The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly

by Alice Ross

  James winced. He’d been in two minds whether to mention the evening to Mandy at all but had decided that, as she’d inevitably hear about it from Alex, it was probably best just to fess up.

  He began fiddling with a couple of paperclips on the desk. ‘We had supper together.’

  Expecting a barrage of questions, he was amazed when she didn’t say a word. He sneaked a glance at her. She was grinning.

  ‘And?’

  ‘And nothing. I helped her looked for her tortoise and she offered me spaghetti.’

  She nodded knowingly.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Nothing. Nothing at all.’

  James, though, had to stop himself confessing a great deal more to Mandy about that evening. Not that anything else had actually happened. Once Anya left and he’d checked on the kitten, he’d walked Alex back to her cottage, bade her goodnight, then went home. But what had surprised him most about the evening was just how much he’d enjoyed being with her. With the exception of Mandy, who didn’t count, he’d never enjoyed a female’s company so much since Olivia. Not that Alex, despite being pretty, talented, witty and having the most amazing legs, would ever measure up to Olivia. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t be friends, did it? After all, plenty of men had attractive, witty, clever, platonic female friends with never-ending legs. Didn’t they?

  ­*

  Matt tried to open his eyes. They didn’t respond. His mouth also felt weird - like someone had lined it with felt. He made a feeble attempt to lift his head from the pillow. Then promptly lowered it again. What the hell was wrong with him? And what was that smell? That unfamiliar smell of … perfume? Prising open an eye with his hand, he discovered he wasn’t alone. Someone was in bed beside him. A woman. With platinum-blonde hair. Oh God, surely not. He peeped under the covers and immediately wished he hadn’t. Horror struck him as memories of the previous night flooded back: him and Marcus in the wine bar making total arses of themselves, chatting up anything in a skirt. And then there’d been this girl. What was her name again? Miranda? Or Mirabelle? And her dark-haired mate who Marcus had copped off with. And now here he was. But where was he exactly? He glanced over at the curtain-less window. It provided no clue. He considered asking Miranda/Mirabelle but decided against it. She was snoring lightly. If he was quiet he might just be able to sneak out without her noticing.

  Without making a sound he tugged on his clothes and had just tip-toed to the door when his mobile beeped with a text.

  Miranda/Mirabelle jack-knifed upright. ‘Who the fuck are you?’ she demanded.

  Matt didn’t reply. The text was from his secretary asking where he was. It was 8.30am. His Petticoats pitch was in precisely one hour.

  ‘Christ, mate, you look like shit,’ sniggered Marcus, as Matt hared through the office to his desk. ‘Good night though, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Sod off,’ replied Matt. During the time it’d taken him to reach the office he’d concluded that he’d been set up. That Marcus had deliberately plied him with drink so he’d mess up the pitch this morning, thereby ensuring Marcus’s hold on the blue-eyed boy spot.

  He plopped down in his seat and flicked on his laptop. Despite feeling like death, he couldn’t mess this up. Everything depended on it. His job, his relationship, his apartment, his-

  ‘Weren’t you wearing that shirt yesterday?’ demanded Sasha, eyeing him suspiciously.

  Crap! He looked down at his crumpled shirt. ‘Had a, er, bit of a problem with the washing machine,’ he mumbled.

  She flicked him a withering look before sashaying away. For once, his eyes didn’t follow her pert rear.

  He looked like a tramp. He needed a shave and a shower and to brush his teeth. But the best he could possibly manage was to splash some water on his face. He dashed over to the Gents’ only to find his boss, Geoff, there, washing his hands.

  ‘Jesus, Matt, what the hell happened to you?’

  ‘I, er-’

  ‘You look like shit. And weren’t you wearing that shirt yesterday? No – don’t answer that. It’s none of my business. What is my business, however, is this pitch. You screw it up, mate, and you know the consequences.’

  Matt nodded, swallowing down the rising vomit in his throat.

  Left alone, he plopped down on the loo seat and dropped his head in his hands. He could do this, of course he could. After all the hard work, the blood, sweat and tears he’d put into this pitch, he couldn’t fall at the last post.

  *

  Anya sat in the car park in her red convertible Alfa Romeo. The roof was down, The Marriage of Figaro blasting from the speakers. A battered blue Ford Escort pulled up alongside her. A spotty man in a cheap suit climbed out and handed her a large brown envelope. Anya surveyed the contents through designer sunglasses, her lips curving into a satisfied smile.

  ‘If I need you again, I vill call,’ she said, tossing him a wad of cash. Then she pressed down the accelerator and, with a screech of gravel, was gone.

  *

  Never before could Matt recall feeling so nervous before a pitch. But then again, he’d never had quite so much riding on one. He had every confidence in his material; his market research stats; the target market; and the fun, sexy strapline. What he struggled with was his ability to present it all.

  ‘The Petticoats crowd are here,’ announced Geoff, popping his head around the boardroom door. ‘You ready?’

  Matt nodded. ‘Of course,’ he replied, resisting the urge to fly out of the room.

  ‘I’ll go and bring them up then,’ said Geoff, shooting him a meaningful look before disappearing down the corridor …

  On the tube home that evening, sandwiched between the door and an overweight man with body odour, Matt mentally ran over the events of the day for what must’ve been the thirtieth time. Still, he couldn’t believe it. It was like a scene from a movie. Things like that didn’t happen in real life. But happen they had. And now he had to live with the consequences.

  While Geoff had scooted off to escort the Petticoats crowd to the boardroom, Matt had managed to control his nerves. Hadn’t he done dozen of pitches before? Hadn’t he – until recently – always been excellent at his job? Well, if he could do it before, he could do it again. He’d show them all – including scheming bloody Marcus. And so, it was a beaming, confident Matt who’d greeted his audience.

  He’d exchanged pleasantries and broken the ice rather well, he’d thought, with Petticoats’s marathon-running Managing Director, their shrewd Sales Director, and one of their affable – and rather attractive - brand managers.

  ‘And now let me introduce you to Petticoats’s Marketing Director,’ Geoff had said. ‘Julia Hindmarch, this is Matt Pinkerton. Matt meet Julia.’ A cool, unsmiling brunette with sharp emerald eyes dressed in a pristine grey suit held out her hand to him.

  Shaking it, Matt felt disorientated. He knew this woman from somewhere but couldn’t place her. ‘Don’t I know you from-’ He clamped his lips shut. His blood froze. This was the woman who’d told him and Marcus to sod off the previous evening in the wine bar; the woman who’d heard every detail of his previously healthy and now non-existent sex life; the woman who, along with her friends, Marcus had blatantly insulted; the woman who’d watched him drunkenly stumble over to chat up Miranda/Mirabelle and who’d probably witnessed him staggering out of the bar with her; the woman who, most likely, thought him a total, misogynistic, drunken tosser.

  The way she’d eyed his crumbled shirt, had confirmed all of the above.

  By the time Matt reached the apartment block he was so mentally and physically exhausted it was all he could do to remain upright. The pitch’s success – or otherwise - would be announced in the morning, along with his fate but, for now, he could think no further than a drink – just one – followed by a hot shower and an early night.

  Reaching the front door, he put down his laptop case and rummaged around in his pocket for his silver keyring - diamond-studded with the entwined initials M and F – one of t
he many extravagant presents from Francesca for their first Christmas together. Selecting the apartment key, he slid it into the lock and turned it. Nothing. He pulled it out and inserted it again. Still nothing. Was it the right key? He examined it closely. It certainly looked like the right one. But was he in such a state that he’d lost the plot? He examined the other keys. No – he definitely had the right one. He went to try it again but, all at once, the door swung open and there stood Francesca.

  Christ! How could he have forgotten she was due back today? A gamut of emotions began racing through him – relief, guilt, horror and confusion. But, noting her seething expression, it was sheer panic that won.

  ‘Well?’ she demanded, hands on hips.

  For once in his life Matt was lost for words. How the hell did she know about Miranda/Mirabelle already? Or was the girl’s name Natalie? He really couldn’t remember and who gave a toss anyway? His mind raced for ways in which she could have found out. Instantly, he hit upon the answer. How could he have been so stupid? Francesca’s model mates frequented that bar. One of them must’ve seen him. Well, there was no way out now. He’d have to come clean. Tell it how it was: that he’d been working so hard and she’d been such a first-class bitch, and he was under massive pressure with the pitch and-

  ‘How could you?’ she pressed, eyes brimming with tears.

  ‘Oh, baby, I didn’t mean to.’ He held out his hands to her. ‘It’s just that-’

  ‘Why didn’t you just leave her in the hotel?’

  Matt furrowed his brow. ‘It wasn’t a hotel. It was a wi-’

  ‘They’d have looked after her properly there,’ she continued, tears streaming down her cheeks. ‘You’ve left her here all night on her own.’

  The penny dropped. She was talking about the dog. How could he have been so dense as to nearly spill the beans?

  ‘Oh, sweetheart, I didn’t mean to leave her all night,’ he explained on a breath of relief. ‘But I was so busy working, I ended up crashing in the office.’

  ‘That’s no excuse. If you were working such long hours you should’ve left her at the hotel. At least they care about her there. You don’t care about her at all. All you care about is saving bloody money.’

  And with that, she slammed the door in his face and drew the chain across.

  ‘Fran,’ he ventured tentatively. ‘Do you think I could come in, babe? I’ve had a really shit day and I’m completely knackered.’

  ‘Sod off!’

  Matt stepped out of the lift in the foyer in something of a fug. What the hell was happening to him? And, more to the point, what the hell was he going to do now?

  Outside on the street, amidst the melee of homeward-bound commuters, he felt as if he wasn’t really there. Then he had an idea. He could call Francesca and explain about Mimi. Apologise. Put his side of the story forward. He tugged out his mobile. His finger hovered over the keypad. He pushed the phone back in his pocket. He didn’t have the energy. He needed to sleep … and sleep … and sleep. He’d go to a hotel. At least then he’d be guaranteed some peace.

  Matt glanced at the clock on his mobile. 4:57am beamed back at him and he still hadn’t had a wink of sleep. The couple next door were engaged in a bonkathon. They’d been at it all night. Matt had tried everything he could think of. At ten o’clock he’d requested another room, only to be informed there were no others and he should count himself lucky they’d deigned to give him the last one. At eleven o’clock he’d stormed down to Reception and demanded the hotel intervene. Despite a warning phone call, the grunts and groans and grinding continued. At midnight he’d resorted to a frenzy of swearing and hammering on the wall. Which had evoked no response at all. In desperation he’d considered a park bench but, one peep at the teaming rain outside, and he’d concluded that was not one of his better ideas. Consequently, he’d forked out a small fortune to lie awake the entire night, dwelling on what delights the day ahead had in store for him.

  Chapter 11

  James had asked Mandy and Eric over to his house for a curry at the weekend.

  ‘Are you inviting Alex?’ Mandy immediately asked.

  ‘I, er, hadn’t really thought about it,’ he replied, despite thinking about nothing else since the evening they’d had supper together.

  ‘You owe her a meal.’

  ‘I know. But what if she doesn’t like curry?’

  ‘She does.’

  Heart hammering at six-times its normal rate James knocked on Alex’s door. No answer. Was he relieved? Or disappointed? A mixture of the two he concluded, suspecting disappointment may just have the edge. Still, at least he’d spared himself another potentially embarrassing episode - and he didn’t have to put her on the spot with his invitation.

  His lessons as a boy-scout having stuck with him over the years, he’d prepared for this scenario – in the form of a note asking her to text if she’d like to come.

  Note duly popped through the letterbox, he headed home, plumped down on the sofa and stared at his mobile. Two hours later he was still on the sofa staring at his mobile when it occurred to him that he’d only asked her to text if she wanted to come. If she didn’t, she might not text at all, meaning he could spend the next three days staring at the bloody phone. Furious with himself, he sprang up from the sofa and stormed into the kitchen to make a cup of tea. No sooner had he picked up the kettle, than a text beeped. Dashing through to the living room he banged his sore knee on the edge of the coffee table. Cursing, he whipped up the phone, his heart beating madly. He didn’t recognise the number. With a shaking finger, he opened the message.

  Hi James. Thnx for invitation. Wd love to come 4 curry. C u then. Alex

  Shiiiiiit!

  *

  ‘So,’ said Geoff, from the chair behind his desk. ‘How do you think the pitch went yesterday?’

  A sweating Matt cleared his throat. ‘Well, I, er-’

  Geoff cocked a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘I think it was, er-’

  ‘Shit? A total fucking disaster? The worst pitch I’ve ever had the misfortune to witness?’

  Matt nodded. He had no defence. It had been shit. Under Julia Hindmarch’s intimidating gaze he’d completely lost it. The overwhelming pressure, combined with lack of sleep and the hangover from hell had conspired to make it a catastrophe.

  Geoff stood up and held out his hand. ‘Sorry, Matt, but you know the score. It’s been great working with you but all good things must come to an end. You can clear your desk on your way out.’

  Ignoring the enquiring stares of soon-to-be-ex-colleagues as he floated through the office, Matt had the sensation of starring in some cheap, made-for-TV movie. This couldn’t be happening. Things like this didn’t happen to him. He’d always been one of life’s winners. Surely, any minute now, he’d wake up and discover it had all been a horrible dream. In the meantime, whatever was in his desk could bloody well stay there. No way would he prolong the humiliation by ferreting about for a couple of pens and a spare tie. His head high, he made for the door, almost colliding with Sasha, carrying a tray of coffees, in towering heels and yet another barely-there skirt.

  ‘Hey, weren’t you wearing that shirt yesterday? And the day before?’ she asked.

  ‘And weren’t you wearing that skirt when you were at primary school and it fit you properly?’ retorted Matt.

  On the tube Matt prayed Francesca would let him into the apartment without any fuss. He didn’t have the energy for an argument. He didn’t, in fact, have any energy at all. He needed a hot bath, clean clothes and sleep. Then he’d be able to think clearly. He might even call Geoff in the morning and explain what had happened with Julia Hindmarch. Geoff had been a bit of a lad in his day. Surely he’d understand. Yes, that sounded like a plan. But before he tackled Geoff, there was the thorny obstacle of Francesca to overcome.

  It was with much trepidation that Matt slid the key into the lock of the apartment door. He held his breath as he turned it. The door clicked open. Prepared to fa
ce the enemy, he stepped inside.

  ‘Fran?’

  The lack of reply heightened his suspicions. A quick search of the apartment though, told him she must be out – with Mimi. And while she was out, he’d make the most of the peace and quiet. He ran a bath and tipped in half a bottle of Francesca’s foaming oil. After a long soak he’d have a kip. And when he woke up, his predicament wouldn’t seem half so bad. Would it?

  Matt slept for six hours, waking up at four that afternoon. He swung his legs off the bed and sat up. His head felt full of lead. He’d take a cool shower, he decided; wake himself up properly. He was about to pad over to the en-suite when he heard a low mumbling: Francesca - obviously talking to someone on the phone. He tugged on his bathrobe and marched into living room. She was curled up on the sofa with Mimi, giggling into her mobile. The dog’s low growl alerted her to Matt’s presence.

  ‘Oh, er, okay, Antonia. Got to go now. Laters.’ She hung up and stared nonplussed at him.

  ‘Remember me?’ he ventured.

  ‘Of course I remember you,’ she sniped back. ‘I was only away a week.’

  ‘A week in which you didn’t want to talk to me.’

  ‘Don’t be so bloody sensitive,’ she barked, before snatching up Mimi and stomping out of the room.

  Great. So that was how it was, was it? Well, he’d put up with enough crap lately. He was off to the pub to drown his sorrows.

  *

  Anya was in town shopping for further additions to beef up her new feminine wardrobe. Not that she enjoyed wearing such clothes. She was much more at home in her usual tailored trouser-suits and shirts. Still, needs must and Anya’s needs had never must-ed more.

  She made her final purchase and was heading down the high street back to her car when she spotted something out the corner of her eye that caused her to come to an abrupt halt. Across the road, in the window of Penny’s Patisserie, sat Jakov, chatting and laughing with … Imogen. All at once he turned his head and looked out of the window. In a flash, Anya whisked around and continued her march to the car, head high. Had he seen her? She didn’t know. Nor did she care. The only thing she wanted from Jakov Igrec was his sperm – nothing more and nothing less.