MILLIE'S FLING (12 page)

Not much make-up. Just a bit of mascara.

Okay, and a quick once-over with the translucent powder.

Um, and some lipstick of course. Couldn’t go without lipstick. Only pale pink, though, nothing mind-boggling.

Sod it. May as well slap some eye shadow on too.

Well, thought Millie, it was all very well not wanting to look like a desperate Doris, but then again it wouldn’t do to have him thinking you were a complete dog.

She spotted him the moment she arrived at Morton's, one of the popular bars just off the seafront. Pretending she hadn’t, Millie glanced around in distracted, will-someone-please-help-me? fashion and waited for Hugh Emerson to approach her.

It took him less than thirty seconds to do so. Which impressed Millie to no end.

As did Hugh himself. Gosh, he was even better looking than his photo.

‘Is it you?’ As he spoke, the corners of his mouth twitched with amusement.

‘Och, well, maybe it is, and maybe it isn’t,’ Millie responded with a playful smile. ‘But if it's a drink you’re offairing, I’d love a pint of porridge. Shaken, not stirrrred.’

‘Been practicing the accent, I see.’ He nodded gravely. ‘Excellent. They’ll be signing you up as the new James Bond any day now.’

Millie beamed up at him.

‘Fantastic, I’ve always wanted a license to kill, especially those teenage boys who try and run you off the street with their skateboards, or little old ladies who bash you from behind with their wheelie-shoppers, ooh, and people who stick their chewing gum under tables, they
really
deserve to die… um, hi, I’m Millie, sorry, bit nervous, can’t think why, I mean it's not as if this is a date or anything.’

How could I? How
could
I have said the d-word, the one word I swore I wouldn’t say? Mortified by her lapse into auto-babble, Millie prayed he hadn’t noticed. Heavens, and what if his dead wife
had
been one of those people who parked their chewing
gum under tables? Or went around bashing people's ankles with her wheelie-shopper?

In a fluster, Millie said, ‘Look, I don’t want you to think I’m a complete alcoholic or anything, but why don’t we order that drink?’

Which of course meant he immediately would think she was a complete alcoholic. Not to mention a twit. Oh yes, wonderful, this was getting off to a flying start.

Bugger, why couldn’t he have been ugly? Some men were just born inconsiderate.

‘They don’t serve porridge,’ Hugh announced.

‘No? Oh well,’ said Millie, ‘in that case I’ll have a G and T instead.’

Sitting down, she watched Hugh Emerson ordering their drinks at the bar. He was pretty tall, six foot one or two. He also worked out, if the athletic look of his body was anything to go by… unless of course he’d been a big old tub of lard before, until grief had robbed him of the will to eat…

Oh stop it, stop thinking like this, for crying out loud. She’d seen the photograph of him and his wife, hadn’t she? Of course he hadn’t been fat.

But it was no good, Millie couldn’t help herself. She’d never met a young widower before, couldn’t begin to imagine the horror of what he must have been through.

Gosh, he had such a nice nose, practically the straightest nose she’d ever seen. And an excellent jawline. And fabulously long-lashed eyes the color of treacle toffee, and dark blond hair that curled over the collar of his blue and white hooped rugby shirt—

‘Here you go, gin and tonic, loads of ice, slice of lemon.’

Millie seized it thankfully and took a sip. Bleeugh. That was the great thing about ordering a drink you weren’t actually wild about; it meant you took your time over it and didn’t get legless in twenty minutes flat. Besides, in these days of alcopops and blow-your-head-off
designer cider, it was nice to be different. Gin and tonic always made her feel so Lauren Bacall.

‘Here we are then, you’ve done your duty,’ Millie said brightly. ‘Bought me a drink as a thank you for returning your wallet. If you like, you can go now.’

Hugh smiled and leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. Jolly nice knees, she couldn’t help noticing. Jolly nice elbows, come to that.

‘I was intrigued, I admit.’ His tone was good-natured. ‘Two mad phone calls. How could I not meet you, put a face to the voice?’

‘And?’ Millie gave him a sympathetic look. ‘Are you shocked? Did it never occur to you that I might be as ugly as this?’

‘Don’t worry, I braced myself,’ said Hugh. ‘I was prepared for the worst.’

‘That's really kind. If you’d taken one look at me, turned green, and made a dive for the door, well, I’d have
died
—’

Oh God, oh God, I can’t believe I
did it again
!

Millie buried her face in her hands, took a couple of deep breaths, then forced herself to look up again at Hugh Emerson.

‘I’m sorry. Okay? I’m so, soooo sorry about this. You know how it is when you’re trying desperately hard not to mention something? And it keeps popping out
because
you’re trying so hard not to say it? Well, that's what's happening to me this evening and I really,
totally
apologize but I just can’t help it.’

She knew she was bright red; her face was actually pulsating with shame.

‘Right.’ Hugh shrugged. ‘Fine. That's perfectly okay.’ He paused, then said, ‘But I don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.’

Millie stared at him. He
must
know. Was this a joke? Was he simply being ultra-polite?

Unless… oh God… he’d been stringing her along all this
time, pretending his wife was dead when all along he’d never even been married.

‘Dead. Dying. Death. Deadly,’ Millie recited. ‘Those kind of words are the kind I’ve been trying to avoid. Because of your wife.’

Your so-called wife, anyway.

‘Oh, I
see
. I didn’t realize. Look,’ said Hugh, ‘it's fine, don’t worry about it.’

Or, thought Millie, you do have a wife and she's still alive and well, in which case you’re a complete and utter bastard.

‘How did she die?’ The more Millie thought it through, the more likely it seemed that her suspicions were correct. Which made it, all of a sudden, incredibly easy to ask the questions she’d never thought she’d be able to ask.

‘Horse-riding accident.’

‘What was her name?’

‘Louisa.’ He paused. ‘I’ve already told you that.’

I know, thought Millie. Just double-checking.

Aloud she said, ‘When did it happen?’

‘Last October.’

‘What date?’

For a second, Hugh stared at her in disbelief. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

‘You’re going to check this out, aren’t you?’

Embarrassed, Millie feigned innocence.

‘I don’t know what you mean. I was just interested—’

‘You think I’m making it up, spinning you a line.’

It was no good. He knew. And he wasn’t sounding thrilled.

Millie fiddled with her glass and said awkwardly, ‘Well you could be. These things happen. And,’ she added with a flash of spirit, ‘you don’t look like a widower.’

‘Maybe not. Then again—modesty aside—I don’t
need
to go for the sympathy vote. Plus,’ he went on coolly, ‘this isn’t actually a date,
is it? I’m not interested in persuading you to jump into bed with me. I promise you, sex is the last thing on my mind.’

How completely infuriating. And what a stupendous challenge! For a moment Millie experienced a wild—and thankfully fleeting— urge to hurl herself on to Hugh Emerson's lap, plunge her hand down the front of his jeans, and find out for herself if he was telling the truth.

Instead, mentally superglueing herself to her chair, she changed the subject.

‘So what made you move from London down to Cornwall?’

‘I didn’t need to be there anymore. We always loved it down here. And I work from home,’ Hugh shrugged, ‘so there was nothing to stop me. Anyway, I was sick of the city. Living by the sea beats the hell out of London.’

‘What line of work are you in?’

‘Software development. Designing websites, advising other companies, showing them how to maximize their potential… I’m just a hired gun, really. Or a hired nerd.’ He grinned, clearly able to say this because he knew he was about as un-nerdy as it was possible to get. ‘But I’m pretty good at what I do. And it pays well. Plus, I get to surf in my spare time.’

Millie immediately pictured him in a black rubber wetsuit, his wet, sun-streaked blond hair flopping over his tanned forehead as he raced down Fistral Beach and launched himself into the sea…

‘How about you?’

Hugh's voice wrenched her back to reality.

‘Hmm? Me?’

For a moment there, she’d quite lost track of the conversation.

‘Career? Job? Do you have one?’

Hang on, was he speaking extra-slowly? Being the teeniest bit patronizing… again? The little hairs rose along Millie's spine and she said stiffly, ‘Of course. I’m a travel agent.’

‘Really? That's great. Which agency?’

‘Um. Fleetwood's, in Baron Street.’

‘I know it.’ Hugh looked delighted. ‘I was in there yesterday— you must have been on your lunch break.’

Bugger.

Why, thought Millie, do I always have to get caught out?

‘Actually, I don’t work there any more.’ She pulled an it's-delicate face. ‘Spot of bother with the Fleetwoods—not my fault, of course, but I chose to leave. It seemed best.’

All she’d been trying to do was impress Hugh, convince him that actually she wasn’t as dippy and hopeless as he clearly thought she was.

For a second it crossed Millie's mind that she
could
tell him she was the heroine of Orla Hart's next novel. That sounded a little bit impressive, didn’t it? A touch more glamorous and Liz Hurleyish and intriguing?

Then again, it could cause problems. Hugh Emerson, Millie sensed, probably wouldn’t be impressed. In fact, he was likely to find the idea that this very meeting could end up in Orla's next million-seller deeply off-putting. If not downright insulting, both to him and the memory of his wife.

Best not to mention it, Millie decided with relief. She didn’t want to scare him off.

Or get sued.

‘So what are you doing now?’ said Hugh.

Oh. Oh dear, throat-clearing time. He definitely wasn’t going to be impressed when he heard about her new job.

Not that it should matter
at all
, Millie reminded herself, but somehow it just did, it really did.

She shifted uncomfortably in her seat, like a beauty queen asked to recite the periodic table.

‘I’m… well, it's only temporary, just until something else
in the travel industry comes up, because of course that's my
real
thing…’

‘So in the meantime,’ Hugh prompted, ‘your unreal thing is…?’

‘Um—WHAAA!’

Millie shot out of her chair as a warm hand caressed the back of her neck, then—like lightning—slid south. Pirouetting round practically in mid-air, she saw Lucas Kemp laughing down at her.

‘Lucas!’

‘Hi, Millie. A little jumpy this evening, aren’t we?’

‘You snuck up on me! Gave me the fright of my life.’

That wasn’t all he’d given her, Millie realized moments later. She was experiencing a whole new sense of freedom… oh, for heaven's sake, he’d only gone and unfastened her bra.

‘Lucas.’ She gave him a look. ‘It's what boys do when they’re fourteen years old.’

His grin broadened. ‘Ah, but you have to admit I’m good at it.’

With a sinking heart Millie realized it was introduction time. She was going to have to explain to Hugh Emerson that this grinning, bra-unclipping, leather-trouser-wearing example of the male species was, in fact, her new boss.

Wasn’t it absolutely typical, though, that while Hester was dolling herself up and racing around town doing her damnedest to bump into him, Millie was managing it even when she didn’t want to.

Opening her mouth to make the embarrassing introduction— oh, Hugh was going to be
so
impressed—Millie was beaten to it once again by Lucas.

‘By the way, I need you in the office by ten o’clock tomorrow to try on the monkey suit. We’ve had the head dry-cleaned but the zip needs fixing, and if you want any seams taken in we need to get it done before Friday.’

‘Friday?’

‘Your first booking,’ Lucas announced. ‘One of the surgeons at Newquay General. The theater staff booked it for his fortieth birthday—they loved the gorilla angle because apparently this guy used to work with the VSO in Uganda. Come to think of it, these surgeon-types are pretty nifty with a needle—maybe you could get him to alter your suit.’

Thanks, Lucas.

Thanks a lot.

‘HUGH, THIS IS LUCAS, my new boss,’ Millie said flatly. ‘He runs Kemp's, the kissogram agency. On Friday I’m going to be a gorilla—’

‘A roller-skating gorilla,’ Lucas put in. ‘They were mad about the idea of doing it on roller skates.’

‘They want me to roller-skate into the
theater
? Won’t the patient mind his operation being interrupted?’ Millie began to look alarmed. ‘And will I be expected to wear a mask and juggle surgical instruments?’

‘You need to practice the juggling a bit more,’ Lucas said kindly. ‘And you wouldn’t be allowed into the theater. They want you to do it in the staff coffee room.’

‘Right. And this is Hugh,’ Millie concluded. ‘A friend of mine.’ Ha, highly likely after this little episode. ‘Well, kind of a friend.’

She’d done her best to pretend her bra wasn’t undone but now both straps were sliding down her arms. Heaving a sigh—honestly, how juvenile a trick had that been?—Millie flicked the straps over each elbow, whisked the scarlet bra out through her left sleeve-hole like a conjuror and dropped it into her bag, lying open on the floor.

Lucas and Hugh Emerson, who had just finished shaking hands, gave her a brief round of applause.

God, thought Millie, they’re going to become friends, I just know it.

‘Let me get you a drink,’ Lucas offered, eyeing their empty glasses. ‘What are you two having?’

Millie hesitated. So did Hugh. To her horror she realized that he wanted to leave; he’d bought her a gin and tonic, done his duty, and now he’d had enough. The prospect of spending another thirty minutes in the company of an off-duty roller-skating gorillagram was more than he could stand.