MILLIE'S FLING (5 page)

‘That's a staggering amount of make-up you’re wearing for a quiet Monday morning on the stall.’

Millie couldn’t resist pointing this out the next day when Hester made her appearance in the kitchen. As a rule, Hester favored the barefaced look teamed with jeans and the first T-shirt to fall out of the tumble dryer. Today, by way of contrast, she had chosen leather ankle boots, black velvet trousers, and a white lacy top. She also appeared to be wearing the contents of a small Rimmel factory on her face.

‘I just felt like dressing up for a change.’ Hester attempted nonchalance without much success.

Millie raised an eyebrow over the rim of her coffee cup.

‘In case Lucas Kemp happens to wander through the market in search of a pair of dangly sequinned earrings?’

‘Oh don’t be so mean,’ Hester cried. ‘I can want to look my best, can’t I? Just because I’m not going to have sex with him doesn’t mean I want him to see me looking a mess.’

Millie privately wondered if Lucas would want to see Hester looking like Dame Edna. She really was wearing an awful lot of mascara.

‘Coffee?’

‘I couldn’t. Too nervous.’

The letterbox rattled at that moment, making Hester jump.

‘Electricity bill,’ said Millie, returning from the hall.

‘Yuk, don’t open it.’

‘And a postcard from Nat.’

Millie thought it was a wonderfully romantic thing to do. By the time Nat finished his shifts at L’Amazon, it was the early hours of the morning, too late to ring Hester. So he’d taken to scribbling brief messages—affectionate or funny—on postcards and posting them to her instead.

This one had a picture on the front of a worried-looking cat clutching a tennis racquet. Underneath was written, ‘It Takes Guts.’ This appealed to Millie's sense of humor but all Hester did was glance at it and sigh.

‘Lot of use a postcard is to me. What am I meant to do, stay in every night reading the stupid thing?’

‘Hess, be fair. It's only for six months.’

‘Sometimes,’ Hester sounded fretful, ‘six months feels like an awfully long time to be abandoned.’

Feeling brave, Millie said, ‘Lucas Kemp abandoned you for six years.’

‘That's hardly the same thing.’ Hester was indignant. ‘It's not as if he asked me to wait for him.’

‘It's not as if he sent you any postcards either, is it? Or birthday cards or Christmas cards? He just disappeared.’ He hadn’t even been Hester's boyfriend, Millie was on the verge of pointing out, but at this rate she was going to end up being horribly late for work. She held up her hands instead, signaling a truce. ‘Look, this is mad, we’re arguing already, and there's absolutely no point. Because you’re not
going
to be sleeping with Lucas Kemp.’

Hester opened her eyes wide, the picture of innocence.

‘Of course I’m not.’

Naturally she was lying through her extra-thoroughly-brushed teeth.

‘Besides,’ said Millie, ‘who says he's still single? He could be settled down by now with a wife and a Labrador and four kids.’

‘Noooo!’ Hester let out a wail of dismay. This hadn’t so much as crossed her mind. Lucas
couldn’t
be married.

Millie shrugged and picked up her bag.

‘Just a thought. Not that it makes any difference to you either way.’

Hester summoned up some pride. ‘Of course not.’

‘Then again,’ Millie added mischievously, ‘he…’

‘What?
What?
’

‘He could be gay.’

FLEETWOOD'S, THE SMALL INDEPENDENT travel agency where Millie had worked for the last year, was run by husband-and-wife team Tim and Sylvia Fleetwood. They needed another member of staff but that didn’t mean they had to be nice to them. On her first day, Millie had learned from the woman in the bakery next door that no one ever lasted there longer than a couple of months. Tim and Sylvia were the ultimate joined-at-the-hip couple. They wore matching coats, drove matching cars, and ordered identical meals whenever they ate out.

As far as Millie was able to figure out, they simply couldn’t bear the intrusion of having someone else present in the office with them. All they really wanted was to be alone together in their own private world so they could canoodle and talk baby-talk to each other without being interrupted. Millie, who loved her work—it was Tim and Sylvia who made her feel slightly nauseous—was happy for their wish to be granted. As soon as a vacancy cropped up in one of the other travel agencies in Newquay, she’d be out of there faster than you could say Eurostar.

In the meantime, however, a job was a job.

‘We’ll just have something light for dinner.’ Sylvia stroked the back of Tim's neck as she spoke. ‘Steamed chicken and salad, that sounds nice, doesn’t it? Then when we’ve done the washing-up we’ll set off for our keep-fit class.’

Pretending not to be listening, Millie concentrated madly on her monitor.

‘Salad? Why don’t we have broad beans?’ Tim gave his wife's waist a loving squeeze. ‘We like broad beans, don’t we?’

‘Ooh yes, we love broad beans. That sounds wonderful. And shall we have pudding afterwards or not?’

‘I think we’ll give pudding a miss. We could always have a peach yogurt later if we feel like it. Millie, could you put out the new
Touring Cairo
brochures? Can I make you a cup of tea, sweetheart, or would you prefer coffee?’

‘Darling, how kind, coffee would be great.’ Millie beamed at Tim. This was her little joke, her attempt to lighten the atmosphere by a degree or two.

Well, it was always worth a try.

‘Ha ha.’ Tim's smile was perfunctory. ‘Just get on with the brochures, Millie. There's a good girl.’

‘Tea, sweetheart, I think.’ Sylvia was gazing out of the window, smoothing the pleats of her navy gabardine skirt over her trim hips. ‘I say, guess who's just pulled up outside? Tims, come and take a peek.’

Tims obediently went and took a peek. None the wiser, he said, ‘Nice car but I don’t recognize her.’

Sylvia looked pained; she hated it when they didn’t both know the same things.

‘You must, I’ve read all her books! It's Orla Hart, the novelist. Don’t you remember, we read that article in the
Guardian
about her moving down to Cornwall? She's the one with the husband who can’t keep his trousers zipped—oops, back to the desk, she's coming in!’

The door clanged as it was pushed open. Back behind the desk in record time, Sylvia patted her sprayed-rigid hair—making sure it was still the texture of concrete—and plastered a welcoming smile across her face.

‘Orla Hart, what a treat, how marvelous to see you here!
Welcome
to Fleetwood's, I’m Sylvia Fleetwood and this is my husband Tim, we’re both
so
thrilled to meet you.’

Millie, kneeling on the floor with the hideous navy knife-pleated skirt of her uniform spread out around her like a… well, like a hideous navy knife-pleated skirt, felt a sudden rush of understanding for Hester this morning in her knock-’em-dead outfit. Not that she had a thumping great crush on Orla Hart or anything like that, but she still wished she could be meeting her for the second time dressed in something that made her look a little less like the comedy version of a nineteen fifties middle-aged spinster.

Behind her, Millie heard yet more effusive greetings being exchanged. The tips of her ears began to burn with a mixture of embarrassment and amazement that Sylvia and Tim could behave in quite such a starstruck manner.

Then again, they didn’t exactly get much practice—their celebrity clientele to date consisted of a manic bearded fellow who was occasionally allowed to read the weather forecast on local TV and a giggly girl who had once been on
Blind Date
. When the boy on the other side of the screen had asked, ‘What gives you the edge over the other two girls?’ she had replied:

‘If you pick me, number three,

You’ll soon see it was meant to be

’Cos I’m a sexy blonde Aquarius born in Februareee

And I’m really good at poetry.’

The poor lad had turned pale with horror and promptly chosen number one instead.

‘I do a fair amount of traveling,’ Millie heard Orla explaining now. ‘Research, you understand, for my novels.’

‘Of course, of course,’ Sylvia murmured reverently. ‘We’d be delighted to help you with your travel plans. My husband and I have a
wealth
of experience which we’d be more than happy to put at your disposal!’

‘Marvelous.’ Orla sounded delighted. ‘Now perhaps we could—’

‘Excuse me,’ Tim murmured, cutting in and swiveling round in his chair. ‘Millie,
off
the floor if you don’t mind. Do something useful and make the coffee.
Proper
coffee,’ he added, drawing a chair up to the desk and patting it invitingly, gesturing for Orla to make herself comfortable. ‘I’m sure we’d all like a cup.’

A minute ago it had been tea, but tea evidently wasn’t glamorous enough for a mega-selling celebrity author. Thinking dark thoughts about Tim, because he was the one who had told her to get down on the floor in the first place, Millie stood up and began brushing wiry brown carpet fibers from her bare knees. It was that kind of nasty cheap carpet, and as usual, she’d ended up looking like a cavewoman with unshaven, deeply hairy legs.

‘Millie, good heavens, it's you!’ Orla exclaimed, her eyes like saucers. ‘Oh, this is completely amazing, I thought I was never going to see you again…!’

Millie found herself being thoroughly hugged and kissed on both cheeks. If looks could kill, she’d have slumped back on to the carpet in a flash; rays of absolute fury were zapping like laser beams from Sylvia's narrowed eyes.

She's mine
, her outraged expression told Millie.
You just leave her alone.

If Orla was aware of the deadly hate-rays she blithely ignored them.

‘This is brilliant,’ she declared, her expression joyful. ‘You can deal with all my travel arrangements—from now on, you’ll be my very own personal organizer! Right, let's get on with it, shall we? I’m interested in Sicily—oh, and did someone mention coffee just now?’ Beaming across at Sylvia she said, ‘I’d
love
one. White with no sugar, thanks. And how about you, Millie—will you have one as well?’

Orla finally left the shop forty minutes later, clutching an armful of glossy brochures. Thanking Millie effusively for all her help, she added over her shoulder to Tim and Sylvia, ‘Oh, and thanks so much for the coffee.’

‘You just had to be the center of attention, didn’t you?’ snarled Sylvia the moment the door had swung shut. ‘Oh yes, I bet you really enjoyed that, sucking up to her just because she's famous, thinking you could lord it over us, treating us like minions, and acting as if this were
your
business!’

Minions? Startled, Millie took a step backwards.

‘But—’

‘How
dare
you treat us like that?’ The higher Sylvia's voice rose, the more pronounced the tendons on her neck became. ‘This is
our
business, you hear? You won’t get away with this—’

‘Come on now, darling,’ Tim murmured in an attempt to placate her. Sylvia swung round to face him, her fists clenched at her sides. If he’d wanted to, Millie realized, he could have plucked her straining tendons like a harp.

‘Oh, don’t tell me she's wormed her way around you too! What did she do, make sheep's eyes at you, is that how she won you over?’

All this talk of worms and sheep's eyes was putting Millie right off her lunch. She was also horrified by what Sylvia appeared to be implying here.

‘Oh yes, I’ve seen the way you look at her,’ Sylvia hissed as though Millie was no longer there. ‘Don’t think I haven’t noticed.’

‘Sylvia, stop it.’ Tim shook his head. ‘She means nothing to me.’

‘Look, this is stupid—’

‘Stupid? Is that what you think?’ Sylvia rounded on her in a flash. ‘First you steal my client, now you’re trying to steal my husband. Don’t you UNDERSTAND?’ she roared, her angry mouth inches from Millie's face. ‘I CAN’T STAND YOU BEING HERE.’

Okay, enough was enough.

‘Well, that's what I call a happy coincidence,’ said Millie.

‘Tourists tourists everywhere,’ Hester announced, slamming the front door behind her, ‘and not a sign of Lucas Kemp.’ Reaching the living room, she threw herself down on the sofa and kicked off the instruments of torture on her feet—otherwise known as four-inch spike heels. ‘Honestly, it's like trying to track down some exotic rare species… you know he's out there somewhere… other people keep telling you they’ve spotted him… but it doesn’t matter how hard you look, it just doesn’t happen.’

‘Could be the shoes,’ Millie suggested. ‘You don’t see David Attenborough in high heels.’

Ignoring this, Hester glanced at her watch. ‘Anyway, you’re home early. What's up, are you ill?’

‘Nope.’ Millie beamed at her. ‘Actually, I’m ecstatic. I handed in my notice today—well, that's the polite way of putting it.’ She spread her arms with relief. ‘Then I walked out. And I’m never
ever
going back.’

‘Really? Crikey. Well done, you.’ This stopped Hester dead in her tracks. ‘So what brought this on?’

‘I couldn’t stand working for them a minute longer.’