Millie's Game Plan

by Rosie Dean

  Sacha was seriously up for me pursuing The Golden Smiler. So, on Tuesday night, we headed off to Marshalhampton with the adolescent hope of seeing him. But the closer we got, the slower I seemed to be driving. I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea, especially with Sacha in tow, batting her eyelashes, flicking her blonde tresses and acting like my press agent.

  As we pulled into the pub car-park, which was surprisingly empty, we saw the sign – CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. I wavered between relief and disappointment.

  ‘Bollocks!’ snapped Sacha. ‘Is this the only pub round here?’

  I shrugged and suggested we drive on to see if we might discover a second. We pulled onto the road and headed towards Romwick. Since our prime objective was scuppered, I found myself driving away from the pub faster than before. Maybe I wasn’t quite the go-getting-woman I’d thought I was.

  The country roads began to wind and dip…only I hadn’t accounted for them winding and dipping quite as much as they did. Suddenly, I was face to face with a tractor and half my life was superimposed across the windscreen.

  ‘ShI-I-I-It-!’ we both cried, as I stamped on the brakes, bringing my little Fiat to a shuddering and miraculous halt beneath the nose of a John Deere. (I’m no connoisseur of agricultural machinery but its name was emblazoned on the grille and etched onto my retina.)

  From that angle, I couldn’t see the driver but I had a feeling I was about to.

  Sacha looked at me. Her cheeks were pale – as I dare say mine were. ‘That was close,’ she said and giggled at the understatement.

  ‘Should we get out?’ I asked, wiggling the gear lever with indecision.

  I checked behind to see if there was a space to reverse into. There was a growl from the engine above us before it cut out. The driver’s cab door swung open.

  I pulled a face at Sacha. Perhaps when he saw us, his sense of road rage might be replaced by good old-fashioned misogyny. I could cope with that.

  There was a crunch as he jumped down onto the road. Instinctively, I locked the doors. As he came into view, Sacha whimpered. I looked at her reassuringly only to discover she was slack-jawed and wide-eyed with something approaching wonder. I turned to look at our potential assailant as Sacha murmured, ‘It’s Mediterranean Man.’

  Chapter 7

  I was amazed she recognised him – mind you, that’s probably because I’d mentally greyed out his image in favour of you-know-who.

  She whimpered again when the door didn’t open at her first attempt. Seconds later, she was out and chirruping brightly, ‘Hi there. Doesn’t this car have fantastic brakes? And they say Italians make better lovers than mechanics.’

  My eyes were revolving in their sockets. Hadn’t she decided he was Italian? I risked a glance at the approaching hulk to gauge his reaction which, in fairness to Sacha, was moderately restrained. He eyed her up…and then it was my turn. He dipped his head to look around my lowered sun-visor. I could feel guilt and adrenalin colouring my cheeks. I opened the window as he spoke.

  ‘You’re lucky those brakes did work,’ he said, fixing me with an oily gaze. ‘Or you might have scratched my tractor.’

  Sacha giggled.

  He flicked a look in her direction. ‘It’s not funny. Scratched my tractor…wrecked your car, and you two in it.’

  Maddeningly, I knew he was right. I had been driving way too fast. ‘I do apologise,’ I said, thinking he was good looking in a Tom Jones kind of way – that is, Tom Jones in his youth. A bit too macho for my taste. Mentally, I was demoting him to the reserves.

  He stood with his arms folded. ‘Like I say, you would have come off worst.’

  ‘Yes, but…’ I was nonplussed with aftershock.

  Sacha leaned her hands on the roof of my car and resumed her chirruping. ‘The thing is, my friend’s had a rotten evening, already.’

  I had?

  ‘Some lousy blind date stood her up. So she’s a little bit distressed.’

  I threw her midriff my filthiest look and vowed to make her buy the drinks. I turned back in time to catch Mediterranean Man raising an eyebrow and tossing me a look of pity.

  Sacha twittered on. ‘He told us to meet him at The Red Cow and it’s shut this week. So we’re looking for another pub to chill out in. Can you suggest anywhere?’

  He took his eyes off me and looked at her. ‘If you turn round and go right after the Cow, there’s The Eagle about a mile down the lane.’

  ‘Is it full of old farts or is it the kind of place you and your mates go?’

  That girl had more cunning than a skulk of foxes. Judging by his chuckle, she must have been giving him the benefit of her megawatt flirty smile.

  ‘Yeah. Sometimes.’

  ‘Will you be in later? I mean, so we can buy you a drink to make amends for giving you such a shock.’

  He glanced at his watch. ‘As it happens, I’m meeting someone in there around nine.’

  ‘Great.’ She slapped the roof of the car. ‘Look forward to seeing you later, then.’ As she sat back in the car, she said, ventriloquist-style, ‘I’m good at this, aren’t I?’

  The Eagle Tavern was bustling for a Tuesday evening. As we sat at a table in the corner, Sacha was all eyes to see if she could spot any more of my targets. Reaching over to grab her hand, I made her promise not to let the cat out of the bag, vis-à-vis my plan. ‘Whatever you do, don’t give any indication that I’m…you know…’

  ‘Gagging for a husband,’ she whispered.

  It was such a mistake to involve Sacha. ‘I’m serious.’

  She squeezed my hand. ‘Trust me. I’m a nurse.’

  Yeah – I’d heard the stories. I gave her my harshest warning look, which elicited her prettiest smile.

  ‘I’m on your side, remember? In any case, I’m looking forward to meeting a few blokes, myself.’

  I took a sip of my drink, casually casting a look around the other tables for eligible men. I made eye contact with a middle-aged woman, who quickly dropped her gaze to my hand that was still holding Sacha’s. She shifted in her seat and knotted her mouth with disapproval. I couldn’t resist a giggle.

  ‘What?’ asked Sacha.

  ‘I think I’ve found my soul mate.’

  ‘Really?’ She looked round. ‘Which one is he – the guy at the bar or the one serving?’

  I grinned. ‘No. Wrong gender.’

  She looked puzzled. ‘Ron who?’

  As I snorted with laughter, the penny dropped and we were both giggling like schoolgirls in assembly.

  ‘Why don’t we finish our drinks and go to the cinema?’ I suggested. ‘There’s bound to be something on around nine o’clock.’

  ‘Like hell we will. I haven’t hauled my butt out into the sticks for one lousy drink and a brush with death.’ She looked at her watch. ‘Give it another half hour and Med Man will be here. If you don’t want a crack at him – I do.’

  I shrugged, after all, I didn’t want him, and it might keep her off my case if she was distracted.

  Who was I kidding? Truth was, Sacha was actually keeping me on brief. If I was serious about working myself into the society of local cricketers, I needed to stick around and see what transpired. So, I allowed myself a premonition of the lovely Victor striding into the bar, and savoured a little surge of excitement coursing through my chakras.

  Of course, Med Man didn’t appear until nearly half-past nine, when I’d switched from tonic to pineapple juice. Since I’d chosen to sit with the door in my direct line-of-sight, he nodded at me on entering. As I returned his smile, you would have thought Sacha was plugged into the national grid, she was so animated. She had, however, played the game often enough to know not to leap up and gush all over him. He, in turn, strode up to the bar and ordered himself a beer.

  ‘Sach, didn’t you say you were going to buy our new friend a drink?’ I asked quietly.

  ‘Hang on, I’m counting.’

  Ah yes, another of Sacha’s rules on dating: count to twenty between acknowledgement
and making a move.

  ‘Eighteen, nineteen, twenty.’ She winked at me and rose gracefully, catching up her handbag and heading to the bar.

  When Med Man came to sit with us, he introduced himself as Marcus.

  I was right. Two-parts Greek, one-part Scottish and one-part Basingstoke. Not a trace of Italian, it would appear, so Sacha’s crack about cars and lovers would have fallen on stony ground.

  Sacha was true to her word and didn’t blow my cover, although I could see she was tempted when she related the story of my being hit by a speeding cricket ball.

  ‘Nasty,’ Marcus said, leaning back and sticking his chest out. ‘Lucky it didn’t crack you on the head.’

  ‘Yes, why don’t they have safety fences like they do in motor racing?’ Sacha asked, leaning forward and arranging her forearms on the table – all the better to display her cleavage. ‘Sounds like a dangerous spectator sport to me.’

  Marcus bestowed a sexy half-smile on her. ‘Go to one of the county games, and you’ll find fences. Out here we like living a little more dangerously.’ He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively and Sacha gasped and bit her bottom lip. Probably to stop herself from laughing.

  Just when I thought he was ready to grab her by the hair and drag her off to a cosy haystack, a distinguished looking man in a mustard-coloured sweater, check shirt and moleskin slacks, came through the door. Marcus glanced up and was clearly no longer interested in our conversation. ‘Excuse me, ladies, there’s someone I need to talk to,’ he said, and stood up. ‘Maybe you’ll be dropping in again some time?’

  Sacha gave him her slow, blinking-lashes look. ‘I think we might.’

  He lifted his head in acknowledgement. You could practically hear his brain chuckling with self congratulation. Then he moved across to the man with greying hair, and sat at the far side of the bar.

  ‘Waddya think?’ Sacha whispered.

  ‘He’s okay, if you like a streak of chauvinism in your beefcake.’

  ‘Well, he does it for me. Or he will if I’ve got anything to do with it.’

  ‘Be my guest.’

  ‘So, he’s off your list, then?’

  ‘Definitely. Right off.’

  ‘Hang on – he’s not that bad.’

  ‘No. He’s fine in a one-night-romp kind of way, but remember – I’ve progressed to the one-mate-for-life option.’

  ‘Suits me.’

  So our night in Marshalhampton had hardly furthered my ambitions. Sacha, on the other hand, was cock-a-hoop at the new possibilities in her life and wondering if she could persuade any of her colleagues to swap shifts with her on Sunday. Whilst I was glad she’d finally taken an interest, I didn’t want her cramping my style. Fortunately, Marshalhampton were playing away to Churchill, and Marcus’s team, Beasley, were at home to Deanfield so if Sacha wanted to swoon over Marcus, she’d have to make her own way there.

  Chapter 8

  The afternoon’s game was due to start at two-thirty. I’d planned on arriving around three but it was quarter to already and I was still swapping clothes to find the right look. I should have sorted this out the day before but I hadn’t anticipated the weather would turn quite so chilly. And if there’s one thing I hate, it’s sitting outside, being buffeted by a brisk north-easterly and pretending I’m enjoying myself. So despite cricket being a summer sport, I was donning boots, jeans, vest, blouse, suede jacket and ramming a sweater into a canvas bag…just in case.

  ‘Bugger.’ The collar of the blouse made me look like a Thunderbird puppet, so I hurled the jacket to the floor, yanked the blouse off and rifled through my wardrobe for an alternative. I pulled a coral-coloured top on and headed for the car.

  Piling everything into the boot, I wondered if I was imagining things, or was that Sacha’s voice?

  ‘Millie! Wait!’

  Her scooter was buzzing down the road, with her on it.

  ‘Millie – I swapped out with Surinder. Means I’ve got to go back in at ten tonight but hey, give me five minutes while I change. Much better if we both go, yeah?’

  I watched open-mouthed as she sprinted up the steps and through the front door. She was, of course, being very supportive. I settled into the driving seat and pushed a CD of Grease into the player. Maybe I could figure out a routine for the finale while I was waiting. And, knowing Sacha, that could be ages.

  She emerged, twelve minutes later, looking sexy as hell, like an early incarnation of Madonna – all shaggy blonde hair (which she’d clearly run under the tap to dampen out the kinks from her ponytail) skin-tight t-shirt, white jeans, beads, fringed hip belt and – would you believe it – carrying a Stetson. She made me look like a librarian on a field trip.

  ‘What?’ she asked.

  ‘We’re going to watch a game of cricket, Sacha. I forgot to tell you, they don’t do it on horse-back.’

  ‘I know. Means I’ll stand out, doesn’t it?’ she grinned. ‘Be memorable.’

  Her and her bloody rules of mating. ‘You do know Marcus isn’t playing at the same place as, as…The Golden Smiler, don’t you?’

  ‘So? We can go and watch Marcus for an hour, then we can go and watch him.’

  ‘No we can’t. I planned on spending the afternoon at Churchill. I haven’t done their team yet and I want to get to know Marshalhampton better.’

  ‘But, Millie, what about Marcus?’

  I glanced at the clock on the dashboard. ‘Alright, I’ll drop you off at Beasley on the way.’

  ‘You’re going to leave me there?’

  ‘What’s the problem?’

  ‘Millie, I need you. You’re the one with the camera, the alibi.’

  ‘And have you forgotten why I bought the camera?’

  ‘We’re already on drinking terms with Marcus – that’s surely an advantage you should be exploiting by getting him to introduce you to his mates, yeah?’

  ‘Of course. We’re going to see Marcus for my benefit?’ I gave her a knowing smile.

  ‘Well, you can’t argue with my logic, can you?’

  I couldn’t but then, she hadn’t witnessed my fantasies for the last few nights where the object of my affections had consistently been tall and fair haired with blue eyes.

  I sighed. ‘Okay.’

  We agreed to spend half an hour at Beasley, ostensibly to cement our acquaintance but chiefly so Sacha could make an impression on Marcus. Then, depending on whether or not he was taking the bait, she’d either stay while I moved onto Churchill or she’d cut her losses and come with me.

  She pulled down the sun visor to apply her make-up. ‘Go easy round the bends, Mill. Don’t want lipstick up my nose.’

  It would have served her right if I went via Basingstoke with all its roundabouts – but that would have added ten minutes to the journey.

  To Sacha’s dismay, and my relief, Marcus was nowhere to be seen. We stayed long enough for me to capture a few scenic shots, although with the sun refusing to make an appearance and the complete absence of any appealing talent, I have to say, my heart wasn’t really in it. Deanfield was made up entirely of OAPs and juveniles.

  Sacha was sighing like a deflating lilo. Mind you, if I were to discover Victor had also gone AWOL, I’d be sighing myself, soon. Despite my earlier irritation, I wasn’t completely insensitive so to cheer her up, I suggested she pose for some photos by a thicket of trees. She could tell I was trying to mollify her but after a couple of rather sullen poses, she rose to the occasion, yelling ‘Yee-hah!’ as she wrapped her leg round a tree trunk and threw her Stetson into the air. Faces swung in our direction and Sacha strutted about like a pole-dancer, wagging her backside and finally dropping over at the waist to grin at me through her legs.

  Now there’s a girl who ought to be on the stage.

  We made it to Churchill just after four. It was a lovely location and, as you might guess, built around a church on a hill.

  ‘Can we go to the pub? I’m really thirsty,’ whined Sacha, as I parked the car.

  ‘I think t
he sun might come out in a minute. Let’s go schmooze the lovely men. And if we’re very good, we might even be offered a cup of tea.’

  She muttered ‘Big deal’ as I put on my jolly face. This was, after all, my gig.

  Hauling my gear out of the boot, I felt a tingle of anticipation. It had been building all day and in the next sixty seconds, I was potentially going to lay eyes on my leading man. My heart was thumping, just like it did when I was twelve and had a massive crush on Toby Moreton. He was in the sixth form and could usually be spotted through the common-room window, surrounded by beautiful, sophisticated girls. He was utterly gorgeous but I knew he’d never notice a little oik like me. I was pretty perceptive for a twelve year old. Years later, I learned he was living with the History teacher, Gordon Isleworth.

  Marshalhampton were batting, but MY MAN was seated on a bench outside the pavilion. His bat was lying at his feet and he was leaning forward, elbows on knees, hands clasped as he watched the game. The wind had stirred his hair into a softly tangled mess and I felt a primeval tug of sexual recognition deep within me. Then I checked myself. How could I be sure he was the one? Yet again, I could be deluding myself.

  Someone waved. I shifted my focus and saw Arabella pushing herself up off the grass. I waved back, attracting the attention of HIM. Hugely self-conscious, I smiled brightly, wishing I didn’t still feel like that twelve year old and thinking, wouldn’t it just piss all over my fireworks if Victor were gay?

  ‘Hi Millie,’ Arabella threw a slim, fragile arm over my shoulder and placed her cheek against mine. ‘I wasn’t sure if you’d be here today. How did your pictures turn out?’

  ‘Great, really good. I’ve brought some with me,’ I wafted a lime green pocket folder in the air, containing the best shots I’d printed at work.

  Sacha joined us; the Stetson perched on the back of her head, her thumbs hooked into the waistband of her skirt, displaying even more midriff than before.

  ‘Arabella – this is my flatmate, Sacha.’

  Arabella lifted a hand, ‘Hi.’

  ‘What do you do, Arabella?’ Sacha asked.