by Jill Mansell
‘Thanks,’ muttered Dulcie when they were safely out of the cloakroom.
‘My pleasure.’ Claire Berenger’s grey eyes sparkled. ‘Not that you looked as if you needed rescuing, but I thought it might be a good moment to leave.’
Awkwardly, wishing she wasn’t so nice, Dulcie returned her smile.
‘I’m glad you did. Are they really cutting the cake?’
‘No. And I’m still dying for a pee. Come on, let’s find another loo,’ Claire said companionably,
‘then we’ll get ourselves a drink.’
In a daze of happiness, Pru watched the guests milling around her. Eddie’s mother-in-law, Edna Peverell, had been too frail to leave the nursing home but upon hearing about the wedding, and with characteristic bluntness, her irascible fellow resident Marjorie Hickman had announced to Eddie on his next visit to Elmlea that she would be delighted to come instead.
‘Told you he fancied you,’ she had announced, waving her walking stick at Pru as she hobbled into the ballroom, resplendent in an emerald-green ruffled blouse and ankle-length tweed skirt.
‘Said he’d got the hots for you, didn’t I? Good grief, child, what’s happened to your ears? When did you get those done?’
Pru, who was wearing her hair up, started to laugh. ‘What is the old bird on about?’ hissed Eddie, perplexed. Pru shrugged.
‘I’m wearing earrings. Maybe she thinks I’ve had them pierced.’
‘And if you’ve got any more of those saucy books,’ Marjorie declared in a loud voice, ‘bring ‘em with you on your next visit.’
‘Doolally,’ Eddie murmured to Pru. ‘Totally shot away.’ Pru smiled to herself now as she watched Marjorie stuffing asparagus rolls from the buffet into her handbag. She saw Eddie make his way over and whisper something in her ear, and knew he was telling her she could take as much food as she liked back to Elmlea, he had already instructed the staff to make up a box.
Marjorie looked miffed; being given a food parcel wasn’t half so much fun as squirrelling it away in her bag. Glancing across at Pru, Eddie rolled his eyes good-naturedly and gave up.
I’ve just married the kindest, sweetest man in the world, thought Pru. Blanche was right; I have done all right for myself.
Pru had bumped into her last week. She had been loading the wedding cake into the back of the Jag when Blanche had emerged from the Sue Ryder shop. She was wearing skin-tight jeans and yellow stilettos and her hair was even blonder than Pru remembered.
‘Oh ... hello.’ Blanche was only momentarily taken aback. For something to say, she had held up one of her carrier bags. ‘I’ve just bought a pair of leggings for fifty pee.’
Pru recognised the pretty gold chain around her neck as one that had gone missing a year ago.
When Phil had come home to find her sifting through the contents of the Hoover bag he had said,
‘You’re useless, Pru. What’s the point of buying you nice things if all you’re going to do is lose them?’
Blanche had taken her husband but she wouldn’t have taken the chain. Pru knew Phil must have given it to her. She made sure the box containing the wedding cake was wedged securely in the boot of the car and straightened up.
‘Blanche, how are you?’
Blanche half smiled. ‘Oh, we’re fine. Got your divorce, then. Just in time from the sound of things. Phil says you’re getting married on Saturday.’
The decree absolute had come through the week before. As she stared at the all-important piece of paper, Pru had marvelled at her own lack of emotion. It was the weirdest thing,but she could barely remember how it had felt, being married to Phil.
Now, gazing at the carrier bag Blanche was holding, she recognised the distinctive label of a can of Heinz tomato soup, just visible through the thin plastic. The memories came flooding back, accompanied by a blissful sensation of release, because it wasn’t her problem any more.
Blanche, meanwhile, was admiring Eddie’s gleaming topof-the range Jag.
‘Nice car. Got a bit of money, this fellow, has he?’ Pru shrugged. Then she nodded.
Blanche looked envious. ‘You’ve done all right for yourself, then.’
‘Yes, I have,’ said Pru, simply. Silently she added, but not in the way you mean.
‘What happened to the job?’ said Patrick. ‘I called into that café a couple of weeks ago and the waitress said you weren’t working there any more.’
Dulcie wondered if he had gone along to snigger, as Liam and Imelda had done.
‘Too much like hard work,’ she replied flippantly. ‘I broke a fingernail.’
As soon as the words were out, she regretted them. Patrick was exchanging a ‘see-what-I-mean?’
look with Claire.
‘Actually,’ said Dulcie, ‘I left because the owner developed a crush on me. It got a bit embarrassing.’
She could tell he didn’t believe her.
‘I don’t blame you for giving it up.’ Claire’s tone was consoling. ‘I worked in a restaurant when I was at college. Jolly hard graft.’
‘Dulcie isn’t much of a fan of hard graft,’ Patrick remarked drily.
Dulcie was beginning to feel got at. She longed to yell, But it never bothered you before! You were the one who said I didn’t need to get a job ... you wanted me to stay at home!
Pride prevented her, too, from informing him that she was now working as a barmaid in one of Bath’s busiest city-centre pubs, crammed with horrible yuppie types who pinched her bottom and chatted her up and gabbled non-stop into their stupid mobile phones. Because how could she boast about holding down a job at last when everyone else had been doing it for years?
Anyway, if I did tell them how vile it all was, Dulcie thought wearily, Patrick would only say in that case why did I bother?
She was damned if she was going to tell him the truth, that she was so lonely and miserable that even slogging her guts out in a stinking pub was better than moping alone at home.
To change the subject Dulcie said, ‘How was Amsterdam?’ and instantly regretted that too.
‘Oh, we had the most fabulous time!’ exclaimed Claire, her face lighting up. She clutched Patrick’s arm. ‘Didn’t we, darling? I actually think I’ve managed to convert this one here to the idea of holidays,’ she confided merrily to Dulcie. ‘We’re looking at brochures for something over Christmas and the New Year now. A real get-away-from-it-all break.’ Her grey eyes shone.
‘I’ve always wanted to visit Barbados.’
‘You’ve got a face like a wet weekend in Weston,’ Marjorie announced, plonking herself down on a chair next to Dulcie and holding her glass out to be refilled by a passing waitress. ‘Friend of the bride or groom?’
‘Both.’ Dulcie glanced at the breast pocket of the old woman’s green ruffled blouse. It was bulging with mini seafood tartlets. ‘Bride mainly. Pru and I have been friends for years.’
‘So you’re not one of Eddie’s jealous exes. Thought you might be, from the look of you.’
Dulcie smiled. Did Eddie have any jealous exes? ‘No.’
‘So what’s the problem? Don’t you approve of him?’
‘Of course I do. Eddie’s lovely,’ exclaimed Dulcie. ‘And perfect for Pm.’
Marjorie gulped down her drink and nodded in agreement.
‘They look all right to me. Not that I know them well, but his mother-in-law’s very fond of him.’
She looked around hopefully for the waitress with the drinks tray. ‘Says he’s a poppet.’ She snorted with laughter. ‘Can’t argue with that, can you? Anyone adored by their mother-in-law must be okay.’
A vision of Bibi flitted into Dulcie’s mind. In the vision, Bibi was looking less than happy.
She said gloomily, ‘My mother-in-law hates me.’
‘Oh, so you’re married, are you?’ Marjorie’s thin grey eyebrows went up. ‘Where’s your husband then?’
Dulcie pointed.
‘Over there, with his girlfriend. He hates me too.’
C
laire was admiring Pru’s dress, which was cream lace, knee length and beautifully cut to show off her slim figure.
‘You could always dye it,’ she said, ‘then you’d be able to wear it to other people’s weddings.’
‘I’ll wear it to Liza and Kit’s.’ Pru grinned at Eddie. Claire looked astonished.
‘They’re getting married? I haven’t heard about this!’
‘Not really. It’s kind of a joke. When we made our resolutions last New Year’s Eve, Liza’s was to get married,’ explained Pru.
Claire laughed. ‘Dad will be pleased.’
‘What was Dulcie’s resolution?’ Patrick’s dark eyes were expressionless.
Oo-er. Pru fiddled with her new, terrifically shiny wedding ring.
‘Um ... can’t remember.’
‘Well, who cares about Dad anyway? I love weddings.’
Spotting Kit not far away, Claire dragged him over. ‘Congratulations.’ She winked at Liza. ‘I hear I’m about to gain a sister-in-law.’
‘Is this some kind of conspiracy?’ murmured Kit. Liza cringed.
‘I didn’t—’
‘No, no excuses.’ Claire gave her brother a playful pinch on the arm. ‘Pru told me all about it.
You have until the end of the year and that’s an order. Otherwise,’ she added soothingly, ‘Liza will dump you and marry someone else and you’ll regret it for the rest of your miserable life.’
‘You’ll never find anyone else to marry you,’ Kit announced. ‘Not before the end of the year.’
It was still pouring down with rain. Pru and Eddie had just driven away. All the wedding guests, who had piled out on to the steps to wave them off, had promptly belted back inside again to avoid getting drenched.
Liza and Kit were the only ones still outside but Kit had his back to the door. He kept one arm firmly around Liza’s waist.
She shook her head. ‘I’m sorry. I have the most embarrassing friends.’
‘So I suppose Id better do it.’
‘Do what?’
There were drops of rain on Kit’s eyelashes. He looked ridiculously handsome and very serious.
‘Marry you.’
‘Oh God, no! It was only supposed to be a joke.’ Liza pulled a face. ‘Don’t take any notice of them ... we don’t have to get married!’
‘Actually, we do. And not because your friends think we should.’ He paused and lifted a strand of Liza’s wet blonde hair out of her eyes. ‘Because I do.’
‘But – but we could just live together!’
‘Why?’ said Kit. ‘Don’t you want to marry me?’
Liza stared at him. What a question. Lowering her gaze, she studied the lapels of his dark suit instead. This was easier, since they didn’t stare unnervingly back.
The look on her face told Kit everything he needed to know. He smiled; she hadn’t kicked up nearly as much of a fuss as he’d thought she would.
‘So that’s it. All settled,’ he said with satisfaction. ‘December all right with you?’
Dulcie had been chatting to Terry Lambert for several minutes before she realised who he was.
‘I’ve got it now. You’re the one who persuaded Pru to have her ears done.’
‘Well, in a manner of speaking.’ Terry looked amused. ‘I wouldn’t like to claim sole responsibility. We in the legal profession prefer to avoid that if we can.’
Of course, he was a solicitor, remembered Dulcie. He had handled Pru’s divorce.
‘Isn’t dealing with endless marriage break-ups depressing?’ she asked.
‘Not necessarily. It isn’t all slanging matches and squabbling over who gets the Monopoly set.
Some couples manage to stay on good terms, which always helps.’ He smiled. ‘A bit of civility goes a long way.’
As she gazed across the room at Patrick and Claire, Dulcie realised it was time to prove she could be civil too. As civil as Patrick was to me when I told him our marriage was over, she thought sadly. Patrick hadn’t argued or punched her or started shouting about money; he had simply moved out.
Dulcie wondered if it had been easy for him to stay civil because he hadn’t felt that much for her anyway.
Imagining that this was true made her want to cry. Hastily she pulled herself together.
Either way, it’s my turn to do the decent thing, Dulcie realised. Patrick hasn’t put the pressure on, but that’s just the way he is. And he’s with Claire now. Of course it’s what he wants.
As Terry offered to refill her glass, she tried not to look at his nose. He seemed charming, and he had organised Pru’s divorce from Phil with admirable speed and minimum fuss.
‘Maybe I could come and see you at your office,’ Dulcie said casually.
Terry didn’t seem surprised, he just reached into the inside pocket of his suit jacket. His brief smile as he passed her one of his business cards was sympathetic.
‘You want a divorce as well?’
No, but my husband does, thought Dulcie with an ache in her chest like homesickness. And under the circumstances it seems the least I can do.
Chapter 48
The next morning Liza had to be up early. She had an appointment with her publishing editor in London at ten and a restaurant in Windsor to review at one thirty. To save time, she was wearing her frump gear and wig.
‘You remind me of someone I got chatted up by yesterday,’ said Kit, taking a bite out of Liza’s toast as he squeezed past her in the kitchen. ‘Old dear with a walking stick, kept nicking stuff from the buffet.’
‘Marjorie.’ Liza nodded and shoved the rest of the toast into his mouth; she was already running late. ‘She told me if she was fifty years younger she’d give me a run for my money. You wouldn’t believe the comments she made about your bum.’
‘That’s me,’ said Kit with a broad grin. ‘Irresistible to older women.’ He grabbed Liza around the waist as she tried to rush past him. ‘Hang on, I haven’t had a kiss yet from my future wife.’
Liza, who was on her way to the bathroom to brush her teeth, kept her lips clamped together.
‘Was that it?’ Kit looked appalled. ‘If that’s how you kiss future husbands, forget it.’
He leaned against the door frame and watched her brushing her teeth.
‘I want to see a dramatic improvement in kissing technique by this evening,’ he warned.
‘Who would you like me to practise on, my gay editor?’ Liza spoke through a mouthful of toothpaste.
Kit grinned.
‘Practise on the back of your hand. Dulcie told me yesterday it’s what you used to do when you were eleven.’
‘We all did!’ Liza looked indignant. ‘Why, what did you practise on?’
The grin broadened.
‘Girls.’
From the radio in the kitchen came the sound of the eight o’clock pips. Liza groaned and brushed faster.
‘God, I love the way your bottom wriggles when you do that.’
The toothbrush clattered into the basin. Liza wiped her mouth on a towel, grabbed her coat and bag from the hall and almost fell over putting on her shoes.
‘I’m late late late.’ Whirling around, she planted a speedof-light kiss on Kit’s face, missing his mouth by an inch. "Bye. Back by six.’
As she raced out to the car, almost sending a pensioner flying, Kit stood in the doorway and yelled, ‘What is it with you call girls nowadays? That was another crap kiss.’
Leo Berenger was at his desk when Kit turned up at nine for their meeting with a new firm of architects. The plans for the latest Berenger development, on the outskirts of Oxford, were already well underway. Leo had been studying the proposed drawings for a selection of four- and five-bedroomed Tudor-style properties since before breakfast and was impatient to bounce several ideas off his son before the architects arrived.
The last thing he needed to hear was Liza Lawson’s name.
‘No, no.’ The impatient wave of his arm swept several drawings to the floor. Dammit, hadn’t Kit got t
hat woman out of his system yet? ‘I don’t want to meet her. Why the hell should I?’
Kit shrugged. He hadn’t seriously expected any other reaction.
‘No reason. We’re getting married, that’s all.’
Leo Berenger didn’t go in for double-takes. Yelling ‘You’regetting what?’ wasn’t his style. He simply shook his head and leaned back in his chair, his expression grim.
‘When?’
‘December.’
‘If you do, you’re a bloody fool.’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Kit. ‘I think I’m bloody lucky.’
‘I suppose she’s pregnant.’
‘No.’
‘So what’s she after, a share of all this when I kick the bucket?’ This time his irritated gesture encompassed the view from the windows, the offices occupying the whole of the top floor, the house itself. ‘Because I tell you now, she’ll have a bloody long wait.’
‘Dad.’ Wearily, Kit picked up the scattered drawings. Argument or no argument, the architects who had produced them would be here at any minute. ‘This has nothing to do with your money. I love Liza and I’m going to marry her.’
‘And nothing I say will make a blind bit of difference, I suppose.’
Was this his father’s way of acknowledging and finally accepting the situation? Kit wasn’t sure; all he knew was there needn’t be a rift between them.
Giving him the benefit of the doubt, Kit smiled slightly and said, ‘No. I’ll marry her anyway.’
He got no smile in return. The expression on Leo’s face was one of undiluted disgust.
‘Go on then, do it. Make your own mistakes, see if I care.’ He leaned forward in his chair and jabbed a solid finger at his son for emphasis. ‘Just don’t ever ask me again if I want to meet her.’
The meeting was over by eleven. Relieved, Kit saw the architects to their car. When he returned to the office, his father was barking instructions down the phone to one of the contractors, swigging black coffee and chewing his way irritably through a pack of Rennies.
‘Okay if I disappear for an hour or two?’ asked Kit, when he had hung up the phone.
