by Rosie Dean
I did. Although I wasn’t sure if she was referring to her arthritis or her finances, which had been in dire straits since Dad died. But the prospect of spending Saturday night with the great and the good of St. Barnabus wasn’t much of a vote winner.
‘How about I help with the food but skip the party?’
She gave me one of her looks. It was one of her fierce ones. She was particularly good at those, with her cocoa-brown eyes, black lashes and heavy black eyebrows. ‘Father Riley is expecting you. And I can’t manage all those dishes on my own.’
The last comment was redundant. If Father Riley had told her he was expecting me, I had to be there.
On Saturday night, it soon became clear exactly why I’d been invited. As I stood in the kitchen, up to my elbows in washing-up water, Father Riley sidled over to me. I wondered whether he was hoping to coax me back into the choir. I’d left in disgrace, twelve years ago, owing to an incident involving spiked cider. ‘Camilla,’ he began. ‘Have you met my nephew, Aubrey?’ I turned to face a heavy-set, had-seen-better-days man who bore a horrifying resemblance to his uncle. If Riley was fifty-seven, this chap wasn’t far behind.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I smiled, clocking my mother who was hovering in the background.
‘He’s over from Cork. We wondered if you and your mother would like to join us for dinner, next week?’
I didn’t have to look at the old-witch-who-is-my-mother to know she was nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘Erm…’
‘Any night. You choose. We’re very flexible.’
I found myself agreeing to Tuesday evening at seven-thirty. Aubrey was to treat us to his Irish Salmon and Crab fishcakes. ‘Best you’ll ever taste,’ his uncle assured me, while the benign and silent nephew oozed sweat from his brow.
Was that what my life had come to? Was it so far out of whack I was agreeing to dates arranged by my mother and her string-pulling priest?
I drifted through the rest of the evening in a stupor of disbelief. When I drove home, the radio station was celebrating the last day of National Wedding Week, with a syrupy string of heart-lifting stories and soppy tunes. I felt my throat tighten and my eyes tingle. ‘Stop it!’ I hissed to the empty car. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ The music rolled on – all minor chords and vocal harmonies tweaking my emotions. The ache in my chest was unutterably painful.
I pulled the car over and howled. I snivelled. I shouted at myself. Then, gradually, when I was all sobbed out, I reached a place of calm. Around me, I could hear trees rustling and the occasional toot of an owl. The moon was huge – a bright, silver disc in the sky. It was, without doubt, a beautiful night.
‘Fuck this!’ I said, and reached into my handbag for my note-pad and pen.
ACTION PLAN, I wrote at the top.
Things were going to change. But only if I took control.
Chapter 2
‘Sacha, I’ve got news for you,’ I announced, as my flatmate reached for her cappuccino. ‘I’m going to marry a cricketer.’
‘My God!’ she choked, spilling coffee froth over the table. ‘Millie, you dark horse. Which one?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet, but he’s definitely going to be a cricketer…I think.’
Sacha narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you had your tarot done?’
In fairness, I have been known to consult the tarot before; either at times of indecision or complete inertia in my personal life. On my last visit, the reading was so rosy, the euphoria transported me for weeks as I travelled in eager anticipation of my soul-mate appearing at every turn…which he didn’t.
I squirmed a little and tucked my feet up under me. ‘No. This is a life decision.’
Her eyes popped open as she looked at me. ‘To marry a cricketer?’
‘Well, okay, he could be a rugby player or possibly even a basketball player. But since it’s summer, I’m going to start looking for him at cricket matches.’
She shrugged. ‘Your reason being...?’
‘Sacha, when was the last time I went out with a decent bloke? Like, one who didn’t have a ‘significant other’ lurking in the background or the personality of a draining board?’
She looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes drifting up while, I assume, she considered an imaginary parade of my past suitors. ‘You may have a point.’
‘Exactly. If I want to find myself a proper, stand-up, thoroughly worth-while man to…well…settle down with…’
This was too much for Sacha – she was beginning to gape. ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly. I’m tired of clubs and bars and blowing hundreds of pounds on Guess handbags and Jimmy Choos. It’s all so pointless. I just want what millions of women before me wanted.’
‘Stretch marks?’
Sacha had been my closest friend since we’d wound up sharing the same flat in Bridgeman Villas. What I sometimes overlooked, was her being four years younger, with some residual adrenalin coursing through her veins from university life. ‘Look, I’m nearly thirty and I don’t want my children to be too embarrassed to meet me at the school gates, because I’ve got bristles on my chin and bingo wings. I’ve really thought about this. Here,’ I pulled a Wish List out of my pocket and handed it over.
WISH LIST FOR MR RIGHT
* Self-made man
* Successful
* Solvent with prospects
* Comfortable in own skin
* Sporty/fit
* GSOH
* Knows where he’s going
* Taller than me
* No tattoos or piercings
* Property owner
* Child-friendly
‘Firstly, I want my husband to be successful; like a self-made businessman or a captain of industry – solvent with secure prospects. Somebody people look up to – who’s comfortable in his own skin and not riddled with insecurities.’
‘Rich and arrogant.’
‘No. He doesn’t have to be rich…exactly. It’s about security and not having to worry about bills and stuff. There’s something very attractive about a man who knows where he’s going and plans to get there.’ Sacha had her serious face on as she perused my Wish List. ‘Time’s running out – and so are my ovaries.’
‘Millie, I never knew you were so broody.’
‘Neither did I. It just sort of hit me. And now, all I can see ahead of me are more nights morphing into the sofa until they have to invent a new solvent to get me off it.’
Sacha nodded. ‘Wow! You’re serious aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
She snuggled up along the sofa and linked arms with me. ‘So…let me understand this…when you turn up at the cricket club, are you going to ask somebody on the touch-line to point out which guys are still single?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to hand out a questionnaire.’
‘Really?’
Sacha can be so gullible. ‘No. I’m going to turn up with a camera and say I’m doing a study of cricket for my photography project.’
‘Do you even have a camera?’
‘Buying one tomorrow.’
‘Why do you need a camera, anyway? Can’t you just watch the cricket and chat up the really hot ones?’
‘And look like Millie No Mates? The camera’s my reason for being there. Plus, I’ll have a good excuse for taking photos of all the men, and maybe doing more detailed studies on the most eligible ones.’
She looked at me for a moment, no doubt assessing my sanity with clinical authority – her being an orthopaedic nurse – and then shrugged. ‘So, you’re going to spend your entire weekend, driving round Hampshire, letching after middle-aged men in cricket whites?’
‘I might go to Berkshire, too.’
She nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
‘Look, if I go to three cricket clubs, I get to see six teams in one day, which is at least sixty-six men.’ I ignored her wrinkling brow. ‘I’m not happy with the way my life’s going and I’m taking positive steps to change it. I
had thought you might give me a bit of support and encouragement.’
There was a moment’s pause before she held my hand. ‘Millie, I’m sorreeee. You’re absolutely right. Hanging around bars and clubs is no way to meet the father of your children.’ She invested enough concern and affection into her apology to make my eyes tingle. I suddenly realised how emotional I felt about the whole business. Her thumb stroked mine. ‘Good on you for thinking it through like that.’
I sniffed. ‘Truth is, Sach, I hardly ever go to clubs or bars these days, do I? There’s an arse-shaped cushion on this sofa – my arse – from all those make-over shows and rom-coms I sit through. I’ve completely Sky-plussed my social life.’
‘Then join a gym or go salsa dancing.’
‘I did go salsa dancing, remember?’
‘Okay – so you were stalked for six months by a Dutch guy, but that won’t happen again.’
Jan Van den Madman, or whatever he was called, had bombarded me with messages on Facebook, hung around outside our flat singing ‘You Light up my Life’ at three in the morning until, thank goodness, his company called him back to Holland.
Sacha continued. ‘I honestly think touring Hampshire villages is a waste of time. They’re inhabited by the Middle Aged and Already Marrieds…and then there are the pensioners and agricultural in-breds.’
I ploughed on. ‘But we’re going into summer now, and it’s where the cricket teams are. I’m sure there must be some upwardly mobiles, from local towns, who get recruited. I figure a cricket match is as good a place as any to check out prospective husbands. Where else will I find twenty-two sober men in one hit?’
Sacha leaned over to pick up her coffee. ‘Ward fourteen’s got twenty-four beds.’
‘Really? I may have to keep that as a contingency.’
She laughed. ‘So, where will you start?’
‘I’ve identified all the cricket clubs within a thirty-mile radius. I’ve downloaded the fixture lists from the internet and on Sunday, I’m doing Marshalhampton, Oldersbury and Romwick.’
She concentrated on spooning the frothy dregs from her coffee for a moment and then said, ‘Millie, what you’re proposing to do is kind of calculating and…weird, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t want to leave anything to chance.’
‘What about a dating agency?’
‘The online ones are full of married men claiming to be “separated” when all they want is a shag. And the decent agencies cost an arm and a leg.’
‘More than a camera?’
‘Tons more.’
‘Really?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Shit! I’ve got to go. If you’re still awake when I come home, I want to hear more.’ She leaned over to give me a hug. ‘So, you’re going day after tomorrow; how about I swap my shift and tag along to make notes – I could be like your agent.’
The last thing I needed was the adorable Sacha batting her eyelashes, flicking her blonde tresses and loitering behind me with a clipboard.
At my lack of response she grinned. ‘Okay, maybe not, then. Love you. Bye.’
I watched her haul her bag over her shoulder and head for the door. As she reached it, she turned and said, ‘Just a thought…if you don’t want to leave anything to chance, why don’t I give you a blood sampling kit and I’ll run the samples through the lab to see if you’re compatible?’
‘Very funny,’ I said but made a mental note to cover the topic with her later.
Chapter 3
So, on the first Sunday in June, I stepped from my air-conditioned baby Fiat into the hot afternoon sunshine. After the wettest May on record it couldn’t have been more perfect or surprising.
This day could very well change my life.
Less than a hundred metres away, I might actually discover the father of my children. I was standing in the car-park of Romwick Cricket Club, about to embark on one of the most important projects of my life.
From out of the boot, I took my smart new camera case – complete with brand new camera and telephoto lens – and a folding picnic stool.
I glanced at my reflection in the car window and wondered, not for the first time, whether the outfit was right; navy cropped trousers, white scoop-neck blouse and new, plum and white daisy chain sandals with matching plum nail polish. Did I look casual and approachable or like I’d spent two hours and forty minutes putting the look together? My hair had been up, down, half-up, plaited over one shoulder and was now clasped behind my head in a butterfly clip. A few tendrils had already escaped and were springing round my face in dark, wiggly corkscrews. I harrumphed, pressed my gloss-slickened lips together and gave myself a morale-boosting smile.
Surveying the scene before me of lush green grass, faded clapboard pavilion and at least a dozen men standing about the field, my hopes were high that today would yield a cornucopia of talent – a smorgasbord of knights in white flannels. I drew a deep breath, dropped my shoulders back (all the better to enhance my A-cup boobs) and sauntered over to watch the action.
I unfolded my stool and perched on the edge of the group of spectators – mostly lazing batsmen and a couple of sweet old men on ancient, striped deck chairs, who were sharing a tinfoil wrap of sandwiches. The local team was taking it seriously, with a ‘Roger’ (can’t imagine him called anything else) transmitting an incessant stream of commands to the fielders while the other team, from Itchenfield, appeared to have press-ganged rejects from the Glastonbury Festival, one of whom was barbecuing burgers on the boundary.
Hauling my camera and telephoto lens out, I busied myself with setting up the equipment and looking professional. The mere chance that my potential husband was in the vicinity, charged my system with anticipation. My plan called for careful observation and contemplation. I owed it to my future to cover all angles. But as soon as I focused on the field of play, an elderly voice wheezed, ‘My, that’s an impressive looking camera, Frank.’
‘Wasted on this game.’
‘Ooh, I don’t know. First time old man Cartwright’s turned out this year. If she gets a shot of him at the crease, it’ll be one for the archives.’
A wheezy chuckle followed. ‘Aye, and he’s still upright.’
More chuckles.
I took a couple of pictures of the batsman, who was watching the bowler polish the ball on his crotch. In the interests of sporting trivia, I captured said crotch before scanning the fielders for someone promising. I’d vowed to shoot all contenders with equal professionalism: full-length, close-up, profile and always, always third finger, left hand. I liked to be thorough, whatever I undertook.
‘What are you up to, my dear – talent scouting for Hampshire?’
Oh, if he only knew.
I looked at the old chaps, who smiled – possibly remembering long-gone days when they might have made a play for me. I laughed politely. ‘No, just interested in sport photography.’
‘Sport?’ The nearest one lowered his voice, ‘You want to get yourself down to Southampton – home of Hampshire Cricket. Watch a professional game.’
‘Too expensive,’ I replied, with an apologetic wrinkle of my nose, and turned back to the game, eager to study the players.
‘You know, we don’t get many young ladies down at matches.’
All the more for me, I thought.
‘Nice seeing a pretty face, for a change.’
The other one spoke. ‘Are you a cricket fan?’
I looked across at them. ‘Not especially. I’ve just taken up photography. Sport seems more challenging than landscapes.’
‘Oh yes. What other sports have you tried?’
I took a breath. ‘Actually, this is my first.’
Well, that set them off. They appeared duty bound to impart as much knowledge of cricket as they could, and insisted I bring my stool closer so they could talk more quietly. Bad move. It put me in grabbing distance, which the nearest one – Jim – did frequently, squeezing my wrist as he imparted some nugget of information about The Ashes or ball seams (don’
t ask) making it impossible for me to get away. Imagine my relief, when a ripple of applause signalled the dismissal of a batsman and my chance to escape.
‘I’m just off to take some shots from the other side,’ I said, leapt up and belted round behind the pavilion. I could feel their eyes on me as I trained the lens on a new batsman, who was encouragingly cute. Short but cute. In close-up he had a look of Brad Pitt but it couldn’t be denied – legs of a pit pony.
Next, I focused on players lazing outside the pavilion; they were an unkempt bunch from Itchenfield. At least half were in t-shirts and jeans. Faithful to my plan, I captured shots of all the interesting ones but struggled to consider any might be suitable. Surely the man I was looking for would take some pride in his appearance, plus, I am partial to a man in white cable-knit.
Returning to collect my stool, I approached in a wide arc but Jim, with lightening reflexes, clutched at the canvas seat before I had chance to lift it. ‘You young ladies could do very well at these cricket clubs,’ he said, with a heavy and knowing nod.
‘Playing cricket?’ I asked.
‘No. Finding yourself a young man.’
‘Away with you,’ Frank chided. ‘This lot are almost as decrepit as we are. She wants something younger.’
‘How do you know?’ Jim turned to argue with him and I seized the stool.
‘I’m off, now. Lovely talking to you.’
‘Alright, dear. Come back and see us again, sometime,’ Jim grinned, waving a wrinkled palm at me.
‘Absolutely. You might even see me next week.’ That would be after I’d had a chance to review the candidates. Then I could nurture my little friendship with Jim and Frank, tease out any useful data on those under scrutiny and engineer some introductions. This was social networking with a real purpose.
Back in the car, I reviewed the photos I’d taken. No marks for artistic composition and, it had to be said, even fewer for content. I could feel my resolve wobble, which was so unlike me. I’m a fighter. At work, I’d been the second most successful account manager for the last two years and, if I continued at my current rate, I’d be number one this year. Imagine – Millie Carmichael beating smug old Simon Ostler to first place. The end of August would see the final reckoning and I would win the luxury week for two in some exotic destination. If I could do that, I could do this.
