MILLIE'S FLING (48 page)

Honestly, those two were a disgrace. They should be ashamed of themselves. Didn’t they realize there was such a thing as too much sex?

Seeing as her masterclass in omelette making appeared to have been abandoned—thanks to the chef being made an offer he couldn’t refuse—Millie found a slice of lemon cheesecake in the fridge and ate that instead. Then she picked up her car keys.

‘I’m going out,’ she yelled up the stairs.

The scuffling and squeals abruptly stopped.

‘Okay,’ Hester bawled back. ‘Have fun!’

Tuh.

Orla was sunbathing by the pool when Millie arrived. Thankfully, there was no sign of Richard-the-gardener.

‘Come and sit down.’ Eager to hear the latest, Orla patted the indigo padded recliner next to her own. Judging by the amount of paraphernalia surrounding her, she had been out there for some time. As well as piles of glossy magazines, various notebooks, and discarded newspapers, the grass was littered with empty Coke cans, ice cream sandwich wrappers, a scattering of opened post, and several packets of chewing gum.

Orla, her red-gold hair piled up and fastened with an assortment of combs, was wearing a crocus yellow bikini and generous quantities of Ambre Solaire to protect her pale, freckled skin. Clutching her pen-top between her teeth, she balanced a notebook on her knees and scribbled down all the details as Millie relayed them.

‘I’m so disappointed about Richard.’ Mournfully, she shook her head. ‘I really thought you two would be great together.’

‘He's boring.’ Slowly, Millie intoned, ‘Very very very very very very very boring indeed.’

‘But such a fantastic body!’

‘Maybe, but having a conversation with Richard is about as interesting as watching grass grow.’

Regretfully, Orla spat out her pen-top and began chewing the arm of her sunglasses instead.

‘I suppose Richard would think watching grass grow is interesting, poor lamb.’

Millie carried on bringing Orla up to date. She told her all about the flight from the restaurant with Jed and Warren—which Orla loved—and about Jed's nurse turning up at the club—which made her tut with disappointment. Orla whooped with delight upon hearing about Millie's mother and Tim Fleetwood, but not about the incident in the park, because Millie left that bit out. Then she whooped even louder when Millie mentioned in passing that Lucas had offered her a room in his house.

‘Oh that would be
fantastic
.’ Orla did a triumphant little jiggle on her recliner. ‘Heaps of potential there, just imagine! You and Lucas—this is so great—darling, you
have
to do it.’

‘I don’t know.’ Millie pulled a face. ‘I’m not sure.’

‘Come on! I’ve got a book to write here… stuff needs to start happening,’ Orla protested. ‘At this rate, all my readers are going to die of boredom. They need a will-she-won’t-she situation to capture their interest, they want a man they can drool over—and let's face it, Lucas fits the bill perfectly. He is a bit of a god!’

‘He's a wicked, unscrupulous ex-DJ with no morals and a one-track mind.’ Since he also had a sense of humor, Millie felt sure Lucas wouldn’t object to this description of him. ‘He's incapable of staying faithful to one woman,’ she went on, ‘and he doesn’t care who he hurts. All Lucas cares about is no-strings sex.’

‘All the better.’ Orla flashed a naughty smile. Just because she was writing a ‘proper’ novel to impress the critics didn’t mean it couldn’t have any shenanigans going on in it. Even reviewers as plugugly as Christie Carson were entitled to some form of love life.

Not much of one. Just a bit.

‘But I don’t
want
to have sex with Lucas,’ Millie protested.

‘Darling, the trouble with you is, you don’t want to have sex with anyone.’

Oh I do, I do, Millie thought with a stab of longing.

‘Not even Con Deveraux,’ Orla went on despairingly. ‘I mean, how could you not like Con? What was
wrong
with him?’

You mean apart from the fact that he fancied Lucas?

‘Nothing,’ Millie sighed. ‘Except he's in America. Look, I’m really sorry, I did warn you I was boring.’

But Orla wasn’t listening, she had already swung her legs over the edge of the recliner and was busy rummaging amongst the assorted letters and discarded envelopes on the grass. Having found what she was looking for, she seized a stiff, white card and waved it triumphantly at Millie.

Millie flinched out of sheer habit. God, what had Orla done now—signed her up for membership of some singles club?

She wouldn’t put anything past her.

‘Sorted.’ Orla was looking smug.

Peering at the card with suspicion, Millie said, ‘What is it?’

‘Next weekend. A big book awards ceremony in London. Great fun and extremely glitzy. See?’ Orla pointed to the embossed lettering. ‘It says Orla Hart plus guest. Of course Giles always used to be my “plus guest,” but this time I can invite you instead. We’ll have the most fabulous time, I promise! I’ll introduce you to everyone I know and, out of eight hundred or so guests, you’re bound to see someone who takes your fancy. Plus,’ Orla rattled on, as excited as a child by her brilliant plan, ‘you never know, I may even have an extra surprise for you!’

Her eyes had lit up as she rejoiced in her own cleverness. It didn’t take a genius to work out that Orla had flipped through her mental file of eligible males and come up with another contender in the
make-it-happen-for-Millie stakes. She was evidently going to match-make successfully if it killed her.

‘I don’t want to be a party pooper,’ said Millie, ‘but I’m working next weekend. Retirement do for one of the keepers at Paignton Zoo. Honestly,’ she protested, as Orla's eyes narrowed with suspicion. Scrabbling in her bag, she hauled out her diary. ‘See? Sunday afternoon, three o’clock sharp outside the monkey house.’

Having snatched the diary from her, Orla broke into a broad smile.

‘No problem, Cinders, you shall go to the book awards. I was referring to the weekend in its broadest sense—they’re actually being held on Thursday night. And on Thursday night,’ she jabbed triumphantly at the relevant empty page, ‘you are free.’

Millie gave in with good grace. A trip to London might be just what she needed to take her mind off Hugh. Looking on the bright side, it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that she might meet her perfect man at a book awards ceremony in a top London hotel.

A
swanky
hotel, even.

While they were enjoying a
slap-up
meal.

Maybe even
munching
it.

Hmm. Taking her mind off Hugh was evidently going to be easier said than done.

‘So that's a date,’ Orla announced, pleased with herself. ‘I’ll book us into the hotel. In fact, no time like the present…’

‘Something's missing.’ Millie found herself peering suspiciously at Orla as she made the call. It wasn’t until the rooms had been booked and Orla had leaned over to slide the mobile phone back under the sun-lounger that she suddenly twigged. ‘You
smell
different.’

It sounded mad, but it was true. Orla smelt of Ambre Solaire and minty chewing gum, mingled with a dash of Rive Gauche.

She didn’t reek of stale cigarettes.

Millie, her tone accusing, said, ‘You’ve given up smoking!’ As
she spoke, her gaze dropped instinctively to the grass, which would normally be littered with Marlboro packets, a couple of lighters, and numerous stubbed-out fag ends. ‘I don’t believe it—when did this happen?’

‘Five days ago.’ Orla's eyes glittered with pride. ‘Isn’t it amazing? And I’m feeling fantastic! The first day was pretty hellish of course, but it's so much easier already, I can’t understand why I didn’t do it years ago. Well,’ she amended with a lopsided smile, ‘actually, I can.’

Millie could too.

‘Let me guess. You were married to Giles.’

‘That's it! I really think that was it,’ Orla exclaimed. ‘I mean, I know he didn’t physically force me to smoke, but I was just so on-edge all the time, having another cigarette was the only way of calming myself down.’ She spread her arms wide, clearly dazzled by the simplicity of the solution. ‘Now I don’t have Giles any more, I’m a million times more relaxed, and I don’t even
need
a cigarette. Honestly, it's like being a born-again Christian, I just want to run up to people in the street and tell them how completely brilliant it is not to smoke. In fact, every time I even
see
someone smoking I want to rip the cigarette out of their fingers and tell them how disgusting and pathetic they are!’

Orla was in the grip of acute post-nicotine euphoria, where the novelty of not smoking hadn’t yet worn off. Millie, who had seen it all before, dutifully nodded and pretended to be impressed. She recognized the symptoms only too well. Throughout her growing-up years, her father had been the same, binning his cigarettes with a flourish and waxing evangelical on the evils of addiction for… ooh, about a fortnight, generally, before getting bored and taking up smoking once more.

It had taken him fifteen goes at least before he’d finally managed to give up for good.

‘… and sometimes I just want to bury their faces in a filthy old ashtray and say, “See? See?
That's
what you smell like!” I know I mustn’t,’ Orla conceded with reluctance, ‘because I’d probably end up getting arrested or punched on the nose or something, but honestly, these people have no idea how much damage they’re doing to their bodies—’

‘What's this doing here?’ Hastily, Millie picked up the proof copy of Christie Carson's novel. Anything to get Orla off the subject of cigarettes. ‘I thought you’d written your review.’

The paperback proof copy was now dog-eared and distinctly battered, and she was baffled as to why Orla would have brought it out to the garden. Unless she’d been using it to kill wasps.

‘I know, I know. I just felt like reading it again.’ Orla looked shamefaced. ‘Christie Carson might be a complete pig, but his book's actually quite good.’

‘OH, HI, COME ON in. He isn’t here,’ said Sasha when Millie arrived at Lucas's house the next morning. ‘He's gone over to the restaurant to bully the electricians. Stick the kettle on if you fancy a cup of tea.’

Millie followed her into the kitchen, trying not to stare at Sasha's glorious curves. A statuesque platinum blonde in a white bikini was an arresting sight under any circumstances. The fact that Sasha was carefully ironing her nun's habit made it even more of a showstopper.

‘I just popped over to check the bookings for next week.’ Millie filled the kettle as she spoke. While her future living arrangements remained undecided, the business was still being run from Lucas's house.

‘They’re fine. See for yourself.’ Sasha jerked her head in the direction of the pine dresser, where the bookings diary lay open. ‘I’ve been manning the phone. I checked that Eric could manage Truro on Monday. I’ve drafted an ad to go in the local paper for someone to replace Lucas. Now there's an audition to look forward to,’ she dead-panned. ‘Oh, and I’ve fitted in another booking for you as well.’

Contrary to appearances, Sasha was fantastically efficient. Marveling at the way she flipped the immaculately pressed nun's habit off the ironing board and on to a padded hanger, Millie said, ‘Doesn’t it bother you that Lucas sleeps with other women?’

Heavens, she hadn’t meant it to come out quite that abruptly. But it was something that had been puzzling her for months. And it wasn’t as if Lucas made any secret of the fact; he often discussed his exploits in front of Sasha.

‘No.’ Sasha looked amused. ‘Why?’

‘Well, look at you! You could have anyone you want. And here you are living with Lucas who
does
have anyone he wants. I mean, don’t you think you deserve better?’

‘Millie, are you serious? Lucas and I aren’t a couple! I have my own room here.’ Sasha gestured at the ceiling. ‘I pay him rent. Okay, we slept together a few times when we first met, but it didn’t take long for both of us to realize we were better off as friends. Nowadays Lucas does his thing and I do mine. In fact,’ she added with a grin, ‘there's someone I’ve been seeing quite a lot of recently. He's a lawyer in Truro. And Lucas is fine about it. But I can’t believe that all this time you actually thought we were an item. That's just too funny for words!’

Millie couldn’t believe it either. Yet again, she’d managed to get hold of the wrong end of the stick. Sasha had looked the part and she’d simply jumped to conclusions, assumed they were living together like a proper couple.

‘I’m such an idiot,’ she said humbly.

‘And you’ve spent all this time feeling sorry for me. That is so sweet of you! Although I daresay Lucas perpetuated the myth—he does like to uphold this image he has of himself.’

‘Well, yes, he did drop the occasional hint.’

‘Shall I let you into a secret?’ The comers of Sasha's generous mouth twitched with mischief. ‘Lucas doesn’t sleep with nearly as many girls as he makes out. He's actually far pickier than you’d imagine.’

‘You’re kidding!’ Now this
was
hard to believe.

‘I’m not. It's true.’ Sasha raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, his bad-boy reputation would be in tatters if this got out, so you mustn’t breathe a word to anyone. But in his own way, our Lucas is quite a gentleman.’

‘Gentleman,’ Millie echoed faintly.

‘He has more morals than most men I know.’

‘Morals.’ Fainter still.

‘I know it's come as a terrible shock. Why don’t you sit down?’ said Sasha kindly. ‘You’re looking pale.’

Clutching the appointments diary, Millie slumped on to one of the high kitchen stools.

‘It's like discovering that Father Christmas doesn’t exist.’

‘I’m sorry I’ve shattered your illusions. I’ll make us that cup of tea.’

‘Oh bum,’ cried Millie as Sasha flung teabags into mugs and broke open a fresh packet of custard creams. ‘You’ve booked me in for Thursday.’

‘Hmm? Is that a problem?’ Humming happily to herself, Sasha glanced over her shoulder. Millie had been checking through the diary.

‘I can’t do Thursday. I’m in London.’

‘Oh. Doesn’t say that anywhere. You should have let me know.’