MILLIE'S FLING (30 page)

‘You’re a hero,’ Adele declared warmly forty minutes later. ‘No, I mean it, this has been marvelous,
so
helpful. Really, above and beyond the call of duty.’

Tim Fleetwood flushed fiery red. ‘It's been a pleasure.’

It had, too.

‘But I mustn’t take up any more of your precious time. And you,’ Adele tapped a manicured fingernail playfully against his arm, ‘must get on home. We don’t want you to miss your game of squash.’

Tim hadn’t been flirted with for years; married to the ferocious Sylvia, nobody had ever had the courage to give it a try. Now he experienced a sudden violent urge to play a different kind of squash. And he strongly suspected he wasn’t the only one.

The words came tumbling out in a rush.

‘There's a wine bar around the corner. Would we have time for a quick drink?’

They had been having the most heavenly discussion about Renaissance art and opera. Tim Fleetwood was utterly charming and clearly a man after her own heart. Patting her ash-blonde chignon, Adele said, ‘I’d love to, but what about your wife?’

Wife? Or jailer? With a dizzying rush of blood to the head, Tim Fleetwood realized that there could be so much more to life than hobbling through it shackled to Sylvia, who was pathologically jealous and a vicious henpecker to boot.

And wasn’t it about time he was eligible for parole?

‘She’ll be at home by now, cooking the dinner.’ He smiled recklessly at Adele. ‘She won’t want to come for a drink.’

‘He says he believes me but I know he doesn’t.’ Panicky tears seeped out of the corners of Hester's eyes as she clutched the phone to her chest. Having rung Nat three times today, she knew she had only
succeeded in irritating him. But, catch-22, the more quietly irritated Nat had become, the more desperately she had needed to phone him again. Now, in despair, she thrust the phone at Millie.

‘Here, keep it away from me. Hide it somewhere I’ll never find it.’

Having come home and blanched at the state of the kitchen, which was piled high with washing-up, Millie said, ‘That would be in the sink, then.’

‘You’re my friend,’ wailed Hester. ‘It's your job to be sympathetic.’

But I’m not in a sympathetic mood, Millie longed to yell back, because you’re only scared you’re about to be dumped, but I’ve already
been
dumped, thank you very much, and it wasn’t very nice at all, and I still don’t know what I did to deserve it.

Apart from behaving like a great big trollopy tart, of course, and leaping into bed with some bloke just because he fancied a meaningless quickie.

No frills, no fuss, and absolutely no emotional involvement, thought Millie. Basically, she’d been the human equivalent of a Pamela Anderson centerfold.

Only with smaller boobs.

Oh God,
how
could I have been so stupid?

‘Haven’t we got any more Twiglets?’ Hester whined.

‘No. You’ve caused a national shortage. The Twiglet factory is working twenty-four hours a day, trying to keep up. We’ve got salt’n’vinegar chipsticks,’ said Millie. ‘Have some of those instead.’

She knew she was being heartless. Chipsticks weren’t nearly so comforting, not the same thing at all.

‘You don’t understand,’ Hester fretted. ‘You
can’t
understand. How long is it since you had a proper boyfriend? And don’t say Neil,’ she added meanly, before Millie had a chance to open her mouth, ‘because Neil was a prize pillock and he doesn’t count.’

Millie briefly considered killing Hester. If she smothered her with a pillow, would that count?

Luckily, at that moment the phone rang in her hands.

‘I’ll get it!’ Catapulting off the sofa, Hester launched herself at Millie's chest and wrestled the phone away. ‘Hello? Hello? What?
Who?
’

It was completely pathetic, but Millie
still
found herself mentally crossing her fingers and praying it was Hugh, come to his senses at last and ready to lick her boots—maybe even the carpet—if only she’d forgive him.

‘Here, it's for you.’ Hester chucked the phone back at her in disgust. ‘Some smarmy-sounding bloke trying to flog us a conservatory. Play your cards right, chat him up, and who knows, he could end up being your next prize pillock.’

‘BUGGER… OH
BUGGER
… NO, no, NO!’

Giles, who had been in the bedroom next door, poked his head around the door of Orla's office.

‘What's wrong?’

‘This bloody machine,’ Orla wailed, her fingers flying over the keyboard as she punched one key after another like a demented pianist. ‘I was doing so well and now I can’t retrieve my file… in fact, I can’t find the sodding thing anywhere. It's completely
vanished
.’

‘Come on now, calm down. It must be there somewhere.’ Giles didn’t have a clue whether it was or not, he just knew what Orla was like when she flew into a blind panic.

‘But it isn’t, it's gone! Oh buggering hell, I don’t
believe
this, I
knew
I should have stuck to my old typewriter. Eleven chapters, I’ve lost eleven pissing, bollocking chapters and I’m NEVER GOING TO GET THEM BACK AGAIN.’

‘Stop it,’ said Giles, because every bellowed-out word was accompanied by Orla banging the mouse down on the mouse pad. ‘Smashing your computer up isn’t going to help, is it? There there,’ he crooned, massaging her rigid shoulders. ‘We’ll get this sorted out. What's the name of the fellow who set all this up for you? Hugh someone-or-other?’

‘Hugh Emerson.’ Orla fumbled frantically in her desk drawer for a cigarette.

‘That's the one. Just give him a ring, get him over here. He's the expert, isn’t he?’

Orla stuck a Marlboro in her mouth, flicked her lighter, and inhaled.

‘What if he's busy and can’t get over here for weeks?’

‘He won’t be.’

‘Yes, but what if he
is
?’ Orla was gabbling now, puffing smoke in all directions, and slipping into drama queen mode.

‘Sweetheart, you’re Orla Hart. Of course he’ll get over here. Let me have his number,’ Giles announced, ‘and I’ll ring him myself.’

Every now and again he did that
Me Tarzan, You Jane
thing. Jumping up, Orla spun round and threw her arms around him.

‘I
love
it when you go all masterful on me… oh sweetheart, I’m so lucky to have you! Don’t we make the best team ever?’

‘There, sorted,’ Giles announced, coming into the kitchen five minutes later.

Orla could easily have made the call herself, but she was wallowing in the all-too-rare sensation of feeling cossetted and looked after. In return, she poured Giles a cup of coffee, like a good wife.

‘My knight in shining armor. I don’t know what I’d do without you. So when's Hugh coming over to fix it?’

‘Three o’clock this afternoon.’ Giles sounded pleased with himself. ‘Tried to put me off at first, but I wasn’t having any of that nonsense. I
insisted
.’

Orla looked dismayed.

‘Bugger, and I’ve got a hair appointment at two. Oh well, just have to cancel it…’

‘No need. I’ll stay here and deal with him,’ said Giles with an easy shrug.

‘But…?’ Orla blinked, by this time truly astonished. ‘Aren’t you playing golf this afternoon?’

‘What's more important, your computer or my game of golf? It won’t kill me to miss an afternoon.’

‘Oh, you!’ Orla hugged him again, with a mixture of joy and relief. ‘You have no idea how much I love you.’

‘Actually, there's a tournament on in St. Ives tomorrow. Bit of a long day, but it sounds good fun…’

The joy and relief abruptly crumbled like a bouillon cube.

God, thought Orla, I’m really losing it. How ridiculous to be so insecure, just because he’ll be away for a day.

Anyway, hadn’t he just volunteered to cancel this afternoon's game?

‘Of course you must go tomorrow.’ She kept her smile determinedly bright and brave. ‘You deserve to enjoy yourself.’

‘Only if you’re sure,’ said Giles.

‘Of
course
I’m sure.’

If it hadn’t been Orla, Hugh wouldn’t have agreed to do it. He was a software developer, not a call-out engineer. But since his concentration had gone for a burton anyway, work on his latest project for an American motor company had—appropriately—hit something of a brick wall. The prospect of getting out of the house, driving over to Newquay, and sorting out a relatively minor technical problem was actually an enticing one. And he’d be doing a friend a favor at the same time.

Orla, that was. Not Giles, who had made the call, and whom Hugh didn’t trust at all.

As he drove, Hugh's thoughts strayed back—inexorably—to Millie. She was the reason he hadn’t been able to concentrate on work for longer than thirty seconds at a time. Having finally decided against sending flowers by way of an apology, his conscience was nevertheless still nagging away at him, triumphantly reminding him over and over again what a complete hash he’d made of things.

Before, guilt at having betrayed Louisa had been uppermost in his mind, swamping all else. But now, like a fickle floating voter,
his guilt was showing signs of changing sides. He had treated Millie appallingly and his conscience wasn’t letting him forget it.

Millie deserved better. And an explanation, at the very least.

As he pulled up outside Orla's house, Hugh saw Giles on the drive talking into a mobile phone.

‘Okay, I’ll pick you up tomorrow morning, eight o’clock sharp.’ Hugh caught the end of the conversation as he climbed out of the car. ‘Have to go now, chap's arrived to fix the computer. Yes, yes, me too. Bye. Hello there!’ Giles called over, beaming broadly as he switched off the phone. ‘Come to sort out the mess, fantastic. Orla's not here, urgent appointment in town. I’ll show you up to her office, shall I?’

Hugh hid his disappointment. When he had first installed the new system in this house, he and Orla had got to know each other pretty well. Not even bothering to pretend to be interested in how computers actually functioned, Orla had spent hours perched on the window seat in her office, smoking like a maniac, swinging her legs, drinking coffee, and chattering away endlessly about pretty much any subject under the sun. By the time everything was up and running, he knew more about Orla than he knew about some of his closest friends. And, since she was a compulsive questioner as well as a wickedly indiscreet gossip, he’d found himself telling her more than he’d meant to tell her about himself.

Without even knowing it, Hugh now realized, he had been hoping to continue their chat today. Orla knew about his former life in London, and why he had moved down to Cornwall. She also knew all about Louisa. Maybe she could give him some down-to-earth advice, or reassurance, or even a damn good talking-to to make him realize that life went on, that he was actually
allowed
to fall in love with other women…

Love?

Hang on, where had that sprung from?

Well, whatever. Hugh frowned, dismissing the word from his mind.

Except Orla couldn’t do that anyway. Because she wasn’t here.

And he certainly wasn’t about to start confiding in Giles Hart.

‘When d’you expect Orla back?’

‘Hmm? Oh, hours, I should think. Hair appointment, emergency cover-up job,’ Giles continued over his shoulder as he led the way upstairs. ‘Found her first grey hair last night—
major
panic. You know what women are like, always on the hunt for some new thing to be neurotic about.’

Definitely no danger of being tempted to confide in Giles. Shaking his head, Hugh wondered what on earth Orla could have been thinking of when she’d married him.

‘Here we are. She's lost eleven chapters.’ Pushing open the door, Giles gestured towards the still-humming computer. ‘For all our sakes, let's hope you can find them.’

The last time Hugh had been here, Orla and Giles had only recently moved in. The plain white walls had been bare, the shelves empty, and the floor piled high with countless cardboard boxes. Now, the cobalt blue carpet was visible, the shelves bulged with books and files, and the walls were entirely covered with multi-colored charts.

Ignoring them, Hugh pulled out the swivel chair in front of the computer, reached for the mouse, and set to work unraveling the chaos Orla had caused with her frantic key-battering. Only when that was done could he begin the search for the missing chapters.

‘Get you a beer?’ asked Giles behind him.

‘Great.’

It took less than five minutes to locate the fault, fix it, and retrieve the crucial file. Simple, when you knew what you were doing. And satisfying at the same time to know that—despite her best efforts— Orla hadn’t accidentally managed to delete the first two hundred pages of her new book.

Swiveling the chair round in job-done fashion, Hugh leaned back, clasped his hands behind his head, and gazed idly at the handwritten charts lining the walls. Minutes earlier a phone had rung downstairs, delaying Giles's return with the beer. Maybe when he left here he’d head on down to Fistral Beach, hire a wetsuit and board, and catch some waves—

Hester Tresilian/Annie Jameson, 26, short dark hair—like ruffled feathers—curvy figure, tight-fitting clothes, mad shoes, major unrequited crush on Lucas Kemp, lovely boyfriend Nat (chef) working away.