Plain Jane Wanted

by Rose Amberly

  “Would you believe,” The old man continued, his voice suddenly softened, “my son used to be a delightful child? Affectionate, and loving to everyone. And always happy, joking and playful. Now I can’t remember the last time I heard him laugh.”

  Last night. He’d laughed last night. You want a café where people can eat in their underwear? His easy grin when she’d found him trying to clean the floor. Was he different because of her?

  A bubble of joy floated through her and burst on her lips in a helpless, unstoppable smile. Oh, she wanted to think more about this. As soon as she could, she would slip away for a bit of alone time.

  * * *

  George walked towards his father’s study—to say goodbye but also because Millie, no doubt, was there. She’d been kept a prisoner in his father’s study all morning, and when she came out, he couldn’t get her alone for housekeepers or nurses; everyone and their dog wanted to talk to her today.

  Until last night, he’d done an exemplary job of knowing where she was so he could avoid her. But things stood differently today.

  The thought stopped him.

  He paused in the gallery, his hand on the polished bannister overlooking the hall downstairs. The afternoon postal delivery came, and Mrs B hurried to take the letters and packages from the mailman. George watched her sort through letters and place several envelopes in the tray on the hall table before hurrying away to whatever chores she had.

  How did things stand between him and Millie now?

  He’d held her hand on their walk home and never wanted to let go. And he’d gone to sleep thinking of her, wanting her in bed with him.

  But now it was the day after the night before.

  Millie lived here, in his father’s house. He lived in London. His flat in Chelsea was his, alone, no girlfriend ever moved in. In fact, no girlfriend ever stayed two nights in a row. Two nights meant bringing a change of clothes, expecting space and—no, he never allowed that to happen.

  Millie was different. She could hardly travel to London for dinner and a movie, spend the night, then travel back the next day. Where would she live if he dated her?

  The big antique clock at the end of the gallery struck the half hour; there was barely forty-five minutes before Evans brought the cart round to take him to the ferry. George had never found it harder to leave. He moved towards his father’s study. The sooner he left, the sooner he could put the Brussels job to bed. Then, he could… what?

  The tantalizing image floated through his head. Arriving from the airport on a rainy night, walking into his London flat to find Millie waiting for him by the fireplace, wearing that same flimsy ensemble she had on last night, with her nipples pushing through the thin cotton…

  George stopped outside his father’s door; he could hardly go into the room looking like this. He bent down, bracing his hands on his knees. Waiting for his body to settle down, he tried thinking of sheep and chickens and insects. But wildlife had acquired new associations after Millie’s talk about nature last night. Which reminded him, he needed to deal with Beatrice.

  His body’s reaction was…

  Incredible.

  Only yesterday he’d been thinking about dating her again, but today, her name cooled his ardour better than any chickens. He stood up. All was good.

  It wasn’t fair to let Beatrice wait in anticipation of their date on Friday night only to break up with her then. And he had to break up with her. Whatever happened or didn’t happen last night, things had changed. In his heart, a new page had been turned, and it didn’t have Beatrice in it. He had to do the right thing, not out of guilt this time, but because something made him want to be a better person.

  He walked back towards his room, dialling as he went.

  “Aren’t I the lucky one?” Beatrice answered on the first ring.

  “Hello, Bea,” then he corrected himself. “Beatrice.”

  “Two calls in twenty-four hours and a date in two days? Can’t you live without me?” she purred.

  “No. I mean that’s not why I’m calling.”

  “Oh?”

  “About Friday. I’m sorry, Bea—atrice.”

  “Why do you keep saying my full name?”

  He walked into his room and closed the door. “The thing is. I am not going to be able to see you, after all.”

  “Just Friday or ever?” Her voice went very quiet.

  “The latter.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Look, there is no easy way to say this. I thought it was a good idea yesterday, because you’re a lovely person. You are. It’s—” He was about to say something lame about timing, about being ready, anything for an easy get-out. But none of it would be true, and he detested lying. He tried to say it as gently as possible. “I’ve had second thoughts.”

  “I see.” She took an audible breath “What’s her name?”

  No matter how many times he did this, it never got any easier. He searched his mind for something nice to say, but what? What?

  But Beatrice didn’t give him time. “I hope she doesn’t break your heart.”

  “Beatrice, let’s not do this.” He didn’t want to confirm or deny that there was another woman; he just wanted this over. He leaned against the door. Just twenty yards away was Millie, and her golden-brown hair curled softly over the back of her neck.

  Eventually Beatrice spoke. “All right, George.” Her voice was calm. “I’ll always remember our beautiful time together, and if she disappoints you”—her voice lifted, became cool and bright, the easy, relaxed woman he always knew—“I’ll be here. I’ll take you back, darling, no questions, no recriminations.”

  George stood behind his bedroom door, staring at his phone. A phrase unfolding in his mind: how classy, how very civilized. No doubt it was how she wanted him to remember her.

  Every time he walked away after a date, after a party, every time he turned down an invitation, Beatrice’s voice, cool and bright, let him think she didn’t mind either way, that she wasn’t needy or clingy.

  For an instant, just now, her mask slipped, then, in a minute, less than a minute, the care-free civilized voice was back in place. She would make a great society wife. He could just see her in the future, taking a husband’s infidelity with a smile.

  Realization washed through him like an icy wave as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. Had Beatrice been just as clingy as all the others, only better at hiding it? Had she been playing him from the start?

  She’d fooled him for a year, and he’d been about to go back to her.

  * * *

  “George is very controlling,” old Du Montfort said. “He’s like a chess player, arranging people on his board. And God help any of his pawns if they move contrary to his orders.”

  Millie let her eyes wander out of the bay window of the study as she listened to him complain about George. There had to be a way to get father and son to make peace. The old man was too proud; it would have to be George to make the first move. For a start, he was young and less set in his ways; besides, he was more likely to listen to her.

  “And he is stubborn,” Du Montfort said, almost echoing her own thoughts. “He will have things his way or not at all.”

  “I think he must take after his dad. Just a bit,” Millie couldn’t help saying.

  “Less of your cheek, young lady.” He gave her a stern look but couldn’t keep it up for long before his lips twitched. “I don’t know why you take so much licence. I’m clearly too lenient with you.” His eyes twinkled, then looked over her head, and his smile faded. She twisted around and saw George standing in the doorway.

  “Good morning, Father.” He stayed by the door, looking cool and relaxed in beige chinos and a white oxford shirt. He flicked his eyes at her, and there was a look, hot and hungry, just for an instant before he faced his father again.

  Her heart somersaulted.

 
The old man still held her hand and pulled it to get her attention. “I need to speak to my son.”

  She rose to her feet. “Let me pull a chair over for him.”

  “My son can pull his own chair. What good is that gym where he spends hours?”

  She sat back down, feeling like an awkward ten-year-old. George still hadn’t come closer. What was he trying to tell her?

  Du Montfort let go of her hand. “Can you go downstairs to the library? I am not in the mood for current affairs. Find me something else.”

  Wonderful. Now that George was in the room, she was being sent away? “What are you in the mood for?”

  “Something enjoyable. Fiction, history and brave derring-dos.”

  She had little choice but to go. As she neared the door, she made a face at George and mouthed Sod’s law. George gave her a tiny wink before stepping out of her way.

  “Maybe some Walter Scott,” Du Montfort called out.

  She turned to answer.

  George, standing close behind her, brushed the length of her bare arm softly without letting his father see, and Millie forgot what she’d been about to say.

  “Um. Okay.” She fled the room before her cheeks got any hotter.

  * * *

  George looked at Millie’s retreating figure. He’d wanted to see her alone, to say a proper goodbye, but without letting his father guess. Then the feel of her warm, satin-smooth skin under his hand just now drove all that out of his mind. She had changed into a sleeveless white dress, modest enough but for the buttons down the front. The kind of easy buttons you could undo all at once with one tug on her collar. Oh Christ.

  “George,” his father called. “Are you going to come and talk to me properly, or are we going to shout to each other from across the room like medieval heralds?”

  George walked over. “I came to say goodbye. I am off to London tonight.”

  “Sit down, I have something to tell you.”

  “Can it wait? I have to catch the ferry.” And he needed half an hour with Millie before going.

  “No, it can’t wait. Not another six months before you honour me with your presence again.”

  George scraped together as much patience as he could and perched on the windowsill facing his father. Six months? He was afraid of this distance, afraid that away from her, his life would suck him back, and his ‘rules’ would argue against an involvement with Millie. The woman who didn’t fit. Who was not an equal. “I hope to be back sooner this time?”

  Old Du Montfort raised his eyebrows.

  “Two months, maybe less.” The words were out of his mouth before his logic could inspect them.

  “And where are you going for ‘two months, maybe less’?”

  George didn’t want to outline his exact travel arrangements to his father like a school boy. In a life shaped by order and obligations to so many people, George’s timetable was his only pocket of personal freedom, and he guarded it. “It might be longer. I have business stacking up. I’ll come here when that’s finished.”

  He pushed off from the windowsill. If he hurried, he could catch Millie in the library before she came back into the room. But his father had other ideas.

  “Sit down for a minute. I need to talk to you.”

  “Father, I don’t want to be late.”

  “Sit down.” His father’s tone brooked no argument. George exhaled and sat back on the sill. Five minutes, that’s all I’m giving you.

  “I know all too well you are in charge of my household. I am not going to dig the matter up again, but I would ask you not to upset my staff.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Whatever it was you said to Millie last night, she’s very upset.”

  George’s attention zeroed in on his father’s face. “Why? What did she say?”

  “Nothing, but I can tell she isn’t herself.”

  Was she really upset? Or was his father fishing for information?

  The old man was watching him closely. “I don’t need to lose another assistant, George, so don’t talk to her, all right?”

  “I’m not the one who drives away staff in this house.” George crossed his arms over his chest.

  Both men glared at each other. But today of all days, George didn’t want to let his father rile him. He took a deep breath. He wanted to explain to Millie why he was leaving. Maybe kiss her goodbye? The thought tickled his mind seductively.

  “I mean it, boy!” His father hadn’t called him boy for a long time. He must be worried about losing influence.

  “Fine,” George said. “I won’t upset her.” He walked out, suppressing a smile.

  His father’s challenge only pushed him closer into her arms. George checked his watch and went downstairs to the library.

  * * *

  Fifteen minutes later. The library

  “Did anyone see you come in” Milly glanced at the library door.

  “Stop.” He pressed a kiss on her forehead. “Worrying.” He kissed the side of her nose.

  “You’re not allowed to kiss me?” She pushed him away and slid under his arm. “You’re not single, remember?” She walked into another alcove to search for the book Du Montfort wanted.

  “Actually, I am.” He leaned lazily against the shelves and checked his watch. “As of twenty minutes ago. When something needs doing, I don’t waste time.”

  “Well, you needn’t look so smug about it.”

  “not smug, just very, very happy.” He said, his voice roughened

  She let him pull her into a kiss even though it felt too soon, and something else was bothering her. Unfinished business.

  Although business finished or otherwise couldn’t compete with the lingering kiss that seemed to go on forever.

  “Hello?” Mrs B called from the door.

  Millie pulled herself free from George’s arms and stepped out from behind the bookcase.

  “Mrs B?”

  “Oh, there you are, dear. Have you seen Master George?”

  She could feel her colour rising. “Er, I was just trying to find a book for Mr Du Montfort.” The answer made her sound guilty, and her cheeks burned.

  Fortunately, George was quick. “I’m here, Mrs B,” he shouted, still out of sight behind the bookcase. “Millie can’t reach the high shelves.”

  Good thinking. Millie went with it. “You can come down from the ladder now.”

  George made a face and shook his head. She followed his eyes and saw the ladder at the other end of the library. Hopefully Mrs B didn’t notice.

  George put a finger to his lip and grabbed a huge volume off a random shelf before stepping out into view. “There you are, Millie. Anything else you need?” he asked as courteously as if he’d been helping an old lady in a supermarket.

  Millie was grateful for the ruse. “Just the Walter Scott.”

  George lifted his eyes to Mrs B, who had remained by the door. “I’ll just be a minute.” He retreated back behind the bookcase as if he were indeed looking for the book. Millie followed him and picked up the Walter Scott anthology she’d found earlier and gave it to George so he could hand it to her in front of Mrs B.

  “Oh, good,” George said loudly, but his eyes spoke a much softer message while he reached not to take the book from Millie but to do up the top button of her dress, which had come undone earlier.

  A shiver ran through her as she thought about his hand on her, inside her dress.

  George’s eyes burned. He must have been thinking along the same lines.

  Mrs B coughed delicately. “Evans and the cart are here for you.”

  * * *

  “He’s half an hour early.” George spoke as he walked away from Millie. They’d barely had ten minutes alone. He schooled his face to neutrality and went to talk to Mrs B.

  “He says you’ll need to leave now.”
Mrs B stepped back out of the library, no doubt expecting him to follow her. “I’ve had your luggage loaded into the cart already.”

  “No, it’s far too early. I still have a few things to take care of here.” He marched out to the hall and found Evans by the door, turning his cap in his hands nervously. Before George could tell him to come back a little later, Evans spoke.

  “Afternoon, Master George, I know it’s not three o’clock, but the main road is blocked w’ fallen trees. Ye know, from the storm last night. They’re a bit slow with the clearing up, so it’ll ‘ave te be the long way round, on the village road.”

  George suppressed a groan. The village road would add another half hour on the ride to the ferry terminal. His time with Millie was up. He ground his teeth. Of all the times not to have a car.

  He turned and found her, books hugged to her chest, standing in the hall.

  “I’ll say goodbye, then.” She turned towards the stairs. “Mr Du Montfort will be waiting for me.”

  So, she understood and was making it easier for him to leave. At the stairs, she looked back one last time. “Bon voyage,” she said, dimples like little stars in her cheeks, but the eyes—her eyes—reflected a less happy message. She was as sharply disappointed as he was.

  He watched her go up the stairs, the golden tanned legs he remembered so well from only last night, the round hips, the waist—

  Evans interrupted. “I think we’d better get a shift on.”

  Mrs B gave him a kind smile. “Have a safe journey.” She always bid him goodbye when he left, every single time since he was a boy.

  The choice was taken away from him. Hiding his feelings behind a professional face, he followed the driver out to the horse cart and climbed up on the leather seat.