Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  “Come along, young man,” Mrs B said. “When the master doesn’t want someone on his land, it’s best to make a quick exit.” She took his arm and walked him out. “You go with the cart. He’ll drop you off at the ferry terminal. You don’t want to walk in the fields in the sun and get your nice suit all dusty.”

  Liam joined her, and between them they pushed Henry up onto the cart between two large recycling bags. The cart rumbled away, taking Henry with it.

  Millie went back downstairs to find everyone waiting for her. Ann came over and threw her arms around Millie. “Are you all right, my love?”

  Within seconds, Liam, Mrs B and Joanie had all joined in for a group hug.

  “I’m fine. I might die from being squeezed, but otherwise I am fine.”

  They released her but still clustered around her. She was moved beyond words. Even Joanie and her archenemy had dropped their feud and rallied to her defence. She looked up to see Du Montfort in his chair watching her.

  “So, this is your ex?” he asked. “No wonder you looked like a grey dishcloth when you came to us.”

  Millie walked over to him, bent down and gave him an impulsive hug and a kiss on his cheek. “I love you all so much. So much.”

  FOURTEEN

  The next day La Canette Town Hall, Afternoon

  She’s off limits. Off limits. It had become a mantra; whenever his mind strayed in forbidden directions, George mouthed the words again.

  Staying away from the house helped, because when Millie was in his line of sight, his resolve turned to water. Even locked in this office all the way in the town hall, pen in hand, reading taxation disputes, his eyes kept flicking to the phone.

  He’d never struggled so hard to stop himself from calling a woman. He longed to hear her voice, to ask her out on a date. A proper date. One that would end with—no. No.

  He shut his eyes.

  She’s off limits.

  Opened them.

  She’s off limits.

  There had to be a way, a safe way to be with her. Wasn’t there?

  Someone knocked on the door. Morris followed by Sweeny. Trouble. Sweeny always used his junior, Morris, as a shield to hide behind when he was up to something.

  “Can I bother you for a couple of signatures?” Morris sidled up to the desk and placed a stack of files in front of George.

  “These are a bit urgent.” Sweeny added while George scanned the files. “Normally we’d send them to Lord Du Montford for his signature but they can take time…” he left the sentence hanging.

  George ignored the implied criticism of his father’s governance of the island. If the slimy accountant was looking for gossip, George wouldn’t encourage him.

  “Will you be staying long this time?” Sweeny pushed.

  Would he? He’d already stayed longer than usual. There was work stacking up in London waiting for him; surely if he’d wanted to avoid Millie, he should have left several days ago!

  He reached for his pen and scanned the first file. Land maintenance increase—signed.

  What was keeping him here? The sound of her voice, gentle and mellifluous, coming from behind the door of his father’s study?

  George opened another file. Safety inspections—signed.

  The scent of her perfume, barely noticeable, lingering on the air like a soft promise?

  The possibility that he could, if he chose, knock on her door and go in to see her? Late at night, after everyone had gone to bed?

  He forced his eyes to focus. Words and figures swam on the page—signed, signed, signed. His pen scratched the paper, almost tearing it. He threw the pen down. Decisive governance was all very well, but no need for savage penmanship. “Anything else?” he asked Morris

  “That’s all for now. Thank you so much.” The man turned to go but Sweeny lingered. He cast a quick look at the wall and a sly look flashed across his eyes. “You would make a great Seigneur one day.”

  George didn’t turn to look. “See you later.”

  The two men left.

  Only after the door had closed behind them did he swivel his chair around.

  Behind the desk on the wall hung a portrait of the Queen. Next to her, a portrait of his father when he was younger and wearing his full ceremonial regalia. He knew all too well what Sweeny was trying to do. Test the atmosphere for a hint of discord between father and son so he, Sweeny, could push into the cracks and benefit somehow.

  It wasn’t the first time people looked at George and saw only what they stood to gain. A promotion, an expensive gift, a secure future.

  He swivelled his chair around again and reached for his phone. Anything to change the depressing train of thoughts, he scrolled through his unread messages. There were three missed calls from Beatrice.

  Their last date hadn’t gone well. Someone at a party had teased them about walking down the aisle, and it had soured the evening. “Every man wants to marry eventually,” she’d said when they were in the car. “I don’t believe you’re different.”

  His answer had been to drive her to her own home, face rigid, no kiss good night, then drive away. That was the last time they’d spoken. He’d simply never called her again, which was unkind. She deserved a better farewell.

  On impulse, he pressed the call-back icon, then cursed under his breath. Don’t answer, don’t answer.

  “Hello, stranger.”

  Fuck. “Bea. How are you?”

  “Better than you, I think. It’s taken you a week to call me back.”

  “Yes. It’s always busy here.”

  “Where is ‘here’?”

  George got up and walked to the large window. The weather forecast had promised a storm tonight, but the village square still baked in the sun.

  “You’re not at work,” Beatrice continued. “I popped in yesterday afternoon, and that possessive secretary of yours wouldn’t tell me anything.” Her tone was light, but it didn’t fool him. The last thing he needed was Beatrice packing her Louis Vuittons and jetting over.

  “Don’t be hard on my staff. I pay them to shield me from—” He stopped himself in time.

  “I’m not exactly a door-to-door salesman.”

  “But we’re not”—he searched for the right word—“what we were.”

  “Not lovers anymore, you mean.”

  He let the silence stretch. He didn’t want to hurt Beatrice. Heaven knew, she was a nice girl. Confident and sophisticated in public and enthusiastic between the sheets. An ideal girlfriend, really. Until…

  “Look, George, I don’t want to give you a hard time, but can we talk?”

  “We are talking.” He pulled at his shirt collar and rubbed his fingers over the base of his throat.

  “I know we left things hanging a bit when we last met,” Beatrice said.

  He didn’t think they’d left anything hanging.

  “But I’ve been thinking,” she said.

  It was never a good sign when a woman said she’d been ‘thinking’ and wanted ‘to talk.’

  “About what?”

  “The M word,” she said.

  He turned back from the window. “Murder? Misery? Multiple orgasms?” Freud would psycho-analyse the hell out of his subconscious today.

  “I thought I wanted all that,” she said. “I mean I do want it, the whole thing, wedding, children, house and garden.”

  He went back to his desk and sat down only to get up again almost immediately and walk to the other window – there was no way out of this conversation, it seemed. He waited for her to say more.

  “Eventually, but not yet. Not with you, George.”

  “I see.”

  “So, it’s off the agenda?”

  “I never put it on the agenda, Bea.”

  “I know, I know. It was, you know, pressure from Mummy. All my friends kept
warning me not to lose the perfect man.” She paused; George said nothing.

  He was a master at using silence to his advantage; many of his business rivals were reduced to putty that way. But to apply manipulative tactics to a relationship talk wasn’t exactly chivalrous. He was nowhere near to being “the perfect man.”

  “I thought, why not? Everyone told me you’d make a good husband. But it’s not true, is it?”

  “Not even a little bit.”

  Millie would laugh at this. She would call him “mein Herr.”

  Beatrice didn’t laugh. “So, I’ve been thinking about it, and well, sorry, darling, but we’re not right for each other.”

  “I agree.”

  “Besides, I am not ready for a white wedding, not for a long time. You understand that, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “George, darling, I knew you’d understand. Wasn’t it better before? We were happy before we started listening to other people. That’s what attracted me to you, remember?”

  “Mmm.”

  “Just a normal relationship, fun, relaxed. No big promises.” She went on before he could answer. “All right. Anyway, darling, I need to run off now. Let’s have dinner on Friday. Byeee.” And she was gone.

  Clever lady. She didn’t give him a chance to say yes or no. Just left him with a harmless offer. A date on Friday night.

  Friday night had always been their weekly ritual: dinner, his place, all night, followed by a late breakfast.

  Friday was four days away. George closed his eyes and blew a breath through his lips.

  Part of him warned: She’s telling you what she knows you want to hear. She’s lying to you. Or at least, she’s lying to herself.

  He put his phone on the desk and turned his back on it.

  But another part of him urged: Take her at her word. She’s telling you, she doesn’t want marriage. You’re off the hook.

  Beatrice was familiar, she knew the deal. And they did have fun. Christ, he wasn’t a monk. He needed someone safe to get his mind away from… Millie.

  He glared at the phone. Why didn’t Millie ever call him? If she did, in his present mood, he’d drop everything and go home. In his present mood, he’d scoop her up and take her upstairs to his room. And there he would take his time—

  His phone rang again.

  He picked it up, his mouth suddenly dry.

  But it was Belgium.

  “Yes!” He barked the word.

  Probably a good thing Millie didn’t call, all things considered.

  He listened to his associate in Brussels outline a long proposal.

  “Can’t someone else handle it?”

  “No, they want the best, and you are the best. Look, George, EU regulations is your bag. It’s a huge contract, and they asked for you by name. It is what you do, after all.”

  Yes, it was what he did.

  Three weeks in Brussels. Problem was, after Brussels, there was plenty of work in London waiting to swallow him up. If he flew out tomorrow, he wouldn’t be back to La Canette for six months.

  It would be easy to slip back into the old routine, pick up with Beatrice again.

  Or.

  He could stay here a little longer. Dare himself to see Millie, talk to her, watch her face break into her beautiful grin, her eyes sparkle. Watch the way her clothes clung to her figure.

  His hands itched, and he curled them into hard fists.

  Millie wasn’t a love-her-today-drop-her-tomorrow girl. She deserved a good marriage.

  Which he couldn’t offer.

  The only woman he could possibly marry had to be his equal. In every way. Otherwise he’d suspect she was after his fortune, his position or his aristocratic title.

  What he wanted was to be a lover, a friend, an equal.

  Then there was Millie.

  This lovely girl with Audrey Hepburn eyes and lips he wanted to savour. A girl who laughed at him and kept him on his toes.

  But Millie was poor, divorced, with a painful past and no prospects. A girl ripe for rescuing; he would have to become her knight in shining armour.

  How long before he resented her for it? Before he started to mistrust her motives? How long before he turned into cold-cruel-George, never-answers-the-phone-George?

  Into his father?

  He rubbed his face, scratching at his unshaven jaw. He didn’t want to become that George in Millie’s eyes.

  No. It was hopeless.

  He fired off a long text to his office.

  Fifteen minutes later, Vicky emailed. There was a flight from Guernsey at 6:30 tonight and a car at Heathrow airport to take him home. Dinner was booked for eight Friday night at Restaurant Gordon Ramsey in Chelsea. A card and a bouquet of flowers had been sent to Beatrice’s home.

  He checked his watch. 2 pm. He had enough time, just.

  * * *

  Du Montfort Hall, 4:15pm

  All packed, George left his room. He wanted fifteen minutes to walk up to East Hill for a last look. It was one of his unbroken traditions, the first place he came when he landed on the island and the last; he always went up to the top of East Hill, from where he could see everything. He would look for a minute and remember. Always.

  “Ah, Mrs B,” George said as he saw her come out on the gallery. “Could you ask Evans to bring the cart round in about half an hour? I need him to drop me off at the ferry terminal.” He started down the stairs.

  “Yes, of course.”

  Something about her tone tugged at him. Halfway down the stairs, he looked back and found her standing by the bannister looking down, her hands twisting the hem of her cardigan.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing, Master George. Well… I was wondering if you’d seen Millie.”

  “Isn’t she with my father?” George had avoided his father’s room, on purpose.

  “No, she has the day off.” Her eyes looked troubled. “She went out for a walk this morning and hasn’t come back yet.”

  George stood on the half landing where the staircase started to curve round. He put down his briefcase and turned around to fully face Mrs B.

  “Have you tried her phone?”

  “We’ve been trying it non-stop since lunchtime, but it goes directly to voicemail.” Mrs B walked down the stairs to join him. There was real worry in her eyes. “I’ve checked with the quay-master, she hasn’t taken the ferry off the island. I’ve called the post office and shops in the village. No one has seen her. Both Evans and Liam have gone out to look, but she’s not on the hill or the wood.”

  An icy trickle went down his spine.

  “You’re sure she went out? She’s not in her room or—Did anyone see her leave?” He’d been congratulating himself on managing to avoid Millie just now. He had hoped to disappear silently. But that was when he’d thought she was home and might just catch him.

  “Joanie spoke to her this morning. She’s the one who raised the alarm.”

  George made it down the stairs and was halfway to the kitchen before Mrs B had finished talking. He found Joanie and Nurse Ann conferring. They looked up at him, hope in their eyes which quickly turned to disappointment.

  “Joanie, tell me what you know.”

  She pushed back her chair and got up. “Millie came to the kitchen early, seven or a quarter past, and took a bottle of water from the fridge. She usually takes a sandwich if she’s planning on a long walk, but she said it was too hot and just some fruit, then went out. She said, ‘See you later.’” Joanie’s voice wavered on the last word.

  George’s heart fell. “And she didn’t tell you where she was going, why she needed a day off?”

  Joanie looked at Mrs B and Nurse Ann. All three looked unhappy.

  “You’d better tell him,” Nurse Ann said.

  “Tell me what?�
� This was getting worse by the minute.

  “Your father gave her the day off. He told her last night because…” Mrs B pressed her lips together as if debating with herself.

  George clenched his jaws. “Look, all of you. I can’t help unless I know everything.”

  “She seemed upset about something. I didn’t think.” Joanie looked guilty. “I should have remembered. Her ex-husband came to see her, and he upset her.”

  “What? When?”

  He didn’t realize he was shouting or towering over Joanie until Mrs B stepped in between them. Very deliberately, he made himself take a step back.

  “Yesterday, before lunch,” Mrs B said. “He was pretty nasty and said some very unpleasant things.”

  “Why didn’t anyone tell me?” He was breathing fast. “Where is he?”

  “Oh no, your father got rid of him. He left the island on the one o’clock ferry, we checked. It’s just that she seemed distracted the rest of the day, and Mr Du Montfort told her she could have a whole day off. That’s why Joanie thinks Millie looked upset this morning. That’s all we know.”

  “No, not upset,” Joanie said. “I don’t know how to say it, like she wasn’t herself, like she made a decision.”

  Dreadful thoughts chased one another in George’s mind. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this?”

  “We didn’t see you.”

  And he’d been hiding in the office, debating selfish things, planning how to “manage” her.

  He turned back to Joanie. “Did she have anything with her? What was she wearing?”

  “I can’t remember, her linen trousers, I think, the light blue ones, and a white shirt.”

  “No luggage?”

  “No. Oh, she had a vest and shorts, I think, in her tote bag.”

  An icy fist clenched in his gut; he knew where she’d gone.

  FIFTEEN

  Two hours later. The Isthmus, 7pm

  George propped his bicycle against the railings overlooking the waves, then stood at the high end of the isthmus and scanned Le Cou. That’s what the islanders used to call Blue Sage Bay, what his grandfather called it.