by Jill Mansell
Unbelievable.
He scrolled back to the beginning and closed the file.
‘Seems fine.’
‘Brilliant. Send us an invoice,’ said Giles.
Truly unbelievable.
Closing down the computer, swinging back round on his chair, Hugh nodded casually at the charts covering the walls.
‘What's all this about, then?’
‘Oh, Orla's latest plan. Fiction based on fact.’ Giles shrugged and took a swig of his own beer. ‘The critics slaughtered her last book—well, one critic in particular—so she's basing the next one on an actual person, someone she's got to know since we moved down here. Girl called Millie, she was at the party last week. You probably saw her—in fact, she was the main reason Orla decided to throw the party in the first place.’
What?
‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’ Hugh marveled at Orla's cheek. ‘How's this… girl going to react, d’you suppose, when she finds out she's the central character in the next Orla Hart mega-seller? What if she goes ballistic and threatens to sue?’
Giles laughed.
‘Don’t worry, Orla's not that stupid. Millie knows all about it, she's been in on the idea from the start. And Orla paid her up-front, so there won’t be any problems there.’
Hugh blinked. Surely this couldn’t be true; Millie had never so much as mentioned any of this to him.
He felt numb.
‘Paid her, did you say?’
‘A pretty good whack, considering she didn’t even have a job at the time. Five grand,’ Giles explained breezily, ‘in exchange for the lowdown on everything that's going on in her life. I mean, I don’t pay much attention—I’ve never even read any of my wife's books— but Orla seems to be enjoying herself, encouraging the girl to get up to all sorts. The two of them meet up once a week and Millie updates her on the latest goings-on… work, men, sex… you name it! And last week's party worked a treat, evidently. It might have cost a bomb but according to Orla it paid dividends. She changes the names of course, but otherwise it all goes in, down to the last sordid detail. Word for word,’ Giles concluded with leery relish. ‘No holds barred!’ Waggling his empty Labatt's bottle at Hugh, he raised his blond eyebrows. ‘Get you another?’
Paid dividends.
Orla encouraged the girl to get up to all sorts.
Down to the last sordid detail.
Hugh shook his head; if he didn’t get out of here, he thought, he might explode.
‘No thanks.’
Chapter 33
ORLA HAD BEEN WOKEN the next morning by Giles bounding out of bed at six o’clock. He’d sung to himself in the shower, selected his favorite golfing outfit—pink cashmere Pringle sweater, orange and pink checked trousers—and brought Orla breakfast in bed before setting off for the tournament in St. Ives.
Agony aunts were always warning women to suspect their other halves might be having an affair when, out of the blue, they started showering more often, wearing aftershave, and buying themselves designer underpants. It wasn’t so easy, thought Orla, when you had a husband who’d always taken immense pride in his personal appearance. Giles couldn’t bring himself to so much as answer the door to the postman without first slapping on the cologne.
Not to mention the Clarins tinted moisturizer for that flattering, sun-kissed glow. Giles never stopped wanting to look his best.
Still, he’d planted a loving, Hugo Boss-scented kiss on her forehead before leaving at seven-thirty. And brought her toast (cut in triangles) with grapefruit marmalade and orange juice and coffee and even her cigarettes and lighter, all on a silver tray.
So he either loved her very much indeed or was feeling incredibly guilty about the fact that, once again, he was up to his old—
Stop it, stop it, stop it. Despairingly, Orla stubbed out her seventh cigarette of the morning—it was still only ten o’clock—and forced herself to concentrate on Chapter Twelve. Hugh had fixed her computer. She hadn’t lost the first two hundred pages after all. With no interruptions, this was the perfect opportunity to crack on with the story. Giles was playing golf, it was as simple as that. She had to get a grip and stop being so hopelessly paranoid. What could be more innocent than a couple of rounds of golf?
At eleven o’clock, Orla tried ringing Giles on his mobile but it was switched off. Oh well, it would be switched off, you couldn’t have phones trilling away all over the course while a tournament was in progress, that wouldn’t win you any popularity contests.
Downstairs, the house phone rang for the third time that morning. Orla ignored it. When she was working in her office she routinely let the answering machine pick up the calls.
Lighting yet another cigarette—her standard reaction to the anxiety churning away like a cement mixer in the pit of her stomach— Orla stared at the computer screen in front of her, willing herself to stop obsessing about Giles and press on with Chapter Twelve.
By seven o’clock she’d finished it. Chapter Twelve was done and dusted. All in all, a good day's work, Orla decided with satisfaction as she wandered downstairs in her nightie because she hadn’t quite got around to getting dressed. Still, never mind. Something to eat, followed by a long bath, and a change into a fresh nightie, then maybe a glass or two of red wine while watching something suitably trashy on television.
I’m turning into Hugh Hefner, bleeugh, scary thought.
Although imagining Hugh Hefner in a nightie was an even scarier one.
Having rummaged around in the freezer, Orla pulled out a Fogarty and Phelps pasta puttanesca. She stabbed the cellophane artistically with a fork, bunged the pasta into the microwave, and wrestled the cork out of a bottle of Valpolicella.
There were seven messages on the answering machine. While she slurped wine and lit a cigarette, Orla listened to a brief call from her agent about Spanish translation rights, two calls from the editorial director at her publishers, and a message from the opticians in Newquay letting Giles know his Bausch and Lomb sunglasses had been repaired and were ready for collection.
There had also been two silent calls, with no message left.
As the microwave went ding, the final message began to play. For a moment Orla thought it was going to be another no-show, then her heart leapt into her throat as she heard a stifled sob.
‘Giles? Giles? It's me. Martine.’
The voice was husky with grief. Rooted to the spot, Orla listened to the girl struggling to retain some control.
‘Oh Giles, it's been so long… I know it's all over but I just wanted to hear your voice… I’m so s-s-sorry.’ Martine was weeping openly now. ‘I know you love Orla, I accept that, truly I do. It's just so hard to think I’m never going to see you again. Please don’t be cross with me for phoning you at home, but what else could I do? You changed the number of your mobile. Anyway, just to let you know, I’ve moved back to London and I hope you and Orla will be very h-h-happy together. Okay, that's it. B-bye.’
After a few more seconds of unrestrained sobbing, the line went dead.
Orla closed her eyes, breathing out at last. Hot tears of happiness slid down her cheeks. The relief was indescribable. It really was all over between Giles and Martine, she’d spent the last few weeks worrying herself sick over nothing. Not to mention the last twelve hours with a churning, knotted-up stomach, terrified that Giles may have been lying about the golf tournament and had in fact sloped off somewhere with Martine instead.
And all the time Martine had already been back in London, pining for the man she loved. The man who was no longer interested in her.
Slopping red wine on to the telephone table as she took another joyful swig, Orla wiped her wet eyes and smiled to herself.
Poor Giles, how could she ever have doubted him?
Oh God, this was the best news ever.
‘Stay a bit longer,’ Martine urged playfully, as Giles emerged from the shower and began to dress.
‘Better not. We’ve had the whole day together.’ Grinning, he dodged away
from the bed as she made a grab for him.
‘Coward.’
Giles tapped his watch; it would take him another fifteen minutes to drive from Martine's cottage in Perranporth back to Newquay.
‘It's ten o’clock. I’m being sensible. Why push our luck?’
Martine reached across the bed for the phone and held it teasingly to her ear.
‘I could always give Orla another ring, sob a bit, beg her to let me speak to you.’ Martine slipped effortlessly into distraught mode: ‘H-hello, could I have a word with G-G-Giles, please?’
Giles chuckled but shook his head.
‘Once was enough. She’ll be happy with that.’ He was happy with it too; Orla had become increasingly twitchy over the last couple of weeks. The phone call earlier had been a master-stroke.
‘D’you think she’ll tell you I rang?’ Martine ran her tongue over her upper lip as she watched him finish dressing. The great thing about Giles's pink cashmere sweater and truly appalling pink and orange checked trousers was that she hadn’t been able to wait to get him out of them.
‘Who knows?’ He leaned over the rumpled bed and kissed her. ‘Probably not. It’ll be Orla's little secret.’
‘I thought she couldn’t keep secrets.’
‘Ha, she can’t. She’ll tell the rest of the world. Everyone but me.’
‘Good thing we’re better at keeping things to ourselves than she is.’ Martine smirked. ‘And you’ll still definitely be able to make it tomorrow? You’d better be able to,’ she added, her tone mock-threatening. A lot of effort had gone into making Thursday special, an evening he wouldn’t forget.
Giles already had his excuse mapped out; he’d told Orla he’d been invited to join the local branch of the Masons.
‘No problem.’ He kissed Martine again then straightened up, pleased with himself. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’
Hester was forced to acknowledge that the Twiglets had taken their toll. Then again, the custard creams, the chipsticks, the Bounty ice-cream bars, and the endless plates of lettuce may have had something to do with it as well.
Only joking about the lettuce, obviously.
Hester marveled at her ability to make any kind of joke. What with her life being over, Nat thinking she was a trollop, and the fact that in less than a week she’d apparently managed to put on half a stone.
Still, that was the thing about comfort-eating to cure your abject misery. Lettuce simply didn’t hit the spot.
‘God, I’m gross,’ Hester blurted out, scaring away a couple of wealthy tourists who had been about to buy fifty pairs of earrings. Ha, as if.
Danielle, who ran the candle stall next to Hester's, switched off her mp3 player and said, ‘What?’
‘Me. Gross.’ Hester plucked in disgust at the straining waistband of her jeans. ‘Look at this flab, it's all wibbly.’
Danielle perked up at once; there was nothing she enjoyed more than a cozy putting-on-weight story. Particularly when it was somebody else's putting-on-weight story.
‘Well, you have been eating a bit more than usual.’ Glancing at the scrumpled-up family-sized Swiss roll wrapper in the bin behind Hester's chair she said brightly, ‘Maybe you’re pregnant.’
‘Huh, that would be too much to hope for. I haven’t had sex for the last fifteen years, remember.’ Gloomily Hester shook her head. ‘Let's face it, I’m just fat because I’m eating too much.’
‘So stop eating.’
‘I can’t, I’m too miserable.’ Hester thumped her thighs. ‘And eating's the only thing that cheers me up.’
‘Not doing a very good job then, is it?’ Danielle shrugged. ‘Losing a bit of weight, that's what’ d really cheer you up.’
‘But I’m too depressed to go on a diet!’
Danielle suppressed a sigh; Hester was being a pain, but she’d also been extremely kind in the past, patiently listening for hours on end to Danielle's own tales of fat-related woe.
The next moment, inspiration struck.
‘I know! That new beauty salon on Cavendish Street!’
Hester wrinkled her nose.
‘A beauty salon? What, eyebrow tints and facial scrubs? How's that meant to make me happy?’
‘They do mud wraps,’ Danielle explained eagerly. ‘My sister-in-law had one last week, they’ve got it on special offer at the moment. It’ll make you thin!’
‘How?’
‘They draw all the impurities out of you.’ As she spoke, Danielle made extravagant drawing-out gestures with her hands. ‘It firms you up and makes your skin feel fantastic, and you lose inches all over. My sister-in-law said it was brilliant, she can’t wait to go again… she said she walked out of that salon feeling like Elle MacPherson.’
Hester blinked. Danielle's sister-in-law?
‘Is this Margaret we’re talking about?’
‘Yes!’
Since Margaret was five feet tall and built like a cottage loaf, she’d either been taking hallucinogenic drugs, was an out-and-out liar, or the treatment had truly worked miracles.
A squiggle of hope stirred in the pit of Hester's rounded stomach.
‘How much of a special offer?’
‘Buy one, get one free.’
‘What?’
‘You pay for one leg wrap, they do the other one for nothing. Bargain!’
It was starting to sound like one.
‘You know what?’ said Hester. ‘I might just give it a try.’
By half past six, Hester found herself lying on a bench being comprehensively mud-wrapped. Having taken a detour after work to Cavendish Street on the off-chance that the Deluxe Beauty Salon might be able to fit her in, she had been delighted to discover they could.
‘We call it miracle mud,’ confided the beauty therapist, who had introduced herself as Zelda. Energetically, she slathered great dollops of greenish-brown gunk over Hester's stomach and thighs. ‘It really does the business.’
It smelled a bit funny, but Hester didn’t mind; she knew you had to suffer in order to get results. She was also glad Zelda had given her a pair of paper knickers to change into, even if they were one-size-fits-all and less than glamorous. As Zelda carried on slapping and spreading, the gunk was going everywhere. Like a five-year-old icing a cake.
Hester sniffed.
‘What's that smell?’
‘Just the mud, don’t worry about it. So are you down here on holiday?’ Zelda set about getting the conversational ball rolling in true beauty-therapist style.
‘I meant the other smell. Like cooking.’
‘Oh, that’ll be my supper! Cheese on toast!’ Zelda had a tinkly, beauty therapist's laugh. ‘When I’m on my own here in the salon I do myself a little snack to keep me going. We’ve got a kitchen through there.’ Nodding at the door to their left, she slathered the rest of the mud briskly on to Hester's upper arms and midriff, then reached for a giant roll of plastic wrap. ‘Okay, now lift that right leg for me, here's where we start wrapping you up… and round, and round, and round… so which part of the country did you say you were from?’
Hester's stomach rumbled loudly, she was starving and the cheese on toast smelled fantastic.
‘Newquay.’
‘Really? That's a lovely place. Oh, Newquay! You mean you actually live here? That's great.’’
Who Wants to be a Millionaire? thought Hester. Not Zelda, that was for sure. Still, what she lacked in concentration she made up for with dexterity; she was actually doing a brilliant job of trussing her up like a plastic-wrapped spatchcock chicken.
Setting a timer, Zelda crooned, ‘Is it starting to feel warm now?’
It was, actually. Hester nodded.
‘Good, good. That's the minerals in the mud beginning to work, drawing out all those nasty toxins. It actually heats up to sixty degrees centigrade, you know.’
Hester tried to sit up. ‘What?’
‘Oh sorry, is that wrong?’ Zelda started tinkling again. ‘Maybe I mean Fahrenheit, I’m always getting those
two muddled up! I can assure you, our miracle mud only becomes pleasantly warm, it won’t cause you any pain whatsoever.’
Now that she was enveloped in it, the smell of the mud had invaded Hester's nostrils. So this was how it felt to be a hippo. Lying back, she gazed out of the window as Zelda finished plastic wrapping her right arm. Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was blazing down and Hester could hear the chatter and laughter of the punters sitting outside the bars and pavement cafés that stretched the length of Cavendish Street.
‘How long's it going to take?’
‘Hmm? Ooh, half an hour. Then I’ll unwrap you and you can have a lovely warm shower.’ Zelda's tone was soothing. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you have a little nap?’
Closing her eyes, Hester pictured herself emerging from the salon, possibly to the sound of audible gasps of admiration and a spontaneous round of applause from the assembled crowds. The extra inches having mysteriously melted away, she would be sleek and sinuous and as lump-free as a Delia Smith sauce.
Frustratingly, Millie was working tonight—she had some job on in Truro—otherwise they could have gone out together. With me looking ravishing, Hester thought smugly, and attracting all the attention for once.
Danielle had been right: coming here and getting mud-wrapped had been a fabulous idea. She was feeling better about herself already.
‘Could you open the window?’ said Hester. I’m feeling quite hot now.’
‘It is warm, isn’t it?’ Zelda fanned herself as she reached up to open the window. ‘There, that's better.’
Puzzled, Hester gazed down at her supine body.
‘Am I smoking?’
‘Ooh no, you shouldn’t smoke, cigarettes are bad for you, you’ll get terrible facial wrinkles.’
‘No, I meant the mud on my body. I know it heats up but does it actually produce smoke?’
Zelda looked baffled.
But now that the window had been opened, it became clear there was smoke in the treatment room. It was eddying around in the breeze, slithering out of the window like ectoplasm…
