by Jill Mansell
Pru wondered unhappily why Dulcie couldn’t have left her out of it. She had lied. Successfully, too.
And it felt horrid.
On the back seat, as they sped down the dual carriageway towards Bristol, Arthur let out an impatient whine, the doggie equivalent of: ‘How long before we’re there?’
Pru may have felt terrible at deliberately deceiving Eddie, but she didn’t feel as terrible as Liam did when Dulcie broke the momentous news to him that night.
In addition, her hearing appeared to have been affected.
‘Christ. A baby! I don’t know if this is a good idea—’
‘Isn’t it the most fantastic news ever?’ Dulcie rattled on regardless, ignoring his less-than-thrilled expression. ‘Just think, a son! You’ll be able to teach him to play tennis!’
‘Dulcie ... sweetheart, sit down. Stop yakking for a minute.’ Liam shook his head; he looked pained. ‘The thing is, I’m not sure I’m ready to be a father.’
It was bound to come as a bit of a shock, thought Dulcie. She could understand that. She had to make allowances. When it began to sink in, the idea would grow on him. She just had to plant the right seeds.
‘Nobody’s ever sure they’re ready for children,’ she told Liam soothingly, ‘but once it’s happened, they wonder how they ever lived without them. Look at all your old tennis pals ...
John McEnroe, Pat Cash ... they’re devoted to their kids! And it makes men so attractive, too,’
she enthused. ‘Look at Sting, Simon Le Bon, Tom Cruise ...’
Dulcie had worked out the best way to play it, and she was right. Even in his shell-shocked state, Liam was drawn to the sexy-but-caring image. Maybe it wouldn’t be so bad; he could do it Rod Stewart style, have umpteen kids by a succession of drop-dead-gorgeous girlfriends .. .
Then he thought of the astronomical child support and shuddered.
‘Look, Dulcie, we do need to think about this.’ He paused, not wanting to upset her, choosing his words with care. ‘Weneed to think about it seriously. There are other ... well, other options, you know.’
Dulcie, her green eyes huge, gazed at him like a wounded fawn. Her lower lip began to tremble.
‘How could you even think that?’
Her hands clutched her stomach. Liam instantly felt dreadful, like an axe murderer.
With a sigh, he supposed he was lucky this hadn’t happened before. He was almost thirty-five, had been firing on all cylinders since he was fifteen ... well, that was a pretty good innings.
Okay, so he’d been let down by a faulty condom, but they were said to be only ninety-seven per cent effective anyway, weren’t they? And he’d certainly used more than ninety-seven condoms in the past twenty years.
Anyway, looking on the bright side – at least now he knew he wasn’t infertile.
Liam decided to give in gracefully, he may as well make the best of it. He’d been caught out, but so what? It might not be what he wanted but then neither was it the end of the world.
He relaxed, sat back in his chair and smiled at Dulcie.
‘So how are you feeling?’
Dulcie hurled herself at him as joyously as Arthur had hurled himself earlier at Anita, the glorious golden retriever of his dreams.
‘Oh I knew you’d be thrilled,’ she cried, covering his face with kisses. ‘Imagine, our very own baby! Our own future Wimbledon champion—’
‘Do you feel okay?’ Liam studied her face. Dulcie certainly seemed to be glowing.
‘Sick.’ Belatedly she remembered her long list of symptoms. ‘But that’s normal. Hundreds of food cravings, which the doctor says I should just go along with. Oh, and I’m tired so I have to rest a lot, mustn’t do too much.’
‘Really?’ Liam looked alarmed.
‘Otherwise your ankles swell,’ Dulcie explained. ‘It can be dangerous.’
He glanced at her ankles, which looked okay to him, but Dulcie was reaching down, miming them blowing up like balloons and exploding. She pulled a face and shook her head.
‘That’s what my doctor said. Yuk, imagine. So no more tennis, which is a real shame. Still, you have to do as you’re told, don’t you?’ Patting her stomach, looking regretful but at the same time serene, Dulcie added caringly, ‘The baby comes first.’
Never having had any involvement with pregnant women before, Liam’s knowledge of the subject was largely limited to the old black and white movies he had watched on TV as a teenager. Happily for Dulcie, their attitude towards mothers to-be was pretty much on a par with hers.
Liam racked his brains for a second and came up with, ‘You’d better lie down. Shall I make you a cup of tea?’
Dulcie, who had watched a lot of the same films, happily did as she was told. This was more like it. Liam was going to turn into Cary Grant, she’d be Audrey Hepburn and together they would live happily ever after ...
‘Tea, brilliant.’ She sank back on to the sofa and put her feet up. ‘Actually, I’m just craving a bowl of peanut butter ice cream. There’s some in the freezer.’
When he had switched the kettle on, Liam came back into the sitting room with a spoon and the tub of ice cream. He frowned as he read the list of calories per 100 mls. and the percentages of sugar and fat.
‘This stuff’s lethal. You’ll end up the size of a sumo wrestler.’
‘No I won’t.’ Reaching up, Dulcie grabbed the tub and the spoon. Liam watched her expertly peel off the lid and balance it on one knee.
‘I’ll go and get you a bowl.’
‘Don’t worry,’ said Dulcie, swooning with pleasure, ‘I’ll manage like this.’
Chapter 30
Liza hated the word toyboy. She wished it didn’t get to her, but it did. If you’re ugly you can wear make-up, if you’re bald you can wear a wig and if you’re short you can wear high heels .
But if you’re nine years older than the man in your life, Liza thought with rising frustration, there’s damn all you can do about it. Because you can’t wear anything to make you younger than you are.
It didn’t bother Kit at all. He really couldn’t care less.
‘You have to come to the party with me,’ he urged. ‘What’s the problem? Everyone knows I’m seeing you. Now I want them to meet you.’
The party was being held to celebrate the twenty-third birthday of one of Kit’s friends. Since the weather was dazzling, it was taking place outside in the garden of his home overlooking the river. As soon as they arrived, stepping out of the taxi on Sunday afternoon, Liza began to feel twitchy.
It didn’t take long for things to get worse.
Terrified of looking like mutton dressed as lamb, she had decided against wearing anything Dulcie-length. Instead, she had chosen a long, loose, topaz-yellow summer dress and strappy yellow high heels. The bad news was, her heels kept sinking into the lawn so to avoid toppling over backwards she ended up having to take them off. This meant the dress was now too long and trailed along the ground. Nobody else had made the same mistake. Everywhere Liza looked, girls in either tiny dresses or ultra-short tops and skirts showed off acres of midriff and conker-brown leg. They all seemed to have hair like spun silk that had to be continually flipped back.
There wasn’t a wrinkle or an ounce of flab in sight. Worst of all, hardly anyone else looked old enough to drink.
Liza felt like a Shetland pony amongst racehorses. Minus her heels, she wished desperately she’d worn her hair up, instead of loose, to give her a couple more inches. As friends of Kit stopped to chat, she fumbled in her handbag, her fingers desperately searching for a couple of stray hair combs.
She couldn’t bear to look round when she heard two girls behind her, discussing her in giggly cut-glass voices.
‘Is that really Kit’s latest?’
‘Must be. Hugh said he was bringing her.’
‘My God, she looks like thingummy from The Munsters. Cousin It.’
More giggles. Liza was surprised they knew who the Munsters were.
‘Wonder
what Kit sees in her? She’s hardly his usual type.’
‘Oh well, you know Kit. Anything with novelty value. She won’t last long.’
‘It’s weird though,’ mused the second girl, ‘when he could have anyone he likes. Me, for a start.’
‘Give him time.’ The first girl sounded smug. ‘He will.’
It didn’t help that while Liza was listening to this going on behind her, she was being subjected to some serious chatting-up from the front. A blond, rather good-looking boy called Toby was giving every impression of being bowled over.
But Liza’s confidence had taken such a knock, instead of simply taking the attention for granted, she wondered if he was doing it for a bet.
Somehow she stuck the party out for the next hour and a half, hating every second but by some miracle managing to hide the fact from Kit. Having decided miserably that she was the oldest person there, Liza was hugely relieved to spot a late arrival making his way down the garden towards them.
The man, who was maybe forty, wore jeans and a blue andwhite striped shirt. He was definitely handsome. When she saw him, one of the blonde coltish girls ran across the lawn and threw her arms around his neck.
Liza didn’t care how handsome he was. She was just glad he was there. Older than her and there.
He approached Liza less than ten minutes later, while Kit was getting more drinks.
‘Hi, you’re Liza Lawson.’ He grinned and shook her hand. ‘Dominic Hunter-Greene. I’m a great fan of yours. Read you every Sunday.’
Liza chatted happily for several minutes. Kit was being waylaid at the bar by a couple of college friends but it didn’t matter a bit. She was fine. Dominic Hunter-Greene wasn’t chatting her up, he was simply being friendly while his young blonde girlfriend helped out with the barbecue.
‘Come on, I need to sit down,’ he said and Liza followed him over to a white wrought-iron table surrounded by matching padded chairs. Draped leggily across the chairs were two more mini-skirted blondes and their boyfriends, all drinking Becks and smoking Marlboro Lights.
He was clearly totally at ease with the fact that he was older than everyone else there. But then, Liza thought enviously, it was so different for men. Bag yourself a gorgeous young girlfriend and everyone goes ‘wey-hey, good for you’. When a woman, on the other hand, gets herself a younger boyfriend, everyone goes ‘yeugh, gross’.
‘Okay you lot, park yourselves on the grass,’ said Dominic. ‘Not fair,’ complained one of the girls.
‘Yes, Dad, we were here first,’ said the other.
‘I don’t care. This is my house and these are my chairs.’ Dominic expertly tipped his daughter off hers. ‘Anyway, you’re young, you can sprawl anywhere you like.’ Liza stiffened as he placed a protective hand on her forearm, drawing her into the conversation. ‘We oldies prefer something more dignified.’ He winked at Liza. ‘When you get to our age, you appreciate a bit of comfort.’
Liza saw the glances exchanged by the two girls, who knew she was here with Kit.
‘Who’s the girl helping with the barbecue?’ she said, when they had wandered off, no doubt leaving the wrinklies to it.
‘Has no one introduced you?’ Dominic looked despairing. ‘Honestly, kids today. That’s Sacha, my youngest.’
It was turning into one of those days. Feverishly planning her escape, the best excuse Liza had been able to come up with was a headache. Now, having fretted over the lack of originality, she realised her head actually was beginning to pound in ominous pre-migraine fashion.
Not knowing whether to laugh or cry, Liza tried to concentrate on the story Dominic was telling her. As soon as he finished, she would find Kit and tell him she had to get home. Her migraine attacks didn’t strike often but when they happened they weren’t to be taken lightly. Within minutes, Liza knew, her vision would be distorted by flashing lights, the pain would become intense, her words would begin to slur and she would start to feel horribly sick.
‘I say, are you feeling all right?’ Dominic leaned towards her, concerned. Liza had suddenly gone quite pale. She forced a smile.
‘Bit of a headache, that’s all. I think I’m going to have to .. . oh, good grief ...’
Liza saw who was approaching and experienced a surge of nausea. This was truly turning into the party from hell. And her vision was already starting to go.
‘Surprise,’ said Kit, his shirt-sleeved arm around the shoulder of yet another stunning young.
blonde. Only this time it was one Liza recognised.
‘Nicky, this is Liza. Liza,’ Kit went on, grinning broadly, ‘meet my cousin Nicky.’
The flickering lights were moving like storm clouds across Liza’s field of vision. Hardly able to see the girl’s face, all she could do was pray her expression was friendly.
‘I’m sho em-embarrassed.’ Liza stumbled over the wordsas the pain behind her left eye intensified. Having struggled to her feet she now realised she was in danger of losing her balance. Swaying, she clutched Kit’s arm. Damn, now everyone was going to think she was pissed.
Kit was just saying, ‘There’s no need to be embarrassed,’ when Liza abruptly let go of him and with a mumbled, ‘Excuse me,’ lurched past Nicky and disappeared inside the house.
Her head felt as if it was about to explode. Reaching the bathroom just in time, Liza threw up spectacularly into the toilet and stayed there, shuddering and retching, until there was nothing left to throw up.
Not until there was a discreet tap-tap and the bathroom door swung open did Liza realise she hadn’t locked it properly. She moaned and grabbed a handful of loo roll to wipe her eyes with, knowing how red and hideously puffed-up her face was.
‘Please, don’t come in.’
‘Sorry, too late.’
Within seconds Liza found herself being lifted off the floor and helped over to an uncomfortable chrome chair in the corner of Dominic Hunter-Greene’s stunning silver and white bathroom. The toilet — also chrome — was briskly flushed and a box of tissues thrust into her trembling hands.
‘I heard you being sick,’ said Nicky Berenger. Rummaging in her handbag she produced a packet of chewing gum and a bottle of eye drops and offered them both to Liza. ‘Here, these’ll help. What was it, too much Pimm’s?’
Liza tried to smile. God, it hurt. She gestured feebly at her head.
‘Migraine.’
Nicky looked appalled.
‘And there was me, thinking you were paralytic! Oh, you poor thing. My dad suffers from migraine ... he’s got special pills to take as soon as he feels an attack coming on.’
Liza managed a minuscule nod.
‘Me too, but my last headache was over a year ago.’ Gingerly, she smiled. ‘You forget what they’re like.’
‘Are you two okay in there,’ said Kit, minutes later, ‘or are you having a fight?’
Nicky unwrapped another chewing gum and gave it to Liza, who had just thrown up again.
‘She’s got a migraine. I’m doing my Florence Nightingale bit. You’ll need to borrow a bucket,’
she told Kit, ‘for on the way home.’
He looked horrified.
‘We came by taxi. What driver’s going to take someone carrying a bucket and bringing her boots up in the back of his cab?’
This was true.
‘Okay, I’ll give you a lift,’ said Nicky. ‘Come on.’
The migraine continued on its inexorable course. The journey home was hell. With Kit’s arms around her, Liza closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the agonising vice-like pain. She was sick twice more, luckily into the borrowed bucket. By the time they reached the flat, it was as much as she could do to mumble an almost unintelligible thank-you and let Kit carry her inside to bed.
When Liza arrived at the Songbird two days later, Nicky was perched on a stool at the bar going over next week’s bookings with the chef.
‘Still alive then.’ She grinned when she saw Liza, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, they’re amazing! You didn’t have
to do this,’ as Liza put the cellophane-wrapped mass of orange roses into her arms.
‘I think I did.’ Liza kissed her flushed cheek. ‘You were brilliant on Sunday. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. For all your help, and the lift home.’ She hesitated, summoning up the courage to say the rest. It wasn’t made any easier by the chef, who clearly recognised her and was glowering away under fearsome eyebrows like Lurch from the Addams family. ‘I still can’t believe you’re even speaking to me after I almost wrecked your business. I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how terrible I felt about that.’
Nicky, her eyes gleaming, pushed back her blonde hair and gave Lurch a hefty prod in the ribs.
‘Well, don’t. It wasn’t your fault, it was Marcel’s. Wasn’t it, Marcel?’ she added teasingly. ‘If you hadn’t got legless on Newcastle Brown and turned up for work still half-cut, Liza wouldn’t have been able to criticise us, would she’?’
Marcel looked embarrassed. Apart from anything else, he was a Frenchman. How was he ever going to live down the humiliation of having got plastered on Newcastle Brown Ale?
Liza, who had to be in Cheltenham by midday, checked her watch.
‘Look, I have to go. Thanks again for everything. See you soon, I hope.’ She paused. ‘And if there’s ever anything I can do for you ...’
‘That’s an easy one,’ Nicky said promptly. ‘Marry Kit.’ Liza burst out laughing.
‘Any particular reason?’
Nicky’s smile was mischievous as she waved an arm, encompassing the restaurant.
‘Then you can hold your wedding reception here.’
Dulcie, sunbathing in the back garden on Tuesday afternoon, heard the sound of a familiar car engine. When it switched off in front of the house she experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.
Except it wasn’t déjà vu, of course; the reason she knew it so well was because she used to hear it all the time.
‘I’m round the back,’ Dulcie yelled when she dimly heard the front door bell being rung. She chucked down her empty crisp packet and licked her fingers. ‘Door’s unlocked, just come through.’
