by Jill Mansell
‘Who are you?’ said Pru. ‘Terry’s brother?’
‘Pru?’ The man began to relax. He grinned at her. ‘I’m Terry.’
‘No you aren’t.’ Pru hesitated, confused. This was like a John le Carré novel where the gardener suddenly whisks off his beard and turns into a KGB agent.
‘Actually, he is,’ volunteered the girl in the bed. ‘And I’ve worked with him for the last four years, so I should know.’
Having taken the intrusion amazingly calmly, considering, Terry asked Pru if she wouldn’t mind making them all a pot of coffee.
Ten minutes later, showered and dressed, he appeared in the kitchen.
‘Sorry about barging in,’ said Pru, going pink at the memory as she poured the coffee into green and gold cups. ‘I thought you were at work. I did ring.’
‘Day off. I never hear the phone when I’m asleep.’ Terry dismissed her apology with a good-natured shrug. ‘Anyway, I’m curious. Why didn’t you think I was me? What’s my bossy sister been telling you?’
‘Nothing,’ protested Pru. ‘Marion didn’t say anything. It’s my mistake. It was the photograph in your bedroom, that’s all. I just assumed the chap in it was you.’
Terry’s rather angular mouth twitched.
‘It was me.’
‘But—’
He tapped the side of his nose.
‘Before I had this done.’
Pru winced. She’d put her foot in it again.
‘You mean you had an ... an accident?’
‘No accident. You’re being wonderfully tactful,’ Terry looked amused, ‘but there’s no need.
You’ve seen the photo, Pru. Let’s be honest, I was born with one hell of a nose.’
‘Oh ... well ...’
‘Jokes? I heard them all. Witty nicknames? Honker, Concorde, Big Bird ... I’ve been called everything in my time. When I was at school, the other kids made my life hell,’ Terry went on.
‘Then you get older, and people might stop calling you names, but you know they’re still staring at you, trying to concentrate on what you’re saying to them and all the time thinking: "God, look at the hooter on him." ‘
Pru couldn’t stop staring either.
‘So ... so you had plastic surgery?’
‘It wasn’t a question of vanity.’ For the first time Terry sounded defensive. ‘I just wanted to look
... normal.’
‘Oh I know,’ cried Pru. She understood exactly how he must have felt. ‘I know. Did ... well, did it hurt?’
He shrugged.
‘A bit. But it was worth it. If it had hurt a hundred times more, it would still have been worth it.
You see, I don’t have tothink about my nose any more. Why are you crying?’ He looked worried. ‘Pru, stop it. You mustn’t cry. Your nose is fine.’
Unable to speak, Pru raised her arms and scooped her hair away from her face.
At that moment the girl who shared both Terry’s office and his bed came into the kitchen wearing his towelling dressing gown.
‘Good grief.’ She eyed Pru’s ears with alarm. ‘Shouldn’t you get those seen to?’
‘Karen is to diplomacy what Margaret Thatcher is to tap dancing,’ Terry apologised. ‘But this time I have to say she’s right.’
Pru covered her ears back up again. Funny how all it had taken to overcome a lifetime’s fear of surgery was a snapshot of a man with a beaky nose.
Typical, too, that all those years when money had been no object, she hadn’t been able to pluck up the courage to have her ears fixed.
Now I’ve got the courage, Pru thought gloomily, and I can’t even afford a tube of UHU.
Chapter 25
Liza lay in the bath for an hour, watching her skin shrivel and marvelling at her spectacular stupidity. It was her birthday, she was thirty-two, and she was acting like a pathetic teenager.
Damn, worse than that. She was acting like ... Dulcie.
There had been plenty of offers over the course of the last few days, from various men eager to take her out on her birthday. Stupidly, still hoping against hope that Kit Berenger would be in touch, she had turned them all down. She had even invented ever more elaborate excuses on Kit’s behalf, every time the phone rang and it wasn’t him.
In the end Liza had run out of excuses. Reasonable ones anyway. The only excuse that would do now was if he were dead.
So here she was, a grown woman in the grip of a deeply embarrassing crush – an unrequited crush at that – all alone on her birthday and feeling more spinsterish by the minute.
Climbing out of the bath, Liza put on a baggy yellow sweater and a pair of pink shorts. Since it was sunny outside she took her work out into the tiny garden.
Seconds after she’d settled herself down with more reference books and a notepad, the post arrived. Sending her coffee flying, Liza raced to the door. Cards, cards, cards .. .
None of them from Kit Berenger.
Hating herself for being foolish enough to even think he might have sent one – how truly pathetic could you get? – Liza crammed her sunglasses on to her face and forced herself to work for two hours straight.
At midday she made herself another pot of coffee and phoned Mark.
‘Dinner tonight. Are you still up for it?’
‘I thought you were busy.’
‘Change of plan,’ Liza replied brightly. ‘I can make it now.’
‘Oh, shame, I made other arrangements.’ Bemused by her call – it didn’t occur to him for a second that she could actually have been stood up by another man – Mark added, ‘Of course, you’re welcome to join us. Suzie wouldn’t mind ...’
Dulcie was just as much of a let-down.
‘I can’t, I’m seeing Liam. He’s mad about me,’ she confided happily. ‘You should have seen him last night, trying to climb in through my bedroom window! He’s so romantic,’ she sighed, ‘so masterful.’
Not in the mood to hear this, Liza attempted a quick getaway. ‘Okay, doesn’t matter—’
‘Hang on! You still haven’t told me what’s been going on between you and Kit Berenger.’
‘Terrible line, I can hardly hear you.’ Liza bashed the phone against the wall a couple of times and hung up.
When the doorbell rang an hour later she was tempted not to answer it. Why bother when it was either flowers from Mark – a guilt gift to make up for not being able to see her tonight – or Dulcie determined to get the low-down on the Berenger affair.
Some affair, Liza thought miserably. Chance would be a fine thing.
The doorbell rang again. Heaving an irritated sigh, she went to see who it was. If it was flowers, she’d answer the door. If it was Dulcie she definitely wouldn’t.
It wasn’t Dulcie. It wasn’t flowers either. And the silhouette through the stained glass was man-shaped.
Pulling the door open, Liza came face to face with Kit Berenger.
‘Happy birthday.’
He was wearing a dark-green shirt with a fine crimson stripe and the most impeccably cut black suit.
‘Thanks.’ Liza wondered how he knew it was today. But who cared? He was here, he was here.
‘You could always invite me in,’ Kit suggested when she didn’t move.
‘I thought you were going to phone.’ Liza stayed where she was. ‘Don’t tell me, you spent the ten pounds and couldn’t remember my number.’
He grinned. ‘Oh ye of little faith. Actually, I learned it off by heart. And I nearly phoned, hundreds of times. Had to exert a fair amount of self-control, I can tell you.’
Liza took a deep breath. She was having to exert a bit of self-control herself, right at this moment.
‘Either way, phoning would have been the decent thing to do,’ she said evenly. ‘If you decide you don’t want to see someone again, you should still let them know.’
‘Come on,’ chided Kit, his tone humorous, ‘you didn’t think that for a second.’
Liza pulled him into the narrow hallway and slammed the
door shut. They stood, inches away from each other, her dark-brown eyes fixed angrily on his yellow-gold ones.
‘I thought I didn’t think that for a second,’ she almost hissed at him, ‘until you didn’t ring. Oh for God’s sake,’ she blurted out furiously, ‘how could you do that to me?’
‘Look,’ said Kit, ‘I thought we both needed the time to think. I don’t know about you, but I don’t make a habit of feeling like this about someone. It’s pretty scary, if you want the truth.’ He hesitated, then half smiled. ‘Bloody scary, in fact.’
‘It’s only lust. You don’t have to be scared!’
‘Ah, but what if it isn’t only lust?’ Kit put his hands on her shoulders. ‘You said yourself, I was too young for you.’ Liza smiled up at him.
‘I meant I was too old for you. Anyway, it doesn’t matter. We’re hardly talking weddings here.
What’s wrong with a harmless fling?’
‘Is that all you’re interested in?’ demanded Kit. He began to sound annoyed.
Liza was just glad he was here. The relief was overwhelming. She decided to be frank with him.
‘Don’t take this personally, it’s just the way I am. And the age thing’s irrelevant; I’m the same with everyone. I get bored quickly, that’s all. So trust me, you don’t have to worry about getting involved, being scared,’ she told Kit, ‘because it won’t last long enough for that to happen.’
Inexplicably, Liza heard her voice break. She paused before finishing what she had to say. ‘My relationships never do.’
He touched her mouth with one finger, tracing the outline of her full lower lip.
‘How soon before you get bored?’
‘Three or four weeks.’ She tried to move her mouth away from his finger, found she couldn’t do it. ‘I’m a very shallow person.’
Kit frowned.
‘A month? Is that the longest you’ve ever been involved with someone?’
Liza nodded, ashamed.
‘Pretty much. I think I managed five weeks once.’ He shook his head.
‘That’s really sad.’
‘I’ve kind of got used to it,’ said Liza.
‘That’s even sadder.’
‘Don’t you dare start feeling sorry for me.’
‘I’m not.’ Kit grinned. ‘Wouldn’t dream of it. Anyway, you’ve met me now. Things could be about to change.’
That would be just my luck, thought Liza. After years of being left cold by endless hugely eligible men, how typical if I finally fell in love with a toyboy. How unsuitable could you get?
She didn’t seriously expect it to happen. It was hardly likely. All she wanted to do was enjoy the next few weeks for what they were and accept the inevitable ending with good grace.
But for Kit’s sake she pretended it was a possibility.
Smiling up at him, she said, ‘Who knows? Maybe they are.’
Kit’s eyes narrowed at once. ‘Don’t humour me.’ His voice sent shivers of longing down Liza’s spine. ‘I’m not.’
‘You are. You think I’m too young to understand what makes you tick.’
Liza wished he’d stop talking. All she could think about right now was how badly she wanted him to make love to her.
That, she decided, would definitely be a birthday present worth having.
She gave him her most sensual and bewitching smile, the one that no man could ever resist.
‘I’m telling you, you aren’t going to get tired of me,’ promised Kit, resisting it. ‘I’m going to keep you interested if it kills me.’
‘Really?’ Liza gazed at him dreamily, her fingers itching to start unbuttoning his shirt. ‘And how are you planning to do this? By hypnosis?’
‘Stop looking at me like that,’ Kit said with a grin. ‘By not sleeping with you, for a start.’
It was the first week in June. The significance of this only struck Pru as she sat on a wooden bench outside Elm lea House in Clifton, absently flipping through the Daily Mail.
‘Driving ban for vicar after peacocks get the chop’, read Pru, but it was less alarming than it sounded. An absent-minded vicar, his thoughts on next Sunday’s sermon rather than the road ahead, had managed to veer into a yew hedge and demolish thirty years’ worth of lovingly tended topiary. Six sculpted peacocks had promptly been decapitated. The Morris Minor had escaped unscathed. The vicar, his licence suspended for a month, was quoted as saying, ‘I feel terrible about this. Everyone in the parish knows how keen I am on birds.’
It suddenly occurred to Pru that Eddie’s ban must almost be up. He had served his time, paid his penance. Any day now, surely, he’d be getting his licence back.
Pru was surprised how disappointed she felt. She would miss driving Eddie around. Maybe she should pin up a card in her local police station, offering her services to anyone else about to be banned.
But it wouldn’t be the same without Eddie.
‘I know who you are now.’
Pru shielded her eyes from the setting sun and looked up to see who had spoken. Oh help, it was that bossy old woman again, the one who had commandeered Dulcie’s steamy paperback.
‘You’re with Edna Peverell’s son-in-law,’ the woman announced triumphantly. ‘You come here with him three times a week. Edna tells me he’s a damn fine chap.’
Unable to think of anything else to say, Pru put down her paper and nodded.
‘Oh yes, he is. Um ... damn fine.’
‘So what I want to know,’ the old woman’s eyes were shrewd, ‘is what’s wrong with you?’
‘Excuse me?’ said Pru.
‘Why hasn’t your chap introduced you to Edna? Too ashamed, is he? What are you, one of those topless models in your spare time?’ The old lady had a laugh like a fox’s bark. ‘Come on, child, you can tell me. Why does he always leave you waiting outside like a wet umbrella?’
The old dear was clearly a couple of sausage rolls short of a picnic, but Pru was still flattered.
She glanced down at her almost nonexistent chest.
‘Hardly a topless model.’
‘No, you’re right. Something else then. Traffic warden? Jehovah’s Witness?’ She pointed her walking stick accusingly at Pru. ‘Member of the SDP?’
‘Actually,’ said Pru, ‘he’s not my chap. I’m just Eddie’s driver. That’s why he hasn’t introduced me to his mother-in-law.’
‘Balls,’ declared the old lady. Inching arthritically around, she jabbed her stick in the direction of one of the ivy-clad second-floor windows overlooking the car park. ‘That’s my room up there.
I’ve been watching the pair of you for the last six weeks. I’m not blind, you know.’
No, just dotty, thought Pru.
‘How did you get on with that book?’ she said, changing the subject.
‘Not bad.’ The batty old dear had turned towards the heavy oak front door. Preparing to leave, she paused and gave Pru a sly smile. ‘Not enough sex.’
She muttered something else under her breath as she disappeared through the doorway.
‘What?’ Pru called after her retreating back. ‘What did you say?’
‘I said not enough sex.’ In an oddly regal fashion, the old woman waved her walking stick briefly at Pru. Then she snorted with laughter. ‘Rather like you and your chap.’
Pru didn’t mention this exchange to Eddie when he returned to the car. Instead she asked him when his three-month ban was up.
Eddie gazed out of the side window at the spectacular Clifton suspension bridge, stretched across the Avon gorge.
‘Did I tell you three months? That wasn’t quite true,’ he said, sounding awkward and still not looking at Pru. ‘Actually it was ... um ... six.’
Chapter 26
Dulcie surveyed herself carefully from all angles in the wardrobe mirror but she still didn’t look any different.
This was most annoying, because when you’d put in as much hard work as she had during the last month you expected to end up looking like an international Gladiator at l
east.
Still, she had to be fitter on the inside. The sweating was disgusting, the grunting and straining horribly reminiscent of childbirth and the sheer pain involved was unimaginable but if this was what it took to persuade Liam she was his kind of girl ... well, then it was worth every grunt and strain.
Following the flu fiasco, Dulcie had realised drastic measures were now called for. Some things you could bluff your way through, others you couldn’t, and attempting to pass yourself off as Bath’s answer to Steffi Graf when in reality you were Bath’s answer to a cross between Jo Brand and a walking Mars bar clearly wasn’t on.
As a result of this, Dulcie had joined another, less sumptuous sports club on the other side of the city and had booked daily lessons with the far less desirable middle-aged tennis coach there.
Biting the bullet, she had also enrolled herself in the beginners’ aerobics class. If she could still walk after this, she stumbled along to the gym and pumped iron for an hour.
It had been far and away the most hideous month of Dulcie’s life. The only consolation was that she was doing it where no one recognised her; she was working out at a club so un-smart she was unlikely ever to bump into anyone she knew.
But if hanging on to Liam McPherson involved keeping fit, Dulcie was prepared to suffer.
And now she had suffered, for a whole month. It was just such a bugger that it didn’t show.
Maybe she could squeeze Liam half to death with her thighs. Then he’d be impressed.
Having finished her inspection in front of the mirror, Dulcie wriggled her way into a new dress, a tiny clinging thing the colour of sherbet lemons. With it, she wore flat silver sandals and understated silver jewellery. She was meeting up with Liam at Poppers, the new wine bar on Pulteney Bridge, and she wanted to look good. Poppers was definitely the kind of place people went to be seen.
‘Dulcie? Are you here on your own?’
Turning, Dulcie came face to face with her estranged husband. Honestly, trust Patrick to make her sound like a prostitute.
