Dulcie grinned. ‘Sallow? I’m not sallow, I’m tanned.’

Pru sat in the middle of the bed surrounded by photograph albums. Each album was full of pictures of herself and Phil, separately and together, at home or abroad, in Cornwall, in Tunisia, in Scotland, swimming, sunbathing, skiing, partying .. .

How can Liza and Dulcie ever understand how I feel? thought Pru, carefully turning another page and smiling at photos of Phil and herself on holiday last year in Morocco. Phil, sunburnt and peeling, was balancing a glass on his head, showing off for her benefit. And here was one of the two of them, taken by someone they had become friendly with in the hotel bar. They were dancing, and Phil’s arms were clasped around her waist, and just looking at the photograph Pru was able to relive that blissful moment, experience again the feeling of utter security.

No, neither Liza nor Dulcie could ever have understood how she felt about Phil, Pru decided.

Dulcie had put herself about a fair bit before settling down with Patrick, and Liza... well, Liza was still putting herself about.

But Pru, who had been with Phil for fourteen years, had never even looked at another man. He had been her first and only love, rescuing her from the terrors of teenage dating, and she had been more than happy to be rescued. Phil was all she wanted; he made her feel safe, she was Phil Kasteliz’s girlfriend, she belonged to him .. .

Pru’s hand trembled as she took the photograph out of its cellophane casing and looked more closely at it. Phil was her whole life. Finding out about Blanche had been horrible, of course it had, but she wasn’t a complete innocent. Sometimes men did stupid things. Their hormones got the better of them, they took risks they shouldn’t have ... and were found out.

But it doesn’t mean he’s stopped loving me, thought Pru. It’s a temporary weakness, that’s all.

I’m his wife. He still loves me best.

Slowly, she bit her tongue. Not enough to draw blood, but almost. Although it hurt, the pain was bearable.

Like this thing with Phil and Blanche, Pru thought, carefully sliding the photo back into the album. Dulcie and Liza were acting like it was the end of the world, but it didn’t have to be.

She could bear this too.

Chapter 5

Telling your husband you no longer wanted to be married to him was proving less straightforward than Dulcie had imagined. When she had first envisaged the scenario, it had seemed simple. She would just deliver her speech and that would be that.

Now she was ready to do the deed, however, a problem had cropped up.

The problem was .. .

... timing.

It would be so much easier, Dulcie thought, if Patrick was awful. If he used her as a punchbag, blacked her eyes and sent a few teeth flying, all she’d have to do was scream, Right, that’s it, get out of my life NOW.

Ditto if she found out he was having an affair.

But Patrick wasn’t awful and she didn’t want the break-up to be any more traumatic than it needed to be. Which was why the timing had to be right.

Before Christmas had been a no-no. That would be too cruel, too inconsiderate for words.

Knowing she couldn’t bring herself to do it in December was what had prompted Dulcie to make it her New Year’s resolution instead. Get the festive season out of the way and do it then.

Except now it was the middle of January and Patrick’s birthday loomed. His fortieth, at that.

Unhappily aware that only a complete cow would wreck her husband’s birthday, Dulcie realised she had to sit on her bombshell for a couple more weeks yet.

Forty. God, the more she thought about it the more terrifying it sounded. Whoever said life began at forty must have been senile. Feeling sorry for her ancient husband, Dulcie made two mugs of coffee and wandered through to the study. Patrick was tapping lists of figures into one of the computers and peering intently at the screen. It probably wouldn’t be long before he started to need glasses.

‘It’s your birthday in ten days’ time.’ Dulcie perched on the edge of his desk, both hands clasped around her mug. ‘What do you want?’

The least she could do, she had already decided, was buy him a really nice present.

Patrick keyed in a few more numbers.

‘Don’t know. Haven’t given it much thought.’

‘You’ll be forty.’

‘Better get me a Zimmer frame then.’

‘Come on, I need some clues.’ Something to remember me fondly by, thought Dulcie with a burst of uncharacteristic sentimentality. A gorgeous watch, perhaps? Flying lessons? A fabulous painting?

Patrick glanced up at her. He shrugged.

‘I really don’t know. Clothes, I guess. I could do with a couple of new shirts.’

Men, they were hopeless.

‘That’s so boring. What would you really, really like, more than anything?’

Patrick grinned. Ah, thought Dulcie, now we’re getting somewhere.

‘Okay.’ He reached past her, picked up a copy of last month’s PC Answers, and flipped through a few pages until he found what he was looking for. ‘There you go. The new Hewlett Packard Laserjet. What a machine ... six hundred dpi output, no less—’

‘A computer!’ wailed Dulcie. ‘I’m not getting you a bloody computer.’

‘It isn’t a computer,’ Patrick explained patiently. ‘It’s a printer.’

’Whatever, it’s still a crap present.’

‘Sorry, but you did ask what I wanted.’ He looked resigned, then gave her hand a squeeze.

‘Never mind. Just shirts then.’

‘No, no. I’ll get you the printer.’ She could do that much for Patrick. He would have something to keep him company during the long, lonely evenings after she had left.

It was his money anyway.

Dulcie just thought how ironic it was that her parting gift to him would be a computer-type thing, when they were what had effectively destroyed her marriage in the first place.

Still, at least the present-buying problem was solved. ‘What shall we do then,’ she persisted, ‘on your birthday?’ Patrick was trying hard to concentrate on the flickering VDU.

‘You choose, sweetheart. We could go out to dinner if you like.’

They always went out to dinner on Patrick’s birthdays. It wasn’t going to win awards for most riveting suggestion of the year. Dulcie wished he’d say, just once, ‘How about a torrid weekend away, making love under the moonlight in Marrakesh?’

Wherever Marrakesh was when it was at home. She hadn’t a clue, but it certainly sounded torrid.

She remembered a discussion she had heard the other day on Talk Radio, about men hitting forty.

‘Do you think you’ll have a mid-life crisis?’

Patrick was used to Dulcie’s startling about-turns in the middle of conversations. He drained his coffee and handed her the empty mug.

‘I haven’t got time for a mid-life crisis.’

‘You never know.’ She looked wistful. ‘You might suddenly realise that all you’ve done is work yourself stupid while life passes you by.’

Smiling, he glanced at his watch.

‘If I don’t get a move on I’m likely to have a mid-morning crisis. These figures have to be faxed to Manchester by twelve.

Thanks for the coffee, sweetheart.’ He ruffled Dulcie’s spiky dark hair. ‘See you later, hmm?’

A party, Dulcie decided. That was what she would do. Hold a spectacular surprise fortieth birthday party, to show Patrick she still cared about him and to launch him painlessly into single middle-agehood.

It would ease her own guilt and be fun into the bargain, she thought happily.

And then a week or so later, when all the excitement had died down and the timing was right, she would leave.

‘A party?’ Bibi Ross sounded amused. ‘Darling, it’s a lovely idea, but we couldn’t come. Too complicated for words.’

‘But it’s a surprise for Patrick,’ Dulcie protested. ‘You’re his mother. You have to be there.’

‘Impossible,’ Bibi replied flatly. ‘How can I bring James to a—’

‘Don’t bring James.’ Dulcie had already thought of this. ‘Tell him you’re ill. Tell him you’re going to an old girls’ school reunion ...’

Bibi visibly winced at the words ‘old girl’. She shook her head.

‘I can’t do that. Anyway, we’re already busy that night. James has invited some terribly important client and his wife round for dinner. He really has,’ Bibi insisted when Dulcie gave her a look. Rummaging in her bag, she pulled out a diary. ‘See, I’ve written it down. Friday the twenty-eighth. Dennis and Meg Haversham, seven thirty.’

It was true. Dulcie gave in with good grace.

‘Well, it’s a shame. You’re going to miss a terrific party.’

‘Never mind, can’t be helped.’ With some relief, Bibi snapped the diary shut. ‘Anyway, you know me. Never a great one for birthdays.’

Bibi had more reason than most not to be a great one forbirthdays. Dulcie adored her mother-in-law but the past two years had been a definite strain.

Complicated wasn’t the word for it. To maintain the degree of deception Bibi had landed them with you needed your wits permanently about you. Not to mention a degree in maths.

At the age of nineteen, Bibi – christened Barbara – had met and married George Ross. At twenty, she gave birth to Patrick.

When she was forty-five, George had died of a heart attack on the golf course. Distraught, Bibi had mourned him for three years. When finally she rejoined the outside world, she vowed never again to love anyone as much as she had loved George. The pain was too great. She couldn’t bear to risk losing anyone like that again.

Bowled over by her astonishing looks, many tried, but Bibi stuck to her guns. Until she met James Elliott, and realised what she had been missing all these years.

This was when the awful subterfuge had begun.