‘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?’

Dulcie nodded. ‘And more crisps. Anyway, talking of bitches,’ she waved the Herald on Sunday’s colour supplement at Liza, ‘what happened to you? In a bit of a pooey mood, were we, when we wrote this?’

Liza cringed. The edition featuring her review of the Songbird had come out last week. Every time she read it, it sounded nastier. Her editor had been thrilled — ‘This is more like it, sweetheart! This is what gets people talking’ — but Liza was awash with guilt. The food hadn’t been perfect, but it wasn’t that bad, not as terrible as she had made out.

‘That was New Year’s Day, the place where I saw Phil and Blanche.’

‘Oh, I get it now.’ Dulcie grinned. ‘It’s the restaurant’s fault for letting them eat there. This is your revenge.’

‘Of course it isn’t. It was my editor’s bright idea.’ Liza, looking defiant, edged towards the bar.

‘He wanted me to be controversial, that’s all.’

Eddie Hammond, bumping into Dulcie earlier, had checked that Liza was meeting up with her for lunch. Someone had phoned, he explained, wanting to know when she would be around.

‘One of Liza’s besotted boyfriends,’ Dulcie guessed, but Eddie had frowned. ‘I don’t know about that. He didn’t sound besotted to me.’

Dulcie watched Liza flirting with the bar manager. He was gay, but she still flirted with him.

Even more weirdly, he was flirting back.

She hoped the phone call Eddie had taken wasn’t from a hit man, hired by the furious owners of the Songbird. It’s all right for Liza’s editor, urging her to be controversial, thought Dulcie; his kneecaps aren’t the ones at risk.

Liza made it back to their table by the window overlooking the entrance to the club. Since she could hardly put a PS in next week’s column saying ‘Oh by the way, that stuff I wrote about the Songbird was a bit mean, it wasn’t that bad really’, she chucked the magazine on to a spare chair and changed the subject.

‘So how do you feel, now Patrick’s gone?’

Dulcie ripped open her crisps and started crunching.

‘He was never there anyway. It’ll take me a year to notice the difference.’

Bravado. Liza said, ‘Are you looking for someone else?’

‘No way.’ Dulcie’s silver and tiger’s-eye earrings – not very sporty – rattled from side to side as she shook her head. ‘Play the field, that’s all I want to do. This is the start of my new life. I want to celebrate by being wild and irresponsible! I’m going to have more fun – with more men – than you could shake a stick at. Please, another relationship’s the last thing I need.’

More bravado. Actually, Liza amended, more like bullshit. Until Patrick, Dulcie had spent her life crashing from one wildly unsuitable man to the next. She craved excitement but she needed security.

She wasn’t nearly as independent as she liked to make out.

But this wasn’t the kind of thing people liked to hear about themselves. Diplomatically Liza changed the subject yet again.

‘Did you speak to Pru? Is she coming up here this afternoon?’