MILLIE'S FLING (13 page)

‘Thanks, but we can’t.’ Millie jumped to her feet, sending beer coasters frisbeeing in all directions. ‘We have to be somewhere— gosh, actually we’re late already! Okay?’ Tapping her watch at Hugh, she jerked her head in the direction of the door. ‘Come on, we’d better get a move on, the others’ll be wondering where we’ve got to.’

As soon as they were outside on the pavement, Millie stuck out her hand and shook Hugh's surprised one.

‘Thanks for the drink. It was nice to meet you. Right, well, I’ll be off.’

‘Hang on.’ Hugh looked puzzled. ‘What about the others— won’t they be wondering where we are?’

Millie experienced a flicker of disappointment; somehow she’d expected better of him.

‘It was just an excuse. To get us out of there.’ As she spoke, Millie realized the joke was on her. Hugh Emerson had been on the ball all along.

‘You mean the others aren’t waiting for us?’ His dark eyes glittered with triumph at having caught her out. ‘Damn, that's a real shame. And I was so looking forward to meeting them.’

‘Ha ha.’ Dutifully, Millie smiled. ‘Well, early start tomorrow, I’d really better be off. Bye.’

She was moving away from him now, walking backwards up the hill…

‘Millie, stop—’

‘Ow!’ Having ignored his plea, Millie promptly cannoned into the lamppost behind her. Clutching her left shoulder and trying to
pretend it hardly hurt at all—ow,
ouch
—she wondered why her life had to so closely resemble Mr. Bean's. What she wouldn’t give to be sleek and chic and in control at all times.

‘All right?’ Reaching her, Hugh looked concerned.

‘Oh, marvelous. The bone's shattered, of course, but apart from that everything's fine.’ The words came out through gritted teeth as waves of pain whooshed up and down her arm.

‘Look,’ said Hugh, ‘have I said something to upset you?’

‘No.’

‘So why the sudden rush to get home? Couldn’t we go for something to eat?’

Millie gazed up at him, so surprised she almost forgot about her shoulder.

‘I thought you wanted to get away. You looked as if you were desperate to escape. The way you hesitated when Lucas offered us a drink.’

‘You hesitated too. I was waiting for you to say something,’ said Hugh. ‘I thought, as he's your boss, you should be the one to decide.’

They gazed at each other. Millie smiled first.

‘How stupid is this? Go on then, you’ve twisted my arm.’

‘Your arm? You mean this one here, with the multiple fractures and bits of bone sticking out? I wouldn’t dream of twisting it.’ He raised a teasing eyebrow at her, then indicated the restaurant behind her, its red, green, and white awning lazily flapping in the breeze. ‘Okay, food. This place is supposed to be pretty good, isn’t it? Italian okay for you?’

Millie had a sudden yearning for fresh air. The last time she’d eaten at Bella Spaghetti she’d been with Neil and half a dozen of his rowdily drunk friends.

‘Actually, what I’d really love,’ she told Hugh, ‘is a bag of chips.’

They took the coastal path away from the center of Newquay, headed east, and bought takeaway chicken and chips before making their way down to Fistral Beach. It was a warm evening, the tide was out, and an apricot sun hung low over the violet-tinted sky. The surfers had given up for the day and the beach was almost deserted. Millie and Hugh ate their chicken and chips, walked for what felt like miles across the wet sand, and talked nonstop.

In any other circumstances, it would have been romantic.

‘So what happened to you, then?’ Hugh picked up a flat pebble and skimmed it across the surface of the water. ‘On the phone, when I told you I didn’t date, you said that was fine, neither did you.’

‘Oh, nothing really.’ Millie was embarrassed; it was like breaking a fingernail and being consoled by some bloke with one arm and no legs. ‘I split up with someone a few weeks back and decided I could do without the hassle of men.’ A seagull, squawking as it wheeled overhead, sounded as if it were mocking her. ‘I’ve taken a vow of celibacy,’ Millie explained, picking up a stick and hurling it at the seagull, who dodged it with ease. ‘No sex for the rest of the summer. Actually, it's quite liberating.’

Hugh said dryly, ‘I’m sure it is, when you have the choice.’

‘But everyone has that choice.’

He looked at Millie.

‘You could meet someone tomorrow and fancy them like mad, but it's your decision whether or not you sleep with them.’

Millie, who was confused, said carefully, ‘Ye-es.’

Oh God, could he
tell
? Did he know she fancied him like mad?

‘I’m just saying you’re lucky, that's all.’ Hugh shrugged and kicked a tangle of seaweed out of his path. ‘To be able to feel that kind of attraction. And fall in love with them, if that's what you want to do. Because I can’t imagine it ever happening to me again.’ He paused, his dark eyes bleak. ‘And I wouldn’t even want it to.’

Millie didn’t know how to react to this. Being at a loss for words
wasn’t really her, but she was terrified of coming out with something irredeemably frivolous or hurtful or downright stupid.

Finally she said, ‘It won’t always be like that. It's only been eight months. You’ll meet someone else one day.’

Cliché cliché cliché.

‘Except I’d rather not meet someone else.’ A small crab scuttled sideways out from beneath a rock as Hugh bent down to pick up a fresh supply of flat pebbles. Rapidly, one by one, he spun them into the breaking waves.

‘Yes, but—’

‘No buts. I’ve decided. Because I know, I really and truly
know
, that I never want to go through that horror again. I loved my wife,’ he said simply, ‘and she died. What if I
do
meet someone else in a couple of years’ time? Who can guarantee she won’t die too? It could happen. At any minute of any day, with no warning at all, it could happen again.’ He shook his head. ‘And I’m just not interested. It's not worth the risk. I’d rather stay single and unattached.’

Millie was finding this hard to accept.

‘But people are widowed and they marry again! Sometimes they’re widowed two or three times but they
still
don’t give up.’

‘Fine, if that's what they want to do,’ Hugh said flatly. ‘But I don’t.’

A lone couple were making their way along the beach towards them. Millie, brushing her hair out of her eyes, watched them. The man's arm rested protectively across the girl's shoulders, while her own arm was curled around his waist. They were even walking in time, matching each other stride for stride. Laughing at something his girlfriend had said, the man planted a loving kiss on her forehead.

‘How does that make you feel?’ said Millie. ‘Seeing those two together like that. Don’t you envy them?’

Hugh shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans.

‘No. I feel sorry for them. Because by tomorrow one of them could be dead.’

‘You can’t go through life thinking like that!’

‘Can’t I? But you haven’t been through it. You have no idea how it feels.’ Pausing, narrowing his eyes as he gazed out to sea, Hugh said, ‘Let me tell you about something that happens three or four times a week. I’m asleep in bed when the phone rings, waking me up. I reach out, pick up the phone, say hello. And then I hear Louisa's voice, and she's calling my name, and I can’t believe it, because this means it's all been a terrible mistake—Louisa isn’t dead after all, she's alive, and I’m just
so happy
—’

Abruptly, Hugh stopped. After a moment he said, ‘And then I really wake up.’

Millie blinked and wiped the back of her hand across her eyes; how embarrassing, she was the one crying while Hugh was the one who’d lost his wife.

She shook her head.

‘God, I’m sorry.’

‘There's nothing I can do to stop it happening,’ said Hugh. ‘Being that happy, then waking up, and crashing back to earth… I can’t begin to describe how it feels.’

‘Awful,’ Millie whispered, feeling hopelessly inadequate.

‘Certainly no picnic.’ Taking pity on her, Hugh nodded in agreement. His smile, brief and automatic, didn’t reach his eyes. ‘And the thing about recurring dreams is you can’t control them. I just want them to go away.’ He paused, then sent another pebble skittering into the waves. ‘And I don’t think they ever will.’

‘Phwoaaar, definitely dishy,’ drooled Hester, who had been lurking behind her bedroom curtain watching Millie get dropped off by Hugh. ‘Great car, too. But you didn’t kiss him! What's the matter with you, girl?’

Since this was the twenty-first century, Millie found it hard to believe that Hester was still using words like ‘dishy.’ Honestly, next she’d be saying ‘far-out’ and ‘groovy’ and ‘cool dude.’

‘It wasn’t a date,’ Millie wearily reminded her. ‘And I definitely wasn’t going to kiss him.’ She shivered at the thought; Hugh Emerson had to be as off-limits as it was possible to get, ‘Remember? His wife just died.’

Hester rolled her eyes.

‘I don’t mean a raunchy kiss—you don’t have to launch yourself at him and stick your tongue down his throat! A quick peck on the cheek, that's all I’m talking about. Something sedate. Surely it's only polite.’

‘We didn’t even shake hands. Just said goodbye and that was it.’ Millie pulled a face; to be honest, she hadn’t been quite sure
how
to go about leaving Hugh Emerson. After getting on so completely brilliantly together, the end bit of the evening had been a bit awkward. She’d wondered if he was already regretting telling her so much about himself.

‘So when are you seeing him again?’

‘It wasn’t a date, dipstick! We didn’t arrange to meet again. He just drove off.’

Hester, who was draped across the sofa wearing her Ricky Martin T-shirt-cum-nightie, rolled on to her front and began flicking through the TV channels in search of hunky men.

Or even… bleeugh…
dishy
ones.

In the end, she was forced to settle for Gary Rhodes.

‘Sounds like you had a fun evening. You must have been bored out of your mind.’

‘It wasn’t boring.’ Instinctively, Millie leapt to Hugh Emerson's defense.

‘Get your hair cut,’ Hester shouted at Gary Rhodes on the TV, ‘and stop poncing around making out you’re so great.’ Over her shoulder to Millie she added, ‘Actually, that's a thought.’

Millie was busy levering the lid off the biscuit tin.

‘What is?’

‘How do we really know his wife's dead?’

‘She is, I know she is,’ Millie sighed.

‘Yes, but you’re ultragullible. You always give everyone the benefit of the doubt. ‘
You
,’ Hester pointed out, ‘think Gary Rhodes can’t help looking like an overgrown back garden because his hair just naturally grows like that.’

‘She was killed in a horse-riding accident,’ Millie said defensively.

Hester waggled her eyebrows in a meaningful manner.

‘Really? Or did he murder her?’

‘Okay, maybe he murdered her. And this is a mad conversation,’ Millie pointed out, ‘because I shouldn’t think I’ll ever see him again anyway.’

‘If he's an ice-cool con man who murdered his wife, he’ll be in touch.’ Hester nodded knowledgeably. ‘He’ll come up with some feeble excuse to see you again. You’re probably already earmarked as target number two.’

‘If he's an
intelligent
, ice-cool con man,’ said Millie, ‘he’ll find himself a target really worth murdering. Someone with a lot more money than me.’

‘BIT BIG,’ SAID MILLIE the next morning, ‘but quite comfy.’

Having braced herself for the worst, she was glad it didn’t itch.

Lucas was busy on the phone. Sasha, who had Olympic-sized breasts and platinum-blonde hair, was measuring how much the gorilla suit needed to be taken in. As well as being Lucas's strippogram, Millie gathered she was also his kind-of-girlfriend. Evidently she did a great Marilyn Monroe.

‘Rather you than me,’ Sasha said cheerily when the last pin was in place. ‘Stuck inside that great furry thing… I’d get claustrophobic in no time flat!’

You don’t say.

‘Actually, it's not too bad.’ Millie did a little dance to demonstrate. ‘At least there's room to move inside.’ Pulling a face she added, ‘I’d feel a lot more claustrophobic trapped inside Lucas's leather trousers.’

‘What's all this about you being trapped inside my trousers?’ Lucas had finished his phone call. His wink encompassed both Sasha and Millie. ‘I know how I’d feel and we’re not talking claustrophobic. So, how's the suit?’

‘Great. Never felt more glamorous.’

There were four types of kissogram and Millie suspected she’d be the one getting the most wear out of the gorilla suit. Sasha was the sex-bomb who was happy to strip down to a couple of tassels and a sequinned G-string. Eric, a mild-mannered history teacher by day,
was transformed at the flick of a leopard-skin jockstrap into a lovable, roly-poly, wise-cracking Full Monty-type at night.

The fourth kind was the hen-night special when the handsome dark stranger swept the lucky participant off her feet, flexed his muscles, flattered her outrageously, and prayed the effort of having to lift fifteen stone of shrieking, flailing female wouldn’t cause his leather trousers to split.