As he murmured the soothing words, Rufus wondered if they were a mistake. A naturally modest man, it felt odd to be telling Dulcie she deserved someone better when what he really meant was: someone like me.

On the other hand, when was he likely to get another opportunity like this? Dulcie was a woman in distress, in desperate need of comfort, and he wanted nothing more than to be the one providing it.

His heart raced. Maybe, thought Rufus, this is fate .. . ‘Whmmph,’ gasped Dulcie as his mouth fastened eagerly and unexpectedly on hers. She tried to pull away but it was a real sink plunger of a kiss. Rufus was giving it his all.

‘Oh, Dulcie,’ he breathed, when he at last came up for air.

He clutched her joyfully to his Fair Isle chest. ‘Forget Liam!

I’d never cheat on you. I’ll make you happy, I swear!’ Oh dear.

Carefully Dulcie extricated herself from his grip. Rufus was panting like a boisterous St Bernard and he had sampled the ratatouille at regular intervals during the making of it. The great wafts of garlic he was breathing all over her were strong enough to strip paint.

‘I wasn’t crying because I was upset.’ It was hard to talk, Dulcie discovered, when you were trying to hold your own breath. ‘I was just so ... so mad.’

‘Because he left you.’ Fervently, Rufus’s eyes searched her stricken face. ‘But Dulcie, I wouldn’t leave you. I’d never do anything to hurt you.’

This was awful. Dulcie, who couldn’t tell him the real reason she had snapped, wiped her wet hands on her jeans and tried again.

‘I don’t want to hurt you either,’ she said gently, ‘but Rufus, it wouldn’t work. I’m sorry.’

‘Why? Why wouldn’t it work?’ Having finally plucked up the courage to declare himself, Rufus found the prospect of rejection unbearable. ‘We could be so good together. A great team.

Dammit, Dulcie, I’ll make it work!’

Dulcie wondered what was going on beyond the kitchen door. Fifteen astonished customers had been left out there to fend for themselves for the last ten minutes.

‘Table two are still waiting for their vegeburgers.’

‘Sod table two,’ Rufus declared frantically. ‘And bugger the vegeburgers. Tell me why you think it wouldn’t work.’

She knew he wouldn’t understand if she tried to tell him he was just too nice. Unhappily Dulcie cast around for another reason, one he couldn’t argue with.

‘Okay.’ Keeping her head down, she gazed at the frayed holes in her jeans. ‘If you must know, I’m in love with my husband.’

‘But your marriage is over.’ Rufus looked bemused. ‘You told me he’s found someone else.’

Dulcie nodded.

‘Oh, he has. And it’s all my own fault, I know that. But I can’t help the way I feel. I still love him.’

As she said it, she realised with a sickening jolt that it was the truth.

Chapter 47

The morning of Pru and Eddie’s wedding dawned grey and cold. By midday, thunder was rattling around a charcoal sky. When the storm finally broke, halfway through the register office ceremony, the sound of rain on the windows was like gunfire, almost drowning out the solemn words of the registrar as he conducted the ceremony.

But nothing could dim the joyousness of the occasion. It was the happiest day of Pru’s life, and it showed.

‘Look at her,’ Liza murmured. ‘Can you believe this is the same girl who last New Year’s Eve was so desperate to stay married to Phil?’

Dulcie smiled and nodded, because if anyone deserved happiness it was Pru, but inwardly she winced at the memory of that night. Was she the same girl who had so blithely announced that all she wanted was a divorce?

‘Don’t forget your resolution.’ She nudged Liza. ‘You’re next.’

‘Next to what?’ said Kit when the service was over and they were splashing their way across the car park. ‘What were you two whispering about in there?’

‘Don’t say Liza hasn’t told you.’ Dulcie grinned, ignoring the jab in her back from Liza’s umbrella. ‘Her New Year’s resolution was to get married. Once a spinster reaches a certain age, you see, she starts to panic and get a bit desperate.’

‘Thanks a lot,’ said Liza.

‘And since it’s October now,’ Dulcie pulled a face, ‘I’d watch out if I were you. If you’re not careful you could end up being It.’

* * *

Dulcie was putting on a brave face but the wedding reception – at Brunton Manor, where else? –

was something of a trial. When Pru, making up her guest list the other week, had said longingly,

‘It’s a shame, I would like to have invited Patrick,’ Dulcie had felt obliged to do the decent thing.

Acting as though the outburst with Liza had never happened, as if it really couldn’t matter less, she’d replied, ‘Don’t be daft, if you want him, you invite him. And Claire too.’ Her intestines were frantically tying themselves into reef knots but she gave Pru a bright smile. ‘It’s fine with me.’

Delighted, Pru had added Patrick and Claire to her list. She sucked her pen for a bit then added tentatively, ‘How about Liam?’

Dulcie gave her a meaningful look.

‘Don’t push it.’

When Dulcie left the reception in full flow and pushed open the door to the ladies’ loo, she came face to face with Imelda.

‘Oh great,’ Imelda drawled, ‘it’s the madwoman.’

Dulcie took comfort from the fact that at least this time she was wearing a short navy-blue silk dress and full going-to-awedding make-up. She had also had her hair cut. Imelda, on the other hand, had clearly just come off the squash court and was looking decidedly sweaty and dishevelled.

‘Don’t get mad, get even. That’s my motto.’

‘Ah, but who won in the end?’ Imelda looked triumphant. ‘I’ve got Liam.’

Witch.

Dulcie had been determined to maintain an air of dignified calm, but her nerves were terribly on edge. Before she knew it she heard herself saying silkily, ‘I know, aren’t you lucky? Tell me, when he’s screwing you, does he still count the number of press-ups under his breath?’

The cloakroom door had opened behind her. Dulcie just had time to watch with pleasure as bright spots of colourappeared in Imelda’s cheeks – so he did! – before a hand clutched her arm.

‘Dulcie, there you are! Quick, they’re about to cut the cake!’

‘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?’