James appeared behind the manager.

‘Troublemaking again, Dulcie?’

He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. The manager, glaring at Dulcie, muttered some insincere apology for an apology and melted away.

Dulcie glared after him. ‘I’m not a troublemaker. He’s a pompous git.’

‘Well, at least try and pull your skirt down. Everyone can see your knickers.’

‘Do them a power of good.’ Dulcie looked truculent. ‘At least I’m wearing some.’

Ignoring this, James waited until she’d managed to cover up at least a couple more inches of thigh. The black velvet dress certainly had its work cut out. He ordered coffee from a waitress and lit a cigarette.

‘Can I have one?’ In times of stress Dulcie always liked to smoke; it made her feel like Bette Davis. Pre-1950, of course. Before those lines and wrinkles had set in.

‘No. Why are you here, Dulcie?’

‘To make you see sense.’

He didn’t smile.

‘I’m forty-five. Bibi is sixty. For God’s sake, how sensible does that sound to you?’

Déjà vu loomed. Dulcie prayed she could come up with something original, some dazzling new tack she hadn’t already tried.

‘Yes, but she doesn’t look sixty, she doesn’t sound sixty, she doesn’t act sixty!’

Was it her imagination or was James wincing every time she uttered the s-word?

He sounded irritated. ‘Obviously she doesn’t, otherwise she would never have got away with it for as long as she did.’

‘There you go, then.’

‘Dulcie, that isn’t the point. Not the whole point, anyway. Don’t you see? Bibi lied to me—’

‘It wasn’t a lie,’ Dulcie put in hurriedly, ‘just a fib.’

‘It was a lie. A big one. I thought we had no secrets from each other. Now I find out our whole relationship has been built on a lie. Relationships are all about trust, Dulcie. How can I ever believe anything she tells me now? She could be lying. She’s an expert.’

‘James, she wouldn’t! That was her only secret, believe me!’

‘Was it?’ He stubbed out his cigarette with a shaking hand and immediately lit another. ‘But that’s the thing, Dulcie. How would I ever know?’

Phil was sprawled across the sofa when Pru let herself into the house. A half-empty bowl of tomato soup, several bread rolls and a packet of paracetamol littered the coffee table. Strewn across the floor in front of him was a sheaf of letters.

Along with almost everyone else, it seemed, Phil was still wearing last night’s clothes.

He looked pretty rough, too.

‘Hello.’ Pru prayed she didn’t sound as nervous as she felt. ‘How are you feeling?’

Phil picked up one of the letters and glanced at it, avoiding Pru’s gaze. ‘Sick.’

‘Oh. More soup?’

This was normally when he held his arms out to her, gave her his little-boy look and said sorrowfully, ‘Pru, give me a cuddle. I don’t feel very well.’

Instead he said, ‘I meant it, you know. That stuff last night.’

‘Wh-what stuff?’

‘Come on, Pru! I might not be able to remember saying it, but Blanche assures me I did.

Anyway, it’s the truth. I’m getting out of here. I’m sorry if I showed you up in front of your friends, but you can’t plan these things. Sometimes they just happen.’

Pru couldn’t believe it. This wasn’t what Phil was supposed to say. Oh God, this was awful, awful .. .

‘You’re moving in with Blanche?’

He shrugged. ‘I suppose so. Probably. I just know I have to get out of here.’

‘But ... but ...’

‘Look, I’m sorry.’ For the first time his bloodshot eyes met hers. She saw weariness in them, and guilt. ‘You’re going to have to get out of here too.’

‘What?’

Phil held the letter in his hand out to her.

‘Go on, take it. And don’t worry,’ he gestured dismissively at the others on the floor, ‘there’s plenty more where that came from. Help yourself, read as many as you like. Take your pick.’

Shaking violently, wondering how on earth this could be happening to her, Pru read the first letter.

Then the second.

And the third.

She read all of them, forcing herself to keep going until she reached the end.

It was unbelievable. Phil owed money everywhere. The gambling she had always taken to be a harmless pastime had clearly rocketed out of control.

‘I didn’t know you’d remortgaged the house,’ she said stupidly.

‘Why would you?’ Phil, the traditionalist, had always taken care of the bills.

Well, until he’d stopped paying them and started stuffing them into the dustbin instead.

‘Anyway, now you see why you have to get out.’ He shrugged. ‘This place is being repossessed on Tuesday.’

‘But they can’t—’

‘Don’t be so bloody naive,’ Phil shouted at her. ‘Of course they can. Anyway, losing the house is the least of my worries. By this time next week I could be jobless, car-less ... minus a few other vital bits and pieces too, if that mob from the casino have their way.’

In the space of five minutes Pru had lost her home, her husband ... her whole life.

‘How much altogether?’ She spoke through chattering teeth. ‘How much do you owe?’

Phil shook his head. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘Oh God.’

‘Look, it’s a hiccup, that’s all. I was doing okay until last summer. Then I hit a bad patch. The longer it lasted the bigger the bets had to be to cover my losses. But it’ll come good again, you’ll see.’

His eyes had lit up. God, thought Pru, even talking about it makes him more cheerful.

‘Phil, you have to go to Gamblers Anonymous.’

‘No I don’t. Listen, my luck has to change soon. It has to. Then as soon as that happens, I’ll get the house back—’ Pru’s eyes brimmed with tears.

‘Is this why you’re doing it? You’re leaving me because you’re ashamed of what’s happened?’

She felt a wild surge of hope. ‘Phil, gambling is an illness, you mustn’t blame yourself! Together we can get through this, we can get through anything—’

‘You’ve got it wrong.’ Phil shook his head. ‘This isn’t to protect you. I’m going because I don’t want to be married to you any more. I used to think you were my type. But you aren’t,’ he concluded coldly. ‘Blanche is.’

Dulcie knew she was really going to go ahead and do it when she arrived home and Patrick, looking supremely unconcerned, said, ‘Where have you been, stayed at Liza’s I suppose?’

So much for passion, possessiveness, an explosion of red-blooded jealousy, thought Dulcie.

She imagined his reaction if she told him she’d spent the night being happily ravished by the Bath first fifteen. That would capture Patrick’s attention all right. ‘Really? What, in the clubhouse? Did you happen to get a look at their computer system while you were there?’

Explosions of red-blooded jealousy weren’t Patrick’s scene. ‘Yes, at Liza’s.’ Dulcie couldn’t even be bothered to make up a more riveting story. What was the point?

‘Coffee?’ said Patrick, when she followed him into the kitchen. ‘Kettle’s just boiled.’

This was his contribution towards clearing the air. It was how they overcame arguments. A bit of stilted small talk executed in an I’m-right-and-you’re-wrong-but-I’ll-forgive-you kind of voice, followed by a hug and a kiss. Then everything would be back to normal.

Except this time it wasn’t going to happen.

‘No thanks, said Dulcie, ‘but I’d love a divorce.’

‘Sure you wouldn’t prefer a KitKat?’

Patrick had his back to her. She watched him pour boiling water into a mug. He was wearing a dark-green and white rugby shirt and his semi-respectable jeans, the ones patched together at the bum.

Oh, she was going to miss that bum.

Dulcie sat down, all of a sudden feeling terribly tired. It had been an eventful morning so far and it wasn’t over yet.

‘That wasn’t a joke,’ she said, when she finally had his attention. ‘Come on, Patrick. Look at the way things have been.

This marriage isn’t working, you know that as well as I do Time to call it a day.’

It was a no-win situation. If there was anything more futile than trying to knit fog, it was persuading Dulcie to change her mind. Patrick hadn’t been married to her for seven years without learning this much. Once Dulcie made decision, that was that. Nothing he could do or say would have any effect.

He did try, but not for long. Dulcie was immovable am Patrick couldn’t bring himself to beg.

Pride was one reason Another was the knowledge that — as far as Dulcie was concerned —

there was no bigger turn-off in the world than grovelling man.

So instead he had remained outwardly calm and heard her out. Oh yes, Dulcie’s mind was definitely made up.

‘Okay, if that’s what you want,’ said Patrick at last, his tone neutral. Anyway, how could he argue? She had a point, he hat neglected her. The knowledge that he was at least partly to blame for all this had knocked him for six.

Dulcie looked at him. ‘Fine, that’s settled then.’ She bit her lip, determined not to cry. ‘Good.’

‘Are you going to spend the rest of the day in there?’ she shouted, hours later, outside Patrick’s office.

All the computers were switched on but Patrick hadn’t don( a stroke of work. All he could think about was Dulcie, who wanted out of their marriage. Who, for God’s sake, wanted divorce .. .

He wiped his eyes, glad he’d remembered to lock the door The last thing he needed was for her to see him like this. ‘I’m busy.’

Dulcie could have kicked the door down with her bare feet How bloody dare Patrick be busy?

As she turned away she said bitterly, ‘What’s new?’

* * *

How can this be happening to me’?

Pru stood in the doorway and gazed at the bedsitting room being offered to her. It was hideous

— cramped and filthy and three floors up — but it was available. She could move in straight away.

‘I’ll take it,’ said Pru, and even the grimy-looking landlord had the grace to sound surprised.

‘You sure? When from?’

‘Today.’ Dry-mouthed, she opened her purse and counted out the deposit from her rapidly dwindling sheaf of notes.

‘And the first month in advance.’ The landlord cleared his throat, salivating at the sight of cash.

When he had pocketed the notes he handed Pru the key and gestured vaguely at the cracked pane of glass in the window. ‘I was ... um ... going to get that fixed. If I did it this afternoon, you could move in tomorrow.’

God, how can this be happening to me?

Pru shook her head.

‘I have to move in today.’

Not even mildly curious, her new landlord shrugged and headed for the stairs.

‘Suit yourself.’

Suit myself, thought Pru when he had gone. Did he really think that was what she was doing?

She had to move into this dismal room and she had to move in today.

Because between Phil, the bailiffs and the building society, she didn’t really have much choice.

Chapter 10

I’m single, thought Dulcie. Weird.

Technically, of course, she was still married, but separated. Morally, as far as Dulcie was concerned, that meant she was single again. And free to do as she liked.

It was exactly five weeks since Patrick’s party. Yesterday he had moved out of the house and into a flat above his office in the centre of Bath. The flat was tiny but the commuting time was four seconds. It would be two if he installed a fireman’s pole.

Dulcie still felt guilty about this. She had wanted out of the marriage and he was the one who’d had to find somewhere else to live. But Patrick had insisted.

‘Your parents gave us the deposit for this house,’ he had reminded her. ‘It’s more yours than mine. Anyway, you need the wardrobe space.’

He had been so damn reasonable Dulcie had wanted to hit him. If she had been expecting him to argue, to fight to save their marriage, she would have been bitterly disappointed.

Except she knew Patrick too well.

He never would.

So, it was done. She was on the market again, the sun was shining and the sky was blue.

Bring on the dancing boys. Dulcie stuck her Reeboked feet up on the chair opposite and closed her eyes, enjoying the warmth of the sun on her face and waiting for Liza to finish her game of squash. The conservatory at Brunton Manor adjoined the bar. It was where people relaxed over Perriers —with ice if they were being decadent — after knackering themselves on the tennis courts. It was where Dulcie — in a fetching white tracksuit — relaxed over gin and tonics and a constant supply of salt and vinegar crisps.

Liza appeared looking hot and tousled but pleased with herself.

‘Hammered the bitch, six one. That’ll teach her to say I’ve put on weight. Another drink?’