Perking up considerably at this news, particularly cheered by the prospect of a little gentle ogling, Dulcie had agreed to go along and check it out.
Brunton Manor had proved a revelation. It was, quite simply, one of the most glamorous country clubs in England.
The old manor house itself, two hundred years old and built of honey-coloured Bath stone, was gloriously situated on the side of a hill with unrivalled views over the Langley Stoke Valley. The estate surrounding the house comprised ninety-three acres of wooded and landscaped gardens.
The sporting facilities were, of course, superb.
The club prided itself on its decidedly upmarket image, and astronomical membership fees ensured it stayed that way. People liked to boast – in passing – that they belonged to Brunton; it was on a par with casually flashing a platinum Amex. If having to pay next year’s fees was likely to keep you awake at night, Brunton wasn’t the place for you. You went somewhere less exclusive instead.
Dulcie had fallen in love with the club at first sight. Brunton Manor was her idea of heaven.
You really didn’t have to be energetic at all.There was an endless supply of gin, as promised.
There was a sun-drenched terrace overlooking the glittering turquoise outdoor pool and – as Liza had also promised – plenty to ogle.
There was a terrific restaurant, a cinema, sunbeds, saunas and a beauty salon. There were evening discos, impromptu parties and barbecues around the pool. It was the easiest place in the world in which to while away all those surplus hours. You could watch other members puffing and sweating their way through step classes or launching themselves around the squash courts.
You could jeer – quietly – at the Wimbledon wannabes playing hopeless tennis. You could admire the miraculous tanned legs of the tennis coaches. You could laze in the sun drinking Pimm’s and pretending to read a book.
Perhaps best of all – and Dulcie felt in this respect it had all the comradeship of an AA meeting, not of course that she had ever been to one – you could moan freely with the other wealthy, bored housewives about your workaholic husband and know they knew exactly what you meant.
As far as Dulcie was concerned, Brunton Manor was the answer to all her prayers. Miraculously, and certainly unintentionally, it had even turned out to be economical, since every day spent lazing by the pool in a bikini was a day not spent shopping in Bath.
The phone rang. Since Patrick was in his study working – well, it was New Year’s Day, a Bank Holiday, what else would you expect? – Dulcie picked it up.
‘It’s me,’ said Liza.
‘Oh well, I’m not speaking to you. That garlic totally wrecked my chances last night. Even Luigi in the wine bar pretended he couldn’t come near me because he’d got flu—’
‘Never mind your snogathon. I had lunch today at the Songbird and guess who was there?’
‘Cliff Richard and Angela Rippon. They were holding hands. No, wait, they were canoodling.
Don’t you love that word?’ Dulcie sighed. ‘Canoodle-oodle-oodling—’
‘Sometimes I wonder about you,’ said Liza.
‘You started it. Go on then, so who was he with if it wasn’t Angela Rippon?’
‘Phil was there. With another woman. In a rubber skirt.’
‘You mean—?’
Liza said firmly, ‘She was the one wearing the skirt. And it isn’t funny. She was awful.’
‘Oh,’ said Dulcie. ‘Were they... um ... canoodling?’
‘Big time.’
‘Oh fuck.’
Dulcie decided there must have been some kind of a mix-up, a typographical error, when God or whoever organised life had been organising Pru’s. She was supposed to have been given a loving husband. Instead she’d been landed with a roving one.
Poor Pru, it wasn’t what she deserved.
‘Did he see you?’
‘No.’
‘So what happens now?’
‘We’re going to tell her.’
When the phone had rung Dulcie had been draped across the sofa watching a trashy New Year’s Day-type film. Now, glancing across at the television, she saw the tear-stained heroine covering her face with her hands and sobbing: ‘But I love him, I love him! Please don’t do this to me ... I love him...’
Dulcie thought uncomfortably that nobody loved anyone more than Pru loved Phil.
‘It’ll kill her.’
‘She should know. It’s only fair. Dulcie, we have to tell her.’ Liza wasn’t a fan of dishonesty.
‘Okay, you do it. If you really have to:’
‘We’ll do it,’ Liza corrected her briskly. ‘Together.’
Pru and Phil Kasteliz lived in a modern detached house on the outskirts of Bath, on one of those exclusive keeping-up-with the-Joneses type of estates bristling with carriage lamps and bay trees.
Anyone whose car was more than two years old was regarded with suspicion. If your curtains weren’t swagged and tailed and your windows not cleaned every week you were riffraff. If the grass on your front lawn exceeded an
