‘This is it then.’ She sipped and burnt her tongue. ‘Here we are, all girls together. Welcome to the singles club.’

Pru plonked herself down on the end of the bed. She had been drinking tea for the last five hours.

‘I’m not single.’ She looked defensive.

‘Oh come on,’ exclaimed Dulcie. ‘You can’t stay with Phil! Not after what he did to you last night.’

‘He didn’t mean it. He was drunk, that’s all.’ Pru knew from experience what Phil was like after one of his infrequent benders. He would wake up feeling hopelessly sorry for himself, unable to recall much, if anything, of the night before. He would beg for Heinz tomato soup and spend the day being penitent and little-boyish. He would also be enormously affectionate towards her.

The pattern was always the same. And although she was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, while she hated the binges, Pru actually enjoyed the recovery periods after them. They made her feel wanted and secure.

‘He humiliated you in front of everyone,’ Liza protested, but with less force than last time. She knew when she was wasting her breath.

‘My marriage is worth fighting for. Phil didn’t mean those things he said last night. He won’t even remember saying them.’

‘You’re mad,’ Dulcie said flatly.

Pru looked at her.

‘Are you really going to leave Patrick?’

‘Too right I am.’ Dulcie thought for a moment. She had stalked out of the party, hadn’t she? She wasn’t at home, she was here. ‘I already have.’

Pru stood up, looking waif-like in one of Liza’s oversized white T-shirts, but utterly determined.

‘In that case,’ she told Dulcie, ‘you’re the one who’s mad.’

Chapter 9

Dulcie was in no hurry to get home. Sod Patrick, let him stew a bit longer, let the sanctimonious bastard wonder where she was.

But her conscience was pricking her on another matter. Okay, the other matter. Not that it had really been her fault. Her intentions had been good.

Still, Dulcie knew she would feel a lot better if she could solve at least one of the ticklish problems last night’s party had thrown up.

She phoned James on his mobile.

‘James, hi, it’s me! Where are you?’

He didn’t seem thrilled to hear from her. Somehow she could tell.

‘Is that your idea of being subtle, Dulcie? If you mean am I at home tucked up in bed with Bibi, then no, I am not. I’m at the Berkeley Hotel.’

Lord, he sounded positively grim. Dulcie pulled a face and did a thumbs-down at Liza, who was getting ready to go out. Wasting no time as usual, she was meeting last night’s banker for lunch.

‘Right, okay, stay where you are.’ Dulcie decided she wouldn’t waste time either. She would be bold and assertive. She was going to force James to see sense if she had to hammer it into his head with one of her high heels..

‘Dulcie—’

‘Don’t move, I’m on my way,’ she said very firmly indeed. ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.’

* * *

Dulcie found herself on the receiving end of some pretty dubious attention when she made her way through reception at the Berkeley. There was no sign of James so she settled herself on a sofa by one of the long windows. Within the space of five minutes she was asked by a porter, a snooty receptionist and the manager if they could help her in any way, madam.

‘I’m meeting someone,’ Dulcie told the manager pleasantly. ‘I’m not on the game. The reason I’m wearing this dress is because I left my husband last night, rather unexpectedly, and I didn’t happen to have a change of clothes with me, okay? I stayed with a friend who’s a good six sizes bigger than me and if you think I’d wear something the size of a circus tent just to keep your geriatric guests happy ... well, you couldn’t be more wrong.’

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—’