Mixed Doubles

By

Jill Mansell

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 1

Pru was getting hassle from her spaghetti. It was playing her up. Twirling away valiantly, willing the stuff to stay on her fork, she wondered enviously what it must be like to be Liza, who seldom bothered to even glance down at her plate, yet whose spaghetti miraculously stayed put.

It was New Year’s Eve, four o’clock in the afternoon and already dark outside. In Liza Lawson’s Provençal-style kitchen, around the scrubbed pine kitchen table, sat Dulcie, Liza and Pru, lining their stomachs in preparation for the long night ahead.

Far too impatient to bother with Le Twirl, Dulcie had used the edge of her fork as a knife and hacked her spaghetti to bits. It might not be the done thing but it was efficient; her stomach was no longer empty and her plate was clear. Anyway, if you couldn’t do the undone thing in Liza’s kitchen, amongst friends, where could you do it?

Having finished eating, Dulcie pulled a battered exercise book from her bag. ‘Look what my mother found the other week during a clear-out.’ She held it up for them to see. Emblazoned across the cover, in loopy, eighties-style lettering, were the words PRIVATE, KEEP OUT and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSTITUTED.

‘My little joke,’ Dulcie said fondly. ‘I was fifteen. Imagine.’ Resting her chin on the cupped palm of her hand, Liza grinned.

‘I was never fifteen.’

‘I spent ten years being fifteen,’ said Pru with feeling. When everyone else had graduated to tights, her domineering mother had refused to let her wear them. Pru’s recurring nightmare had involved walking up the aisle in white knee socks.

‘We were all fifteen,’ Dulcie reminded them, ‘and all at the same time. This is the whole point of having friends of your own age,’ she explained with exaggerated patience, ‘so you can share your experiences. Like when you had a crush on Simon Le Bon, they had one too. When you couldn’t sleep at night for worrying about that huge spot on your chin, at least you knew they were worrying about their spots as well. And when you weren’t sure about one or two of the facts of life, you always had someone to ask who wouldn’t laugh.’

‘I never had spots,’ said Liza.

‘And you both definitely laughed when I asked you about French kissing,’ Pru pointed out. ‘You told me it was to do with French letters and the boy having to wear a condom on his tongue.

Honestly, it’s a wonder I ever kissed anyone after that.’

Dulcie giggled, recalling her lecture on the subject and Pru’s solemn belief in every word.

‘Anyway,’ said Liza, ‘that was donkeys’ years ago.’ Reaching across the table, she filled their glasses with Pouilly-Fumé. ‘And this is New Year’s Eve. We’re supposed to be making resolutions.’

‘That’s why I brought the book along.’ Opening it, Dulcie riffled through graffiti-strewn pages.

‘God, school must’ve been boring to make me doodle this much. Ah, here it is.’ Triumphantly she showed them the list. ‘January the first. My New Year’s resolutions are: 1. Buy a black satin shirt (long pointed collar).

2. Snog you-know-who.

3. Do more homework, especially maths.

4. Watch Top of the Pops every week.

5. Keep my room tidy.

6. Buy silver nail polish.

7. Join the Starsky and Hutch fan club.’

‘A black satin shirt with a long collar.’ Liza pulled a face. ‘Yuk.’

‘The ones about doing more homework and keeping my room tidy were in case my mother had a snoop.’

Pru was looking puzzled. ‘Who was you-know-who?’

‘D’you know, I haven’t the foggiest. I’ve been trying to remember. Isn’t it sweet, though?’ said Dulcie happily. ‘When I was fifteen those were my New Year’s resolutions. That was what mattered. Such innocence.’

‘Things are a bit different now,’ Liza mocked. ‘Sixteen years later. We’re ancient.’

‘Go on then.’ Dulcie closed the book. ‘What’s your resolution for this year?’

Liza’s humorous dark-brown eyes flicked from Dulcie to Pru.

‘Oh, I want to get married.’

She spoke with the easy confidence of one who knows all she has to do is take her pick.

‘How about you, Pru?’ asked Dulcie.

Pru took a gulp of wine. She thought of Phil, her husband, and the odd way he had been behaving recently. She hoped nothing was wrong at work.

‘I just want to stay married.’

Dulcie was leaning her chair back on its hind legs, wondering again who you-know-who could possibly have been. It was frustrating not being able to remember. Glancing at her watch, she realised she should be making a move. Patrick would go mental if she was late home; they were supposed to be meeting friends at seven, before going on to the country club dance.

‘Dulcie,’ prompted Liza. ‘Your turn.’

‘Me?’ Dulcie brought the chair back down on to all fours with a thump. ‘All I want is a divorce.’

‘So who’s the lucky chap?’ Dulcie asked Liza as they said their goodbyes on the doorstep.

‘Anyone we know?’

‘Haven’t decided yet.’ Shivering in a thin white shirt, Liza hugged herself and edged back into the hall. Glancing up, she saw a couple of moths batting furiously around the outside light like rival lovers competing for attention.

‘Still road-testing, I suppose. So many men, so little time.’ Dulcie was flippant. What did Liza expect, sympathy? ‘Maybe it’s just as well you aren’t coming to tonight’s bash at the club. Less competition for me.’ She looked smug. ‘Personally I plan on snogging as many men as I can get my hands on.’

‘You’ll have to catch them first.’ Liza’s smile was deceptively innocent. ‘Do you have any idea how much garlic went into that pasta sauce?’

Dulcie’s hands flew to her mouth in horror.

‘I hate you,’ she exclaimed. ‘When I said I wanted men to fall at my feet, I meant them to be overcome with lust, not garlic fumes.’

‘You shouldn’t want men to fall at your feet. You’ve got Patrick.’

‘I’m tired of Patrick!’ It came out as a howl. ‘Dammit, you know better than anyone how that feels! How come you’re allowed to do it and I’m not?’

‘I’m not married.’

‘Of course you aren’t! Who’d have you?’

‘Come on, if you want a lift home,’ said Pru, because once these two started, they could bicker for England.

‘I’m coming, I’m coming. Even if my life is over.’ Dulcie huffed into her cupped hands and gazed heart-rendingly at Pru. ‘Can we stop off at a chemist on the way, pick up some Gold Spot?’

‘Bye,’ said Liza, hugging them both. She kissed first Pru’s icy cheek then Dulcie’s indignant one. ‘And let’s have a Happy New Year. May all our resolutions come true.’

When it came to people’s lives, it was generally agreed that Liza Lawson’s was the kind you could envy.

She was single, successful, blonde and beautiful, with dark- brown, come-to-bed-this-minute eyes, flawless skin and a bewitching smile.

There is little more alluring than a woman utterly at ease with her body, and Liza – a curvy size fourteen – had never experienced the slightest urge to diet. She liked herself just as she was, and everyone else seemed to as well. She’d certainly never had any complaints.

Liza’s job was pretty enviable too. Her career as a food writer had received a massive boost eighteen months earlier when she had landed the plum position of restaurant critic for the dazzlingly successful Herald on Sunday. Now, each week, her article appeared beneath the same photograph of herself smiling provocatively up from the last page of the colour supplement, with her gold-blonde hair falling over one shoulder and the beginnings of a heavenly cleavage peeping over the scooped-out top of a low-cut black velvet dress.

Men were forever falling in love with this photograph of Liza, and writing to tell her so.

Women envied her, because if looking like that and eating for a living wasn’t a dream existence, they didn’t know what was.

And restaurant owners wondered frustratedly why they had never spotted Liza Lawson in their restaurants, even when they knew she’d visited them because there in the Herald’s glossy Sunday supplement was the review.

Waking up late the following morning, Liza made her way gingerly downstairs. Two letters lay on the mat by the front door. She stuffed them into her dressing gown pocket, put the kettle on for coffee and opened the new packet of paracetamol she had had the foresight to buy yesterday afternoon. A hangover on New Year’s Day was pretty much de rigueur; it was just a shame the way the older you got, the more blistering the effects became.