Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  Plain Jane Wanted

  By

  Rose Amberly

  Copyright © 2020 by Rose Amberly

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Dedication

  To H who is not afraid to dream or to work hard for her dreams. It’s your gentle strength, easy laughter and beautiful loving heart that inspired much of this story.

  Disclaimer

  For non-UK readers:

  To remain faithful to the author’s voice, all spelling, grammar and punctuation follow British English rules. This is also used in word choices and expressions, so lift instead of elevator, vest instead of tank-top, trousers instead of pants and so on.

  Contents

  Spring

  One

  TWO

  THREE

  Four

  Five

  Summer

  Six

  Seven

  EIGHT

  NINE

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  Autumn

  NINETEEN

  Spring

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  Summer

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  Acknowledgements

  About the Author

  “You cannot blame gravity for falling in love.”

  ~ Albert Einstein

  Spring

  One

  April 1st London Bridge, 2pm

  You are fat and ugly, and you have terrible skin. Look into the mirror, Millie, and face the truth about yourself. Beige face, beige hair – even beige underwear.

  Millie changed down into first gear and tried to find a way out of the snarled-up traffic while she struggled to understand what could have made Henry speak to her this way. What changed the loving Henry who’d been her school sweetheart, the boy with eyes only for her. The man who’d held her in his arms on their wedding night and whispered, “I’m the luckiest man in the world. How did I get a beauty like you? Promise you’ll love me forever, please, please promise.”

  She’d promised, of course. Although at nineteen, neither of them could have guessed how short ‘forever’ would turn out to be. Nine years, ten months and eleven days.

  What had gone wrong?

  The taxi in front of her turned left and she followed, her little Nissan Micra slotted quickly between the taxi and the red double-decker bus; then she cursed under her breath. She was now in the one-way system going over London Bridge towards a maze of streets in the heart of the city. She craned her neck out of the window trying to see ahead but her view was blocked. Wonderful. Just perfect. She was stuck on the wrong road going somewhere she didn’t know with no way to turn back.

  Which pretty much summed up her life.

  It wasn’t supposed to be like that. She should have been graduating with a degree in horticulture and starting a business creating beautiful gardens. She’d dreamed up exquisite designs for the Chelsea Flower Show. Why had she stopped dreaming?

  They’d promised to take it in turns, she and Henry. One would study while the other worked and paid the bills. He’d argued that once he became a corporate lawyer he’d earn so much more and be able to support her. So, she had let him go first and she’d put her plans on hold. Law school was expensive, and even after he qualified, all his earnings had to go on the astronomical rent for swish offices in central London because, he’d argued, a man had to look successful to attract good clients. No one was going to hire him from a cheap back room in south Tooting.

  She looked down at her clothes. The skirt was six years old, and it showed. Her blouse might have been new – well, newish – but it looked like a reject from the £1.99 pile.

  In her defence, no one earned much by sitting in a phone cubicle in a basement saying “Hello, customer service, how can I help you?” a hundred times a day. So, she’d worked double shifts and weekends, she’d worked through lunch and supper, sitting on hard chairs eating soft biscuits and never going out in the sun. It was her complexion that paid for Henry’s shiny BMW, her expanding hips that answered for his expensive suits and his golf club membership.

  How could he call her beige and ugly? Did he mean it or was he just feeling cornered and defensive. And being caught in bed with another woman would make any man feel cornered and defensive.

  Obviously, it was her fault that she found him wrapped around a Portuguese lingerie model. According to Henry, she’d driven him to it because, “Millie you have no idea the pressure. I need to look like a successful lawyer.”

  And it seems, looking like successful lawyer meant having a woman on his arm. “It’s expected I have to attend business functions and I can’t attend alone like a loser. You have to have a date for these events.”

  Millie had pointed out that she would have gone with him if only he’d asked.

  “You?” Henry had exploded. “Imagine me turning up to a swanky club with frumpy-dumpy Miss Beige on my arm.”

  She had stood there while he shouted, and she’d tried to understand what had happened to change her husband into a cruel man, what was happening to her marriage.

  They must have stopped arguing eventually because she was now in her old Nissan Micra, an hour away from home, and what she really, really, wanted, more than anything, was to rest her head on the steering-wheel and cry like a little girl. Which she planned to do, very soon. As soon as she got somewhere quiet.

  The driver in the car behind her blew his horn impatiently. The traffic was finally moving. As soon as she could, she turned off the busy road. She huffed out a breath, shifted up to third gear overtaking a black taxi, and continued towards the quieter back streets.

  She looked in the rear-view mirror. Was her face really beige?

  No, it was grey.

  She was only twenty-nine; she shouldn’t look this bad.

  Before she could even think about saving her marriage, she needed to save her face.

  She rubbed her cheeks with her free hand to get some colour into them, combed her hair with her fingers and looked in the mirror.

  Metal crunched.

  Her foot slammed the brakes.

  A tall, suited man leapt two yards out of her way.

  She’d taken another corner too fast and too wide. A midnight-blue BMW to her right, shiny, sleek and beautiful, showed an ugly white stripe down the side where the corner of her old Micra had scraped it. A parked car. Could things get any worse today?

  Had the man moved a fraction of a second slower, she’d have hit him, too.

  He stared at her in disbelief. He seemed unharmed but furious. “What’s the matter with you?” he barked. “It’s a one-way street. Can’t you read road markings?” He pointed at the double-hatch line across the entrance to the street behind her.

  Cold washed through her. She stared at him, frozen.

  “Didn’t you see the No Entry sign?” He walked between both cars to her side. “Too busy checking your lipstick in the mirror?” His immaculate hair had come awry when he leapt out of the way; one black lock had fallen over his brow.

  She closed her eyes on a mental image of t
his tall, well-dressed man lying on the ground, his shiny black hair fanning across a blood-splattered face—police placing her in handcuffs, Henry shouting that she was going to jail, his mistress moving into their home with bags of expensive lingerie.

  “Wake up!” the stranger snapped. “What’s wrong with you?” He leaned into her window. Millie shrank back into her seat as he reached past her and pulled her handbrake up, then switched off the ignition.

  He was holding a newspaper folded around some files embossed with a familiar gold logo, SRA. Solicitors Regulation Authority. So, another lawyer.

  Of course.

  She should have known. Designer charcoal suit and crisp white shirt not to mention a bronzed face that belonged in an aftershave commercial.

  A hideous man; she hated him on sight.

  He turned away to inspect the damage to the BMW.

  So, it was his car. Wonderful. A BMW 650i, a distant part of her mind registered. A model Henry had craved but couldn’t afford. For the best part of last year, BMW catalogues had littered their house, all folded open to show the 650i.

  The accident was her fault, no question about it. She should apologise. Swallowing her anxiety, she stammered, “I can’t tell you how sorry I am, really—”

  “Not half as sorry as I am.” He traced long, tanned fingers along the dent in his door.

  Millie wanted to get out of the car to deal with things, but he was blocking her in.

  “Is there anything I can do?” she asked.

  “Do?” He didn’t bother looking at her. “You can call the airport and see if they’ll hold the plane for me. Since you seem so very capable.”

  Flight? Going somewhere sunny and expensive, no doubt, to work on that tan. He looked like the kind of man Henry wanted to be. Elegant. Rich. Uber-confident. And utterly selfish. This one, richer and handsomer, probably towed a longer string of women from golf course to cocktail party to hotel suite. Did he, too, have a neglected wife at home who washed her hair with cheap shampoo and bought her clothes in clearance sales? Did he talk to his wife without looking at her, the way he talked to Millie now? He didn’t even notice that he was blocking her in, that she couldn’t open her door.

  “Look, I know it was stupid of me to go so fast—”

  Still not looking at her, he said, “No, it’s not your fault.” He rose to his full height and finally looked down at her, grey eyes flicking up and down. “You’re not the stupid one. It’s the moron who gave you a driving licence.” He turned and walked away, as if she and her apologies were worthless.

  Which was more than enough.

  Before she knew what she was doing, she was out of her car and catching up to him.

  “Oh, you’re so perfect!” She threw the words at him. “Just because you’re a powerful rich man, is that it? Well, I have news for you, Mr BMW Corporate Lawyer, you know what? Expensive cars and Armani suits don’t give you the right to ridicule somebody else.” Her words gushed, leaving her no space to draw breath. “I might not play golf or wash my hands with French Champagne, but I am a human being. I work sixty hours a week, I pay my bills and I have never, never, never spoken an unkind word to anyone.”

  She swallowed around the pain rising in her throat. “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life. I don’t cheat or sleep around. And I have never—” Her voice splintered. “I have never ever, in my life, made anyone feel worthless because they were poor and unloved”—she fought back a sob—“and beige…”

  She wanted to say much more. She wanted to shriek and shout everything she hadn’t told her husband, but her voice wouldn’t come out. She’d wanted a chance to cry, all day, but not now, not in front of this arrogant man. She wouldn’t be another woman crying in the street for him to laugh about with his friends.

  She screwed her eyes shut tight and crossed her arms over her chest to hold back the volcano of rage and pain.

  A moment later, she felt an arm wrap around her waist; a surprisingly gentle hand on her elbow slowly urged her to move. She took a couple of steps, then stopped despite the pressure of his arm on her back. She opened her eyes and looked up into his face and found him watching her.

  “I think it’s best not to stay in the middle of the road,” he said quietly, close to her ear. “We’re beginning to attract attention.”

  She looked over his shoulder. Indeed, another car was trying to circle round her Micra, which she had left diagonally across both lanes with the door open. They were on a small side road, somewhere east of St Paul’s Cathedral, she guessed. Smack in the middle of the financial district. Her car looked like a scullery maid sitting at a lord’s banquet.

  The stranger’s grey eyes followed her glance, then looked back at her. “Don’t worry about the car. Come.”

  Where?

  “It’s all right,” he said. “You can continue shouting at me in a minute, I promise.”

  She didn’t trust herself to speak. The only thing she could do was get out of the street. His body, solid behind her, steered her towards the pavement, and this time the pressure of his arm on her back and his hand still under her elbow didn’t allow argument.

  * * *

  The Pavement Cafe

  Millie nearly missed the step. She wasn’t used to being helped to walk. Perhaps he could feel her shaking because his arm tightened, pressing her to him to support her.

  “A small step up, here.” He urged her through the entrance.

  The sign on the door read: CAFÉ OPEN 8AM TILL 3PM. It was a small café, two small tables and a kitchen section with a coffee machine and a sandwich grill behind a glass counter. Places like this sold sandwiches and lunchtime snacks to office workers. A waitress was just turning the sign from OPEN to CLOSED, but a look from the man at Millie’s side was enough to ensure they were allowed in without argument.

  He walked her to a table. “Here.” He pulled a chair for her; his hand moved from her waist to the small of her back as he guided her. “This looks comfortable enough.” His voice was soft and warm.

  She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had pulled a chair for her. Certainly not her husband. Maybe he offered chairs for the “sophisticated women” he romanced. Beige women, like her, had to get their own chairs. Unless they broke down in the middle of the road. So, she wasn’t just “ugly,” “fat,” and “beige,” but now stupid and hysterical. A shudder went through her.

  “Are you cold?” He was still here, placing his newspaper down on the table. He took off his coat and, crouching down, placed it around her shoulders, and immediately, warmth enveloped her.

  She concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Calm down.

  “You’ve had a bit of a shock. You’ll be all right in a minute.” He spoke close to her ear, as if reading her mind. Over his shoulder, he called to the waitress, “Tea. Strong, sweet. Quickly, please.” Then turning back to Millie, he said more softly, “I’ll just be a minute.”

  Before she could answer, he was already up and walking out of the café.

  Millie sat for a moment, letting herself feel the warmth from his coat flow into her. Slowly, the shaking subsided, and she leaned back, letting the expensive wool, the warm luxurious smell… what was it? A faint masculine scent, warm, woody…

  Wonderful.

  Just wonderful. She was in some unknown café, wearing a stranger’s coat and losing her mind over his cologne—was it cologne? No, maybe his own scent? Too faint to tell for sure and yet so heady she couldn’t—

  Stop it!

  She sat up straight. This was the man who just laughed at her and called her a moron. More to the point, he was the rich man whose expensive car she now had to pay to repair, and whose expensive coat was wrapped around her, filling her senses with its warm, comforting weight and heady, manly cologne, a man who was—

  “Your husband?” the waitress asked, placing the tea down on the table with a cli
nk of cup on saucer.

  “Excuse me?” Millie asked.

  “Is he your husband? Only I wasn’t sure because he’s not wearing a wedding ring.”

  Did anyone still do that, check a man’s fourth finger? This waitress had to be a much nicer woman than the one in bed with Henry this morning. “No,” Millie answered as kindly as she could. “He’s not my husband.”

  Relief and pleasure washed across the waitress’s face.

  Millie looked away. Time to take control of her senses. Removing the coat from her shoulders, she placed it on the back of another chair. Curiously cold without it, she wrapped her hands around the mug of hot tea and took a grateful sip. “Mmm. Lovely.” She thanked the waitress, but the girl didn’t answer.

  Millie looked up and found her gazing through the window, attention riveted on the man walking back towards the café. She was already smiling as he came in. “What will you be having?”

  “Nothing for me, thank you.” He walked towards Millie, apparently oblivious to the disappointment on the waitress’s face.

  So, he was used to women falling at his feet. It was so easy for rich playboys who thought they were God’s gift.

  “There you go,” he said, placing her handbag and car keys on the table in front of her.

  She noticed his long hands, his slim wrist watch, a Habring Doppel. The understated elegance didn’t fool her. She knew how much it cost because Henry had talked for a year about wanting a Habring watch. He’d dropped hint after hint close to his birthday. And although she’d wanted to get it for him, £8,000 was so completely out of her reach as to be laughable.

  Still, Henry had grumbled that all successful lawyers had luxury timepieces. That’s what he called them, not watches but timepieces! Joking, she had asked if they actually made time. Bad joke. Henry had shouted, then sulked all through the birthday dinner she had prepared for him. He’d gone on sulking for a week until, in desperation, she’d found an imitation on eBay for £200, and Henry had been mollified.