‘Okay, I’ll give you a lift,’ said Nicky. ‘Come on.’

The migraine continued on its inexorable course. The journey home was hell. With Kit’s arms around her, Liza closed her eyes and gritted her teeth against the agonising vice-like pain. She was sick twice more, luckily into the borrowed bucket. By the time they reached the flat, it was as much as she could do to mumble an almost unintelligible thank-you and let Kit carry her inside to bed.

When Liza arrived at the Songbird two days later, Nicky was perched on a stool at the bar going over next week’s bookings with the chef.

‘Still alive then.’ She grinned when she saw Liza, then exclaimed, ‘Oh, they’re amazing! You didn’t have to do this,’ as Liza put the cellophane-wrapped mass of orange roses into her arms.

‘I think I did.’ Liza kissed her flushed cheek. ‘You were brilliant on Sunday. I just wanted to say thank you for everything. For all your help, and the lift home.’ She hesitated, summoning up the courage to say the rest. It wasn’t made any easier by the chef, who clearly recognised her and was glowering away under fearsome eyebrows like Lurch from the Addams family. ‘I still can’t believe you’re even speaking to me after I almost wrecked your business. I’m so sorry, I can’t tell you how terrible I felt about that.’

Nicky, her eyes gleaming, pushed back her blonde hair and gave Lurch a hefty prod in the ribs.

‘Well, don’t. It wasn’t your fault, it was Marcel’s. Wasn’t it, Marcel?’ she added teasingly. ‘If you hadn’t got legless on Newcastle Brown and turned up for work still half-cut, Liza wouldn’t have been able to criticise us, would she’?’

Marcel looked embarrassed. Apart from anything else, he was a Frenchman. How was he ever going to live down the humiliation of having got plastered on Newcastle Brown Ale?

Liza, who had to be in Cheltenham by midday, checked her watch.

‘Look, I have to go. Thanks again for everything. See you soon, I hope.’ She paused. ‘And if there’s ever anything I can do for you ...’

‘That’s an easy one,’ Nicky said promptly. ‘Marry Kit.’ Liza burst out laughing.

‘Any particular reason?’

Nicky’s smile was mischievous as she waved an arm, encompassing the restaurant.

‘Then you can hold your wedding reception here.’

Dulcie, sunbathing in the back garden on Tuesday afternoon, heard the sound of a familiar car engine. When it switched off in front of the house she experienced an odd sensation of déjà vu.

Except it wasn’t déjà vu, of course; the reason she knew it so well was because she used to hear it all the time.

‘I’m round the back,’ Dulcie yelled when she dimly heard the front door bell being rung. She chucked down her empty crisp packet and licked her fingers. ‘Door’s unlocked, just come through.’

Lying back on the sun-lounger, far too lazy to get up, Dulcie lifted her head and shielded her eyes in order to watch Patrick appear.

When he did, moments later, he was wearing dark-blue chinos and a yellow shirt she hadn’t seen before. She wondered if thingy had bought it for him.

The next thing Dulcie noticed he was wearing was an odd look on his face.

‘Nice shirt.’

‘Don’t you think you should put this on?’ Reaching down and picking up the top half of her pink and purple bikini, Patrick held it towards her.

Dulcie tried not to smile.

‘Why? Will it stop me getting cold?’

‘It’ll keep you decent,’ said Patrick evenly. To her amazement she realised he was keeping his eyes deliberately averted from her breasts.

‘Patrick, you’re my husband! You have seen them before.’

‘Things are different now.’

Gosh, thought Dulcie, he sounded weird. Stunned into obedience, she took the bikini top from him. Damn, there was a mark on it where she’d spilled chocolate ice cream.

Put it on,’ repeated Patrick.

He waited until she had, before looking down at her.

‘Is something wrong?’ Dulcie wondered if this sudden and bizarre obsession with decency meant someone had died.

‘I thought I should come over. There appear to be things we need to sort out.’

‘Things? What things?’

‘The divorce,’ Patrick said quietly, because Dulcie clearly didn’t have a clue.

Dulcie swallowed. She hadn’t actually given it much thought. Okay, it had been her New Year’s resolution but once she’d left Patrick it hadn’t seemed important.

Then another thought struck her. Rather unpleasantly, like malaria.

He wants a divorce so he can marry Claire, Dulcie realised, stunned. And I can’t object because he’s been so nice to me. Now it’s my turn to be nice back .. .

She managed to nod.’Okay.’

‘I’ve spoken to Simon,’ said Patrick. Simon was a solicitor friend of his. ‘Basically, if we want it over quickly and we aren’t going to argue about money, the easiest thing is to go for a no-fault, two-year separation. It’s simple and it costs hardly anything. Are you happy with that?’

Two years, that’s fine, thought Dulcie, suddenly finding it easier to breathe. That was eighteen months away.

‘Fine.’

‘Right. So that’s settled, we can be divorced by September.’ Dulcie sat bolt upright.

‘What about the two years?’

‘All you have to do,’ Patrick explained wearily, ‘is say you’ve been separated for two years.

Then it just goes through.’

‘But that isn’t true! That’s ... lying!’ yelped Dulcie.

‘Oh dear, how terrible. How will we live with ourselves?’ Patrick mocked. ‘Lying. Tut tut, that would never do.’

Dulcie hated it when he was sarcastic. She swallowed her pride and lay back down again. Patrick wanted to be free of her so he could marry Claire. He didn’t want to look at her bare boobs any more, he only wanted to look at Claire’s.

‘How is she?’ said Dulcie, to prove she was a grown-up. ‘Claire?’

‘Fine.’ Patrick nodded briefly. A muscle was going in his jaw. At last he said, ‘And Liam?’

If Claire was fine, Dulcie decided, Liam was more than fine.

‘Very well indeed. Brilliant.’ She nodded strenuously. ‘Great.’

‘Congratulations, by the way.’

Dulcie looked up, startled. There was that muscle again, twitching away.

‘On ...?’

‘The baby,’ said Patrick.

‘Oh. Right.’

Dulcie was glad she had her sunglasses on. Somehow she’d managed to persuade herself that Patrick wouldn’t get to hear about this.

She wondered how he had.

‘Word gets around,’ Patrick went on after an awkward pause. ‘One of the girls from the office downstairs is a member of Brunton.’ He cleared his throat and managed a bleak smile. ‘Bit of a weird way to find out, but still bit her lip. She felt terrible. Half of her wanted to blurt out the truth, to tell Patrick that it was okay, she wasn’t really pregnant, it was just a scam, a desperate attempt to hang on to Liam.

The other half of her knew she had to keep her mouth shut because the humiliation, the look of disdain on Patrick’s face, would be too much to bear.

He’s happy with Claire, thought Dulcie. The last thing I need is Patrick feeling pity for me.

She kept her mouth well and truly shut.

‘Anyway, I guessed you’d be anxious to get things settled.’ Dulcie nodded.

Patrick nodded too.

‘Are you going to marry him?’

‘I expect so.’ Bloody hope so. ‘Maybe. No hurry.’

‘How are you feeling?’

Dulcie shrugged again. Actually, she was feeling a bit peculiar. She was lying, and for the first time in her life not enjoying it much at all.

‘How am I feeling?’ Dulcie forced herself to concentrate. She even managed a smile. ‘Great. Bit sick ... you know, but otherwise fine. Looking forward to the big day.’

‘And Liam?’

‘Oh, he’s thrilled. Pleased as Punch.’

‘Well, that’s good news. I’m happy for you,’ said Patrick, not looking it. ‘You’ve got what you wanted. I really hope it all works out.’

‘Thanks.’ The sun was hot but Dulcie was suddenly cold. She couldn’t quite believe she was having this stiltedconversation with Patrick. She was also beginning to feel uncomfortably underdressed. Before, it hadn’t mattered. Now, a few layers of protective clothing — a couple of sweaters, a pair of jeans and a thick duffel coat, say — wouldn’t have gone amiss.

In a strange way too, Dulcie realised, she was miffed that he hadn’t seen through the lie. Liza and Pru had, effortlessly, and they were only her friends.

I was married to you for nearly seven years, she silently accused Patrick. I’m your wife. You’re supposed to know me better than anyone — so how come you can’t tell I’m lying to you now?

Chapter 31

Pru was asleep when the ringing sound started. In her dream, a fire engine was racing round and round her bedsit but instead of going nee-naa nee-naa, it was making a noise like a doorbell.

Then the fire engine screeched to a halt. A dozen firemen leapt out and surrounded her bed.

‘There isn’t room for all of you in here,’ protested Pru, which, even if she didn’t know it was a dream, was a pretty Freudian thing to say. ‘I’m sorry, but some of you will have to wait outside.’

The fireman in charge, who looked weirdly like Eddie Hammond, said, ‘Can I stay?’

‘I’ve only got a single bed,’ Pru told him, and he broke into a smile.

‘Fine with me. Except you’d better answer that door bell first.’ Pru woke up, jack-knifing into a sitting position as the bell — her door bell — shrilled again.

She looked at the luminous green figures on her radio alarm: 3.42.

Up through the floorboards floated the voice of Donovan’s greatest fan shouting blearily: ‘Will somebody get that, for Chrissake?’

Pru fell out of bed and stumbled across to the window. Pulling back the flimsy curtain, she peered down to the street below.