by Rose Amberly
But there was nothing fake about the stranger standing in front of her now.
“You look much better,” he said, smiling. “There is a little colour in your cheeks.”
His comment touched a nerve. “You mean I’m not pale and stupid anymore?”
“To be fair, it was you and not I who called yourself stupid. Remember?” He was being reasonable, which only made her seem unreasonable. She glared at him.
Quickly, he changed the subject. “I parked your car in one of the bays opposite. It’s on a meter; I put a couple of hours on. I’m afraid I’ll have to leave now to try and catch an alternative flight, but you should be okay to stay here until five-thirty. It’s free parking after that. Will you be okay alone?”
I’ve been okay for twenty-nine years, but after ten minutes, he thinks I’ll fall apart without him?
She was torn between gratitude and indignation. Men didn’t usually speak to her as if they cared.
When in doubt, cling to pride. She reached for her bag and found her wallet. “This is my driving licence and my insurance. You can pass them to your insurers. And now please tell me how much I owe you for the parking.”
“Forget it.” He shook his head.
“Absolutely not.” Stung, she pulled out a pen, looked for something to write on and found his newspaper. She started copying out her insurance details and her driving licence number in the margin.
She wasn’t pathetic. She’d never been helpless despite years of hardship, years of making ends meet on a shoestring. No one took care of her; she was the one who took care of everybody and everything. She drew in a long breath. Good, the pep talk seemed to work. Her hand was no longer shaking.
Behind her, the waitress giggled at something he was saying, but Millie concentrated on writing her information. Her insurance was going to skyrocket after this, but she would do the right thing by this stranger. No matter what it cost her, he would leave with an impression of a strong, proud, independent Millie. Yes. She took another breath and found herself steady enough to speak. She cleared her throat.
“I’m thankful you parked my car for me, but I must insist on reimbursing you—”
He wasn’t there.
She looked around, but his coat and legal folders were gone.
The waitress stood at the window, looking out. “He paid for you to stay as long as you want.”
Millie’s eyes followed where the girl was looking in time to see the man drive away in his BMW.
“What a generous man.” The waitress’ voice was dreamy. “He gave me £200 and said I was to stay open and offer you dinner and even breakfast tomorrow if you stayed that long.” She giggled again, but Millie didn’t join in with the laughter.
Of course, he had more urgent business than waiting around for her, but he hadn’t even said goodbye.
She tried to shrug it off. Lately, she’d become used to being ignored, being invisible. Nevertheless, the little confidence she’d only just gathered began to dissolve.
Millie put her pen down, and it rolled along the top of the newspaper where the date was printed. April 1st - April Fool's day. Very appropriate. She’d started the day with a husband, a job, and a home, and now, at three in the afternoon, she had nothing but a cup of tea and a stranger’s newspaper.
The job had been the first to go. Redundancy notice delivered by 10:30 in the morning. Alastair, her jumped-up supervisor, had squirmed with awkwardness as he lied to her face: not his decision, all came from head office, sorry and all that. He’d thanked her without even meeting her eyes and told her there was no need to work her notice. “Take the rest of the week off. In fact, take the rest of the day off.” He spoke like he was giving her a gift instead of taking away her livelihood.
She’d gone home and walked in to find a cliché.
A hundred films showed a wife coming home unexpectedly to find her husband in bed with another woman. Surely, the universe had more imagination.
The seductive thought brushed her mind. He needs you. Go home. He’s still your husband. You’ve known Henry all your adult life, you made too many sacrifices to just give up, you can patch it up with—
Her stomach heaved.
No.
Today, a complete stranger had pulled a chair for her, bought her tea and parked her car. Henry had never pulled a chair or held a door for her.
When was the last time Henry made her a hot drink? Never, that’s when. She’d been the one to help him, lavish love on him, and give up her dreams to help him achieve his.
Millie drew in a deep breath and blew it out slowly to ease the pain. She’d be damned if she just sat in this café, crying into her tea and drowning in self-pity. “When your ship starts to sink,” her granny used to say, “you don’t hide in your cabin crying. You swim!”
She pushed the pain away. She had more urgent things to deal with. She needed a new life and a new home.
Don’t panic. One step at a time.
First things first. A new job.
Try the newspapers, starting with this one here.
She ordered another cup of tea and turned to the Vacancies pages. Pen in hand, she circled everything that might be worth a try. She turned a page and something caught her eye.
Plain Jane Wanted
Live-in Assistant/Companion For A Retired Disabled Gentleman.
Channel Islands.
Generous Salary. Room And Board.
Suits Patient, Mature Person.
Does Not Need To Be Attractive.
Words that were written just for her.
A new job and a new home. Far away from London, Henry, and his world.
And since she was fat and ugly, so much the better.
She pulled out her mobile phone and dialled the number on the advert.
A female voice answered on the second ring.
Millie explained she was calling about the advert.
“Which advert would that be?”
Millie swallowed her embarrassment. “Um… Plain Jane Wanted.” She braced herself for a snigger.
“Oh yes, the Du Montfort position.” The agent was very professional. “Are you calling from a smartphone? Do you have FaceTime?”
This had to be their way of checking if she was indeed unattractive. Well, Miss Beige, today, you look the part.
She gave the recruitment lady her number and waited for the FaceTime call. Ten minutes later, she was having a phone interview.
The agent explained that the job was simple enough. Mr Du Montfort was elderly and wheelchair bound. He had a team of carers and nurses but needed someone to read to him, deal with minimal correspondence and phone calls. Probably three or four hours a day. The pay was very generous on top of accommodation.
“But…” The agent hesitated delicately. “Mr Du Montfort… er… well, he is a little… erm…”
What?
Finally, the recruitment agent found a roundabout way. “He’s an old gentleman and might be difficult to please. Er… He can be a little… you know, blunt, not so sensitive.”
Millie laughed for the first time that day. Nothing could be less sensitive than the words she’d endured today. No one could be harder to please than the man she was leaving behind.
If life was going to give her lemons, then she was going to make the best lemonade in the world.
TWO
Five days later, London, the Gherkin building, 8am
His fingers drummed on the edge of his desk. Why was it so hard to start teleconferences on time? If he could fly back from Brussels and arrive at his office by 8 am ready and prepared, why couldn’t a bunch of lawyers roll up at their own offices at 9 am? Here he was, watching a blank screen, waiting for them to boot up and sign in. The file in front of him had a big black label. Employment Dispute. It did nothing to improve his mood. Pendle & Thompson were the kind of big comp
any he hated to defend.
Even the computer was bored and had gone to sleep. The screen saver—no doubt chosen by Vicky, his PA—showed a series of sunset scenes and inspirational quotes. Didn’t she know by now that he detested this kind of hippie philosophy? A quote in italics rolled across the screen from right to left: Everyone you meet is fighting a battle you know nothing about. So, be kind. Always.
The memory from earlier in the week rolled across his mind’s eye. The young woman he’d left in the café. She’d clearly been fighting a battle, but he’d not been kind.
For Christ’s sake, how was he supposed to act when some silly little car came out of nowhere and crashed into the middle of his busy day?
A sudden flush of shame washed over him as he remembered his cutting words—words calculated to put the young woman in her place and leave her there. The last thing he’d expected was for her to jump out and tear him off a strip.
He’d dealt with plenty of angry women in his life, but she was different. There’d been something in her eyes, something he’d seen only once before. Long ago.
Real grief was unmistakable. Once you’d seen it, you never forgot it.
So, he had done his best and arranged everything he could think of to help her. After all, he was very good at making arrangements. What he wasn’t good at was the unpredictable, and something about her didn’t make sense.
Why would someone so clearly in need of help bridle when offered it? She had something under the layers of pain and defeat, a tiny spark. He could almost admire her if she hadn’t made him so uneasy.
A movement caught his eye. His senior PA was hovering outside the door.
“What is it, Vicky?”
She opened the glass door and walked in. “Miss Caroline Colgan is on the phone. She said it was urgent.”
His mood darkened. He knew all too well what Caroline meant when she said “urgent”.
He blew out a frustrated breath. “Thanks. Just tell her I’m not available. And Vicky?”
“Yes?” she stopped, on her way out.
“In future, if she rings again, you don’t need to ask me. Just deal with it.”
She nodded and closed the door behind her a little too carefully. Vicky was an excellent administrator, but she hated dealing with his personal life; she thought him a heartless bastard.
He rubbed a hand over his eyes. His day had started at 4 am and would not end until 8 pm, the last thing he needed was clingy exes.
The relationship with Caroline had been a brief and ill-advised holiday romance in the Alps, three years ago. Caroline, a seasonal waitress at a local ski resort, had tripped in front of him on the slope and twisted her ankle. He’d carried her, crying and shivering, all the way up to his rented chalet, wrapped her in a blanket, lit a fire and called the local paramedics. The ankle was fine in the end but she’d stayed for lunch and then an afternoon in bed with him. At the end of a fun week, they’d said goodbye amicably, or so he thought. Two weeks later, she’d turned up at his office in London desperate and homeless. He’d found her a new job, and a small studio flat, he’d even paid for the first two months until she could get on her feet. But at the end of the two months she was back on his doorstep having lost her job and fallen into debt. The tearful scene would repeat itself several time before it became clear that Caroline had no intention of keeping any job. What she wanted was a rich boyfriend to take care of her.
She wasn’t the first woman to see him as a step up, but she had definitely been the last. After Caroline, he’d vowed any girlfriend would have to be his equal, in every way. These days he only dated rich, successful women, confident socialites. He avoided, like the plague, women with problems and no prospects.
The screen blinked back to life, and the teleconference finally kicked off. He faced the webcam, schooled his features to a professional blankness and cleared his throat. “Good morning, everyone. Shall we turn to the employee’s complaint? You’ve all read the allegations of bullying in the workplace; I am sure you have plenty of comments.”
Two of the five faces on the screen dipped to flip hurriedly through the paperwork. Of course, they hadn’t read it.
He supressed a smile. “The company have buried these complaints at the very back behind the external references and spreadsheets. Always start reading from the back to find what the client doesn’t want you to see.”
He pitched his tone exactly between helpful and reprimanding. The two lazy lawyers would understand their mistake and get the message without losing face. One did not nurture professionals by humiliating them in front of their colleagues. And next time they’d be on time and better prepared.
As he proceeded with the business, a small voice at the back of his mind nagged. You didn’t even bother to ask her name—that girl in the café with a spark of courage in her sad eyes.
* * *
Same day La Canette, 4pm
Millie stood on the starboard side, hands on the railings, watching the tiny island come into view. From this distance, La Canette looked like a green-and-lavender swan. The centre was a wide and long oval with a narrow graceful neck connecting it to a small headland farther to the southwest. As the ferry from Guernsey sailed closer, the colours resolved into fields, woods and a carpet of pink-and-lilac wildflowers swaying in the breeze. Narrow paths snaked between the fields; she could see the occasional cyclist in the distance and even a few people riding horses.
Despite everything, her heart lifted. This was going to be her new home. She pulled out the printed letter of introduction the employment agency had given her.
Mrs Baxter, Housekeeper.
Du Montfort Hall.
La Canette.
As addresses went, this was pretty minimalist; she’d have to find a taxi. A vague thought tickled the back of her mind; she couldn’t quite put her finger on it, but something wasn’t right.
The feeling increased when she walked off the ferry and looked around the forecourt in front of the terminal. The other passengers quickly walked past her and disappeared down the two narrow lanes going to the right and left from the station. No taxis. This couldn’t be right; the only thing parked in front of the ferry terminal was a horse cart.
A horse cart?
She’d never seen one before unless she counted period films. This one was small with art-nouveau carved rail guards. She might have called it a carriage, except that would have been too fanciful.
She turned this way and that, but apart from a few bicycles chained to a rack by the entrance to the terminal, the forecourt was now empty. She pulled her cardigan tighter. Despite the late-afternoon sun, the breeze was quite chilly.
“Ehm, excuse me. Miss?” A middle-aged man in denim overalls climbed down from the driver’s seat behind the horse. “Yer wouldn’t be Mrs Emeline Wainwright, by any chance?”
The Mrs Wainwright sounded strange to her ears now. She didn’t want Henry’s name anymore. Tomorrow, first thing in the morning, she would write out a deed poll application for a name change.
“Yes, I am.”
“Thank goodness. I wasn’t sure which ferry yer were takin’. I’ve been waitin’ all afternoon.”
“I’m sorry, who are you?”
“Oh, beg pardon. Name’s Evans, the driver. Mrs B told me to look out f’r yer on account o’ you bein’ new to the island and not knowin’ yer way. I can take yer to the Hall. This yer bag, Mrs Wainwright?”
“Please call me Millie.”
“Righty ho.” He picked up her small suitcase and placed it in the cart next to a leather upholstered seat. He offered her a hand to help her up.
“Are we going in this? Don’t the Du Montforts own a car?” The impression she’d been given of her employer was a man not short of money.
“I dare say,” Evans told her as he climbed into his seat and flicked the reins. The horse moved, and she instinctively hel
d on to the guard rails. But there was no need; Evans set a gentle pace.
“But they’d be on the mainland, not here,” Evans said. “Never had cars on the island. Not allowed.”
Of course. That was the nagging feeling. When she’d watched the island from the sea, she’d seen no traffic. Cyclists and pedestrians, yes, but no cars. “Why not?”
“Always been the law, far back as anyone knows. No cars and no street lightin’ at night. But that’s more recent. We ’ad tanks durin’ the war when La Canette was invaded by the Germans, but not since. The senior can tell yer, he’s bound t’ know.”
“Who? Senior what?”
“Aren’t yer workin’ f’r him?”
“Mr Du Montfort?”
“He’s our senior, dint they tell yer?”
“No.” But she still didn’t understand. Evans’ accent was unusual, like a West Country burr but elongated. “What do you mean, ‘senior’? How old is he?”
Evans laughed. “Our senior, he’s been senior since he was a young man when his cousin, the old senior, died.”
“Do you mean ‘seigneur’?”
“What I said.”
“You mean he rules the island?”
“Rules ’n owns most of it. The Du Montforts been seigneurs f’r three hundred years. We answer to the Queen, o’course, but she don’t interfere with our affairs here on La Canette. Princess Margaret used to visit in the seventies when she was young.”
Millie sat back, stunned. A feudal system? In Britain? In the twenty-first century?
She watched the pretty fields roll past. Farms and cottages dotted the scenery; little stone bridges arched over streams that sparkled in the late-afternoon sun. The wheels of the carriage crunched on the clay and gravel lane; the horse snorted, and a dog barked in the distance, then was silent. How surreal. Had she fallen into a Charlotte Brontë novel?
“Be a lot busier in the summer when the tourists come.” Evans said, as if to dispel the magic. He pulled the reins. “Dee-aah! Easy, boy!” The horse cart slowed and turned a sharp left under a tall stone archway.
