Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  Geneva was so boring.

  He turned down Old Church Street and cut through Carlyle Square. Lights and movement caught his eye. Small St Luke’s Church opposite was lit and full. Of course, it was Easter weekend, and the church was getting ready for the Good Friday evening service. Images of Evensong at the much larger St Mary’s Church on La Canette brushed the edges of his mind but were not allowed in.

  His flat, empty for so long, felt chilly, and he took a few minutes to turn on lights and switch on the central heating. Then he poured himself a brandy and, glass in one hand, iPad and phone in the other, he went through to the sitting room. The sofa faced the window and the night; he pushed it with his foot until it faced the television.

  Putting his iPad under one arm to free his hand, he pressed the power button on the TV and grabbed the remote control before settling down on the sofa.

  There had to be something watchable at 8pm. When was the last time he’d finished work this early? There were hours and hours stretching empty before he could go to bed. Propping his iPad on his knees, he opened the inbox. Notifications and emails were unlikely to need all his concentration, so it was a perfect complement to TV watching.

  Over the last eight or nine months, he’d made a fine art out of keeping his attention fully occupied. He always did several tasks simultaneously, not leaving his mind any space to wonder.

  BBC 1 came on first, the finals of MasterChef: The Professionals. George scanned down the list of emails, making notes. Napoleon brandy warmed his throat, and MasterChef was presenting background on the finalists… Jomana Mohammed grew up in Marseille to a French Algerian family… The voice-over continued while George answered two emails following up on his meeting with the Scottish energy minister.

  Politicians weren’t business-minded as a rule, but this one had a fantastic grasp of the deal being struck. George liked politicians who cared about the welfare of their constituents. But a caring politician who also understood the cutthroat world of big finance, that was a great politician.

  The TV voiceover droned in the background …after graduation, Jomana spent four years as a private chef on the island of La Canette. Until a few months ago, when she turned down a highly coveted job at the Adelphi Hotel to go into partnership with a friend and open the Blue Sage Café…

  George’s iPad slid from his hand to the sofa next to him as he stared at the TV. Heart in his throat, he watched footage of Joanie and Millie carrying a bright-orange bench and putting it inside a circle of tin cans planted with flowers. The picture cut to the MasterChef studio, where presenter Greg Wallace was asking Joanie about her menu.

  George snatched the remote control and pressed rewind. He watched the short clip again. Yes, it was the boardwalk outside the cottage. It was Millie and Joanie carrying a wooden bench. As the camera panned over Millie, George’s mind warned him to look away, but his fingers pressed pause, anyway. She was in faded jeans and a sweatshirt splattered with paint, not fancy clothes, not the wardrobe of a lady Du Montfort.

  Leaving the image frozen on his TV screen, George reached for his tablet and Googled Blue Sage Café. His mind in overdrive, too impatient while the information loaded, he watched the clip again. Millie looked different; her hair had grown longer and curlier. Her face—her expression—how could someone look exactly the same and completely different, like she had transformed from the inside?

  What was he doing? He shouldn’t look, much less think, about her. Whatever she’s up to no longer concerns you. Don’t poke a sleeping pain. Change the channel, something loud, an action movie.

  Meanwhile his fingers had scrolled through the Google search results and opened a newspaper review. It seemed his eyes and hands no longer took orders from his brain.

  Blue Sage Café.

  Sunday Telegraph, travel section.

  This once forgotten corner on the island has been lovingly and imaginatively restored by two young women, Millie Summers and Jomana Mohammed. With a rag-tag collection of chairs and tables salvaged from schools, churches and garage sales, and painted a dazzling array of sunny colours, the place is less like a formal café than a wild garden.

  The menu is no less surprising. Traditional English afternoon tea has been transformed into a magical offering. Sandwiches come with fresh basil instead of cucumber. Scones are baked with buttermilk and lavender. In place of the traditional strawberry jam, you can select from wild berry, delicious rose-petal marmalade, and the café’s signature fireweed jelly which has customers coming from across the Channel and even from Normandy. Luckily the café comes with a newly operational jetty for boats to dock. Don’t worry if you cannot find a free seat inside. There are pink and orange benches and picnic tables along the pier for customers to eat alfresco.

  George could hardly read fast enough. His mind wanted answers, answers, answers. He moved to another article, a short interview. There was a picture of Millie and Joanie with large cups of tea that had floating cinnamon sticks. He skimmed the interview, looking for answers.

  “…For a while, we lived on the premises with the smell of paint and turpentine. We opened in January with only a few tables and a half-equipped kitchen. All we could offer was spiced tea, mulled wine and chilli-pepper hot chocolate. Thank God the weather turned sunny by late February and business improved. Then the boats started coming, and we opened up the terrace. Joanie is going to open a new branch in trendy Brighton: Blue Sage Breakfast Bar. We’re setting up deliveries of local herbs and produce for her.”

  George looked up Blue Sage Breakfast Bar, then checked his watch before knocking back his brandy.

  Bed.

  He had an early drive tomorrow. Brighton was an hour and a half away, and he intended to get there as soon as the place opened.

  * * *

  The next morning. Brighton, 6:30am

  “I have the right to refuse service to any customer if I don’t like them.” A familiar voice spoke as he sipped his coffee.

  “Hello, Joanie.” He smiled at her.

  She huffed. “You know you won’t always be young and handsome.” She pulled a chair and sat down at his table. “There will come a day when this smile won’t get you anywhere.”

  The café was still empty at 6:30 in the morning. “Does she work here, too?” he asked.

  “Who?”

  “It’s not a time for games, Joanie.” He made himself icy calm, one of his tricks to get the answers he needed.

  But Joanie wasn’t impressed. “No? I thought you were playing a game of hide and seek with us for eight months.”

  “I’m not playing now.”

  “And we were supposed to wait until you’re good and ready?”

  He exhaled and tried to hide his frustration. This was not going to be easy. His eyes travelled around the small café. The kitchen area was visible through a large hatch; there was one young kitchen assistant chopping things but no one else. He looked back at Joanie and held her gaze.

  She crossed her arms and glared back but eventually broke eye contact. “You know you should wear dark glasses. Those eyes are like weapons. You can hurt people.”

  Hurt people. He dragged in a breath to ease the ache. “Please, Joanie.”

  She huffed loud enough for people in the street to hear and finally looked at him. “No, she’s not here. Says the big franchise expansion is not for her, and she’s just happy living in her little café. It’s only last month she even bought furniture and a bed. She used to sleep on a mattress on the floor.”

  Hope surged in George’s chest. A hundred questions fought their way to his lips. “Why didn’t she marry my father?”

  Joanie looked daggers at him. “Why didn’t you read your emails?”

  “What happened?”

  “There’s nothing between her and the old man.”

  His heart was thumping hard enough to break through his ribs. “But he gave her th
e, the—I saw the deeds.”

  “It was a present for your girlfriend, not his. We were celebrating—”

  George needed lots of answers, now. “My father knew about us?”

  “Boeph.” Joanie shrugged with contempt. “All of us knew about you. From the very beginning. Love is like pregnancy, impossible to hide. The way your eyes followed Millie. We were all waiting for you to pop the question. And then you broke her heart and called her horrible names.”

  Realization, hot and cold, washed over George. Memories long held back now exploded within him.

  “You know,” Joanie continued, “she is so much better than you. Because in all this time, she never said one bad word about you, although you deserved every bad word in the language.” She looked like she had more to say, but the door swung open to let in a middle-aged couple.

  George waited for her to greet them and take their order. But waiting was worse than sitting on pins and needles. He didn’t even say goodbye to Joanie; he simply got up, went to his car and put his foot down, speeding through Saturday morning traffic out of the city.

  Deserved every bad word in the language.

  Yes, and a few more besides.

  He drove onto the A23 and propped his hand on the steering wheel as he checked the sat-nav. Take M27 to Chichester, then Bournemouth, and finally Poole. A three-hour journey.

  George did it in two. Speed cameras could go to hell.

  * * *

  Same Day. La Canette, 7pm

  Millie watched the sunset from the large glass front as she watered the violets on the table. A small water taxi was sailing across the calm channel towards her pier.

  She knew who was on it. Ever since Joanie rang her this morning, she’d been preparing herself and watching the clock.

  You couldn’t run a tourist attraction café without knowing transport timetables by heart. Flights from London to the Channel Islands came in the morning; he wouldn’t have time to catch a plane. So if he sailed from Poole, he’d be here on the 6:30 ferry and take a local boat to the cove. She checked her watch. It was nearly seven.

  She’d had all day to think what to tell him, but as she watched the water taxi line up against the dock, Millie still had no idea.

  “Suzie?”

  “Yes?” Her young waitress was wiping down the kitchen counters.

  “You’d better catch the boat. Go, love. I’ll finish up.”

  “Are you sure?” Suzie asked, taking off her apron.

  “Yes, but run.”

  The girl hurried towards the end of the pier, but Millie’s eyes were on the tall, dark figure standing in the approaching boat, now shading his eyes with his hand.

  Now jumping down onto the landing steps.

  Now pausing to give Suzie a hand to help her into the boat.

  Now climbing the steps and standing at the end of the jetty for a moment, looking at her café.

  He was only here because Joanie told him the truth. It didn’t count. He’d failed the test of ships.

  Her heart fluttered and jumped and did all kinds of things, but it didn’t send any blood to her brain. She couldn’t think. This was the man she loved more than anything in the world. How could she find the words to send him away?

  He started walking slowly towards her.

  She knew the setting sun would be in his eyes, and he wouldn’t be able to see her behind the glass.

  Be strong, Millie. Be strong.

  He was coming closer; she could see details now. Navy blue trousers, belted low on his hips. Pale-grey jumper with an open collar.

  I’ll know what to say by the time he gets to the Lavender planters.

  The lavender didn’t offer a single suggestion.

  By the time he gets to the geraniums.

  Nothing.

  So much for all the watering and caring, you ungrateful vegetation.

  He was at the rosemary now.

  The peppers.

  The mint.

  Oh dear God.

  And then he was close enough to see through the glass. To see her.

  He stopped.

  His chest rose on a deep breath. Then deliberately, he walked towards her, his face a battleground of emotions: joy, need, anxiety…

  I can’t take him back. Not like this. God, somebody, anybody, please help me.

  TWENTY-ONE

  Blue Sage Café

  “I hoped by the time we were face to face, I’d have the right words,” George said.

  His face—oh for God’s sake, did the man get handsomer over the winter? Or had she been muting him in her memory to make the loss easier to bear? Certainly she’d forgotten about his voice. It started smooth and seductive, then dropped into rich and dark. She could curl up and sleep in his voice.

  His mouth shaped itself into a half smile. “I didn’t want to come empty handed.” He offered her a purple bag with Carolina Herrera on the side. “But this trip was unplanned. Thank God for the hour of waiting in Jersey between ferries.”

  Millie looked into the bag for a reason not to look at his beautiful mouth or the black eyelashes that darkened his heart-stopping grey eyes. He had that first-impact thing. It was like last year when she’d met him on East Hill and he’d flooded her senses.

  She couldn’t afford to turn to jelly now.

  The bag contained a lilac straw hat. She pulled it out and allowed the wide brim to unfurl. Coral-and-orange flowers were tucked into the curve. “Thank you. It’s gorgeous.” She kept her eyes on the hat. “I have a mirror somewhere.” She had stuck a mirror behind one of the hanging ferns to double the visual effect of green leaves. She turned her back on George and went to it.

  It didn’t stop him.

  “Millie,” he said from somewhere behind her. “I want to say something, and I hope you will hear me out. It won’t take long.”

  Five minutes.

  As long as he stayed by the counter, and she didn’t look at him. He could speak for five minutes, then he would have to leave.

  She waited.

  And waited.

  She pretended to be busy with the hat, pushing it slightly to one side over her forehead.

  He cleared his throat, but no words came.

  So, she had to turn around.

  He drew in a harsh breath, his eyes travelling over her face and hair. “You look beautiful.”

  Don’t walk towards me.

  Don’t come closer.

  Don’t touch—

  Ever so gently, he brushed her cheek with the back of his fingers. “I’m a fool,” he said. “I’ve been looking for the right words. But there are no right words to explain a wrong deed.”

  His warm hand on her skin should be a wrong deed. It shouldn’t feel like it belonged there, like two halves unnaturally separated had finally come together. She kept her head down, the hat hiding her eyes.

  “I understand fairy tales now.” His fingers were still on her cheek. “Why the knight must sail seas and defeat demons to bring back a rare jewel for the princess.”

  “Well,” She teased. “To be fair, you did sail the Channel, and you brought a designer hat.”

  He didn’t laugh. If anything, his voice roughened. “There has to be something huge and impossible you can ask me. What can I do to begin to earn your forgiveness?”

  She shook her head. If she was hoping to shake his hand off, she failed. His palm cupped her cheek.

  “I forgave you long ago,” she said, reaching up to remove his hand from her face. But somehow all she seemed to do was curl her fingers around his wrist and feel his pulse beating hard under his warm skin.

  “How?” he breathed.

  “I don’t know.” She shrugged. “After a while, I wasn’t angry anymore.”

  “I don’t deserve this.” George’s other hand was in her hair,
dislodging the hat, which slid off and fell to the floor. “I expected to take hours, if not days, of explanation. Reasons for everything.”

  “I don’t need a legal defence,” she said, earning another half-smile.

  “You should make me work harder for this. Make me slay dragons and climb mountains.” There was barely an inch of air between them. Heat radiated off him.

  “Didn’t you tell me once—things that come freely are worth more?” Take your hands off him, now. She slid her hand from his wrist down his arm, brushing over the soft hairs, and felt him shudder.

  “I don’t deserve you.” His fingers tightened in her hair. “Millie”—his voice was almost a groan—“I have no control left. Please say yes. I don’t want to take you against your will. Say yes. Now.”

  No. No. And no.

  Her body curved into his. Her mouth found his lips and opened up to him. Her arms slid around him, pressing her palms to the shifting and flexing muscles in his back as he lifted her and carried her in his arms.

  Just one kiss. Because he tastes like heaven, like home. I deserve one kiss. Then I will send him away.

  Still kissing, he carried her to the back room.

  As soon as he sets me down, I will untangle my tongue from this kiss, and then I will say no.

  She slid down through his arms until she was standing on her own feet, locked in a crushing embrace. His tongue withdrew, his lips pulled away a little, but not much.

  He spoke against her mouth. “Reach into my trousers, my pocket.” Then his mouth closed on hers again.

  She slipped her hand to his waist, lower to his belt, and lower inside his pocket. Her fingers found a small box of condoms. A box.

  It was her last lucid thought for several hours.

  * * *

  Easter Sunday. Blue Sage Café, 5:30am

  In his fantasies about sex with Millie, George had imagined himself taking it slow their first time, savouring every touch and every taste. Her body had driven him crazy for so long that he wanted to make love to every inch of it, to drive her crazy in a hundred different ways.