by Jill Mansell
‘But that's exactly why you mustn’t let this upset you.’ Millie rattled the photocopied sheet of A4 at her. ‘Don’t give him the satisfaction. Just ignore it!’
‘And count my money,’ Orla suggested dryly. She raked her fingers through her hair. ‘Easy to say, not so easy to do. The next time you’re ripped to shreds by a vindictive stranger in a national newspaper, why don’t you ring me up and tell me how easy it is to ignore. Sorry,’ she waggled her diamond-encrusted fingers in apology, ‘but you have no idea how much it hurts. I worked bloody hard to write an entertaining book and this is what I get in return, some beastly little man telling me my plots are unbelievable, my characters far-fetched, and my writing style about six rungs lower on the ladder than Jackie Collins's.’
Trying to help, Millie said, ‘But you must get nice letters as well, from people who’ve enjoyed your books.’
‘I get loads of nice letters.’ Orla's voice began to rise. ‘But they don’t count. It's nasty stuff like this that counts… this is what keeps me awake at night—’
‘That proposition you said you had for me.’ Millie intercepted her in mid-rant. ‘Would it by any chance have something to do with this Christie Carson?’
‘Funny you should mention it,’ said Orla, puffing away on her next cigarette. ‘Yes.’
‘Do you want me to write rude letters to him? Gun him down in the street? Wait until he's gone away for a few days and post prawns through his letterbox?’
The faintest of smiles flickered across Orla's face.
‘I wouldn’t waste prawns on a man like that. Maybe rotten fish heads.’
Alarmed, Millie said, ‘It was meant to be a joke.’
‘You don’t have to murder him.’ Orla held open the study door. ‘Come on, let's go downstairs. We’ll talk about it over lunch.’
‘Promise me I don’t have to seduce him,’ said Millie.
They ate poached salmon, baby new potatoes, and a roasted red-pepper salad.
‘So you see?’ asked Orla when she had finished outlining her plan. ‘All you’d have to do is be yourself.’
‘I don’t get it.’ If she did, Millie thought it was the weirdest idea ever. ‘You want your next book to be the story of all the things that happen to me in the next… how long? Six weeks? Six months? Year?’
‘No time limit. Just as long as it takes before we reach some kind of happy ending.’
Mad. Seriously mad.
‘So that would make it like my autobiography?’
‘Biography,’ Orla corrected her. ‘And no, I’d be writing a novel. The whole thing would be fictionalized. But I’d be paying you to provide the plot.’
‘What if I can’t?’ Millie started to laugh, because the prospect was so ridiculous. ‘I mean, it is quite likely, you know. I’ve no boyfriend, I’ve sworn to steer clear of men for the rest of the summer, and I have about as much social life as your average Pot Noodle. I hate to say this, but your novel wouldn’t be exactly action-packed.’
Orla wasn’t laughing. She shrugged and jutted out her lower lip.
‘Maybe not, but at least no one would be able to call it fanciful and far-fetched and ridiculously over the top.’
Millie blinked.
‘You’re prepared to do all this because of one bad review.’
‘Actually, I’m doing it for all sorts of reasons. First of all, I think you’d be great material,’ said Orla. She held her glass of Frascati up to the light, admiring the way the sun glinted off it. ‘Think how we met, for a start. Then there's your gorgeous wallet story… and losing your job… and getting another job working for the handsome guy your best friend has a mad crush on—’
‘Okay, okay,’ Millie said hurriedly. She wouldn’t have called her wallet story gorgeous.
‘Secondly, I’d be getting out of the planning rut. I wouldn’t know what was going to happen next, simply because it won’t have happened yet! So no need to agonize over the plot,’ Orla said joyfully. ‘And you have no idea how great that would feel. I’d be free!’
Orla was right; Millie had absolutely no idea how great that would feel—the last piece of fiction she’d written had begun, ‘Dear Great Aunt Edna, Thank you so much for the lovely pair of shorts you knitted me…’
‘Go on,’ she urged Orla. ‘What else?’
Orla flew into the sitting room, returning moments later with a copy of her latest paperback. Holding it face-out, so Millie could see the instantly recognizable cover, she said, ‘See this? It's an Orla Hart blockbuster. Actually, it's the thirteenth Orla Hart blockbuster, and so far we’ve sold one and a half million copies. Which is fantastic, of course, for both me and my publishers. Because as far as they’re concerned, I’m their star battery chicken. Every year they take it for granted that I’ll just churn out another book.’
‘Egg,’ said Millie.
‘Golden egg,’ Orla corrected her with a faint smile. ‘In fact, a jewel-encrusted, solid-gold Fabergé egg the size of a sofa. Which is why, when I wanted to change my writing style a couple of years ago, they wouldn’t let me. They sweet-talked me out of it, in case I dented their precious profits. But this time I’m going to do it, I’m going to ditch the bonkbuster trappings, the clichés, the whole Orla Hart format. I’m going to write a proper literary novel, just to prove to all those bloody sneering critics out there that I can!’ As she spoke, she jabbed viciously at the review she had brought downstairs with her. ‘And sod anyone who cares more about the money than they care about me.’ She paused, then added calmly, ‘And that goes for Giles too.’
Blimey.
Millie nodded, impressed. Orla was using the opportunity to punish Giles for having had an affair. Maybe it was also her way of testing him. If this change of direction were to fail, Orla wanted to know if he would continue to support her.
For richer, for poorer, in sickness, and in health.
‘You’d have to change all the names,’ Millie warned.
‘Darling, I know that. I thought we might call you Gertrude.’
‘Still seems a bit drastic.’ Millie gazed reflectively at the unattractive photograph of Christie Carson above his byline. ‘Couldn’t you just phone him up, shout “Wanker!” and tell him he's got a nose like a Jerusalem artichoke?’
He didn’t, but Millie never let the facts get in the way of a good insult.
‘Nose? Ha, willy more like. And don’t think I haven’t been tempted.’ Orla poured them both some more wine before settling back in her white rattan chair. ‘I hate that man, I really hate him for writing all that horrible stuff about me.’ She paused, then fixed Millie with a look of weary resignation. ‘But what I hate more is having to admit to myself that in some ways he's right.’
Before Millie left two hours later, Orla scribbled out a check for five thousand pounds and stuffed it into her hand.
Oh my giddy aunt. Five thousand pounds.
‘Really, you don’t have to,’ Millie protested, not meaning it for a second. How awful if Orla said, ‘No? All right then, I’ll have it back.’
Happily she didn’t.
‘Rubbish.’ Orla was brisk. ‘This is a business arrangement. It's only fair.’
It was, Millie decided happily. It was fair. Except…
‘I’m a bit embarrassed. What if you end up with a book where the girl spends her whole life watching EastEnders, shaving her legs, and trying to eat chocolate without getting it on her clothes?’
Despite years of practice, she’d never mastered the art of biting a Cadbury's Flake without crumbly bits falling down her front.
‘Exciting things will happen,’ Orla said soothingly. ‘And if they don’t, we’ll jolly well make them happen.’
‘Gosh.’
‘All you have to do is report back to me once a week.’
There was no denying it; this was easy money. Easy peasy.
‘And tell you everything?’ asked Millie.
‘Everything.’
‘Do I have to be called Gertrude?’
>
Orla patted her arm.
‘Darling, we can call you anything you like.’
‘Oh well, in that case,’ Millie brightened, ‘could you also make me look like Lily Munster?’
Chapter 12
IT WAS WEIRD, GETTING ready for a date-that-definitely-wasn’t-a-date. Millie felt it was only polite to have a bath before meeting Hugh Emerson. But she didn’t dare dress up, in case he thought she was trying to impress him. He was a widower, a recent widower, and the very last thing he was interested in was getting hit on by some eager female desperate for a boyfriend.
Not that she was eager or a desperate Doris, but since they’d never met, Hugh wasn’t to know that.
Damn, thought Millie, pulling a face at her reflection in the wardrobe mirror, this would all be so much easier if only I hadn’t seen that photo of him in his wallet.
Or if I’d seen the photo and he’d been ugly.
Except then, of course, she might not have been seized with that shameful urge to ring his number and speak to him again.
His wife just died, his wife just died. Millie forced herself to run this cheery mantra through her brain as she pulled on a pair of white jeans, beige espadrilles, and a khaki tank top. Ha, see, that's how much I’m not bothered about making a good impression. Dragging a brush through her white-blonde hair, she hoped he wouldn’t assume it was dyed. Oops, and whatever happened, she mustn’t mention that word, the dreaded d-word.
Not much make-up. Just a bit of mascara.
Okay, and a quick once-over with the translucent powder.
Um, and some lipstick of course. Couldn’t go without lipstick. Only pale pink, though, nothing mind-boggling.
Sod it. May as well slap some eye shadow on too.
Well, thought Millie, it was all very well not wanting to look like a desperate Doris, but then again it wouldn’t do to have him thinking you were a complete dog.
She spotted him the moment she arrived at Morton's, one of the popular bars just off the seafront. Pretending she hadn’t, Millie glanced around in distracted, will-someone-please-help-me? fashion and waited for Hugh Emerson to approach her.
It took him less than thirty seconds to do so. Which impressed Millie to no end.
As did Hugh himself. Gosh, he was even better looking than his photo.
‘Is it you?’ As he spoke, the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement.
‘Och, well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,’ Millie responded with a playful smile. ‘But if it's a drink you’re offairing, I’d love a pint of porridge. Shaken, not stirrrred.’
‘Been practicing the accent, I see.’ He nodded gravely. ‘Excellent. They’ll be signing you up as the new James Bond any day now.’
Millie beamed up at him.
‘Fantastic, I’ve always wanted a license to kill, especially those teenage boys who try and run you off the street with their skateboards, or little old ladies who bash you from behind with their wheelie-shoppers, ooh, and people who stick their chewing gum under tables, they really deserve to die… um, hi, I’m Millie, sorry, bit nervous, can’t think why, I mean it's not as if this is a date or anything.’
How could I? How could I have said the d-word, the one word I swore I wouldn’t say? Mortified by her lapse into auto-babble, Millie prayed he hadn’t noticed. Heavens, and what if his dead wife had been one of those people who parked their chewing gum under tables? Or went around bashing people's ankles with her wheelie-shopper?
In a fluster, Millie said, ‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m a complete alcoholic or anything, but why don’t we order that drink?’
Which of course meant he immediately would think she was a complete alcoholic. Not to mention a twit. Oh yes, wonderful, this was getting off to a flying start.
Bugger, why couldn’t he have been ugly? Some men were just born inconsiderate.
‘They don’t serve porridge,’ Hugh announced.
‘No? Oh well,’ said Millie, ‘in that case I’ll have a G and T instead.’
Sitting down, she watched Hugh Emerson ordering their drinks at the bar. He was pretty tall, six foot one or two. He also worked out, if the athletic look of his body was anything to go by… unless of course he’d been a big old tub of lard before, until grief had robbed him of the will to eat…
Oh stop it, stop thinking like this, for crying out loud. She’d seen the photograph of him and his wife, hadn’t she? Of course he hadn’t been fat.
But it was no good, Millie couldn’t help herself. She’d never met a young widower before, couldn’t begin to imagine the horror of what he must have been through.
Gosh, he had such a nice nose, practically the straightest nose she’d ever seen. And an excellent jawline. And fabulously long-lashed eyes the color of treacle toffee, and dark blond hair that curled over the collar of his blue and white hooped rugby shirt—
‘Here you go, gin and tonic, loads of ice, slice of lemon.’
Millie seized it thankfully and took a sip. Bleeugh. That was the great thing about ordering a drink you weren’t actually wild about; it meant you took your time over it and didn’t get legless in twenty minutes flat. Besides, in these days of alcopops and blow-your-head-off designer cider, it was nice to be different. Gin and tonic always made her feel so Lauren Bacall.
‘Here we are then, you’ve done your duty,’ Millie said brightly. ‘Bought me a drink as a thank you for returning your wallet. If you like, you can go now.’
Hugh smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Jolly nice knees, she couldn’t help noticing. Jolly nice elbows, come to that.
‘I was intrigued, I admit.’ His tone was good-natured. ‘Two mad phone calls. How could I not meet you, put a face to the voice?’
‘And?’ Millie gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Are you shocked? Did it never occur to you that I might be as ugly as this?’
‘Don’t worry, I braced myself,’ said Hugh. ‘I was prepared for the worst.’
‘That's really kind. If you’d taken one look at me, turned green, and made a dive for the door, well, I’d have died—’
Oh God, oh God, I can’t believe I did it again!
Millie buried her face in her hands, took a couple of deep breaths, then forced herself to look up again at Hugh Emerson.
‘I’m sorry. Okay? I’m so, soooo sorry about this. You know how it is when you’re trying desperately hard not to mention something? And it keeps popping out because you’re trying so hard not to say it? Well, that's what's happening to me this evening and I really, totally apologize but I just can’t help it.’
She knew she was bright red; her face was actually pulsating with shame.
‘Right.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘Fine. That's perfectly okay.’ He paused, then said, ‘But I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’
Millie stared at him. He must know. Was this a joke? Was he simply being ultra-polite?
Unless… oh God… he’d been stringing her along all this time, pretending his wife was dead when all along he’d never even been married.
‘Dead. Dying. Death. Deadly,’ Millie recited. ‘Those kind of words are the kind I’ve been trying to avoid. Because of your wife.’
Your so-called wife, anyway.
‘Oh, I see. I didn’t realize. Look,’ said Hugh, ‘it's fine, don’t worry about it.’
Or, thought Millie, you do have a wife and she's still alive and well, in which case you’re a complete and utter bastard.
‘How did she die?’ The more Millie thought it through, the more likely it seemed that her suspicions were correct. Which made it, all of a sudden, incredibly easy to ask the questions she’d never thought she’d be able to ask.
‘Horse-riding accident.’
‘What was her name?’
‘Louisa.’ He paused. ‘I’ve already told you that.’
I know, thought Millie. Just double-checking.
Aloud she said, ‘When did it happen?’
‘Last October.’
‘What date?’
For a second, Hugh stared at her in disbelief. Then, slowly, he shook his head.
‘You’re going to check this out, aren’t you?’
Embarrassed, Millie feigned innocence.
‘I don’t know what you mean. I was just interested—’
‘You think I’m making it up, spinning you a line.’
It was no good. He knew. And he wasn’t sounding thrilled.
Millie fiddled with her glass and said awkwardly, ‘Well you could be. These things happen. And,’ she added with a flash of spirit, ‘you don’t look like a widower.’
‘Maybe not. Then again—modesty aside—I don’t need to go for the sympathy vote. Plus,’ he went on coolly, ‘this isn’t actually a date, is it? I’m not interested in persuading you to jump into bed with me. I promise you, sex is the last thing on my mind.’
How completely infuriating. And what a stupendous challenge! For a moment Millie experienced a wild—and thankfully fleeting— urge to hurl herself on to Hugh Emerson's lap, plunge her hand down the front of his jeans, and find out for herself if he was telling the truth.
Instead, mentally superglueing herself to her chair, she changed the subject.
‘So what made you move from London down to Cornwall?’
‘I didn’t need to be there anymore. We always loved it down here. And I work from home,’ Hugh shrugged, ‘so there was nothing to stop me. Anyway, I was sick of the city. Living by the sea beats the hell out of London.’
‘What line of work are you in?’
‘Software development. Designing websites, advising other companies, showing them how to maximize their potential… I’m just a hired gun, really. Or a hired nerd.’ He grinned, clearly able to say this because he knew he was about as un-nerdy as it was possible to get. ‘But I’m pretty good at what I do. And it pays well. Plus, I get to surf in my spare time.’
Millie immediately pictured him in a black rubber wetsuit, his wet, sun-streaked blond hair flopping over his tanned forehead as he raced down Fistral Beach and launched himself into the sea…
