by Jill Mansell
When, at midnight, the band struck up the first notes of ‘We’ll Meet Again’ – it was that kind of band – Claire said, ‘Well, we made it. You’ve done your duty. And if my father slips my phone number into your pocket don’t worry. Feel free to chuck it in the bin; you don’t have to see me again.’
Much to his amazement Patrick heard himself say, ‘But I’d like to see you again.’
For a second Claire looked equally astonished. Then, endearingly, she blushed.
‘You would?’
Patrick nodded. ‘I would.’
‘Gosh.’
He smiled briefly. ‘Bit of a shock for me as well. I wasn’t expecting the evening to turn out like this. I’m horribly out of practice too,’ he apologised. ‘The last time I asked a girl out I wore flares and drove a two-tone Cortina.’
Coincidentally, it occurred to Dulcie much later that night that the last time she’d jumped into bed with a man she didn’t actually know terribly well, he’d worn flares and driven a blue and white Cortina.
That had been Patrick, of course, and she had carried on happily jumping into bed with him for years ... until his work had taken over and she’d grown used to going to bed alone while Patrick murmured ‘just-finish-this’ to his beloved computer and only came upstairs hours later when she was asleep.
Tonight, though, she wasn’t alone. She was with Liam McPherson. Dulcie lay back, closed her eyes and deliberately didn’t think of Patrick.
And after a briefly rocky start, Liam was living up to all her expectations. Her old feelings for him were as strong as ever. Better still — because even Dulcie had to confess it, it had been a bit of a one-sided relationship in the past — the attraction was now mutual.
It was so powerful you couldn’t fight it even if you wanted to ... which she certainly didn’t.
It was sheer chemistry.
This is more like it, thought Dulcie rapturously. This is what I need, a glorious Greek god of a man, all blond hair and rocksolid muscles, and not just some brainless hunk, either. A glamorous tennis pro, a star.
Liam had been modest, but as far as Dulcie was concerned, if the Duchess of Kent once watched from the royal box while you played on Wimbledon’s Centre Court, that definitely made you a star.
‘All this time and I never knew you were famous,’ Dulcie murmured dreamily, lying wrapped in Liam’s arms. She had never watched much tennis on television. ‘I wish I could’ve seen you in that quarter-final.’
‘Really?’ Liam sounded amused. ‘I’ve got the video around here somewhere. Want to watch it?’
Startled, Dulcie’s eyes snapped open.
‘What, now?’
But his hand was already travelling lazily up her warm thigh. As he began nuzzling her neck again, Liam murmured, ‘Maybe later.’
Phew.
Dulcie kissed him back, glanced at her watch — 4 a.m. -and shifted herself happily into a more accommodating position. Now this was the kind of exercise regime she liked.
And goodness, what a difference it made, being with someone who, in turn, actually enjoyed being with you.
Rather than with their sodding computer.
That morning-after scenario was something else with which Dulcie was drastically out of practice.
Her first thought upon waking was: Yes! Bingo! And yahboo-sucks to Imelda Page-Weston who had spent most of yesterday evening jealously eyeing Dulcie and Liam from afar.
Dulcie, her eyes still closed, couldn’t help feeling a bit smug; this was what she’d so desperately wanted to happen, but even she had never dreamt it would happen so soon. It was like settling down on the riverbank for a long day’s fishing and before you’d had a chance to unscrew your thermos, hooking and landing Jaws.
Oh, Mr McPherson, Dulcie smirked happily, this is all so sudden.
Her second thought was that something weird was going on. The earth appeared to be moving.
She opened her eyes. No, not the earth. It was the floorboards juddering. Rhythmically, every couple of seconds. There, it was happening again.
Liam’s side of the bed was empty. Moments later, wriggling across the crumpled dark-blue sheet and leaning over the edge, Dulcie found out why.
He was lying with his feet tucked under the bed, doing astonishingly energetic sit-ups.
‘... eighty-six, eighty-seven,’ muttered Liam. He grinned but didn’t stop when he saw Dulcie peering down at him. ‘Morning, sweetheart ... eighty-eight ...’
‘Two fat ladies,’ said Dulcie.
‘Ugh. Not in my bedroom, thanks.’
She sensed he wouldn’t be smitten by Liza. Voluptuous curves clearly weren’t Liam’s thing.
This, Dulcie decided, was a definite plus. Liza’s ability to reduce grown men to quivering masses of testosterone grew wearing after a while. In fact, if you didn’t have a strong stomach, all that hopeless devotion could make you quite sick.
‘... ninety-four ... sleep well?’
Dulcie nodded. Since it was only seven o’clock she had actually been asleep for less than three hours, but so what, who cared? Was she complaining? Not on her nelly.
‘You’re naked,’ she told him.
‘Well spotted.’
Dulcie grinned. ‘I couldn’t very well miss it.’
.. ninety-nine, a hundred.’ Not even out of breath, Liam leapt up and planted a smacking kiss on her mouth. ‘I’ll make breakfast. Do feel free, by the way.’
It took a moment to realise he was offering her his space on the floor, now he’d finished with it.
‘Bit early for me.’ Dulcie slid back under the duvet with alacrity.
‘Saving it for later, eh?’ Liam made a playful grab for one of her ankles. ‘Tell you what, I’m free between twelve and one. When you’ve finished in the gym lll check you out, give you a game of tennis. How about that?’
Some men, thought Dulcie, gave you flowers. Some gave you chocolates. What she wanted to know was what she’d ever done to deserve a man whose idea of romance meant giving you tips on your backswing.
Chapter 20
Liza was pounced on by a starry-eyed Dulcie the moment she drew up outside the club. Dulcie, pink-cheeked with elation, dragged her through to the coffee shop.
‘My God, I suppose this means you pulled the pro.’ Liza resigned herself to missing her turn on the toning table.
‘Did I ever,’ declared Dulcie, realising she couldn’t keep the stupid grin off her face if she tried.
‘And he is divine, so funny and charming ... Wait till you meet him, he’s a dream come true! I’m telling you, this is the real thing. It’s love.’
The housewife, bored and starved of affection, and the gorgeous, bronzed country club tennis coach. Honestly, it was such a cliché. Then again, Liza realised, things like this happened all the time. It was how they became clichés in the first place.
Recognising a bad case of lust when she saw one, she nevertheless decided to humour Dulcie.
‘Good in bed?’
‘The best. Oh, and the body is to die for—’
‘And is it mutual?’ Liza felt it was her job to strike a note of caution. ‘Is he as besotted with you?’
Dulcie looked radiant.
‘That’s the best part, he really is! Honestly, we talked nonstop yesterday evening, then he took me back to his place .. . he’s rented a fantastic flat just behind Royal Crescent—’
‘And you bonked the night away.’
‘We did, we did,’ Dulcie agreed happily. ‘It was out of this world.’
’So when are you seeing him again?’
‘Midday. On the tennis courts.’
Liza raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re going to bonk on the tennis courts? Won’t you get in other people’s way?’
‘We won’t be bonking. He’s giving me a tennis lesson.’
Dulcie tried hard to sound casual, to pull it off. Somehow, though, the words came out lacking conviction, even to her own ears. It was like hearing Linda McCartney say, ‘Yum, bacon sand
wich.’
Liza raised the other eyebrow and said, ‘Oh dear.’
Dulcie cracked at once. You could fool a lot of the people a lot of the time, but not Liza.
‘Okay, I know. He’s a health freak.’ She groaned and covered her face with her hands. ‘What the hell am I going to do?’
Liza hid a smile. The way Dulcie made it sound, health freak was on a par with mass murderer.
‘It’s his job to be fit, that’s all. You don’t have to join in.’
Dulcie wished she could be so sure. That was the thing about Liza, she never compromised herself. If she didn’t want to do something she simply didn’t do it.
But Liam’s idea of breakfast had been three Shredded Wheat, a handful of multivitamins the size of horse pills and a malt and wheatgerm milkshake, and although he hadn’t forced the horse pills on her, he had made her eat two Shredded Wheat. Without sugar either because he didn’t keep empty calories in the house.
From little hints dropped here and there, Dulcie had begun to suspect that coming clean with Liam wouldn’t be the smartest thing to do. He might not be interested in a health slob, a bone-idle junk-food junkie whose idea of a really good workout was trying on ankle boots in Russell and Bromley.
‘He’s everything I want,’ she told Liza. ‘I’m not going to risk losing him. Anyway, how hard can it be, getting fit? Come on, don’t laugh—’
‘You aren’t serious,’ said Liza, wiping her eyes. ‘You, of all people, a born-again Jane Fonda.’
But Dulcie wasn’t to be swayed. ‘You don’t understand,’ she cried. ‘He’s worth it.’
The coffee shop overlooked the tennis courts. Liza watched a tall, vaguely familiar-looking chap in a yellow and white tracksuit make his way out on to the court closest to them. Next to him walked Imelda Page-Weston, her sleek white-blonde hair shimmering in the sunlight.
‘Is that him?’
Dulcie’s head swivelled round. You knew it was love when just the sight of him made your heart do Skippy-the-kangaroo impressions. She watched Imelda say something to Liam and swing her racket experimentally above her shoulder. Liam positioned himself behind her and showed her how she should be doing it. He grinned and whispered something in Imelda’s ear that made her shake with laughter.
You also knew it was love, Dulcie reflected, when the sight of him touching someone like Imelda made you want to bash that someone’s brains out with her own Slazenger.
She realised Liza was watching her.
‘He’s a tennis pro. It’s his job to flirt,’ Liza pointed out. ‘I know.’
‘And there are always going to be women who flirt back.’ Fit women. Healthy women. Women who took care of their bodies.
Women who liked salad.
‘I know that too,’ said Dulcie, gripped by a perverse longing. That only made her want him more.
Preparing to walk out on to the court was worse than any dental appointment. Having spent an hour in the on-site sports shop, Dulcie was kitted out in a new Lacoste shirt and a staggeringly expensive pink and white tennis skirt. What with the racket as well, she’d blown quite a hole in her credit card. Still, Dulcie reasoned, she’d be saving money on junk food.
Since her stomach was growling and she no longer ate crisps, she made her way back to the coffee shop and — ignoring the astonished eyebrows of the woman on the till — virtuously bought a couple of muesli bars instead.
The trouble with muesli bars, Dulcie discovered — apart from the fact that they were disgusting
— was the bits they left lodged in your teeth. Rushing to the changing room for a last nervous pee and to check her teeth in the mirror, she ran slap bang into Imelda.
Imelda, just out of the shower, was wearing an olive-green towel. She cast a look of amusement in the direction of Dulcie’s pristine skirt.
‘Don’t tell me you’ve booked a lesson too.’
‘I didn’t, actually. It was Liam’s idea,’ Dulcie replied as loftily as she could.
‘And you said yes,’ Imelda marvelled. ‘Well, well, wonders will never cease. Although you have to admit, he is gorgeous.’ As she spoke, she was drying herself with the towel, giving Dulcie the opportunity to see just how toned her own body was. ‘Looks like we’re both after him, then,’
Imelda went on, smiling as the towel dropped to the floor and she reached for her white satin bra and knickers. ‘May the best girl win, eh, Dulcie?’
Dulcie stared back at her. The bra was a 36D, which didn’t help. She had never liked Imelda, who was a man’s woman, a woman without female friends.
Dulcie said, ‘Maybe I already have.’
‘Oh dear, is this my fault?’ Liam laughed and shook his head at Dulcie. ‘Are you that exhausted after last night?’
Exhausted wasn’t the word. What Liam called a quick knock-up had felt to Dulcie like a marathon five-setter. She couldn’t understand, either, why the ball wouldn’t go where she wanted it to go. She’d played enough tennis at school to know she wasn’t that hopeless.
Liam leapt over the net and jogged over to her. Dulcie’s legs were trembling uncontrollably and she had a raging stitch in her side. Her racket, doing double duty as a walking stick, was the only thing propping her up.
‘Sweetheart, you look terrible.’ He was frowning now, clearly concerned. ‘What is it?’
Dulcie, thinking she would just die if Imelda was sitting in the coffee shop watching her make a spectacle of herself, croaked, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong. I f-feel awful.’
Liam put his arm around her waist and helped her off the court. Dulcie was sweating, trembling, as weak as a kitten and unable to hit a ball for toffee; it wasn’t hard to figure out.
‘Flu,’ he announced. ‘That’s what it is. You’re going down with flu.’
Dulcie almost collapsed with relief. ‘Oh I am, I am. I knew I wasn’t well! Flu, that’s it—’
‘Home,’ Liam instructed. ‘And straight to bed.’
‘Um, about tomorrow ... I was going to invite you round to my house for dinner?’ Dulcie began to panic at the thought of not seeing him.
But Liam shook his head.
‘Sweetheart, you’ll be in no state to cook dinner. I’ll see you when you’re better. Maybe next weekend,’ he gave her waist an encouraging squeeze, ‘or the week after that.’
Liza, who had caught the end of Dulcie’s lesson, was in the car park chucking her squash racket and sports bag on to the back seat of her white Renault.
‘This is my friend Liza,’ said Dulcie, gesturing weakly. ‘I’m sending Dulcie home,’ Liam explained. ‘She’s sick.’
‘You don’t have to tell me,’ said Liza. Honestly, what was Dulcie like? Did she seriously expect to get away with this? Clinging on to Liam’s arm, Dulcie gasped, ‘We th-think it’s flu.’
‘Sure it’s not mad cow disease?’ said Liza.
Chapter 21
‘How’s the invalid?’ Liza asked gravely when she phoned the next morning.
‘Not funny,’ Dulcie wailed. ‘I’m telling you, flu would be a doddle next to this. I’m totally and utterly seized up.’
Since leaving school, reaching for the next custard cream had been about as energetic as Dulcie got. Hurling herself without warning around a tennis court for sixty minutes had sent every muscle in her outraged body into spasm.
‘I’m in bed,’ she groaned. ‘I crawled to the bathroom earlier. It took me an hour to get back.’
Liza grinned. ‘You need looking after. Want me to phone Liam and ask him to pop over?’
‘Don’t you dare. Ouch.’ It even hurt holding the phone up to her ear. ‘God, this is agony. I’ll never walk again.’
‘Can’t say I didn’t warn you.’ Liza was cheerful and not the least bit sympathetic. ‘Told you not to overdo it, didn’t I? Take some paracetamol, you’ll feel better in a day or two.’
‘I can’t get to them, they’re downstairs.’ Dulcie pleaded feebly, ‘You could come over, couldn’t you, just for a few hou
rs? I really do need looking after. I’m helpless.’
‘I think you mean hopeless. And no, sorry, I can’t.’ Having pulled open her wardrobe doors, Liza stood and surveyed the neatly lined-up contents. ‘I’ve got something else on.’
The peacock-blue silk shirt, she decided rapidly. Black leather trousers and her high-heeled black ankle boots. Why not? Just because she was joining the protesters didn’t mean she had to dress like one.
‘Something more important than your best friend starving to death in her own bed?’ Dulcie sounded hurt.
‘No, but I can’t back out now. If I did,’ said Liza, ‘then I’d really be a wimp.’
Driving towards West Titherton, Liza barely noticed the dazzling scenery, the white clouds drifting high in a duck-egg-blue sky, dappled sunlight sweeping over the rolling Mendip hills and the thousand different shades of green that made up the countryside in late spring.
She still didn’t know how Alistair Kline had managed to bamboozle her into going along today.
But that, Liza supposed, was what successful barristers were all about. It was their job to persuade you to agree with them, to convince you – against your better judgement – that they were right.
‘It’s simply a matter of following through.’ Alistair had been forceful. ‘You start something, you finish it. That letter to the paper generated a fair amount of publicity, if you remember. People will expect you to be there. They’d be disappointed if you didn’t turn up, Liza,’ he went on, his expression sorrowful. ‘Disappointed in you for not caring enough to make that small effort—’
‘Stop,’ Liza groaned, ‘this is worse than The Waltons. Okay, I’ll do it.’
Alistair instantly reverted to a normal tone of voice. ‘Great. See you there then. Ten o’clock sharp.’
She wondered despairingly how she could ever have thought he was shy.
Liza slowed as she reached the brow of the next hill. Below her lay West Titherton, a golden toy village surrounded by a patchwork of fields, some dotted with. immobile black and white cows, others with clusters of sheep.
