by Jill Mansell
‘It’s hard to explain.’ He combed his fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his forehead.
Oh God, Dulcie thought helplessly, ‘I love your eyebrows so much.
‘Try.’
‘Well,’ Patrick sounded reluctant, ‘she’s always in a good mood. Always cheerful.’ He sighed and shook his head. ‘Always happy to go along with anything anyone suggests. God, this is ridiculous ... what am I saying?’
Unable to stop herself, Dulcie suggested, ‘That Princess Perfect leaves you cold?’
Heavens, he actually smiled!
‘I suppose so. When someone’s always the same, there are never any surprises.’ Patrick cleared his throat. ‘I suppose what I’m trying to say is, it just felt ... well, predictable.’
Dulcie bit her lip. Oh, hooray for predictable!
‘So how did Claire take it when you told her it was over?’ As if ‘I care! ‘No – hang on, don’t tell me – she took it wonderfully well. Like a trouper, like a real star.’
‘She did, actually.’ Patrick looked as if he was trying not to laugh. As Dulcie turned and began heading in the direction of the entrance hall he called out, ‘Where are you going now?’
‘Follow me and find out.’
Outside the main doors, at the top of the stone steps, he caught up with her. It was an icy night.
The grounds glistened with frost and when Dulcie spoke, clouds of condensation hung in the still night air.
‘Hang on to this.’
‘Hang on to what?’ Patrick wondered why her hands were behind her back. The next moment he heard the hiss of a zip being undone, and Dulcie’s jade-green satin dress landed in a shimmering pool at her feet.
‘Dulcie—’
‘Sshh!’
Patrick stood and stared as she skipped down the flight of steps, made for the fountain in the middle of the circular gravel drive, kicked off her shoes and jumped in.
The fountain was still flowing, but only just. Icicles had formed from the spouting stone statues and a thin film of ice on the surface of the water crackled and broke up as Dulcie danced in the pale moonlight.
By the time Patrick reached her she was soaked and shivering but her eyes were as bright as stars.
‘P-p-predictable enough for you?’ said Dulcie, through teeth that chattered like castanets.
Heavens, she hadn’t expected ice-cold water to be quite this ice-cold. Even her eyelashes were going numb .. .
She almost fainted with relief when Patrick scooped her out of the fountain, threw his suit jacket around her shoulders, lifted her into his arms and began to carry her back up the steps.
‘You are completely mad.’
‘I love it when you’re m-masterful,’ Dulcie murmured. ‘You Tarzan, me Jane.’
‘Mad.’
She grinned. ‘Better than boring. No – sorry, what was the word you used? The polite way of putting it? Ah yes .. . predictable.’
‘Frostbite, that’s what’s predictable.’ Patrick pushed through the doors. ‘Which way’s the sauna?’
Chapter 56
Once they were inside the sauna, Dulcie – still in his arms – watched him turn the dial up to maximum.
‘I s-suppose I ought to get out of these w-wet things.’ Her teeth were still chattering dramatically.
Patrick glanced down at her wet, brown, goose-pimply body and sodden peacock-blue bra and knickers.
‘Don’t they have any towels in here?’
The towels were kept in the linen cupboard next door. Dulcie opened her eyes wide.
‘Can’t remember where they keep them.’
At least the sauna was heating up fast. Patrick put Dulcie down on one of the wooden benches, sat down beside her and loosened his tie.
‘Am ‘I underdressed or are you overdressed?’ she said lightly. If she could persuade him to take his clothes off too, maybe-
‘Dulcie.’ He turned to look at her, his tone neutral. ‘Why did you jump into the fountain?’
Help, thought Dulcie, nitty-gritty time. Here we go.
‘Why did ‘I jump into the fountain?’ Uh oh, doing the parrot thing again. ‘Well, to prove I wasn’t boring. I mean, how many frozen fountains do you suppose Claire’s had a close encounter with in the last twenty years?’
Patrick ignored this. He undid the top button on his white shirt.
‘But why,’ he said slowly, ‘did you need to prove it?’ Dulcie took a deep breath.
‘Because leaving you was the stupidest thing I ever did in my life. Because ‘I miss you terribly.
Because I still love you,’ she went on, her voice suddenly developing a bit of a wobble. ‘I love you and I wish we’d never split up.’
She flinched as Patrick stood up. He had his back to her now, his body half obscured by the swirling clouds of steam, his dark head slightly bent. He was engrossed in yet another wall, it appeared. This time a pine-panelled one.
‘How long have you felt like this?’ he said finally, still turned away from her.
‘Months.’ Struggling to be honest, Dulcie thought back. ‘Five, six months, I suppose. ‘I tried not to,’ she added resignedly, ‘but it just kept getting worse.’
She saw Patrick shaking his head. Then he turned.
‘So why didn’t you do anything about it? Why didn’t you tell me?’ He spoke quietly. ‘Dulcie, it’s not like you to keep your feelings to yourself. If you want something, you don’t normally stop until you get it.’
Dulcie was beginning to feel at a horrible disadvantage. She’d told him everything, blurted out the lot, and bloody Patrick had ignored it. She’d done the whole humiliating Istill-love-you bit, and here he was, playing twenty sodding questions.
And it wasn’t easy to know for sure, what with all the steam swirling around, getting denser by the second, but he didn’t actually look that happy about it.
‘Come on,’ Patrick said irritably when Dulcie didn’t reply, ‘you didn’t say a word. Why not?’
She glared back at him.
‘It was all Claire’s fault! If she’d been a cow ‘I could have done it ... she wouldn’t have known what had hit her.’ Dulcie bit her lip and thought how much fun it had always been, sparring with Imelda. ‘You see, you can bitch about a bitch,’ she went on, struggling to explain, ‘but you càn’t fight someone who makes Mother Theresa look like Cruella de Vil. Anyway,’ she sighed heavily, ‘everyone kept saying how terrific the two of you were together, how good she was for you. ‘I felt like thebad fairy — I half expected everyone to start hissing and booing whenever ‘I walked into a room. And you were so happy and settled with Claire ... ‘I suppose I just thought you didn’t deserve the hassle. ‘I felt like I’d done enough damage,’ she concluded with a look of resignation. ‘From now on, the least ‘I could do was keep out of your way.’
For a long moment Patrick didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He gazed at Dulcie — in her peacock-blue bra and knickers and with her spiky dark hair still dripping wet from the fountain
— and marvelled at her logic. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that he might have welcomed the hassle ... that hassle from his beautiful, wilful, impulsive estranged wife was what he might have been longing for more than anything else, ever since the day she had walked out of his life.
‘You’ve changed,’ he said at last.
Dulcie hung her head, unsure whether this was good or bad. ‘I know.’
A furious hammering on the door made them both jump. ‘Dulcie! Dulcie, is that you in there?
For heaven’s sake, what are you up to? What’s going on?’
It was Imelda’s voice. Tempted though Dulcie was to say nothing, she knew Imelda would only persuade Eddie to unearth the master key.
‘Nothing,’ she called back. ‘Just ... felt like a bit of peace and quiet, that’s all. Somewhere to sit down ... on my own ...’
‘Ahem,’ Imelda coughed, ‘I’ve got your dress here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Someone found it
outside, at the top of the steps.’
‘Ah.’
‘Kind of the nineties version of Cinderella’s slipper,’ Imelda remarked archly.
‘Mm.’
‘And someone else saw you being carried into the sauna.’
‘Did they?’
‘Quite masterfully, by all accounts.’
‘Really.’
‘So tell me who you’re with,’ shrieked Imelda, ‘and what you’re doing in there!’
‘Oh be serious, what do you think we’re doing in here?’
‘But ... but who with?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ shouted Dulcie, ‘he won’t tell me his name.’
They heard Imelda’s footsteps go click-clacking off down the corridor. Patrick frowned, trying to place her voice. It had definitely sounded familiar.
‘Is she blonde?’ he asked Dulcie.
Good heavens, he was looking interested! What was this, ditch the old girlfriend and wheel on the new?
‘You wouldn’t like her,’ Dulcie said hurriedly. ‘She’s not your type. She’s even more boring than Claire.’
Amused, Patrick said, ‘Don’t you mean predictable?’
‘You’d hate her.’ Rattling on, Dulcie ticked each point off on her fingers. ‘She gets her legs waxed every Monday at ten thirty ... plucks her eyebrows every Thursday night ...’
Still trying to identify the voice, Patrick said, ‘Does she have terrific legs?’
. a bucket of fat liposuctioned out of each thigh every September ...’
‘How old is she, around thirty?’
‘... has her face lifted every April.’ Dulcie shook her head sorrowfully. ‘She might look thirty but she’s really seventy-three.’
‘Oh well,’ said Patrick, ‘sounds like you’re right, then. Definitely not my type.’
‘Oh hell, listen to me! I’m lying again ... being a bitch,’ Dulcie blurted out. ‘Dammit, none of those things are true. ‘I didn’t even mean to say them – they just came out!’
‘Dulcie—’
‘Oh, it’s no good,’ she wailed, burying her face in her hands, ‘Talk about a hopeless case :.. ‘I was so sure I could do it ... tell the truth, always be nice ... and how long did ‘I last? About thirty seconds, that’s how long. God, I’m pathetic.’’Dulcie, are you crying?’
‘No wonder you weren’t bothered when we split up.’ Dulcie’s voice broke. She kept her fingers clamped over her eyes. ‘I bet you were glad to get rid of me. I’m just an all-round hideous person
—’
‘Dulcie, I know you aren’t crying.’ Reaching over, Patrick prised her fingers away from her face.
‘See?’ She stared at him, dry-eyed and anguished. ‘I’m still doing it, even now.’
‘Why?’
‘Because ‘I don’t know why you’re here,’ Dulcie yelled, ‘and it’s driving me MAD!’ She stopped and hung her head. This time she was speaking the truth. Quietly, avoiding his gaze, she whispered the words again. ‘Because I don’t know why you’re here.’
Looking at the ground, she didn’t see it coming. When it happened, the kiss caught her totally unawares.
Delirious with joy, Dulcie clung to him. Now the tears running down her cheeks were real. She never wanted the kiss to end, she wouldn’t let it end ..
‘You’re strangling me,’ said Patrick gently.
‘Sorry.’ She hid her face in his neck, breathing in the heavenly, unique Patrick-type smell of him. God, if Calvin Klein could bottle that smell ...
‘Okay,’ Patrick’s mouth was against her hair, ‘shall I tell you what you are?’
In an instant Dulcie’s blood ran cold. The kiss had made her think everything was going to be all right; it had made her happy. Now, clearly it was time for the pay-off.
Her voice was muffled.
‘Will ‘I like it?’
‘Probably not.’
But he was going to say it anyway, so what choice did she have?
Dulcie shrugged. ‘Go ahead.’
‘You’re tactless.’
Pressed tightly against his shoulder, Dulcie nodded. ‘Hopelessly impatient.’
Nod.
‘You never think before you act.’
Nod.
‘You eat far too many salt and vinegar crisps.’
Dulcie frowned. How could anyone eat too many salt and vinegar crisps?
‘And you’re always so sure you know best,’ he went on. Another nod.
‘The trouble is, despite all that,’ Patrick said slowly, ‘you’re still my type.’
‘Dulcie, Dulcie, guess what?’
Imelda again. Like the Terminator, she was back.
Dulcie smiled at Patrick, rolled her eyes and carried on unbuttoning his white shirt.
The hammering on the door redoubled.
‘DULCIE, SPEAK TO ME AT ONCE THIS IS AN EMERGENCY.’
‘Probably found a bit of cellulite,’ whispered Dulcie. She finished removing Patrick’s shirt, crumpled it into a ball, flung it over her shoulder and called out, ‘What?’
‘We-ell, I’ve just managed to find out who that gorgeous man was, the one I was drooling over earlier.’ Imelda sounded excited.
Some emergency.
‘And?’ said Dulcie, unfastening Patrick’s trousers and deftly pulling the belt out through the loops.
‘You’ll never believe this ... it’s your ex-husband!’ Dulcie and Patrick looked at each other.
Dulcie said, ‘What?’
‘I know, isn’t it a scream! Talk about great minds think alike! But listen, it’s all over between you two — ‘I mean, that’s ancient history now — so you wouldn’t mind if ‘I have a crack at him, would you?’
Dulcie tried not to smile.
Patrick pulled her towards him, unfastened her wet bra and lobbed it in the general direction of his shirt.
‘I don’t know,’ Dulcie called out. ‘You might not be his type.’ Patrick’s trousers joined the growing pile of clothes on the floor.
‘Ha! Bet I am.’ Imelda sounded smug.
Tiring of the interruption, Patrick glared through the swirling steam at the door.
‘Go away,’ he told Imelda bluntly, ‘you’re not.’
‘You should be nicer to her,’ murmured Dulcie when Imelda had stalked off.
‘Why?’
‘She’s got my dress.’
In the dim distance, a clock struck twelve. They heard people cheering, hooters hooting and a lot of party poppers going off like fireworks.
‘Happy Christmas,’ said Patrick, tracing the outline of his beautiful wife’s mouth with one finger.
Dulcie’s eyes were closed. She couldn’t imagine a happier Christmas than this. And the weird thing was, maybe they really had needed this year apart, because how else could they have discovered that the grass wasn’t necessarily greener on the other side?
I’ve changed, thought Dulcie, I’ve grown up.
And Patrick? Well, he’s changed too. He’s realised that working too long and too hard isn’t always the most important thing in life, and that sweet, kind, saintly, perfect women aren’t necessarily the kind you want to share your life with, that sometimes a slightly imperfect one is more fun . . .
By this time there were no more clothes left to take off. With a bewitching smile, Dulcie pushed Patrick gently down on to the floor and slid, naked, on top of him.
‘Now give me my present,’ she said.
* * *
‘It’s no good,’ sighed Pru.
Eddie reached across the bed to her. She was wearing the indigo satin bra and knickers, the topaz-and-emerald bracelet and the kingfisher-green shirt he had given her, and the bedroom was strewn with presents, glossy wrapping paper and ribbons. It was eleven o’clock on Christmas morning, the sun was streaming in through the windows, and Pru was looking worried.
‘Look, ‘I won’t be offended.’ Eddie rushed to reassure her. ‘If you don’t like anything you can take it back to the shop. Which one’s no good a
nyway? Is it the bracelet?’
Pru smiled at him.
‘I told you, the bracelet’s perfect. ‘I love all my presents. It’s Dulcie I’m worried about. She just vanished last night ... How do I know she’s all right?’
Eddie stroked the back of her neck. The skin was like warm silk but the muscles beneath it were knotted with tension. He had been looking forward, more than anything, to spending the day alone with Pru, but if she wasn’t happy, he wasn’t happy.
He shifted Arthur out of the way, leaned over and picked up the phone.
‘What’s her number?’
‘You’re going to ring Dulcie?’
‘If you invite her over, she’ll only say she doesn’t want to be a gooseberry,’ Eddie explained. ‘If
‘I do it, she’ll know we both want her here.’
Love and gratitude shone in Pru’s grey eyes.
‘You are brilliant.’
She watched Eddie dial and listen. Less than a minute later he replaced the receiver.
‘What?’ said Pru, more agitated than ever. ‘No reply? Oh God, what if she’s done something stupid?’
‘Message on the machine.’ Eddie cleared his throat and attempted an impression of Dulcie: ‘
"Hi! Happy Christmas – I’m afraid I can’t come to the phone right now because I’m having totally fantastic sex with my husband, but if you’d care to leave a message I’ll get back to you.
Don’t hold your breath, though – we shall definitely be busy for some time." ‘ Pru stared at Eddie.
‘I don’t understand. Dulcie’s having totally fantastic sex with her husband? With Patrick?’
‘Well.’ Eddie shrugged. ‘That’s what it says.’
‘But ... But ...’
He dialled again and held the receiver out to Pru.
‘Here, you have a listen. It’s either an old message,’ Eddie said with a grin, ‘or a very new one.’
Chapter 57
The comforting thing about staying with your parents was you could slob around just as you’d done as a teenager and they weren’t shocked.
It was mid-afternoon on New Year’s Eve and miserable outside. Liza, stretched out on the sofa and eating Sugar Puffs out of the packet, was watching the closing minutes of Brief Encounter and wishing that just this once Celia Johnson would throw her library book at her dreary husband and run off into the black and white sunset with Trevor Howard.
