by Rosie Dean
‘How about I help with the food but skip the party?’
She gave me one of her looks. It was one of her fierce ones. She was particularly good at those, with her cocoa-brown eyes, black lashes and heavy black eyebrows. ‘Father Riley is expecting you. And I can’t manage all those dishes on my own.’
The last comment was redundant. If Father Riley had told her he was expecting me, I had to be there.
On Saturday night, it soon became clear exactly why I’d been invited. As I stood in the kitchen, up to my elbows in washing-up water, Father Riley sidled over to me. I wondered whether he was hoping to coax me back into the choir. I’d left in disgrace, twelve years ago, owing to an incident involving spiked cider. ‘Camilla,’ he began. ‘Have you met my nephew, Aubrey?’ I turned to face a heavy-set, had-seen-better-days man who bore a horrifying resemblance to his uncle. If Riley was fifty-seven, this chap wasn’t far behind.
‘No, I don’t think so,’ I smiled, clocking my mother who was hovering in the background.
‘He’s over from Cork. We wondered if you and your mother would like to join us for dinner, next week?’
I didn’t have to look at the old-witch-who-is-my-mother to know she was nodding her head enthusiastically. ‘Erm…’
‘Any night. You choose. We’re very flexible.’
I found myself agreeing to Tuesday evening at seven-thirty. Aubrey was to treat us to his Irish Salmon and Crab fishcakes. ‘Best you’ll ever taste,’ his uncle assured me, while the benign and silent nephew oozed sweat from his brow.
Was that what my life had come to? Was it so far out of whack I was agreeing to dates arranged by my mother and her string-pulling priest?
I drifted through the rest of the evening in a stupor of disbelief. When I drove home, the radio station was celebrating the last day of National Wedding Week, with a syrupy string of heart-lifting stories and soppy tunes. I felt my throat tighten and my eyes tingle. ‘Stop it!’ I hissed to the empty car. ‘Stop feeling sorry for yourself.’ The music rolled on – all minor chords and vocal harmonies tweaking my emotions. The ache in my chest was unutterably painful.
I pulled the car over and howled. I snivelled. I shouted at myself. Then, gradually, when I was all sobbed out, I reached a place of calm. Around me, I could hear trees rustling and the occasional toot of an owl. The moon was huge – a bright, silver disc in the sky. It was, without doubt, a beautiful night.
‘Fuck this!’ I said, and reached into my handbag for my note-pad and pen.
ACTION PLAN, I wrote at the top.
Things were going to change. But only if I took control.
Chapter 2
‘Sacha, I’ve got news for you,’ I announced, as my flatmate reached for her cappuccino. ‘I’m going to marry a cricketer.’
‘My God!’ she choked, spilling coffee froth over the table. ‘Millie, you dark horse. Which one?’
‘I don’t know. I haven’t met him yet, but he’s definitely going to be a cricketer…I think.’
Sacha narrowed her eyes. ‘Have you had your tarot done?’
In fairness, I have been known to consult the tarot before; either at times of indecision or complete inertia in my personal life. On my last visit, the reading was so rosy, the euphoria transported me for weeks as I travelled in eager anticipation of my soul-mate appearing at every turn…which he didn’t.
I squirmed a little and tucked my feet up under me. ‘No. This is a life decision.’
Her eyes popped open as she looked at me. ‘To marry a cricketer?’
‘Well, okay, he could be a rugby player or possibly even a basketball player. But since it’s summer, I’m going to start looking for him at cricket matches.’
She shrugged. ‘Your reason being...?’
‘Sacha, when was the last time I went out with a decent bloke? Like, one who didn’t have a ‘significant other’ lurking in the background or the personality of a draining board?’
She looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes drifting up while, I assume, she considered an imaginary parade of my past suitors. ‘You may have a point.’
‘Exactly. If I want to find myself a proper, stand-up, thoroughly worth-while man to…well…settle down with…’
This was too much for Sacha – she was beginning to gape. ‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly. I’m tired of clubs and bars and blowing hundreds of pounds on Guess handbags and Jimmy Choos. It’s all so pointless. I just want what millions of women before me wanted.’
‘Stretch marks?’
Sacha had been my closest friend since we’d wound up sharing the same flat in Bridgeman Villas. What I sometimes overlooked, was her being four years younger, with some residual adrenalin coursing through her veins from university life. ‘Look, I’m nearly thirty and I don’t want my children to be too embarrassed to meet me at the school gates, because I’ve got bristles on my chin and bingo wings. I’ve really thought about this. Here,’ I pulled a Wish List out of my pocket and handed it over.
WISH LIST FOR MR RIGHT
* Self-made man
* Successful
* Solvent with prospects
* Comfortable in own skin
* Sporty/fit
* GSOH
* Knows where he’s going
* Taller than me
* No tattoos or piercings
* Property owner
* Child-friendly
‘Firstly, I want my husband to be successful; like a self-made businessman or a captain of industry – solvent with secure prospects. Somebody people look up to – who’s comfortable in his own skin and not riddled with insecurities.’
‘Rich and arrogant.’
‘No. He doesn’t have to be rich…exactly. It’s about security and not having to worry about bills and stuff. There’s something very attractive about a man who knows where he’s going and plans to get there.’ Sacha had her serious face on as she perused my Wish List. ‘Time’s running out – and so are my ovaries.’
‘Millie, I never knew you were so broody.’
‘Neither did I. It just sort of hit me. And now, all I can see ahead of me are more nights morphing into the sofa until they have to invent a new solvent to get me off it.’
Sacha nodded. ‘Wow! You’re serious aren’t you?’
‘Absolutely.’
She snuggled up along the sofa and linked arms with me. ‘So…let me understand this…when you turn up at the cricket club, are you going to ask somebody on the touch-line to point out which guys are still single?’
‘Yeah. I’m going to hand out a questionnaire.’
‘Really?’
Sacha can be so gullible. ‘No. I’m going to turn up with a camera and say I’m doing a study of cricket for my photography project.’
‘Do you even have a camera?’
‘Buying one tomorrow.’
‘Why do you need a camera, anyway? Can’t you just watch the cricket and chat up the really hot ones?’
‘And look like Millie No Mates? The camera’s my reason for being there. Plus, I’ll have a good excuse for taking photos of all the men, and maybe doing more detailed studies on the most eligible ones.’
She looked at me for a moment, no doubt assessing my sanity with clinical authority – her being an orthopaedic nurse – and then shrugged. ‘So, you’re going to spend your entire weekend, driving round Hampshire, letching after middle-aged men in cricket whites?’
‘I might go to Berkshire, too.’
She nodded but didn’t seem convinced.
‘Look, if I go to three cricket clubs, I get to see six teams in one day, which is at least sixty-six men.’ I ignored her wrinkling brow. ‘I’m not happy with the way my life’s going and I’m taking positive steps to change it. I had thought you might give me a bit of support and encouragement.’
There was a moment’s pause before she held my hand. ‘Millie, I’m sorreeee. You’re absolutely right. Hanging around bars and clubs is no way to meet the father of your children.�
�� She invested enough concern and affection into her apology to make my eyes tingle. I suddenly realised how emotional I felt about the whole business. Her thumb stroked mine. ‘Good on you for thinking it through like that.’
I sniffed. ‘Truth is, Sach, I hardly ever go to clubs or bars these days, do I? There’s an arse-shaped cushion on this sofa – my arse – from all those make-over shows and rom-coms I sit through. I’ve completely Sky-plussed my social life.’
‘Then join a gym or go salsa dancing.’
‘I did go salsa dancing, remember?’
‘Okay – so you were stalked for six months by a Dutch guy, but that won’t happen again.’
Jan Van den Madman, or whatever he was called, had bombarded me with messages on Facebook, hung around outside our flat singing ‘You Light up my Life’ at three in the morning until, thank goodness, his company called him back to Holland.
Sacha continued. ‘I honestly think touring Hampshire villages is a waste of time. They’re inhabited by the Middle Aged and Already Marrieds…and then there are the pensioners and agricultural in-breds.’
I ploughed on. ‘But we’re going into summer now, and it’s where the cricket teams are. I’m sure there must be some upwardly mobiles, from local towns, who get recruited. I figure a cricket match is as good a place as any to check out prospective husbands. Where else will I find twenty-two sober men in one hit?’
Sacha leaned over to pick up her coffee. ‘Ward fourteen’s got twenty-four beds.’
‘Really? I may have to keep that as a contingency.’
She laughed. ‘So, where will you start?’
‘I’ve identified all the cricket clubs within a thirty-mile radius. I’ve downloaded the fixture lists from the internet and on Sunday, I’m doing Marshalhampton, Oldersbury and Romwick.’
She concentrated on spooning the frothy dregs from her coffee for a moment and then said, ‘Millie, what you’re proposing to do is kind of calculating and…weird, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t want to leave anything to chance.’
‘What about a dating agency?’
‘The online ones are full of married men claiming to be “separated” when all they want is a shag. And the decent agencies cost an arm and a leg.’
‘More than a camera?’
‘Tons more.’
‘Really?’ She glanced at her watch. ‘Shit! I’ve got to go. If you’re still awake when I come home, I want to hear more.’ She leaned over to give me a hug. ‘So, you’re going day after tomorrow; how about I swap my shift and tag along to make notes – I could be like your agent.’
The last thing I needed was the adorable Sacha batting her eyelashes, flicking her blonde tresses and loitering behind me with a clipboard.
At my lack of response she grinned. ‘Okay, maybe not, then. Love you. Bye.’
I watched her haul her bag over her shoulder and head for the door. As she reached it, she turned and said, ‘Just a thought…if you don’t want to leave anything to chance, why don’t I give you a blood sampling kit and I’ll run the samples through the lab to see if you’re compatible?’
‘Very funny,’ I said but made a mental note to cover the topic with her later.
* * *
Millie’s Game Plan
Available now on Amazon
Out December 2014
Chloe’s Rescue Mission
by
Rosie Dean
To save her grandfather’s legacy – The Joshua Steele Theatre – Chloe Steele sells her services to the highest bidder.
Enter leisure tycoon, business angel and playboy, Duncan Thorsen.
But when the bank calls in the debts and the council enforces closure, just how much paparazzi exposure and wheeling and dealing can a girl stomach?
www.rosie-dean.com
Table of Contents
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
Millie’s Game Plan
