by Rosie Dean
‘Of course. I expect you got to know each other pretty well, though. I mean, it’s a long time to be locked up with somebody, isn’t it?’
‘It is.’
‘So, what did you learn about the vicar? Got any racy secrets?’
How had I missed what an odious woman she was? ‘He has a nice singing voice.’
She nodded, clearly disappointed at the lack of scandal. Charles came swaggering towards us, jacket off, expensive but tasteless cuff-links glistening as he stretched a hand out to shake mine. ‘Millie, how are ya?’
Bronwen cut in with, ‘I’m just marvelling at how well she is. Especially after that awful business at the church. You heard about it didn’t you, Charles?’
He nodded and frowned before looking about the office. Like most men in business, I guessed he wasn’t up for small talk.
Bronwen continued. ‘Terrible. Didn’t even get a look at them, she didn’t. Must have been terrifying, poor love.’ She stroked one of her bejewelled hands across my back.
‘It could have been worse,’ I said, hoping to close the topic. ‘At least they didn’t damage the church. It’s such a beautiful building.’
Charles sniffed. ‘Not been there since Piers Marshal’s funeral, that’s a few years ago. Can’t really remember it meself. Right,’ he gestured to the conference room. ‘Shall we?’
There was no sign of Lex – still pretending to be in France, I guessed, and my heart lifted at the prospect of not seeing him, but not for long.
‘Lex is just on a phone call so we’ll settle in, eh?’
Feeling decidedly unsettled, I followed Charles into the boardroom. I would do this meeting like any other. I had a five point agenda and would follow it to the letter.
When Lex sauntered in, ten minutes later, I offered him my executive smile and a hand to shake. He looked at it with a lopsided smile and drew me towards him for a peck on the cheek. ‘Hello, Millie. You look like you caught the sun over the weekend.’
‘Just an afternoon in the park. How was France?’ I asked, sweetly.
He smiled, ‘French.’ The next question on my lips was, Are you referring to the Knickers, the Letters or the Kisses? But I doubt you’d have known from my face.
To my irritation, he sat next to me and opposite Charles. I could have handled it better if there’d been a barrier between us…the Great Wall of China, perhaps.
Charles, thank goodness, was keen to get cracking so I surged ahead with my agenda. To say our ideas – or rather, mine – were damned with faint praise would be an understatement. With a syrupy smile, Charles reached across to grab one of the prototype bottles. ‘The colours are blue, green, red and orange. Bright colours, youthful colours.’ He planted the bottles on the table in front of me. ‘Your whole campaign is way too sophisticated. Now, don’t get me wrong, if we were promoting a new line of table wine – lovely-jubbly. But this ain’t right for Spritzah! No fun element. No “crazy night out” feeling.’ He made inverted commas in the air with his stubby fingers. ‘It’s gotta be “younger”.’
I could feel my heart pounding with humiliation. It wasn’t unusual for clients to criticise our interpretation of their brief, but this project had been close to my heart (that’s an accent on had been) and I’d burnt a shed-load of midnight oil on the ideas and mood-boards, which Gus and his team had worked up into some designs for me. Only professional pride kept me going. ‘O-k-a-y…’ I began, nodding my head and frowning to show I was thinking hard about alternatives. Except really, I was thinking what a tosser he was, and wondering why he didn’t just come out and admit his target market was eleven-to-fifteen year olds. ‘You want something more youthful…’
‘Yeah. Somethink fun.’
‘Like a day at the beach…or the park…or a birthday party.’
‘Keep going…’
‘Volley-ball on the beach…blind-man’s buff…’
‘Yeah, likin’ it…a pretty girl in a bikini and a blindfold, being spun by a fit-looking bloke…pan down to a cool-box full of Spritzah! Yeah…nice.’
‘Except we’re not actually talking about a TV commercial, at this stage.’
Lex joined in. ‘True. But Charles is right. We need to set the mood – the right tone for the product. And fun is the key word. Your designs here are dazzling, I like them and maybe we can take some ideas for one of our other products.’
More work?
‘Millie, what else can you come up with?’
I nodded and waited for inspiration. ‘How about…preparations for a birthday party, balloons, party shoes, gift boxes, streamers, candles on a cake…’
Charles was nodding encouragingly.
‘And a pretty girl lining up all the varieties of Spritzah! On the sideboard and the caption, A party’s not a party without Spritzah!’
‘I like it, I like it!’ Charles slapped his hands on the table.
Shame. I’d just described, frame by frame, last season’s ad for a range of Fizzie-Frute kids’ drinks. And he didn’t even know it. I doubted parodying their other ad: A lunch box is not a lunch box without Spritzah! Would go down quite so well. Although I figured Charles would like the idea of nubile girls in school uniform.
Lex was looking at me through half-lidded eyes. I suspected he knew exactly what I’d done. A rush of heat seared my cheeks. Bastard. How dare he make me feel uncomfortable when he was rogering his mate’s wife?
I drew a breath. ‘Or how about a yacht, anchored at sunset with a bunch of bright young things partying on deck?’
Charles wrinkled his face. ‘Too sophisticated.’
Yeah, I’ll bet. How many teenagers out on the lash have access to a yacht? I smiled. ‘Maybe you’d prefer a park bench…or a bus-stop…or would a stash of bottles behind the bike sheds do it?’
Charles laughed but Lex didn’t. ‘Millie. This isn’t an alcopop.’ His voice was dangerously smooth.
‘No?’
‘University students don’t have yachts. Nor do people working in their first job. They’re our target market. I thought we’d explained that.’
‘Of course.’ I began gathering up my stuff. ‘I’m probably over-reacting. One of our girls in the show broke her leg at the weekend. She was drunk and fell downstairs. She’s only fifteen.’
Lex looked appropriately concerned. ‘During the show?’
I told him about my impromptu performance. He raised his eyebrows and leaned towards me. ‘I wish I’d seen you.’
‘Yes. What a pity you were…out of the country.’
‘I got back early from France. If I’d known, I could have made it.’
‘Oh.’ What a pity he didn’t try. Josh had made the effort and he wasn’t even my boyfriend. Although it was a tiny point in Lex’s favour he’d at least owned up to being back in the UK.
Charles stood up. ‘Right, I think you’ve got the brief, now. Can you send the new ideas over to us by the end of the week?’
‘Erm…’ I needed to get back on a professional footing. ‘Were you happy with the budget I sent through?’
He flapped his hand. ‘Yes, yes. Fine. Go ahead.’
‘Will it be Bronwen raising the purchase order?’
‘I’ll take care of that,’ Lex said, his eyes focussing on my lips and smiling. Even though he wasn’t touching me, I backed away.
‘Thank you.’ I stood up and snapped the catch on the portfolio.
‘Right, I’m shoving off now,’ Charles said, buttoning his jacket across his over-indulged belly. ‘Bronwen and me are off to The Ivy, for dinner. It’s my birthday,’ he grinned, boyishly. It didn’t suit him.
‘Happy Birthday,’ I gushed, heading round the table after him, determined to get out before he left me alone with Lex. But I wasn’t fast enough. Lex moved over to the door, closing it behind Charles and turning his devilish smile on me – the smile that had so recently made my knees weak. I bet he’d been practicing it for years.
‘So…no rushing off for rehearsals, this time.’ He wasn’t en
quiring, he was stating a fact. Like my spending the evening with him was a dead cert. Even if I didn’t have to go to Mum’s for dinner with Josh, I wouldn’t have hung around if he was the last bachelor in London.
My voice came out wobbly with palpitation. ‘No rehearsals, but I do need to be going.’
His head tilted and his voice flattened. ‘Really? What’s so important, this time?’
I drew a deep breath. ‘Lex – I’ve been thinking, I really shouldn’t mix business with pleasure, it’s very unprofessional and…’
‘So, why don’t you pass our account to somebody else in the agency. I don’t mind.’
‘Well…’ Nobody else would put in the hours for free like I had. If I passed it over, we’d be obliged to double the budget. ‘The thing is…’ He was advancing on me, those sage green eyes searching my face for clues. I shut my eyes. ‘Lex, stop!’ When I opened them again, he was looking down at me – still just inches away. ‘I’m…I’m a bit uncomfortable with the way things are between us. I’m not sure…’
‘I’m sorry, Millie. I should never have asked you to say you were driving my car, the other night. I wasn’t thinking straight.’
Ah, yes. There was that too. ‘No. You shouldn’t.’
‘I’d just spent hours listening to Ashley giving me the low-down on his marriage break-up, we’d drunk too much wine and my head was in a mess.’
‘Ashley…as in Gemma and Ashley?’
He nodded. ‘I introduced them, years ago. If he’s not careful, he’s heading for a really messy divorce – Ash is going to get right, royally screwed.’
Interesting choice of phrase, in the circumstances. I looked him straight in the eye. ‘Is one of them having an affair?’
Lex shrugged. ‘Ashley’s never been faithful to any woman – but he only has little dalliances – Gemma knew that before she married him.’
‘So, why is she divorcing him now?’
‘She’s not. He’s divorcing Gemma. Her paranoia was getting out of hand.’
‘Well, if he’s always playing away, I’d say she had good reason.’ I stared him in the eye again. ‘Maybe she’s having an affair herself, and it’s given her a guilty conscience.’
He shook his head and ran a hand round the back of his neck. ‘I saw her at the weekend. She’s a mess, completely off-the-scale.’
I didn’t let my eyes leave his for a second. ‘Really? Are they still together, then?’
He shook his head. ‘She wanted to talk to me – about Ashley. You know, get the inside story.’
Finally, I dropped my eyes and thought back to Sacha’s two photos. In the first, they’d looked like they were talking, in the other he’d had his arm round her but there was no evidence of copulation…not even a snog. It was perfectly feasible Sacha had misread the signals. She’d never been the greatest judge of character. I took a deep breath. ‘Now I think about it – Gemma did seem a bit tense at Dominic’s party.’
‘Gemma’s more high-maintenance than a Formula One car.’
My mind jumped from thought to thought. If he truly had been supporting his friends, then I had to ask myself…how adorable was that?
And the next question…how did I feel about him, now?
He wanted to know too. ‘Come on, Millie,’ his voice was soft and persuasive. ‘Are you absolutely determined to dump me – or is there anything I can do to change your mind?’
He was so close and so warm, and he smelled of that sophisticated cologne I’d come to recognise. I focused on his mouth. ‘How did you get that scar on your top lip?’ My voice had become breathy.
‘Fell off my bike and landed on a lawnmower – I was trying to vault it at the time.’
I giggled and he moved even closer, like he knew my resolve was failing. One of his hands snaked round my waist. ‘You really do have the sexiest brown eyes, Millie.’
And suddenly, I was kissing the glory out of that scar on his top lip, and we were fastened together like our suits were made of Velcro. Eventually, he said, ‘Do you realise, I’m about to fulfil one of my favourite fantasies.’
‘What’s that?’
‘To have you on the boardroom table.’
To…have me?
I stepped back. He looked down at me and pulled a lopsided smile. ‘Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you haven’t secretly fancied doing it like that? Never wanted to rip the suit off one of your hot clients and nail him over his desk?’
Well, yes, actually. It might have crossed my mind once or twice – in my fantasies but not in the real world. And certainly not for the first time with the father of my children.
‘Come on, Millie. Charles and Bronwen will be leaving any minute.’ He trailed a finger down my throat and further to the little pink bow at the centre of my bra. I realised then, all the fastenings of my suit were undone, and my skirt was slipping slowly over my hips – helped on its way by his other hand. ‘Let’s start in here and then we can go upstairs and share a bottle of Cristal…I always find it’s the best aphrodisiac for a second or third…’
‘Nooo!’ I shoved him away from me and grabbed at my skirt. ‘What do you mean; you always find it’s the best aphrodisiac?’ I began struggling with the zip. ‘Wow. You certainly know how to make a girl feel special.’
‘Oh, come on Millie. It’s just a turn of phrase. You seemed pretty up for it a moment ago.’
‘I wasn’t up for a quickie against the filing cabinet. I was, I was…’ How did I say I was up for some serious wooing; the kind the man of your dreams indulges in when you mean something to him? And the man of my dreams wouldn’t have been standing there, hands on hips, scowl on forehead like a truculent schoolboy. ‘Oh, forget it, Lex. This whole work/pleasure thing is doomed. I just can’t separate myself that easily.’ But at the back of my mind, I started to worry about Graham’s reaction if I lost the Spritzah! Job and didn’t get paid for the hours we’d already put in. And I needed the business to stave off Simon Sodding Ostler. Yanking my skirt back up, I said. ‘Maybe after the Spritzah! Campaign we could give it another go.’
He looked at me for a long, ponderous moment. ‘I don’t think so, Millie. I’m beginning to see, you’re just far too uptight for me.’
Uptight?!
He turned away and gathered up his notes from the table. I buttoned my jacket, picked up my portfolio and stood silently while he opened the door. A dozen retorts whistled through my brain – none of them appropriate for a client I wanted to keep. But I did manage to say, ‘I’ll send over the revised designs as soon as they’re ready.’
To which he replied, ‘Fine.’ And I left without shaking hands, at least, without shaking his hand, mine were trembling like I had the DTs.
By the time I reached the street, my eyes were stinging and my breath ragged. I was uptight. True. I’d been off the dating scene too long, and Sacha was right. I’d set so much store by searching for Mr Right, I’d turned into an obsessive, angst-ridden, spinster trying to make any willing man fit the bill.
I headed off down the road, blinking my tears away, bashing into a passing commuter with my portfolio. ‘Hey! You could’ve knocked me over,’ he snapped.
‘But did I?’ I screeched back.
He gave me the finger and beetled off down into the Underground. Which reminded me, I needed to catch the tube back to Waterloo. I turned and sloped down the staircase, feeling wretched.
Throughout the journey home, I replayed every mistake I’d made, every wrong word I’d uttered, every bad decision and misinterpretation. I composed a full concert of self pity; how could I have imagined, for one moment, a guy of his calibre would take me seriously? How deluded had I been to imagine I could be mistress of Marshalhampton House? Vonnie would never be my mother-in-law, and darling Arabella would become some other woman’s beautiful sister-in-law. I would continue to be a sad fantasist.
I drove back to Bridgeman Villas and hauled my pathetic spinster arse up the stairs and into the flat.
‘Mii-ii-ll-ii-ee!’ Sac
ha shrieked.
From her position on the sofa – and it was quite some position – plus the look on Marcus’s face, I’d say I was interrupting something.
‘Sorry – I’ll get out of your way.’ I said, turning my back on them and sidestepping towards my bedroom. Just what I needed – a night in, listening to the Torvill and Dean of sofa-dancers.
‘I thought you were supposed to be at your mum’s,’ she whined after me, ‘with the vicar.’
Well…who’d have thought that would be a worse situation?
Standing there, in Copulation Central, I imagined Mum’s reaction if I let the coward in me cry off – not to mention the havoc she might wreak in my absence. Raising my chin from my chest and taking a deep breath, I waved to the couple behind me and headed back out.
Chapter 26
I arrived at Mum’s ten minutes later. Josh’s car was on the drive, all gleaming and pristine. My Fiat hadn’t been buffed up with turtle-wax in a long time. We were both suffering from neglect.
Josh opened the door to me. ‘Hi. Your mum’s in the kitchen.’
‘Hi,’ I responded, awkwardly bashing cheeks with him. My interpersonal skills desperately needed adjusting.
The kitchen was steamy. The smell of herbs and garlic indicated she must be doing her signature roast chicken. ‘Where have you been?’ she asked, ramming a tray of golden roast potatoes back in the oven.
‘A meeting in London. Is there any wine open? I think I’ll stay here tonight.’
‘Josh brought a lovely bottle of wine. It’s in the fridge.’
The Pouilly-fuissé certainly wasn’t a supermarket brand. I fished in the drawer for a corkscrew.
‘Don’t you think you should ask Josh to do that?’
‘Mum, we’re emancipated now. We can open our own bottles.’
‘Out of politeness, Millie. He brought it, ask him if he’d like to open it.’ I must have grunted like a teenager because Mum shot me a look that transported me back in time – by about fifteen years.
I traipsed into the living room. Oh boy. The white tablecloth was out, along with wedding-present silver, a vase of sweet-peas and proper linen napkins. Josh was standing, looking out over Mum’s dinky back garden, hands in the pockets of his stone coloured chinos. I pushed the bottle towards him. ‘Mum thought you might like to do the honours. She’s old-fashioned like that.’