Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  Well, she had never turned away from a challenge. Next time—and something told her there would be a next time—she would do the ordering herself, in French.

  Crunching on the apple, she pulled out her phone and went to her iTunes library for Lesson 2. She put her earphones in and listened. The course was brilliant, showing the learner how to find similarities between English and French and how to convert words correctly. Within three lessons, she could have 12,000 words and sentences.

  It wasn’t difficult, but the French had an annoying habit of running all their words together. She mouthed the sounds to herself as she watched a boat on the pier; what she needed was someone to correct her accent and help her conversation. Joanie would be ideal, but Millie hadn’t found a chance to ask her. Maybe now, before Du Montfort needs me again.

  Millie gathered her things and walked up to the house.

  And into a storm.

  * * *

  Du Montfort Hall. 5pm

  Du Montfort’s voice from his usual sitting room upstairs was loud enough to rattle the windows. Other voices argued back, muffled through the ceiling. Her heart fell. What now?

  Suddenly, there was a crash from above, and she raced up the stairs.

  Nurse Ann was standing just through the double doors of Du Montfort’s room. She closed her eyes as Millie rushed down the gallery towards her. “God help us.”

  “What’s happened?” Millie asked.

  Nurse Ann looked grim as she mouthed one word. “Joanie.”

  “Oh no.” Millie put her face in her hands. Joanie had the least tolerance for the old man, which was why everyone kept the two away from each other.

  Pushing past Nurse Ann into the room, the first thing she saw was Mrs B wiping some unrecognizable food stuff from the floor. A sausage lay on one of the shelves and dripped gravy on the rug. A closer look showed a splash of gravy across the bookshelves at the far end of the room. For a disabled man, Du Montfort’s one good arm could certainly throw far.

  The man himself was halfway through one of his tirades. “If you’re not going to learn English cooking, you should go back to that French colony and dance barefoot in the souk.”

  Joanie, tears streaming down her face, shouted back, “I would be happy just to get away from a racist tyrant like you.”

  “There you are!” Du Montfort saw Millie coming in. “Could you teach this Algerian bint the difference between toad-in-the-hole and African gumbo?”

  “Gumbo is Cajun, not African,” Joanie snapped back. “You should go back to the coal mines in Lancashire. I am sure you can find someone to fry stale bread in lard for you. They can serve you cholesterol on a plate for all I care.”

  Du Montfort ignored her. “Millie, please ask that controlling interfering son of mine to fire her and get me a proper cook?”

  “I will save you the trouble.” Joanie turned on her heals and stormed out, “I resign.”

  “Good riddance to bad rubbish,” he threw the words after her.

  “What the hell is going on here?” George walked into the room just as Joanie tore the door open on her way out. “I could hear you shouting all the way from the drive,” George told his father.

  As if by magic, Mrs B and Nurse Ann melted out of the room.

  Millie and George looked at each other, then turned to the old man.

  “Get out,” Du Montfort barked. He hadn’t dismissed her like this for a long time. It was a reminder of the early days when he used to tell her to “get out” three times a day.

  She was near the door, so she turned to go.

  “Not you, you ninny. You stay. You can go.” He glared at his son. “Millie, you’re a proper English girl, you must know toad-in-the-hole.”

  “Yes,” said Millie, then kept her mouth shut. When her boss was in one of his tempers, she relied on her granny’s advice: Least said, soonest mended.

  George didn’t seem to have that particular wisdom. “Is this explosion really about supper?” he asked her. “Is my father goin—”

  “Don’t talk about me as though I weren’t in the room. You’ll have plenty of opportunity to do that after I’m dead.”

  Both men glared at each other.

  Just then, a hand shot through the double doors, grasped Millie’s arm and pulled her out. She stumbled out into the gallery, and Nurse Ann caught her. Putting her finger to her lips, she led Millie downstairs to the half landing, where Mrs B was waiting.

  Millie looked up, frowning. “He was talking to me.”

  “Not anymore,” Ann said. “He’s talking to his son now. Best keep out of the way. Remember what happened last time?”

  “Let’s go and find Joanie before she packs her bags,” Mrs B said. A deep frown troubled her usually kind face. They all hurried down to the ground floor.

  * * *

  Kitchen

  Joanie, when they found her, was in the kitchen, emptying food into the rubbish bin and throwing the pot into the sink. There were still tears in her eyes, but if the ferocity of her pot cleaning was anything to go by, they were tears of rage, not sadness.

  “Joanie, sweetheart, he doesn’t really mean it,” Millie said. “Come and sit down, and let’s have some tea.”

  Mrs B took the dirty saucepan from Joanie and pushed her towards the table as Millie put the kettle on and found cups and teapot.

  “I’m not sorry,” said Joanie. “I wanted to leave anyway.”

  “Now, now,” Mrs B tried to calm her down. “Nobody wants you to leave, it’s just a storm in a tea cup. Soon blow over.”

  But Joanie was not mollified. “I’ve been here four years, long enough to pay my dues. I can now get a better job in one of the posh hotels in Jersey or even—”

  “No, please don’t resign, Joanie,” Millie begged. “I don’t know what we’d do without you.”

  “You would do just fine. You don’t think my career ambition was working like a skivvy in this kitchen?” Joanie turned to Mrs B. “This was my training. You’ll give me a good reference, no?”

  “Of course, dear, but it needn’t come to that.” Mrs B gave Millie a worried look as she brought the teapot to the table.

  “I want more from my life,” said Joanie. “Huh. If you think old Genghis Khan upstairs is going to keep me here to make him stupid English food—Boeph.”

  Ann helped pour the tea. “I don’t think Genghis Khan likes English food. Wasn’t he Mongolian?”

  Joanie shrugged. “It was always my plan, yes? Work here for a time, then move.”

  “Really?” Millie hadn’t thought about the future and assumed the three women would always be here.

  “I am still young,” Joanie said as Millie handed her a cup of tea. “I want to live, I have dreams.” She looked at all of them. “Maybe I will compete on MasterChef and win.”

  “Bollocks to tea.” Ann got up from the table and reached into a cupboard under the counter for a bottle of Irish whiskey. “We need a proper drink.”

  * * *

  6pm

  Three quarters of an hour later, Millie heard George’s footsteps coming down the stairs. The whiskey hadn’t impaired her hearing even if it had transformed the mood in the kitchen. Despite the joking and giggling around her, she’d been listening with half an ear to the goings-on upstairs. Doors, footsteps and a ringing mobile phone which George must have answered as he came downstairs and stood in the hallway by the front door.

  Was he going out again?

  Millie was a lightweight drinker, and two shots of Jameson had gone to her head and opened the barriers to thoughts she’d been holding back. She missed George; she wanted to see him. If he went out now, God only knew when he might be back. He’d come home very late the last few nights, long after she’d gone to her room. There was no excuse she could find to come out in her nightie and contrive to run into him on the stairs.

&
nbsp; With Dutch courage coursing through her veins, she pushed her chair back and stood up. “I’m going to check on our boss.”

  Mrs B grabbed Millie’s wrist, holding her for a minute while she raised her eyebrows at Joanie. “Are we agreed, then?”

  Joanie shrugged. “I think so. If Millie can keep him under control, I will wait a couple of months, help you find and train my replacement. It suits me better. I can take my time to find the right job.”

  Mrs B let go of Millie’s wrist. “Okay, off you go, dear.”

  Just then, Millie had a thought. “Joanie, how about I ask George to write you a good reference and maybe ask around for a good vacancy? He’s well connected.”

  Joanie’s eyes widened. “Can you really do that? Yes, please, Millie.”

  “I can ask him now.” Butterflies fluttered in her stomach. This was the perfect excuse, and she couldn’t wait to use it. “But I want a favour in return.”

  “I am not cooking more toad-in-the-hole.”

  Millie giggled. The whisky was really breaking her inhibitions. “I want you to help me to speak good French.”

  “Easy. I’ll even help you learn French cooking.”

  Millie raced towards the hall, then slowed down to a normal walk. Her heart, if anything, was going even faster, beating nineteen to the dozen. All her senses were projected forward to where George stood by the front door, his hand on the doorknob.

  Her blood pumped a lethal cocktail of nerves, excitement, alcohol and something else.

  George stopped when he saw her and nodded a greeting, but his hand was still on the door handle.

  Wait, she wanted to say.

  He wore a business suit, dark navy blue, with a white shirt and a classic silk tie. A dark leather belt cinched his waistband low over his hips.

  Desire pooled low in her belly and made her heart drift dangerously. Dear God, how could a man be so gorgeous?

  “Is your father okay now?” As conversational gambits went, it was rather lame but the best she could manage. That second whiskey had been a mistake.

  George merely nodded. He seemed about to go, but then turned back to her. “I hope peace is restored with Joanie.”

  “I’m afraid I volunteered your services.” Millie stopped a couple of steps in front of him.

  He arched an eyebrow. A perfect eyebrow. The hall lamp caught his eyelashes and threw shadows across his cheekbones.

  “My services?” he prompted.

  She dragged her mind back. “I said you’d put the word out for a possible job for her, somewhere good.” What had seemed like a great idea in the kitchen now felt like an imposition. “I hope you don’t mind. None of us wanted to lose Joanie and, erm…” She ran out of words, like a seventeen-year-old girl.

  Fortunately, he seemed in better command of his senses. “Of course. I am really sorry about my father’s outburst. Should I offer her a pay rise? Would she stay?”

  “I think her mind is made up, but she will stay until she can train a replacement.”

  “This is your doing, persuading her to stay a bit longer?” his eyes were very warm on her. “Thank you, Millie.” His voice dropped lower. “I am in your debt.”

  She didn’t want him in her debt; she wanted him in her arms. She desperately wanted to kiss him.

  His faith in her felt like an aphrodisiac, and now she couldn’t tear her eyes away from his. Stormy grey with silver threads. If she could see his eyes that clearly, she was standing too near; had she stepped closer, or did he?

  “Okay,” he said, his voice soft and low.

  Okay what?

  She couldn’t escape the feeling that something was missing, a question left unanswered. Like a chocolate bar unwrapped but not yet tasted.

  She made do with a smile because she was struggling to speak. He closed his eyes and turned away, reaching for the door again.

  No! She almost reached over and grabbed his arm. Almost.

  “We never agreed a forfeit.” The words burst from her. It was the whiskey making her speak now.

  “What?” he asked without turning.

  “About my French.”

  “Excuse me?” He kept his back to her

  “our bet, about my learning to speak French like a native on La Canette. In two weeks.”

  “It’s a deal.” It didn’t sound like he’d given it any thought.

  George opened the door.

  Why did he keep trying to leave? “What deal? We haven’t agreed on it.”

  He paused, without turning around. “Okay, what do you want for a forfeit?”

  She looked at the back of his head, his dark, shiny hair tapered to a point at the nape of his neck. What was wrong with him? Why wouldn’t he look at her?

  Fine. If he really wanted to go, she didn’t want to keep him. She opened her mouth to say forget it when he spoke again.

  “Name your price,” he said.

  She hadn’t really thought of a forfeit. Truth, Dare or Kiss? Then, out of the complex filing system that was her memory, a favourite picture popped up.

  “I want to find a boat to take me to Blue Sage Bay.”

  At that, he did turn around, closing the door behind him and facing her, his eyes wide. “What?”

  There it was, that suspicious look from last week. What did he think? That she would sail to Argentina?

  “I wanted to see the cove, but it’s too far to walk. I only have three hours off in the afternoons. It’s not enough time to walk there and back in time for Mr Du Montfort’s evening work. I tried but only got as far as the isthmus.” She was babbling.

  “So?” He crossed his arms over his chest as if cold. The movement, right arm over left, pulled at his tie and dragged his shirt collar. His Adam’s apple bobbed up and down again as he swallowed.

  Lust. That’s what she was feeling. It made her mouth water with the need to kiss him.

  Please, God, let him not notice.

  With an effort, she remembered what they’d been saying.

  “So, I can’t walk there, but if we could find a boat—” No, don’t say we. “I could take it from the pier at the bottom of the garden. It would probably make it in less than half an hour. If it came back for me a couple of hours later.”

  “Why do you want to go there?”

  “I want to see it. There is a pretty-looking cottage with a jetty.” She couldn’t explain the beauty of the place. “I’d like to see it, that’s all.”

  The moment stretched while he considered her answer.

  He’d look good standing on the sand, his trousers rolled up to the knee, seawater washing around his bare ankles, sand ebbing over his feet…

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea,” He said. The, shoving his hand in his trouser pocket, he brought out his phone and started to text or something.

  That couldn’t be the end?

  “You wouldn’t have to come with me. I know you are busy. I could go alone as long there was someone to sail the boat.”

  He shook his head. “That’s not the point. It’s a derelict cottage. I don’t think it’s structurally sound anymore. Sorry.” And with that, he went back to examining his phone.

  She fought to salvage her dream. If Joanie could follow her dreams, then so could she.

  “I’ll just walk around the cove, I’m not going to play tennis on the jetty. Besides, you said I could name my price if I can speak French like a native—”

  “Okay, fine,” he said without looking up from his phone.

  “Yes?”

  “You have my word.” He gave her half a smile, even if his eyes didn’t meet hers.

  “Shake?” She offered her hand in as close to a business-like gesture as she could manage.

  He looked at her hand as if it were a livewire. Then he took it for the quickest handshake. “Good night,” he
said,

  * * *

  George crossed back to the stairs in three swift strides and ran up the stairs. He rounded the corner, raced down the hall to his room and shut the door.

  Ten minutes later, he had changed into sweats and trainers. He left his room but didn’t come down to the hallway where he’d left Millie. Instead he walked to the far end of the corridor and found the back stairs down to the indoor gym.

  He jumped on the treadmill for a fast warm-up then a run. He ran and ran until every muscle and sinew in his body was pulsing with heat. Then he took the cross bars pushing his body through a hundred chin-ups.

  When he was done, he dropped on the blue mats for a hundred push-ups. He would do as many circuits as he needed until the pain of exhaustion erased the mental images.

  Images of him taking Millie hard on the beach at Blue Sage Bay.

  THIRTEEN

  Two weeks later. Bedroom, 8am

  The channel was baking in a July heatwave. The sun beat down on a sea so still it looked like a mirror. Amazing there was any water left in it. Certainly the lily pool in the garden was dry. Even the breeze that blew in from Millie’s window was warm enough to dry her hair after the shower.

  Her morning walk up to the hill had left her sweaty and dusty. But it was worth it for the bunch of wild catmint which now brightened up her dressing table.

  Standing in front of her mirror in yellow lace bra and knickers, she smoothed camomile lotion into her face and neck and the tops of her arms, which were a little red. This wasn’t a day for walking in the sun; it was a day for staying indoors and drinking iced tea.

  She rubbed moisturiser into her legs, then padded barefoot to the wardrobe and checked her clothes. What was the lightest, coolest thing she had?

  In the end she opted for a short, strappy dress in pale turquoise. The free-flowing fabric swung just above her knees, keeping her cool. On impulse, she found a shiny silver chain and clasped it around her ankle then pushed her feet into flat sandals and left her room.