‘Why did ‘I jump into the fountain?’ Uh oh, doing the parrot thing again. ‘Well, to prove I wasn’t boring. I mean, how many frozen fountains do you suppose Claire’s had a close encounter with in the last twenty years?’
Patrick ignored this. He undid the top button on his white shirt.
‘But why,’ he said slowly, ‘did you need to prove it?’ Dulcie took a deep breath.
‘Because leaving you was the stupidest thing I ever did in my life. Because ‘I miss you terribly.
Because I still love you,’ she went on, her voice suddenly developing a bit of a wobble. ‘I love you and I wish we’d never split up.’
She flinched as Patrick stood up. He had his back to her now, his body half obscured by the swirling clouds of steam, his dark head slightly bent. He was engrossed in yet another wall, it appeared. This time a pine-panelled one.
‘How long have you felt like this?’ he said finally, still turned away from her.
‘Months.’ Struggling to be honest, Dulcie thought back. ‘Five, six months, I suppose. ‘I tried not to,’ she added resignedly, ‘but it just kept getting worse.’
She saw Patrick shaking his head. Then he turned.
‘So why didn’t you do anything about it? Why didn’t you tell me?’ He spoke quietly. ‘Dulcie, it’s not like you to keep your feelings to yourself. If you want something, you don’t normally stop until you get it.’
Dulcie was beginning to feel at a horrible disadvantage. She’d told him everything, blurted out the lot, and bloody Patrick had ignored it. She’d done the whole humiliating Istill-love-you bit, and here he was, playing twenty sodding questions.
And it wasn’t easy to know for sure, what with all the steam swirling around, getting denser by the second, but he didn’t actually look that happy about it.
‘Come on,’ Patrick said irritably when Dulcie didn’t reply, ‘you didn’t say a word. Why not?’
She glared back at him.
‘It was all Claire’s fault! If she’d been a cow ‘I could have done it ... she wouldn’t have known what had hit her.’ Dulcie bit her lip and thought how much fun it had always been, sparring with Imelda. ‘You see, you can bitch about a bitch,’ she went on, struggling to explain, ‘but you can’t fight someone who makes Mother Theresa look like Cruella de Vil. Anyway,’ she sighed heavily, ‘everyone kept saying how terrific the two of you were together, how good she was for you. ‘I felt like thebad fairy — I half expected everyone to start hissing and booing whenever ‘I walked into a room. And you were so happy and settled with Claire ... ‘I suppose I just thought you didn’t deserve the hassle. ‘I felt like I’d done enough damage,’ she concluded with a look of resignation. ‘From now on, the least ‘I could do was keep out of your way.’
For a long moment Patrick didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He gazed at Dulcie — in her peacock-blue bra and knickers and with her spiky dark hair still dripping wet from the fountain
— and marvelled at her logic. It simply hadn’t occurred to her that he might have welcomed the hassle ... that hassle from his beautiful, wilful, impulsive estranged wife was what he might have been longing for more than anything else, ever since the day she had walked out of his life.
‘You’ve changed,’ he said at last.
Dulcie hung her head, unsure whether this was good or bad. ‘I know.’
A furious hammering on the door made them both jump. ‘Dulcie! Dulcie, is that you in there?
For heaven’s sake, what are you up to? What’s going on?’
It was Imelda’s voice. Tempted though Dulcie was to say nothing, she knew Imelda would only persuade Eddie to unearth the master key.
‘Nothing,’ she called back. ‘Just ... felt like a bit of peace and quiet, that’s all. Somewhere to sit down ... on my own ...’
‘Ahem,’ Imelda coughed, ‘I’ve got your dress here.’
‘Oh.’
‘Someone found it outside, at the top of the steps.’
‘Ah.’
‘Kind of the nineties version of Cinderella’s slipper,’ Imelda remarked archly.
‘Mm.’
‘And someone else saw you being carried into the sauna.’
‘Did they?’
‘Quite masterfully, by all accounts.’
‘Really.’
‘So tell me who you’re with,’ shrieked Imelda, ‘and what you’re doing in there!’
‘Oh be serious, what do you think we’re doing in here?’
‘But ... but who with?’
‘Haven’t the foggiest,’ shouted Dulcie, ‘he won’t tell me his name.’
They heard Imelda’s footsteps go click-clacking off down the corridor. Patrick frowned, trying to place her voice. It had definitely sounded familiar.
‘Is she blonde?’ he asked Dulcie.
