The pattern was always the same. And although she was ashamed to admit it, even to herself, while she hated the binges, Pru actually enjoyed the recovery periods after them. They made her feel wanted and secure.
‘He humiliated you in front of everyone,’ Liza protested, but with less force than last time. She knew when she was wasting her breath.
‘My marriage is worth fighting for. Phil didn’t mean those things he said last night. He won’t even remember saying them.’
‘You’re mad,’ Dulcie said flatly.
Pru looked at her.
‘Are you really going to leave Patrick?’
‘Too right I am.’ Dulcie thought for a moment. She had stalked out of the party, hadn’t she? She wasn’t at home, she was here. ‘I already have.’
Pru stood up, looking waif-like in one of Liza’s oversized white T-shirts, but utterly determined.
‘In that case,’ she told Dulcie, ‘you’re the one who’s mad.’
Chapter 9
Dulcie was in no hurry to get home. Sod Patrick, let him stew a bit longer, let the sanctimonious bastard wonder where she was.
But her conscience was pricking her on another matter. Okay, the other matter. Not that it had really been her fault. Her intentions had been good.
Still, Dulcie knew she would feel a lot better if she could solve at least one of the ticklish problems last night’s party had thrown up.
She phoned James on his mobile.
‘James, hi, it’s me! Where are you?’
He didn’t seem thrilled to hear from her. Somehow she could tell.
‘Is that your idea of being subtle, Dulcie? If you mean am I at home tucked up in bed with Bibi, then no, I am not. I’m at the Berkeley Hotel.’
Lord, he sounded positively grim. Dulcie pulled a face and did a thumbs-down at Liza, who was getting ready to go out. Wasting no time as usual, she was meeting last night’s banker for lunch.
‘Right, okay, stay where you are.’ Dulcie decided she wouldn’t waste time either. She would be bold and assertive. She was going to force James to see sense if she had to hammer it into his head with one of her high heels..
‘Dulcie—’
‘Don’t move, I’m on my way,’ she said very firmly indeed. ‘I’ll meet you in the lobby in twenty minutes.’
* * *
Dulcie found herself on the receiving end of some pretty dubious attention when she made her way through reception at the Berkeley. There was no sign of James so she settled herself on a sofa by one of the long windows. Within the space of five minutes she was asked by a porter, a snooty receptionist and the manager if they could help her in any way, madam.
‘I’m meeting someone,’ Dulcie told the manager pleasantly. ‘I’m not on the game. The reason I’m wearing this dress is because I left my husband last night, rather unexpectedly, and I didn’t happen to have a change of clothes with me, okay? I stayed with a friend who’s a good six sizes bigger than me and if you think I’d wear something the size of a circus tent just to keep your geriatric guests happy ... well, you couldn’t be more wrong.’
James appeared behind the manager.
‘Troublemaking again, Dulcie?’
He looked awful, as if he hadn’t slept for a week. The manager, glaring at Dulcie, muttered some insincere apology for an apology and melted away.
Dulcie glared after him. ‘I’m not a troublemaker. He’s a pompous git.’
‘Well, at least try and pull your skirt down. Everyone can see your knickers.’
‘Do them a power of good.’ Dulcie looked truculent. ‘At least I’m wearing some.’
Ignoring this, James waited until she’d managed to cover up at least a couple more inches of thigh. The black velvet dress certainly had its work cut out. He ordered coffee from a waitress and lit a cigarette.
‘Can I have one?’ In times of stress Dulcie always liked to smoke; it made her feel like Bette Davis. Pre-1950, of course. Before those lines and wrinkles had set in.
‘No. Why are you here, Dulcie?’
‘To make you see sense.’
He didn’t smile.
‘I’m forty-five. Bibi is sixty. For God’s sake, how sensible does that sound to you?’
Deja vu loomed. Dulcie prayed she could come up with something original, some dazzling new tack she hadn’t already tried.
‘Yes, but she doesn’t look sixty, she doesn’t sound sixty, she doesn’t act sixty!’
Was it her imagination or was James wincing every time she uttered the s-word?
He sounded irritated. ‘Obviously she doesn’t, otherwise she would never have got away with it for as long as she did.’
