MILLIE'S FLING

by Jill Mansell

  Chapter 10

  ‘WELL, WELL, MILLIE BRADY, come here and let me take a proper look at you.’ Lucas Kemp held out his arms, greeted Millie with a kiss on each cheek, and gave her a long, leisurely once-over. Grinning broadly, he said, ‘Gorgeous, gorgeous. You haven’t changed a bit.’

  ‘Neither have you.’ Millie was smiling too; she’d forgotten what an incorrigible flirt he was. Well, not forgotten that he was a flirt— that would be like forgetting that bananas were yellow—it was the sheer extent of it that had faded from her mind over the years.

  Lucas Kemp would chat up a kitchen table, so long as it was a female table. He was relentless.

  Actually, Millie had to admit that Lucas was still looking pretty good himself. Especially considering the life he’d probably led. When he’d left Cornwall six years ago to seek DJ stardom in London, his hair had been shoulder-length, his sideburns long and pointy, and he’d cultivated that young Rod Stewart style of dressing that was so easy to mock. Particularly in Newquay.

  Now his hair was shorter, the sideburns still there but less pointy, his hawk-like nose as big as ever. He was wearing a plain black sweater with the sleeves pushed up and black trousers. And no socks. No shoes either. All the better for stripping off in ten seconds flat and leaping into bed with his next conquest, thought Millie, stifling amusement.

  Anyway, this was Lucas Kemp's office, on the ground floor of his home, and he could wear whatever he liked.

  Well, preferably not a jockstrap and wellies.

  ‘Right, down to business.’ Lucas perched on the edge of his desk and gestured Millie towards the leather chair. ‘So you think you could handle this kind of work?’

  ‘I need a job, it sounds like fun, I can roller-skate, and I don’t mind making an idiot of myself. What more can I tell you?’

  ‘Perfect,’ said Lucas cheerfully. ‘How about stripping?’

  Eek.

  ‘Sorry,’ Millie was firm. ‘I don’t mind dressing up in daft outfits, but there's no way I’m getting my kit off.’

  ‘Shame. Stretch marks?’

  ‘No! Bloody cheek!’ Millie exclaimed before realizing he was teasing her.

  ‘Plus,’ Lucas was grinning again, ‘you’ll be needing a sense of humor.’

  He spent the next thirty minutes listening to her sing, watching her dance, going over exactly what the job entailed, and explaining how the business was run.

  Finally he said, ‘Well, that's about it. Welcome to Kemp's.’

  ‘You mean I’m in?’ Millie was astonished. ‘I’ve passed the test? You really want me?’

  Oops, wrong thing to say. Lucas's green eyes crinkled at the comers in the knowing way she remembered so well. Not that he’d ever singled her out for such treatment; it was just how Lucas was. He did it to everyone. Kitchen tables included.

  ‘I really want you.’ The words were accompanied by a playful lift of his eyebrows. Holding out his hands, he went on, ‘Hey, who wouldn’t? With that figure and those eyes, not to mention the hair.’ Lucas shook his head, apparently lost in admiration. ‘You know what you’ve always reminded me of? The fairy on top of the Christmas tree.’

  ‘Great, thanks a lot,’ Millie groaned. When you’d spent your life longing to be Lily Munster, this wasn’t a compliment.

  ‘And how's the rest of it going? Married? Single? Steady bloke?’

  Last night, Hugh Emerson had asked her the same question.

  ‘Lesbian,’ said Millie.

  But of course this didn’t put Lucas off, his eyes actually lit up.

  ‘Fabulous.’

  ‘Not really,’ Millie said hastily before he started formulating plans for an all-singing, all-fondling kd langogram. ‘And no, I’m not involved with anyone at the moment. Giving myself a break from men.’ He was still smirking. ‘Lucas, it was a poor joke, I’m really not interested in women. How about you?’

  ‘Me? Oh, I’m definitely interested in women.’

  ‘Enough to marry one?’

  He looked appalled.

  ‘No thanks.’

  ‘Girlfriend?’

  ‘Well, you know… I keep myself busy.’

  Same old Lucas, thought Millie with a smile. That meant he had half a dozen on the go, girls he saw every now and again when it suited him and doubtless treated appallingly, just as he always had in the old days.

  As if on cue, as he was showing her out of the house, Lucas said, ‘How's Hester, by the way? Did you two keep in touch?’

  ‘Oh yes.’

  He looked pleased. ‘That's great. What's she doing these days?’

  Talking about you, mostly. That is, when she isn’t racing hell for leather around Newquay trying to accidentally bump into you.

  Aloud, Millie said, ‘She's in the jewelry business.’ Well, it sounded a bit more impressive than telling him Hester sold quirky earrings on a stall in Newquay market.

  ‘Really? So where's she living now?’

  Here goes.

  ‘With me.’ Millie turned and gave him an extra-stern look. ‘And no, before you even think it, she isn’t a lesbian either.’

  Lucas laughed.

  ‘Dear old Hester, she was always a good sort.’

  Oh dear, thought Millie, that wasn’t very promising. Hester was hardly likely to be flattered. Old and a good sort; it was an outrageous slur on her character.

  Realizing that he was still talking, Millie said, ‘Sorry, what was that?’

  Lucas repeated casually, ‘And is she still single as well?’

  It was like a Pavlovian response, Millie decided, he simply couldn’t resist asking the question. Some men could never have too many strings to their bow.

  ‘Gosh no, Hester's got the most gorgeous boyfriend,’ she told Lucas with enthusiasm. ‘He's wonderful, they’re the perfect couple, Hester's blissfully happy with him. Really, love's young dream.’

  Millie wondered if maybe she’d overdone the praise, gushed a bit too much. Lucas was a thrill-of-the-chase man through and through… the thought that Hester might be happier with someone else than she had been with him could pique his interest.

  The words bull and red rag sprang to mind. Oh Lord, he might regard it as an irresistible challenge.

  But all Lucas did was shake his head and smile carelessly as he pulled open the front door.

  ‘Dear old Hester. That's great news. I’m happy for her. Okay then, I’ll see you at midday tomorrow and introduce you to the rest of the crew—damn, sorry.’

  He answered his mobile as they made their way over to Millie's mud-splashed lime green Mini. She listened to Lucas charm and cajole someone called Darling into forgiving him for standing her up last night. As he did so, he winked at Millie and mimed good-natured despair.

  When the phone was safely switched off she said, ‘You haven’t changed at all.’

  ‘Actually, I have.’ Lucas gave her shoulder a reassuring squeeze. ‘I’ve got better.’

  Millie looked skeptical.

  ‘At what?’

  ‘Sweetheart,’ he lifted a playful eyebrow, ‘trust me, everything you can possibly imagine.’

  ‘Well?’ demanded Hester, dragging her in through the front door so hard that Millie almost ricocheted off the wall. ‘Was he fat? Was he bald? Did he ask about me?’

  ‘All his own hair and teeth. And no, he isn’t fat. And yes, he asked about you.’

  Hester let out a whoop of joy.

  ‘And what did you say?’

  ‘I told him you were seriously involved with the loveliest man in the world.’

  ‘Oh God no, you didn’t! What did you have to say that for?’

  ‘Because it's true. You are.’

  Hester mulled this over for a couple of seconds. Finally she said, ‘Maybe it’ll make him jealous. Wonder what he could be missing.’

  ‘Anyway, I got the job, thanks very much for asking,’ said Millie. ‘I’m glad you’re so interested.’

  ‘Really? Brilliant. Maybe I could do it too.’ Hester perked u
p at the prospect of working for Lucas.

  ‘Except you can’t sing,’ Millie reminded her. ‘You have to be able to sing.’

  ‘Bugger. Are you sure?’ Hester looked hopeful. ‘Couldn’t I just whip my top off instead?’

  Orla Hart stood in the conservatory of her spectacular new home with its dazzling sea view and watched Giles, her beloved husband of over sixteen years, climb out of his car and wave up at her.

  Oh Giles, are you doing it again? Are you?

  Are you being unfaithful to me?

  Orla pushed her long auburn hair back from her forehead, smiled, and waved back. A loving faithful husband, that was all she wanted. It wasn’t too much to ask, surely? Giles had a marvelous life, they lived well—very well—and he was free to play as much golf as he liked.

  So why did he have to go and spoil it all by getting himself involved in these ridiculous, meaningless relationships?

  Thinking about it caused an almost physical ache in Orla's chest. She hated, absolutely hated having to be suspicious, always on the lookout for clues. It wasn’t only depressing, it was exhausting too. She was exhausted now, for heaven's sake, and this was midday.

  Still, at least today she had something else lined up to take her mind off Giles and whatever he might be up to behind her back.

  Not quite yet though.

  ‘Hi, darling! Did you get what you wanted?’ Orla greeted him brightly as he reached the conservatory. Although this was something of a rhetorical question, since Giles always got what he wanted.

  ‘Newspaper.’ He waggled a copy of The Times at her, then held up a dark blue Fogarty & Phelps carrier. ‘Truffle oil and Serrano ham from the deli. Box of cigars. Oh, and a couple more bottles of that tawny port.’

  So, ten minutes’ worth of shopping and he’d been out of the house for an hour and a half.

  Orla's stomach was in knots. She didn’t want to think like this. Oh God, why did her whole life have to be riddled with doubt?

  As if reading her mind, Giles added carelessly, ‘Plus a few other odds and sods. And the traffic was diabolical, of course. Whole town's crawling with bloody tourists.’

  Well this much was definitely true. It was. Hating herself for doing it, Orla went over to Giles and gave him a welcome-home hug. As she did so she inhaled slowly, her senses on red alert for the faintest trace of perfume.

  Any perfume, but particularly L’Heure Bleu.

  But there wasn’t, there wasn’t, oh the relief! Hating herself this time for having doubted him, Orla blurted out, ‘Do you know how much I love you?’

  It would have been nice, at this point, if Giles could have responded in a romantic manner. But that was men for you, they never seemed to realize the importance of romance. Instead, Giles absent-mindedly patted her elbow and said, ‘I’m starving… good grief, what is that?’

  He was peering over her shoulder. Swiveling round, Orla saw that his attention had been caught by a geriatric, lime green Mini, a dust cloud billowing in its wake as it zoomed up the drive.

  ‘Watch out, the hippies are in town.’ Giles chuckled at the incongruity of the scene as the Mini screeched to a halt next to his gleaming white BMW. ‘What's this all about, then? Want me to send them packing?’

  ‘It's Millie,’ said Orla, ‘the girl I told you about.’

  Well, half told him about. She hadn’t mentioned the circumstances of their first meeting on the edge of the wind-ruffled cliff top at Tresanter Point.

  ‘Oh. Her.’ Giles's hand slid from the crook of her elbow. ‘I can’t imagine how you think this is going to work. It's a ridiculous idea.’

  ‘Maybe. I’m still going to do it though.’

  Famed for her cheerful, easygoing nature, Orla seldom put her foot down. But when she did she was unshakeable. Nicely, she said, ‘Will you be joining us for lunch?’

  Giles looked as if she’d just asked him to eat his own underpants.

  ‘Why would I want to do that?’

  ‘Millie's lovely. She's great fun. You’d like her.’

  Orla didn’t get her hopes up.

  ‘Ha, and she could end up costing you millions. No thanks.’ Giles mimed a shudder of horror. ‘I’ll sit this one out, if it's all the same to you. Spend the afternoon at the club.’

  Chapter 11

  IF THIS WAS HOW best-selling authors lived, thought Millie, no wonder it hadn’t occurred to Orla Hart that there were some people who couldn’t afford the luxury of a back garden.

  The house was incredible, vast, and hugely glamorous, and painted such a dazzling shade of white that it reminded Millie of Hollywood teeth. Ultra-brite white with a hint of Baywatch. But for all its modern angles, polished beechwood flooring, and endless sets of white-framed French windows, it wasn’t unwelcoming. Orla had filled the cool, airy rooms with flowers, bright cushions, and an eclectic assortment of paintings and prints. The lighting was imaginative, the sofas inviting, and the views—it went without saying—terrific.

  ‘And this is my study.’ Having given her the guided tour, Orla now threw open the last door along the landing. ‘Where I write.’

  Millie still had no idea why Orla had invited her here today, but she was certainly enjoying herself. Lunch, Orla had said, and a kind of proposition. Since she knew Orla was feeling guilty about helping her to lose her job, Millie guessed she was about to be offered some form of part-time work—typing or filing, maybe—to make up for it.

  The study was entirely functional, with a state-of-the-art computer installed in one corner. Filing cabinets lined one wall, bookshelves another. The blinds were drawn, shielding Orla from the temptation of gazing idly out at the view. The revolving chair in front of the PC was old and tatty, and looked deeply uncomfortable.

  ‘I know,’ said Orla. ‘It's the lucky chair. Six pounds fifty, twelve years ago, and after half an hour sitting on it, your backside's gone numb. But it's my favorite chair for writing on.’

  The bookshelves were stuffed with copies of Orla's novels; hardbacks, paperbacks, trade paperbacks, and foreign-language editions, hundreds of the things in every size and color.

  ‘And this is how you plan out your work?’ Millie peered up at the series of charts pinned around the walls. Every chart was covered in a mish-mash of names, arrows, and biographical details, and a different colored felt pen had been used for each of the characters. Beneath these descriptions, chapter headings were listed and cross-referenced, enabling the various plot lines to be meticulously followed and worked out.

  ‘God!’ Millie exclaimed. ‘I had no idea. This is like a military campaign.’

  She’d naively imagined that writers just sat down and wrote whatever came into their heads.

  ‘I know, I know. That's exactly what it's like.’ Orla heaved a sigh, ‘Rigid, regimented, all planned out from the first paragraph, right the way through to the bitter end.’

  Millie was still busy marveling at the fine detail.

  ‘And there was me thinking you just made it up as you went along.’

  ‘Good heavens. Be spontaneous, you mean?’ Orla smiled slightly and lit a cigarette. ‘Sit down each morning wondering what might happen next? Not having the faintest idea how the story might turn out?’

  There was an unfamiliar edge to her voice. Thinking she must have offended Orla, Millie flapped her hands and said hurriedly, ‘Look, I’m sorry, I’m a complete idiot and I don’t know the first thing about writing a novel! Of course you have to plan it out—’

  ‘But the thing is,’ Orla cut in, ‘I don’t.’

  There it was again, that edge. Millie looked at her, confused. She’d completely lost track of this argument.

  ‘It's what I do,’ Orla went on, ‘because it's what I’ve always done. But it's not actually compulsory.’

  ‘Oh. Right.’ Millie nodded apologetically. She was beginning to wish she’d stayed at home and practiced her juggling.

  ‘Look, sit down.’ Abruptly pulling a sheet of paper from her desk drawer, Orla directed Millie on t
o the uncomfortable swivel chair. ‘And take a look at this. Then maybe you’ll understand.’

  She stood in front of the window, smoking furiously and tugging at the cuff of her lilac, Bohemian-style shirt.

  As Millie began to read the photocopied review of Orla's last novel, she shuddered in sympathy. The reviewer had stormed in with all guns blazing, criticizing the style and content of the book, and gleefully poking fun at the characters. The newspaper review was headlined, ORLA LOSES THE PLOT, and went dramatically downhill from that point. No critical stone was left unturned, and the agony didn’t end there. Cruel references were made to Orla's personal life. She was selling out, writing on autopilot, churning out rubbish that was an insult to her fans purely for the money and probably in order to shore up her marriage.

  ‘This,’ the review scathingly concluded, ‘is the very worst book I have ever read. But at least I was paid to read it. Unless anyone you know is prepared to pay you, I suggest you do yourself a huge favor and leave Orla Hart's latest apology for a novel firmly up there on the shelf.’

  ‘My God,’ Millie gasped, staring at Orla. ‘That is so mean.’

  ‘One way of putting it.’ Orla's tone was casual but there were tears glistening in her eyes. Vigorously she stubbed out her cigarette.

  ‘Do you know this man?’ According to the byline, the reviewer was one Christie Carson. The accompanying photograph was of a bearded, thin-faced, sardonic-looking male in his fifties. ‘I’ve never even heard of Christie Carson.’ Outraged, she said, ‘And he's so ugly.’

  ‘The hairy weasel.’ Orla was fiddling frantically with her cigarette packet, clearly desperate for her next fix. ‘No, I’ve never met him. But I like to think he smells like a weasel too. Nasty, spiteful, jealous little man. He's one of the new Irish writers,’ she explained, because Millie was still mystified. ‘Forever banging on about literature and integrity and truth.’ Her lip curled in disdain. ‘Oh, he's a right smug intellectual, always being nominated for some award or another, but he doesn’t make as much money as I do. They try and pretend they don’t care but they’re actually eaten up with envy.’