As he struggled to open the passenger door he joked, ‘Next time I need a lift, I’ll phone you.’

Pru wondered if it was sitting at the wheel of a car that gave her more confidence. She said, ‘Lots of people hire chauffeurs when they’ve been banned.’

‘I know.’ Eddie sighed. ‘But I don’t need a full-time chauffeur.’

‘You could do with a part-time one. My hours are flexible,’ Pru went on rapidly. ‘The people I clean for don’t mind when I turn up, so long as the job gets done.’

Eddie saw the quiet determination on her face. With that straight dark curtain of hair and those serious grey eyes of hers, Pru looked more like a schoolgirl than a grown woman.

She was painfully thin too, beneath the man’s dark-blue sweater – her husband’s presumably –

and those battered black jeans. ‘Are you volunteering?’

‘I need the money,’ said Pru bluntly. ‘You need a driver. I could do the job.’ Leaning across, she jiggled the handle Eddie hadn’t been able to get to grips with, and opened the temperamental passenger door. The train he was in a hurry to catch was just pulling into the station. ‘Quick or you’ll miss it. Look, think it over. If you want me, give me a ring.’

Eddie grinned. ‘If I want you ... ?’

‘Oh well,’ Pru went pink again, as he had known she would, ‘you know what I mean.’

‘Of course I do.’ He pulled himself together. ‘And I’ve already thought about it. How soon can you start?’ The enormous slate-grey eyes widened.

‘As soon as you like.’

‘Terrific,’ said Eddie, knocking the gearstick expertly into reverse. ‘In that case, back to Brunton to pick up the Jag. We can’t stand bloody trains anyway.’

‘We?’ said Pru.

‘Arthur hates them too.’

Chapter 16

Pru was in the pool when Dulcie saw the latest notice up on the noticeboard, announcing the appointment of Brunton Manor’s new tennis pro.

Dulcie’s eyes flickered incredulously from the written announcement to the photograph pinned beneath it, of a blond male in tennis whites being presented with a trophy the size of a fridge.

Her heart went kerplunk. Ignoring the receptionist’s indignant squawk of protest, Dulcie grabbed the photo, clutched it to her chest and raced all the way to the pool. Everyone who saw her stopped and stared; Dulcie had never been known to run before. Whatever next, sit-ups?

Pru was instantly recognisable in her daffodil-yellow swimming hat. Her head bobbed up and down as she doggy-paddled her way laboriously up to the shallow end, completing her sixteenth length. The hat was a must for Pru. If she didn’t wear one, her hair would plaster itself to her head leaving her ears on show to the world. This way her long hair stayed dry. In fact, as Dulcie had once innocently pointed out, the yellow rubber cap flattened her ears so nicely, it was a shame she couldn’t wear it all the time.

Personally, Dulcie wondered why Pru persisted with this swimming malarkey, especially when she was so bad at it. All swimming did, as far as Dulcie was concerned, was wear you out and totally wreck your make-up.

She crouched at the edge of the pool, waiting for Pru to reach her. It was no good yelling, trying to hurry her up; the hat wasn’t only a jolly efficient ear-flattener. When it was on, Pru couldn’t hear a thing.

‘What?’ said Pru, hanging on to the side and blinking chlorinated water out of her stinging, pink-rimmed eyes. She peered up at the photograph Dulcie was dangling in front of her nose.

‘It’s you-know-who,’ said Dulcie triumphantly.

Pru peeled the edge of the yellow cap cautiously upwards, just enough to be able to hear but not enough to let her ear spring out.

‘What?’

‘You-know-who,’ repeated Dulcie, her voice loaded with meaning. ‘Come on, think back a bit.

New Year’s Eve, Pru! New Year’s resolutions.’

Pru looked blank.

‘I give up. Is it someone Liza might want to marry?’ Sometimes Dulcie despaired of Pru.

Honestly, if this was what swimming did to your brain.

‘I’m talking about my resolutions,’ she said impatiently. ‘The ones I wrote when I was fifteen, remember? Do more homework, keep room tidy, all that guff?’

Pru remembered.

‘Join the Starsky and Hutch fan club.’ She brightened. ‘I forgot to ask, did you ever join? I liked Starsky best. Didn’t you think he looked sexy in that wrap-around cardigan?’

‘I preferred Hutch. He was gorgeous. Nobody fancied Starsky.’ Dulcie was full of scorn.

Seriously, was it any wonder Pru’s marriage had failed? She’d always had diabolical taste in men.

Pru peered more closely at the photograph. The chap was blond and tanned, but .. .

‘Dulcie, that isn’t David Soul.’

‘Give me strength,’ sighed Dulcie. ‘Did I say it was? Now listen to me. One of my resolutions was to snog you-knowwho.You said who was he and I said I didn’t have a clue. Right? With me so far?’

Cautiously, Pru nodded.

‘Well, this is him. This is you-know-who.’ Dulcie broke into an uncontrollable grin. She still couldn’t believe it herself. It was the fabbest thing to happen since Pop Tarts.

Pru looked up at Dulcie, still clutching the photo lovingly like a teenager. She didn’t know who you-know-who was, but he must be famous for Dulcie to have had a crush on him for so long. A rock star or something. A tennis-playing rock star like Cliff Richard.

‘And you’ve joined his fan club?’ said Pru. It sounded a bit of an immature thing to do but ...

well, this was a free country...

Gazing down at her, Dulcie decided they were both in need of a stiff drink.

‘I haven’t joined his fan club,’ she told Pru. ‘He’s about to join mine.’

‘Remember how I always used to moan about our family holidays,’ said Dulcie when Pru emerged from the changing rooms at last and joined her in the bar.

‘In South Wales? Tenby, wasn’t it?’

Dulcie nodded. ‘Bloody yacht club. Talk about mental cruelty. I should have sued my parents for dragging me along with them every summer. All day, every day, out in that sodding boat of theirs—’

‘Maybe that’s what put you off swimming,’ Pru suggested. ‘You’re just generally anti-water.’

‘Anyway, when I was fifteen we stayed in our usual cottage and a group of boys were renting the place next door. There were four of them and I fell in love with the best-looking one—’

‘Fell in love?’

‘Figure of speech,’ said Dulcie. ‘Had a crush on. Fancied like mad. His name was Liam and he was seventeen. I was sure he fancied me back but you know what boys are like when they’re with their mates. We chatted on the beach a few times.

When they played tennis they let me be their ball girl, that kind of thing. The others used to tease Liam about me. I was so besotted I didn’t even care.’ Dulcie sat back dreamily in her chair. So dreamily she spilt red wine down her T-shirt. ‘On our last night, he gave me a kiss on the cheek and said, "See you next year." I was so happy I almost died on the spot. I gave him my address and he promised to write to me. My parents couldn’t get over me crying buckets all the way home, when I’d always hated Tenby so much. I swear, that was the best holiday of my life.’

‘I don’t remember this,’ said Pru. ‘You kept pretty quiet about it. So what happened, did he write to you?’

‘Nope.’ Dulcie grinned. ‘I must have driven my mother mad. I kept accusing her of intercepting the post and destroying his letters. Poor Mum didn’t know what I was talking about.’

‘Did you write to him?’

‘Not often. Only about twice a day.’

‘Dulcie!’

‘Don’t go all feminist on nie. I was only fifteen.’

‘So this Liam ... he was the one you were so desperate to snog?’

‘He kissed me here.’ Half closing her eyes, Dulcie touched her cheek. ‘I can still remember how it felt. It was stupendous,’ she looked rueful, ‘but it wasn’t a snog.’ Then she smiled at the memory. ‘Can you imagine the sheer agony of having to wait a whole year to see him again? I was crossing off the days to August. Dammit, I was crossing off the hours.’

‘And did you?’ said Pru, by this time riveted. ‘Did you see him again?’

‘Did I heck! The cottage was let out to a pair of geriatric spinsters. No sign of Liam or his friends anywhere ... and God knows I spent enough time looking for them.’

‘You never told us any of this.’

‘What, that I was dumped?’ Dulcie started to laugh. ‘Excuse me, I did have some pride. I’d have told you about Liam if there’d been anything to tell.’

The photograph of Brunton Manor’s new tennis pro was back up on the noticeboard, having been plucked from Dulcie’s grasp by an irate receptionist.

‘And now he’s coming here to work,’ Pru marvelled. Dulcie hugged herself. ‘It’s fate.’

‘It didn’t work out brilliantly last time.’

‘I was fifteen,’ Dulcie rolled her eyes in exasperation, ‘he was seventeen. I had spots and the haircut from hell – how could it have worked out?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘That’s why it’s fate. We’re adults now. This is our second chance,’ she looked smugly at Pru, ‘a chance to make a real go of it. You’ll see.’

Chapter 17

Pru called Terry Lambert her mystery client because she had never seen him. Terry, brother of Marion Hayes over at Beech Farm, was a solicitor who lived alone in a picturesque Bath-stone cottage high on one of the hills surrounding the city.

‘I’ve been telling him for years to get someone in. Men, they’re hopeless,’ Marion had robustly declared, before phoning Terry and informing him that she had found him a cleaner.

Marion had given Pru the spare key to Terry’s house. Every Tuesday afternoon Pru let herself in, spent four hours restoring order from chaos, took the money her absent employer left for her on the kitchen dresser and let herself out again.