of them, totally riveted. She’d always been a sucker for a curled lip.

  ‘Look,’ said Liza, ‘I’m a journalist. My job is to write the truth as I see it. The people who already live in that village would never have moved there in the first place if they’d known it was going to be turned into Milton-bloody-Keynes.’

  Kit Berenger stared hard at Liza. Finally he said, ‘If you’re talking about West Titherton, thirty-six houses and a mini-roundabout hardly add up to Milton Keynes. Anyway, that isn’t why I’m here.’

  Glancing across at the chair Dulcie was resting her feet on, he reached for the colour supplement Liza had thrown down earlier. Dulcie shivered with pleasure as his tanned arm – he was wearing a denim shirt with the sleeves rolled up – brushed against her bare ankle.