dark hair as he always did when faced with a dilemma.
‘Oh. Right. Well, sorry anyway.’
‘No need,’ said Dulcie. ‘Liam’s a jerk. He’s no loss, and who wants a screaming baby anyway?’
There was a huge lump in her throat but she resolutely ignored it. Pulling the dark-blue towel more securely around her she went on in a businesslike manner, ‘What was it you needed? I thought you’d taken all your clothes.’
‘Passport.’ Patrick turned his attention to the old oak dresser, whose top drawers were crammed with a motley collection of old bills, out-of-date MOTs, rolls of Sellotape and a million rubber bands. With any luck, this was also where he’d find his passport.
Dulcie heard her voice go all high and unnatural, as if she’d just taken a furtive gulp of helium.
‘Really? Going away somewhere? Anywhere nice?’
‘Amsterdam.’
She said the first words that came into her head. ‘Watch out; lots of prostitutes in Amsterdam.’
‘I’ll have Claire with me,’ Patrick remarked drily, ‘so maybe she’ll be able to beat them off with a stick.’
He had his back to her as he searched through the drawer’s muddled contents. Suffused with misery and longing, Dulcie watched him for as long as she dared. He was going away on holiday with Claire. This, from the man who regarded interrupting work to grab a sandwich as a waste of time.
‘Hang on, I think I’ve seen it upstairs,’ said Dulcie. She knew exactly where his passport was, filed away along with a stash of expensive half-used make-up in a silver basket on top of her dressing table.
Earlier, in the bath, she had fantasised a dozen different ways of enticing Patrick upstairs to the bedroom they had once shared.
Now, clearly, this idea was no longer on.
The bath towel had been a mistake too.
‘Wait there, I’ll get it,’ said Dulcie.
When she reappeared, she handed Patrick the passport. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at her. ‘Are you sure you’re all right?’ Dulcie nodded.
‘Of course I am.’
‘And ...’ he frowned, looking doubtful, ‘sorry, but did you say you had a job?’
Another nod.
‘This I’ve got to see.’ Patrick’s smile was sceptical; it was the one he’d generally used when Dulcie had insisted on reading him his horoscope.
‘It’s nothing special.’ She spoke with a trace of defiance. ‘Just a spot of waitressing. More of a social thing, really.’
‘I’d still like to see it with my own eyes.’
Dulcie, who had her image to think of, definitely didn’t want him to see her sweating away in the cafe’s cramped kitchen. She pulled open the front door.
‘Mustn’t keep Claire waiting. Enjoy your holiday.’
Evidently still entertained by the idea of Dulcie doing anything and actually getting paid for it, Patrick said, ‘And you enjoy your job. One thing, though, Dulcie.’
‘Yes?’
He grinned. ‘Don’t let them work you too hard.’
It was remarks like that, thought Dulcie as she closed the door, that made you wish you’d chucked your husband’s precious passport down the nearest loo.
As soon as she settled herself back in the bath, the phone shrilled again. One of life’s major irritations, Dulcie was reminded, was the fact that you bought a cordless phone specifically so you could take the thing into the bathroom with you, but you never actually remembered to bloody well do it.
By the time she reached the phone it had stopped ringing. Dripping all over the carpet as she dialled 147I, Dulcie was astounded to be told by the metallic voice that the number of the last person to ring her was Liza’s.
This was frustrating, because if Liza was calling to apologise for the other night, she now thought Dulcie was out.
If I ring her back, thought Dulcie, I might have to apologise first.
Instead she dialled Liza’s number, let it ring twice and hung up.
Now Liza could call 147I.
Less than a minute later, Dulcie’s phone rang again. ‘It’s me,’ said Liza. ‘I’m returning your call.’
‘Oh. hello,’ Dulcie said airily. ‘I was only returning yours.’
‘You rang me.’
‘You rang me first.’
‘Oh what, so you want me to apologise for the other night?’
‘Isn’t that why you phoned?’
