by Jill Mansell
‘And it isn’t,’ Millie guessed.
‘And it isn’t,’ Orla echoed, rubbing her pale, salt-stained cheeks. ‘I was chatting away on the phone this morning to one of my old London friends and she told me she’d heard that Martine was living in Cornwall now.’ The tears slid down Orla’s face as she bit the knuckle of her right forefinger like a child. ‘Well, that speaks for itself, doesn’t it? Giles never did stop seeing her. It’s obviously been going on the whole time. He’s brought her down here, set her up in some sweet little cottage.’ She spat the word out like a bullet. ‘Oh yes, and you can bet your bottom dollar he’s paying the rent with my money.’
Millie was so outraged on Orla’s behalf that for once in her life she was speechless.
Noticing this, Orla sniffed and gave her another crooked, tinged-with-bitterness smile.
‘I know, ironic, isn’t it? Orla Hart, queen of the romantic blockbuster. I spend my life creating glorious love affairs and fabulously happy endings, and all the time my own marriage is a complete pig’s b-b-bottom. Oh God, it’s no good, I can’t carry on any more. I’m so miserable I JUST WANT TO DIE.’
Yikes.
‘Right,’ said Millie, floundering a bit. ‘Well, I can see why. So, um, have you made a will?’
Orla stared at her.
‘What?’
‘A will. You know, I hereby bequeath my worldly goods to the local monkey sanctuary and fifty thousand a year to my pet gerbil.’
‘Of course I haven’t made a will.’ Orla shuddered. ‘They’re just morbid.’
‘Oh well, that’s handy then,’ said Millie. ‘So if you jump off this cliff now, your husband inherits all your money and your house, and he gets to keep his mistress in the lap of luxury for the rest of her life. I tell you what, why don’t you just run over there,’ she jerked her thumb over her shoulder, indicating the gleaming, burnt orange Mercedes, ‘and tie a big shiny gold ribbon round that expensive car of yours, because your husband’s girlfriend’s going to have her sweaty little hands on that steering wheel faster than you can say Rest in Peace. She’ll probably go with him to your funeral,’ Millie rattled on, picturing it all in her mind, ‘and the next thing you know, they’ll be getting married!’
‘Noooo!’ howled Orla Hart, clutching her stomach and rocking to and fro in despair. ‘He can’t marry her, he can’t.’
‘You won’t be around to stop him.’ Millie shrugged. ‘They’ll be able to do whatever they like, because you’ll be dead. And don’t look at me like that,’ she went on, ‘because all I’m doing is being honest, stating the facts. Personally, I wouldn’t kill myself, I wouldn’t give the pair of them the satisfaction. I’d stick around and concentrate on making their lives hell!’
Miserably, Orla shook her head.
‘You don’t understand. I love Giles more than anything. I don’t want to lose him.’
‘Well you will,’ said Millie, ‘if you’re dead.’
‘God, you’re brutal.’ Heaving a sigh, Orla closed her eyes.
‘Look, you’ve got a choice here. You can stay and fight for your marriage if that’s what you want.’ Privately, Millie thought she’d be mad to want to hang on to such a horrible-sounding man. ‘Or you can kick your husband out and find yourself another one—bigger, better, and nicer in every way. That would really be having the last laugh.’
‘Ho, ho,’ Orla mimicked with a spectacular lack of enthusiasm. ‘That is so likely to happen.’
‘But it might.’
‘You know what your trouble is? You’ve been reading too many trashy novels.’
‘Oh come on, your novels aren’t that trashy,’ Millie protested.
‘Thanks.’ Miraculously, Orla’s mouth began to twitch. ‘But I wasn’t actually talking about mine.’
Embarrassed, Millie flapped her hands in apology. The faux pas had always been a specialty of hers.
‘Okay, sorry, but let’s not change the subject. I still need you to promise that you aren’t going to kill yourself. And you really mustn’t, because all you’d be doing would be cutting off your nose to spite your face.’
Actually, if Orla were to throw herself off Tresanter Point on to the jagged rocks below, she’d be doing a lot more than cutting off her nose. There’ d be body parts and internal organs splattered in all directions, followed by greedy seagulls shrieking with delight, swooping down, and snatching up ribbons of flesh in their beaks.
Millie wondered if she should point this out to Orla. Would it help or might it prove to be the final straw?
Luckily she didn’t get the chance to find out.
‘Okay, you win,’ said Orla Hart. Drying her eyes on the hem of her dark blue dress, she shook back her hair and stood up. ‘You’re right. My marriage is worth fighting for. I won’t let that grasping little tart spoil everything.’
Phew. Well, good. Millie, feeling her stomach muscles slowly unclench themselves, said encouragingly, ‘You can do it, I know you can.’
When they reached the Mercedes—unlocked and with the keys still in the ignition—Orla scooped her hand along the row of envelopes propped up on the dashboard and shoveled them into the glove compartment. She looked across at Millie.
‘Where do you live?’
‘Newquay.’
‘That’s five miles away. How did that so-called boyfriend of yours imagine you were going to get home?’
Millie shrugged.
‘That’s why I had to make sure I changed your mind about chucking yourself off the cliff. So you’d be able to give me a lift.’
Chapter 2
Oh well, so much for that theory, Millie concluded as she lay back in the bath and twiddled the plug chain with her toes. So much for the program she had watched three months earlier advocating the joys of the arranged marriage.
At the time it had seemed such a great idea. Millie had listened, transfixed, to the reasoning of the pretty young Muslim girl happily explaining why an arranged marriage was the only way to go. After all, look at the divorce rate among Westerners, who married for love. Disaster, absolute disaster. It stood to reason that what everyone should be doing was getting themselves matched up, forgetting all about this sexual-chemistry malarkey, and gradually allowing love to grow.
Since her last dozen or so boyfriends had all been unmitigated disasters, Millie had found herself nodding vigorously at the TV screen and agreeing with every word. And when, a week later, Hester had offered to set her up on a blind date with a friend of a friend because, ‘I just know you two will get on,’ she had said yes at once.
Upon meeting Neil, Millie had realized—also at once—that she didn’t find him remotely fanciable. But that was all right, that was fine, because she wasn’t supposed to. Fanciability was forbidden, remember? This time her love was going to blossom sloooowly, like a flower. All the things Neil did that irritated her beyond belief would—in due course—stop being irritating and instead become lovable quirks.
Apart from slurping his coffee like an industrial vacuum cleaner, which—Millie had to be honest here—was never likely to become a lovable quirk.
But the experiment hadn’t worked. Three months down the line, Millie’s flower was in no danger of blossoming. In fact, she suspected she’d been dealt a dud seed.
A very dud seed indeed.
‘Tea and toast,’ sang Hester as the bathroom door crashed open. Triumphantly she added, ‘And I want to hear the whole story!’
‘What story?’ Millie surfaced and slicked her wet blonde hair away from her face, astounded by the sensitivity of her friend’s antennae. How could Hester possibly know that she had spent the afternoon talking famous writer Orla Hart out of hurling herself off Tresanter Point?
‘Don’t drop it in the bath this time.’ Dropping the lid of the loo seat down and settling herself cross-legged on it, Hester handed her the plate of Marmite on toast. ‘Didn’t you hear the doorbell just now?’
‘No.’ Millie guessed she’d been submerged at the time. Either that or s
inging in a loud and shamelessly off-key fashion. Gosh, she hoped it hadn’t been Orla Hart at the front door.
Except that wasn’t actually terribly likely, was it, seeing as Orla Hart didn’t know where she lived.
‘It was Neil. With your handbag.’
‘Oh.’ Millie nodded with relief. Her bag had still been in Neil’s car when he had screeched off, abandoning her on the cliff top with End-It-All Orla.
‘He practically threw it at me when I opened the door,’ Hester complained. ‘And he wasn’t looking thrilled, I can tell you.’
‘No. Well, I suppose he wouldn’t.’
‘Do you know what he said next?’ Hester leaned forward indignantly.
‘No.’ To be helpful, Millie said, ‘I was in the bath, remember?’
‘He said he was bringing back your bag, not that you deserved it, and that you’re a stuck-up spoiled bitch, a selfish cow who thinks you’re sooo great, but you’re not, okay?’
‘Okay,’ said Millie dutifully. ‘Gosh.’
‘Well, as you can imagine, I was shocked.’ Hester gave her a severe look. ‘I said, “Is this Millie Brady you’re talking about? Are you sure it’s Millie?”’
‘And he was sure,’ Millie guessed.
‘He certainly was. What’s more, it’s over, okay? All over. He never ever wants to see you again, you’re an ungrateful bitch, he wishes he’d never met you, you’ve got a bloody nerve thinking you’re better than anyone else… oh, and by the way, that thing on your leg isn’t attractive, in fact it’s a downright turnoff and didn’t you know only complete and utter floozies get themselves tattooed?’
‘Oh. Well, I certainly do now.’ Millie mustered a brave smile. She supposed she deserved it, jumping out of Neil’s car at the crucial moment like that, without so much as a thanks-but-no-thanks. His feelings were bound to be hurt.
But the final jibe, the bit about the tattoo, hit home. Millie instinctively sank lower in the water in an attempt to conceal the decoration on her right thigh beneath a mound of bubbles. Getting herself tattooed in a moment of recklessness had definitely been something she’d lived to regret.
It was bad enough knowing you had an embarrassing tattoo without having to hear that it made you look like an out-and-out floozy.
‘So just a wild guess,’ said Hester, ‘but would I be right in guessing you aren’t exactly flavor of the month with Neil?’
‘Not unless you count pickled-maggot flavor.’ Millie pulled a face.
‘Why?’
‘He asked me to move in with him.’
‘And you said no?’
‘I didn’t say anything. Just got out of the car and legged it.’
Hester pinched a triangle of Marmite on toast.
‘All over, then?’
‘All over.’
‘Tuh. Lucky escape if you ask me. I knew that Muslim thing was never going to work.’
Millie shrugged.
‘It was worth a try.’
‘Are you upset?’
Honestly, some people.
‘Of course I’m not upset! If I’d wanted to live with him I would have said yes.’
‘Still.’ Hester sipped her tea and tried to look sympathetic. ‘It leaves you at a bit of a loose end, doesn’t it? What you need is a distraction.’
‘What kind of distraction?’
‘The cheering-up kind. I know, we can throw a party! A house-warming party.’
Millie rolled her eyes.
‘Hess, we’ve lived here for two and a half years.’
‘Really? Gosh, time flies when you’re having fun. Okay, we’ll go out then, have a good old Friday-night binge.’ Hester leapt excitedly off the polished wood loo seat, splashing tea on the bath mat. ‘We’ll hit the town, celebrate you finishing with numb-brain Neil, chat up hundreds of gorgeous surfers, and have the best time ever… a night we’ll never forget!’
Well, that had been the plan anyway. But then that was the thing with nights out, Millie reminded herself several hours later as she took off her too-tight shoes and stuffed them into her bag. You never knew what kind you were going to end up with. It was a completely random thing. You could stop off at the wine bar for just-the-one in your awful office clothes and with your hair a disaster, yet miraculously end up having a truly fabulous time.
Then again, at the other end of the scale, you could spend four hours getting yourself tarted up, finally set out with adrenalin racing round your body and your hopes sky high… and what happened?
Precisely. Bugger all.
Which was, of course, exactly what had happened tonight. Oh, they’d had a good enough time, touring all the trendiest, most happening bars in Newquay and meeting up with loads of people they knew. But it had been, ultimately, a disappointment.
Like delving into your stocking on Christmas morning and discovering a year’s supply of ravishingly wrapped… socks.
The moral of the evening had definitely been that you could meet a good-looking surfer but you couldn’t make him think.
It had been, Millie ruefully acknowledged, an evening sorely lacking in brain cells.
‘Ouch, my toes.’ Hopping along the pavement, clutching a postbox for support en route, Hester massaged her own feet. She knew from bitter experience that if she took off her shoes she would hurl them into the nearest hedge. ‘Still, that guy with the dark curly hair in the Barclay Bar wasn’t bad, was he? Did you fancy him?’
The guy with the dark curly hair in the Barclay Bar had punctuated every sentence with, ‘Know what I mean, man, yeah?’
‘No,’ said Millie, ‘I didn’t. He was awful.’
‘I thought he was cute.’ Reaching a lamppost, Hester leaned against it and kicked off her four-inch heels. ‘Ooh, bliss, that is sooo much better.’
‘Don’t take them off.’
‘I have to, I have to.’
‘Don’t throw them,’ Millie begged, though why she was even bothering she didn’t know. Hester had done this a hundred times, chucking her shoes into the nearest hedge or garden rather than carry them home. Sometimes, the next day, she would retrace her steps in search of them. If the shoes were still there, she fell on them with delight and treated them like returning prodigal children. If they were nowhere to be found, she popped into the police station—where they knew her well—to see if any had been handed in. Not that they ever were, but Hester enjoyed flirting with whoever was on duty at the time. And the policemen always seemed to enjoy it.
And after that, of course, Hester had the perfect excuse to go out and buy herself a new pair.
‘You like those, they’re your favorites.’ Millie tried to stop her, but it was too late—Hester was already in mid-fling. The first red and black patent leather stiletto sailed into the air, gleaming in the light from the street lamp. As it somersaulted back to earth, Hester hurled the second stiletto, letting go of the heel too soon. It shot like a guided missile into the bush next to them and—
‘MIAAOOWWW.’
‘Oh God,’ Millie’s hands flew to her mouth in dismay, ‘you hit a cat!’
Hester, equally horrified, gasped, ‘I didn’t mean to! It was an accident—oh please don’t tell me I’ve killed it…’
Unable to look, she clamped her hands over her eyes as Millie crawled beneath the bush.
‘Is it dead? Is it dead?’ wailed Hester behind her. ‘I don’t believe this, I’ve murdered a cat, oh help, I feel sick…’
The next moment there was a rustle of leaves and a white cat snaked towards Millie, investigating her with elaborate caution before rubbing his head against her outstretched fingers and beginning to purr.
‘You’re okay, the cat’s here, he’s fine,’ Millie called out. No blood, no broken bones, no apparent concussion; the noise he had made appeared to have been nothing more than a yowl of alarm.
‘Phew, thank goodness for that.’ Hester breathed a huge sigh of relief. ‘I thought I’d murdered it.’
The cat was now busy licking Millie’s hand. He was def
initely unhurt. Aware that she was kneeling on a damp, mulchy carpet of leaves, Millie began to wriggle out from under the bush bottom-first. As she did so, her left wrist brushed against something smooth.
‘White cotton knickers,’ Hester complained behind her, evidently having recovered from her shock. ‘You came out tonight wearing plain, white cotton knickers. Honestly, no wonder you didn’t meet anyone nice.’
Scrambling to her feet, Millie tugged her skirt down and shook damp leaves out of her hair.
‘I wasn’t actually planning on showing anyone my knickers.’
‘That’s not the point. It’s a state of mind. Wear sexy underwear and you automatically feel more attractive, so men will automatically find you more attractive, and before you know it you’ll have hordes of them panting at your heels—’
‘Unlike you, because you’ve just thrown your heels away,’ Millie pointed out. ‘Anyway, never mind my knickers. Look what I found under the hedge.’
As she held out the wallet she had knocked with her hand, Hester fell on it with a squeal of delight.
‘Wow! What if it’s stuffed with cash?’
‘Hester, no.’ Appalled, Millie wrenched the wallet back from her. ‘You can’t steal someone else’s money.’
‘Can’t we?’ Hester’s face fell. ‘Okay, I suppose not. Tuh, you and your scruples.’ She tugged invitingly at Millie’s arm. ‘Just think, there could be loads in there. Imagine if you opened it up and there was a hundred thousand pounds. And who would ever know we’d found it?’ She gestured around the dark, deserted street. ‘We could buy a Ferrari and still have plenty left over for new shoes.’
Millie pressed the wallet to her cheek. The soft, well-worn leather was cold and damp and smelt of leaf mold; the wallet had clearly been lying there for a while.
‘We’ll take it to the police station,’ she announced firmly.
