And she liked him so much. Really liked him. The prospect of losing him was unbearable.
Panicking, she told James she was forty-six.
The repercussions of her spur-of-the-moment fib had been endless. No longer could Bibi relate the story of the day her father had come home from the war. Memories of her teenage years were hastily rejigged. Her entire past had needed to be unceremoniously hauled forward a decade-anda-bit.
And since owning up to a thirty-seven-year-old son was out of the question – ‘What, you mean you had him when you were nine?’ – Bibi had been forced to lop a few years off his age too.
Patrick hadn’t been thrilled.
‘Is this a joke?’ he had demanded. ‘Ma, you’re mad. It’ll never work.’
But Bibi wasn’t joking. She was desperate.
‘It will, it will. He doesn’t suspect a thing. Anyway, you only have to be twenty-nine. I’ve already told James I had you at seventeen.’
Only the fact that his mother was so obviously happy again for the first time in years persuaded Patrick to go along with the ludicrous charade.
‘It won’t last,’ he had warned her. ‘You’ll be caught out sooner or later.’
Bibi hugged him.
‘Not if we’re clever I won’t.’
And, miraculously, she hadn’t been caught out. Everyone played their part, all Bibi’s friends kept her shameful secret to themselves and Bibi kept her passport and driving licence locked securely out of sight. She and James were a couple, happier together than any other couple she knew. From time to time, referring to the three-year age gap between them, he lovingly called her his older woman. From time to time as well, he asked Bibi to marry him.
If she could have done so without him finding out how old she really was, Bibi would have been up that aisle like a shot. As it was, she insisted she preferred living in sin.
‘For God’s sake, tell him,’ an exasperated Patrick had urged just before Christmas. ‘He’ll understand. After all this time, how can your age matter? It’s you he loves, not your date of birth.’
But Bibi flatly refused to even consider telling James the truth. She couldn’t take that risk. There was too much to lose. Besides, some ages sounded worse than others. James teased her enough about being forty-eight.
And she was sixty.
Could anything, Bibi wondered with a shudder, sound worse than that?
Chapter 6
Once Dulcie had made up her mind about the party she threw herself into organising it with enthusiasm.
She decided to hold it at Brunton Manor. Home was out of the question if the party was to be a surprise — immersed in his work he may be, but even Patrick’s suspicions might be aroused by the sight of a mobile disco being set up in the sitting room and Dulcie sweating away in the kitchen sticking a million sausages on to sticks.
Anyway, sweating away in the kitchen wasn’t Dulcie’s forte. Eating food was more her line of country than preparing it.
Far better to let the Brunton Manor catering team take care of all that.
Better still, she wouldn’t have to clear up disgusting party debris the next day.
‘You’ll come, won’t you?’ said Dulcie when she rang Pru.
Pru hesitated. ‘What does that mean? Who are you inviting?’
‘Loads of people!’
‘I mean just me, or me and Phil?’
They hadn’t spoken since the awkward showdown at Pru’s house. Dulcie chewed her lip.
‘Whichever. Just you, if you’d prefer. Or both of you.’ Ouch, she’d chewed too hard. ‘Um ... do you want to bring Phil?’
‘He’s my husband. Of course I’d like him to be there.’ Pru sounded stilted.
‘Well, that’s fine.’
‘But only if you’re going to be nice to him. I mean it, Dulcie. No snide remarks. No digs. Not from you and not from Liza either. I couldn’t bear it. You both have to promise to behave.’
It was on the tip of Dulcie’s tongue to remark that if anyone should be promising to behave it was Phil. Heroically she kept her opinion to herself.
‘I promise.’ Heck, she felt like a schoolgirl being told off for smoking in the toilets. ‘And Liza will too. We’ll both be .. . angelic. On our very best behaviour,’ she assured Pru. ‘We’ll treat Phil like a king.’
King Rat, thought Dulcie as she put the phone down. Maybe she’d invite Rentokil along to the party. A spot of poison slipped into Phil’s drink might just do the trick.
Dulcie was wrapping up the box containing Patrick’s laser printer on the morning of the party when the phone rang. Armed to the teeth with Sellotape, she had used up at least three miles of foiled paper and six miles of curly ribbon. Cooking might not be her thing but if she said so herself, she wrapped a mean present.
Patrick knew what was inside the box, of course. Not trusting Dulcie to come back with the right one, he had gone to Computerworld and bought the printer himself.
Still, it was what he wanted and it was spectacularly wrapped. As soon as Dulcie had put the finishing touches to the sides she was going to cart it down to the club where he could open it tonight.
The phone was still ringing. Dulcie grabbed the receiver, fantasising briefly that it was one of their friends
