by Jill Mansell
But he just doesn’t make my heart go zinggg.
‘I don’t know.’ Millie was reluctant. ‘I’m not sure—’
‘Of course you’re not sure! Good grief, you haven’t even spoken to him yet! We’ll go downstairs in a minute, invite him to join us for a drink on the terrace, then I’ll introduce you properly. And there's no need to look at me like that,’ Orla scolded as the phone on her desk began to ring, ‘I’ll be perfectly discreet. Yes, hello?’
Millie moved away from the window in case Richard-the-gardener happened to glance up and discover he was under surveillance.
Okay, being blatantly ogled.
‘JD, how lovely to hear from you.’ Winking at Millie, Orla perched on the edge of the desk and mouthed ‘my publisher.’ Then with a mischievous grin, she reached across and pressed the hands-free button. Immediately JD's voice boomed out of the phone.
Orla waggled her eyebrows in just-listen-to-this fashion.
‘Darling, the finance boys are tearing their hair out, we really need to get this new contract drawn up, I can’t keep them hanging on any longer.’
‘JD, it's sweet of you to be so concerned, but I really don’t feel I can sign a new contract just yet,’ said Orla. ‘Not when I haven’t the faintest idea how long it's going to take me to deliver the next book.’
‘And that's another thing—you still haven’t told me what it's about! I mean, it's not as if we’re after a full synopsis,’ JD pleaded over the speakerphone, ‘but at least give us a clue.’
Some poverty-stricken girl with cheap shoes and no boyfriend, who leads a very mundane life, thought Millie. Oh yes, that would go down a treat.
‘You see, there you go again,’ Orla told him cheerfully. ‘Nag, nag, nag, always pressuring me. Well I’m sorry, JD, but I don’t have anything to show you yet, it's still very much at the planning stage. So you’ll just have to wait.’
Gosh. Millie gazed at Orla in admiration. She knew nothing about the world of publishing, but she couldn’t help thinking you had to be an awesomely successful author to be able to speak to your publisher like that.
JD, clearly also reminding himself of this fact, began back-pedaling madly. ‘Darling, of course, of course, take as much time as you want.’
‘What a liar,’ Orla mouthed fondly across at Millie. Still perched on the edge of the desk, she crossed one leg over the other, jiggling a metallic violet sandal as she eased another cigarette from her packet. The sandal dropped to the floor and Millie saw that it was a Manolo Blahnik. No cheap shoes for Orla Hart, it went without saying. Each strappy violet sandal had probably cost more than a portable color television.
‘So how's Cornwall?’ JD was being extra-jovial now, changing the subject. ‘Settling in all right? Enjoying the peace and quiet after London? And all that stunning scenery! You know, I envy you. When I was a lad, my parents always used to take us to Cornwall, glorious place, haven’t been down there for ooh, must be twenty years.’
‘It's still glorious,’ said Orla. ‘You and Moira must come down and stay with us, we’ve got heaps of room… How's Colin, by the way? I heard something a while back about him having a spot of bother with his girlfriend.’
‘His son,’ Orla mouthed to Millie by way of explanation.
‘Oh, that's all over. Didn’t work out.’ JD's tone grew over-casual, as if he were trying to convince himself it couldn’t matter less. ‘Boy's not bothered. Just one of those things.’ He waited. ‘Moira's disappointed, of course, she's longing to see him settled down. Especially now he's turned thirty. Still, what can you do?’
Millie watched Orla have an idea; she actually saw it happen. It was like when Tom thought of a terrific new way of catching Jerry and a light bulb flashed on above his head. In similarly cartoony fashion, Orla's green eyes widened with delight and her mouth began to stretch into an unstoppable Tom-type smile.
‘Actually, JD, you really must come down and see us! Look, we’re having a party, um, a week on Saturday, and we’d love you to be here. You and Moira, and Colin of course! Make a long weekend of it, how does that sound to you?’
Millie knew how it sounded to her. You didn’t need to be a rocket scientist to work out what Orla was up to. Clearly, a thirty-year-old single bloke who’d just been dumped by his girlfriend would be the perfect match for a boyfriendless, mundane twenty-five-year-old who wore cheap shoes.
We can wear matching windbreakers and corduroy slacks, thought Millie, getting a vivid mental picture of the pair of them shyly holding hands. In her mental picture, Colin wasn’t exactly George Clooney.
‘… Oh yes, huge.’ Orla was carrying on happily without her. ‘A housewarming party for all our friends, old and new. So how about it, do we have a date? Yes? And Colin too? Fab! Yes, of course there's room in the garden to land a helicopter… okay, great, I’ll speak to you again in the week.’
‘You’re barmy.’ Millie shook her head as Orla at last hung up.
‘Darling, it's an inspired idea! We need a party anyway to cheer us all up—don’t think for one moment I’m doing this just for you.’
Not thinking for one moment that Orla was telling the truth, Millie said, ‘So who else are you going to invite? Just people from London?’ Slightly suspiciously she added, ‘You don’t know anyone down here yet.’
‘All the more reason to throw a party.’ Orla was delighted with her plan. ‘If you want to make more friends, what better way?’
Downstairs, Giles was back after his morning game of golf. In a good mood (‘Went round in seventy-four, not bad eh?’), he made coffee for them while Millie explored the contents of the biscuit tin and Orla sat at the kitchen table excitedly jangling her many bracelets as she compiled a list of people to invite.
Entertained by the look of growing incredulity on Millie's face as the list progressed, Giles explained, ‘What you have to understand about Orla is, she collects new friends like other people collect stamps. It's her hobby.’
‘Only lots more interesting.’ Unrepentant, Orla added Colin's name to the list with a flourish. ‘Anyway, what's wrong with that? I’m a writer. If I didn’t meet people, I wouldn’t be able to do my job, would I? Especially now,’ she glanced across the table at Millie, her smile mischievous, ‘with this latest project. I want your flatmate Hester to come, for a start. And your mother. And of course I’ve just got to have Lucas-the-leather-clad-stud!’
Millie said, ‘Just so long as he doesn’t decide he has to have you.’ She watched Orla scribble down a lot more names. ‘Fogarty and Phelps? The delicatessen on the High Street? Are you asking them to do the food?’
‘No.’ Orla looked surprised. ‘I was just going to invite them to the party. We buy loads of stuff from there.’
Millie wondered who else Orla was thinking of adding to the list—the girl from the petrol station, maybe? The post boy? The chap from the Gas Board when he called to read the meter?
‘… the Westlakes, of course.’ Orla was practically talking to herself now, engrossed in lengthening the list. ‘Ooh,’ she glanced excitedly up at Millie, ‘and your father and Judy.’
‘But, they don’t know you,’ Millie wavered. ‘All these people you’re inviting that you’ve never even met… how do you know they’ll turn up?’
Orla, lighting a cigarette, exchanged a glance with Giles before giving Millie a dazzling smile.
‘They just will.’
Giles, standing behind Orla and resting his hands on her shoulders, said with evident pride, ‘This is Orla Hart we’re talking about. Of course they’re going to turn up.’
Chapter 20
GILES WAS RIGHT, NEEDLESS to say. Millie realized how idiotic she’d been to worry. Enthralled to have been invited, two hundred guests RSVP’d that they’d be delighted to attend Orla's party. Her usual London firm of party planners duly rolled up the next Saturday morning to erect the marquee on the east-facing lawn, organize the music and the food, and generally do all the donkey work while simultaneously exclaiming ove
r the beauty of Orla's house, the fabulousness of her grounds, and the to-die-for views.
Millie, having driven over at lunchtime at Orla's request, marveled at the activity surrounding them.
‘I have to tell you, this is nothing like the bring-a-bottle parties Hester and I have at our place.’
Even the flower arrangements in the portaloos were spectacular. This party had to be costing Orla an absolute fortune. Millie wondered if the fact that it constituted research for the next book meant it was tax deductible.
At least the weather was perfect, hot and sunny with only the lightest of breezes skittering in off the sea.
‘Lucas has a booking at eight, but he’ll come straight over as soon as he's finished.’ Millie was following Orla upstairs to her room. ‘What happened to your publisher and his wife? I thought they were coming down for a long weekend.’
‘Oh, he was caught up at some do last night. They’re arriving this afternoon.’ Winking over her shoulder at Millie, she added, ‘With Colin.’
The mental image was still firmly fixed in Millie's mind of some nerdy, bumbling, good-hearted lad with sweaty palms and a pudding-basin haircut. For the first time, she plucked up the courage to say, ‘Look, this Colin bloke, you aren’t going to force him on me, are you?’ Another mental picture began to take shape, of him clutching a plate of vol-au-vents and spending the whole evening shadowing her. Every time she turned round, there he’d be, grinning toothily and offering her a nibble.
While hovering at a discreet distance, Orla and JD and Mrs. JD nudged each other with pride, whispered that it was all going frightfully well and didn’t they just make the sweetest couple?
‘Force him on you?’ Orla looked shocked. ‘I’m not forcing anything to happen—the whole point of this book is that you live your own life! All I’ve done is invite Colin down here. You might love him to bits or you might decide you can’t stand him. But it's entirely up to you.’ She grinned. ‘Darling, don’t panic, I’m not a pimp.’
‘So what's he like?’ Reluctantly, Millie decided to give her the benefit of the doubt. ‘Does he have a job?’
She had privately concluded that Colin—with his Christmas-present sweaters and placid manner—was a bit simple.
‘Well, I suppose you could say he's between jobs at the moment.’ Orla gestured in that airy way people do when they’re talking about someone a bit simple. ‘Taking a bit of a break, that kind of thing.’
Millie nodded, understanding.
Right, a total no-hoper.
They had reached the master bedroom by this time, a vast expanse of deep blues and greens and endless mirror-fronted fitted wardrobes. Hanging from one of the wardrobe doors was a Dolce & Gabbana bag, which Orla unhooked and passed to Millie.
‘Wow, is this what you’re wearing tonight?’ Reverently, Millie pulled out the honey-colored shift dress fashioned from fine, butter-soft suede. It was scoop-necked, sleeveless, and very elegant, the kind of thing supermodels slunk along catwalks in. It was also absolutely tiny.
‘No, you are.’ Looking pleased, Orla threw herself on to the bed. ‘I chose it. For you. Isn’t it great?’
Dolce & Gabbana? If they’d just opened a shop in Newquay, this was the first Millie had heard of it. Stunned, she said, ‘How?’
‘I spotted it in a fashion piece in the Sunday Times last week. Phoned up, ordered one, it was delivered yesterday.’ Orla shrugged as if it were obvious.
How the other half shop.
‘Right. Of course,’ said Millie.
‘Go on then, try it on!’
Millie looked at her.
‘I’m sorry, this is a beautiful dress, and it's really kind of you to buy it for me. But I can’t wear it.’
‘Why not?’ Orla bounced upright on the bed. ‘Because it's suede? But you aren’t a vegetarian!’
‘Not because it's suede.’ Even as she said it, Millie was running her fingers regretfully over the bodice of the dress. ‘Because it's Dolce and Gabbana, and it cost a fortune, and it wouldn’t be me. It's cheating. Everybody would automatically assume I was a Dolce and Gabbana kind of person and I’m just not. I’m a chainstore girl, I buy clothes from Top Shop and Miss Selfridge and Dorothy Perkins.’
And I wear them with cheap shoes…
‘But it's a present, and you’d look so great in it,’ Orla pleaded.
‘You want me to be Cinderella,’ said Millie, ‘but Cinderella's a fairy tale. And you want your book to be real. I mean it. Designer labels might be you, but they aren’t me.’
‘The label's on the inside,’ Orla explained. ‘Nobody would know! If anyone asks, you can tell them you bought the dress in Top Shop… then they’d think how fabulous you looked and be even more impressed!’
‘That's cheating even more.’ As Millie spoke, someone tapped on the bedroom door.
Giles stuck his head round.
‘JD just rang to say they’re running late. Colin's been held up at some interview thingy so they’ll be here around six.’
Millie frowned.
Interview thingy? On a Saturday afternoon? Colin had to be applying for the position of assistant lettuce-washer in McDonald's.
‘Oh, JD warned me about it yesterday, said this might happen.’ Diamonds the size of frozen peas glittered as Orla flapped her hand. ‘The MTV thing. I suppose bloody Madonna kept everyone waiting for hours.’
Madonna?
Did she just say Madonna or McDonald's?
Mystified, Millie said, ‘What?’
‘Oh darling, didn’t I mention it? They’re rumored to be doing a film together… then again, you know what these movie people are like, it might never come off.’
‘A film? Colin? ’
Orla was grinning now; she’d held out as long as she could.
‘Although they’d be brilliant together, no question about it. And now he's finished his run in the West End he's looking for another project, something new and a bit different.’
Making a film with Madonna… fair enough, that counted as something a bit different.
‘Okay,’ Millie demanded. ‘Who is he?’
‘Well, just darling Colin as far as we’re concerned.’ Orla was smiling fondly as she spoke. ‘But I suppose you’d know him as Con Deveraux.’
Millie's stomach did a quick swish-swish spin. She gulped. Con Deveraux was the all-singing, all-dancing star of the dazzling new show that had taken the West End by storm.
He was sex on legs.
Oh good grief, thought Millie, and Orla's only gone and invited him down here to meet me!
‘This is definitely cheating,’ she told Orla. ‘You said no celebrities.’
Orla looked indignant. ‘It's not cheating at all. I’ve known Colin since he was fourteen years old. He might be a celebrity to you, but to me he's just JD's little boy.’
‘So what are you up to this evening? Off anywhere nice?’
The phone was sandwiched between Hester's left ear and shoulder as she painted her nails bright orange. She knew she didn’t need to lie, Nat had never minded her going out and having fun. All she had to do was tell him about Orla Hart's party. He’d be delighted, he’d ask her what she was wearing and encourage her to have a great time.
But that was the trouble. What she couldn’t tell Nat was that Lucas Kemp was going to the party as well. And there was a chance she might end up having a truly great time. Just not the kind Nat would want her to have.
‘No, I don’t feel like going anywhere.’ Basically, it was simpler to fib. ‘I just fancy a quiet night in.’
Bugger, now she’d messed up a nail. Nat certainly picked his moments to phone.
‘Come on,’ he sounded amused, ‘it's Saturday night, you’ll have changed your mind by nine o’clock.’
Hester was indignant. What was he saying, that she was weak-willed or something?
‘I will not be changing my mind.’ She flapped her wet nails as she spoke, uncurling her legs and splaying her toes in preparation for their second co
at. ‘Definitely definitely staying in.’
‘Money's running out,’ said Nat, who was calling from the pay-phone in the restaurant. Above the sound of the pips he called, ‘Love you, speak to you soon, bye.’
‘Love you too,’ Hester began, but he’d already hung up. Well it was six o’clock. Back to work, rush rush, chop chop, slave slave. She could picture it only too clearly, the heat and chaos of the kitchen, everyone yelling at each other, the head chef threatening to sack anyone who sliced the wrong thickness of star fruit…
It was almost insulting, Hester decided, that Nat would rather be up there in Glasgow enduring all that torture than down here with her.
Right. Toes. Second coat of Orange Dazzle.
She’d make sure somebody appreciated all the effort she was putting in, if it killed her.
And hadn’t orange always been Lucas's favorite color?
Orla and Giles had pulled out all the stops. Or rather the party planners had. As Millie and Hester rattled up the drive in Millie's car, they saw that as well as the artful flood lighting around the house, the trees had been swathed in glittering white fairy lights. The marquee, like a giant wedding cake, occupied the east lawn. Music was spilling out from the marquee and guests milled around the garden in the deepening twilight. The sky was marbled yellow and purple like a bruise, the air warm and still. There were also some extremely smart cars parked along the driveway and, behind the house, Millie glimpsed the rotor blades of a helicopter silhouetted against the skyline. Thankfully there were a few other unsmart cars there too. Squeezing the Mini in between a gleaming black Jag and a much-abused blue van with ‘Water, I need water’ scrawled across its dusty rear doors, Millie switched off the ignition, spotted Orla amongst the crowds, and wished for the hundredth time she hadn’t worn the dress.
‘How do I look?’ she asked Hester, who was straining forwards, frantically elongating her eyeliner in the rear view mirror.
‘What does it matter how you look?’ Hester's hands had by this time begun to shake, which wasn’t doing her any favors, eyeliner-wise. ‘I’m the one meeting Lucas—you should be telling me how great I look.’