Mixed doubles

by Jill Mansell

  ‘Feel free.’ Dulcie waved an indulgent arm in the direction of the dance floor.

  The DJ was playing something weird Patrick had never heard before. Looking worried he said,

  ‘Don’t expect miracles.’

  Suzannah giggled. ‘Come on, you used to be a terrific dancer! Mind you, that was in the good old days. Before you turned forty.’

  James gave Suzannah an odd look. Unable to help herself, Dulcie choked on her drink. Bibi turned white.

  Patrick’s laugh was loud and unconvincing. ‘Suzannah, someone’s been spiking your shandies.’

  Since the best course of action was clearly to get her out of earshot, he grabbed her hand and began hauling her on to the dance floor. ‘Forty, ha ha ha. That’ll be the day.’

  At that moment the music stopped. Suzamah, by this time deeply puzzled, said loudly, ‘Patrick, are you drunk? Of course you’re forty. That’s why we’re all here.’

  Patrick couldn’t bear it. He danced with Suzannah to something by Babylon Zoo, whoever they might be. If this toe-curling situation had something to do with Dulcie – as he suspected it had –

  then Dulcie could sort it out.

  Chapter 8

  ‘What’s going on?’ said James, who was even more confused than Suzannah. ‘Patrick isn’t forty.

  He can’t be. He’s thirty-two.’

  Bibi’s stricken expression made Dulcie feel uncomfortable. This wasn’t going as well as she had planned. Somehow, when she had envisaged this scenario, everyone had looked a lot happier.

  Instead, Bibi looked as if she was about to pass out.

  Panicking, desperate to get to the happy bit – and how could it be reached, until someone said something? – Dulcie gabbled, ‘Now listen, James, it was just a harmless fib that got out of hand ... and now the time’s come to sort everything out, clear the air, start afresh—’

  ‘Sort what out?’ demanded James.

  Dulcie attempted a merry laugh but it didn’t quite come off. Unable to stand this torture a moment longer, Bibi turned and left.

  ‘Sort what out?’ James repeated, his voice dangerously quiet.

  ‘Look, women lie about their age, they do it all the time,’ burbled Dulcie. ‘You love Bibi, don’t you? All she did was lop a few years off ... What does it matter if she’s older than she said she was? It’s not as if she’s done something really awful, like have an affair!’

  ‘When I met Bibi she told me she was forty-six,’ said James. ‘Now you’re telling me Patrick’s forty. For pity’s sake, Dulcie. How old does that make her?’

  Dulcie cringed. She did her best to soften the blow. ‘Nearly ... um ... sixty.’

  ‘Nearly sixty! How near?’

  Oh well, that hadn’t worked. ‘Er ... that’s it, really. Sixty.’ Hurriedly she added, ‘But only just.’

  James closed his eyes. He looked as if he was having a bad dream and wanted desperately to wake up.

  ‘Oh James, I know it’s a shock, but is it really so terrible?’ Wearily, he opened his eyes. ‘Thanks, Dulcie. I’ve heard enough.’

  ‘But Bibi’s still Bibi—’

  ‘Stop it.’

  ‘—and the only reason she wouldn’t marry you was because she was scared of you finding out!’

  ‘I’m not surprised.’

  In desperation Dulcie cried, ‘We only wanted you to be happy.’

  ‘Really?’ James studied her for a second. ‘You’ve got a funny way of showing it.’

  When he had gone, Liza and Pru joined Dulcie. Hovering not far behind her throughout the uncomfortable exchange, they had heard it all.

  ‘Was that it?’ said Liza. ‘Was that your other surprise?’ Miserably Dulcie nodded.

  ‘Oh dear.’

  ‘I was trying to help.’

  ‘Hmm. Somehow I don’t think trying to help is your forte.’ Patrick had returned Suzannah to her husband. He came up to them, looking grim.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  ‘It needed to be done,’ said Dulcie defensively.

  ‘And with such style.’

  ‘Oh shut up.’ She was feeling got at. ‘Anyway, James might be okay. Once he’s over the shock.’

  ‘You saw his face, Dulcie. Don’t count on it.’

  So much for marital solidarity.

  ‘How can you be so horrible?’ Dulcie longed to kick his shins. ‘After all my hard work too. I organised this party for you. I wanted it to be memorable—’

  ‘Oh, it’s that all right. Nobody’s going to forget this night in a hurry. Especially not Bibi.’

  Patrick’s tone was derisive. ‘You’ll be lucky if she ever speaks to you again.’

  But luck wasn’t on Dulcie’s side. Bibi did speak to her again.

  She reappeared as Dulcie was helping herself to a quadruple gin and tonic and grumbling, ‘Next time I say I’m planning a surprise party, just make sure you hit me over the head until I stop.’

  Pru – who somewhat bizarrely was now comforting her – murmured, ‘Bibi’s back.’

  For a split second Dulcie fantasised that everything was going to be all right. James had forgiven Bibi and Bibi had come back to thank her. There would be laughter and tears, emotional hugs and happy endings all round...

  Extremely wishful thinking.

  The fantasy skidded to a miserable halt the moment she turned and saw the stony expression on Bibi’s pale, unlined face.

  The atmosphere was horribly reminiscent of the gunfight at the OK Corral.

  ‘Well, he’s gone. I don’t suppose I’ll see him again, thanks to you.’

  Dulcie shivered. Was it her imagination or had the central heating just been turned off?

  ‘Bibi, I can’t tell you how—’

  ‘Sorry you are? Oh please.’ Bibi spat the words out like loose chippings. ‘You knew exactly what you were doing. You had to meddle, didn’t you? You had to interfere.’

  ‘But I—’

  ‘You’ve wrecked my life, Dulcie. I’ll never forgive you for this. I wish you’d never married Patrick.’

  Oh no, this is too much, thought Dulcie. Glancing across atPatrick – surely now he would come to her rescue? – she saw that she was on her own. Patrick had no intention of backing her up. He was staring.grimly back at her, not on her side at all.

  Fine.

  ‘I wish I’d never married him too.’ Dulcie’s fingernails gouged into the perspiring palms of her hands. Well, it was the truth. She may as well say it now. She’d started so she’d finish. ‘Still, we can soon sort that out. A trip to the solicitor, a quickie divorce ... and bingo, no more interfering daughter-in-law.’ To make sure Patrick understood, she turned her gaze on him and concluded bitterly, ‘No more bored-to-the-backteeth wife.’

  Apart from their immediate circle the rest of the party was still going great guns. Eddie Hammond, who had been busy organising tomorrow’s squash tournament, spotted Dulcie and Patrick through a gap in the crowd and came up, munching a Marks & Spencer spring roll.

  ‘Everyone enjoying themselves? Having a jolly time?’ He gavé Dulcie’s shoulder an encouraging squeeze. ‘Darling, the food’s great. You must have worked your gorgeous fingers to the bone. I hope this husband of yours appreciates all the trouble you went to.’

  Bibi turned and stalked out without uttering another word. Dulcie, not trusting herself to speak, took a gulp of her drink.

  Linking her arm through Eddie’s, Liza drew him diplomatically away, murmuring, ‘How about a little dance?’

  Dulcie went in search of a much-needed refill. Then she perched on the edge of the table upon which Patrick’s laser printer was displayed and fidgeted fretfully with a strand of the blue and silver ribbon she had used to decorate it.

  The trouble with spur-of-the-moment emotional outbursts, she realised, was nobody believed you meant what you said. It hadn’t occurred to Patrick that she actually wanted a divorce. He thought she was just in a strop.

  Well, thought Dulcie, he’ll find out soon enough.


  She watched him make his way towards her, still wearing his I’m-the-headmaster-and-you’re-in-detention look.

  ‘Terry and Jean are leaving. They have to get back for the baby-sitter.’

  ‘Better go and wave them off then.’

  ‘Are you coming?’

  She felt her bottom lip jut out practically of its own accord. She was fourteen again.

  ‘They’re your friends, not mine.’

  ‘Come on, Dulcie, don’t sulk. That doesn’t solve anything.’

  She longed to hurl her gin and tonic in his face, but Pru had been there, done that already tonight.

  It was no longer original.

  Besides, her glass was empty.

  She watched Patrick heave a sigh. She was clearly being extra troublesome. Detention might not be punishment enough. Maybe she was going to be expelled.

  ‘Look, you brought this on yourself,’ he told her wearily. Dulcie snapped. She jumped down from the table, gripping the sides with her fingers. Lifting it was easy.

  The super-duper laser printer slid backwards and landed with a crash on the floor.

  Turning, she regarded the shattered printer with immense satisfaction.

  ‘So did you.’

  Liza woke up the next morning cold and with a crowded flat. Dulcie, lying next to her, had hogged the duvet. Pru, who had taken the sofa, stood in the doorway holding mugs of tea.

  ‘Makes a change,’ Liza remarked cheerfully, ‘waking up next to someone who doesn’t have hairy legs.’ She prodded Dulcie, who was snoring, and looked at Pr-u. ‘How are you feeling, or is that a stupid question?’

  ‘Headache,’ grumbled Dulcie. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Not you.’

  ‘Okay.’ When they were both upright, Pru handed them theirtea. ‘Better, at least, now I’ve had time to think.’

  Dulcie underwent a lightning replay of last night. Hell, it really had happened. The fan had been well and truly hit.

  ‘This is it then.’ She sipped and burnt her tongue. ‘Here we are, all girls together. Welcome to the singles club.’

  Pru plonked herself down on the end of the bed. She had been drinking tea for the last five hours.

  ‘I’m not single.’ She looked defensive.

  ‘Oh come on,’ exclaimed Dulcie. ‘You can’t stay with Phil! Not after what he did to you last night.’

  ‘He didn’t mean it. He was drunk, that’s all.’ Pru knew from experience what Phil was like after one of his infrequent benders. He would wake up feeling hopelessly sorry for himself, unable to recall much, if anything, of the night before. He would beg for Heinz tomato soup and spend the day being penitent and little-boyish. He would also be enormously affectionate towards her.

  The pattern was always the same. And although she was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, while she hated the binges, Pru actually enjoyed the recovery periods after them. They made her feel wanted and secure.

  ‘He humiliated you in front of everyone,’ Liza protested, but with less force than last time. She knew when she was wasting her breath.

  ‘My marriage is worth fighting for. Phil didn’t mean those things he said last night. He won’t even remember saying them.’

  ‘You’re mad,’ Dulcie said flatly.

  Pru looked at her.

  ‘Are you really going to leave Patrick?’

  ‘Too right I am.’ Dulcie thought for a moment. She had stalked out of the party, hadn’t she? She wasn’t at home, she was here. ‘I already have.’

  Pru stood up, looking waif-like in one of Liza’s oversized white T-shirts, but utterly determined.

  ‘In that case,’ she told Dulcie, ‘you’re the one who’s mad.’

  Chapter 9

  Dulcie was in no hurry to get home. Sod Patrick, let him stew a bit longer, let the sanctimonious bastard wonder where she was.

  But her conscience was pricking her on another matter. Okay, the other matter. Not that it had really been her fault. Her intentions had been good.

  Still, Dulcie knew she would feel a lot better if she could solve at least one of the ticklish problems last night’s party had thrown up.

  She phoned James on his mobile.

  ‘James, hi, it’s me! Where are you?’

  He didn’t seem thrilled to hear from her. Somehow she could tell.

  ‘Is that your idea of being subtle, Dulcie? If you mean am I at home tucked up in bed with Bibi, then no, I am not. I’m at the Berkeley Hotel.’

  Lord, he sounded positively grim. Dulcie pulled a face and did a thumbs-down at Liza, who was getting ready to go out. Wasting no time as usual, she was meeting last night’s banker for lunch.

  ‘Right, okay, stay where you are.’ Dulcie decided she wouldn’t waste time either. She would be bold and assertive. She was going to force James to see sense if she had to hammer it into his head with one of her high heels..

  ‘Dulcie—’

  ‘Don’t move, I’m on my way,’ she said very firmly indeed. ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.’

  * * *

  Dulcie found herself on the receiving end of some pretty dubious attention when she made her way through reception at the Berkeley. There was no sign of James so she settled herself on a sofa by one of the long windows. Within the space of five minutes she was asked by a porter, a snooty receptionist and the manager if they could help her in any way, madam.

  ‘I’m meeting someone,’ Dulcie told the manager pleasantly. ‘I’m not on the game. The reason I’m wearing this dress is because I left my husband last night, rather unexpectedly, and I didn’t happen to have a change of clothes with me, okay? I stayed with a friend who’s a good six sizes bigger than me and if you think I’d wear something the size of a circus tent just to keep your geriatric guests happy ... well, you couldn’t be more wrong.’

  James appeared behind the manager.

  ‘Troublemaking again, Dulcie?’

  He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. The manager, glaring at Dulcie, muttered some insincere apology for an apology and melted away.

  Dulcie glared after him. ‘I’m not a troublemaker. He’s a pompous git.’

  ‘Well, at least try and pull your skirt down. Everyone can see your knickers.’

  ‘Do them a power of good.’ Dulcie looked truculent. ‘At least I’m wearing some.’

  Ignoring this, James waited until she’d managed to cover up at least a couple more inches of thigh. The black velvet dress certainly had its work cut out. He ordered coffee from a waitress and lit a cigarette.

  ‘Can I have one?’ In times of stress Dulcie always liked to smoke; it made her feel like Bette Davis. Pre-1950, of course. Before those lines and wrinkles had set in.

  ‘No. Why are you here, Dulcie?’

  ‘To make you see sense.’

  He didn’t smile.

  ‘I’m forty-five. Bibi is sixty. For God’s sake, how sensible does that sound to you?’

  Déjà vu loomed. Dulcie prayed she could come up with something original, some dazzling new tack she hadn’t already tried.

  ‘Yes, but she doesn’t look sixty, she doesn’t sound sixty, she doesn’t act sixty!’

  Was it her imagination or was James wincing every time she uttered the s-word?

  He sounded irritated. ‘Obviously she doesn’t, otherwise she would never have got away with it for as long as she did.’

  ‘There you go, then.’

  ‘Dulcie, that isn’t the point. Not the whole point, anyway. Don’t you see? Bibi lied to me—’

  ‘It wasn’t a lie,’ Dulcie put in hurriedly, ‘just a fib.’

  ‘It was a lie. A big one. I thought we had no secrets from each other. Now I find out our whole relationship has been built on a lie. Relationships are all about trust, Dulcie. How can I ever believe anything she tells me now? She could be lying. She’s an expert.’

  ‘James, she wouldn’t! That was her only secret, believe me!’

  ‘Was it?’ He stubbed out his cigarette wit
h a shaking hand and immediately lit another. ‘But that’s the thing, Dulcie. How would I ever know?’

  Phil was sprawled across the sofa when Pru let herself into the house. A half-empty bowl of tomato soup, several bread rolls and a packet of paracetamol littered the coffee table. Strewn across the floor in front of him was a sheaf of letters.

  Along with almost everyone else, it seemed, Phil was still wearing last night’s clothes.

  He looked pretty rough, too.

  ‘Hello.’ Pru prayed she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. ‘How are you feeling?’

  Phil picked up one of the letters and glanced at it, avoiding Pru’s gaze. ‘Sick.’

  ‘Oh. More soup?’

  This was normally when he held his arms out to her, gave her his little-boy look and said sorrowfully, ‘Pru, give me a cuddle. I don’t feel very well.’

  Instead he said, ‘I meant it, you know. That stuff last night.’

  ‘Wh-what stuff?’

  ‘Come on, Pru! I might not be able to remember saying it, but Blanche assures me I did.

  Anyway, it’s the truth. I’m getting out of here. I’m sorry if I showed you up in front of your friends, but you can’t plan these things. Sometimes they just happen.’

  Pru couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t what Phil was supposed to say. Oh God, this was awful, awful .. .

  ‘You’re moving in with Blanche?’

  He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Probably. I just know I have to get out of here.’

  ‘But ... but ...’

  ‘Look, I’m sorry.’ For the first time his bloodshot eyes met hers. She saw weariness in them, and guilt. ‘You’re going to have to get out of here too.’

  ‘What?’

  Phil held the letter in his hand out to her.

  ‘Go on, take it. And don’t worry,’ he gestured dismissively at the others on the floor, ‘there’s plenty more where that came from. Help yourself, read as many as you like. Take your pick.’

  Shaking violently, wondering how on earth this could be happening to her, Pru read the first letter.

  Then the second.