by Jill Mansell
‘Excuse me,’ murmured Millie, catching a glimpse of Hugh and Kate through the crowd. ‘I’ll catch up with you later, there's someone I’d like to say hello to.’
Con had been dragged on to the dance floor by two of the brash, anything-for-a-giggle wives from the golf-club set. Dancing good-naturedly with the pair of them, he winked at Millie as she made her way past.
What am I going to say to Hugh? What am I going to say to him?
Millie didn’t get the chance to find out. A mere six feet separated her from Hugh and Kate when she was unceremoniously ambushed by Richard-the-gardener wearing a broad grin and his shirt unbuttoned, Tom Jones-style, almost to his waist.
A few beers, evidently, and Richard shed his inhibitions faster than you could fell a small tree,
‘MillieMillieMillie, a little birdie tells me you wouldn’t say no to a dance,’ he crowed happily—and appropriately—as both arms closed around her like a vice.
Thanks, Orla.
‘Maybe later.’ Millie didn’t have to look over to know that Hugh and Kate were watching.
‘No time like the present,’ bellowed Richard, hauling her—like a recalcitrant wheelbarrow—on to the dance floor. ‘Come on now, don’t be shy, I know you fancy me!’
‘Actually, I—’
Don’t, Millie had been about to say, politely, but she was too slow. Richard's eager mouth fastened limpet-like over hers and all she could do was let out a throaty gurgle of protest.
Uh oh, serious suction…
‘Okay, now listen to me,’ Richard announced when he came up for air. ‘Basically, I know I’m a bit pissed, otherwise I’d never have had the nerve to do that. But I think you’re bloody gorgeous, and when Orla started dropping hints… well, I realized she was letting me know you felt the same way about me.’
Millie winced. That was the trouble with Orla's hints, they were the size of lawn mowers. The Rolls-Royce, sit-on kind.
‘So how about it?’ Richard was gazing at her in earnest.
‘How about what?’
‘You and me! Getting it together. What d’you reckon, eh?’
Oh dear, the seduction technique was a trifle lacking. Could explain why he's still single, Millie thought. Maybe he should consider taking up evening classes in Beginner's Finesse.
‘Well—’
‘Millie, seen Hess anywhere? Oops.’ Jen stifled a grin. ‘Sorry to interrupt your big snogging session, but she said she might be up for a trip into town and now we can’t find her.’
Gratefully, Millie extracted herself from Richard's grasp. Quite a firm grasp, actually, as if she were a stubborn tree root he was determined to pull up.
‘I’ll come and help you look.’
Outside, Jen pulled out her mobile and rang for a taxi. Trina said, ‘We’re going to hit a few clubs. Fancy coming with us?’
‘I can’t. Giving my mum a lift home.’ Millie pulled a face. ‘Look, I’ll see if Hester's in the house, you search the gardens. She's here somewhere.’
Hester wasn’t in the house. By the time Millie reemerged there was no sign of Jen and Trina. Either they’d found Hester and bundled her into the cab with them or, by a process of elimination, she was back in the marquee.
She wasn’t. So that was it, Hester had definitely gone. Con Deveraux, greeting Millie's reappearance with delight, said, ‘My darling, you’ve been away for ages, some dreadful shrieking women have been chucking me around the dance floor like an old floor-cloth… you have no idea how much I’ve missed you.’
‘Let me guess,’ said Millie as he ran a flirtatious index finger along the line of her collarbone, ‘your mother's watching us.’
‘Like a hawk. A very proud and happy mother-hawk, at that.’ He grinned down at her, his hand affectionately rubbing her shoulder. ‘I’ll have to introduce you to her in a minute, before she bursts.’
‘Okay, but let me have a word with someone first.’ Millie, busy scanning the marquee, had—at last—spotted Hugh and Kate. They were still here and she knew she had to speak to them. ‘Back in a sec.’
The band had done a terrific job of getting everyone up on to their feet; the air reverberated to the sound of ‘Hi Ho Silver Lining’ (no wonder Jen and Trina had been so keen to escape) and the dance floor was as packed as the M25. Millie, fighting her way through the hordes of arm-waving, heel-banging forty-somethings, saw that Hugh and Kate were now talking to Orla.
Oh dear, not ideal.
Millie hung back for a few moments, waiting for their conversation to end, while the dancers swirled and stamped around her.
Hugh kissed Orla. Kate, giggling and starry-eyed, kissed Orla as well. Then Orla kissed and hugged them both in return… and now all three of them were laughing together…
Honestly, what was going on over there? Anyone would think they’d just got engaged.
Millie abruptly felt sick. Good grief, oh no, surely not.
By the time she’d finished battling across the floor, Orla was on her own. Hugh and Kate had vanished.
‘Hi. Um, where did those, um, people go?’ Skidding to a halt, Millie did her best to sound as if she were making polite conversation, merely interested in Orla's welfare.
‘Home.’ Orla was waving at people she knew, beckoning a waiter over, and tapping her feet in time with the music. ‘Got an early start tomorrow.’
Clunk, went Millie's heart, dropping into her boots. Thanks to her feverishly overactive imagination, an early start could mean only one thing.
Gretna Green.
Her voice came out all high and squeaky, very Minnie Mouse.
‘Uh, who are they?’
Orla took one look at her and started to laugh.
‘Oh, right, you mean the devastatingly good-looking guy who was just here? You’re wondering if by any chance he's another of the possibles I lined up for you tonight to take your pick from? Sorry, sweetie, but he isn’t a contender.’
Millie was glad of the multi-colored lights swirling over the dance floor, camouflaging her pink cheeks.
‘I wasn’t wondering that at all. I just asked you who they were.’
‘Hugh Emerson. Hot-shot computer consultant. Gorgeous,’ said Orla with a naughty grin, ‘but not for you.’
‘Oh.’ Her heart banging away, Millie said, ‘His girlfriend seems quite… young.’
‘Not girlfriend, just some neighbor. Hugh installed my computer. His wife died a few months ago.’ Orla was having to shout to be heard above the music. ‘Tragic, tragic. Absolutely heartbreaking. And the very last thing you need. Rebound relationships.’ She shuddered theatrically. ‘The very worst kind in the world. Doomed to disaster, darling, don’t even consider it!’
Just some neighbor. Not his girlfriend, not his fiancée, Millie thought ecstatically, just some neighbor, hooray.
‘No, no, you concentrate on darling Con.’ Orla gave her arm an encouraging squeeze. ‘He's lovely and he's single.’
Yes, thought Millie, but I’m a girl.
Nat made his way along the street, praying the lights would be on in Hester and Millie's house. A trawl of the bars and nightclubs had turned up several old friends but no Hester. Now it was midnight and he was shattered; the five-hundred-mile drive down from Glasgow had really taken it out of him.
There were no lights on, but Nat rang the doorbell anyway. Maybe they were asleep in bed.
He rang again, then banged on the door with his clenched fist.
Nothing, no response, still no one at home.
Hess, where are you?
Crouching on the doorstep, using the pen in his jacket pocket, Nat scribbled a note on the back of a flyer advertising special rates for pizza deliveries.
Hess. Surprise! See the yellow Renault parked outside between the white van and the dark blue Jag? Now look inside…
Smiling to himself, Nat pushed the note through the letterbox. Then, yawning uncontrollably, he made his way back to the borrowed car. At least it was a warm night. He’d sleep until Hester arrived hom
e and found him. Knowing her, the moment he closed his eyes she’d be back, covering him with kisses, shrieking with delight, and waking everyone in the street.
Hester blinked up at the canopy of branches spread out over her head. Through the gaps between the leaves of the cherry tree she could see stars glittering in the indigo velvet sky.
When you wish upon a star… Hester thought groggily, clutching the empty wine bottle to her chest and realizing that she must be very drunk indeed if she didn’t even care that wiggly insects could— at this very moment—be crawling through her hair and heading straight for her ears.
She didn’t even care that the ground was spectacularly uncomfortable, her mouth was dry, and her eyes were sore from crying. At least it was peaceful out here. All she could hear was the gentle slip-slop of the water lapping at the sides of the pool and the raucous strains of the party carrying on in the far distance.
Earlier—how long earlier?—she had heard Jen and Trina calling her name. Then they’d stopped. After that, only a couple of wild rabbits bouncing across the grass had briefly disturbed her, before loping off once more into the undergrowth.
Together.
Gone to get laid, no doubt. Lucky old rabbits.
God, I made a fool of myself tonight, thought Hester, holding the bottle up to check it really was empty. I’ll be the laughing stock of Newquay when this gets out.
And it's all Nat's fault. If he’d been here, none of this would have happened.
Her eyes filled with fresh tears as she realized how unfair she was being, blaming Nat.
It's no good, I’m just a horrible, horrible person. I don’t deserve a lovely boyfriend, Hester decided wretchedly.
But it still wouldn’t have happened if only he’d been here.
Hester closed her gritty eyes. Eeeuurgh, now her head was spinning like a… like a spinny thing. Okay, just ignore it, maybe rolling on to her side would help… ooh yes, that was much better…
Within seconds, Hester was asleep.
Chapter 25
A PUBLISHER, AN ACTUAL literary giant. Now this was more like it!
Adele, thrilled to be engaged in conversation with an intellectual, was doing her level best to impress JD—Jasper Deveraux, what a name—with her knowledge of the great poets.
It would have been nice though, if he could have shown a bit more enthusiasm in return.
‘Sylvia has to be my favorite, of course.’ As she spoke, Adele deftly slid her copy of Sylvia Plath out of her bag and whisked it in front of his startled eyes like a flashcard. ‘But one can’t ignore Christina Rossetti, such awesome power and grace…’
Poetry wasn’t JD's thing at all; nothing sent him off to sleep faster than a couple of sonnets. Unless there was a punchline to look forward to, a guaranteed laugh at the end. Pam Ayres was far more up JD's street than Sylvia face-like-a-wet-weekend Plath.
Who was this Christina Rossetti anyway, with her awesome power and grace? Sounded like an Olympic gymnast.
In a valiant attempt to change the subject, JD nodded vigorously and declared, ‘You’re absolutely right, of course. So tell me, have you managed to get away yet this year?’
God, listen to me, I sound like a hairdresser.
About to launch into something moving and profound by Rossetti, Adele was abruptly halted in her tracks. Holidays, holidays, now what could she say that would impress this wealthy, powerful, erudite man?
‘Not yet, but I certainly will,’ Adele trilled. ‘Monte Carlo and St. Tropez are my favorite places to visit,’ she confided prettily. ‘How about you?’
‘Oh, we have a villa in Tuscany. Marvelous food, wonderful wine, just the place to get away from it all,’ JD enthused. Then he laughed. ‘That is, until you realize everyone you know is out there getting away from it all too!’
Tuscany. Tuscany. As she watched him chuckle to himself, Adele suddenly realized two things. Tuscany, also known as Chianti-shire, was where influential, intellectual, artistic, and literary types took their holidays. The glitterati. BBC executives. Actors. Writers. Opera singers. Good grief, why had it never occurred to her before that Tuscany would be the perfect place to vacation and meet glamorous, intellectual people on exactly the same wavelength as herself?
The second thing Adele realized was that although she’d read endless newspaper articles about Tuscany and the kind of people who holidayed there… gosh, even the Blairs… she didn’t actually have the faintest idea where Tuscany was.
Give her a map of Europe and a pin and she wouldn’t have a clue. Spain? France? Italy? She had an inkling it was in the middle of somewhere, but that was all. Could be any of them.
How incredibly embarrassing. Chianti-shire. But when you weren’t a great drinker of wine that was no help at all. Was Chianti a Spanish wine or Italian or French?
First thing tomorrow, Adele silently vowed, she would find out everything there was to know about Tuscany, every tiny last detail.
Including which country it was in.
Aloud, she said vivaciously, ‘Of course, my great love is opera. I’m a huge fan of Andrea Bocelli.’
JD, more of an Andrea Corr man himself, decided the time had come to make his escape. Touching the back of Adele's hand he said genially, ‘Why don’t I go and find you a drink?’
Much as he shared his wife Moira's wish to see his son happily settled down with the right girl before she died, he couldn’t help hoping that girl wouldn’t be Millie.
Being condemned to a lifetime of in-law-dom with Adele Brady would be more than he could bear.
‘You have a fabulous daughter,’ Orla told Lloyd Brady as they said their good-byes at the end of the evening. Turning to Judy, who was holding Adele's pink cashmere wrap while Adele made a production of kissing JD and Moira, she added in an undertone, ‘And you have the patience of a saint.’
‘I do.’ Judy nodded cheerfully. ‘Then again, I also have a secret stash of cyanide.’
Moira Deveraux whispered in her son's ear, ‘You don’t have to stay here at the house with us, you know. Nobody would mind if you… disappeared.’
Con grinned at the way his mother raised her penciled-in eyebrows delicately in Millie's direction as she spoke.
‘Mother. I can’t believe you’re even suggesting it.’
‘We’re only down here for one more day.’ Moira tapped her watch. ‘Sometimes, darling, you simply can’t afford to hang around, you just have to go for it.’ Her expression softening, she went on fondly, ‘Your father and I had a whirlwind romance, you know. He swept me right off my feet and we were engaged within a week.’
‘You mean he tried it on with you the first night and got lucky.’ Con looked scandalized. ‘Mum, I’m sorry, but that is disgraceful. I’m deeply, deeply shocked.’
Unperturbed, Moira said serenely, ‘The spark was there. When the spark's there, you can’t ignore it. And,’ she smiled over at Millie, ‘I saw it there between the two of you tonight.’
‘Okay.’ Con held up his hands in defeat. ‘I already tried it. I said I wanted us to spend the night together and she turned me down. She told me she wasn’t that kind of girl.’
So Millie had standards, morals, a healthy respect for her own body. Happily, Moira said, ‘Now I like her even more.’
It was two o’clock in the morning by the time Millie arrived home after first dropping off her mother, her father, and Judy. Now, parking a little way up the street, she passed a white van, a Renault the color of Bird's custard, and a dusty dark blue Jaguar.
The house was silent and empty. Yet another flyer advertising pizza delivery had been pushed through the door; Millie kicked it to one side and headed on up the stairs. Hester wasn’t back yet. Still, if she was out with Jen and Trina that was hardly a surprise.
Exhausted, Millie peeled off the fabulous Dolce & Gabbana suede dress, skittishly didn’t bother removing her make-up, and was asleep within seconds of falling into bed.
Something was ringing. On and on, in a horribly persistent fas
hion. Millie groaned, rolled over, and pulled the pillow over her head. If it was Hester leaning on the doorbell because she’d forgotten her key she would be forced to kill her.
But it wasn’t the doorbell, her confused brain finally managed to figure out. The ringing was too rhythmic for that.
It was the phone.
Urrgh, no, go away.
Buried beneath the pillow, Millie kept her eyes closed and prayed for it to stop. But whoever was calling was certainly persistent; they were showing no signs of giving up.
Then again, it could be a genuine emergency, Millie realized as she padded downstairs to answer the phone.
Hester, desperate to come home but so drunk she couldn’t remember where she lived. Ha, that had happened before.
Or Adele, panicking because she couldn’t find her precious volume of Sylvia Plath poetry and ringing to find out if she’d left it in the car.
Or even Con Deveraux, calling to tell her he couldn’t sleep for thinking about Lucas in his tight leather trousers and begging her for Lucas's phone number…
Hm, maybe not.
In the living room, Millie picked up the phone.
‘Hello?’
‘Are you alone?’
‘What?’
‘Is he there with you?’
In her muddled, just-woken-up frame of mind, Millie couldn’t place the voice at the other end. Well, that wasn’t strictly true, she thought she could place the voice because it sounded exactly like Hugh Emerson's voice, but since the logical, slightly-less-befuddled part of her mind told her it couldn’t possibly be Hugh, she knew she must be wrong.
‘Is who here with me?’
‘I don’t know. Any of them, take your pick. Just say yes or no.’
Lord, now it sounded even more like Hugh's voice. Startled— and by this time pretty much awake—Millie said, ‘Nobody's here. I’m on my own. Why?’
A pause. Followed by a sigh. Of relief?
‘I just needed to find out.’
Millie, her heart racing like a greyhound, whispered, ‘Why?’
