by Jill Mansell
Chapter 21
‘STUNNING. GORGEOUS,’ ORLA DECLARED with all the told-you-so satisfaction of a bride's mother. She hugged Millie again. ‘You look terrific. I’m so glad you changed your mind about wearing it.’
Millie wasn’t, she was consumed with guilt. She felt like a vegetarian caught guzzling a bacon sandwich.
At home she had tried on practically the entire contents of her wardrobe in search of the perfect party outfit. But all the time she’d been able to hear the D&G dress whispering silkily, ‘Go on, wear me, you know you want to.’
Even though it was inside its carrier bag, stashed behind the bedroom door, Millie hadn’t been able to block out the sound of that hypnotic voice, breathing encouragement. ‘Hey, why not? I’m here now… and you know I’ll make you look great Millie had done her best to ignore the dress. She had scruples, didn’t she? If she was going to be the role model for the main character in Orla's book, she had to be real, she had to be herself.
In her own clothes.
No matter how cheap they might be.
The trouble was, after an hour of trying on, it was jolly hard to have scruples when everything else looked awful and the most fabulous dress in the world was peeking provocatively over the top of its carrier bag, winking, and murmuring, ‘Hi sweetie, I’m still here.’
So in the end—of course—she’d been forced to wear the bloody thing, just to shut it up.
‘And you must be Hester,’ Orla went on, greeting her with an enthusiastic kiss on each cheek. ‘Looking wonderful too, of course. I’ve heard all about you, it's fantastic to meet you at last! Thank you so much for coming.’
Hester was instantly won over, as people invariably were, by Orla's charm and warmth. Now she understood how Millie had become so friendly with her so soon—and how Orla was able to invite a whole load of people she barely knew to her own party.
Not that Hester would have dreamed of staying away. After all, hadn’t Lucas been invited along too?
‘Are my parents here yet?’ Millie thought how weird it sounded, lumping her mother and father together when in fact they comprised a strained menage à trois with Lloyd and Judy as the couple and Adele the loose cannon.
‘Absolutely.’ Orla's greeny-gold eyes twinkled. ‘Your mother's carrying a volume of Sylvia Plath's poetry. I think I blotted my copybook when she asked me which writers I most admired and I said Stephen King.’
‘Blimey!’ Hester exclaimed.
‘Oh darling, are you dreadfully shocked? I know people always say their favorite writers are Tolstoy and Proust, but I just can’t do it,’ Orla agonized. ‘And I’m sorry but Stephen King does write brilliant books—’
‘Ahem.’ Millie cleared her throat. ‘Actually, I don’t think it was that kind of blimey.’
Glancing over her shoulder, following the direction of Hester's wide-eyed gaze, Orla relaxed and said, ‘Oh, you mean Colin.’
Con Deveraux came over, carrying something rectangular and gift-wrapped.
‘A little something I thought you might like,’ he told Orla as, exclaiming with delight, she began to tear away at the blue and gold paper. ‘Hot off the press. A friend of mine works for the company that's printing them up.’
‘Eeurgh.’ Orla yelped and jumped back in disgust when she saw what it was. Holding the offending item at arm's length—like a box of maggots—she said, ‘Am I allowed to burn it?’
Hester was still quietly goggling at Con Deveraux in his cream linen trousers and exquisite pale green shirt. What he may have lacked in conventional good looks, he more than made up for in charisma. Exuding testosterone and star quality, he looked as if at any second he might burst into one of the spine-tingling dance routines featured in ZaZoom.
‘What is it?’ Millie peered over at the cover of the book dangling from Orla's disdainful fingers.
‘A proof copy of Christie Carson's first novel. The snide, weasel-faced little megalomaniac who gave me that diabolical review.’ Orla pulled a face at Con. ‘I can’t imagine why you think I’d want to read this.’
‘Anyone here know any black magic?’ Millie said brightly. ‘We could cast a spell, turn it into the worst-selling book of all time.’
Con grinned down at her.
‘You’re Millie, right?’
Aware that Hester, next to her, was panting like a Yorkshire terrier, Millie said, ‘And you must be JD's son?’
He laughed.
‘Orla told me to look out for you.’
Why, why, thought Hester, why couldn’t Orla have told him to look out for me instead? Why did all the good stuff always have to happen to Millie? Okay, so Lucas would be here soon, but that was beside the point. Crikey, Hester silently marveled, if anyone could give Lucas a run for his money in the gorgeousness stakes, it was Con Deveraux.
‘And I’m Hester,’ she told Con, in case he secretly fancied her rotten but was too shy to ask.
‘I didn’t get it for you so you could do that.’ With an apologetic smile in Hester's direction, Con turned and seized control of the book. Orla, who was busy waggling her fingers in a witch-like fashion and sticking imaginary pins into the cover, said, ‘But it's what I want to do!’
‘We’ve already decided. I put the idea to the old man on the flight down and he's all for it. You’re going to review the book,’ Con explained. ‘For whichever paper will give you the biggest coverage. Everyone knows what Christie Carson did to you—’
‘Bloody hell, I should think the whole world knows about that.’ Orla shuddered at the memory, then brightened as she realized what Con was getting at. ‘You mean I can get my own back on Mr. Nasty-Beardy-Weasel-Face? Slag him off and give his grotty little book the worst review ever in the history of the whole wide world? Darling, you are completely brilliant!’
‘Well,’ said Con, ‘you could do that. It’d make you feel better and everyone else would pat you on the back. They’d say well done and that it jolly well served him right for being so horrid to you in the first place.’
‘Which it would,’ Orla declared with immense satisfaction. Then, catching the look in Con's eyes, she wailed, ‘Oh what now? There's a but, isn’t there? You’re going to say something beginning with But.’
Con winked at Millie. Noticing a waiter gliding by, Millie snaffled Hester and herself a couple of drinks.
‘But my friend gave me this proof copy yesterday.’ In an aside, Con briefly explained to Millie and Hester, ‘Proof copies come out ahead of publication, for reviewers and people in the book trade.’ Turning back to Orla he added, ‘And I spent the whole of last night reading it.’
Orla held up her hands, warding him off. ‘Don’t tell me. I don’t want to know.’
‘It's very, very good.’
‘Oh God,’ Orla cried in disgust.
Con shrugged.
‘I’m sorry. But it is.’
‘I can still trash it though,’ she said eagerly. ‘I can still rip it to shreds.’
‘You could. Although everyone would know exactly why you’d done it.’
‘She's got to go completely the other way!’ Millie exclaimed. Her eyes locked with Con's. ‘What she has to do is give the book a wonderful review.’
‘Precisely.’ Con grinned at her once more. ‘Spot on. Tit for tat isn’t going to win anybody any brownie points.’
‘You just have to rise above it,’ Millie told Orla. ‘Prove to everyone that you haven’t a spiteful bone in your body. You had the perfect opportunity to retaliate… but you didn’t. Because you’re a better person than that, and you’d never dream of stooping so low.’
‘Actually,’ said Orla, ‘I would. I’m dreaming of it right now.’
Across the daisy-splashed lawn, Millie spotted her mother. Adele was deep in flirtatious conversation with a man in his early sixties.
‘Um…’ she tapped Orla on the arm, ‘who's that chap over there?’
God, how embarrassing, Adele was showing him her Sylvia Plath.
‘Where? Talking to
your mother, you mean?’ said Orla.
Con Deveraux, following the direction of their gaze, said, ‘That's my dad.’
The car might not be new but it was performing like a star. Nat, whose own ancient Ford Escort had taken to breaking down at practically hourly intervals in recent weeks, had persuaded Julio, one of the waiters he shared a flat with, to lend him the little Renault for the trip down.
Thank God, Nat thought now, otherwise he’d still be stuck on the outskirts of Carlisle.
It had taken nine hours, but at last he was here. Back in Cornwall. Back in Newquay. The smell of the sea through the car's open windows filled his nostrils, exhilarating and familiar at the same time. God, it was good to be home.
He couldn’t wait to see Hester again. Couldn’t wait to see the look on her face when she pulled open the front door and saw him there.
Nat pulled into Hester's road, packed with cars as usual, and managed to squeeze the custard-yellow Renault into a space just a couple of houses up from Hester and Millie's. Climbing out of the car, he realized just how much he ached. Since ringing Hester from the Michaelwood service station on the M5, his joints had seized up even more.
But he didn’t care. Nothing else mattered now. He was here, and every muscle-numbing minute of the journey from Glasgow had been worth it. Hester was about to get the surprise of her life.
After knocking the knocker and ringing the doorbell several times, Nat realized his great plan had gone somewhat pear-shaped. Hester wasn’t there. She had changed her mind after all and gone out.
Oh well, it wasn’t the end of the world, Nat reminded himself. Disappointing, but not entirely unexpected.
Although the whole point of asking Hester where she was going tonight had been so he could surprise her when he turned up there too.
Never mind, they had the rest of the weekend ahead of them.
Stretching his aching shoulders, Nat made his way back down the street, threw his overnight bag into the boot, and locked the Renault up for the night. He’d walk into town from here, trawl a few bars, see if he was able to track Hester down one way or another.
And if he couldn’t, he’d just come back here at closing time and wait for her to come home. He knew Hester well enough to know that if she was tired, she wouldn’t be late.
Millie and Hester, investigating the marquee, were realizing that they actually knew quite a few of the other guests, or at least recognized them enough to say hello to. Richard, the gardener Orla had been so keen to set Millie up with, was looking incredibly spruced up in a neatly pressed khaki safari suit.
‘God, no wonder I didn’t fancy him,’ Millie murmured to Hester. ‘Can you imagine going out with someone who wears a safari suit?’
‘He wants to be David Bellamy when he grows up.’ Hester gave her a nudge. ‘Ooh look, don’t Fogarty and Phelps look different out of their striped aprons!’
Tom Fogarty and Tim Phelps, joint owners of the best delicatessen in Cornwall, were there with their wives. A group of men in garish clothes—surely Giles's cronies from the golf club—were roaring with laughter at some joke. People were already starting to dance, among them Lloyd and Judy, Millie noticed.
‘There's Jen and Trina,’ Hester pointed out, spotting two coltish young blondes she recognized from Newquay's trendier nightspots. Remembering, she said, ‘Of course, they live up here, I gave them a lift home once from Freddie's Bar. They must be Orla's neighbors.’
It was nine o’clock now, and the marquee was filling up fast.
‘Do I look okay?’ Having drained her glass, Hester struck a pose. ‘Hair all right? Lipstick still on? No bits of food stuck in my teeth?’
‘You’re fine.’ Millie knew what had prompted this. Lucas would be here any minute now.
Basically, Hester was a lost cause.
‘Oh God,’ Hester squeaked suddenly, like a bat. ‘There he is!’
He was indeed. Standing at the entrance to the marquee with his dark hair ruffled, his leather trousers gleaming in the dim light, and his bottle green eyes not missing a trick. Spotting Jen and Trina in their skimpy crocheted day-glo tank tops and shorts, he grinned in recognition then waved and nodded at several other people he knew. Finally—when everyone had noticed him—he made his way over to Millie and Hester.
‘Good turnout,’ Lucas approved, seizing a drink from one of the waitresses who had promptly beelined towards him and flashing a friendly smile at Hester. ‘Hess, you’re looking great, love the shoes.’
Hester, her heart spinning like a Catherine wheel, peered down idiotically at her feet to see which ones she was wearing. Oh yes, silver strappy mules sprinkled with pink glitter. Now they were her absolute favorites—hooray for glittery mules!
‘How did the hen night go?’ Millie asked. ‘Got away in one piece, then.’
‘The hen was sloshed.’ Lucas grinned. ‘She wanted to call off the wedding and run away with me instead. She tried to persuade me to go to Antigua with her instead of her husband.’
Hester knew how the girl felt. Eagerly she said, ‘So what did you do?’
‘Dragged her into the ladies’ loo and gave her a good seeing-to.’
‘My God, you didn’t!’
‘No.’ Lucas winked. ‘Hess, I’m shocked. You don’t seriously think I’d do something so crass?’
Crass? Good grief, it was her most cherished fantasy come true! Hester's toes were tingling at the mere thought of being royally ravished in a toilet cubicle—
‘Here she is, here she is!’ Materializing at Millie's side, Orla gaily drew her round to come face to face—once more—with Con Deveraux. ‘We wondered where you’d got to! I was mentioning your juggling skills to Con and he's deeply impressed.’
Standing next to Lucas was playing havoc with Hester's adrenalin levels. As another waiter moved past, she grabbed two glasses of wine from the tray.
‘Do you remember Lucas?’ Millie innocently asked Orla. ‘You met briefly once before.’
As if anyone could forget meeting Lucas Kemp.
‘Of course I remember,’ Orla gushed.
‘Hi again.’ Lucas bestowed his most dazzling get-your-knickers-off smile upon Orla. ‘Thanks for inviting me. By the way, I love your shoes.’
No! No! Wrong, wrong, wrong. Hester, unable to believe her ears, stared at Lucas. You don’t love her shoes, you love mine.
‘And I can see why you’re such a wow with the girls,’ Orla told him cheerfully.
‘Oh dear.’ Miming apology, Lucas winked at her. ‘Did I forget to do up my flies?’
Chapter 22
LUCAS WAS FLIRTING WITH Orla. Feeling left out, Hester wandered off in search of another drink. On the edge of the dance floor she bumped into Jen and Trina, shimmying away like nobody's business and causing the band's eyes to boggle almost out of their heads.
‘Hey, Hess! What a laugh, eh? Not a bad bash, considering it's full of oldies!’ Trina, writhing energetically, seized Hester's glass and drained it in one thirsty gulp.
‘Mind you, can’t see it lasting too long.’ Jen pulled a face. ‘We reckon they’ll want tucking up with their mugs of cocoa by midnight.’ Trina and Jen were eighteen and twenty respectively.
‘I don’t want to be tucked up with cocoa by midnight.’ Hester was alarmed by the prospect. Although she wouldn’t mind being tucked up with Lucas.
‘So, fancy coming on out with us? We’re planning to hit a few clubs later,’ panted Trina.
‘Why not? Could do.’
‘Yeah, it’ll be a laugh.’
‘Okay,’ said Hester. ‘Well, see how things go here.’ It was hard to give up the Lucas fantasy entirely.
‘She's still got it then.’ Jen gave Trina a nudge as Hester made her way back to the bar.
‘Got what?’
‘Stonking great crush on Leg-Over Lucas.’
Trina looked surprised. ‘I thought she was still seeing that chef guy.’
From her lofty position as elder sister, Jen rolled her eyes and sai
d, ‘God, you’re so young.’
‘I don’t know whether or not you’ve noticed this,’ Con Deveraux's tone was conversational, ‘but there does appear to be some serious matchmaking going on.’
It was the fourth time in less than an hour that Orla had deftly engaged the two of them in conversation then flitted off.
‘I spotted it too,’ said Millie. ‘I’m really sorry.’
‘Don’t be.’
‘Just so long as you don’t think I asked Orla to keep hurling you at me.’
He looked amused.
‘It's all right, I don’t.’
‘Smile,’ Millie prompted, ‘we’re being watched.’
Con's mother and Orla were observing them from a discreet distance.
‘Spied on, you mean.’ His tone was one of good-natured resignation. ‘It's okay, I’m used to this. My mother won’t rest until she sees me settled down with the perfect girl.’
‘Why? It's not as if you’re ancient.’
God, I’m getting old, thought Millie. He's thirty and I don’t even think that's ancient.
Con shrugged. ‘It's her mission in life. Nice dress, by the way. That color really suits you.’
Glancing over, Millie saw that Moira Deveraux and Orla were huddled together, deep in conversation. Spotting her, Moira instantly stopped talking and pretended to be busy admiring one of the flower arrangements.
‘It must matter to her a lot,’ said Millie.
‘Believe me, it does.’
‘Wouldn’t it be easier just to tell her you’re gay?’
One minute Millie was standing there in the air-conditioned marquee sipping her drink and chattering happily away. The next moment, faster than you could say bolt-from-the-blue, Con had snatched the glass from her hand and swept her outside.
Millie couldn’t even feel her feet touching the ground… his arm was clamped like a steel girder around her waist… goodness, he was strong…
