by Jill Mansell
No doubt about it. Millie's new man was married.
Chapter 50
MILLIE DIDN’T GET THE chance to speak to her mother about Tim Fleetwood. When the front doorbell rang at eight o’clock the next morning she was still upstairs, asleep.
Nat, answering the door in his striped boxer shorts, found a middle-aged woman in a severe navy jacket and grey knife-pleated skirt on the doorstep.
‘Hello. Does Millie Brady still live here?’
‘Um, hi.’ Nat wondered if the woman was a probation officer. ‘Yes, yes she does. But she's not up yet.’
‘Don’t worry, it isn’t Millie I’m after.’ The woman smiled tightly and gestured towards her briefcase. ‘I was actually looking for Adele Brady, Millie's mother. I know she was down here visiting her daughter, but—’
‘Oh, right. No, Millie's mum's not here,’ Nat explained. ‘She's staying with Millie's dad.’
‘Really?’ The woman's eyebrows rose. ‘I thought they were divorced.’
‘They are. She's staying with Millie's dad and his ladyfriend.’ With a grin, Nat added, ‘Millie's mum's still young, free, and single.’
‘I see.’ Another chilly smile. ‘Well, I wonder if you could give me the address.’
Nat scratched his head, ‘I haven’t got a clue where they live. Hess? Hess?’ he yelled. The next moment, wrapped in a towel and still dripping from her shower, Hester appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Hello. So sorry to trouble you. My name's Sylvia Fleetwood. Millie used to work for my husband and me.’ Flipping open her briefcase, Sylvia withdrew a handful of glossy brochures. ‘The thing is, Millie's mother is a client of ours and she's been desperate to get hold of some brochures. These were delivered to the office yesterday afternoon, so I thought I’d drop them off this morning on my way to work.’
‘Oh, right.’ Hester had heard all about Sylvia Fleetwood from Millie. Obsessively jealous and paranoid that other women were after her henpecked husband. As if any woman in her right mind would be interested in the kind of man who allowed himself to be henpecked. ‘Well, you can leave the brochures here. Millie’ll make sure her mum gets them.’
‘Mrs Brady is extremely anxious to see the brochures,’ Sylvia insisted. ‘It’ll be quicker if I take them to her now.’
Hester shrugged; it made no difference to her.
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ She told Sylvia Fleetwood the address and helpfully gave her directions to Lloyd and Judy's hard-to-find house at the end of a narrow lane off the main road leading from Newquay to Padstow.
‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ Sylvia Fleetwood headed briskly back towards her car.
‘Bit keen, isn’t she?’ said Nat when they had closed the front door. ‘All that way, just to drop off a few holiday brochures?’
Hester squirmed with pleasure as he caught hold of her and began to kiss her neck.
‘That woman's so paranoid, she's probably doing it to keep Adele away from the office and out of her husband's sight. One glimpse of him and she's worried Millie's mum will be consumed with uncontrollable lust…’
‘Speaking of being consumed with lust.’ Nat's hands began to wander teasingly over her damp, towel-clad body.
‘Nooo! I’ll be late for work,’ Hester protested unconvincingly.
‘Tell the boss you’ll be half an hour late. Actually, don’t bother, I’ll tell your boss.’ His expression solemn, Nat removed her towel and let it fall to the floor. ‘Hester, you’re going to be half an hour late.’
She grinned. That was the blissful thing about being self-employed.
‘Oh, okay then. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Nat.
‘In fact, just to be on the safe side, maybe we should say an hour.’
As she took his hand and led him upstairs, Hester wondered if she’d ever been happier in her life. How could she ever have thought Lucas was more of a catch than Nat?
‘You’d think that woman from the travel agency would have Millie's mother's address on their computer files,’ she mused idly.
Nat, pushing her gently backwards through the bedroom door and on to the rumpled bed, murmured, ‘Sshh. You talk too much.’
When Millie emerged from her own bedroom forty minutes later, Hester was by the front door hurriedly dragging a brush through her hair and jamming her feet into a pair of pink Reeboks.
‘You’re late for work.’ Millie pretended she didn’t know why.
Hester winked. ‘Some things are more important.’
Frowning, Millie said, ‘Did I hear the doorbell earlier?’
‘Oh, yeah. Your mum's off to Trinidad.’
WHAT?
Millie blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Or Tobago. One of the two. Trinidad and Tobago, that's what it said on the front of the brochure.’
‘Are you serious? My mother came round to tell me she's off to Trinidad and it didn’t even occur to you to wake me up?’
Hester's eyes widened with astonishment as Millie's voice spiraled up through several octaves.
‘Blimey, keep your knickers on. You sound like Bjork when you do that squeaky dolphin thing. And it wasn’t your mother who was here, anyway. It was that truly lovely ex-boss of yours.’
Faintly, Millie said, ‘You mean Tim Fleetwood?’
‘No, you twit. That bunny-boiler wife of his.’
Oh God. Sylvia.
‘What was she doing here?’ squeaked Millie.
‘Honestly, you aren’t paying attention at all, are you? She had these brochures your mum wanted. For Trinidad and Tobago.’ Hester enunciated the words slowly and carefully, since Millie was clearly having trouble keeping up. ‘She needed your mum's address so she could drop them round to her, that's all. And now, thanks to you, I really am late for work. I’m off.’
As the front door slammed shut, Millie clutched her head and murmured, ‘Oh shit.’
With Lloyd and Judy out of the house—having disappeared on one of their long, early-morning walks—Adele had the kitchen to herself and was enjoying a breakfast of Earl Grey tea, buttery croissants, and blackcurrant preserves. Keeping the sleeves of her lemon satin peignoir hitched up so they wouldn’t trail in the butter dish, she helped herself to more tea from the pot and idly admired her new French-manicured fingernails. The phone began to ring again, but since Adele knew it wouldn’t be for her at this hour of the morning, she didn’t bother to answer it. She had better things to do—like think about darling Tim—than spend all her time taking down messages for Lloyd and Judy like some downtrodden secretary.
The moment the phone stopped ringing, the doorbell started. Heaving a sigh of irritation—and almost dropping a jammy blackcurrant down the front of her satin robe—Adele pushed her chair back and rose slowly to her feet. If it was that frightful old farmer-neighbor of Lloyd's, calling round for one of his dreary chats, she would just have to pretend not to understand a word he was saying— which, with his impenetrable Cornish accent, wasn’t difficult—and shoo him away. Preferably before he trod cow muck from his dirt-encrusted wellies into the house.
Her nostrils pinched in readiness against the farmyard stench, as well as the thought of having to converse with a man who kept his trousers up with blue nylon baler twine, Adele braced herself and opened the front door.
‘Are you having an affair with my husband?’ demanded Sylvia Fleetwood.
Stunned, Adele took a step backwards.
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘You heard.’
‘I’m sorry, this is ridiculous.’ Adele shook her head. ‘You can’t turn up on someone's doorstep and start accusing them of—’
‘Fine, let's put it another way. I know you’re having an affair with my husband, and I’m here to tell you it's over. God, the smell of you,’ spat Sylvia, her face wrinkling with revulsion. ‘I searched Tim's car this morning, and it stank of your cheap scent.’
This was too much; this was insupportable. Quivering with o
utrage, Adele snapped back, ‘It is not cheap, it's by Giorgio Armani.’
‘And it makes me want to be sick,’ sneered Sylvia. ‘How dare you try and steal another woman's husband? We have a happy marriage—’
‘Oh come off it,’ Adele laughed mirthlessly, since the cat appeared to be well and truly out of the bag. ‘He's been miserable for years.’
Sylvia shifted from one sensibly shod foot to the other, her eyes narrowing like a snake's.
‘I’ve come to tell you that it's time you left Cornwall. If you stay, I’ll make your life a misery, and that's a promise.’
‘But I’m quite happy here. And you can’t order me to leave. Just as you can’t order Tim to stop seeing me,’ Adele continued smoothly. ‘You see, you may have spent the last twenty years bossing him around and generally treating him like some little lapdog, but he is actually a grown man capable of making his own decisions, and I think you’ll find he doesn’t actually want to stop seeing—AAARRGH!’
Adele sprang back as the liquid hurtled towards her, spraying her face before she had the chance to throw up her hands. Jesus! Jesus! Tim's wife was a madwoman! If this was bleach… or some kind of acid… oh God, this couldn’t be happening…
Stumbling backwards, fumbling blindly for the phone in the hall, Adele whimpered, ‘Dial nine-nine-nine, oh please, not my face… just dial nine-nine-nine…’
Sylvia laughed at her distress.
‘You stupid bitch, look at yourself. Go on, you can open your eyes. It's not acid.’
‘AAAAARRRGGH!’ screamed Adele twice as loudly when she had peeled her hands away from her face. The front of her yellow satin robe was splattered with dense black liquid. It was dripping from her arms, her hands, her face, her hair. ‘WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?’ she bellowed, shaking her head furiously and spraying black droplets like a wet dog.
‘Given you something to think about.’ Sylvia smiled with grim satisfaction. ‘Not looking quite so gorgeous now, are you?’
Triumphantly she held up an empty bottle. ‘Don’t worry, it's only indelible ink.’
‘Indelible ink? Are you MAD?’ shrieked Adele, clapping her hands to her chest in horror. ‘This peignoir cost two hundred and fifty pounds.’
By the time Millie reached the house, Adele had gone.
‘Your car,’ Millie spluttered, as Lloyd and Judy came out to greet her.
‘I know. I’ve never been called a whore before.’ Lloyd chuckled, taking the situation in his usual easygoing stride. ‘I shall be the talk of the town.’
His beautiful red Audi, parked on the driveway, had been dramatically graffitied with the words, ‘TART,’ ‘SLUT,’ and ‘WHORE.’
‘Your father was too lazy to walk down to the beach this morning so we set out in my car,’ Judy explained. ‘We saw a woman in a grey Renault as we pulled out of our lane. She must have assumed Lloyd's car belonged to Adele.’
‘So Sylvia did all this before knocking on the door. Crikey, Mum must have been in a complete state.’
‘By the time we got back she’d been scrubbing away in the shower for a good forty minutes. That ink isn’t going to be coming off in a hurry. I can’t imagine what the other people on the train back to London are going to make of your mother.’ Lloyd was doing his best to keep a straight face. ‘It's the hottest day of the year and she's done up like a beekeeper… black veil, long-sleeved gloves, and a hat the size of a sombrero.’
‘This is all my fault,’ Millie fretted. ‘If I’d been awake this morning when Sylvia came round, I’d never have given her your address.’
‘Oh please, will you listen to yourself?’ Lloyd shook his head and tut-tutted. ‘It's your mother's fault for getting herself involved with a married man in the first place.’
‘So what's going to happen now? Is it all over between them?’
‘She was on the phone to Tim Fleetwood before she left,’ Judy said easily. ‘Reading out train times and basically telling him he had twenty-four hours to leave Sylvia and join her in London.’
Millie was wide-eyed.
‘Blimey, d’you think he will?’
‘Well, we could only hear Adele's side of the conversation.’ Judy shrugged. ‘But I have to say she sounded like a mother ordering a sulky teenager to tidy his room.’
‘I still can’t believe it,’ Millie marveled, polishing her sunglasses on the hem of her polka-dotted skirt. ‘Of all the men to have an affair with. How did he ever get away from Sylvia for long enough to see my mother? I thought she had him electronically tagged.’
‘He joined an evening class,’ said Judy. ‘Adele told me while she was packing.’
‘And Sylvia didn’t join up with him?’ This was astounding. Every year they had enrolled for some course or other, always as a couple.
‘He joined a men-only discussion group: The Role of the Male in the Twenty-First Century: Exploring Repressed Emotions.’ Heroically, Judy managed to keep a straight face. ‘Apparently, he told Sylvia he needed to discover his inner self. And it worked a treat, until Sylvia caught on last week. She turned up at the community center as the rest of the class was leaving and found out that Tim hadn’t actually bothered to attend any of the meetings.’
Millie still felt as if she were in some way to blame. She watched as her father licked an index finger and gave the indelible felt-pen graffiti on the bonnet of his car an experimental rub.
It wasn’t coming off.
‘Are you going to call the police?’
‘What, and have the poor woman arrested for a spot of grievous car-bodily harm?’ Lloyd laughed. ‘I don’t think there's any need for that.’
Millie nodded at the graffiti—hardly the kind you’d want to flaunt as you drove around Cornwall.
‘It's going to need a respray. That’ll cost a bit.’
‘My darling, look at it from my point of view.’ Lloyd placed a genial arm around her shoulders. ‘Thanks to Sylvia Fleetwood, my ex-wife has upped sticks and moved out, gone back to London for good. Sylvia provided the answer to my prayers. She has removed the thorn from my side.’ His grey eyes crinkling at the corners, he lowered his voice and confided, ‘My darling, getting the car resprayed is a small price to pay, believe me. That woman has done me a massive favor. In fact, I should probably send her red roses and a crate of champagne.’
Chapter 51
MILLIE WAS IN THE kitchen being taught by Nat how to create the perfect souffle omelette when the phone rang the following afternoon.
‘… and then you fold the egg whites into the beaten yolks with a metal spoon—no, not a wooden one…’
‘Millie, it's for you.’ Hester appeared in the doorway with a phwoarh expression on her face. ‘Some gorgeous-sounding French guy, says it's très importante.’
‘Excuse me.’ Nat feigned despair. ‘What's more très importante: some gorgeous-sounding French guy or my omelette-making masterclass?’
‘Ask a silly question.’ Briskly, Millie seized the phone. ‘Hello?’
‘Ah mademoiselle, bon soir. Per’aps you could eenform your charming friend that I am not only gorgeous-soundeeng but gorgeous-lookeeng also.’
Oh! Millie's heart began to flap about inside her rib cage like a landed haddock. This was definitely a turn-up for the books.
‘He says he makes Olivier Martinez look like Quasimodo,’ she told Hester, without covering the receiver. ‘Then again, we only have his word for it. He could look like Quasimodo's ugly brother.’
‘Ze thing ees, I need some ‘elp wiz a crossword,’ said Hugh. ‘Seexteen across, two words, six and three letters, cricketer found guilty.’
‘D’you know what I think?’ said Millie. ‘I think all men should speak all the time with a French accent. It ought to be compulsory.’ Shivering happily, she added, ‘Caught out.’
‘Hey, excellente, merci beaucoup mademoiselle. Actually,’ Hugh reverted to his normal voice, ‘the reason I rang was because—’
‘Don’t tell me, you’re dying to know what I s
aid to my mother.’ Clutching the cordless phone, Millie sidled past Nat out of the kitchen. In the living room, she told Hugh what had happened.
‘So there you have it,’ she concluded several minutes later. ‘Mum's back in London scrubbing away at her face with Comet and a Brillo pad. My dad's busy celebrating. And my mother's lover has decided not to join her because he's too much of a wet lettuce to leave his wife.’
At that moment a shriek echoed through from the kitchen, followed by a volley of giggles. ‘Excuse my flatmate,’ Millie sighed. ‘Sounds like she's being ravished. Again.’
‘How's it going with those two?’
‘Oh, they’re still sickeningly happy, like a couple of newlyweds. Which I’m pleased about, of course, but…’
‘Still thinking of moving out?’
Why? Are you going to invite me to move in with you? Really? Wow, that’d be great!
Wisely, Millie kept this rogue fantasy to herself. Instead, she said, ‘Probably. Well, it makes sense.’
‘Where will you live?’ said Hugh.
Huh, so not with you, obviously.
‘Well, Lucas has offered me a room at his place. He says I’m welcome to stay as long as I like.’
There was a brief pause.
‘And will you go?’
‘I don’t know.’ Millie heaved another gusty sigh. ‘Seems a bit ridiculous, moving out of here to get away from all the sex that's going on… and ending up at Lucas's house. Talk about jumping out of the frying pan. Still, it was kind of him to offer.’
Unlike you, Mr. Can’t-take-a-hint.
‘He might expect you to sleep with him.’ Hugh sounded disapproving. ‘As a way of saying thank you.’
‘Suppose he might,’ Millie agreed.
‘You’d be another notch on his bedpost.’
‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ said Millie. ‘Lucas has carved so many notches there's no actual bedpost left.’
When she hung up five minutes later, she wondered what the phone call had really been about. Was it her overactive imagination or had Hugh sounded as if he were biting his tongue, willing himself not to tell her she mustn’t sleep with Lucas?
