by Jill Mansell
‘There's a letter from Nat.’ Millie recognized the handwriting on the final envelope.
‘If it was stuffed with cash I might be excited,’ Hester said fretfully. ‘Did you phone Lucas?’
She really was a hopeless case.
‘No,’ said Millie. ‘Although I thought I might write to Nat, keep him up to date with… everything.’ Meaningfully, she waggled her eyebrows.
‘Honestly, you have no idea how unscary that is.’ Hester broke into a grin. ‘You know you’d never do that.’
‘I might,’ Millie protested. ‘Nat's my friend too.’
‘And that makes no difference at all.’ Hester was smug. ‘Because I’m your best friend.’
‘I could always demote you.’
‘You never would though. You love me too much. Will you phone Lucas tomorrow?’
‘I might.’
‘Pleeease?’
‘I’ll think about it.’ Millie heaved a sigh. ‘And while I’m thinking about it, you might like to make me a cheese and Marmite toasted sandwich and a lovely big mug of tea.’
The penny suddenly dropped several hours later. Hester was out again, pounding the treadmill down at the gym and no doubt carefully patting her face with a hand towel every couple of minutes so her make-up wouldn’t run. Millie, having wallowed happily in the bath and caught up with the goings-on in EastEnders, wandered through to the kitchen in her dressing gown in search of biscuits. With no Hester around, it looked as if she was going to have to make her own tea.
Idly rolling the end of her dressing gown belt into a Catherine wheel, Millie ate a biscuit and waited for the kettle to boil. There were the bills that had arrived today, thrown down on the worktop waiting to be filed away.
In the bin, where all bills that didn’t have FINAL DEMAND printed in menacing red letters all over them were meticulously filed.
Steam began to billow from the spout of the kettle. Millie, counting under her breath, tried to guess the exact moment it would automatically switch itself off.
(The words Get a Life sprang to mind, but it was a harmless enough game and she enjoyed it.)
‘Three, two, one… now.’
Click, went the kettle.
And dinggg, went the penny as it suddenly, finally dropped.
‘Oh!’ Millie exclaimed aloud, her heart pounding away like Hester on her treadmill.
Scrabbling at the bundle of bills, it took her no time at all to find what she was looking for.
I am such a jerk, thought Millie. Why on earth didn’t I think of this before?
There, on the itemized phone bill, was the mobile phone number she had rung at half past midnight on the third of May.
Simple.
Four minutes and thirteen seconds, Millie noted. That was how long she and Hugh Emerson had spoken to each other. Funny how much chaos and damage you could inflict in four minutes and thirteen seconds. Not to mention pain and embarrassment and shame and bitter regret.
Chapter 9
NEEDING TIME TO THINK, Millie helped herself to a handful of biscuits and made herself that cup of tea.
Okay. Right. Clearly she needed to phone the man and apologize properly, because the awful guilt wasn’t going to go away of its own accord.
Then again, she wasn’t exactly looking forward to hearing those disdainful, icy tones the moment she told Hugh Emerson who she was.
I want to be spoken to in that lovely warm voice, Millie thought sadly. It was strange, but she actually yearned to hear him talk to her in that easy, friendly way again.
Okay, granted, he’d only sounded friendly for about twenty-five seconds last time, but… well, those twenty-five seconds had made a lasting impression.
The next moment, Millie's bare toes began to tingle and curl up with excitement as the germ of an idea crept into her mind.
Hugh Emerson would be far more likely to be nice if he didn’t know it was her he was speaking to.
It took another fifteen minutes of mulling over the possibilities, fine-honing her plan, and giving it a few trial runs before Millie plucked up the courage to dial the number.
Ring ring.
Ring ring.
Of course, he might not be there. He could be out—
‘Hello?’
Eek, it was him! Clamping the phone to her ear, hanging on to it for all she was worth, Millie took a huge breath and launched into the spiel she had, in true Blue Peter fashion, prepared earlier.
‘Joe? Och, thank goodness you’rre therre, ah’m having the worrrst time o’ it herre, you just hafty help me beforre ah goa arround the twist. Ah’m stuck on this terrible crossword, it's drrivin’ me mental, now listen, it's seven letterrrs—’
‘Hello, sorry,’ Hugh Emerson finally managed to get a word in edgewise, ‘I’m afraid you have the wrong person here.’
Millie feigned delight. ‘Och, Joe, dinna mess arround, ye canna fool me!’ Oops, accent beginning to slip a bit, have to keep it going. Think Scottish, think Sean Connery, think Billy Connolly. ‘Listen to me noo, here comes the firrst clue… seven letters… are you ready, Joe?’
‘I’m ready, but I’m still not Joe.’
Millie heard the amusement in his voice, knew he was shaking his head at her mistake. The delicious tingly feeling in her toes whooshed up to her knees.
‘Och no! Is that rreally not you, Joe?’ Indignantly she said, ‘So in that case who are you, and what are you doing answering Joe's phone?’
Hugh laughed, then said nicely, ‘I think you must have dialed the wrong number.’
‘No! Have I? Och, I’m so sorrry!’ Millie laughed too, in what she hoped was a convincingly Scottish fashion. Think Local Hero, think Mel Gibson in Braveheart, think Taggart.
‘Not a problem,’ Hugh Emerson replied easily.
‘Och, you must think I’m a complete haggis, rrambling oan like that. Well, I suppose I’d better leave you in peace…’ Millie allowed her voice to trail away, signalling regret.
‘Look, you may as well ask me now you’re here,’ said Hugh Emerson. ‘Seven letters, did you say? What's the clue?’
Yesss! Falling back on the sofa in ecstasy, Millie kicked her feet in the air like a beetle. That was the truly brilliant thing about crosswords, nobody could ever pass up the opportunity to show off.
‘Okay, it's the title of a Humphrey Bogart film, The something Falcon.’’ Oops, accent alert; in her excitement she’d completely forgotten about being Scottish. To make amends Millie added hastily, ‘Och, it's verra verra harrrd, I havnae a clue maself.’
‘Maltese,’ said Hugh Emerson.
Bugger, too easy. Clearly a man who knew his Bogart.
‘Fantastic!’ Millie exclaimed. ‘Now, eighteen across is two words, five and eight letters… och, I can’t take up your time like this, you must be busy, I really shouldna trrouble you.’
‘It's okay. Fire away.’
Millie stiffened; now he sounded faintly patronizing, as if she was just a silly girlie who couldn’t be expected to know the answer to a simple question.
‘He wrote the nineteen fifty-four film The Seven Samurai… oh wait, hang on, that was… ooh, whats his name, Akira somebody… yes! Akira Kurosawa!’
‘That's right. Well done.’ To Millie's delight, he sounded surprised. Impressed, even. Ha, all of a sudden she wasn’t quite so thick after all!
More crucially still, she’d drawn level.
One all.
He was a man; she knew he wouldn’t be able to resist it.
His tone extra casual, Hugh Emerson said, ‘Any more?’
Oh, he sounded so lovely, so charming, so… nice.
‘If you’re sure,’ Millie said playfully.
‘Fire away.’
‘Okay. The actor who played Tonto in The Lone Ranger… ooh, actually I think I do know this one…’
‘Jay Silverheels,’ Hugh said promptly.
And with a hint of triumph.
‘Yes!’ Millie exclaimed, ‘It fits. Well done. Golly, you must be
ancient if you can remember The Lone Ranger.’
He laughed. ‘Thanks a lot. Haven’t you ever heard of reruns?’
‘Oh, feeble excuse.’
‘Actually, I’m twenty-eight.’
I know, thought Millie, her whole body zinging and tingling, I know exactly how old you are. I even know your date of birth.
‘Oh well, if it's reruns we’re talking about, I was more of a Munsters girl myself.’
‘And I bet you wished you could have long black hair like Lily Munster.’
‘I did! I did!’ shrieked Millie, beside herself with amazement and delight. ‘I used to spend hours practising her glidey walk and plastering my mouth with red felt-tip pen because my mum wouldn’t let me borrow her lipstick.’
‘Bet you can’t remember the theme tune.’
‘Ha, but I can,’ Millie retorted happily. ‘I love that music, it's practically engraved on my heart!’
‘How's the sickness by the way?’ said Hugh, before she had a chance to draw breath and launch herself with gusto into the theme tune.
‘Sickness? Let me tell you, there's absolutely nothing wrong with being a Munsters fan! Now being a fan of Star Trek, I agree, is a bit weird—’
‘I meant morning sickness.’
Millie frowned. Was this a Munster joke she’d failed to get? For a couple of seconds she was stuck for a reply.
‘Are you not suffering from it?’ Hugh Emerson inquired. ‘I thought most pregnancies involved some degree of morning sickness.’ He paused, allowing the significance of what he was saying to sink in.
Millie, certainly feeling sick now, stammered, ‘I d-don’t… I d-don’t…’
His tone cool, he went on, ‘You are the girl who rang the other week, aren’t you? To tell me you’re expecting my child?’
That was the trouble with holes in the ground: they were never around when you most needed them.
Bugger, just when she’d been enjoying herself too.
Deep, deep, very deep breath.
‘I’m sorry, I’m more sorry than I can say. That's why I was ringing you, I promise, to let you know how awful I still felt.’ Millie just blurted the words out, any-old-how. ‘I wanted to write but I didn’t keep your address, and then this morning our phone bill arrived and there was your number and I felt as if I’d been given a second chance… but I couldn’t bear to tell you who I was straight away, in case you yelled at me and slammed the phone down, and I was just so desperate to hear you sounding normal instead of like a bucket of ice cubes. I was going to confess,’ she concluded her breathless tumble of apology, ‘I swear I was, but then we started talking and you were being so lovely… I was just having such a nice time, I kept putting it off and off.’
‘There never was any crossword.’ Hugh Emerson spoke without emotion.
Millie heaved a sigh. ‘No.’
There was a lot to be said for embroidering the truth—gosh, in the past she’d been known to embroider whole tablecloths—but now she felt she owed it to him to be honest.
‘Akira Kurosawa,’ he said in disbelief. ‘How did you know that?’
‘It's my dad's favorite film,’ Millie confessed. ‘I bought him the video last Christmas.’
‘And the truly abysmal Scottish-Welsh-Irish accent. Where did you get that from?’
‘I’m sorry.’ Millie sagged back against the sofa cushions in defeat. ‘Accents have never really been my thing.’
‘I should say not. You sounded like Russ Abbot.’
Honestly, it was like auditioning for a starring role on Broadway. Did he have to be quite so critical?
‘I was aiming for Billy Connolly,’ said Millie.
Hugh Emerson, now sounding exactly like a bored casting director, replied, ‘Allow me to let you in on a little secret. Scottish people do not begin every second sentence with the word Och.’
‘Right.’ Millie was humble. ‘Sorry.’
‘So you keep saying.’
‘But I am. I told you, I rang to apologize.’
‘To clear your conscience, you mean,’ Hugh Emerson drawled.
He certainly wasn’t making things any easier. Determined not to shout something petulant and slam the phone down, Millie was nevertheless glad he was two hundred-odd miles away in London.
‘To clear my conscience? Okay, yes, that too.’ She heard her own tone of voice switch gear, from grovely to curt. ‘So accidentally making a faux pas has never happened to you, is that what you’re telling me? You’re a stranger to embarrassment. You’ve spent your whole life doing and saying exactly the right thing.’
Curt with a hint of accusation.
‘Absolutely,’ Hugh Emerson replied.
‘Oh well, in that case, congratulations. You are officially the luckiest man alive.’
The millisecond the words were out of Millie's mouth she regretted them. If her tongue had been long and curly enough, like an anteater's tongue, she would have flicked it out, scooped the words back in, and swallowed them.
Because he wasn’t the luckiest man alive, was he? His wife was dead.
So much for her puny attempt at sarcasm. Now he could really lay into her.
Not daring to breathe, Millie braced herself for the blistering riposte.
‘Except, actually, now you come to mention it…’ Hugh Emerson sounded thoughtful. ‘There was the time I said to a girl, “You’ve been eating biscuits, brush those crumbs off your face.” And she said, “They’re not crumbs, they’re warts.”’
‘No!’ Millie let out a shriek of delight. ‘You didn’t do that! I don’t believe it.’
‘True,’ he admitted.
‘But you apologized to her.’
‘Well, I tried,’ said Hugh. ‘But I don’t know if she heard.’
‘Why ever not?’
‘My six friends were making a bit of a racket, banging the table and yelling, “Nice one, Hugh,” and roaring with laughter.’
Millie laughed too, elated that she wasn’t, after all, about to be slaughtered. He had let her off the hook, and the relief was monumental. In fact, he was in definite danger of sounding almost human again.
‘By the way, thanks for posting my wallet back to me,’ said Hugh. ‘Out of interest, where did you find it?’
‘Here in Newquay. Under a hedge in Furness Lane.’ Because he was a tourist, Millie added, ‘It's one of the roads leading away from the seafront.’
‘I was carrying my jacket.’ He sounded rueful. ‘It must have dropped out of the inside pocket.’
‘You men, I don’t know how you cope without handbags, I really don’t.’
During the pause that followed, Millie wondered if she’d put her foot in it again. As the silence lengthened she envisaged—with mounting horror—the cringe-making possibilities. Maybe his wife had died tragically as a result of getting her handbag strap accidentally twisted around her neck?
Maybe she’d been dancing round her handbag when she’d tripped over the strap, lost her balance, clunked her head on the edge of a table, had a brain hemorrhage, and died?
Or maybe she’d been attacked by a mugger who’d tried to snatch her handbag, and when she’d hung on to it, he’d pushed her under the wheels of a passing bus?
Heavens, there were any number of ways a handbag could kill you, it was practically a deadly weapon.
James Bond, Millie decided, could do a lot worse than give up his Walther PPK and start carrying a handbag instead.
But when Hugh finally spoke, there was no mention of handbags. Nor were there any signs that she had committed yet another hideous faux pas.
‘Okay, listen, say no if you don’t want to, but I’d like to buy you a drink.’ He paused. ‘To thank you for returning my wallet.’
‘Blimey, that is mad.’ Millie shook her head. ‘All the way from London to Cornwall for a drink with a total stranger.’
‘I lost that wallet two months ago. I don’t live in London any more.’ Sounding amused, he explained, ‘The post office is forwarding my mail
.’
Oh. Oh.
‘Oh,’ said Millie, startled. ‘So where are you now?’
‘Just outside Padstow. I’ve bought a house not far from Constantine Bay.’
Oh my giddy aunt, not far from Newquay either.
I’ve got a date, thought Millie, putting the phone down shortly afterwards in something of a daze. I’ve been and gone and got myself a date with a complete stranger. I’ve never met him, but the sound of his voice does weird things to my insides and his laugh makes my toes tingle.
Does that count as a real date?
The phone rang again five minutes later, while Millie was in the kitchen shaking chilli sauce over a bowl of Kettle Chips.
‘Look, it's me again.’ Hugh Emerson had evidently phoned 1471. ‘I forgot to ask if you’re married or single.’
Gulp.
‘Oh.’ Millie shivered with pleasure, licked chilli sauce from her fingers—wow, hot—and said, ‘Well, actually, single.’
Shame about the promise she’d made to Hester, but never mind. What a mad idea that had been anyway.
‘Boyfriend?’
‘Nope, no boyfriend,’ Millie said gaily. ‘Nobody. Absolutely no one at all!’
‘Right. Well, I just wanted to make myself clear. This isn’t a date, okay? I’m buying you a drink, to thank you for returning my wallet. A drink, that's all.’
‘Um…’ Millie's heart sank. ‘… okay.’
‘It's not a date. You do understand that, don’t you? Not a date date.’
‘Not a date. Fine, absolutely, couldn’t agree with you more.’ Millie's heart had by this time reached her boots—well, it would have done if she’d been wearing any. And her toes weren’t curling up anymore, either. They were lying there, looking sad and dejected on the kitchen floor.
‘Dating isn’t on the agenda,’ Hugh explained kindly. And fairly unnecessarily, under the circumstances. ‘Since my wife. I just needed to make sure you understood. I don’t… do dates.’
A little voice in Millie's head—Hester's voice, actually—whispered triumphantly, ‘Ha ha, serves you right, ha ha haHAHA.’
‘Don’t worry,’ Millie declared with as much cheerful sincerity as she could muster. ‘I mean, I agree with you. Absolutely. Neither do I.’
