Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  Popping into Mr Du Montfort’s study, she found him trying to fan himself with one hand.

  “Aren’t you a bright vision?” he said. “It’s sweltering. Makes you wish for rainy England?”

  Millie laughed as she pulled the sash windows open on both sides of the room to create a draft. “It would have to get much hotter than this before I’d even consider going back.”

  “Good. Stay with us. Now if only we could persuade my son. Have you seen him?”

  “Not today,” she answered as her heart fluttered.

  She hadn’t seen George for nearly two weeks, not since he’d agreed to her sailing trip to Blue Sage Bay. She didn’t know what time he left in the morning, but he was usually gone by the time she came back from her morning walk. Whatever it was that took him away, it seemed to keep him there late at night, too. Every day she hoped to see him, and every night she put that hope away till the next morning. “Let me go down and ask Mrs B if she’s seen him.”

  “No, no, stay here. We’ll know soon enough when he comes back—the day will get cloudy and stormy.”

  Millie had to laugh despite the anxious feeling that squeezed the top of her stomach when anyone mentioned George.

  “I need to go downstairs anyway to fetch the post.”

  “Are you in love, girl?” Du Montfort’s question sent blood rushing to her face. “You’ve not been yourself this week. The post is here. O’Neil brought it up an hour ago.” He pointed at the full in-tray.

  “O’Neil?” She tried to steady her breathing. The old man’s comments were innocent enough. It was her thoughts that were guilty. “Who’s O’Neil?”

  “What’s her name, that Irish nurse that wears silent shoes and sneaks up on one like dreadful fate?”

  “Nurse Ann, you mean? I didn’t know her surname was O’Neil.”

  “It’ll be O’something or other. Anyway, there’s a big special delivery envelope for you. O’Neil had to sign for it because you weren’t here. Can’t expect the postman to wait until you come back from your morning walkabout.”

  She pulled the brown envelope from the pile in the in-tray. Her Majesty’s Court Service was stamped in the top corner. The butterflies in her stomach fluttered faster.

  Finally. She tore it open, and a stack of papers fell into her hand. Her copy of the divorce application. The official letter attached to the front promised her decree absolute would be granted in six weeks.

  Du Montfort was watching her, amused. “Now don’t run off and marry some other Englishman.”

  The words reminded her of something George had said about the English.

  “Can I ask you something? You talk as if you weren’t British?”

  “Because we aren’t. These islands were French, once, owned by the Duchy of Normandy until 1066. When William the Conqueror became King of England, the islands passed to the English Crown. We say we are half English, half French and four-quarters Islanders.” Du Montfort observed her thoughtfully. “Do you feel like a foreigner here?”

  Millie shook her head. “Actually I’ve been brushing up on my French, and I can speak like you now.”

  Du Montfort’s amusement danced in his eyes, and her heart fluttered again. Sometimes he reminded her of his son so much it was hard to keep her mind on her job.

  “Earth to Millie.” Du Montfort called her back.

  “Sorry, I was miles away.”

  “Obviously.” He cocked his head at her. “Let’s hear some of your new native French.”

  Millie had prepared a little paragraph, practicing the pronunciation with Joanie over and over. She was more than ready for George, but it wouldn’t harm to rehearse it with his father now. She cleared her throat. “Je suis ici depuis si longtemps je me sens une natif de cette île. Je prends des promenades sous un ciel sans cloude. Je goûtais beaucoup de choses étranges.”

  “Not bad,” he said. “But if you really feel like a natif, you need to pronounce it natsif.”

  “Why?” she asked.

  “You’ve been learning Parisian French. We have our own unique dialect. Say it again, I’ll show you.”

  Millie, confidence draining out of her, tried again.

  You need to keep it lighter.” He corrected her gently. “Dzepuis, the d is said like dze, and it’s longtsemps. What was the bit about taking a walk without clouds?”

  Millie repeated the sentence as fluently as she could.

  Again he shook his head. “Here on La Canette, we don’t say promenades. We say prendre une marche. And you need detranges not étranges. But not Dze this time. There’re lots of exceptions. You just have to know it.”

  He sat up straight and launched into one of his lectures about history. “You see, we parted ways from France 900 years ago. But that doesn’t make us British either. We have never been part of the UK. The Channel Islands, like the Isle of Mann, Gibraltar and the Virgin Islands, are possessions of the British Crown with independent administrations.”

  Millie couldn’t give a monkey’s about the Isle of Mann or the Virgin Islands. She cared about one specific island. This one. And one man on it who had always known he would win the challenge.

  His father was settling in for a long lecture, but her mind was elsewhere.

  That was why he’d agreed so quickly to the bet. Her mouth tasted bitter. He’d known she would lose, and he’d never had any intention of taking her on that boat.

  She could hear the old man talking as she looked out of the window on the sun-baked fields. But the day was already a little darker for her.

  I was wrong. There was nothing between us.

  Correction, there was plenty on this side of “us.” She’d been watching out of the window, hoping to catch him coming or going. Ha, if he’d really wanted to see her, he’d have come looking for her himself.

  Her heart, which had been dancing flips and leaps for two weeks, now weighed on her diaphragm like a dead brick.

  Okay. She tried to breathe through the lost hope.

  That was okay. She inhaled slowly then exhaled.

  So he wasn’t interested.

  You’re a big girl, Millie. You can handle a rejection.

  Life goes on. As soon as she had a moment alone, she’d go to her room and lick her wounds in private.

  Just then Mrs B came into the room with the morning coffee tray. Millie jumped up to help, but Mrs B waved her away.

  “Don’t trouble yourself, dear. You’re wanted downstairs.”

  Millie looked at her, uncertain. “Why?” Who wants me?

  “There’s someone asking for you. Well. He actually asked for Mrs Wainwright, but I remembered that used to be your name, didn’t it?”

  A trace of disappointment weighed heavy in Millie’s heart.

  Du Montfort snorted. “Probably someone selling insurance.” He watched her standing undecided.

  “Well, go, go.” He waved her away. “You’re not really listening to me anyway. Run along.”

  She put down her divorce papers and went out to the gallery. At the top of the stairs, behind the bannister, she paused to take a breath and clear away the disappointment.

  Looking down on the hall, all other thoughts vanished.

  Henry.

  * * *

  Du Montfort Hall, Entrance. 10.30am

  Millie couldn’t believe her eyes; her feet froze on the top step. What was he doing here?

  Henry looked uncomfortably hot in a three-piece suit; his normally pale face was pink and shiny, and sweat slicked the edges of his hair behind his ears. Sitting on the leather chaise longue in the entrance, dwarfed by the grandness of the hall, he kept fidgeting, brushing imaginary dust from his clothes. He crossed his legs, then changed his mind and leaned forward. To Millie, he looked like a young trainee insurance salesman.

  She suppressed a grin. She remembered coaching him b
efore a job interview on how to sit in order to look serious but relaxed. He’d clearly forgotten the lesson.

  Seeing him so nervous had the opposite effect on her. I used to think you so much better than me. She started down the stairs, her hand gliding on the polished wood of the banister.

  As soon as he heard her footsteps, he jumped up with alacrity, looking up at her. “Excuse me, I am waiting to see Millie Wainwright.”

  She didn’t say anything but continued walking down the semi-circular staircase. His eyes travelled up her legs in obvious and tactless admiration.

  Oh, Henry, have some class.

  Slowly he took in her hips and waist, lingered on her chest and finally her face. She waited for him to recognize her. By the time she reached the bottom step, his eyes were wide with disbelief.

  “It’s Millie Summers now,” she told him, her voice cool and graceful.

  He kept looking her up and down; his mouth opened and shut a few times before he managed to speak. “Millie, you look—you don’t look like—you—What’ve you done to yourself? Cosmetic surgery?”

  “No, just a haircut.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said, taking in her hair. “Good, it suits you.” His eyes travelled down to her chest once more.

  “Thank you.” She waited for him to stop staring at her body. When he met her eyes again, she said, “I didn’t expect to see you.”

  “I got your new address from the divorce papers. I didn’t realize you worked for the seigneur of La Canette. Is he here?”

  “Henry. Why are you here?”

  “Don’t you want to see me?” He gave her one of his looks. The one he used when he wanted something. “There is no need for us to be strangers. So our marriage didn’t work, but we have history, Mills. And since we broke up, I have missed you.” He walked towards her with arms wide, but Millie crossed hers in front of her body, and that stopped him.

  “It’s not been the same without you. The landlord is refusing to repair the boiler, and I can’t find the household insurance. Mills, you just disappeared and left me in the lurch. How did you think I was going to manage everything on top of my job?”

  “You’ll find a way, Henry. I did, and I used to have two jobs.”

  “Oh, come on, you can’t call them real jobs. I have a high-stress, high-octane career. You used to look after me. We cared for each other. We helped each other. Partners, remember? I am still your Henry.”

  “Aren’t you someone else’s Henry now?” She wasn’t even angry. A couple of months ago, her imagination had written several speeches about his cheating, about the women who’d slept with him in his marital home. Now she felt nothing but a faint surprise that he still needed her. Why?

  “Mills, you’re not going to hold a little indiscretion against me.” He tilted his head sweetly. “Darling, come on. It was finished as soon as it started, you just happened to discover us the only time it happened. She was nothing, she chased me for ages, and I was lonely and stressed.”

  “What are you asking me, Henry? Forgiveness or reconciliation?”

  “Both. We can forgive each other and start again or at least be friends to start with and see where it takes us.” He looked her up and down again. “Are you with anyone else? Is there another man?”

  She would’ve laughed, but his last question wasn’t funny. “No, Henry, there is no other man.”

  Hope filled his pale-blue eyes. “I didn’t think so. Well, we can start over?” He took her hand and pulled her to him.

  She remembered his touch, his moves. They hadn’t changed since their early days together when she was in love with him.

  But she had changed. She didn’t love him anymore. Turning her face away from his kiss, she pushed him away, as kindly as she could. “It’s too late for this, Henry. We have both moved on. You have a great career and a future. You don’t need me.”

  “Mills, I don’t have a great career. The stress has been unbelievable since you left. I can’t cope, and my career has suffered. You just up and left me. You should see the flat, bills and red letters everywhere. I’ve had to hire a secretary, but she’s rubbish. And my girlfriend is no help. She’s only interested in going to expensive clubs and celebrity spotting. She never advises me like you used to.” Suddenly he seemed to catch himself. “Ex-girlfriend, I mean.” He took out his handkerchief and wiped sweat from his face again.

  Why didn’t he take off his suit jacket at least, and loosen his tie? He had to be boiling.

  “I can’t come back, Henry. I have a job here.”

  “Well, then you can help me in other ways.” He mopped at his neck.

  “How?”

  “Help me gain new contacts to make up for the business I lost since you left me. Introduce me to your employer. You know, Mills, he owns and governs this entire island and has holdings in Britain, too. That’s tons of property and assets to manage. There would be endless work. We don’t have to be married. We could be friends, and this is what friends do for each other. They help when someone’s in trouble.”

  Ha, so that was why he’d stuffed himself into this pinstripe three-piece blanket. He wanted to meet the Du Montforts.

  “I don’t think so, Henry.”

  “Why not? You can’t hate me that much?”

  “I don’t hate you at all.”

  “You used to love me.”

  And this, too, she remembered now; his complete inability to see things from anyone’s point of view but his own.

  “It’s not about you. Du Montfort has lawyers coming out of his ears.”

  “You don’t want me around, is that it?” The sweetness was gone from his eyes. “What exactly do you do here? What kind of job has you dressed like this? For God’s sake, Millie, you are just a country girl. Now you’re wearing a chain around your ankle like a geisha. I was the only man that ever loved you.”

  He never really loved me. He loved that I loved him.

  “I am sorry, Henry, I still cannot help.”

  “I know you, Millie. This isn’t going to end well. Look at yourself, you’re not a spring chicken anymore. These people are rich, and they will use you and throw you over.”

  Memories flashed through her mind. Four months ago, she’d stood in the hallway of her small flat, rooted to the spot while Henry spoke cruel words to humiliate her.

  “When they’re finished with you, Millie, what are you going to be? An aging ex-secretary with grey hair and sagging tits.”

  She searched for her self-protection.

  I don’t need to stand here. I can walk away from him. She turned and walked up the stairs, her feet slow. It was hard to walk away while someone was speaking to her. It was rude, surely.

  No. He is rude. I deserve respect. And I will respect myself by walking away from abusive words.

  Henry’s voice went up a register as he spoke to her back. “Mills, now, we can make something of this opportunity and make a nest egg for ourselves. You can’t even stay on this steaming island if your boss is sick of you. No. He owns the place, Millie. He can just kick you out. And you would be homeless with nothing to show for all your work but a silly ankle bracelet. Mills?”

  Just when she’d made it almost to the top of the stairs, Millie heard footsteps and the squeak of wheels. She looked down to see Joanie walk out to the hall, pushing Du Montfort in his wheelchair. Millie nearly choked. He must have come down in the lift. And with Joanie’s help?

  Mrs B and Liam followed.

  Du Montfort looked intimidating, his face serious, proud, almost regal.

  Henry quickly snapped to attention like a sentry and bowed his head. “Good afternoon, Your Grace. Henry Wainwright, at your service.” He pulled his briefcase open and produced a business card which no one took from him.

  Du Montfort spoke fast, in French.

  Millie wanted to laugh. Henry’s French, if it ex
isted at all, probably was no more than ten words. He stared at Du Montfort with a mixture of deference and confusion. It was hilarious.

  Even more hilarious were the words. She bit the inside of her lip to stop herself laughing.

  “I am sorry, Your Grace. I don’t understand.”

  Liam looked up at Millie; he, too, was fighting giggles at the ridiculous “Your Grace.”

  Joanie, in a fake heavy French accent, translated. “Ze seigneur, ee says thank you, but we don’t think you are suitable for ze job. The gardens are very big, and we have a big problem with ze dead leaves and grass. You look too thin to do it.”

  Henry shook his head and tried for an ingratiating smile while defending his dignity. “I am not the gardener—”

  But the old man interrupted him in a voice that had silenced greater men than poor Henry.

  Again, Joanie translated. “We asked for a labourer gardener with more muscle. Please take apologies to ze employment office, but we need a strong man.”

  “I think there is a misunderstanding. I came to—”

  “Oui, oui, let me translate.” Joanie turned to the old man and said something obscure. Henry waited humbly for the translation.

  “We understand, you are not the gardener? But we don’t want the gardener, only the assistant to help collect the refuse.”

  Du Montfort looked to Mrs B. “Madame Baxter, s’il vous plaît, demandez au panier pour l’emmener.”

  Mrs B, whether she understood or not, pointed to the horse cart outside. Millie nearly doubled over. This wasn’t Evans and the nice carriage. This was the delivery cart. It had no seats and was already loaded with huge plastic bin-bags full of grass cuttings and rubbish.

  “Excuse me, you don’t understand, I am a lawyer,” Henry said to Du Montfort.

  “Oui, oui. Va, va.” Du Montfort dismissed him with a flick of his hand while Joanie turned his wheelchair around and pushed him out of the hall. Henry’s face was beet red.