by Jill Mansell
On the floor next to the two halves of the bowl lay Maris in an undignified position. The high chair was on top of her, her scarlet knickers were on show and one arm was twisted behind her back.
Dulcie heard Rufus murmur, ‘Oh thank God,’ under his breath. Aloud, he said, ‘Is everyone all right?’
The party of six, appearing somewhat dazed, nodded. ‘I’m not all right,’ Maris shouted indignantly. ‘Will someone get this bloody high chair off me? Ow, my arm!’
Dulcie helped Rufus to lift the high chair. Maris, white-faced, gritted her teeth and tried to sit up.
‘What happened?’ said Dulcie.
Maris, with heavy irony, said, ‘Well, I was riding my unicycle ...’
Crouching down, Dulcie inspected the sole of Maris’s sensible shoe. She peeled off a slice of aubergine and held it up.
‘This is what you slipped on.’
The party of six looked uncomfortable. The baby, recognising the bit of aubergine as one he had spat out and flung down earlier, crowed with delight and made a grab for it.
‘Uh-uh.’ Shaking her head, Dulcie whisked it out of reach. ‘This is evidence, for when we take you to court.’
The baby’s father said hurriedly, ‘It wasn’t our fault. We didn’t see him drop it—’
‘Joke,’ said Dulcie.
‘Look, this is all very entertaining,’ Maris murmured, ‘and I’m sorry to spoil the fun, but my arm’s hurting like hell here. I think it’s broken. Any chance of a lift to hospital?’
Rufus helped her on to a chair.
‘I can take you,’ offered Dulcie. She brightened at the thought of all the gorgeous young doctors she might meet in Casualty.
‘Sorry.’ Maris looked at Rufus. ‘Now I’ve mucked up your plans.’
‘I was going to visit a friend at the hospital this afternoon,’ Rufus explained to Dulcie, who was looking blank. ‘My next-door neighbour actually. Poor soul’s having a heart by-pass later today.
She’s petrified. I promised to drop in.’ He paused, deep in thought. ‘I suppose I could close the café.’
Without even thinking, Dulcie said, ‘No need. You can take Maris to Casualty, then visit your neighbour. I’ll keep things ticking over here.’
How extraordinary, she thought, listening to the words slip quite casually from her mouth.
Maybe I’m having an out-ofbody experience. Did I really just say that?
But Rufus was looking so delighted, she must have. ‘Really, are you sure? That’s great!’
Dulcie felt positively heroic, like Anna Neagle in one of those black and white Britain-at-war films. Spurred on by this, she said in a brisk, competent, Anna Neagley voice: ‘Of course I’m sure. Just leave everything to me. I’ll be absolutely fine.’
Chapter 38
Meanwhile, in a hotel room in Kensington, Kit lay in bed watching Liza turn herself into a frump. Having travelled up to London the night before, they had visited a West End theatre, gorged themselves on Peking duck afterwards in Soho, and walked arm in arm all the way back to their hotel, finishing the evening off with some pretty amazing sex.
Today, pleasure gave way to business. Kit had a one o’clock meeting in Highgate with the directors of a construction company hoping to win a contract with Berenger’s. Liza was visiting a restaurant in Covent Garden, a celebrity haunt called Beaujolais. The maître d’ at Beaujolais had recently snubbed Liza’s editor, who was now hell-bent on revenge.
‘That bastard turned me away,’ he had told Liza furiously. ‘Bloody nerve! Then, the next minute, he’s welcoming Tristan Acheson with open bloody arms!’ Tristan Acheson was the editor of a rival newspaper with a legendary appetite for one-upmanship. There was no love lost between the two men. ‘You go there,’ he went on, jabbing a pudgy finger at Liza, ‘and you make sure you find fault with everything on that poncey fucking menu of theirs. I mean it, Liza. I want you to hit ‘em where it hurts. Nobody turns their nose up at me.’
‘Do any of your relatives work at Beaujolais?’ Liza had asked Kit, as a precaution, when she had booked her table.
‘What, Beaujolais in Covent Garden? That’s my Aunt Isobel’s restaurant.’
‘You’re kidding!’
Kit grinned.
‘Of course I’m kidding. Don’t worry, you can be as bitchy about Beaujolais as you like.’
Now, as Liza put the finishing touches to her unflattering make-up and adjusted the fringe of her wig, Kit slid out of bed and came to stand behind her. He looked at their joint reflections in the mirror.
‘I have this terrible urge to undress you, take off that wig, wipe off that make-up and drag you back into bed.’
‘Well, don’t.’ Liza drew in her breath, trying hard to ignore his warm fingers sliding inside her blouse. ‘It’s almost twelve already and they won’t keep my table if I’m late. Anyway, you have to be in Highgate by one.’
Kit had just emerged from the shower ten minutes later when his mobile rang. Dripping and gloriously naked he answered it. The next moment, grinning, he rang off.
‘That was Dan, one of the directors of BilCom. Seems they spent last night celebrating being in London away from their wives. They got totally plastered, ended up in some strip joint and ate some dodgy chicken. Apparently they’ve all spent the night bringing their boots up. So the meeting’s cancelled.’ He dropped the phone back on the bed and pinched Liza’s bottom.
‘Hooray for dodgy chicken.’
‘What’ll you do instead?’ She darted out of his way as he began unfastening her skirt.
‘Ah well.’ Kit’s yellow eyes regarded her with teasing amusement. ‘Since I’m not allowed to do what I really want to do, I may as well come to Beaujolais with you.’
‘I’ve only booked a table for one.’
Her copy of the latest MICHELIN GUIDE lay open on the dressing table. Kit found the number of the restaurant and dialled it. When he switched off the phone he said, ‘There, no problem.
Table for two.’
Liza did up her zip.
‘Better put some clothes on first.’
Beaujolais was red and white, big and brash, and sported the obligatory volatile chef. A hugely popular meeting place for models and actresses, it was never without its share of paparazzi.
Every so often the surly chef would erupt from his kitchen to hurl abuse at them, which kept everyone entertained. If they ever showed signs of defecting to the pavements outside other celebrity restaurants, he wooed them back with free meals.
Liza recognised the maître d’ from her editor’s curt description: ‘Middle-aged. Ugly too. Looks like he’s got a wasp down the back of his shirt and a poker up his bum.’ Her brief concern, however, that he might be sufficiently appalled by her drabness to refuse her entry, was soon swept away. He couldn’t have been more welcoming.
Confused, Liza murmured, ‘He can’t possibly have recognised me,’ as they were seated.
Kit grinned.
‘He hasn’t recognised you.’
She looked at Kit, so handsome in an indigo shirt and beige chinos and with his dark hair still damp from the shower. ‘I know,’ said Liza. ‘He fancies you.’
‘Wrong again.’ Kit grinned. He reached across and patted the tweedy sleeve of Liza’s jacket. ‘He fancies you.’
‘I don’t know how I’m going to explain this to my editor,’ said Liza an hour later. Not only had the maître d’ been charm itself, she had barely been able to find fault with their lunch. The menu was unpretentious, the food expertly cooked and presented with understated elegance.
‘I hope the meal is to your satisfaction,’ murmured the maître d’, materialising at their side.
Somehow he managed to ignore Kit completely.
‘He was looking at your hand, to see if you’re wearing a wedding ring.’
Liza didn’t find it as amusing as Kit. She was beginning to get a complex about looking old.
Damn, she really wished she hadn’t worn her disguise today. Even being recogn
ised would be preferable to this.
‘He’s still not sure about me,’ Kit confided in a whisper. ‘Next time he comes over I’ll call you Auntie. Then he’ll know the coast’s clear. Bet you a tenner he asks for your phone number before we leave.’
The next moment they both turned as a girl’s breathless voice squealed, ‘Kit Berenger! What are you doing here?’
Recognising her, Kit started to laugh. Liza’s heart sank. The girl, brown-eyed and with hair cut in a glossy burgundy bob, was as thin as a bit of spaghetti. She was wearing pink shorts, a minuscule black rubber waistcoat, black lacy tights and patent leather boots with spiked heels.
‘Never mind what I’m doing here,’ Kit told her, as she threw her arms around him, ‘what are you doing wearing stuff like that?’
‘Bloody old fogey,’ retorted the girl, undaunted. ‘What do you want me to wear, a tweed skirt and lace-ups? Oh ... sorry.’ She turned and grinned at Liza, a friendly, uncomplicated grin revealing flawless white teeth. ‘Foot-in-mouth time again! I didn’t mean to interrupt your meal. I was at college with Kit.’ Holding out her hand she added, ‘I’m Abby. Hi.’
The maître d’ was hovering within earshot.
Kit said, ‘Abby, this is my Aunt Elizabeth.’
As Liza dealt with the bill, Abby rushed up again.
‘Hey, you two! Listen, Oliver has to get back to his office, but I’m free. How about catching up on old times over a drink? We could go to the Pyramid bar, it’s just round the corner.’
As the maître d’ had managed to exclude Kit earlier, so Liza found herself being ignored now.
She willed him to say no.
But Kit, clearly tempted, gave Liza a ‘shall we?’ look in return.
‘Come on, let’s go for it!’ This time Abby touched Liza’s arm. ‘They do brilliant cocktails.’
Laughing, she added, ‘Don’t worry, we’ll look after you, won’t we, Kit? We won’t let you get squiffy!’
‘You’d be surprised,’ said Kit, ‘a couple of cocktails and Aunt Elizabeth’s a different person.’
He winked at Liza in her awful wig. ‘Quite a changed woman, in fact. Once she lets her hair down.’
Liza had forgotten about the photographers camped outside. As they emerged from the restaurant she found herself being elbowed out of the way. Since they were both young and strikingly attractive, Abby and Kit were the couple they focused their attentions on. Abby they recognised as an up-and-coming children’s TV presenter. Kit — well, okay, maybe they didn’t recognise him yet, but with those looks and that smile it could only be a matter of time.
‘You two go ahead,’ said Liza, when they caught up with her further down the road. ‘Really, I don’t feel like a drink. I’d rather just go back to the hotel.’
Kit looked at her. Abby, still clinging to his arm, pretended to be disappointed.
‘Oh no! Are you sure?’
Liza nodded at Kit, signalling that she was fine, she wasn’t jealous and of course he should go for a drink with Abby. ‘I’m sure. I’ll see you later.’
‘Okay.’ Brightly Abby waggled her fingers at her, just as she waved to the millions of adoring young fans who watched her Saturday-morning TV show. "Bye, Aunt Elizabeth. You take care.
See ya!’
Chapter 39
‘That girl’s as daft as a brush. Three years ago I told her they made rum from fermented coconuts and she still believes it. How she ever landed that job of hers is beyond me, although I suppose I can hazard a guess. Anyway,’ said Kit, abruptly changing the subject, ‘are you all right?’
Liza had washed her blonde hair — the wig always flattened it — and re-done her make-up. She had also changed into a black scoop-necked T-shirt, a clinging red velvet skirt and high heels.
She looked luscious and desirable again, Kit realised, and every man in the hotel lobby was visibly lusting after her. He kissed her on the mouth and sat down next to her.
‘Of course I’m all right.’
‘Not peed off because of ... you know?’
‘What?’
‘The old maître d’ guy at Beaujolais, not making a move. Admit it,’ Kit nudged her, ‘you thought you’d pulled. You were gutted when he didn’t ask for your phone number.’
Liza had to smile.
‘When you book a table at Beaujolais, they automatically take your number. Anyway, speaking of pulling ... is Abby an old girlfriend of yours?’
Kit shrugged.
‘I went out with her for about two minutes. Got bored. She’s a nice enough girl, but ...’
Another shrug.
I’m not bored with you yet, thought Liza, watching him carefully, looking for signs. Are you bored with me?
.. like I said, thick as two planks,’ Kit concluded with a yawn.
‘I’m going down to Devon this weekend. It’s my mother’s birthday.’
This made him sit up.
‘When did you decide this?’
‘An hour ago. I rang her.’ Liza nodded at the pay phone just beyond the bar. ‘She was really pleased. I haven’t been to see them for ages.’
‘Something’s wrong,’ said Kit.
‘Nothing’s wrong.’
‘Okay. I’m free this weekend. I’ll come too.’
‘No you won’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘You just can’t,’ Liza said flatly.
He raked his fingers through his dark hair.
‘But I have to meet them at some stage.’
She raised an eyebrow. ‘Who says you do?’
Exasperated, Kit almost shouted, ‘Liza, it has to happen sooner or later. Why not now?’
‘Okay.’ Liza held up one hand. She began steadily counting off on her fingers. ‘We’ll make a list. One, the chances are this relationship of ours won’t last, so there isn’t much point in meeting them. Two, they’re just ordinary parents. They aren’t rich or famous, or remotely glamorous.
They aren’t brilliantly witty and they don’t tell jokes.’
‘Meaning?’ said Kit, stunned.
‘Meaning you’d probably be bored witless.’
He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe you’re serious.’
‘Three,’ Liza went on, still counting fingers, ‘my mother is seventy years old, my father’s seventy-two. They have traditional ideas. They want me to settle down and get married and have children. Knocking around with a twenty-three-year-old boy isn’t something they’d understand
—’
‘Come on,’ chided Kit, finally figuring out what it was she was doing. ‘These aren’t reasons, these are excuses. Shouldn’t you give your parents the benefit of the doubt? Introduce me to them and let them make up their own minds.’
‘I know them. Trust me. If I rolled up with you in tow,’ Liza said bleakly, ‘they’d just be embarrassed.’
‘I see. So they’d be embarrassed and I’d be bored.’
‘Right.’
‘And all this has nothing – nothing whatsoever to do with today.’
Liza wanted to cry. Of course it did; it had everything to do with today. She was accustomed to being in control of her life. She definitely wasn’t used to feeling insecure. Lack of confidence was Pru’s speciality, not hers.
And the stupid thing is, Liza realised frustratedly, nobody’s making me feel like this. I’m doing it all by myself.
‘I’ve just had enough,’ she told Kit, her fingernail tracing obsessive spirals on the topaz velvet-upholstered arm of her chair. ‘It’s too difficult. Relationships shouldn’t be difficult.’
‘You’re ashamed of me,’ said Kit. ‘Is that it? I’m an embarrassment to you?’
His yellow eyes narrowed, regarding her with mock amusement. Liza felt sick; he thought he was going to be able to coax her out of this and he couldn’t. It was too late. She’d started and now she couldn’t stop.
‘Yes, I’m ashamed,’ she said quickly, and saw that she had startled him. ‘I’m embarrassed to be seen with you, okay? So it’
s over. I’m a grown woman, Kit. Time I found myself a grown man.’
‘You missed a brilliant fight this afternoon,’ Susie the receptionist said gleefully when she handed over to Bella at the end of her shift.
Bella looked interested.
‘What, a punch-up?’
‘Better than that. The couple booked into 201 had the most amazing slanging match, right here in the lobby in front of everyone. We were all riveted! Anyway, the woman was hell bent on finishing with him ‘
‘Hang on, room 201? I checked them in yesterday. He was gorgeous!’
Susie gave her a there-you-go look.
‘That’s it then, isn’t it? Bet you he’s been playing away and she’s only just found out.’
‘So how did it end? Did they make up?’
‘Did Tom make up with Jerry?’ Susie mimed slitting her throat. ‘I’m telling you, it’s over. He did his best, but there was no stopping her. She ended up yelling that she never wanted to see him again. Then she stalked out.’
‘Leaving him here all on his own, you mean?’ Ever hopeful, Bella’s eyes lit up. ‘Shall I ring his room and make sure he’s okay?’ She beamed. ‘I bet I could cheer him up.’
The train journey back to Bath was a nightmare. Huddled in a corner seat behind dark glasses, Liza wondered if it was possible to feel more miserable than this. But it had needed to be done and she had done it. Now all I have to do, she thought unhappily, is get used to being on my own again. Pretend I never met Kit Berenger in the first place.
‘Are you sure you’re all right, dear?’ said the nosy middle-aged woman in the next seat.
Tears were sliding out from under Liza’s dark glasses. She wiped them angrily away with her sleeve.
‘Fine, thanks.’
She turned and gazed out of the window but the woman began tapping her, woodpecker-style, on the arm.
‘If you want to talk about it, dear, I don’t mind. I’d be happy to listen.’ Avidly she studied Liza’s averted profile.
