MILLIE'S FLING (34 page)

THERE WAS A HORRIBLE sensation in Millie's mouth, as if she’d licked a battery. This is it, she thought unhappily, her gaze fixed on the carpet. No going back now. I am The Dark Destroyer.

She was startled to hear Orla laughing. Then came the sound of frenzied scribbling-out.

‘You tricked me! I really thought you meant you had proof about Nat. Now look at the mess I’ve made of my notes! So who is it then, this other friend of yours?’

Prevaricating, Millie said, ‘Maybe I shouldn’t tell her.’

‘Darling, you’re being ridiculous. You know you have to.’

Slowly Millie raised her eyes, her gaze locking with Orla's.

‘Oh.’

Orla stared back at her. As Millie watched, recognition gradually dawned.

‘Oh,’ whispered Orla, all the color sliding from her face. ‘Oh. Oh. Oh God, nooo.’

Even her lips were white. She looked as if she’d just been drained of blood by a vampire.

‘I’m so sorry.’ Millie wished she could be somewhere else. ‘I didn’t know whether or not to say anything. But you just told me I should.’

‘Giles?’ It came out as a croak.

‘Yes.’

‘But he promised me he wouldn’t do it again. Never ever again. He
promised
me that.’

And you actually believed him?

Instead, Millie said sympathetically, ‘I know.’

Cra-aack, went Orla's pen, snapping in two between her fingers.

‘Martine Drew?’

‘Yes.’

‘Really? I thought it might have been that girl who was at the party last week. Anna the dressmaker.’ The words tumbled jerkily out of Orla's mouth. ‘The one who recently joined the golf club? Remember her?’

Millie nodded, bracing herself yet again.

‘That was Martine.’

Orla blinked.

‘What are you talking about?’

‘That was Martine Drew.’

‘What?’

Millie wondered how else she could possibly say it.

‘Last time, when the press found out about Giles and Martine… well, you didn’t meet her, did you?’

Dazed, Orla shook her head.

‘You just saw pictures in the papers. Not very clear photos, when she was trying to hide her face.’

‘But she had blonde hair. Long blonde hair.’ Orla's hand shook as she took a drag of her cigarette. Then her shoulders sagged as she realized the stupidity of what she’d just said.

‘It's called going to the hairdresser,’ said Millie.

‘But… she rang, just the other day… she's living back in London,’ Orla whispered. ‘Except I suppose she isn’t. It was just another lie, to put me off the scent.’ She frowned, crumpling the cigarette into the ashtray, then looked up. ‘How did you find out?’

‘She hired me to turn up last night. They were in a restaurant, celebrating their anniversary. I thought she meant wedding anniversary.’

‘Last night. Giles told me he was with the Freemasons. Look,’ Orla blurted out hopelessly, ‘are you sure this is true?’

‘Here.’ Millie slid the envelope containing the just-developed photos across the coffee table. ‘There's something else in there too. The check Giles tried to bribe me with, to keep my mouth shut. I’ll make us a cup of tea.’

Wine was a big temptation but getting roaring drunk wouldn’t help Orla right now.

Ten minutes later she returned from the kitchen with two mugs of tea and—in the absence of Twiglets—a plate of nutella sandwiches.

Orla was pale and dry-eyed, and the ripped-up photographs were scattered over the coffee table.

‘He promised,’ she told Millie, her voice calm. ‘He promised faithfully.’

Faithfully. That was a good one.

‘Do you wish I hadn’t told you now?’ Millie held her breath.

‘No. He brought her along to our party. All these months he's been lying to me. Seeing her, and cheating on me. I want to kill him. I do.’ Orla's jaw was clenched. ‘I do, I really want to kill him.’

Feeling brave, Millie said the unsayable. ‘So long as you don’t want to kill yourself.’

‘God, no. I don’t deserve this.’ Shaking her head, Orla lit another cigarette. ‘I really don’t. I deserve better. He's got a fucking nerve. It's all over, you know. This is the last bollocking straw. I
won’t
spend the rest of my life forgiving him and forgiving him and always wondering when it’ll happen again… I mean, what kind of marriage
is
that?’

‘The rotten miserable lousy kind,’ said Millie.

‘Giles is a rotten miserable lousy husband! He's a complete and utter shit.’ Orla thumped the table for emphasis. ‘And I’m just not
going to take it any more. I’m going to go home and kick him out and divorce him faster than you can say… divorce.’

‘Well, good.’ Although Millie privately wondered if she’d go through with it. When push came to shove, Orla might chicken out.

‘You don’t think I will, do you?’ As she rose to her feet, shaking the creases out of her turquoise dress, Orla smiled slightly at Millie. ‘But I’m going to. I am. I can promise you that.’

At five o’clock, the first fat raindrops began to plop out of the sky.

Good, thought Orla, watching with satisfaction as the thick, charcoal grey clouds rolled overhead. She wanted it to rain. The harder the better. A thunderstorm would be fine. A typhoon would be perfect.

Twenty minutes later, Giles's car came into view. Her arms folded tightly across her chest, Orla followed his progress through the open gates and up the drive.

When the car braked, she knew he’d seen them. His clothes, strewn across the lawn, sodden with rain.

Not just
some
clothes, either. All of them. Every single thing he owned, right down to his underpants.

What with Giles being so vain, the lawn was actually pretty crowded.

Orla, who had thrown the lot out of the bedroom window, was feeling pleased with herself. Giles had always been so persnickety about his clothes, insisting that each shirt was precision-ironed, each handmade shoe flawlessly polished.

Except they weren’t looking quite so flawless now, with the rain pelting down and his best dinner jacket dangling like a hanged man from the mulberry tree.

He knew the game was up, of course, the moment he saw what
she’d done. Glancing over her shoulder at the empty wardrobes—so
many
empty wardrobes—Orla unfolded her arms and pushed open the bedroom window. She watched Giles climb out of the car and gaze up at her.

He looked like a cornered animal.

‘What's all this about?’

‘Oh, I think you’ve probably got a rough idea.’

‘That
bitch
!’ shouted Giles, his sandy hair already darkening in the rain. He shook his head in despair. ‘I knew she’d tell you. Sweetheart, I can explain everything. It's not how it looked, I promise.’

‘Déjà vu,’ Orla bellowed down at him.

‘What?’

‘I’ve heard that line before. Except last time I was stupid enough to believe you.’

‘But it's the
truth
. Look, let's sit down and talk about this over a drink.’

As he made his way to the front door, he stooped to retrieve a sodden Jaeger sweater of which he was particularly fond.

‘The door's locked,’ yelled Orla. ‘In fact, all the doors are locked. And I’ve had the locks changed. Because you don’t live here any more.’

‘Orla. You’re overreacting. This is ridiculous.’ Giles shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Look, I’m out here getting
wet
.’

‘You’re lucky you’re not getting shot.’

‘Open this front door.’

‘I’ve got a much better idea. Why don’t you move in with your mistress?’

‘Martine means nothing to me!’

Orla looked bored.

‘I really don’t care. All I want is a divorce.’

‘But my clothes… you can’t do this!’

‘Watch me,’ Orla said pleasantly, as he bent to pick up an armful
of sodden underwear. ‘Oh, nearly forgot.’ Reaching for the packet of black trash bags, she hurled it out of the window like a grenade. ‘You’re going to need these to put your clothes in. Don’t say I never give you anything.’

Ha, that was a joke; she’d spent their entire married life giving him practically everything. It had been ten years since Giles had even had a job.

‘You have to let me explain,’ he shouted up, squinting as the torrential rain splashed into his eyes. ‘I tried to get rid of her but she wouldn’t let me go. She's been
stalking
me—’

‘You’ve got a fantastic imagination.’ As she prepared to slam the window shut, Orla said conversationally, ‘Know what? You should write a book.’

Millie was asleep in bed when the phone rang at midnight. She heard Hester, who was still downstairs, answer it.

‘It's for yooou,’ Hester sang up the stairs and Millie's heart began to thud with fear.

‘Orla.’ Hester pulled a face as she handed over the receiver.

Millie had known it would be Orla. Tucking her Robbie Williams T-shirt over her knees, she sat down on the bottom step of the staircase.

Oh
please
don’t be where I think you are…

‘Hi, it's me. Did you tell him?’

‘Hmm?’ Orla sounded odd, distracted. ‘Oh yes. I told him. I definitely told him.’

Millie pictured Orla in a distraught state, her long dress and hair whipping around her as she wandered in the pitch darkness and driving rain ever closer to the cliff edge.

‘Orla? Now listen to me. Where are you?’

‘Sorry? God, this is a terrible signal, I can hardly hear a thing.’

‘Tell me where you are,’ Millie shouted. ‘And I’ll come and get you.’

‘Come and
get
me? Darling, what are you talking about? Ah, that's better,’ said Orla as the line cleared. ‘Must be the storm.’

‘Where are you?’ repeated Millie, her feet jiggling with agitation.

‘In my office, of course! You daft thing, where else would I be at this time of night?’

Millie exhaled noisily. All the muscles in her legs relaxed. She felt as if a door had opened in her chest wall, allowing a flock of birds to whoosh out.

‘So why are you phoning?’

‘For my update! You told me about Hester but you forgot to tell me what's been happening with you!’

Forgot?

In a daze, Millie said, ‘Nothing's been happening with me. Orla, are you
working
?’

She’d imagined Orla doing a lot of things—weeping and wailing, getting drunk, slashing her wrists—but not this.

‘Of course I’m working! I want to crack on, and since I can’t sleep I may as well make the most of it. So…?’

There was an expectant pause as she waited for Millie to start regaling her with all the latest gossip.

‘I haven’t got anything to tell you.’ Millie couldn’t believe they were having this conversation.

‘What, nothing at all? Honestly, you’re hopeless.’ Orla tut-tutted. ‘If things carry on the way they are, you’re going to end up as a lowly subplot. Hester and I will just have to be the stars.’

She was in shock, Millie decided. In deep, deep denial.

Either that or Orla had decided—oh God—to forgive the lying cheating slimy little bogweasel.

Cautiously she said, ‘Um, where's Giles?’

Perhaps he was dead. Floating face down in the swimming pool
or sprawled on the floor of the conservatory with a kitchen knife stuck through his heart.

‘Giles? Darling, he's gone! For good!’

Yikes, definitely dead, then.

‘Martine's welcome to him,’ Orla went on airily. ‘Give it a couple of years and he’ll be cheating on her as well. She's got it all to look forward to. Do you know, I actually feel sorry for the girl!’

IT WASN’T ALL PLAIN sailing. The initial state of giddy euphoria didn’t last. The next fortnight had its rocky moments and in the privacy of her bedroom Orla had shed a few tears.

But not nearly as many as she’d imagined—which was basically her own body weight in tears—and the frequency of the outbursts was already dwindling fast.

‘It's just such a relief,’ she confided in Millie as they strolled together along the beach. ‘Knowing I don’t have to worry anymore. I honestly didn’t realize how on edge I was the whole time. It's like being beaten up by your husband.’ Her many silver bracelets jangled as she waved an arm. ‘He swears he’ll never do it again, and you
want
to believe him, but you can never truly relax because you’re always mentally bracing yourself for the next punch.’

Millie picked up a pebble and skimmed it. If that was what being married to Giles had been like, no wonder Orla wasn’t feeling too bad.

‘You deserve someone better.’

‘Ah, but what if there isn’t anyone better? What if, one way or another, all men are pigs?’

‘They can’t
all
be,’ Millie objected.

‘You don’t know that. Some men cheat, some men lie, some are mean, some are violent… the whole happy marriage thing could be a complete myth. Perpetuated by people like me, who write about them.’ Orla shrugged and flashed her a careless smile. ‘Anyway, I’m
not going to think about that now. One day at a time, darling. For the moment I’m just concentrating on work, doing loads of writing, going for lovely long walks…’

‘But not to Tresanter Point,’ said Millie.

‘Definitely not to Tresanter Point! My suicidal days are well and truly over.’ Orla's green eyes sparkled. ‘Apart from anything else, I want to know how my book's going to end—ooh, look at that wave!’

Millie looked. The wave was a beauty, curling and breaking at just the right moment. The waiting surfers, launching themselves on to it, cartwheeled in all directions as the wave effortlessly got the better of them. Out of a hundred or so surfers, less than half a dozen remained on their boards.

‘That's sorted the men from the boys.’ Crowing with delight, Orla shielded her eyes as she watched the survivors ride out the wave, the sun glinting off their black rubber wetsuits as they expertly snaked this way and that. ‘It must feel fabulous, just like flying—ooh, and will you look at the body on that one!’

Watching as the wave crashed on to the beach and the surfer leapt off his board and deftly caught it, Millie experienced a lurch in her stomach. It was a body with which she was pretty familiar.

‘I don’t believe it!’ Orla exclaimed as the surfer, flicking his wet blond hair out of his eyes, momentarily glanced across at them. ‘It's Hugh Emerson! Hey, Hugh, over here!’