MILLIE'S FLING (17 page)

‘And
then
, as I was leaving, some scummy apology for a schoolboy hit me on the head,’ she concluded indignantly. ‘With a
sodding
banana.’

‘You know what you need,’ said Hugh. ‘A drink.’

‘You must be joking, I am
not
going back into that supermarket!’

‘I didn’t mean a cup of tea and a bun, I meant a proper drink. A huge vodka and tonic with plenty of ice and lemon.’ The corners of Hugh's mouth began to twitch. ‘And a bun.’

Hugh's house was only a couple of miles from the supermarket. Since he had bags of frozen stuff rapidly defrosting in the boot of his car, Millie followed him back to the detached Victorian property, high on the hill overlooking Padstow.

She was looking forward to a vodka and tonic.

And to seeing where Hugh lived.

Most of all though, she couldn’t wait to help him unpack his supermarket shop.

You could tell
so
much about a man by the food he bought. As she pulled up on the driveway behind Hugh's car, Millie felt a squiggle of excitement mingled with panic. Yikes, this really was kill or cure. If he’d been in there bulk-buying frozen haggis and
tinned meat pies or, worse still,
tofu
, she’d go off him in a big, big way.

She’d actually forgotten she was still in her gorilla suit until the woman next door popped her head over the wall, started to say something to Hugh, then spotted Millie and said, ‘Oh!’

‘Bang goes my street cred.’ Hugh raised an eyebrow as the woman scuttled back into her house. ‘Now I’ll never get invited to Edwina's next dinner party.’ He nodded at Millie's hairy outfit. ‘Do you want to take it off?’

She feigned alarm.

‘What, right here?’

‘Oh, sorry.’ Starting to laugh, Hugh unlocked the boot of his car. ‘But you must have a change of clothes with you.’

Millie did, of course she did. An orange skirt and a white tank top, stowed in a carrier bag under the passenger seat of her own car.

But there was just something irresistible about borrowing someone else's clothes.

Particularly when they were someone you happened to have a bit of a girly crush on.

‘I didn’t think I’d need them, I was just going to do the job then drive straight back home again.’ Opening her eyes wide, Millie shook her head. Then, rubbing imaginary beads of perspiration from her brow, she shrugged and said bravely, ‘Doesn’t matter, don’t worry about me.’

‘You’re completely mad,’ said Hugh. ‘You do know that, don’t you? Seventy degrees and you’re driving around in a car, in a gorilla suit. You’ll get heatstroke.’

‘I’ll be fine,’ Millie protested. Feebly and wondering if she had the nerve to swoon.

Hugh was grinning. ‘Come on. I’ll lend you something of mine.’

Yay, result!

The house was a renovated late-Victorian property, smartly decorated but clearly in need of a woman's touch. Millie was no Jane Asher but even she had an urge to fling a couple of cushions on to the window seat in the hall, hang a few pictures, and scatter brightly colored rugs over the polished parquet floor.

‘I know.’ Hugh followed her gaze. ‘Kind of empty-looking. Doing the girly stuff was always Louisa's department.’

Left alone in the kitchen, Millie was surreptitiously investigating the contents of the supermarket carrier bags when he returned with a faded denim shirt and a pair of cut-off Levi's.

‘They’ll be too big, but better than nothing,’

Millie didn’t think they’d be better than nothing; she’d actually much prefer nothing—but no, no, enough of that fantasy. Anyway, she wanted to wear his clothes. And they did smell gorgeous.

You couldn’t fault a man who used Lenor.

‘You go upstairs and change. I’ll start unpacking this lot. Then we’ll have that drink.’

The topaz and bronze bathroom was clean, tidy, and bereft of unnecessary toiletries in the way that only a man's bathroom could ever be. As she wriggled out of the gorilla suit it occurred to Millie that the opposite sex missed out on a lot. It must be so boring, getting up in the morning and not having sixteen different kinds of shampoo to choose from. How they could limit themselves to one bottle and use it until it was finished was completely beyond her. It was so sad! And only one bottle of conditioner, imagine! And one bar of soap!

Still, the denim shirt was as soft as chamois leather and so faded it was almost white. It must have been washed and ironed a million times. Millie, fastening the mother-of-pearl buttons, realized with a jolt that maybe this was a job that had been done by Louisa.

Instantly, she was awash with guilt. This was the shirt that Hugh's late wife had so lovingly laundered, and now it was being worn by a shameless hussy with designs on her husband…

I can’t believe I’m even doing this, thought Millie, forcing herself to face her embarrassed reflection in the mirror above the basin.

Chastened, she stepped into the sawn-off Levi's and pulled the belt tightly around her waist.

Anyway, at least she had one thing to be grateful for. Shameless designing hussy she might be, but it was all quite irrelevant. Because Hugh had made it clear that he had absolutely no designs on her.

To punish herself, Millie didn’t even borrow his hairbrush. Nor, on the way back downstairs, did she allow herself to peep into any of the bedrooms.

Well, maybe just the one. And the door was open anyway.

It was the room where Hugh slept. The double bed, with a navy and white duvet, was unmade. There were clothes hung over the chair, a stunning view from the window overlooking the river, and assorted computer magazines scattered on the bedside table.

Together with an alarm clock, one of those bendy-necked reading lamps, and a photograph, in a plain brass frame, of Louisa.

Well, what had she expected? Whips and leg-irons and a party-sized box of condoms?

‘What's going on?’ said Hugh, behind her.

‘Oh!’ Caught in the act, Millie spun round. How awful, now he thought she’d been snooping.

Mortified, she realized that she had.

Oh God, now Hugh was bound to conclude that she was turning into some kind of mad stalker. Heavens, what if he thought she’d deliberately followed him to the supermarket in order to engineer their meeting?

‘Sorry, sorry, sorry,’ Millie blurted out. ‘I just couldn’t resist a quick peep, but I absolutely
promise
I’m not a stalker.’

Hugh smiled.

‘That's okay. Human nature.’

‘What?’ Millie was astonished. ‘To
stalk
?’

‘To look in other people's rooms. See how they live, find out more about them. Ever buy
Hello!
magazine?’

‘Yeeurgh, no!’

‘But you’ll flick through it in the newsagents.’

‘Oh, flick through it, of course.’

‘There you go,’ said Hugh.

Passionately grateful, but still squirming with embarrassment, Millie hugged the discarded gorilla suit to her chest and said, ‘I didn’t look in any other rooms, I promise.’

‘Don’t worry. I’ve got nothing to hide. Not even any naked slave girls chained up in the attic.’

He was smiling; he’d forgiven her for being a sneaky snoop. Millie relaxed.

‘Or slave boys?’

‘Oh well, slave boys, obviously. But apart from them, nothing at all.’

Downstairs, Millie helped him to unpack the carriers and put away the food. To her relief she approved of almost everything he had bought, especially the litre-sized carton of Rocombe Farm hazelnut ice cream. Apart from an apparent passion for pickled gherkins (bleeugh—was he
pregnant
?), they were astonishingly shopping-compatible. Happily, Millie loaded the fridge with unsalted Danish butter, free-range eggs, Cambazola, and fresh Parmesan. She was also pleased to see he’d chosen cherry tomatoes, posh loo rolls, new potatoes, and two bottles of Fitou wine. Definitely a man after her own heart.

No economy-sized tins of marrowfat peas, thankfully.

Or horrible pies made from dog meat masquerading as steak and kidney.

Or worst of all, prawn-cocktail flavored crisps.

‘Bloody men,’ Millie sighed, wriggling her bare toes and admiring the way the ice cubes in her glass glittered like diamonds in the bright sunlight.

‘I break open the vodka
and
a fresh bottle of tonic, and this is the kind of abuse I get,’ said Hugh. ‘Thanks a lot.’

They had been sitting out in his back garden enjoying the warmth of the sun and arguing about pickled gherkins when Millie had abruptly remembered what had brought her here in the first place.

‘That poor woman,’ she groaned. ‘I must phone Lucas and let him know what happened. He’ll have to tell her I turned up but her husband had been called away to an emergency meeting.’

‘Cheer up.’ Hugh looked amused. ‘At least he isn’t your husband.’

‘But that's not the point,’ Millie wailed. ‘What I’m saying is, she thinks she's married to Mr. Wonderful and he's probably spent the last twenty-five years lying to her! How can anyone ever be sure they aren’t being made a big fool of? It's so scary.’ She pulled a face. ‘I could meet someone gorgeous tomorrow and fall head over heels in love with them, but could I ever
really
trust them?’

Hugh shrugged easily.

‘Have to go with your instincts, I suppose. That's all you can do.’

‘Oh brilliant. Like my supermarket manager's wife.’

‘I’ll buy you a lie-detector kit for Christmas,’ he promised with a grin.

‘Oh God, do I have to wait that long?’

‘Anyway, I thought you were off men for the summer. Didn’t you declare yourself a sex-free zone or something?’

Millie tipped back her head and took a slurp of her drink. An ice cube and the slice of lemon landed on her nose. She was bored with the Celibet, but it was probably best not to announce this to Hugh. It didn’t take a genius to work out that the fact that she was a sex-free zone was the reason he had been able to relax in her company.
It had made it possible for them to be friends without him having to worry all the time that she might be harboring some devious hidden agenda.

Like maybe ripping off his clothes with her bare teeth and—no, no, stop right there, don’t even
think
that thought!

Safer by far, Millie decided, to make sure her shameful agenda stayed hidden. Under lock and key. Maybe in a safe. Or better still, a Swiss bank vault.

Nodding in agreement, she lied happily, ‘No men, no sex, no hassle. Actually, I can’t think why more people don’t do it, it's the only way to live! Look, I really should tell Lucas what happened. Okay if I use your phone?’

‘Feel free. When you’ve finished you can bring out another beer from the fridge.’ Hugh grinned over at her. ‘And one for yourself, of course.’

‘I’ve got to drive home.’

‘You could stay for something to eat. I do have food,’ he reminded her. ‘You may not believe this, but I’ve been to the supermarket.’

In the kitchen, as she dreamily uncapped two bottles of Becks, Millie wondered what it would be like to kiss Hugh Emerson, how it would feel to run her fingers through his floppy, sun-streaked hair, how his warm skin would feel sliding against hers.

Then, before she got completely carried away, she gave herself a brisk, back-to-earth slap on each cheek, picked up the phone, and punched out Lucas's number.

TYPICALLY, LUCAS ROARED WITH laughter when he heard what had happened.

‘Sweetheart, don’t get so het up! It's
okay
,’ he reassured Millie. ‘The woman paid in advance.’

For heaven's sake. Men, couldn’t you just boil them?

‘That's not why I’m het up,’ Millie spluttered, ‘The tosspot's having an affair! He's a complete lowlife! And you can’t keep her money—we’ll have to give her a refund.’

‘Look, business is business,’ said Lucas. ‘We kept our part of the bargain. It's not our fault her husband's fooling around.’

‘You’re heartless,’ Millie cried.

‘Thank goodness for that. Better heartless than a total pushover.’

‘God, I hate you.’

‘I know you do. Never mind, I’m your boss. It's my job to have pins stuck into my effigy,’ said Lucas.

He was grinning, she could just tell.