Millie's Game Plan (18 page)

‘Christ!’ Lex hissed, looking around him.
‘Must’ve had a blowout.’

‘You okay?’ I asked.

He nodded. ‘You?’

I did a rapid assessment. ‘I think so.’ The odour of lemon, soy and ginger filled the car, blending with a whiff of burnt rubber.

‘Best we get out.’ He tried his door but the impact had buckled it. Mine was unaffected so I climbed out and held the door with my backside while I pulled the phone from my bag. ‘Who’re you calling?’ he asked, sliding across the seat.

‘Um…I was going to dial 999.’

‘Don’t! I’ll call Dave Stoker. He can bring his tow-truck over.’ He pulled the phone from his pocket and punched a memory key.

‘Sure you’re not injured?’ I asked, noticing how he avoided putting weight on his right leg.

‘I’m fine, just bruised, I expect.’

‘Don’t we have to report an accident like this?’

‘No. Nobody else is involved.’ He turned away from me. ‘Alright, Dave?’ he said into the phone. ‘Had a bit of a prang…Marshalhampton end of Hoggets Rise. Yes. Could you? Thanks.’

We heard footsteps running towards us. I turned to see the dimmed lights of another car further up the road. Its owner, a guy in long canvas shorts and a hand-dyed t-shirt, spoke as he approached. ‘Man. That was a lucky escape.’

I thought people stopped saying
Man
before I was born.

Lex frowned. I guessed he was in pain. He ran a hand through his hair and forced a laugh. ‘Yes. I see the tyre’s shot.’ He attempted to kick the offending rubber but pulled his foot back quickly.

‘I’ve called the emergency services,’ the guy said. ‘I really didn’t think you’d get out of that.’

Lex’s jaw clenched.

‘Thank you so much,’ I said. ‘That’s very kind of you.’

He looked pleased with himself and stood, hands on hips, surveying the damage. ‘Man. That’s one helluva car you didn’t want to trash, hey?’

Lex was breathing heavily. Not only was his Maserati trashed, it looked like his chances of red hot sex might be in the ditch, too. Although, on balance, I imagined he was more distressed about the car. ‘It’s very good of you to stop,’ he began. ‘No need for us to hold you up though.’

‘Not at all, mate. I’ll hang around till they get here – in case you need anything. I’ve got some water in the car, if you want it.’

We also had a complete Chinese meal in the foot-well but we weren’t about to have a picnic.

‘Thanks. No. I think we’re fine, aren’t we?’ Lex’s eyes pleaded with mine.

‘Absolutely fine. Lex lives very near here. We could practically walk home. But thanks for stopping.’

The guy nodded. Neither of us spoke and the power of our silence acted like a force field. ‘Right then,’ he said, backing up. ‘If you’re sure you’re alright?’

Lex put his arm around my shoulders and I slipped mine around his waist. ‘Thanks again. We’ll be okay.’

‘What about a witness…for your insurance claim?’ he pressed on.

I looked up at Lex. ‘He has a point.’

That muscle flexed again. I slackened my hold, in case I was pressing on a bruise. In the distance I could hear the wail of a siren. Lex sighed. ‘Actually – would you mind getting us that water? I think I could do with some, after all.’

‘Sure thing.’ The guy sprinted back up the road.

Lex turned to me. ‘Millie, will you do me a favour?’

‘Of course.’ I looked down at the leg he wasn’t standing on, bracing myself for the sight of blood.

‘When the police get here, I need you to say you were driving.’

‘What?’

‘I did a wine tasting earlier. I can’t afford to lose my licence.’

I would easily pass the breath test but that wasn’t the point. ‘Won’t it affect my insurance, though?’ That wasn’t the point, either.

‘Don’t worry. You won’t have to make a claim. I’ll pay for the damage.’

‘What if the police want to investigate?’

‘They won’t!’ He snapped. ‘Nobody else is involved. It was only a blow-out. These things happen.’

I could see a blue light strobing through the trees. Our Good Samaritan came back with the water and introduced himself as Joey. Lex pushed away from me and limped to the car. He pulled the Chinese meal from the foot-well and deposited it on the verge.

I walked over to him. ‘I can’t do it, Lex,’ I whispered. ‘I’m really sorry.’

His brows dipped into a jagged line. ‘Fuck!’

As the police car slowed to a halt beside us, a broad smile spread over his face. ‘Evening, Jason,’ he said as one of them got out. He bent down and smiled at the driver. ‘Evening, Will.’

‘That’s going to be a nasty dent, eh, Lex?’ Jason said, placing a hand on Lex’s shoulder.

‘Bloody nail in the tyre.’

‘Ouch. Expensive nail, mate.’

‘I’ll say.’

All four men inspected the damage, shaking heads, muttering about costs and laughing intermittently about what a lucky escape we’d had. I stood, open-mouthed. How could they pass it off so easily? If it had been my girlfriends, we’d have been hugging each other and thanking our lucky stars we weren’t road-kill.

‘I’m afraid I have to ask you, Lex, you’ve not been drinking, have you?’

‘Not tonight, guys,’ he eyeballed them. ‘Drove straight from work to Bellington Community Theatre. Millie here’s directing some youth group in a musical. Talented bunch they are, too,’ he lied – never having seen a single one of them perform. He did it so effortlessly; I was amazed he hadn’t taken to the stage, himself.

‘Bellington…’ the older officer looked at me. I instantly felt a tide of crimson lap my cheeks. I couldn’t be arrested for having too many children in one place, could I? ‘I think my sister’s kid goes there. Doing
Grease
aren’t you?’

‘Yessss.’
I beamed. ‘Who’s the child?’

‘Morrissey Archer.’

‘Morrissey. Of course I know him.’ Quite a little shit but he liked me because I made a point of praising him on a regular basis. ‘He has a lovely singing voice.’

He nodded, as if I was confirming something he already knew. ‘He loves showing off, does our Morrissey. I might even come and see the show, if I’m not working.’

‘Please do. The children love it when they get support from their families,’ I gushed, hoping to emphasize my integrity.

Jason turned to Lex. ‘Sure you’re alright, mate?’

When Lex insisted he didn’t need to go to hospital, Jason radioed through to cancel the ambulance. Two minutes later, Dave Stoker’s pick-up truck arrived, and the police departed.

Lex flashed Joey a charming smile. ‘I wonder, Joey, could I ask you to drive Millie home?’

Joey’s eyes lit up. ‘Absolutely. No problem. Be a pleasure.’

‘There you go,’ Lex gave me a perfunctory kiss. ‘Call you tomorrow, Mills.’

‘Sure.’ I was way too knackered to care and had even less energy for conversation, which didn’t matter, since Joey kept up a monologue all the way home. In fact, I’m pretty sure he recited a summary of Isaac Asimov’s entire back catalogue, but I’ve no proof. I was too busy wrestling with the knowledge that Lex would have been perfectly happy to pass the blame of his accident onto me.

The dress rehearsal on Saturday did go better than expected. Big H was back in the fold – with no satisfactory excuse for his absence from the tech rehearsal other than some story about mending vital equipment but the lads reckoned the only equipment getting any attention that night was his own…from a professional dancer who’d finished her stint in Basingstoke last week, and was now treading the boards in Leeds.

Not all costumes were complete, but every guy had attempted a Duck’s Ass hairdo and nobody knocked the scenery over. To my delight, Lulu was sober and sensational.

After I’d spent six hours yelling, gesticulating, scribbling notes and even feeling teary eyed, I felt we might actually pull it off.

I staggered into the flat, neck and shoulders stiff from tension. I’d been visualising a deep, steaming, fragrant bath since about six o’clock so you can imagine my mood when I discovered Sacha had used all the hot water. By the state of the bathroom and the still-buttock-shaped chinos on the floor, it must have been a double tubbing. They’d relocated to the bedroom and judging by the creaks and moans, wouldn’t thank me for barging in and venting my anger.

Instead, I slammed about in the kitchen, fixing myself some camomile tea. I hated the taste of it but it’s supposed to be calming, so I added honey and a slosh of brandy to make it more palatable. I retired to my room, pulled off my clothes and sank onto the bed, dragging the duvet up to my chest.

The intense heat and humidity of last weekend had given way to a more typical English summer – cloud, wind and rain. The prospect of spending summers on a vineyard in
France was heaps more appealing. Mind you, I’d not spoken to Lex since the accident, and only swapped a couple of texts. Not that I needed the distraction, I had enough on my plate. Maybe I could go to Marshalhampton tomorrow, just to watch the cricket you understand, but I was so knackered, I’d be lucky if I woke up in time for work on Monday.

I sipped my camomile cocktail. I could see Sacha had been at the laptop and left it on.
Probably trawling through clips of farmers getting their kit off and wrestling in silage. I crawled over to check the history on my web-browser. Sure enough, there was a YouTube link to some unidentifiable guys cheering on two more unidentifiable men on tractors. I closed the laptop then lay back, listening to the percussive regularity of Sacha’s headboard.

I woke a while later, drenched with sweat, and threw back the duvet. My life was in turmoil. I needed sleep – quality sleep. I had so much to do – like drawing up more plans for the Spritzah!
Project. Tomorrow. Tomorrow afternoon. I’d draw up plans in the afternoon.

Plans.

Bottles.

Nightclubs.
Lex in a nightclub…selling Spritzah! From a garden fete stall…Josh dancing in his black cassock...Lulu dragging Lex onto the dance floor…in a Maserati showroom…flashing blue lights…

I woke again and put the bedside light on. The flashing lights were for real. A kaleidoscope of zig-zag lines performed before my eyes. It was like trying to see through a bouncing stained-glass window.
‘Noooo.’ I hadn’t had a migraine for months. I lay back and prayed it would be swift. Ten minutes later, I could feel the sickness brewing in my stomach until finally, I staggered out of bed and lurched to the bathroom.

I made it into work on Tuesday. Between bouts of lethargy, I’d managed to draw up product launch plans for Spritzah! Which I’d emailed to Lex and Charles. Neither replied immediately, which gave me breathing space to organise a second photographic sitting at Vonnie’s. I managed to borrow a camera from work, which left me wondering why I hadn’t done that in the first place.

This time, she dispensed with the formalities of dinner, and invited me round at eight, to coincide with Arabella’s weekly session at Explorers. She greeted me in her dressing gown; her face taut with beauty balm and creamy foundation; her brown eyes accentuated with wheat-coloured shadow and brown mascara, and a lavish slick of crimson gloss on her lips. She’d ruffled her hair and allowed her heavy fringe to swing seductively over one eyebrow. I got the impression she’d loosened up since our last session and was determined to see these shots made it into the can.

‘I’ve put the heater on in the tower. Not sure if the light will be any good today, but I rather like it up there, don’t you?’ she said as she led me up the stairs. ‘I think I told you, the photographs are for my gentleman friend. I don’t want anything tacky, you understand, but I do want a certain level of…shall we say, allure?’

And with that, she slid out of her dressing gown and arranged herself on the chez-longue like a Botticelli maiden. All we needed was a bunch of grapes and a floating cherub.

‘Do you mind if I take a few head and shoulder shots, first?’ I said, hoping to think up a tasteful-but-alluring pose while we did so.

‘Absolutely – but when you print them, you will use a filter won’t you? Those digital cameras can be so unforgiving at my age.’

I rattled off a few shots and stood back to consider the next pose. Vonnie, however, had thought up a few of her own and insisted I shoot them. They ranged from coy to downright raunchy. However, when she knelt up with her backside in the air and one hand tweaking her nipple – I called it a day. Not that I’m a prude, but if she were to become the grandmother of my children, well…I didn’t fancy these family snaps falling out of an antique bureau, twenty years from now. And with that thought in mind, the first thing I did when I got home was download the photos to my memory stick, before deleting them from the camera. I printed off a set of contact prints so she could make a selection for me to ‘polish’, and popped them in an envelope. If I marked them confidential, there was a chance Arabella wouldn’t see them.

Thursday night was First Night – curtain up at seven-thirty. ‘Millie’s here!’ one of the youngest screeched as I arrived, which triggered a chorus of greetings. I had a list of jobs to delegate, and asked one of the mums to walk around with it and make sure everyone knew what they were expected to do. I then sought out George, to check all was ship-shape.

‘Don’t you worry,’ he began. ‘We had a bit of hassle with one of the spotlights, but Big H fixed that. We’ve got the door swinging freely now and I don’t think the tabs’ll stick again, and here…’ He handed me a few envelopes – customary Good Luck cards. ‘These are for you.’

Snapping them to my clipboard, I wandered onto the stage and looked at the hand-painted flats depicting an American high school. For a moment, I imagined Dad standing next to me saying, ‘It’ll be great, lovey. Just enjoy it.’ That’s how he dealt with stage fright. ‘What’s the point in doing it if it scares you witless?’ he’d say. ‘You get out there and enjoy it.’

There’s no buzz quite like the first-night buzz. Just like termites have group intelligence, actors have group adrenalin that fires off invisible charges of energy, which creep into your system and wire you for the performance. Even though I haven’t performed since Uni, I still get high on the atmosphere backstage. Never mind that half the cast had developed the squits, or that one of the boy’s trousers had split and were being stitched by a devoted mother, we all knew that come seven-thirty, the curtain would go up and the show would roll.

I settled down in the corner of the principal girls’ dressing room to open my cards; one from Mum, another from the twins, one from last year’s Maria in
West Side Story
, who was studying drama at Bristol and, finally, a hand-delivered card with blue, italic writing. Lex, I imagined…or maybe even Arabella, she was sweet enough to send a card. I tore it open.

Dear Millie – I hope all goes well with
Grease. I’m sure your dedication and enthusiasm will have rubbed off onto all the little Hamlets and they’ll do you proud.

Now the hard work’s over, sit back and enjoy it.

Your cell-mate, Josh.

Ooh. That was unexpected. I turned the card over and looked at the picture – a big black cat with red ribbon round its neck and a shamrock leaf in its mouth. I read the message again.

‘From your flash boyfriend is it?’ Lulu peered over me, reeking of perfume.

‘No, just a friend.’

‘Who’s Josh, then?’

I closed the card. ‘Lulu, hasn’t anyone ever taught you it’s rude to read other people’s correspondence.’

‘Course.
But everyone gets to read each other’s cards in here.’

I popped mine back in the envelope.

‘Spoilsport!’

‘You just concentrate on Rizzo and give that audience a night to remember.’

At which point, she pulled her top up and jiggled her tits around the room.

I prayed it was only high spirits. All the same, I grabbed a bottle of water from my bag and stuck it by her make-up box. ‘Don’t let your vocal chords dry up, Lulu.’

‘Don’t worry, Millie,’ she said as I headed out of the room. ‘I’ve always got plenty of lubrication.’

I bumped into one of the mothers on my way out, to whom I’d delegated law enforcement; she was to spend the evening keeping her eye on the girls – specifically, Lulu. We raised our eyebrows at each other in silent support. Behind her, George was bearing down the corridor with a huge bouquet of tropical flowers. My heart quickened. ‘Here you go, Millie.’

Lex had come up trumps, after all. I stepped back and held my hands out. They must have cost an arm and a leg. ‘Wow! These are gorgeous,’ I beamed.

‘Can you give them to
Sandy?’

Maybe not, then.
‘Oh. Lucky girl,’ I said, turning back to the dressing room and barked through the door, ‘Sandra Dee! Delivery.’

In the recess of the wings, I pulled out Josh’s card and read it again. Why couldn’t he be something normal – like a stockbroker?

George nudged me from my reverie. ‘I found these round the back.’ He held up a carrier bag, full of booze. There was enough for a party…well, a small soirée.

I sighed. ‘Thanks, George.’

‘We can’t have it, you know.’

‘Of course.
I’ll talk to them, after the show.’

‘Make sure they don’t bring any in tomorrow night or there’ll be serious trouble.’

He marched off with his loot and a grim look on his face…no, grimmer. Underneath it, I think he was quite a softie and would have hated to close the show but I wasn’t going to run the risk of pissing him off. I wandered round to the cast office – a.k.a. the gap behind the stage – to brew a cup of coffee.

When a kettle boils, all the racket happens long before the water actually peaks…just before the bubbles jostle and break on the surface, the noise drops. It’s much the same immediately prior to curtain up; fear, deep-breathing and focus take over the minds of the cast and quiet descends in the wings. Then the lights dim, the overture starts and everyone’s feet and hands start twitching to the rhythm, the curtain goes up and we’re off. From then on, there’s nothing much the producer can do, except support the team and hope nothing disastrous occurs.

Nothing disastrous did occur.

Maybe the odd missed cue, some wrong footing or a bum note here and there, but the show ran pretty much as planned. We cheered, we hugged, we high-fived, and Lulu went home without shame.

On Friday, we had a full house and I anticipated an even better performance. I was met on the steps by George, looking thunderous with another bag of booze suspended from his outstretched fist. ‘I don’t know how they afford all this,’ he began. ‘But it’s bloody disgraceful.’

‘Where did you find it this time?’

‘I confiscated it off two of the lads.’

It seemed the little sods were determined to keep their alcohol units topped up. I’d done the same myself at their age – Daisy King and I used to put vodka and squash into water bottles, and sip it innocently between routines – but strictly on the last night only.

‘Good job, George,’ I said, sounding like a TV detective. ‘Best we keep on top of this, eh?’

‘Don’t you
worry. I will.’

In each dressing room I gave my little pep talk. Pretty much summing up with the words, ‘Do a good job and don’t get pissed.’ And once again, they put on a cracking show. My heart swelled with pride as the curtain came down, and there was a distinct prickling in my eyes as I stood in the wings, watching our band of young players skipping and strutting off stage.

So, it was with a swing of the hips and a flick of the hair that I entered the theatre on Saturday. We’d pulled it off. Hamlets had earned a rave review in the local paper. I put the cutting into a plastic wallet and pinned it to the notice-board as soon as I arrived. Tonight, my family was coming to see the show (minus Emma and Moses). I don’t think my mother had missed a Last Night performance since Hamlets’ inauguration and I hoped she would think it was up to scratch.

The Last Night has its own special energy. Everyone knows how the show works and they want to milk every last drop from the atmosphere because they realise they’ll never get this moment again. Mix in a cocktail of adolescent hormones, and you get high spirits in one corner and sobbing hysterics in the next.

As I wandered round, checking my cast list against dressing room occupants, I overheard one of my dancers, say, ‘He’s just too hot to be a vicar.’

I stared at my clipboard and listened very hard.

‘Yeah, tell me about it. I might even give up lying in on Sundays and go to church,’ said another voice.

Of course.
Laura and Nadine lived in Marshalhampton. They had to be talking about Josh, didn’t they?

‘And he’s taking you home tonight?’ someone asked.

There were giggles. ‘Yeah, he’s taking both of us. Whey-hey!’ Dirty laughter followed.

I stepped into the dressing room and looked directly at them.
‘Alright girls?’ I asked.

‘Hey Millie.
You know Josh the vicar don’t you?’ Word of our incarceration had spread faster than the Norovirus. ‘He’s well hot, isn’t he?’

‘I’m not sure that’s how I’d describe him,’ I said.

‘Cor…I wish I’d been locked up with him instead of you.’

‘Nadine!’ I said, omitting the words,
you’re only fifteen
, but quelling her enthusiasm with a well-aimed scowl.

‘Anyway,’ she continued, ‘he’s here tonight and he’s giving us a lift home.’

‘Is he?’ I asked, unable to keep the shock from my voice.

‘Yeah.’
Laura joined in. ‘Mum asked him to take us ’cos she’s got flu.’ Her leer was even more worrying, given she was only thirteen.

‘Well, that’s very kind of him,’ I said.

‘He was coming anyway. I reckon he fancies you, Millie.’

‘Now you’re being silly,’ I said, and perused my cast list.
‘Anyone missing from in here?’

‘Nooo,’ they all chorused so I wished them good luck and headed back into the corridor.

Josh was in the building. I hadn’t expected that. Still, any vicar worth his salt would show an interest in the activities of his parishioners. He was very community minded, as his work with the homeless demonstrated.

The first act went like a dream; polished, full of energy and supported by an appreciative audience, which was largely made up of proud family and friends. After popping into each of the dressing rooms to congratulate the little darlings on their fantastic efforts so far, I was heading back to the stage when I was pulled up short by the sight of Lulu by the props table. She was sucking hard on a straw jutting from a large orange juice carton. No reason why she shouldn’t quench her thirst, but when she replaced the carton at the back of the props table, I though it odd that she didn’t keep the fruit juice in her dressing room.

As I headed in her direction, Daley barged out of number two dressing room, straight into me. ‘Uh. Sorry, Millie. Sorry.’ With hands on my upper arms, he manoeuvred me manfully out of the way and belted along the corridor towards the stairs. By now, Lulu had gone but the evidence was still there. Lifting the carton to my nose, I smelt orange juice. Putting the straw to my lips, I drew high-octane vodka and orange into my mouth.

The five minute call for the second act came over the loudspeaker.

More than being taken for a fool, I worried about the mayhem that might ensue during the next forty minutes.

What should I do; let her know I was onto her and cause a scene, or hide the hooch and leave her wondering?

I checked every other receptacle on the table, discovering more booze in the big, fat ketchup bottles we used for the burger bar scene. Little monkeys. They’d certainly defeated George’s best endeavours to impose 1930’s style prohibition. Piling the innocent looking vessels into my arms, I marched to the nearest sink and tipped the contents down the drain. I was too incensed to notice who was watching me but I heard the scurrying of feet and a relay of whispers, ‘She’s found it.’ ‘Millie’s found it.’