by Jill Mansell
‘And has it done the trick?’ Hugh still looked as if he was trying hard not to laugh.
‘Don’t be daft, of course it hasn’t. Doing ridiculous things is what I do best. Anyway, now you know.’ Signaling that the show was over, Millie slid the hem of her dress-cum-nightie back down over her thigh.
‘Well,’ said Hugh, ‘thanks for showing me.’
‘Worth the trip?’
‘Oh definitely. Every mile.’
At that moment the bus rumbled into life and began moving jerkily forwards. Everyone on the top deck obediently plugged themselves into the headphones that would enable them to listen to the tour guide's running commentary.
Millie didn’t need to do this. She had Hugh.
‘… and this is Buckingham Palace,’ he said as the bus trundled up The Mall. ‘What a dump. Damp, poky little place. Full of Ikea furniture and nasty modern prints in plastic frames.’
‘I see what you mean.’ Millie nodded. ‘I certainly wouldn’t want to live there.’
‘That's Tower Bridge,’ Hugh pointed out some time later. ‘See the Thames? Told you it was manky.’
Followed by: ‘Trafalgar Square. You can’t move without treading on a pigeon. Did you ever see that Alfred Hitchcock film, The Birds?’
Millie leapt excitedly to her feet at one stage, convinced she’d just spotted Prince William emerging from a Burger King in Piccadilly Circus. Yanking her back down, Hugh said, ‘You mustn’t do that.’
‘I only wanted to look at him!’ Millie wondered if it was one of those London rules she didn’t know about, where you could be prosecuted for hassling a Royal. Crikey, what did he imagine she’d been about to do—throw herself at their future king from the top of the bus?
‘For a start, it wasn’t Prince William. And for another start,’ Hugh kept a straight face, ‘everyone can see right through that nightie you’re wearing.’
Luckily the tourists’ camcorders were trained elsewhere, on some boring statue thing. Millie decided to brazen it out.
‘It's not a nightie. It's a dress.’
‘Really? I thought it might be a nightie. What with it being so transparent.’
‘You know nothing about fashion. It's actually quite the thing this season… What? ’ Millie protested, all of a sudden finding it hard to breathe normally. ‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘You might be gorgeous,’ Hugh shook his head good-naturedly, ‘but you’re a diabolical liar.’
Oh! He called me gorgeous!
‘Thank you.’ Lightly, Millie added, ‘I think.’
‘So what's the verdict?’
‘On what?’
Hugh gestured with his arm. ‘London.’
‘Horrible.’ She pulled a face. ‘Like you said, not a patch on Cornwall.’
‘Changed your mind about coming to live here?’
His tone was playful, but Millie no longer felt like playing along. She had to know what this was really all about.
‘Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?’ Her attempt to sound sophisticated and in control was spoilt somewhat by the fact that her teeth had begun to chatter.
Quite loudly, in fact.
Hugh nodded.
‘Okay. Right. Remember the recurring dream I told you about? The one where the phone rings and I think it's Louisa.’
Of course I remember.
‘Yes.’
‘Well, that doesn’t happen any more. It stopped.’ He paused. ‘After Orla's party.’
Millie held her breath.
‘And?’
‘And I know I swore I’d never fall in love again. But I did. And it's taken me a while to accept that, but now I have.’
‘R-really?’ Her teeth were still at it, like boisterous school children incapable of keeping still in assembly.
‘In fact, I went to see her last night.’ Hugh stopped, his dark eyes serious. ‘I went to see her and I told her I loved her.’
‘Wh-what?’
Millie felt sick. His face swam in and out of focus. Oh God, all of a sudden things were going horribly horribly wrong.
‘She was wearing her gorilla suit at the time.’ His tone was wry. ‘Well, I thought she was wearing her gorilla suit. Turns out, she’d lent it to her best friend for the evening. So that's something I’m never going to live down.’
‘No!’ It came out as a shriek. Clapping her hands to her mouth, Millie spluttered with laughter.
‘This is why I had to drive up here, to get to you before Hester did. I’m sure everyone already knows about it in Newquay.’
Millie, awash with happiness, said, ‘Are you sure?’
‘Are you kidding? Hester's probably driving around the town as we speak, broadcasting the news through a megaphone.’
This was undoubtedly true.
‘I meant are you sure about… you know, the other stuff you just said?’
Hugh smiled slightly.
‘Only if you’re happy about it. I mean, I’ve pretty much put my neck on the line here. You might be about to tell me you aren’t interested.’
Millie considered this. It might be fun. It would definitely give him a taste of his own medicine. Then again…
‘I could,’ she admitted. ‘Except I’m a lousy liar. I’ve always been interested in you, and you’ve always known that.’
‘The thing is,’ Hugh's expression softened, ‘can you forgive me for the way I treated you?’
‘I don’t know,’ Millie lied. ‘You’ll have to persuade me first.’
It was ten o’clock; the tour was at an end. As the bus slowed to a halt outside the Royal Lancaster Hotel, Hugh drew her into his arms and kissed her until her head began to spin.
Then he kissed her some more.
Around them, the foreign tourists prepared to disembark. Chattering and giggling, they made their way past the two mad English people. When Millie finally opened her eyes, she saw a camcorder pointed at them, whirring away. A Japanese girl said something to her friend and they both went off into peals of laughter.
‘What was that about?’ Millie murmured, not really caring at all.
‘Actually, I speak a bit of Japanese.’ Hugh raised an eyebrow. ‘She said, “That girl isn’t wearing any knickers.”’
He was joking, Millie told herself.
At least she hoped he was.
Then again, maybe they shouldn’t get off the bus just yet.
Moments later they had the top deck to themselves once more, and Hugh kissed her again. Ecstatically, she closed her eyes and wound her arms around him.
‘Millie Brady, what do you think you’re doing?’
Millie's eyes snapped open. At the sound of the familiar voice she froze, then peered guiltily over Hugh's shoulder.
Orla was standing outside the entrance to the hotel. Next to her, still wearing his dinner jacket and dress shirt from last night, and with a lighted cigarette dangling from his fingers, was a rumpled but happy-looking Christie Carson.
Orla stared, transfixed, at the sight of Millie on the upper deck of the open-top tour bus, enthusiastically canoodling with a man who had his back to her but who certainly wasn’t Con Deveraux.
The strumpet!
The shameless hussy!
And about time too, thought Orla, who had in recent weeks begun to inwardly despair at Millie's spectacular lack of progress on the man front.
‘She must have picked him up at the party after we left last night.’ Delighted, Orla gave Christie's hand a squeeze. ‘Maybe he's a writer too.’ Raising her voice to a bellow, she gestured wildly with her free arm. ‘Hey, Millie! Come down here, this minute! Introduce us to your new friend.’
‘She's going to go mental when she recognizes you,’ said Millie.
‘That's nothing.’ Hugh grinned. ‘You’ve been withholding vital information. She’ll probably demand her money back. But,’ he added consolingly, ‘I’ll still love you. Five grand or no five grand.’
‘Okay. Here goes.’ Millie took a deep brea
th, grabbed his hand for moral support, and stood up.
Hugh, rising to his feet, turned and waved at Orla.
Orla's mouth promptly dropped open.
‘I don’t… but… how can he be…?’ she spluttered as Hugh, laughing now, blew her a kiss. ‘This is completely… good grief, I don’t believe this.’
‘Neither do I.’ Shielding his eyes from the sun in order to get a better look, Christie Carson let out a low, appreciative whistle. ‘You can see right through that dress.’
Also by Jill Mansell,
available from Sourcebooks Landmark
An Offer You Can’t Refuse
Miranda's Big Mistake
Perfect Timing
Reading Group Guides available
at www.sourcebooks.com
From
perfect timing
‘If you want to dance, dance.’ Dina looked smug. ‘Don’t mind me.’
The last record of the night was ‘Lady in Red’.
‘Thank God you aren’t wearing something red,’ said Tom. ‘That really would have been too kitsch for words.’
Poppy, whose heart was going nineteen to the dozen, didn’t tell him she had red knickers on.
She said, ‘I thought you’d left.’
‘I did. Then I came back. I had to.’ Tilting his head he murmured into her ear, ‘I want you to know I don’t make a habit of this. It isn’t some kind of bizarre hobby of mine, in case you were wondering.’
Over his shoulder Poppy saw Jen and one of the airline pilots cruising at low altitude towards them. Jen winked.
‘Watch what you’re doing with my future cousin-in-law,’ she instructed Tom. ‘By this time tomorrow she’ll be an old married woman. We’re under instruction to keep our eye on her tonight.’
This is awful, thought Poppy, beginning to panic as the song moved into its final chorus. Any minute now the night will be over, it’ll be time to leave. How can this be happening to me? I need more time—
In a low voice Tom said, ‘Will your friends miss you if we sneak out now?’
‘Of course they will.’ Close to despair Poppy felt her fingers dig helplessly into his arms. ‘Dina's already phoned for a cab to take us home.’
‘Okay, I’ll leave it up to you.’ He shook back a lock of curling dark hair, studying her face intently for a second. ‘Delgado's, that all-night café on Milton Street. You know the one, directly opposite the university?’
Poppy nodded, unable to speak.
‘I’ll wait there. Until three o’clock. If you want to see me, that's where I’ll be. If you don’t… well, you won’t turn up.’
‘This isn’t funny.’ Poppy realized she was trembling. ‘I’m not enjoying this. I’m hating it.’
‘You mean you wish you hadn’t met me?’ Just for a second Tom traced a finger lightly down the side of her quivering face. ‘Fine, if that's how you feel. If it's how you really feel. Go home. Get a good night's sleep. Carry on as if tonight never happened. Get married—’
‘Our taxi,’ Susie declared with a melodramatic flourish, ‘is waiting.’ She passed Poppy her handbag and began to steer her in the direction of the door. Glancing from Poppy to Tom and back again she chanted, ‘Ladies and gentlemen, your time is up. No more flirting, no more smoochy dances with handsome strangers, no more scribbling your phone number in Biro on the back of his hand and praying it doesn’t rain on the way home. The girl is no longer available. Tomorrow, she gets hitched.’
The journey from the center of Bristol back to Henbury at two in the morning normally took ten minutes. This time the trip was punctuated with a whole series of stops and starts.
It's worse than musical bloody chairs, thought Poppy, willing herself not to scream as Jen, spotting a still-open burger bar, begged the driver to pull up outside. Susie had already sent him on a convoluted tour of local cash dispensers in search of one that worked. If Dina announced that she needed to find yet another public loo, Poppy knew she would have a complete nervous breakdown. At this rate it would be four o’clock before they even arrived home.
But they made it, finally. Dina, with her stressed bladder, was dropped off first. Then Susie, then Jen. Kissing each of them goodbye in turn, Poppy wondered how they would react if they knew what was racing through her mind. Jen was Rob's cousin, Dina his sister-in-law. Only an hour or so ago Susie had confided tipsily, ‘If I could meet and marry someone even half as nice as your Rob I’d be so happy.’
‘Edgerton Close is it, love?’ asked the taxi driver over his shoulder when only Poppy was left in the car.
Poppy looked at her watch for the fiftieth time. Quarter to three. She took a deep breath.
‘Delgado's, Milton Street. Opposite the university. Hurry, please.’
Delgado's was a trendy post-nightclub hangout popular with students and diehard clubbers alike. Poppy, who had visited it a few times in the past, knew its atmosphere to be far more of a draw than the food.
But with its white painted exterior and glossy dark blue shutters it certainly looked the part. On a night like tonight Poppy knew it would be even busier than usual, packed with people showing off their tans, making the most of the perfect weather while it lasted and pretending they weren’t in Bristol but in the south of France.
As her taxi drew up outside Poppy wondered just how stupid she would feel if she went inside and he wasn’t there. She looked again at her watch. One minute to three.
Then she saw him, sitting alone at one of the sought-after tables in the window. He was lounging back on his chair idly stirring sugar into an espresso and smoking a cigarette.
Poppy's pulse began to race. Twelve hours from now she was due to walk down the aisle of St Mary's church on her father's arm. Twelve and a bit hours from now she would become Poppy McBride, wife of Robert and mother—in due course—to three, maybe four little McBrides. It was all planned, right down to the middle names and the color of the wallpaper in the nursery. Rob was a great one for thinking ahead.
‘Here, love?’ The taxi driver was showing signs of restlessness. When Poppy still didn’t move he lit up a cigar and exhaled heavily, making smoke ricochet off the windscreen and into the back of the cab. This usually did the trick.
Poppy didn’t even notice. She saw Tom look at his own watch then gaze out of the window. She knew, without a shadow of a doubt, that if she stepped out of the taxi now her life would be changed drastically and forever.
The taxi driver shifted round in his seat to look at her. ‘Don’t tell me you’re dozing off back there.’
Hardly. Poppy, awash with adrenalin, wondered if she would ever sleep again. Her fingers crept towards the door handle.
‘Look, love,’ began the driver, ‘we can’t—’
‘Edgerton Close.’ Poppy blurted the words out, clenching her fists at her side and willing herself not to leap out of the cab. ‘Please.’
‘You mean back to Henbury?’ The driver stared at her in disbelief. ‘Are you sure about this?’
‘No, but do it anyway.’ She turned her face away from Delgado's and held her breath until the taxi reached the far end of Milton Street. It was no good; she couldn’t go through with it.
The bad news was, she didn’t think she could go through with the wedding either.
Available November 2009
About the Author
Jill Mansell lives with her partner and children in Bristol, and writes full time. Actually, that's not true; she watches TV, eats gum drops, admires the rugby players training in the sports field behind her house, and spends hours on the internet marveling at how many other writers have blogs. Only when she's completely run out of ways to procrastinate does she write.
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