by Rose Amberly
She loved the idea of living in a cottage by the sea. She could plant flowers and herbs in little pots, perfect in a sunny patch like that. Maybe boats would dock at the end of the jetty, and people would come to visit. Maybe one of them would be a nice man.
Stop it.
She always rebuked herself when her thoughts went in that direction. She should focus on the present and be thankful for what she had. She was happy, she loved her job and her new life, and she’d made friends. Even old Lord Du Montfort—Mr, she corrected herself—her grumpy, demanding, impossible-to-please boss, had started to like her.
“I don’t know how you put up with him and still smile.” Nurse Ann had asked her a month ago. The women had finally managed to sit down to have their own dinner after he’d made Joanie cook three different dishes, none of which had been good enough.
“He’s like a spoilt child who likes to scream a lot.” Joanie had been at her wit’s end. “We could feed whole families on the food he sends back down without even tasting. If Millie didn’t convince him to eat the omelette, I would still be cooking at midnight.”
“And you mark my words,” Mrs B had said. “She’ll be up to his room tomorrow morning with a bunch of flowers and smiling like he didn’t just call her a useless woman who doesn’t know anything about eggs.”
Millie had laughed. “Actually, what he said was that I didn’t know my eggs from my elbows.”
“Well, whatever you told him,” Mrs B had said, “it worked. Where do you find the patience to humour him?”
Joanie had pretended to look in Millie’s pockets and under the tablecloth in an exaggerated show of searching for patience. Both Millie and Nurse Ann had laughed.
What no one guessed was that a cantankerous old man feeling sorry for himself was nothing compared to the heartless husband she’d left behind. At least she didn’t expect old Mr Du Montfort to love her, so it didn’t hurt much when he found fault with her.
Then today, she’d bent over the window table and put some late-blooming bluebells in the vase. Bluebells she had picked on her regular early-morning walk.
Suddenly, he’d looked up from his morning newspaper. “My God, you’ve bloomed, girl.”
She’d glanced back at him and smiled.
“And you smile all the time now. I like that.”
She wanted to laugh out loud. If I’ve bloomed, it’s because I don’t live with a husband who doesn’t love me.
The sun helped, of course. After years of sitting in a basement office, Millie had discovered the joy of walking in the open air. She loved running to the small forest to pick flowers before breakfast. She’d explored most of the island, but her favourite was taking a packed lunch to the top of East Hill. From here, she could look at the pretty cove with the cottage, and dream.
She pulled out the wrapped box Joanie had given her, cold ricotta and spinach pie, two oranges and a bottle of water. She sat down, hitching her skirt up. It kept sliding round her hips.
Mrs B had told her to take Saturday off and go on the early ferry to Guernsey to buy new clothes that fit her properly. Everyone was tired, Mrs B told her, of watching her hunt for safety pins.
They were right. Walking or cycling everywhere on an island with no transport had changed her figure. Everything she owned hung loose now and had to be cinched with safety pins.
But buying new clothes was a scary prospect. The fashion had not been invented that could make her forget the words frumpy-dumpy Miss Beige. So even if she could break the habit of years and allow herself to spend money on nice clothes, would they look nice on her?
Five
Four days later. London, the Gherkin building, Saturday, 12pm
He was supposed to be impartial, not allow his personal feelings to affect how he settled the case. However, one look at the employees had changed his mind. Those were not ruthless negotiators but tired men and women scared for their jobs.
He on the other hand, was a ruthless negotiator, and this time he had used all his tricks to manoeuvre the company directors into a corner where they were forced to settle.
He pushed his chair back from the conference table and stood up signalling the end of the meeting. The overpaid, overconfident directors shook his hand on their way out. They obviously thought he’d helped them quash the little people. Instead, he’d worked out a fair deal and made it look like a win-win. Two-million-pounds wasn’t a fortune when divided among fifty employees, but at least they would all keep their jobs, and get their full pensions.
The phone trilled. One of Vicky’s tricks, programming different ringtones for different call types, so he could be prepared. This ringtone meant a personal message.
“Yes, Vicky?”
“Miss Wells is waiting in your office.”
Beatrice? It wasn’t like her to turn up like this.
“Thank you. I’m on my way.”
When it came to romance, he had a routine. Friday night followed by breakfast on Saturday morning. Going out for breakfast allowed him to terminate the date painlessly by going to the office for a half day of work. Which was another reason he liked to schedule conferences on Saturdays.
Beatrice was unique in never trying to drag things out; she never asked to tag along, or demanded keys in order to go back to his flat to wait for him. She was easy going and gave him lots of space. There must be a reason for her to come now.
He dropped the files on the desk of one of his junior associates and continued to his own office.
Beatrice was on the sofa, texting with both thumbs, her feet surrounded by colourful shopping bags.
“Bea.” He smiled.
“Darling.” She looked up with a huge smile and put her phone away. “You look happy. Successful outcome?”
“Rather.” He closed the glass door behind him. “You all right?”
“More than all right.” Beatrice stepped over a Harrods bag and came over. She held his face in both hands and kissed him.
“Bea. My office has glass walls.”
She giggled and pressed herself to him for another kiss, and this one she deepened. Despite himself, his body responded. He used the hug to move her sideways and walk her back to the sofa. Letting her sit there, he went to his chair behind his desk.
He held his finger up to let her know he needed a minute as he buzzed Vicky. “Victoria, can you hold my calls for a few minutes, please.” When he called her Victoria, it was his code for interrupt me in five minutes.
He stayed behind his desk and smiled at Bea. “So, what’s brought all this on?”
“I went shopping with mummy. She’s in town for the day, and we’re having dinner tonight at L’Auberge. Why don’t you join us if you’re free?”
His heart fell. This had come up with past girlfriends, never Bea, though. He really had hoped not to have to deal with this, not to hurt her by refusing.
“I doubt it. Do you want to go to the theatre on Friday? Or movie?” Always follow a rejection with a consolation prize.
“Either. Anyway, my mother was talking about Christmas. Don’t make any plans, you’re staying with us.”
Absolutely not. No families, no house parties. “Bea, it’s June, how can you be thinking about Christmas?”
“I can’t, but Mummy plans house parties six months in advance. So you’ll get her invitation in the post.”
He tried to think of a polite refusal. This was harder than negotiating an employment dispute. “Isn’t Christmas a time for family?”
“But you are one of the family now.”
No, I’m not. They don’t even know me.
True, but they knew enough. His name was enough to mark him as marriage material. And this invitation was step one in the society matrimonial merry-go-round. House parties, followed by skiing holidays with the family, followed by summers in their country house, and culminating with a ring
. As soon as he accepted one, he was on the ride and wouldn’t be able to get off until “I do.”
“Beatrice, I’m really sorry. Christmas is difficult. I always spend it with my father, alone.” He sounded too brusque, so he added, “My father’s very old, and since his stroke, he has become more difficult...” he trailed off. The meaning should be clear enough.
He hadn’t lied. His father was old and difficult, but that wasn’t the whole truth.
Vicky knocked and popped her head round the door. “The courier just delivered the case papers. Do you want them?”
“Not just yet, Victoria.” The second “Victoria” would give him another interruption in five minutes.
Beatrice got up. “I’m sorry you’re busy. I should leave. I just wanted to tell you about Mummy’s invitation.”
“I am sorry, it’s a lovely invitation, but I can’t.”
Beatrice shrugged easily. “I’ll tell her, don’t worry.”
He walked her out.
At the lift, she kissed him again. “You sure about tonight? I know you’re disciplined, but being flexible isn’t bad.” She stepped into the lift, and the doors slid shut. He stood there in front of the polished brass sliding doors. His reflection looked back at him.
Should you be flexible? His conscience asked.
But he had strict unbreakable rules about women, and he never allowed himself to fall in love.
Sooner or later, every girlfriend started dropping hints. Do you know Prince Harry? Do you go skiing with Lady Alexandra? And finally, the question that really mattered to them, what title would your wife have? They didn’t see George; they saw his suitable husband credentials.
Was it too much to ask to be seen only as himself? A lover? A friend? An equal?
When, and if, he ever thought about committing, it would have to be to someone who was his equal in every way. He didn’t want to be seen as “a catch.”
Beatrice is an equal, his conscience argued. at least socially and financially.
But not in other ways.
You’re just making excuses. Beatrice is a lovely girl.
He wanted more.
More what?
Something he couldn’t define, he wanted something that didn’t feel so… inevitable.
At least Beatrice isn’t clingy. She didn’t turn on the tears.
That was true. He could handle anything but tears. It was the reason he never got too close. The reason he ended relationships as soon as they started to get too emotional.
You’ve been with Beatrice a whole year. That must mean something. She just might be the right girl for you.
She might.
His reflection in the lift doors didn’t look happy.
But he never felt happy. Even when he “looked” it.
Six
Same day Guernsey, 2pm
The streets of Guernsey seemed loud and busy after three months on La Canette. Several cars stopped behind the red light, and Millie crossed to the other side and walked into a large department store.
She had three months’ generous salary sitting in her new bank account and a nice shiny credit card in her name alone. Women’s wear for every occasion filled the shop floor; where to begin? Her fingers, now free of her wedding rings, trailed along the rack of burgundy suits.
Her divorce was progressing nicely. Henry didn’t even object when she applied on the grounds of infidelity. She felt a little pang that he was so willing to let her go.
Did she really want him to fight for her? Did she want a return to her dark basement job and her dark marriage?
She walked past racks and racks of elegant garments, and she didn’t need to search at the end for the larger sizes. OK she’ll never be a size eight, but twelve was very good, and far better than sixteen. Was it superficial of her to feel such confidence?
Wrong or right, the confidence quickly melted when she came to pay. The sales assistant—Philippa, according to her name tag—looked doubtfully over the charcoal trouser suit, the burgundy blazer. She lifted one brightly coloured top after another only to drop them as she looked Millie up and down. Then beckoned to a young man at the far end of the glass counter.
A small seed of panic sprouted inside Millie.
The man—his name tag said Gavin—wore the kind of trendy clothes only a gay man could pull off. Philippa nodded towards Millie, then showed him the clothes.
“You weren’t planning to wear this, were you?” Gavin held up the tailored burgundy suit.
“Yes.”
“Eww yich.” He said melodramatically.
“If they are ‘eww yich,’ then why do you sell them?”
“It’s not the clothes themselves, just on you they’re…” He shook his head.
“Fine.” She put her credit card back in her wallet. Plenty of other shops would be happy to take her money without insulting her. After Henry, she was not taking any more negative comments about her figure. She pushed her arm into the loop of her shoulder bag.
“Please don’t take it the wrong way,” Philippa said. “It’s just that these clothes are totally wrong for you. Gavin and I are taking a course in colour consultancy. Believe me, he is brilliant.”
“We would love to give you a colour analysis,” Gavin said.
Millie started walking out, but Gavin came round the counter and followed her. “On us, please, and we’ll recommend the right clothes for you to buy.”
Millie shook her head. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t really have the time.” It was a lie, but she didn’t feel like giving her free day up so Gavin and Philippa could point out her flaws.
“Please.” Philippa came to join them with a large cardboard diagram of a colour chart. “It would really help us for our course portfolio. We don’t get many people with your complexion. You’d be helping us. Please?”
It was hard to disappoint Philippa. So, a few minutes later, Millie found herself in a swivel chair opposite a huge mirror with spotlights all around it.
“You are a ‘spring’ palette.” Philippa watched Millie in the mirror.
No, I’m a fool who can’t say no.
“Your hair is a soft light brown, and with your skin, see this?” Philippa laid the burgundy suit against her. “Burgundy overwhelms you; it makes your hair look dull.”
“You’ve picked three dark tops”—Gavin tried some of her other choices under the light—“which drain your complexion of colour completely. See? If you’re tired, olive green gives you dark circles and a double chin.”
She hated to admit it, but they were right.
“Now see the difference.”
Gavin tried a pastel-green fabric, draping it around her face, and Millie caught her breath at the difference.
“This lights you up.” He tried lavender and then a soft yellow.
“Wow,” said Philippa clapping her hands together. “It’s like a different face. You’re really pretty, you know.”
As Gavin went around choosing clothes for her to try, Millie looked at her face in the mirror like it was a stranger. A girl with shining eyes and a healthy colour. Not beige now!
Two hours later, Millie left the department store with several bags of clothes in pink champagne, silver grey, periwinkle, mint, sky blue and peach. Wearing a new white-and-yellow floral skirt and soft primrose blouse, she felt like skipping and almost walked into a woman coming out of Vidal Sassoon.
On a whim, she decided to get a haircut.
The pretty graduated bob they gave her showed off the golden highlights from her sunny walks. She loved the soft side fringe that framed her face. And now that her long neck was exposed, she could really wear dangly earrings.
She kept swinging her head this way and that to feel the bounce in her hair as she made her way back to the ferry. Several men gave her admiring looks.
&nbs
p; Me? She couldn’t stop smiling. Yes, me. This is me. The new me.
Summer
Seven
La Canette, 1pm
Today Millie wore a new pair of apricot linen trousers with a white sleeveless blouse and silver drop earrings. She wrapped one of Joanie’s cheese-and-tomato mini quiches and an apple to take on her lunchtime walk.
Nurse Ann was watching her. “You even walk differently now. You hold your shoulders up.”
“My improved fitness,” Millie said.
“No. Not that.” Nurse Ann put the tray of medicine on the kitchen table. “We used to call it the freedom walk, in Ireland. Back in the 1930s, when the Irish got their independence, they walked taller.”
“Thank you.” Millie found a bottle of water in the fridge and put it into her tote bag. When she looked up, she found Nurse Ann’s eyes on her.
“I don’t know what happened in your marriage, but you’re well rid of him.”
An hour later, sitting on East Hill, warm air rustling the sweet chestnut leaves around her, Millie felt deeply grateful. What a far cry from that day she sat shivering in a café with a stranger’s coat around her shoulders.
Mr Flash BMW. If only he could see her now, free at last. Single.
Why did the word single come with its evil-twin word, lonely? Twenty-nine, divorced and lonely.
No. Don’t go there.
Twenty-nine, divorced and available.
Millie leaned back against the sun-baked rock, let her eyes close and thought about the tall stranger with the warm coat that smelled ever so faintly of oak and spice and… something else.
She imagined his arms going round her, draping the coat over her, holding her close, keeping her safe. She imagined snuggling into his body, burying her face into the crook of his neck. His skin would be warm; she inhaled deeply as he held her in his embrace. His hands lifted her off her feet, and he carried her gently, comforting her, allowing no resistance. He pressed her into his chest. Closer and closer until there was nothing but his heat and his scent and the circle of his arms. Not lonely, not here with him. His face moved closer to hers, looking into her eyes. Her fingers sank into his hair, his breath hot on her face, and she closed her eyes for his kiss…