The Trouble with Great Aunt Milly

by Alice Ross

  James caught the train up to London for his brother’s stag do. His eyelids fluttered as the countryside whizzed past. He’d hardly slept since the barbeque last week. Every time he closed his eyes an image of Piers taking Alex into his arms flashed before him. Not that he was jealous or anything. He simply couldn’t understand what a girl like her was doing with an arse like that.

  Mandy had said surprisingly little on the subject of Piers, other than he was the long-term boyfriend from whom Alex had supposedly split. James hadn’t dared press her for more information, fearing she’d jump to the wrong conclusion.

  The other issue adding to his sleeplessness was Anya. Her behaviour had become a matter for real concern. Turning up at his house in the middle of the night wearing a nightie was … well … worrying. Maybe then, with all this going on, he needed a good day out with the boys. Perhaps Matt’s stag do had come at exactly the right time.

  *

  Anya von Hutterhausen was livid. This time with the farmer who’d demanded her veterinary services just as she’d been about to seduce James. It had been too perfect for words, particularly as James had obviously been plastered. She wouldn’t even have had to sleep with him. She could merely have set the scene and announced the next morning that the deed had been done. James would’ve been none the wiser. But then the farmer had called. With the benefit of hindsight she should have switched off the phone. That had been a mistake. An unusual mistake - because “mistake” and “Anya von Hutterhausen” were rarely uttered in the same sentence.

  *

  James closed his eyes. In spite of all the alcohol sloshing about his veins, having a nubile brunette push her tasselled breasts into his face whilst gyrating over his groin in a sequinned thong still seemed a bit surreal. He couldn’t believe it when that bloke, Jonty, had suggested going to a lap dancing club at seven in the evening. Jonty, though, had been insistent, had known exactly where to go, and had been greeted by name by the girls. James opened his eyes and slanted a glance at him, a little way along the red velvet sofa. A blonde girl in lilac bra and knickers bent in front of him, pushing her bum into his face. Jonty’s grin was off the scale as he ran his hands over her buttocks. She smacked them away.

  ‘Who’s a naughty boy,’ she tutted, wagging her finger.

  ‘I am. I am,’ cried a bouncing Jonty.

  James rolled his eyes. What a bloody hypocrite. For the last three hours the guy had bored them all rigid with tales of how wonderful his kid was, and going into great – and frankly, in James’ opinion, unnecessary – detail about his wife’s pregnancies. Jonty’s ramblings aside though, James was having a great time. He’d had far too much to drink of course – as had they all – and absolutely nothing to eat. As the music stopped, and his “personal dancer” scuttled off, muttering something about going on her break, it occurred to James that he was starving. He stood up, preparing to head back to the bar. He toyed with the idea of asking Jonty to join him. But one glance told him Jonty was going nowhere. He was practically salivating as the dancer teased him with her bra strap.

  ‘You want it off?’

  Jonty fished round in his pocket and pulled out a twenty-pound note. ‘Yes. Yes,’ he leered, tossing her the cash.

  Saddo, concluded James, before making his way to the bar where Matt sat with another half-a-dozen of their group.

  ‘And here comes my best man,’ chuckled Matt. ‘Did you enjoy that?’

  ‘Great,’ lied James.

  ‘We’re thinking of grabbing a bite to eat then going to a club. You up for it?’

  ‘Certainly am.’

  ‘What about Jonty?’

  ‘Oh, I wouldn’t worry about him.’

  ‘Why? Where is he?’

  ‘At a guess, I’d say somewhere between seventh heaven and cloud nine.’

  After devouring every bit of food at the “Eat as much as you like Chinese Buffet”, and cleaning the bar out of bottled beer, the increasingly rowdy group made their way to the nightclub. Unsurprisingly on a Saturday night, the club was packed. Having procured more alcohol, the group reassembled but this time it was interspersed with another: a crowd of women in their thirties from Coventry, in the capital for a girls’ weekend.

  James found himself talking to an attractive leggy brunette called Claudia. They’d been chatting for over an hour when she asked:

  ‘Fancy coming back to the hotel? It’s just round the corner.’

  James’ heart began hammering as she ran a finger along the rim of her low-cut top.

  ‘Just for a quiet drink,’ she added. ‘This music is getting on my nerves.’

  He sucked in a deep breath. Clearly, a quiet drink wasn’t the only thing on offer. But so what? Why shouldn’t he have a bit of fun? He was a free agent.

  ‘Why not?’ he heard himself saying.

  ‘I always treat myself to a room of my own,’ Claudia giggled, kicking off her shoes the moment they arrived at their destination. ‘I hate sharing. Although,’ she added, ‘it depends who you’re sharing with.’

  She pressed herself against him, snaking a hand around his neck. James wrapped his arms around her waist and lowered his head to hers. But, in the split second before their lips met, a vision of a freckled face flashed before his eyes. A second later he was out the door and haring down the hotel corridor.

  *

  Anya von Hutterhausen was furious. And for once it had nothing to do with James Pinkerton. For the first time in their affair, Jakov would not be spending Thursday evening with her. He was going away for a long weekend. Anya hadn’t asked where. Nor had she so much as flickered when he’d informed her of his plans. She had, however, made discrete enquiries at the gym and discovered that Imogen, too, would be absent that weekend. It did not take a brain as sharp as Anya’s to work out that they were probably going away together. Not that this bothered her. Not in the slightest. Because, if her suspicions were correct, Jakov Igrec would soon be superfluous to her requirements, meaning she could dispense with his services – once and for all.

  *

  Matt had enjoyed every minute of his stag do. A fact he insisted on sharing with Francesca when he arrived back at the apartment at five o’clock that morning. Naturally, she hadn’t been interested. Nor was she interested twelve hours later, being far too occupied with the gaggle of bridesmaids who’d descended on the apartment: six of her model pals, with fake hair, fake tans, fake nails, fake teeth and fake tits. They’d arrived under the pretext of trying on their bridesmaids’ dresses but by the line up of empty champagne bottles in the kitchen, the gathering had turned into something of a party. Matt counted ten bottles. Ten! Who the hell was paying for those? None of the girls had brought champagne with them and as Francesca didn’t have a penny to her name, he assumed it must be him footing the bill. At around forty quid a bottle that would work out at-

  A flurry of ooh-ing and aah-ing interrupted his calculations.

  He sneaked into the living room and found the girls in a huddle. Peeping over their bony shoulders, he discovered Mimi holding centre stage in a canine version of the bridesmaid dress, complete with diamante tiara. Spotting her adversary she growled. The girls jumped.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Matt,’ snarled Francesca. ‘You’ve upset her. And what’re you doing here anyway? This is a girls’ night. Can’t you go out?’

  With the entire female contingent glaring at him accusingly, Matt muttered something about going to the pub.

  He was on his way to the door to do just that when he heard one of the girls cackle:

  ‘Ooo, Fran. Do you think Hello! will be at the wedding?’

  Francesca gave an almighty sigh. ‘Not this time.’

  Not this time, pondered Matt. What the hell did that mean?

  Chapter 15

  James was exhausted. The long day in London had taken it out of him. He’d had a great time though. Well, apart from the incident with Claudia. A huge amount of introspection had followed that episode. What other red-blooded male would t
urn down sex with an attractive woman and no strings attached? Not bloody many. So why had he? Had his sexual orientation changed? Had he lost his va-va-voom? The answer to both those questions being a resounding no, he’d concluded it could only be because of his loyalty to Olivia. And that was something that would never change; something he had no desire to change.

  What would change was the amount he was drinking. Over the past few weeks his alcoholic intake had shot off the scale. Well, it was going to change. And he’d start eating proper meals again. He couldn’t remember the last time his cupboards had been stocked or the fridge refilled. Fuelled with resolve, he jumped in his jeep and headed out to the big supermarket at Marlow.

  Usually venturing no further than Little Crumpton’s high street, the Big Supermarket proved something of a culture shock. Having negotiated the fruit and veg, biscuits, cereal and jam sections, he eventually arrived at the plethora of shelves crammed with bread. Did he want brown, white, wholemeal, wholegrain, whole wheat, sliced, unsliced, rolls, baps or bagels?

  He had no idea.

  He sneaked a look at his fellow shoppers, obviously undergoing a similar decision-making process.

  Before his heart skipped a beat.

  Because, four feet away, studying a pack of crumpets, was Alex Corr.

  James froze. It was the first time he’d seen her since the barbeque; since the tug-o-war incident; and since he’d witnessed Piers taking her into his arms. His stomach flipped. He didn’t want to talk to her. And she certainly wouldn’t want to talk to him. It’d be best for all concerned, if he just turned around and headed in the opposite direction. He attempted to manoeuvre his trolley in a three-point-turn. The wheel stuck. He gave it an almighty push. It moved - directly into the robust lady next to him, causing her to drop her bag of lychees. The fruit rolled across the floor - heading straight for Alex.

  All those in the immediate vicinity began picking it up. James, having caused the disruption, felt similarly obliged. He kept his head down praying she wouldn’t notice him. She did.

  ‘Oh. James. Hi. How, um, are you?’

  James cringed inwardly, wishing he could turn back the clock sixty seconds and avoid the bread section altogether.

  ‘Er, fine, thanks,’ he mumbled. ‘How are you?’

  She shrugged. ‘Oh fine, you know.’

  ‘And Piers?’ He quailed the moment the words left his mouth.

  Two spots of pink stained Alex’s cheeks. ‘He’s, er, fine as well.’

  ‘Good. Well, as long as you’re both fine.’

  ‘We are.’

  ‘See you later then.’

  ‘Yes. See you.’

  James scurried off as quickly as he could without breaking into a run. That had been painful - for them both. Alex had looked as uncomfortable as he’d felt. He awarded himself an almighty kick for mentioning Piers. He hadn’t intended to but the words had slipped out before he could stop them. Well, obviously they were back together. And if that was what she wanted, then good luck to her. It had nothing to do with him. Nothing at all.

  Abandoning his trolley, he headed straight out to the car park.

  *

  The weather on Matt and Francesca’s wedding day was perfect. The same could not, however, be said about the groom. Hovering over Matt was the horrible presentiment that, despite Francesca’s meticulous planning and the extortionate amount of cash thrown at the event, something was going to go horribly wrong.

  ‘It’s just nerves,’ reassured James. ‘I’m sure everyone feels like that.’

  Matt wasn’t convinced.

  ‘Oh, don’t you both look handsome,’ gushed their mother, running out to meet them the moment their limo pulled up outside the church. ‘Now, what do you think of me?’ She stretched out her arms and affected a tottering twirl.

  Matt had to admit that, in her stone-coloured suit and flying-saucer hat, she looked stunning.

  ‘You look lovely, Mum,’ he said, ducking under the hat to peck her on the cheek.

  ‘Gorgeous,’ agreed James, issuing a kiss on her other cheek.

  ‘Now, don’t spend too much time hovering about here, Matt,’ she instructed. ‘The vicar will want a word with you before the bride arrives.’

  Matt turned towards the church. Through the open doors he could see the ushers handing out Orders of Service, the pews filling up with guests, the ambitious floral arrangements dripping flowers. The organist struck up a piece by Handel. Taking in the scene, a horrible sensation of being slowly suffocated crept over him.

  ‘Ready to go in?’ asked James.

  Matt couldn’t reply.

  Inside the church, assaulted by the cloying scent of lilies and perfume, Matt’s suffocation feeling intensified, with his chest tightening and breathing labouring. H my God! Was he having a heart-attack?

  ‘Ah, Matt,’ gushed the beaming vicar as they reached the altar. ‘How are you on your special day?’

  ‘Fine, thank you,’ he muttered. ‘But would you mind if I just nipped to the, er-’

  The vicar nodded sympathetically. ‘Of course. It’s on the left there.’

  Matt shot through to his destination, reaching it just in time to vomit up the little breakfast he’d managed.

  ‘You all right?’ asked James, when he returned a few minutes later.

  ‘Fine,’ he croaked, before slowly turning his head and observing the activity behind. The pews were now crammed - a sea of hats and fascinators. Near the door the gaggle of bridesmaids applied last minute coats of lip-gloss.

  He whipped back round, rivulets of sweat streaming down his face.

  ‘Jesus, you don’t look at all well,’ remarked James. ‘Do you want to grab some air.’

  Matt would like nothing better but he wasn’t sure if a) he could move without throwing up again, and b) that if he went out, he’d come back in.

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ he insisted.

  ‘Francesca should be here any minute,’ added James.

  At which point Matt shot out of the side door again, retracing his steps to the loo.

  A few minutes later, back in position alongside his brother, his guts churned.

  The vicar glanced meaningfully at his watch.

  Fifteen minutes had now passed with no sign of Francesca.

  Twenty minutes and still no bride.

  The congregation was becoming restless.

  The organist ploughed on.

  ‘Do you think we should call her?’ suggested James. ‘Maybe the car’s broken down.’

  ‘Good idea,’ agreed the vicar. ‘But I can only wait another ten minutes. I’ve another wedding after you.’

  ‘You phone her, James,’ mumbled Matt, tugging his mobile from his pocket.

  James took the phone and scurried outside. He returned a couple of minutes later. ‘Her phone’s switched off.’

  ‘Is there a problem?’ enquired their mother, sidling over.

  The vicar stole another look at his watch. ‘I’m afraid I can only give you another five minutes.’

  ‘And then what?’ gasped Marjorie.

  ‘Then I’m afraid we’ll have to rearrange.’

  It had fallen to James to announce The Change of Plan. A mountain of questions had ensued:

  No, they didn’t know Francesca’s whereabouts.

  No, there hadn’t been any indication she was contemplating a no-show.

  Yes, the wedding presents would be returned.

  Yes, anyone who would still like to attend the “Reception” could do so.

  No, the Pinkertons would not be there.

  The family headed to a pub in Richmond where the incident was discussed at great length.

  ‘But what did you do, Matt?’ wailed their mother, several Cinzanos later. ‘You must’ve done something for her not to turn up.’

  ‘I’ve no idea,’ slurred Matt.

  She tutted. ‘Well, I haven’t a clue what I’m going to tell the Blenkinsops.’

  ‘Tell them whatever you like,’ he said, pushi
ng back his chair and rising to his feet. ‘I really don’t care. Now, I’m going to grab a taxi and head back to the flat. For some strange reason, I can’t face a romantic night in the Honeymoon Suite.’

  ‘Oh, you poor love.’ His mother enveloped him in a hug. ‘Are you sure you’ll be all right?’

  Matt didn’t reply. Because he really didn’t know.

  Back at the apartment he drifted into the living room, strewn with wedding detritus and … Francesca’s wedding dress. He tossed it on the bed in the spare room, before closing the door and inspecting all the other rooms. Other than half a bottle of shampoo, a stubby lipstick, two pairs of never-been-worn shoes, and a packet of expensive dog biscuits, no sign of Francesca or Mimi remained.

  Still in his morning suit, he flopped down on the bed and tried to fathom what had gone wrong. On reflection, quite a lot. Things had never been the same since … well, since Great Aunt Milly had died. And they’d taken a further nosedive since Francesca’s return from New York. But that aside, how did he actually feel about the day’s events? He was gutted, of course; humiliated naturally. But his mind flittered back to the church that morning when he’d been nauseous, sweating, short of breath. That surely couldn’t be normal.

  The sound of something being pushed through the letterbox interrupted his analysis. His heart leaped. Was it something from Francesca explaining her actions? She owed him that much at least.

  On the doormat he found an envelope adorned with a beautifully-typed label, addressed to Francesca. He flew to the window just in time to spot a female courier jumping onto her moped.

  Well, sod the fact that it was addressed to Francesca. The envelope might just contain some clue to her disappearance.

  He rived it open.

  A pile of photographs fell to the floor.