Mixed doubles

by Jill Mansell

  ‘You can disappear for the next twenty years if you want to.’

  Kit decided to ignore this. He reached for his jacket.

  The last Rennie was noisily crunched up and swallowed. ‘Don’t bother sending me an invitation to the wedding, by the way.’

  His father was clearly still simmering with fury, his face red, his fists clenched on the desk. Kit wondered if he was about to have a heart attack.

  To placate him, and maybe lower his blood pressure a couple of notches, he said, ‘Dad, it doesn’t have to be like this. If you got to know Liza, you’d understand—’

  ‘Christ almighty, what is this?’ Leo roared, thumping the desk with his hand. ‘Who d’you think we are, the bloody Waltons?’

  So much for making an effort. Kit shrugged.

  ‘Fine, have it your way,’ he said shortly. ‘I’ll be back around one.’

  Marriott’s was the smartest jewellery shop in Bath, occupying a prime position on one of the smartest streets. Inside, the décor was opulent and suitably restrained, all slate-grey velvet, gleaming silver and the kind of lighting that made the most miserable diamond chip glitter like the Koh-i-noor.

  Not, of course, that Marriott’s went in for diamond chips, Kit thought wryly. He wasn’t likely to forget this fact either, since as a child – and with Christmas approaching – he had heard his mother say Marriott’s was her favourite shop. He had duly trotted along with his pocket money the following week and asked one of the assistants to show him some necklaces. Very sweetly refusing to accept Kit’s seventy-three pence, the assistant had popped a Bic biro into one of Marriott’s sumptuous satin-lined, slate-grey velvet boxes and sent Kit happily on his way.

  Now he was browsing with rather more than seventy-three pence in his pocket, and just as well.

  There were some pretty startling price tags on display.

  One of the assistants approached noiselessly across the plush, pale-grey carpet.

  ‘Diamond rings ... er, engagement rings,’ Kit murmured, slightly embarrassed.

  She smiled.

  ‘Certainly, sir. How many?’

  Kit relaxed and grinned back.

  ‘Just the one, for now.’

  The woman, who was in her early forties, began unlocking cabinets. She was plump but attractive, with baby-blue eyes and a dimply smile. Kit wondered how long she had worked here and if she was the one who had given him the biro in the velvet box all those years ago.

  The first tray of rings was brought out for Kit’s inspection. He picked up one, a fire-flashing oval solitaire, and turned it this way and that, imagining it on Liza’s finger.

  The assistant was wearing L’Air du Temps. She smiled at Kit. ‘I know, it’s a beautiful ring.’

  The more he thought about it, the more he felt she could be the same woman. Kit glanced at the other customers in the shop – a smart American couple, an old man and a middle-aged woman in a crumpled green Barbour – and said, ‘Have you been working here long?’

  There was suppressed laughter in the assistant’s eyes. ‘Fifteen years. Why?’

  ‘Sorry,’ said Kit, ‘it wasn’t meant to sound like a chat-up line. I just wondered if—’

  ‘Everybody FREEZE!’ screamed a male voice as the door was flung open and two men in balaclavas burst into the shop.

  One of the other assistants let out a terrified whimper. The American couple, like something out of a gangster movie, put their hands up.

  ‘Nobody move!’ yelled the second balaclava-ed figure, yanking open a black leather bag and grabbing the tray of rings Kit had just been looking at. The oval solitaire disappeared into the bag along with the rest. The first man pointed a sawn-off shotgun at the assistant who had whimpered.

  ‘Unlock the rest of the cases,’ he ordered roughly. ‘Go on, do it NOW’

  When the second robber had pushed past him, the rank stench of sweat had filled Kit’s nostrils.

  Now the man had moved away he could smell L’Air du Temps again.

  Jewellery and watches were being hurled into the bag. Kit’s assistant watched the men, her expression petrified.

  Kit, in turn, watched her trembling fingers slide with agonising slowness off the counter. He knew she was reaching for the panic button. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the shotgun swing in their direction.

  ‘Get away from the counter!’ screamed the balaclava-ed face. ‘Don’t touch anything!’

  Since it was a silent alarm system, no one knew whether or not the button had been pressed.

  Kit’s assistant moved as instructed towards the wall.

  ‘Not that far! Christ, she’s going for the pressure pads,’ the robber yelled. He charged towards her bellowing, ‘You asked for this, you stupid bitch,’ and brought the butt of the shotgun down on her blonde head.

  The sickening THWACK and the sound of her scream as she crumpled to the floor was awful.

  ‘Des, for fuck’s sake get a move on,’ yelled the robber, turning his back on Kit for a split second.

  Kit hurled himself forward, rugby-tackling him to the ground and knocking the gun out of his hands. Everyone in the shop watched it shoot across the carpet, ricochet off one of the ebony cabinets and slither to a halt at the feet of the other robber.

  Kit watched him pick up the gun and take aim. He heard the woman in the green Barbour exclaim, ‘Don’t do this, please don’t do it!’

  He heard the muffled voice of the man on the ground snarling, ‘Just kill the bastard.’

  As he turned his head, still in that same split second, Kit saw the blonde assistant struggling to sit up. Blood was pouring from her head, the collar of her white shirt glistened crimson and one of her dark-blue shoes had come off.

  Kit turned back. He still had his arms around the legs of the robber he had tackled to the ground.

  ‘Let go of him,’ yelled the one with the gun.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ screamed the American woman, gibbering with fear, ‘can’t somebody do something?’

  Kit watched the man’s eyes through the holes in his balaclava; they were wild with terror and panic.

  Des, in turn, stared at the two figures on the ground, at the brother he idolised – only just out of Strangeways after a five-year stretch for armed robbery – and at the dark-haired boy clinging to him like a bloody leech, preventing his escape.

  In the distance, Des heard the faint sinister wail of police sirens.

  The American bitch was right; somebody had to do some- thing.

  He cocked the gun. Then, his finger shaking, he pulled the trigger.

  Chapter 49

  If there was anything less alluring than a frumpy wig, it was a wet frumpy wig. Liza, admiring her reflection in the ladies’ room of the Queen of Puddings in Windsor, resisted the temptation to run a comb through the straggly mess. The condescending manner of the maître d’, who clearly regarded her as some kind of eccentric bag lady and wasn’t bothering to conceal his distaste, deserved a special mention, she felt.

  Otherwise the Queen of Puddings couldn’t be faulted. The chef, a young Australian who had previously trained under Michel Roux, had a sublimely light touch. Liza had given the flash-fried smoked salmon with lime sauce top marks and the roast gigot, pink and tender, had been served with possibly the best potatoes – baked with olive oil, garlic and sage – she had ever eaten in her life.

  Looking forward to a pudding, a buttermilk bavarois with raspberry coulis, Liza made her way back to the dining room. She saw the maître d’ mutter something under his breath to one of the young waiters and knew she was being talked about. He was probably warning the boy to keep an eye on the cutlery, make sure none of it walked.

  When the phone rang, M’sieur Pierre answered it.

  ‘You wish to speak to Liza Lawson?’ He frowned. ‘I’m sorry, madam, we have nobody of that name dining in our restaurant.’

  ‘Yes you do.’ Dulcie took a steadying breath. ‘Please, just get her.’

  ‘Excuse me, are you referring to
Liza Lawson the restaurantcritic?’ As he spoke, M’sieur Pierre swept a practised eye over the female diners.

  ‘Yes, yes, that’s the one.’

  ‘But I’m afraid you’re mistaken. I can assure you we don’t have Liza Lawson here. Let me check the bookings for tomorrow—’

  ‘She’s there,’ Dulcie almost screamed. ‘Wearing a wig, looking like a librarian. Just get her to the phone, will you? Tell her it’s an emergency. A real emergency.’

  When Liza put the phone down she was trembling uncontrollably. How could something like this have happened? How could Kit have been – oh God – shot?

  She stared blindly at the row of multicoloured liqueur bottles lined up on the shelf above the bar, struggling to take it in, unaware of the maître d’ hovering ecstatically behind her.

  ‘Miss Lawson, my profound apologies ... I didn’t recognise you ... may I say what a pleasure it is to welcome you to our restaurant ...’

  Kit’s been shot.

  She was gazing up at the liqueurs. Eager to oblige, M’sieur Pierre reached for one of the bottles.

  ‘May I offer you a glass of strega, Miss Lawson? With our compliments, of course. Or maybe you would prefer a Courvoisier?’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ Like a zombie, Liza moved past him. She picked up her bag, then reached for her still-wet and deeply unfashionable raincoat.

  Open-mouthed, M’sieur Pierre watched the heavy wooden door swing shut behind her. Through the window he saw her race through the pouring rain to her car.

  ‘She’s done a bunk! You let her scarper without paying,’ exclaimed the young waiter, delighted to witness stuck-up M’sieur Pierre getting his come-uppance at long last.

  ‘It’s not a problem,’ M’sieur Pierre replied with dignity. ‘That was Liza Lawson.’

  ‘Oh yeah! What makes you think that?’

  ‘There was a phone call for her." The waiter smirked. He drooled over Liza Lawson’s photograph in the paper every week. That blonde hair, that smile, that cleavage .. .

  ‘Nah, take it from me, that wasn’t Liza Lawson.’

  M’sieur Pierre began to look discomforted. The waiter’s pleasure was complete.

  ‘A scam, that’s what that was,’ he announced happily. ‘Sorry, mate, you’ve been had.’

  It was four o’clock when Liza reached the Bath Royal United Hospital. Dulcie was waiting for her in the entrance lobby.

  ‘They’re still operating. We just have to wait. Oh, Liza, it’s so awful ... come and sit down, I’ll get you a coffee from the machine.’

  Liza didn’t want to sit down, nor did she want a coffee, but a man with a camera was hovering, clearly trying to figure out if this white-faced woman with the terrible hair and clothes could really be Liza Lawson. She allowed Dulcie to lead her round the corner to a seat.

  ‘How did you hear about it?’

  ‘Leo Berenger rang his daughter. Claire rang Patrick. Patrick rang me. Luckily,’ said Dulcie, ‘I remembered the name of the restaurant you told me you were visiting. I didn’t want to wait until you got home in case it was ... it was ...’

  She bit her lip. Liza nodded. She knew Dulcie meant in case it was too late.

  The photographer from the local paper reappeared. ‘Are you Liza Lawson?’

  ‘No she isn’t,’ snapped Dulcie. ‘Piss off.’

  Liza was spilling coffee all over the floor; it simply wouldn’t stay in its plastic cup.

  ‘Isn’t there somewhere else we could go? Where are Leo and Claire? Maybe they’ve heard something by now.’ Dulcie looked doubtful.

  ‘They’re in the relatives’ waiting room. I don’t know if weshould. Patrick told me Kit’s father’s in a terrible state.’

  They both jumped as a flashbulb went off. Grabbing Liza’s half-full cup of coffee, Dulcie flung the tepid remains in the direction of the photographer’s groin. Without even bothering to look at him she seized Liza’s arm.

  ‘Okay, come on. I can’t go in but I’ll show you where it is.’

  Liza didn’t go in either. When she knocked on the door it was opened by Leo Berenger. He stood in the doorway and she saw the terrible grief in his bloodshot eyes.

  From the look of him Liza expected him to roar, but when he opened his mouth the words hissed out quiet and deadly.

  ‘You. You can get out of here. Haven’t you done enough damage already?’

  ‘I just wanted—’

  ‘I don’t care what you want,’ said Leo Berenger. ‘First you tried to destroy my family. Now you’ve destroyed my son. Isn’t that enough?’

  Horrified, Liza watched the tears streaming down his face. ‘But—’

  ‘You killed him as surely as if you’d pulled the trigger yourself.’ Leo Berenger’s voice was barely above a whisper. ‘So just go.’

  That night, as Claire wept in his arms, Patrick tried to imagine how he would feel if she were to die. To be literally here one moment and gone the next.

  She was good and kind, humorous and intelligent, hardworking and successful. She was liked by everyone because there was nothing about Claire Berenger for anyone to dislike. If she were to disappear from his life he would miss her, of course he would.

  Feeling horribly disloyal, Patrick stroked her shining hair and tried to imagine how he would feel if Dulcie died.

  Frivolous Dulcie, who was wilful and tactless, scatty and impetuous, not in the least hardworking and an incurable meddler to boot. Plenty of people, in their time, had raised their eyebrows in amazement at the antics of Dulcie Ross.

  But...

  But she was also generous, wildly loyal to her friends, beautiful and wickedly funny. Dulcie may have been bored by him but he had never, ever been bored by her. Nor, for so much as a single moment, had he stopped loving her.

  As he bent to kiss Claire’s hair, Patrick knew which of the two of them he would miss the most.

  Chapter 50

  ‘Over here, gorgeous! Five tequila and blackcurrants, five bottles of Pils and a packet of pork scratchings when you’re ready.’

  Talk about the height of sophistication. And this was two thirty on a Wednesday afternoon.

  It was only the first week in December but in the Cat and Mouse, Christmas was being celebrated early.

  ‘Oh, and one other thing,’ said the lad with the bleached blond hair. He pulled his wallet out of the pocket of his blue Armani jacket.

  Dulcie was busy flipping the lids off the bottles of Pils. ‘What?’

  ‘A date with you.’

  She glanced up.

  ‘On your bike.’

  ‘No, I’m serious. Tomorrow night, anywhere you like.’ The boy grinned at her. Flicking his fringe out of his eyes he waved his wallet. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got plenty of this. We could have a wild time.’

  He was twenty if he was a day.

  ‘Don’t you have to be in bed by nine?’

  Too late, Dulcie realised her mistake. His grin broadened. ‘My mother always told me if I’m not in bed by midnight, to give up and come home.’

  ‘Oh ha ha.’

  ‘Go on,’ he urged, ‘you’re just my type.’

  ‘I’m too old for you.’

  ‘That’s all right, I go for older women.’

  ‘I meant mentally,’ said Dulcie, pouring the last tequila. ‘That’ll be sixteen pounds seventy.’

  ‘Last chance,’ offered the boy, waving a twenty-pound note under her nose in what was presumably a beguiling manner, a hint of things to come. He wheedled, ‘You can keep the change.’

  ‘No thanks.’

  His lips curled in disgust. ‘Huh, didn’t want to go out with you anyway. I only said it for a bet.’

  Wondering for the millionth time why she was working in this dump with these idiots – and knowing the answer – Dulcie dropped the change into his sweaty hand and glanced past him.

  ‘Next please.’

  ‘I’m next ... oh!’

  Until that moment all Dulcie had been able to see was a perma-tanned arm poking out fr
om behind pork scratchings, clutching a termer. Then she caught a waft of Obsession and Imelda’s head popped into view.

  ‘What can I get you?’ said Dulcie, wiping her hands on her jeans and realising she didn’t even have the energy any more to be bitchy to Imelda.

  ‘You’re working here now?’ Evidently taken aback, Imelda forgot to be bitchy too. Well, almost.

  ‘What is it with this urge, all of a sudden, to get a job? Did you lose a ton of money with Lloyd’s or something?’

  Fifty people were going frantic, waiting to be served. Since Imelda always drank G and T, Dulcie stuck a glass under the Gordon’s optic.

  ‘No, I just decided there was more to life than the country club. It was time to move on.’

  ‘To this place?’ Imelda raised immaculately plucked eyebrows and glanced around the Cat and Mouse, clearly unimpressed.

  Dulcie shrugged and shovelled ice cubes into the glass. ‘Why not? You’re here.’

  ‘Christmas shopping with my sister.’ Imelda indicated another section of the pub. ‘She’s over there, waiting for me. Better make that two gin and tonics. Plenty of ice, please.’

  Imelda had actually said please!

  ‘Christmas shopping.’ Dulcie suppressed a shudder. ‘I can’t bear the thought.’

  Gosh, this felt strange, exchanging polite social chit-chat with Imelda and not a pot of ratatouille in sight.

  By the look of her, Imelda was finding the situation equally odd, but if Dulcie – of all people –

  was managing to be civil, then so could she.

  Clearing her throat, she rested her elbows on the bar and lowered her voice.

  ‘How is Liza coping?’

  ‘As well as can be expected.’ Dulcie was used to being asked. She dropped slices of lemon into each glass and shrugged. ‘Not great. How does anyone cope, when something like that happens?’

  ‘Poor Liza. It must be terrible for her. Is she still staying with you?’

  ‘No, that was just for the first few weeks. She’s down with her parents now, in Devon. I think she needed to get away from Bath.’