MILLIE'S FLING (31 page)

Slowly, Hugh sat forward in the swivel chair as the significance of the words began to sink in. The potted biography of Hester had been scrawled in orange felt-tipped pen across the chart closest to him. There was more, but his gaze had already shifted to the adjoining chart…

Lucas Kemp/Dan Anders, 30, hunk in leather trousers, green eyes, longish
v.
dark hair, charmer extraordinaire
, Orla had scribbled in violet felt-tip.

Hugh, his heart lurching around like a drunk inside his rib cage, ignored the rest of the Lucas chart and switched his attention to the next one along, larger and containing far more detail than the others.

Millie Brady/Cazzy Jackson, 25, angelic, rippling silver-blonde hair, wicked blue eyes
, that
tattoo, impulsive, incident-prone, looking for adventure… ex-travel agent (Ref: Fleetwood's), now working as a singing telegram (Ref: Lucas Kemp). Mother Adele (Ref: A. Brady). Father Lloyd (Ref: L. Brady and Judy Forbes-Adams).

There was much, much more, surrounded by a profusion of multi-colored arrows leading from Millie's chart to the others pinned
up around the room. In the split second before the door to the office swung open, Hugh registered an explosion of asterisks and exclamation marks and the name Con Deveraux, followed by an excitedly scribbled,
This could be it!

‘How's it going?’ Giles handed him a bottle of Labatt's, bringing him back to earth with a bump.

‘Sorry? Oh, right.’ Forcing himself to concentrate, Hugh spun back round to the flickering screen. ‘No problem, found the file. Eleven chapters, all present and correct.’

‘Good news, good news.’

‘Although, hang on, I’d better just scroll through a chapter or two, make sure no paragraphs have slipped through the net.’

This was impossible, of course, but Giles clearly didn’t have much of a grasp on information technology. Speed reading, Hugh skimmed the lines in silence. Within thirty seconds his suspicions had been confirmed. He knew exactly what he was reading, even if the names of the characters had been changed.

Unbelievable.

He scrolled back to the beginning and closed the file.

‘Seems fine.’

‘Brilliant. Send us an invoice,’ said Giles.

Truly unbelievable.

Closing down the computer, swinging back round on his chair, Hugh nodded casually at the charts covering the walls.

‘What's all this about, then?’

‘Oh, Orla's latest plan. Fiction based on fact.’ Giles shrugged and took a swig of his own beer. ‘The critics slaughtered her last book—well, one critic in particular—so she's basing the next one on an actual person, someone she's got to know since we moved down here. Girl called Millie, she was at the party last week. You probably saw her—in fact, she was the main reason Orla decided to throw the party in the first place.’

What?

‘Isn’t that a bit risky?’ Hugh marveled at Orla's cheek. ‘How's this… girl going to react, d’you suppose, when she finds out she's the central character in the next Orla Hart mega-seller? What if she goes ballistic and threatens to sue?’

Giles laughed.

‘Don’t worry, Orla's not that stupid. Millie knows all about it, she's been in on the idea from the start. And Orla paid her up-front, so there won’t be any problems there.’

Hugh blinked. Surely this couldn’t be true; Millie had never so much as mentioned any of this to him.

He felt numb.

‘Paid her, did you say?’

‘A pretty good whack, considering she didn’t even have a job at the time. Five grand,’ Giles explained breezily, ‘in exchange for the lowdown on everything that's going on in her life. I mean, I don’t pay much attention—I’ve never even read any of my wife's books— but Orla seems to be enjoying herself, encouraging the girl to get up to all sorts. The two of them meet up once a week and Millie updates her on the latest goings-on… work, men, sex… you name it! And last week's party worked a treat, evidently. It might have cost a bomb but according to Orla it paid dividends. She changes the names of course, but otherwise it all goes in, down to the last sordid detail. Word for word,’ Giles concluded with leery relish. ‘No holds barred!’ Waggling his empty Labatt's bottle at Hugh, he raised his blond eyebrows. ‘Get you another?’

Paid dividends.

Orla encouraged the girl to get up to all sorts.

Down to the last sordid detail.

Hugh shook his head; if he didn’t get out of here, he thought, he might explode.

‘No thanks.’

ORLA HAD BEEN WOKEN the next morning by Giles bounding out of bed at six o’clock. He’d sung to himself in the shower, selected his favorite golfing outfit—pink cashmere Pringle sweater, orange and pink checked trousers—and brought Orla breakfast in bed before setting off for the tournament in St. Ives.

Agony aunts were always warning women to suspect their other halves might be having an affair when, out of the blue, they started showering more often, wearing aftershave, and buying themselves designer underpants. It wasn’t so easy, thought Orla, when you had a husband who’d always taken immense pride in his personal appearance. Giles couldn’t bring himself to so much as answer the door to the postman without first slapping on the cologne.

Not to mention the Clarins tinted moisturizer for that flattering, sun-kissed glow. Giles never stopped wanting to look his best.

Still, he’d planted a loving, Hugo Boss-scented kiss on her forehead before leaving at seven-thirty. And brought her toast (cut in triangles) with grapefruit marmalade
and
orange juice
and
coffee and even her cigarettes and lighter, all on a silver tray.

So he either loved her very much indeed or was feeling incredibly guilty about the fact that, once again, he was up to his old—

Stop it, stop it,
stop it
. Despairingly, Orla stubbed out her seventh cigarette of the morning—it was still only ten o’clock—and forced herself to concentrate on Chapter Twelve. Hugh had fixed her computer. She hadn’t lost the first two hundred pages after all. With
no interruptions, this was the perfect opportunity to crack on with the story. Giles was playing golf, it was as simple as that. She had to get a grip and stop being so hopelessly paranoid. What could be more innocent than a couple of rounds of golf?

At eleven o’clock, Orla tried ringing Giles on his mobile but it was switched off. Oh well, it would be switched off, you couldn’t have phones trilling away all over the course while a tournament was in progress, that wouldn’t win you any popularity contests.

Downstairs, the house phone rang for the third time that morning. Orla ignored it. When she was working in her office she routinely let the answering machine pick up the calls.

Lighting yet another cigarette—her standard reaction to the anxiety churning away like a cement mixer in the pit of her stomach— Orla stared at the computer screen in front of her, willing herself to stop obsessing about Giles and press on with Chapter Twelve.

By seven o’clock she’d finished it. Chapter Twelve was done and dusted. All in all, a good day's work, Orla decided with satisfaction as she wandered downstairs in her nightie because she hadn’t quite got around to getting dressed. Still, never mind. Something to eat, followed by a long bath, and a change into a fresh nightie, then maybe a glass or two of red wine while watching something suitably trashy on television.

I’m turning into Hugh Hefner, bleeugh, scary thought.

Although imagining Hugh Hefner in a nightie was an even scarier one.

Having rummaged around in the freezer, Orla pulled out a Fogarty and Phelps pasta
puttanesca
. She stabbed the cellophane artistically with a fork, bunged the pasta into the microwave, and wrestled the cork out of a bottle of Valpolicella.

There were seven messages on the answering machine. While she slurped wine and lit a cigarette, Orla listened to a brief call from her agent about Spanish translation rights, two calls from the
editorial director at her publishers, and a message from the opticians in Newquay letting Giles know his Bausch and Lomb sunglasses had been repaired and were ready for collection.

There had also been two silent calls, with no message left.

As the microwave went ding, the final message began to play. For a moment Orla thought it was going to be another no-show, then her heart leapt into her throat as she heard a stifled sob.

‘Giles? Giles? It's me. Martine.’

The voice was husky with grief. Rooted to the spot, Orla listened to the girl struggling to retain some control.

‘Oh Giles, it's been so long… I know it's all over but I just wanted to hear your voice… I’m so s-s-sorry.’ Martine was weeping openly now. ‘I know you love Orla, I accept that, truly I do. It's just so hard to think I’m never going to see you again. Please don’t be cross with me for phoning you at home, but what else could I do? You changed the number of your mobile. Anyway, just to let you know, I’ve moved back to London and I hope you and Orla will be very h-h-happy together. Okay, that's it. B-bye.’

After a few more seconds of unrestrained sobbing, the line went dead.

Orla closed her eyes, breathing out at last. Hot tears of happiness slid down her cheeks. The relief was indescribable. It really was all over between Giles and Martine, she’d spent the last few weeks worrying herself sick over nothing. Not to mention the last twelve hours with a churning, knotted-up stomach, terrified that Giles may have been lying about the golf tournament and had in fact sloped off somewhere with Martine instead.

And all the time Martine had already been back in London, pining for the man she loved. The man who was
no longer interested in her
.

Slopping red wine on to the telephone table as she took another joyful swig, Orla wiped her wet eyes and smiled to herself.

Poor Giles, how could she ever have doubted him?

Oh God, this was the best news
ever
.

‘Stay a bit longer,’ Martine urged playfully, as Giles emerged from the shower and began to dress.

‘Better not. We’ve had the whole day together.’ Grinning, he dodged away from the bed as she made a grab for him.

‘Coward.’

Giles tapped his watch; it would take him another fifteen minutes to drive from Martine's cottage in Perranporth back to Newquay.

‘It's ten o’clock. I’m being sensible. Why push our luck?’

Martine reached across the bed for the phone and held it teasingly to her ear.

‘I could always give Orla another ring, sob a bit, beg her to let me speak to you.’ Martine slipped effortlessly into distraught mode: ‘H-hello, could I have a word with G-G-Giles, please?’

Giles chuckled but shook his head.

‘Once was enough. She’ll be happy with that.’ He was happy with it too; Orla had become increasingly twitchy over the last couple of weeks. The phone call earlier had been a master-stroke.

‘D’you think she’ll tell you I rang?’ Martine ran her tongue over her upper lip as she watched him finish dressing. The great thing about Giles's pink cashmere sweater and truly appalling pink and orange checked trousers was that she hadn’t been able to wait to get him out of them.

‘Who knows?’ He leaned over the rumpled bed and kissed her. ‘Probably not. It’ll be Orla's little secret.’

‘I thought she couldn’t keep secrets.’

‘Ha, she can’t. She’ll tell the rest of the world. Everyone but me.’

‘Good thing we’re better at keeping things to ourselves than she is.’ Martine smirked. ‘And you’ll still definitely be able to make
it tomorrow? You’d
better
be able to,’ she added, her tone mock-threatening. A lot of effort had gone into making Thursday special, an evening he wouldn’t forget.

Giles already had his excuse mapped out; he’d told Orla he’d been invited to join the local branch of the Masons.

‘No problem.’ He kissed Martine again then straightened up, pleased with himself. ‘I wouldn’t miss it for the world.’

Hester was forced to acknowledge that the Twiglets had taken their toll. Then again, the custard creams, the chipsticks, the Bounty ice-cream bars, and the endless plates of lettuce may have had something to do with it as well.

Only joking about the lettuce, obviously.

Hester marveled at her ability to make any kind of joke. What with her life being over, Nat thinking she was a trollop, and the fact that in less than a week she’d apparently managed to put on half a stone.

Still, that was the thing about comfort-eating to cure your abject misery. Lettuce simply didn’t hit the spot.

‘God, I’m
gross
,’ Hester blurted out, scaring away a couple of wealthy tourists who had been about to buy fifty pairs of earrings. Ha,
as if
.

Danielle, who ran the candle stall next to Hester's, switched off her mp3 player and said, ‘What?’

‘Me. Gross.’ Hester plucked in disgust at the straining waistband of her jeans. ‘Look at this flab, it's all
wibbly
.’

Danielle perked up at once; there was nothing she enjoyed more than a cozy putting-on-weight story. Particularly when it was somebody else's putting-on-weight story.

‘Well, you have been eating a bit more than usual.’ Glancing at the scrumpled-up family-sized Swiss roll wrapper in the bin behind Hester's chair she said brightly, ‘Maybe you’re pregnant.’

‘Huh, that would be too much to hope for. I haven’t had sex for the last fifteen years, remember.’ Gloomily Hester shook her head. ‘Let's face it, I’m just fat because I’m eating too much.’

‘So stop eating.’

‘I can’t, I’m too
miserable
.’ Hester thumped her thighs. ‘And eating's the only thing that cheers me
up
.’

‘Not doing a very good job then, is it?’ Danielle shrugged. ‘Losing a bit of weight, that's what’ d really cheer you up.’

‘But I’m too depressed to go on a diet!’

Danielle suppressed a sigh; Hester was being a pain, but she’d also been extremely kind in the past, patiently listening for hours on end to Danielle's own tales of fat-related woe.

The next moment, inspiration struck.

‘I know! That new beauty salon on Cavendish Street!’