Jill Mansell Boxed Set

by Jill Mansell

  Spotting the inquiries desk way over to the left behind the line of checkouts, Millie tucked the T-shirt and bottle of sparkling wine under her arm and headed for it. Thanks to the turnstiles and inescapable one-way system, she was forced to navigate her way through pastas and sauces, cakes and biscuits, and cat food and dog chews (mmm, yum).

  Finally, Millie squeezed past a huge woman bulk-buying biscuits and rolled up to the customer inquiries desk.

  Three supervisors grinned at her.

  ‘Monkey nuts? Aisle sixteen, love,’ said one of them hilariously.

  ‘I’m here to see the manager,’ said Millie, a fair-sized crowd beginning to gather around her.

  The manager?’

  ‘Jerry Heseltine.’ Why were the women giving each other odd looks? ‘I do have the right supermarket,’ Millie told them earnestly. ‘His wife gave me exact instructions.’ More wary expressions, a couple of nudges, and one smothered grin. ‘She arranged for me to come here today as a surprise. It’s their silver wedding anniversary.’

  The tills behind her were beginning to fall silent. One of the young bag-packing assistants cackled with laughter. All eyes were fixed on Millie.

  ‘Jerry Heseltine,’ she repeated, beginning to perspire a bit inside the costume. ‘He is your manager, isn’t he?’

  Golly, how embarrassing if he turned out to be a trolley collector who’d spent the last twenty years lying to his wife, telling her he was the boss.

  ‘Oh, he’s our manager,’ said one of the supervisors, whose name-badge announced that she was Mavis. ‘But he isn’t around.’

  ‘His wife said he’d definitely be here,’ Millie wailed. God, was she supposed to wait! ‘Look, where is he?’ she pleaded. ‘Do you know what he’s doing and what time he’ll be back?’

  The two supervisors flanking Mavis began to snort with laughter. Mavis, casually consulting her watch, said, ‘What’s he doing? Well, it’s four minutes past one, so having steamy sex with Doreen Pringle, I imagine.’

  ‘Oooh nooo!’ Millie put a hairy paw up to her mouth in horror.

  ‘And he wasn’t actually planning on being back,’ Mavis concluded with an air of malicious triumph. ‘They’ve both taken the rest of the afternoon off.’

  ‘Hell’s bells,’ groaned Millie. ‘This was supposed to be so romantic.’

  ‘He’s a selfish, cheating git,’ Mavis announced. ‘And she’s an uppity cow. Works on the deli counter. Three lunchtimes a week they slope off together to her place. It’s been going on for the last two years.’

  ‘What a bastard.’ Sorrowfully, Millie shook her gorilla’s head.

  ‘Doreen only lives down the road,’ one of the other supervisors suggested helpfully, as supermarket supervisors tend to do. ‘On the Lime Acres estate. You could always pop along there and do your bit on her front doorstep.’

  ‘Thanks. But maybe not,’ Millie sighed.

  Practically everyone at the tills had heard every word.

  As she skated wearily towards the exit, Millie marveled at the selfishness of men. That poor theater nurse had been so thrilled at the prospect of surprising her loving husband… how could she have been married to him for twenty-five years and have got it so horribly wrong?

  She’d been right about one thing though, when she’d described the staff at the supermarket as one big happy family. Except it clearly hadn’t occurred to her that her own husband might be off playing mummies and daddies in his lunch hour with Doreen from the deli.

  Donk! Something ricocheted off the back of Millie’s head, almost sending her careering into a bank of potted plants. Regaining her balance in the nick of time, she spun round and saw that one of the teenage boys had thrown a banana at her.

  Killing themselves laughing, they jumped up and down and made whooping monkey noises.

  For pity’s sake. It was enough to put you off the opposite sex for life.

  Back at the car, Millie removed her skates and placed the gorilla head on the passenger seat next to her. Phew, that was better.

  What a complete bastard.

  She saw him as she was pulling out of the car park thirty seconds later. He was unloading the contents of his shopping trolley into the boot of his car. Wearing white jeans and a sea-green polo shirt and looking even more gorgeous than ever.

  Okay. Relax. Breathe normally. Just drive past and pretend you haven’t spotted him.

  Keep your eyes fixed on the road ahead. Don’t look left. Don’t look left, don’t look left, don’t look… Bugger.

  Bugger and damn, she’d looked left. Just as Hugh Emerson finished loading the last carrier bag into the boot and glanced up.

  He grinned, recognizing her at once. Millie immediately broke into a sweat, not helped by the fact that she was encased from neck to ankles in an eighteen-pound gorilla suit.

  Okay, not the end of the world. Just nod and wave in a casual fashion, acknowledge his existence, then drive off. That’s easy, no need to panic, you can do that.

  And she could have done, if a skinny woman pushing a piled-high trolley across the road in front of her hadn’t lost control of it at that moment and slammed the front wheels into the curb. A packet of loo rolls and an untied bag of apples toppled to the ground. The woman, panicking, tried and failed to jerk the trolley back on course. Frantically, mouthing apologies, she bent down and began retrieving the scattered Granny Smiths, but the polythene had split and as fast as she collected them up and threw them back in the bag they tumbled out again.

  The trolley was still blocking the road. There was no escape. This is exactly what would happen to me, thought Millie, if I’d just robbed a bank and was desperate to make a quick getaway.

  My whole life is one great big hideous jinx.

  Chapter 17

  Taking pity on the skinny woman’s predicament, Hugh strolled over and helped her pick up the escaped apples. The woman, Millie could tell, was both grateful and impressed. Next, he skillfully man-uevered her trolley up over the curb and sent her off happily in the direction of her car.

  Even more skillfully, he was back in front of Millie’s lime green Mini before she had a chance to drive off. With a slight smile, he indicated that she should open her window.

  Begrudgingly, Millie wound it down. She’d taken off the hairy gorilla hands in order to drive, of course, but they were still dangling by their velcro fastenings from her wrists.

  Any monkey-nut jokes, Millie decided, and she’d be forced to run over his foot. Plus, he’d better not mention bananas.

  Don’t try and be witty, please don’t try and be witty. Because I promise you, I’m not in the mood.

  And a broken foot often offends.

  ‘I always think golf buggies are the answer,’ Hugh remarked. ‘The first supermarket to give us golf buggies instead of unsteerable trolleys has to be on to a winner, don’t you think?’

  Millie smiled; she couldn’t help it. Whenever she thought about Hugh Emerson—which was scarily often—she grew dry-mouthed and panicky. But as soon as they were actually conversing again, she mysteriously relaxed.

  Any normal person, of course, would do it the other way round.

  ‘Thank you.’ She nodded gravely, like the Queen. ‘For not making any banana jokes.’

  ‘I don’t know any banana jokes.’ Hugh paused. ‘Well, apart from one, which I couldn’t possibly repeat.’ Another pause. ‘Not in front of a gorilla, anyway.’

  ‘Would you do something for me?’ coaxed Millie. ‘Just put your foot under my front wheel for a moment?’

  ‘Oh dear, bad day?’ Hugh was laughing down at her now. ‘And here on business, at a guess. Did it all go horribly wrong?’

  Briefly, Millie told him.

  ‘And then, as I was leaving, some scummy apology for a schoolboy hit me on the head,’ she concluded indignantly. ‘With a sodding banana.’

  ‘You know what you need,’ said Hugh. ‘A drink.’

  ‘You must be joking, I am not going back into that supermarket!’


  ‘I didn’t mean a cup of tea and a bun, I meant a proper drink. A huge vodka and tonic with plenty of ice and lemon.’ The corners of Hugh’s mouth began to twitch. ‘And a bun.’

  Hugh’s house was only a couple of miles from the supermarket. Since he had bags of frozen stuff rapidly defrosting in the boot of his car, Millie followed him back to the detached Victorian property, high on the hill overlooking Padstow.

  She was looking forward to a vodka and tonic.

  And to seeing where Hugh lived.

  Most of all though, she couldn’t wait to help him unpack his supermarket shop.

  You could tell so much about a man by the food he bought. As she pulled up on the driveway behind Hugh’s car, Millie felt a squiggle of excitement mingled with panic. Yikes, this really was kill or cure. If he’d been in there bulk-buying frozen haggis and tinned meat pies or, worse still, tofu, she’d go off him in a big, big way.

  She’d actually forgotten she was still in her gorilla suit until the woman next door popped her head over the wall, started to say something to Hugh, then spotted Millie and said, ‘Oh!’

  ‘Bang goes my street cred.’ Hugh raised an eyebrow as the woman scuttled back into her house. ‘Now I’ll never get invited to Edwina’s next dinner party.’ He nodded at Millie’s hairy outfit. ‘Do you want to take it off?’

  She feigned alarm.

  ‘What, right here?’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ Starting to laugh, Hugh unlocked the boot of his car. ‘But you must have a change of clothes with you.’

  Millie did, of course she did. An orange skirt and a white tank top, stowed in a carrier bag under the passenger seat of her own car.

  But there was just something irresistible about borrowing someone else’s clothes.

  Particularly when they were someone you happened to have a bit of a girly crush on.

  ‘I didn’t think I’d need them, I was just going to do the job then drive straight back home again.’ Opening her eyes wide, Millie shook her head. Then, rubbing imaginary beads of perspiration from her brow, she shrugged and said bravely, ‘Doesn’t matter, don’t worry about me.’

  ‘You’re completely mad,’ said Hugh. ‘You do know that, don’t you? Seventy degrees and you’re driving around in a car, in a gorilla suit. You’ll get heatstroke.’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ Millie protested. Feebly and wondering if she had the nerve to swoon.

  Hugh was grinning. ‘Come on. I’ll lend you something of mine.’

  Yay, result!

  ***

  The house was a renovated late-Victorian property, smartly decorated but clearly in need of a woman’s touch. Millie was no Jane Asher but even she had an urge to fling a couple of cushions on to the window seat in the hall, hang a few pictures, and scatter brightly colored rugs over the polished parquet floor.

  ‘I know.’ Hugh followed her gaze. ‘Kind of empty-looking. Doing the girly stuff was always Louisa’s department.’

  Left alone in the kitchen, Millie was surreptitiously investigating the contents of the supermarket carrier bags when he returned with a faded denim shirt and a pair of cut-off Levi’s.

  ‘They’ll be too big, but better than nothing,’

  Millie didn’t think they’d be better than nothing; she’d actually much prefer nothing—but no, no, enough of that fantasy. Anyway, she wanted to wear his clothes. And they did smell gorgeous.

  You couldn’t fault a man who used Lenor.

  ‘You go upstairs and change. I’ll start unpacking this lot. Then we’ll have that drink.’

  The topaz and bronze bathroom was clean, tidy, and bereft of unnecessary toiletries in the way that only a man’s bathroom could ever be. As she wriggled out of the gorilla suit it occurred to Millie that the opposite sex missed out on a lot. It must be so boring, getting up in the morning and not having sixteen different kinds of shampoo to choose from. How they could limit themselves to one bottle and use it until it was finished was completely beyond her. It was so sad! And only one bottle of conditioner, imagine! And one bar of soap!

  Still, the denim shirt was as soft as chamois leather and so faded it was almost white. It must have been washed and ironed a million times. Millie, fastening the mother-of-pearl buttons, realized with a jolt that maybe this was a job that had been done by Louisa.

  Instantly, she was awash with guilt. This was the shirt that Hugh’s late wife had so lovingly laundered, and now it was being worn by a shameless hussy with designs on her husband…

  I can’t believe I’m even doing this, thought Millie, forcing herself to face her embarrassed reflection in the mirror above the basin.

  Chastened, she stepped into the sawn-off Levi’s and pulled the belt tightly around her waist.

  Anyway, at least she had one thing to be grateful for. Shameless designing hussy she might be, but it was all quite irrelevant. Because Hugh had made it clear that he had absolutely no designs on her.

  To punish herself, Millie didn’t even borrow his hairbrush. Nor, on the way back downstairs, did she allow herself to peep into any of the bedrooms.

  Well, maybe just the one. And the door was open anyway.

  It was the room where Hugh slept. The double bed, with a navy and white duvet, was unmade. There were clothes hung over the chair, a stunning view from the window overlooking the river, and assorted computer magazines scattered on the bedside table.

  Together with an alarm clock, one of those bendy-necked reading lamps, and a photograph, in a plain brass frame, of Louisa.

  Well, what had she expected? Whips and leg-irons and a party-sized box of condoms?

  ‘What’s going on?’ said Hugh, behind her.

  ‘Oh!’ Caught in the act, Millie spun round. How awful, now he thought she’d been snooping.

  Mortified, she realized that she had.

  Oh God, now Hugh was bound to conclude that she was turning into some kind of mad stalker. Heavens, what if he thought she’d deliberately followed him to the supermarket in order to engineer their meeting?

  ‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Millie blurted out. ‘I just couldn’t resist a quick peep, but I absolutely promise I’m not a stalker.’

  Hugh smiled.

  ‘That’s okay. Human nature.’

  ‘What?’ Millie was astonished. ‘To stalk?’

  ‘To look in other people’s rooms. See how they live, find out more about them. Ever buy Hello! magazine?’

  ‘Yeeurgh, no!’

  ‘But you’ll flick through it in the newsagents.’

  ‘Oh, flick through it, of course.’

  ‘There you go,’ said Hugh.

  Passionately grateful, but still squirming with embarrassment, Millie hugged the discarded gorilla suit to her chest and said, ‘I didn’t look in any other rooms, I promise.’

  ‘Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing to hide. Not even any naked slave girls chained up in the attic.’

  He was smiling; he’d forgiven her for being a sneaky snoop. Millie relaxed.

  ‘Or slave boys?’

  ‘Oh well, slave boys, obviously. But apart from them, nothing at all.’

  Downstairs, Millie helped him to unpack the carriers and put away the food. To her relief she approved of almost everything he had bought, especially the litre-sized carton of Rocombe Farm hazelnut ice cream. Apart from an apparent passion for pickled gherkins (bleeugh—was he pregnant?), they were astonishingly shopping-compatible. Happily, Millie loaded the fridge with unsalted Danish butter, free-range eggs, Cambazola, and fresh Parmesan. She was also pleased to see he’d chosen cherry tomatoes, posh loo rolls, new potatoes, and two bottles of Fitou wine. Definitely a man after her own heart.

  No economy-sized tins of marrowfat peas, thankfully.

  Or horrible pies made from dog meat masquerading as steak and kidney.

  Or worst of all, prawn-cocktail flavored crisps.

  ***

  ‘I break open the vodka and a fresh bottle of tonic, and this is the kind of abuse I get,’ said Hugh. ‘Thanks a lot.’


  They had been sitting out in his back garden enjoying the warmth of the sun and arguing about pickled gherkins when Millie had abruptly remembered what had brought her here in the first place.

  ‘That poor woman,’ she groaned. ‘I must phone Lucas and let him know what happened. He’ll have to tell her I turned up but her husband had been called away to an emergency meeting.’

  ‘Cheer up.’ Hugh looked amused. ‘At least he isn’t your husband.’

  ‘But that’s not the point,’ Millie wailed. ‘What I’m saying is, she thinks she’s married to Mr. Wonderful and he’s probably spent the last twenty-five years lying to her! How can anyone ever be sure they aren’t being made a big fool of? It’s so scary.’ She pulled a face. ‘I could meet someone gorgeous tomorrow and fall head over heels in love with them, but could I ever really trust them?’

  Hugh shrugged easily.

  ‘Have to go with your instincts, I suppose. That’s all you can do.’

  ‘Oh brilliant. Like my supermarket manager’s wife.’

  ‘I’ll buy you a lie-detector kit for Christmas,’ he promised with a grin.

  ‘Oh God, do I have to wait that long?’

  ‘Anyway, I thought you were off men for the summer. Didn’t you declare yourself a sex-free zone or something?’

  Millie tipped back her head and took a slurp of her drink. An ice cube and the slice of lemon landed on her nose. She was bored with the Celibet, but it was probably best not to announce this to Hugh. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the fact that she was a sex-free zone was the reason he had been able to relax in her company. It had made it possible for them to be friends without him having to worry all the time that she might be harboring some devious hidden agenda.

  Like maybe ripping off his clothes with her bare teeth and—no, no, stop right there, don’t even think that thought!