Millie's Game Plan (5 page)

I was amazed she recognised him – mind you, that’s probably because I’d mentally greyed out his image in favour of you-know-who.

She whimpered again when the door didn’t open at her first attempt. Seconds later, she was out and chirruping brightly, ‘Hi there. Doesn’t this car have fantastic brakes? And they say Italians make better lovers than mechanics.’

My eyes were revolving in their sockets. Hadn’t she decided he was Italian? I risked a glance at the approaching hulk to gauge his reaction which, in fairness to Sacha, was moderately restrained. He eyed her up…and then it was my turn. He dipped his head to look around my lowered sun-visor. I could feel guilt and adrenalin colouring my cheeks. I opened the window as he spoke.

‘You’re lucky those brakes did work,’ he said, fixing me with an oily gaze. ‘Or you might have scratched my tractor.’

Sacha giggled.

He flicked a look in her direction. ‘It’s not funny. Scratched my tractor…wrecked your
car, and you two in it.’

Maddeningly, I knew he was right. I had been driving way too fast. ‘I do apologise,’ I said, thinking he was good looking in a Tom Jones kind of way – that is, Tom Jones in his youth.
A bit too macho for my taste. Mentally, I was demoting him to the reserves.

He stood with his arms folded. ‘Like I say, you would have come off worst.’

‘Yes, but…’ I was nonplussed with aftershock.

Sacha leaned her hands on the roof of my car and resumed her chirruping. ‘The thing is, my friend’s had a rotten evening, already.’

I had?

‘Some lousy blind date stood her up. So she’s a little bit distressed.’

I threw her midriff my filthiest look and vowed to make her buy the drinks. I turned back in time to catch Mediterranean Man raising an eyebrow and tossing me a look of pity.

Sacha twittered on. ‘He told us to meet him at The Red Cow and
it’s shut this week. So we’re looking for another pub to chill out in. Can you suggest anywhere?’

He took his eyes off me and looked at her. ‘If you turn round and go right after the Cow, there’s The Eagle about a mile down the lane.’

‘Is it full of old farts or is it the kind of place you and your mates go?’

That girl had more cunning than a skulk of foxes. Judging by his chuckle, she must have been giving him the benefit of her megawatt flirty smile.

‘Yeah. Sometimes.’

‘Will you be in later? I mean, so we can buy you a drink to make amends for giving you such a shock.’

He glanced at his watch. ‘As it happens, I’m meeting someone in there around nine.’

‘Great.’
She slapped the roof of the car. ‘Look forward to seeing you later, then.’ As she sat back in the car, she said, ventriloquist-style, ‘I’m good at this, aren’t I?’

The Eagle Tavern was bustling for a Tuesday evening. As we sat at a table in the corner, Sacha was all eyes to see if she could spot any more of my targets. Reaching over to grab her hand, I made her promise not to let the cat out of the bag, vis-à-vis my plan. ‘Whatever you do, don’t give any indication that I’m…you know…’

‘Gagging for a husband,’ she whispered.

It was such a mistake to involve Sacha. ‘I’m serious.’

She squeezed my hand. ‘Trust me. I’m a nurse.’

Yeah – I’d heard the stories. I gave her my harshest warning look, which elicited her prettiest smile.

‘I’m on your side, remember? In any case, I’m looking forward to meeting a few blokes, myself.’

I took a sip of my drink, casually casting a look around the other tables for eligible men. I made eye contact with a middle-aged woman, who quickly dropped her gaze to my hand that was still holding Sacha’s. She shifted in her seat and knotted her mouth with disapproval. I couldn’t resist a giggle.

‘What?’ asked Sacha.

‘I think I’ve found my soul mate.’

‘Really?’ She looked round. ‘Which one is he – the guy at the bar or the one serving?’

I grinned. ‘No.
Wrong gender.’

She looked puzzled.
‘Ron who?’

As I snorted with laughter, the penny dropped and we were both giggling like schoolgirls in assembly.

‘Why don’t we finish our drinks and go to the cinema?’ I suggested. ‘There’s bound to be something on around nine o’clock.’

‘Like hell we will. I haven’t hauled my butt out into the sticks for one lousy drink and a brush with death.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Give it another half hour and Med Man will be here. If you don’t want a crack at him – I do.’

I shrugged, after all, I didn’t want him, and it might keep her off my case if she was distracted.

Who was I kidding? Truth was
, Sacha was actually keeping me on brief. If I was serious about working myself into the society of local cricketers, I needed to stick around and see what transpired. So, I allowed myself a premonition of the lovely Victor striding into the bar, and savoured a little surge of excitement coursing through my chakras.

Of course, Med Man didn’t appear until nearly half-past nine, when I’d switched from tonic to pineapple juice. Since I’d chosen to sit with the door in my direct line-of-sight, he nodded at me on entering. As I returned his smile, you would have thought Sacha was plugged into the national grid, she was so animated. She had, however, played the game often enough to know not to leap up and gush all over him. He, in turn, strode up to the bar and ordered himself a beer.

‘Sach, didn’t you say you were going to buy our new friend a drink?’ I asked quietly.

‘Hang on, I’m counting.’

Ah yes, another of Sacha’s rules on dating: count to twenty between acknowledgement and making a move.

‘Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.’
She winked at me and rose gracefully, catching up her handbag and heading to the bar.

When Med Man came to sit with us, he introduced himself as Marcus.

I was right. Two-parts Greek, one-part Scottish and one-part Basingstoke. Not a trace of Italian, it would appear, so Sacha’s crack about cars and lovers would have fallen on stony ground.

Sacha was true to her word and didn’t blow my cover, although I could see she was tempted when she related the story of my being hit by a speeding cricket ball.

‘Nasty,’ Marcus said, leaning back and sticking his chest out. ‘Lucky it didn’t crack you on the head.’

‘Yes, why don’t they have safety fences like they do in motor racing?’ Sacha asked, leaning forward and arranging her forearms on the table – all the better to display her cleavage. ‘Sounds like a dangerous spectator sport to me.’

Marcus bestowed a sexy half-smile on her. ‘Go to one of the county games, and you’ll find fences. Out here we like living a little more dangerously.’ He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Sacha gasped and bit her bottom lip. Probably to stop herself from laughing.

Just when I thought he was ready to grab her by the hair and drag her off to a cosy haystack, a distinguished looking man in a mustard-coloured sweater, check shirt and moleskin slacks, came through the door. Marcus glanced up and was clearly no longer interested in our conversation. ‘Excuse me, ladies, there’s someone I need to talk to,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Maybe you’ll be dropping in again some time?’

Sacha gave him her slow, blinking-lashes look. ‘I think we might.’

He lifted his head in acknowledgement. You could practically hear his brain chuckling with self congratulation. Then he moved across to the man with greying hair, and sat at the far side of the bar.

‘Waddya think?’ Sacha whispered.

‘He’s okay, if you like a streak of chauvinism in your beefcake.’

‘Well, he does it for me. Or he will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

‘Be my guest.’

‘So, he’s off your list, then?’

‘Definitely.
Right off.’

‘Hang on – he’s not that bad.’

‘No. He’s fine in a one-night-romp kind of way, but remember – I’ve progressed to the one-mate-for-life option.’

‘Suits me.’

So our night in Marshalhampton had hardly furthered my ambitions. Sacha, on the other hand, was cock-a-hoop at the new possibilities in her life and wondering if she could persuade any of her colleagues to swap shifts with her on Sunday. Whilst I was glad she’d finally taken an interest, I didn’t want her cramping my style. Fortunately, Marshalhampton were playing away to Churchill, and Marcus’s team, Beasley, were at home to Deanfield so if Sacha wanted to swoon over Marcus, she’d have to make her own way there.

The afternoon’s game was due to start at two-thirty. I’d planned on arriving around three but it was quarter to already and I was still swapping clothes to find the right look. I should have sorted this out the day before but I hadn’t anticipated the weather would turn quite so chilly. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting outside, being buffeted by a brisk north-easterly and pretending I’m enjoying myself. So despite cricket being a summer sport, I was donning boots, jeans, vest, blouse, suede jacket and ramming a sweater into a canvas bag…just in case.

‘Bugger.’
The collar of the blouse made me look like a Thunderbird puppet, so I hurled the jacket to the floor, yanked the blouse off and rifled through my wardrobe for an alternative. I pulled a coral-coloured top on and headed for the car.

Piling everything into the boot, I wondered if I was imagining things, or was that Sacha’s
voice?

‘Millie! Wait!’

Her scooter was buzzing down the road, with her on it.

‘Millie – I swapped out with Surinder. Means I’ve got to go back in at ten tonight but hey, give me five minutes while I change. Much better if we both go, yeah?’

I watched open-mouthed as she sprinted up the steps and through the front door. She was, of course, being very supportive. I settled into the driving seat and pushed a CD of
Grease
into the player. Maybe I could figure out a routine for the finale while I was waiting. And, knowing Sacha, that could be ages.

She emerged, twelve minutes later, looking sexy as hell, like an early incarnation of Madonna – all shaggy blonde hair (which she’d clearly run under the tap to dampen out the kinks from her ponytail) skin-tight t-shirt, white jeans, beads, fringed hip belt and – would you believe it – carrying a Stetson. She made me look like a librarian on a field trip.

‘What?’ she asked.

‘We’re going to watch a game of cricket, Sacha. I forgot to tell you, they don’t do it on horse-back.’

‘I know. Means I’ll stand out, doesn’t it?’ she grinned. ‘Be memorable.’

Her and her bloody rules of mating.
‘You do know Marcus isn’t playing at the same place as, as…The Golden Smiler, don’t you?’

‘So? We can go and watch Marcus for an hour,
then we can go and watch him.’

‘No we can’t. I planned on spending the afternoon at Churchill. I haven’t done their team yet
and
I want to get to know Marshalhampton better.’

‘But, Millie, what about Marcus?’

I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Alright, I’ll drop you off at Beasley on the way.’

‘You’re going to leave me there?’

‘What’s the problem?’

‘Millie, I need you. You’re the one with the camera, the alibi.’

‘And have you forgotten
why
I bought the camera?’

‘We’re already on drinking terms with Marcus – that’s surely an advantage you should be exploiting by getting him to introduce you to his mates, yeah?’

‘Of course. We’re going to see Marcus for my benefit?’ I gave her a knowing smile.

‘Well, you can’t argue with my logic, can you?’

I couldn’t but then, she hadn’t witnessed my fantasies for the last few nights where the object of my affections had consistently been tall and fair haired with blue eyes.

I sighed. ‘Okay.’

We agreed to spend half an hour at Beasley, ostensibly to cement our acquaintance but chiefly so Sacha could make an impression on Marcus. Then, depending on whether or not he was taking the bait, she’d either stay while I moved onto Churchill or she’d cut her losses and come with me.

She pulled down the sun visor to apply her make-up. ‘Go easy round the bends, Mill. Don’t want lipstick up my nose.’

It would have served her right if I went via Basingstoke with all its roundabouts – but that would have added ten minutes to the journey.

To Sacha’s dismay, and my relief, Marcus was nowhere to be seen. We stayed long enough for me to capture a few scenic shots, although with the sun refusing to make an appearance and the complete absence of any appealing talent, I have to say, my heart wasn’t really in it. Deanfield was made up entirely of OAPs and juveniles.

Sacha was sighing like a deflating lilo. Mind you, if I were to discover Victor had also gone AWOL, I’d be sighing myself, soon. Despite my earlier irritation, I wasn’t completely insensitive so to cheer her up, I suggested she pose for some photos by a thicket of trees. She could tell I was trying to mollify her but after a couple of rather sullen poses, she rose to the occasion, yelling ‘Yee-hah!’ as she wrapped her leg round a tree trunk and threw her Stetson into the air. Faces swung in our direction and Sacha strutted about like a pole-dancer, wagging her backside and finally dropping over at the waist to grin at me through her legs.

Now there’s a girl who ought to be on the stage.

We made it to Churchill just after four. It was a lovely location and, as you might guess, built around a church on a hill.

‘Can we go to the pub? I’m really thirsty,’ whined Sacha, as I parked the car.

‘I think the sun might come out in a minute. Let’s go schmooze the lovely men. And if we’re very good, we might even be offered a cup of tea.’

She muttered ‘Big deal’ as I put on my jolly face. This was, after all, my gig.

Hauling my gear out of the boot, I felt a tingle of anticipation. It had been building all day and in the next sixty seconds, I was potentially going to lay eyes on my leading man. My heart was thumping, just like it did when I was twelve and had a massive crush on Toby Moreton. He was in the sixth form and could usually be spotted through the common-room window, surrounded by beautiful, sophisticated girls. He was utterly gorgeous but I knew he’d never notice a little oik like me. I was pretty perceptive for a twelve year old. Years later, I learned he was living with the History teacher, Gordon Isleworth.

Marshalhampton were batting, but MY MAN was seated on a bench outside the pavilion. His bat was lying at his feet and he was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped as he watched the game. The wind had stirred his hair into a softly tangled mess and I felt a primeval tug of sexual recognition deep within me. Then I checked myself. How could I be sure he was the one? Yet again, I could be deluding myself.

Someone waved. I shifted my focus and saw Arabella pushing herself up off the grass. I waved back, attracting the attention of HIM. Hugely self-conscious, I smiled brightly, wishing I didn’t still feel like that twelve year old and thinking, wouldn’t it just piss all over my fireworks if Victor were gay?

‘Hi Millie,’ Arabella threw a slim, fragile arm over my shoulder and placed her cheek against mine. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here today. How did your pictures turn out?’

‘Great, really good. I’ve brought some with me,’ I wafted a lime green pocket folder in the air, containing the best shots I’d printed at work.

Sacha joined us; the Stetson perched on the back of her head, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her skirt, displaying even more midriff than before.

‘Arabella – this is my flatmate, Sacha.’

Arabella lifted a hand, ‘Hi.’

‘What do you do, Arabella?’ Sacha asked.

‘Oh, I’m still at school but I’m going to be studying photography, like Millie,’ she smiled.

‘Probably not for the same reasons, though,’ Sacha replied.

I shot her a look.

‘They’ll be stopping for tea in a minute,’ said Arabella. ‘Churchill teas are delicious. That’s why it’s such a good turn out.’

‘Things are looking up,’ said Sacha.

All the time, of course, my peripheral vision was clocking Victor’s movements. I was deeply thrilled to see his head turned in my direction. Perhaps he was wondering why I’d turned up with Calamity Jane and would she be a better shag than me? But in my deepest soul, I hoped it was because I’d made a good first impression and he was ever so slightly interested.

We perched on the grass to wait for tea. I took my camera out and trained it on the batsmen.
Although, my senses were completely alert to the presence of HIM.

At last, there was a ripple of applause for the end of the innings and people began drifting towards the pavilion. Sacha was up off her haunches and, before I could stop her, she was homing in on HIM like a heat-seeking missile.

‘Hi.’ She said, breezily. ‘You look remarkably like the guy who nearly maimed my friend Millie, last week.’

At the mention of my name, I responded with a light, beatific smile.
I’m cool with this
, I seemed to be saying.
Ha-ha. Isn’t my friend amusing?
When really, I wanted to wrap the camera strap round her neck and throttle her.

He stood and smiled at Sacha, before glancing across at me and nodding. Yep. That smile was a real winner. What killed me though, was how good he looked next to Sacha – two beautiful, golden people.

To my intense satisfaction, he spoke directly to me. ‘Hello, again. How is the hand?’ He actually moved away from Sacha, towards me and I, trance-like, was heading straight for him.

‘It’s fine. No bones broken.’

‘You should see the photos she took,’ Sacha chipped in – like she didn’t trust me to do this on my own. ‘They’re really good…for a beginner.’

He glanced back at Sacha and then at me. ‘Did you bring any with you?’

Arabella was at my side waving the green folder. ‘Yes, can we see them?’

‘Sure,’ I said. ‘But don’t you want to have your tea, first?’

Sacha apparently did. She was slipping into the pavilion, ahead of a tall chap who was smiling eagerly down on her.

Victor was, I think, weighing me up. I struggled not to gaze back into his eyes for longer than was rational. ‘There’ll be plenty left,’ he said, moving nearer and glancing down at the folder. ‘Did I hear your mum say you want to be a fashion photographer, Arabella?’ he asked, causing a crimson tide to lap her cheeks.

‘Maybe,’ she replied.

‘Good for you. Aim high and go for it.’ He smiled but not in a creepy, Uncle Fester way; more supportive and big brotherly. My heart and stomach swapped places for a second and my hands were visibly trembling as I opened the folder. ‘Chilly, isn’t it?’ I said with an exaggerated shiver as the sun glinted on the photographic paper.

I’d picked the best shots, included the groups and shuffled the ones of Victor somewhere into the middle. I passed them to Arabella, who shared them with him. They swapped comments, Arabella coohing appreciatively over the infants of my creativity.

He handed them back to me. ‘They’re great. And your friend says you’re a beginner?’ He gave me a really twinkly smile – and a sigh whistled through my heart. As he came alongside I could feel his body heat as our orbits overlapped.

‘Yes. Wanted to do it for years. I’m really enjoying it.’ I still sounded like a twelve year old.

‘Seems you have a talent for it.’

I pulled a smile.

‘So, what are you going to do with the pictures?’ he asked.

‘I’m working towards an exhibition.’

He nodded appreciatively. ‘All the local teams would be thrilled to see themselves mounted and hanging in a gallery.’ I smothered an inappropriate giggle. ‘
Mounted
as in
framed
,’ he added, knowingly.

‘Could there be another way?’ I said, and we both laughed.

I swear my body was drifting towards his – like two lilies on a pond.

‘So, Millie.
Are you a fan of cricket or are we just specimens for your portfolio?’

‘Well…yes…it sounds brutal but you’re just specimens. I might do a study in village life…maybe contrast it with gritty, urban culture,’ I added recklessly. ‘You know, snap some OAPs picking up their pensions in
Winchester…’

He grinned. ‘Well, if it’s village life you want, it’s here in all its glory. Speaking of which, shall we go in and have some tea?’

I was so thrilled, you’d think he’d proposed a real date. Still, the signs were promising. As we headed towards the pavilion, I asked, ‘Have you lived in Marshalhampton all your life?’

‘No.
Just since January.’ He stood back to allow me through the door before him.

‘Do you like it?’

He nodded slowly. ‘It has a certain charm.’ Then he gave me that knockout smile. ‘And the people are very friendly.’

‘We Hampshire folk are nothing if not friendly,’ I said, trotting out an old saying of Dad’s. It gave me a warm feeling to hear it – like I was somehow introducing them.

He offered his hand to me. ‘My name’s Josh.’

‘Josh?’ I squeaked, converting my surprise by adding, ‘Hi,’ and shook hands for longer than was necessary. So, Victor had to be his surname.

The display of food was fantastic; plates piled high with samosas and kebabs, sitting next to trays of scones laden with jam and cream. Across the room, Sacha was in confab with the guy who’d followed her in. She was doing a real Sacha number on him, standing inside his bubble, smiling and nodding with clear focus on his every word. Was I doing that? Maybe I should show Josh more attention.