Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  “I don’t care how good looking he is,” Millie complained. “He scared poor Liam out of his wits and glared at me like I was a school girl who lost her homework. And”—she pulled a chair next to Nurse Ann—“they both have this infuriating habit of having the last word and turning away as if dismissing you. I hate that.”

  Nurse Ann had finished one set of medication and started on another. “They are both like negatives of each other,” she said. “George is lovely until his father brings out his angry side. The old man is angry until you bring out his better side.”

  “Old Du Montfort does not have a better side,” Joanie said. “Except in the same way that sulfuric acid has a better side.”

  Millie turned to Mrs B, who was busy polishing a set of crystal tumblers. “Anyway, I won’t be having dinner with you tomorrow because I am summoned to an interrogation.”

  The housekeeper had kept quiet throughout the discussion. She never gossiped and never said an uncharitable word about anyone, not even old Du Montfort.

  But Nurse Ann spoke first. “Really, Mrs B, you should have warned Millie. I like young George, but I’ve learnt to avoid him right after he’s been speaking to his dad.” She shook her head, despairing. “There is bad blood between those two, they’re worse than Protestants and Catholics in Belfast.”

  “What interrogation?” Mrs B finally looked up from her work.

  “He wants me to have dinner with him, at least I think it’s dinner, he said Brasserie Pascale.”

  “What?” Joanie was excited. “With gorgeous George?”

  “Ogre George, you mean.”

  “But a dinner date—”

  “Joanie, please don’t make fun, I am nervous enough as it is.”

  “But Brasserie Pascale, it’s posh, no?” Joanie pushed the point much to Millie’s chagrin. “What are you going to wear?”

  Haute couture was the last thing on Millie’s mind. “I’m not going to wear anything.”

  “I don’t think you should do that,” Nurse Ann said, matter of fact. “They have a dress code at Pascale.”

  Millie couldn’t sit still. “He wants to question me about his father’s care. I hardly think I need a ball gown.”

  Mrs B came to Millie’s side and put a hand on her shoulder. “What are you afraid of, dear? He just wants to talk about his dad, it’s allowed. Besides, you have nothing to worry about. You are the best companion his father’s ever had.”

  “I told him as much myself last night,” Nurse Ann said. “We’ve all been singing your praises.”

  Their kind words failed to cool down Millie’s anxiety. She needed to move. “Tea, anyone?” she asked, going to the end of the kitchen and reaching for the electric kettle.

  “Yes, please,” Joanie said. “If you make that wonderful cinnamon tea.”

  Millie put the kettle on and spooned tea leaves into the large china pot. Why did Ogre George rattle her so much?

  She broke a cinnamon stick into tiny pieces and tried to calm herself. They’re right. I have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about. I have nothing to worry about.

  The kettle was taking ages to boil, so she looked out the kitchen window. East Hill was visible in the distance, the hill where she fell asleep yesterday and was woken up by her employer.

  So that was it? He’d made a strong impression on her, and she’d been hoping for his approval?

  Okay, take a deep breath, and stop being feeble.

  He isn’t your husband. You don’t need to charm him or impress him.

  Her reflection in the stainless-steel kettle looked back at her with a crooked smile. Whatever else, she was always honest with herself. It was going to take more than a deep breath to calm her nerves. Every bit of her wanted to impress him.

  The water boiled, and she poured it into the pot.

  “Who else for tea?”

  All three faces were looking at her. They had cups and milk already on the table and clearly had been watching her.

  These are kind people; they care for me. I shouldn’t have burdened them. She smiled.

  “Okay, what shall I wear to impress the boss?”

  NINE

  The next day. Guernsey, 4pm

  “I need help.” Millie stood in front of the shop counter, her hands gripping her bag nervously.

  She couldn’t remember the last time she’d bought any evening clothes.

  Never, that’s when.

  Ten years ago, when she’d still been newly married and they’d had the time to go out, they hadn’t had the money for a posh dress. Then she’d started working double shifts, and what she’d lost in time she’d gained in weight around her hips and in derisive comments from Henry. His frequent You’re not like other women, Millie. Look in the mirror and see the difference still stung.

  Joanie had advised her to make a strong statement. Go to a posh shop and ask for a killer little black dress.

  Millie doubted she was a “little black dress” kind of girl.

  Nurse Ann, on the other hand, advised her to choose something she felt comfortable wearing, then dress it up with a red stole and some pearls.

  Millie knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that she wasn’t a “pearls” kind of girl.

  So she’d taken the afternoon off and hopped on the ferry to Guernsey for another visit to the department store where she’d got her colour consultation. Hopefully she wasn’t asking too much from Gavin and Philippa. They’d already given her so much attention.

  But they met her with hugs and kisses, and five minutes later, she was sitting in the swivel chair opposite the huge mirror surrounded by spotlights. Philippa brought her a cup of espresso and a glass of ice-cold water.

  Even worse, when she tried to pay for their time, Philippa refused. “Don’t be silly, it’s a slow afternoon.”

  Gavin agreed. “We should pay you for letting us practice on you. Besides, our manager is out for a… er, long lunch, if you know what I mean.” Gavin mimed drinking.

  She laughed, but their kindness nearly brought tears to her eyes. Recently, her life seemed full of kind people.

  Except for her boss and his father.

  “I have a dinner tonight,” Millie said. “It’s a formal restaurant, apparently we have to dress up, and I have nothing.”

  “Evening wear?” Gavin came to stand behind her and looked at her reflection in the mirror. “What do you want? Classic, glamourous or sexy?”

  Part of her wanted to ask for glamorous, maybe bordering on sexy, but the rest of her disagreed.

  Millie watched herself in the mirror. Mrs B would counsel classic and respectable. Joanie, on the other hand, well there was no doubt Joanie would choose sexy all the way.

  Which was the better way to go?

  And then it struck her, she was still thinking about whom to please. What about her? What did Millie want?

  Pleasing herself was not a familiar practice, and her confidence, her “freedom walk” as Ann liked to call it, was new. She kept expecting Henry and his mistress to come from round the corner and mock her.

  She looked at Gavin. “Maybe classic but not too, you know, matronly.”

  Gavin’s face slumped. “Darling, I don’t want you to be lamb dressed as mutton tonight.”

  She didn’t want to look like she was trying too hard, either. Maybe she’d fantasised about George, but it wasn’t Fantasy George she would meet tonight, was it? It was the real Ogre George, scary and grumpy, who didn’t seem to like her much.

  She squared her shoulders; she was done with men who didn’t like her. “I need a feel-good dress but not too much of a splash.”

  Gavin huffed in mock exasperation. “You women are so backward in coming forward. What’s wrong with making a splash?”

  “Men don’t like it all offered on a plate,” Philippa told Gavin.

/>   “Trust me, sweetie, I know all about men. They love it offered on a plate.”

  Millie grinned. “I want to look good, but it’s a business dinner, not a date.”

  “Who said you have to be on a date to dress well?” Gavin knitted his eyebrows at her reflection in the mirror. “Can’t you just enjoy being sexy?”

  Good point. Did Ogre George like a sexy dress? Did he deserve “sexy”?

  She shook her head. It’s not about him. It’s not about what he deserves. It’s about what I deserve. She repeated the words silently, hoping to convince herself.

  “Okay, I’ve got it, darling. Understated elegance but”—he winked—“with potential.” Gavin must have read her face like a book.

  Millie giggled.

  A few minutes later he came back with what looked like a wisp of pale-pistachio silk. “When in doubt, go maxi.”

  Maxi? What was he talking about? The amount of fabric he had over his arm looked barely enough for a miniskirt. But Philippa shushed her and shuffled her into the dressing room, drawing the curtain firmly on her.

  Alone, in front of the full-length mirror, she undressed and pulled the gossamer-fine silk over her head. It slid around her chest and kept sliding as if a mile of fabric had been hiding in the folds and now fell all the way to her ankles. She smoothed her hands over her hips and looked in the mirror; then her mouth fell open.

  The halter-neck dress had a deep V-neckline that plunged down to the high waist. Then, a waterfall of soft golden-green silk draped her figure and gave her a mermaid silhouette. She turned slightly to right, then left. Was this really her figure?

  She stepped out of the dressing room to where Gavin and Philippa were waiting.

  “I can’t wear this. It’s not right, I am going for dinner with my boss and in this, I look—I don’t look right—I mean I should—I don’t think I should look like—”

  “You look stunning.” Gavin put an end to her stammering.

  “It’s just that…” She leaned over to Philippa and whispered, “If it’s an air-conditioned restaurant, everybody will see my nipples.”

  “Got you.” Philippa turned to Gavin. “What about a shawl?”

  “Ahead of you, darl.” He came over and draped a large pearl-cream fringed shawl over Millie.

  “See?” He wrapped it so it covered all but the tops of her arms and her collarbones. “Demure.” He pulled it so it hung over one shoulder only. “Allure.”

  “Or affaire d’amour,” he said as he pulled it off her with a flourish.

  Millie watched herself in the mirror.

  The dress was completely unsuitable for her life on the island. There would be no other occasion to wear it. Like a spinster buying sexy lingerie. But the feel of the silk on her skin was like heaven. It whispered against her thighs when she moved. As for the colour, a rich golden—what did Gavin call it? Oh yes, “pistachio”—the colour made her skin glow a warm bronze.

  The dress was beautiful. She wanted to stand there looking at herself in it all day and all night. But the plunging neckline exposed a great deal more than it should.

  No.

  Anyway, she needed to hurry if she wanted to catch the five o’clock ferry. A black dress or a tailored suit would be better. Less controversial than this silk ghost that kissed her skin. She made a move back towards the dressing room to take off the beautiful creation, regret already darkening the day.

  “You look beautiful, sexy and sophisticated.” Philippa stopped her. “Why shouldn’t you wear it?”

  Millie closed her eyes, and her mind whispered, Don’t do it. Henry would laugh. Remember what he said. You’re not sexy like other women.

  She opened her eyes. “Fine, I’ll take it. With the shawl. And,” she told Philippa, “I need a plunging bra with an invisible halter strap. I’m not having my breasts fall out every time I lean forward.”

  TEN

  La Canette, 9pm

  The Starter

  Millie was taking a long time reading the menu while chewing her lower lip. George took advantage of her distraction to study her.

  The small crystal chandelier, hanging low over their table, lit her hair. What did they call that colour, halfway between brown and blond? Chestnut? Whatever, it was shiny and rather nice. It cast a shadow over her golden cheekbones. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he had a strong feeling that he’d met her before.

  Where?

  Last year, he’d attended two wedding receptions, a New Year’s Eve party, and a few other society functions. Beatrice had dragged him to a lot of parties. Could Millie have been a guest at one of them? Trouble was, he usually took care not to look too closely at other women when he was with a date.

  He couldn’t be sure, but he had definitely met her before. It would come to him eventually. For now he had a situation.

  The situation was sitting across the table from him, looking nothing like the dull and dumpy PA she was supposed to be. Even worse, there was an undeniable rapport between her and his father. Damn it, she was so attractive, even beautiful; he had half a mind to fire her on the spot.

  He could fire her, except he’d only have to put in more time hiring a replacement. And could he guarantee the next one wouldn’t be the usual Barbie-doll fortune hunter?

  “How do you find working here?”

  She looked up from the menu. “Fine. I am loving it actually, especially the island.”

  “But you are from London?”

  “Yes.” She nodded slightly, and the dangly earrings danced and swayed beside her smooth neck.

  The waiter returned to see if they’d decided what to order. Millie, looking apologetic, went back to reading the menu.

  George could tell she was having trouble with the French. Either he was going to wait ten minutes while she asked the waiter what each word meant, or… “Do you trust me to order for you?” he asked.

  Smiling, she folded the leather-bound menu and handed it to him across the starched white tablecloth.

  Their waiter, Hitten—George remembered him as a busboy a few years ago—understood perfectly as George ordered in fast, confident French. He had obviously been learning.

  “You haven’t ordered internal organs or hooves, have you?” Millie asked, her eyes sparkling.

  He wanted to laugh but instead decided to exploit the moment. When people struggled to understand a language, they were on the wrong foot and vulnerable. She’d be less able to lie.

  “How did you find out about the job?”

  She blinked. “Oh. Well. I saw the advert.”

  “Where?” he asked, pressing his advantage.

  “In a newspaper.” Her eyes flicked away from him for a second.

  Got you! Not even the most confident liar could avoid all the tells. She was definitely hiding something.

  So what, she had met him at some party, Googled his family, and decided to make a play for his father? It would take a serious case of conspiracy theorizing to imagine her scanning every newspaper for the vacancy listing, pretending to be plain and applying for the job.

  Why was he suspicious? Because she was pretty? Was that enough?

  No, he didn’t get where he was by jumping to conclusions on flimsy evidence. Okay, next question.

  Just then, the sommelier brought their wine and was about to pour for George to taste, when George deliberately waved him towards Millie.

  With a lot of ceremony, he poured an inch of the vintage in Millie’s glass and waited for her approval. George watched. She’s not used to this. He didn’t rescue her; he wanted to see how she coped. People under pressure in unfamiliar surroundings normally revealed a lot about themselves.

  She let go of the shawl she’d been holding like a shield as she reached for the glass and took the obligatory sip. Without waiting for the wine to make an impression on her taste buds, s
he smiled up at the sommelier. “Thank you. It’s wonderful.”

  The sommelier poured the rest of her glass with a courteous “Ma dame.”

  The shawl fell open, and she quickly pulled it tight again. George caught a brief glimpse of a smooth, velvety neckline and a gentle swell of breast. There were distinct tan lines, a golden-brown V surrounded by creamy pale skin.

  Interesting.

  It was the kind of tan one got through an open shirt collar. The women he knew always took care to achieve a uniform tan, usually by regular trips to exclusive beaches where they could disrobe in the sun. Millie could have sunbathed topless on that sunny rock where he found her last week.

  He swallowed hard. For Christ’s sake, he was acting like a fourteen-year-old boy leafing through a lingerie catalogue. Pull yourself together. She is here to do a job.

  Yes, job. He fixed his mind on that.

  “How do you like your job?” he asked her with a serious face and a serious voice. If only it wasn’t the same question he’d just asked her five minutes ago. Come on, focus! “Working for my father can be challenging,” he added quickly.

  “It’s fine.”

  “And the physiotherapy?”

  She nodded. “That’s fine, too.”

  Like hell. Another lie.

  “From what I’ve heard, my father always refused physiotherapy.” George spoke smoothly, outlining the evidence. “Nurse Ann reported three months ago that my father wouldn’t speak to Liam. In fact he wouldn’t even look at him.” He watched her closely. “You remember this? Three months ago was when you started, am I right?” He laid down the facts like iron bars to trap her.

  Millie nodded. “Yes.”

  There it was, again, the hint of something nervous in the line of her lips.

  She reached for her glass and sipped her wine.