by Jill Mansell
‘You should be ashamed of yourself.’ Millie was filled with disdain. ‘You are unbelievable.’
‘God, you’re beautiful when you’re angry,’ said Lucas, still laughing as he hung up.
‘Here's your beer, sorry I was so long, my boss is a complete pig and I’m thinking of setting him up on a blind date with Lorena Bobbitt—oops, sorry!’
Millie skidded to a halt on the grass as she realized Hugh was no longer alone. Perched on one arm of the wooden garden seat, wearing a pink dress and hugging her knees, was a girl in her late teens with glossy waist-length hair the color of caramel, plenty of orange lipstick painted on her mouth, and a look of adoration in her eyes.
It was the kind of look you saw a lot of on the faces of the audience at a Tom Jones concert. Sort of dazed and gooey, like a half-chewed Jelly Baby. Until she turned, startled, in Millie's direction and said, ‘Hugh? Who's this?’
The next moment a whole new scenario played itself out in Millie's mind. Hugh would laugh and say, ‘Her? Oh that's just Millie, I invited her back here to have a drink with us. You remember, darling, Millie-the-gorilla, I mentioned her the other day. Millie, let me introduce you. This is Orange-Lips, my girlfriend.’
Or fiancée.
Or new wife.
Millie braced herself, her heart pounding away like Michael Flatley's feet.
‘Kate, this is Millie, a friend of mine. Millie, this is Kate, Edwina's daughter.’ With a brief nod in the direction of the stone wall, Hugh explained, ‘She lives next door.’
Phew.
Well, semi-phew. It would have helped if the girl-next-door could have been less pretty.
‘Mummy popped out earlier to remind you about dinner,’ said Kate. ‘She said you had someone with you dressed up as a gorilla.’
So he hadn’t been joking about the dinner parties, Millie realized.
‘That's right.’ Hugh nodded, ‘Millie works for a kissogram agency in Newquay.’
‘How extraordinary. Poor you!’ Kate turned briefly in Millie's direction before swiveling back to give her undivided attention to Hugh. ‘But look, we can’t wait to see you tonight, Mummy's doing rack of lamb… oh, and sooo much has happened at work, I’ve got heaps to tell you—’
‘Kate, hang on, your mother didn’t invite me over to dinner this evening.’
‘I know she didn’t. I asked you, remember? Last weekend!’
Hugh closed his eyes briefly.
‘I remember you mentioning it.’ He sounded resigned. ‘But I didn’t say yes.’
Kate's eyebrows shot up in alarm.
‘Didn’t you? Are you sure? I thought you did. Oh God, and Mummy's been slaving away in the kitchen all afternoon—’
‘Look, I’m sorry.’ Hugh was clearly embarrassed. ‘But I’ve invited Millie to stay for something to eat.’
‘Mummy's going to be dreadfully upset.’ Kate's face began to crumble like a seven-year-old's. ‘We were all so looking forward to seeing you.’
‘Look, it's fine, absolutely fine, I have to get home anyway.’ Millie plonked the two beers down on the wooden table, unable to bear the awkwardness for another second.
‘Really? Oh well, it's been lovely to meet you.’ Recovering in an instant—maybe she was a seven-year-old—Kate beamed at her, then reached over and picked up one of the condensation-covered bottles of Becks. ‘There, all sorted out.’ Happily, she clinked her full bottle against Hugh's almost empty one. ‘Mummy will be thrilled.’
Oh Lord, thought Millie, don’t say Mummy fancies him too.
‘Sorry about this,’ Hugh murmured as he walked Millie back to her car. ‘She's the bane of my life. When you move house you make an effort to get along with the new neighbors, but what can you do with someone like Kate?’
Praying her nose wouldn’t suddenly telescope forwards and scrape along the gravel drive, Millie said, ‘She seems nice enough.’
Her nose didn’t do it, thank God. Hugh cast her an impatient glance.
‘Millie, come on, don’t tell me you hadn’t noticed. Kate's got a howling crush on me.’
Oh no, surely not, how truly appalling, what's the matter with the girl, thought Millie slightly hysterically.
Aloud she said, ‘Of course I noticed.’
It takes one to know one.
‘It's embarrassing,’ Hugh groaned. ‘I mean, she's so obvious about it and so determined. The last thing I want to do is upset her, but she won’t take the hint. It's like trying to fend off a twenty-stone grizzly bear… she just can’t seem to understand that this is the last thing I need right now.’
No, thought Millie, the last thing you need is two girls with crushes on you, competing for your attention.
Talk about undignified.
Fumbling with her key, Millie managed to unlock the driver's door. Through the car window she glimpsed the carrier bag containing her orange lycra skirt and white vest.
I am shameless, completely shameless, and I deserve to be punished, thought Millie.
‘So we’ve still got the clothes thing going on.’ Smiling slightly, Hugh touched her rolled-up denim sleeve. ‘First your bra, now my shirt and shorts.’
‘Don’t worry, it won’t happen again, I promise. I’ll post them back to you. Right, I’ll be off then, enjoy your meal—rack of lamb, yum, gorgeous—you have a nice time and keep the neighbors happy!’ By now she was in the driver's seat revving the engine like Michael Schumacher.
‘Millie—’
‘Okay, see you around and thanks for the drink,’ sang Millie as the car shot forward. ‘Byeee!’
Millie was wallowing in the bath the next morning when the phone rang on the floor next to her. Oh hooray for cordless.
‘I’ve got another booking for you. Or do you still hate me too much?’
‘Well,’ said Millie, ‘the thing is, I do still hate you. But on the other hand, a job's a job.’
‘That's my girl.’ Lucas took the jibe in good part. ‘In that case, I forgive you for calling me all those mean names.’
‘Ha.’ Millie prodded her plastic ducks with her toes, sending them bobbing off into a mountain of foam. ‘That's nothing. You should have heard the names I called you after you’d hung up.’
‘Ah well, when you’re as irresistible to women as I am, you get used to it. In fact,’ said Lucas, ‘are you sure you aren’t secretly in love with me yourself?’
‘Damn, rumbled again. Meet me at twelve-thirty in the car park at Gretna Green,’ said Millie. ‘I’ll be the one in the frilly white dress and veil.’ She paused. ‘Just out of interest, can you always tell when a girl's keen on you?’
‘Course I can. Easy.’
‘Always? ’
‘Always. No question.’ She could picture his smirk as he replied. ‘All girls are the same, just so easy to read. It's like they’re holding a big flashing sign above their heads.’
‘Okay, some girls go ahead and broadcast it, they don’t care if you know,’ Millie began.
‘You mean like your friend Hester.’
Good grief, he’d only chatted to her on the doorstep for about thirty seconds.
‘We-ell, maybe.’ Millie was cautious.
‘Come on,’ Lucas jeered down the phone. ‘Definitely. It's written up there in neon.’
‘But what about girls who, um, don’t want you to know? The ones who are doing their best to hide it. Can you still tell, even then?’
‘Look, there's the eyes, the voice, the body language… there are a million tiny signals and no one can hide all of them. Take it from me,’ said Lucas, ‘you can always tell.’
Not what she wanted to hear.
Oh, thought Millie, wishing she hadn’t asked now.
Actually, not oh.
Sod it, bugger, and fuck.
Chapter 19
ORLA, WEARING A LONG purple sundress with a fringed and zigzagged hem, smoked furiously, took copious notes, and jumped up every couple of minutes to scrawl some pertinent new detail on one of the many sheets of
paper pinned around the walls of her study. Millie, providing a running commentary of the events of the past week, and doing her best to make them sound enthralling, sat on the lilac suede chaise longue and helpfully held up the different colored felt pens so that Orla, whisking past, could seize the right one for each character.
Well, a running commentary of most of the events of the past week. Millie had decided that Hugh shouldn’t be included in any of this. She was feeling the teeniest bit guilty though, wondering if it was a deceitful thing to do. After all, Orla was paying her a great deal of money for the unexpurgated version of her life and here she was, leaving out the person who was currently having a fair old go at disrupting it.
Not that Hugh was aware of this, of course.
She sincerely hoped.
Millie went hot and cold all over again. It happened every time she mentally replayed Lucas's voice drawling, ‘Trust me, it's like it's written up there in neon. You can always tell.’
All she could do was cling to the hope that it was a Lucas-thing, something he simply had a talent for detecting, like other people might be gifted musically or have an aptitude for languages.
Anyway, she wasn’t telling Orla, and that was that. And it wasn’t cheating, surely, to leave someone out. Inventing characters, making stuff up, pretending things had happened to you when they hadn’t— well, that was cheating. That would be really deceitful, especially when what Orla was after was real-life stuff.
So that was okay, Millie reassured herself. She didn’t have to feel guilty, she could just leave Hugh out.
And actually, Orla had heaps to keep her going, Millie marveled, watching her scrawl the supermarket debacle up on the wall in blood-red felt-tip. She’d already devoured the news about Adele moving in with Lloyd and Judy, Hester's continuing fixation with Lucas… and the discovery that Lucas not only knew all about it but was about as tempted as a vegan in a pork-pie shop.
‘I love all this,’ Orla declared, ‘it's so real and down-to-earth! No glitz, no glamour, no celebrities, just ordinary people living mundane lives, wearing chainstore clothes, and cheap shoes…’ Her eyes alight with joy, she waved her free hand in the general direction of Millie's pink flip-flops. ‘But money or no money, we’re all searching for the same things, aren’t we? It doesn’t matter who you are or how much money you have. Love and happiness, that's what it's all about!’
Ordinary people living mundane lives. In cheap shoes. Gosh thanks, thought Millie.
‘Oh God, I’m sorry, it wasn’t supposed to sound like that!’ Guessing from her expression what she was thinking, Orla rushed over, gabbling, ‘I just meant it's a whole new thing for me because I’ve never written about ordinary people before! Have I offended you? Oh please don’t be offended, I meant it in the nicest possible way, truly I did!’
She was clearly mortified.
‘It's all right, I know what you meant.’ Millie had to stop Orla before she rocketed out of control and spontaneously combusted right there on the Persian rug. Orla Hart novels were a genre in themselves, jam-packed with millionaires, celebrities, and witty, jet-setting, beautiful people living out extraordinary, action-packed lives. The whole point of this new book was that it was going to be totally different in both style and content.
Not much happening at all, to characters who were poverty-stricken, boring, bus-catching, and so ugly it was no wonder they hardly ever had sex.
Apart from Lucas, of course.
Millie began to wonder if this had been such a good idea after all. Maybe she should apologize for being such a failure, admit defeat, and give Orla her five grand back.
Except, damn, she’d already spent some of it.
By sheer accident, of course. And only on absolute essentials, like dragging her car kicking and screaming through its maintenance test.
And buying chocolate biscuits.
And wine for the fridge. (Their fridge was extremely fond of wine.)
Oh yes, and a new stripey bikini… plus a few other clothes… and an mp3 player.
And shoes. But only cheap ones, naturally.
‘Darling, I love all this,’ Orla went on, gesturing with enthusiasm to the sheets of paper pinned up around the room, ‘but we really do need you to have a love life of your own. Or at least someone you can be interested in.’
Don’t blush, don’t blush.
‘I will, I promise,’ said Millie. ‘I’m just going through a bit of a lull at the moment. It happens,’ she added with a shrug, ‘that's real life for you.’
‘Of course it is,’ Orla declared, stubbing out her cigarette. ‘But it's not allowed to happen in novels. You’re beautiful, darling, you’re twenty-five years old! What we want now is for something zingy to happen… we need someone to sweep you off your feet, put the sparkle back in your eyes, make your heart beat faster…’
Millie, her heart already beating faster, made a huge effort to banish Hugh Emerson from her mind. Instead she said brightly, ‘I know someone who could do that. Jonathan Rhys Meyers.’
‘Darling, what a shame, no celebs allowed in this novel. Otherwise of course I’d have arranged for you two to meet.’
Millie swallowed.
‘God, really?’
‘No.’ Her greeny-gold eyes bright with mischief, Orla chucked the finished with felt-tips on to the desk. Raking her fingers through her wavy red-gold hair, she wandered over to the window and gazed out. ‘But the world's full of possibilities.’
‘Mundane possibilities.’
Millie was disappointed about Jonathan Rhys Meyers.
‘Ah, but when you meet Mr. Right he won’t be mundane, will he? Everything about him will thrill you and that's how you’ll know he is Mr. Right!’
‘Oh well,’ said Millie, ‘easy. No problem. I’ll do that tonight then, shall I? Just pop down to our local wine bar and pick someone up?’
‘You could, of course you could.’ Orla was bubbling over with enthusiasm. ‘Anything's possible, isn’t it? That's the beauty of this whole scheme! But wine bars aren’t the only places to meet men. I mean, for example, come over here and take a look out of this window…’
Mystified, Millie untangled her legs and slid off the chaise longue. Orla, beaming with delight, moved to one side and put her hands on Millie's shoulders, pointing her in the direction of the shrubbery to the left of the velvety sloping lawn.
Below them, stripped to the waist and lifting rocks into a wheelbarrow, was a tanned, dark-haired man Millie had never seen before in her life.
‘Who's he?’
‘His name's Richard,’ Orla announced with pride. ‘He's our new gardener. So, what do you think?’
Millie was incredulous.
A set-up?
‘Did you hire him specially for me?’
‘Darling, don’t be silly, of course not. We’ve got a huge garden. Giles hates doing that kind of thing and I don’t have the time to do it. So there you go, we needed a gardener.’
Millie turned and gave her a long look.
‘Okay, fine, you needed a gardener. So what happened, you looked up “Gardeners” in the Yellow Pages, picked one completely at random… and when he turned up he just happened to look like that?’
Orla grinned and lit another cigarette.
‘Well, not quite.’
‘Go on then,’ said Millie. Tell me.’
‘I rang up eight gardeners and invited each of them over for an interview. They were all terribly nice of course,’ Orla explained, ‘and they all had heaps of gardenery-type qualifications.’
‘And?’
‘Well, some of them were old, and some were ugly, and two of them were… shall we say, rather attractive.’ Orla took an unrepentant puff on her cigarette. ‘So I casually asked them about their personal circumstances, you know, home life and such, and one of them turned out to be married with three children and a Rottweiler.’
‘Really,’ said Millie.
‘And the other one was single! He did have a girlfriend but the
y broke up a year ago. And he seems so charming and he has stomach muscles like you wouldn’t believe… ooh, and his favorite author's Salman Rushdie, isn’t that marvelous? I thought you’d like a man who knew how to read.’
Salman Rushdie? Oh please.
‘This,’ said Millie, ‘is shameless.’
‘No it isn’t, it's human nature,’ Orla brightly assured her. ‘Why hire an unattractive person to work for you when you can hire a pretty one? I’m telling you now, show me a man with an ugly secretary and I’ll show you a man scared to death of his wife.’
‘But you’re matchmaking.’
‘Absolutely not!’ Orla spread her arms wide. ‘Darling, I’m just… broadening your horizons. Giving you the opportunity to meet more people.’
‘More men.’
‘And why not? Why's that so terrible?’
‘It's cheating,’ Millie protested.
‘It's not cheating at all. It's called making the most of a situation, setting the ball rolling, then sitting back, and seeing what happens. It might work, it might not, but what do you have to lose?’ Orla gestured enticingly out of the window. ‘I mean, look at him! Crikey, if I were fifteen years younger I’d be down there chatting him up faster than you can say riding mower.’
Millie followed her gaze.
‘His hair's too short.’
‘Hair grows.’
‘I don’t believe the book thing for a minute. How can anyone's favorite author be Salman Rushdie?’
‘Okay, but he's still lovely,’ Orla insisted. ‘I promise you.’
Millie looked again at the man Orla was intending—metaphorically—to hurl her at. This was beginning to feel alarmingly like being bundled into an arranged marriage. She wondered how Richard-the-new-gardener would react if he knew about it.
Poor chap, and there was he thinking Orla had hired him purely on account of his dazzling horticultural techniques.
‘Well?’ Orla prompted eagerly. ‘You’re the important one. What do you think?’
Oh dear, what can I say? He has a great body, thought Millie, and a nice neck, and he definitely knows how to handle a wheelbarrow.
