‘It’s okay, I’m not going to cry.’

‘Do you want to stay?’

Wearily Liza smiled and shook her head.

‘Oh no. I’d definitely prefer to go home.’

Outside, frost glistened on the road. Their breath came out in white puffballs of condensation and hung in the air before them. Shivering, Liza waited at the top of the steps for James to find whatever he was searching for in his coat pocket.

Finally, pulling out his keys, he aimed at a blue Mazdaparked twenty yards down the road on their right. The central locking beeped and clicked open.

‘You don’t have to drive me home,’ said Liza.

‘Don’t be silly.’

‘Really, there’s no need.’

James led her gently but firmly down the flight of stone steps and pointed her in the direction of the Mazda.

‘Liza, don’t argue. It’s no trouble. I want to drive you home.’

She took the keys from him, zapped the car and locked it again.

‘Dear James,’ Liza’s smile was affectionate, ‘you’re a gentleman, but what I mean is, there’s really no need.’ She patted the railings in front of the house they were just passing. ‘I live here.’

They chatted easily together in the kitchen of Liza’s flat while she made coffee and poured each of them a brandy.

‘I met the Cresswells at the opening of an exhibition at the Pelican Gallery,’ James explained.

‘Robert introduced me to Delia’s sister. You know what they’re like when it comes to matchmaking.’

Liza knew.

‘Did it work?’

‘No,’ said James simply. ‘Oh, she was a nice enough girl. But she just ...’

She just wasn’t Bibi.

Liza poured the coffee and carried the cups through to the sitting room. James followed with the glasses of brandy.

As she reached down to switch on a red shaded lamp, Liza said, ‘Do you still miss her?’

Bibi’s name hadn’t been mentioned but James didn’t need to ask who she meant.

He still missed Bibi terribly.

He looked at Liza, and shrugged.

‘All the time.’

They sat down next to each other on the sofa. With her left hand, Liza pleated and repleated the velvet hem of her dress. ‘Are you involved with anyone else?’

‘No.’ He shook his head.

‘I spoke to Patrick last week. Bibi isn’t seeing anyone either.’ James’s heart leapt, then fell again. It was what he wanted to hear, of course. But then again .. .

‘What’s the point?’ Wearily he stirred sugar into his coffee. ‘Even if I do still love her — and God only knows how she feels about me — what would be the point? She’s still thirteen years older than I am.’ He sounded resigned. ‘She’ll always be thirteen years older than me.’

‘Tell me what you’re afraid of,’ Liza said bluntly. ‘No, hang on, I’ll tell you. You’re afraid that in ten or twenty years’ time Bibi will either go loopy and need looking after, or die.’ She paused, fixing James with her steady gaze. ‘So what am I, spot on?’

It was impossible to lie to Liza. James had had long enough to think about it now. He had got over his initial outrage at being deliberately deceived.

‘I suppose so.’ Reluctantly he nodded.

‘But in the meantime you’re miserable and Bibi’s miserable,’ Liza went on, ‘and the whole of this last year has been a waste.’

‘Look, I know what you’re saying. I just—’

‘Please, James. I wasted time too, agonising over the fact that I was older than Kit.’ She shrugged. ‘And look what happened.’

‘I know, I know.’

‘If you have a chance to be happy, take it,’ Liza told him, ‘and sod what might happen in twenty years’ time. Believe me,’ she said simply, life’s too short.’

It was midnight when James finally made a move to leave. Opening the front door to let him out, Liza rubbed her arms as the icy night air swirled into the hallway.

In the dim porch light, she saw the flecks of silver glinting in James’s neat dark beard. They hadn’t been there last year.

She reached up and touched the soft bristles.

‘You’re going grey.’

He pulled a face.

‘Thanks a lot.’

‘No, it suits you.’

‘I’ve spent the last year feeling pretty grey.’

‘You could do something about that,’ said Liza.

‘What, Grecian 2000?’

‘I mean get in touch with Bibi.’

James reached for her hand. He held it for a few seconds then kissed her fingertips, breathing in the faint oriental scent of her perfume.

‘You’re thinking something,’ said Liza. ‘What are you thinking?’

‘How beautiful you are. And how desirable.’ He smiled and shook his head, marvelling at the fact that he was able to say the words aloud. ‘I was thinking that if things had been different, if it hadn’t been for Bibi ... and Kit ... I wonder if we could have got together.’

‘How weird, that’s what I was thinking too.’

‘And?’

‘Well,’ said Liza, ‘with my track record, I’d say it would definitely have been on the cards. But there again, with my track record ...’ She bit her lip and smiled.

‘... we’d have lasted all of two weeks.’ James finished the sentence for her.

‘Who knows, maybe even three.’

He grinned.

‘Three. I’m flattered.’

Liza’s mouth was inches away from his own. He could have kissed her, but he didn’t.

‘It’s better this way.’ Liza was still smiling but her teeth were starting to chatter. ‘Friends last longer than lovers.’

Across the road, a group of partygoers who had spilled out of Robert and Delia’s house were now piling noisily into their cars.

‘You’re shivering. Time I was gone,’ said James. He gave Liza a hug.

She returned the hug and kissed him fondly on the cheek.

‘Have a good Christmas.’ Giving him a meaningful look, she added, ‘Make it a good Christmas.’

James wondered what kind of a Christmas Liza could look forward to this year. He nodded, feeling desperately sorry for her.

‘You too.’

Chapter 51

There were two weeks to go and everyone within a fifty-mile radius of Bath had decided to do all their late-night Christmas shopping tonight.

At least that was how it felt to Dulcie. The streets were crammed with frenzied spenders, the queues to even get inside some of the shops were diabolical. Worst of all, there was no point in giving up and going home, because from now until Christmas Day itself, it was only going to get worse.

Dulcie, stuck in the middle of this mayhem, wasn’t sure what she was experiencing but it was some kind of rage.

Not road rage, because this area of the city was pedestrianised.

Not trolley rage, because she didn’t have a trolley. Although one would have come in incredibly useful.

Maybe Yule rage, thought Dulcie, battling her way through BabyGap and cracking her ankle on a pushchair being steered by a hopeless learner.

Grimly, she elbowed a stockbroker type out of the way and bagged a brilliant Santa scarf for her three-year-old goddaughter. The last pair of matching mittens had just been snatched up by the scowling stockbroker. Dulcie watched him fling them into his wire basket, on top of a pile of other clothes. Her fingers itched. Polly would love a pair of mittens to match the scarf .. .

Oh no, that’s sick, thought Dulcie, horrified by the thoughts flashing through her mind. What kind of pond life was she to even think of doing something so-

‘Are you going to stand there all day?’ hissed the stockbroker, ramming the basket against Dulcie’s hip as he barged past.

She whisked the mittens out of the basket and out of sight. The irritable stockbroker headed for the queue at the till and Dulcie melted away in the opposite direction. Two minutes later, while she was investigating denim dungarees, she heard a bellow of fury over by the till.

‘Who the buggering hell has made off with my sodding gloves?’

He didn’t sound so much like a stockbroker now.

Dulcie kept her face averted. She didn’t want to get embroiled in a nasty attack of mitten rage.

By seven thirty Dulcie was carrying fifteen bags, her arms were practically out of their sockets and the soles of her feet hurt so much they burned.

Queueing in a newsagent’s for a can of Coke, she overheard a woman say there had been a pile-up outside the Blenheim Street car park. Apparently the place was gridlocked, no one was getting in or out.

With a sigh Dulcie paid for two cans of Coke, carried them outside and looked around for somewhere to sit down. She may as well rest her feet and wait for the car park to unblock itself before heading back to the car.

A Salvation Army band was playing ‘God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen’ in the centre of the precinct, and all but one of the benches around them were full. Limping, Dulcie lugged her bags over to the only bench that wasn’t, and realised her mistake two seconds too late.

‘Here, let me give you a hand with those,’ said the boy who was the only other occupant. From a distance he’d looked okay, but now she was close up, Dulcie saw the mousy matted dreadlocks, the filthy clothes and the bottle of Tennant’s Export sticking out of his coat pocket. He smelled awful and — oh help — something furtive was going on in the vicinity of his lap.

Dulcie tried to hang on to her bags but they were out of control, slithering in all directions.

Leaning over, the boy helped her to pick them up. She wondered if he was about to do a runner, make off with her Christmas shopping, and if he did would he be pleased with the Penhaligon’s bluebell soap and foaming bath oil?

‘Been buying presents?’ His tone was conversational. Dulcie nodded, flipped the ring pull of the first Coke, and determinedly didn’t look at his trousers.

‘Wish I had money to buy presents.’ His tone was sorrowful. ‘Some Christmas we’ll be having this year.’