Millie's Game Plan (12 page)

‘Well, I’d be a bloody-sight better if you hadn’t left with such insulting speed. I must be losing my touch.’

‘Oh, no. No, you’re not. You’ve got wonderful touch, fabulous in fact. You could touch me for hours, so long as we got the timing right.’

‘I’m relieved to hear it. So, do you have any plans to rush off after Classics at Clavering?’

Did I hell. ‘Absolutely none. I’m all yours,’

‘Good. Then I’m going to take you back to the house, lock you in my room and not let you out till I’m thoroughly satisfied.’

Yikes. ‘Won’t your family mind?’

‘I’ve no intention of inviting them.’

I giggled. ‘No, I mean, us being there.’

‘Don’t be silly. It’s my business keeps a roof over their heads. Anyway, mother thinks you’re lovely and my sister’s a huge fan.’

My ego swelled with delight. ‘Sounds like a date then.’

‘Good girl. Oh, by the way, mother wants to know if you’d like to help her with the teas at the village fete on Saturday.’

‘What about Classics at Clavering?’

‘Oh, the fete’s all over by five and the concert doesn’t kick off till seven.’

‘Well…’

‘Say “no” if you don’t want to. She usually press-gangs at least half a dozen women into volunteering.’

‘Where do they hold it?’

‘In our bloody garden.
Same every year. You know, the usual country fete stuff: hoop-la, guess the weight of the organist, fondle a boy-scout…that kind of thing.’

I laughed. It sounded like it might be fun. ‘Will you be there?’

‘Christ, no. I’ve endured enough fetes to last a lifetime. No, I’ve got a bit of business to deal with. Some chap’s coming over from France. I’ll meet you at Clavering. Old Reverend Warwick’s going, he can give you a lift over.’

‘What? I mean…he doesn’t have to. I can easily drive.’

‘And stay off the champagne all night?’ His voice dropped to a deeper, sexier level. ‘Where’s the fun in that?’

‘You make a very good point. Okay, I’ll travel over with…the vicar. If you think he won’t mind.’

‘Course he won’t. Benevolence is in the job description, isn’t it?’

‘Okay. I’ll call Vonnie, tomorrow, and she can let me know what I’m in for.’

He made a humming noise. ‘If I call you tomorrow, will you do the same for me?’

I grinned. ‘See you on Saturday.’

I rang Mum after rehearsal. She didn’t waste any time on small talk. ‘How are things progressing with Alexander?’

‘Fine.’

‘No more than that?’

‘It’s early days, Mum.’

‘I knew right away, with your father.’

‘Well, you were very lucky.’ I could almost hear the silent Hail Marys she was transmitting in my honour. I was the black sheep, the late-developer, the snaggy nail. ‘Can I have your paella recipe,’ I asked, deliberately changing the subject.

‘Si,’ she sighed. If I hadn’t known better, I would have said she
was crying. I’d disappointed her…again. There was a sob. She
was
crying. ‘Mum. I’m sorry. Was it thinking about Dad? I know you miss him. We all do.’

‘No.’

‘I know you want me to find someone to settle down with but it’s not that easy out there. I can’t promise I’ll meet exactly the man you would have chosen for me.’ I heard her sniff. ‘I won’t pick anybody awful.’

‘It’s not that.’ She coughed and blew her nose.

‘What is it then?’

‘My car has failed its MOT. They say it needs over a thousand pounds spending on it. And the washing machine went ‘pop!’ yesterday.’

‘Oh, Mum. I can help you with that. Let me treat you to a washing machine; it can be an early birthday present. Tony will help you out with the car – he probably knows somebody…’

‘No! I cannot take from my children.’

‘Why not? You gave us life. What’s a few quid between generations?’

‘No!’ She snapped and then sniffed. ‘Thank you. I will work this out. There are people much worse off in this world than I am. I have a roof over my head and I have
enough to live on. I have my beautiful family and, with God’s good grace, I will be okay. I will be
okay
. It’s just these two things in one week make it hard.’

‘Okay, so I’ll lend you the money. Tide you over this rough patch.’

‘No. I have money in the bank.’

‘Mum, that’s your nest-egg.’ And a very small one it was, too.

‘It’s for emergencies. This is an emergency. I’m lucky I have it.’

‘But if you take a lump sum out, without giving the bank proper notice, you’ll forfeit some interest, won’t you?’

‘Just a few pounds. Now, that’s enough on the subject. I shouldn’t have got so emotional. It’s the menopause.’ She sniffed again. ‘God will provide.’

I’d been here before with Mum. You couldn’t shake her faith.
‘If you say so.’

There was an ominous silence, until she said, ‘So, have you got a pen and paper?’

‘Why?’

‘Do you want my paella recipe, or not?’

Preparations for the fete were well underway when I arrived. The theme was the Wild West. Someone had placed large, badly painted cut-outs of cacti by the gate and there was an old horse and trap parked nearby with a sign saying, ‘Trips round the green: £1 per person.’ The gates didn’t open till two but the place was teeming with people. Stalls and tents were up, bunting was strung from tree to tree and somebody was testing the loud-speaker system. In the kitchen, Vonnie had trays of cakes, covered in cling-wrap and about fifty blue cups and saucers sitting in an orderly fashion on the kitchen table. Over by an open window were two hot water urns.

She was wearing a pair of skin-tight jeans and a white shirt, with a scarlet neckerchief and her hair dragged into a pony-tail. I’d borrowed a costume from the theatre wardrobe. It was blue and white check cotton, with a full circular skirt and a detachable underskirt made of satin-edged net, and I’d tied my hair in bunches with blue and white ribbons.

‘Oh Millie!’ she cried. ‘What a triumph! You look as if you’ve just stepped out of a time machine.’ She hugged me and inspected the dress more closely.
‘Oh, for a figure like yours, darling. Wait till Lex sees you in that. You must wear it to Clavering, it’s so flattering.’

I’d actually blown a wedge of cash on a floaty, feminine number in lemon and lime, complete with silk Pashmina and matching underwear. There was no way I was wearing this old relic for my first night of passion.

‘What do you want me to do, Vonnie?’

‘I’ve worked out a rota system. You’re on two till two-thirty then three-thirty till four. Everything’s ready, so if you want to have a wander round, go ahead.’

I walked out into brilliant sunshine. Everybody was tidying up their stalls or rushing about looking for a piece of string to hold theirs together. As I wandered round, there seemed to be a continual loop of conversation:

‘Hello.’

‘Lovely day.’

‘Beautiful.’

‘Should be a good turnout.’

‘Hello.’

I’d brought my camera with me, so I tucked myself away, by the orchard, and hoisted out the telephoto lens. I sat in the shade, just watching and thinking how lucky I was.

‘It’s lovely, isn’t it?’

I’d recognise that warm, husky voice anywhere. Way too sexy for a vicar. Josh was standing under one of the apple trees and wearing a full-length black frock and dog-collar. It reminded me just how right it was that I should be with Lex. A frisson of excitement fizzed through my veins at the thought of what was in store for me later. ‘Yes. It’s like something out of a history book.’

‘So are you. That dress suits you.’

I glanced down. ‘Thanks.’

‘Sitting there, you look like a girl in an Impressionist painting.’

I glanced around at the dappled sunlight. Okay. I could see how that might be. He came closer and nodded towards my camera.

‘How about I take a picture of you?’

‘Me?’

He held his hand out.
‘Your turn to be on the other side of the lens.’

I was about to argue then thought, what the hell? I could always delete it. I passed him the camera. For someone who’s spent a chunk of her life on stage, you might be surprised to learn I actually felt self-conscious. I heard the shutter click.

He lowered the camera and looked at the image, pulling the corners of his mouth down and nodding. ‘Pretty good. Here.’ He handed it over to me. ‘Not exactly Monet or Seurat but promising.’

I looked at the shot. ‘The light is lovely...’

‘And you have the wistful look of a Renoir.’

‘Really?
Didn’t he have a beard?’

Josh laughed.
‘Must go. I’ve got to witness the opening of the fete and then I’ve a wedding to do.’

I glanced at my watch.
‘Oh, me too. I’m on tea duty.’

He offered a hand to help me up and smiled that soft, blue-eyed smile that had mesmerised me three weeks ago. Probably still could if I let it. He’d make some lucky girl a wonderful husband…just not me. Whereas Lex…Lex never failed to set my pulse racing.

I suddenly remembered my manners. ‘Oh, thank you for taking me to Clavering. I could have driven but Lex…’ what should I say…Lex wanted me loosened up on champagne for a night of passion?

‘No problem. Why take two cars?’

We came out of the shade into the full heat of the sun, and I thought how awful it was for him to spend a day like this in a long black dress.

Serving teas during my first shift was a doddle. I was on duty with Arabella, who looked delightful but hot in a pink satin saloon-girl dress. She was extremely envious of my petticoat, which was starting to get on my nerves with all its layers of scratchy netting.

‘You’re staying here tonight, aren’t you?’ she said. ‘I’m glad you’re going out with Lex, he needs someone nice like you.’

‘Oh? Thank you.’

‘I didn’t like his last girlfriend; she was really up herself. And the one before that didn’t like Mummy at all. And then there was one who pinched an entire case of 1979 Margaux – one bottle at a time...’

I braced myself for the whole catalogue of former girlfriends but was saved by an order for six cream teas. I wondered, as I leaned through the window, yelling after an old chap to come back for his change, how many girls before me had been persuaded to don fancy dress and serve tea. It was hot by the urns and there wasn’t even the breath of a breeze. By the end of my second and final shift, I couldn’t wait to get out into the fresh air.

People were basking on the upper lawn and a school band was playing
The Deadwood Stage
. It had been the perfect afternoon for a village fete. To savour such a delightful English day, I took a walk away from the house and stalls to where the grass became springier and on into the dappled shade of the orchard; back to where Josh had taken the picture of me. I looked at my camera and clicked through to the image. I zoomed in to check how my face had looked. Vague…wistful maybe? Dopey could do it. I zoomed out again. Yes. I looked better from a distance, which is how Josh had seen me. Not that it mattered, of course.

From beyond the trees, I could hear the church organist giving it his all on
Loves Divine
while the congregation did their self-conscious best to follow. I tapped the camera with my finger. Would it be okay to pop in and check out the wedding? I mean, it was a free country, wasn’t it? And it would be kind of interesting to see Josh in action…purely to measure his kind of performance against the likes of Father Riley…wouldn’t it?

I wandered through a wooden gate into the churchyard. The church door was open. No. It wouldn’t do any harm to pop in and watch the ceremony. So I slipped in and sat at the back. There was an order of service in front of me for Samantha Letitia Daniels and Nathan Wilks. I picked it up to find the lyrics.

Oblique shafts of sunlight beamed through the windows. Huge sprays of flowers in creams and pinks flanked the aisles and the fragrance of lilies almost blocked out the dry, dusty smell of old church. The bride was in an ivory-coloured dress in lampshade couture, and her two bridesmaids wore purple, off-the shoulder numbers, which I’m confident would never again see the light of day. There were big hats, little fascinators and fancy hair-dos. I was taking this all in, as displacement activity from the main event…studying Josh Warwick at work.

He stood before the bride and groom, confidently belting out the hymn in a clear baritone, as he surveyed the faces before him. I looked down at my service sheet, determined not to catch his eye – although I stuck out like a sore thumb, with four empty rows between me and the wedding guests.

After the hymn we sat. Josh smiled at the couple and muttered something that made them chuckle, before he addressed us all. The cool temperature in the church was a bonus, so I hitched up my skirt and enjoyed the flow of air around my legs.

Josh’s voice, though raised for the benefit of an audience, still had a mellow quality; the kind of voice that’s easy to listen to – I mean properly listen to, like you wanted to hear what he had to say.

After the official bit of the ceremony, his personal address really got to me. He said, ‘There are so many terms you can use to sum up how you feel about each other:
You complete me
;
You’re the light of my life
;
You rock my world
…but I think one of the simplest things you can say, and should continue to say to each other, is
Thank you
. Whether that’s
Thank you for sharing my life
or
Thank you for putting the dustbin out
. Don’t take each other for granted. Right now, you are the most precious thing in each other’s life and if you can hold onto that, you’ll make an unbeatable team.’

A snapshot of Emma and Tony coohing over Moses, surfaced in my mind, followed by another of Trina and Elliot.
Who would be my team mate or was I destined to fly solo? I conjured up another snapshot of me, in this very church, pledging my troth to Alexander Marshal.

As the bride sat to sign the register, I slipped outside, ready to catch some pictures of them emerging into the sunlight, and was quickly followed by the official photographer, who marked his territory with bags and tripod, so I retreated to the back of the graveyard and fitted my telephoto.

They were so lucky with the weather. No wild gusts of wind threatened to throttle the bride with her own veil or stir her mother’s feathery fascinator. I moved around the graveyard, apologising quietly to the grave dwellers as I trampled over mossy, crumbling stones. The church looked good too. I zoomed in on window mouldings, a house-martins’ nest beneath the eaves and the bells in the tower. Most of the guests were chatting and laughing, and a small group were passing round a packet of Rothmans. By contrast, standing apart from them, one guy looked downright grumpy – as if the groom had stolen his one, true love. He was tall and scrawny with pale, pock-marked skin. He resembled a vulture, with his hooked nose and rounded shoulders. As I focused on the blur of a tattoo crawling up his neck, he looked straight at me – a nasty frown depressing his forehead and shaming me into lowering my camera.

Eventually, the wedding crowd left in a drift of artificial rose petals. I caught some neat shots by scrambling onto the graveyard wall and looking down on the departing newlyweds. As the last of the cars drove away, I wandered back to the church, hoping Josh wouldn’t mind if I took some pictures inside, and possibly even pose for me.

As I stepped into the porch, a hot, sweaty hand clamped over my mouth and another grabbed me round the waist. I heard myself gurgling like the victim in a horror movie, just as a heavy, oil-smelling cloth was thrown over my head. I kicked out with my legs, connecting with someone. There was a low curse before another hand grabbed my leg and the back of a fist cracked against my cheek.

Steel-tipped heels ground against flagstones and chimed against metal gratings on the church floor.

My throat swelled. My head buzzed. My heart throbbed faster and larger in my chest. The hand over my mouth was clamped so hard, thumb and forefinger sealed my nostrils. Light that was seeping through the cloth dimmed, and I passed out.