‘You were there on holiday with your friends. I was staying in the cottage next to yours.’
Light dawned.
‘You’re kidding me!’ Liam pointed at her in amazement. ‘You were the skinny little kid ... oh, what was your surname, something totally weird ...?’
‘Fackrell,’ said Dulcie. God, it was a wonder she hadn’t developed a massive complex about that name. One sniggering clique at school had called her Fuckall Fackrell. Everyone else had called her Mackerel.
Marrying Patrick had been no hardship at all.
‘I’m Dulcie Ross now.’
‘We used to send you into the nettles to fetch our lost tennis balls,’ Liam recalled. ‘Your arms and legs were covered in stings but you swore they didn’t hurt. And on the night before you left, the other lads bet me a fiver I wouldn’t kiss you.’
Eddie roared with laughter. Dulcie tried hard to look as if she couldn’t remember this bit.
‘And did you?’ said Eddie.
‘Damn right I did. We’re talking sixteen years ago. In those days a fiver was a lot of money.’
Rather beginning to regret this trip down memory lane, Dulcie decided a detour was in order.
She said brightly, ‘And now here we are, all these years later. How are you settling—?’
‘Hang on, didn’t you write me a truckload of letters?’ Looking delighted, Liam nodded his head.
‘It’s all coming back to me now. I think you had a bit of a crush on me, Dulcie Fackrell. Is that so?’
This was mortifying stuff, but what could she do, throw a tantrum? Mentally gritting her teeth, Dulcie gave in with good grace.
‘Of course I did. I slaved over those letters,’ she protested. ‘I suppose you laughed your head off and showed them to all your friends, you heartless beast.’
‘Well, maybe. It was kind of funny at the time.’ Liam’s grin was apologetic. ‘I mean, you weren’t exactly Debbie Harry, were you?’
This was true, but Dulcie still wished he’d stop harping on about it.
‘I was fifteen years old.’
‘Little Dulcie Fackrell.’
‘Ross now,’ she reminded him. Then, in case he got the wrong idea, ‘I was married, but we’ve been separated for some time.’ It was Eddie Hammond’s turn to look amazed.
‘Some time?’ He raised his sandy eyebrows. ‘Darling, it’s only been a couple of months!’
Cheers, Eddie.
‘Ten weeks,’ said Dulcie. ‘Anyway, the marriage was over long before that. You know when things aren’t right.’
‘Hey, I hope you weren’t upset when I never wrote back,’ said Liam.
‘I can’t remember.’ Dulcie attempted the Liza Lawson smoulder. For good measure, she quivered a provocative lower lip. ‘But if I was, I forgive you.’
He grinned. ‘What a relief.’
‘We’ve both grown up since then.’
‘Well, you certainly have.’
The look he gave her this time was frankly appreciative. Hooray, thought Dulcie, getting somewhere at last. She hoped Imelda was watching and taking note.
‘Right,’ said Eddie Hammond, rubbing his hands together in that’s-enough-of-that fashion,
‘we’d better be moving on. Still plenty of people waiting to be introduced. Maybe catch you later, sweetheart.’
‘There is that small chance.’ Dulcie nodded vaguely. As ifa wagonload of wild horses stood a chance of dragging her out of the bar tonight.
‘See you around.’ Liam winked as he turned to leave.
‘If I do bump into you later,’ she casually called after him, ‘I’ll buy you a drink.’
‘This is going to be awful.’ Patrick spoke through gritted teeth as he and Bibi made their way up the crimson-carpeted staircase of the Aston Hotel, where the dinner dance was being held. They were supposed to be meeting their dates in the Kavanagh Bar, directly ahead of them. The place was heaving already. Patrick flinched as a girl with yellow teeth and popping-out eyes turned and beamed expectantly at him. Oh please God, don’t let that be her .. .
‘There they are,’ exclaimed Bibi, veering to the left and waving.
Patrick could hardly bear to look. He felt sick, and hopelessly unprepared. He glimpsed a flash of turquoise satin, a skinny girl plastered in more make-up than a Come Dancing contestant.
‘Not her.’ Observing the expression of undiluted horror on his face, Bibi pointed past the vision in turquoise. ‘The one in the red.’
Having performed the necessary introductions, Leo Berenger bore Bibi off to the bar, ostensibly to help him with the drinks but in reality to give Patrick and his daughter a few uninterrupted minutes together.
‘Look, I’m really sorry about this,’ sighed Claire Berenger as soon as they were alone. ‘I don’t know how much pressure you were put under to come here tonight, but I can guess. I’m thirty years old and my father’s beginning
