MILLIE'S FLING

by Jill Mansell

  ‘Hear that?’ said Hugh, turning his head.

  Oh, don’t worry, it's just my heart breaking, shattering into a zillion pieces.

  ‘If I’m not mistaken,’ Millie pronounced, ‘it's the mating call of the greater-spotted, swallow-tailed, ring-necked redwing.’

  Obligingly, at that moment, a bird sang out from one of the trees overhead.

  Hugh gave her a pitying look.

  ‘If there's one thing I can’t stand, it's a smug intellectual. And if you listen again I think you’ll find that's the call of the lesser-spotted, swallow-tailed, ring-necked redwing.’

  ‘Tell you what,’ said Millie, ‘let's just shoot it anyway.’ Peering ahead into the darkness, she glimpsed movement. ‘There's somebody over there.’

  ‘That's the noise I heard. Two people talking. I can see them now,’ Hugh added as they followed the curve of the path and drew nearer. ‘Over there on that bench.’

  The bench was close to the park's exit gates; to get out they had to pass it. As they approached, Millie saw that the couple were entwined in a pretty intimate embrace.

  ‘I hope they aren’t having sex,’ whispered Millie.

  Sounding amused, Hugh whispered back, ‘Why? They’re the ones who’ll be embarrassed.’

  Yes, you big nitwit, but I’ll be jealous!

  They had almost reached the park bench now. The couple on it were kissing passionately… and audibly.

  ‘Yuk,’ Millie murmured. ‘I hate noisy kissers.’

  ‘They haven’t seen us. They don’t know we’re here.’ Hugh spoke in an undertone. ‘Otherwise I’m sure they’d do it more quietly.’

  Millie was tempted to clear her throat and startle them out of their passion-fueled snog. Thankfully, it appeared to be no more than a snog, although the two of them were by this time practically horizontal on the bench. It couldn’t be comfortable either—those narrow wooden slats had no give in them—and from the look of the couple they weren’t what you’d call spring chickens. Not that Millie could see their faces, but the man's shoes and trousers weren’t the kind anyone under the age of thirty would be seen dead in, and it stood to reason that no female under thirty would be seen dead with the kind of man who went out in public dressed like that.

  The next moment two things happened more or less simultaneously. The man who was lying almost on top of the woman stopped kissing her noisily for just long enough to let out a groan of longing. Cupping her face in his hands, he sighed passionately, ‘Oh God, you drive me insane.’

  ‘It drives me insane when people say that,’ Hugh whispered in Millie's ear.

  But Millie didn’t hear him; she was too busy being in shock.

  Surely not. It couldn’t really be her ex-boss, could it? Tim Fleetwood? It sounded exactly like him, but how could it be?

  Because apart from anything else, the woman lying underneath him sure as hell wasn’t his wife, scary Sylvia.

  A split-second later the woman's shoe, which had been dangling from her toes, slid off and fell to the ground. It was an elegant lime green stiletto with a leather bow on the heel and a gold lining.

  Millie promptly went into triple shock. The shoe was a size three and a half. She knew this because she had tried it on last week. Or, at least, had tried to try it on. Being a size five herself, it hadn’t fit.

  ‘Oh darling, you look just like one of the ugly sisters,’ the owner of the expensive new shoes had trilled with her customary lack of tact.

  Millie closed her eyes but it was too late, she’d already recognized the slender stockinged leg now minus its shoe. There was surely no mistaking that leg, nor the hands that were entwined in Tim Fleetwood's hair—although maybe entwined was putting it a bit strongly, considering there wasn’t actually that much of it.

  But the clincher, the absolute clincher, was the jewelry. Those rings, that bracelet, the narrow gold watch.

  Chapter 49

  ‘WHAT WAS THAT ALL about?’ demanded Hugh thirty seconds later. He rubbed his arm where Millie's fingers had dug in so hard she’d left a series of nail-shaped indentations. One minute they’d been wandering at a leisurely pace through the park; the next, she had seized his arm and with superhuman strength practically dragged him out through the gates.

  Millie didn’t reply. Seemingly unaware of her surroundings, she was heading away from the square at a rate of knots, her spine rigid and her arms folded tightly across her chest. Hurrying to catch up, Hugh marveled at the pace she was setting.

  ‘Millie? Slow down a minute. Tell me what's going on.’

  When she turned to look at him, he saw that her face was white.

  ‘I can’t tell you.’

  ‘You have to.’ Seeing her like this, Hugh's chest tightened with concern. He wanted to protect Millie from whatever had upset her. Put his arms around her and make everything better. He couldn’t bear the thought of anyone hurting her.

  As if I haven’t hurt her enough myself.

  Millie was trembling violently. Her green angora cardigan was tied around her waist. Gently, Hugh untied the sleeves and helped her into it as if she were a child.

  ‘That man on the bench back there.’ The words came out jerkily, between chattering teeth. ‘I know him. It's Tim Fleetwood, my old boss.’

  ‘Okay.’ Hugh nodded slowly, wondering what all the fuss was about. He knew why Millie had left the travel agency; she’d told him all about the downtrodden husband and his possessive, wildly jealous wife. But why would seeing him now—

  ‘I know the woman too, the one he was with,’ Millie blurted out. ‘Oh Hugh, this is awful, I’m so ashamed. It's my mother.’

  Down on the beach, the tide was in. An almost-full moon lit up the inky water. Millie sat on the dry sand above the high-tide line and hugged her knees. Hugh, sitting next to her, allowed her to talk.

  ‘I mean, we knew she was seeing someone and we’d guessed he was married. In theory I could cope with that. It's just the shock of actually seeing them together, your own mother kissing some man… it's so gross… and in public, where anyone could have seen them! And to cap it all she had to choose Tim Fleetwood!’

  ‘At least she didn’t see you,’ said Hugh.

  ‘Of course she didn’t see me, she was too busy sticking her tongue down her hideous old boyfriend's throat… ugh, double-gross! Just the thought of it makes me feel sick.’ Repulsed, Millie covered her face with her hands. ‘I wanted to yell at them, throw a bucket of water over them, anything to make them stop pawing each other like that!’

  Hugh hid a smile. Poor Millie, she was upset, but actually there was a funny side to this. Picturing her flinging a bucket of cold water over her mother and her ex-boss, he struggled to keep a straight face.

  Lucky, really, that there hadn’t been any buckets lying about.

  ‘Why didn’t you yell at them?’ In fact, he was surprised she hadn’t; it would have been a Millie thing to do.

  ‘I couldn’t. I couldn’t. It would have been too embarrassing for you.’ Her voice rose again. ‘I’m so ashamed—God, my own mother! How would that have made you feel?’

  Touched, Hugh put his arm around her.

  ‘You idiot. You know, I think I could probably have coped.’

  ‘Tuh,’ Millie retorted. ‘You might have been able to, but I couldn’t.’

  His mouth twitched.

  ‘Why not? What did you think I’d say? Ugh, get away from me, Millie Brady, I don’t want anything to do with a girl whose mother cavorts shamelessly on park benches with married men?’

  Millie picked up a pale grey pebble and lobbed it—plop—into the sea. Funnily enough, this was almost exactly what she had expected Hugh to say. Well, maybe not say, because he simply wasn’t that rude. But she could picture him thinking it, which was just as bad.

  Still, he had his arm around her waist, which wasn’t bad at all. In fact, it was extremely nice, even if she knew it didn’t mean anything. It was a cheer-up-and-don’t-worry-about-your-delinquent-mother gesture rather
than a romantic one. Then again, beggars can’t be choosers, and right now any friendly gesture was better than none, especially when the merest physical contact was making her go zingy all over and want to writhe helplessly with pleasure like a puppy having its stomach tickled.

  Millie's breathing grew shallower and more rapid as Hugh's fingers, idly stroking her hypersensitive skin, began to head in a direction they really shouldn’t have been heading.

  Oh, but he was doing it so seductively she didn’t know if she could bring herself to stop him.

  ‘Please don’t,’ croaked Millie.

  ‘I want to. I have to,’ Hugh whispered back, his breath warm on her ear. ‘You’ve kept me in suspense long enough. I can’t stand it any longer.’

  ‘No. You mustn’t.’ Summoning all her mental strength, Millie clamped her hand over his fingers and peeled them away from her leg. She took a deep breath. ‘No, no, no.’

  Hugh grinned.

  ‘Spoilsport.’

  ‘I promise you,’ Millie said with feeling, ‘you don’t want to know.’

  She kept the flat of her hand firmly over the tattoo as she spoke. To her relief Hugh didn’t persist.

  ‘Okay, fair enough. But there's something else I’m curious about. Why didn’t you tell Orla about us?’

  Actually, not that relieved.

  ‘Because it was a one-off. It didn’t mean anything,’ Millie lied— since it had, of course, meant the exact opposite. ‘It wasn’t… relevant,’ she floundered on, ‘and I knew you wouldn’t want to be included, no matter how much Orla disguised your identity. Anyway, I’m allowed to keep some stuff private.’ Especially stuff that makes me look like a wally and a complete pushover. ‘I didn’t happen to think that was any of Orla's business.’

  Hugh raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I thought she paid you to tell her everything.’

  ‘Look, what Orla doesn’t know won’t hurt her.’ Shifting uncomfortably on the sand—her bottom was going numb—Millie retorted, ‘You aren’t going to tell her, are you? And neither am I. So basically, Orla's never going to find out.’

  ‘You’re sure that's not cheating?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure!’ Honestly, what was he suggesting, that she gave the five thousand pounds back to Orla? ‘She's got heaps of stuff to write about.’ Getting huffy, Millie tugged the gooseberry-green angora cardigan up over her shoulders. ‘The thing is, you’re acting as though what happened between us that one night was important, and it wasn’t. Compared with all the other stuff that's been going on, crikey, it was nothing! It meant nothing. It was just a… blip.’

  Silence. Millie wondered if she’d gone too far. It was, after all, the kind of declaration at which a man could take offense.

  Finally, slowly, after studying her face for what seemed like an hour, Hugh tilted his head to one side.

  ‘A blip. Of course it was. You’re absolutely right.’

  The taxi drew to a halt outside Millie's house. Hugh, who was traveling on to Padstow, said, ‘I’ll move to the front.’

  It was an excuse to get out of the cab and say good night to Millie. This evening's events had shaken him more than he cared to admit, even to himself, and he was fighting to keep his feelings under control.

  First, seeing Millie at the club with Jed, assuming that he was a new boyfriend, and not liking it one bit. Then, dancing with Millie and wondering if it was affecting her as profoundly as it had affected him.

  He truly hadn’t known the answer to this until she had called him a blip. That was when he’d known for sure that he wasn’t a blip.

  Guilt had mingled with relief. There was no easy answer. He didn’t want to feel this way about anyone, but he just couldn’t help it.

  Standing on the pavement together while the taxi driver lit a cigarette, they gazed into each other's eyes.

  ‘Gosh, it's late,’ said Millie, shivering. ‘Two o’clock.’

  He wanted to kiss her so badly but knew he mustn’t. It wasn’t fair on Millie. He knew what else he wanted to do, but that wouldn’t be fair either.

  Instead, smiling slightly, he said, ‘Thanks for rescuing me this evening.’

  ‘Any time.’

  She was either shivering or trembling. Hugh couldn’t tell which.

  He didn’t want to go.

  But he must.

  ‘I ended up enjoying myself more than I’d expected.’

  ‘Me too.’ Millie pulled a face. ‘Apart from the bit where we bumped into my mother.’

  ‘And the bit where you called me a blip.’ Jesus, what am I doing? Why am I saying this? Do I want her to tell me it isn’t true?

  ‘I love that word,’ said Millie. ‘Actually, it's one of my all-time favorites.’ Slowly, she repeated it. ‘Blip.’

  Hugh nodded. ‘I’m very fond of Tombola.’

  ‘Lozenge.’

  ‘Jinx.’

  ‘Swizzlestick.’ She twirled the syllables around her tongue with relish.

  ‘Yodel.’

  ‘Fandango. Although,’ Millie confessed, ‘I don’t really know what it means.’

  She was smiling and still shivering, stumbling slightly over the words. Hugh shivered too; there it was, happening again, just as it had happened on the beach. Some indefinable chemistry was at work, zapping between them. Millie had this effect on him. He wished she didn’t, but she did. There was no escaping it.

  He really liked the word testosterone, but it hardly seemed appropriate to say so.

  He mustn’t weaken, he mustn’t. If the guilt came flooding back, as it had last time, that would be it. He would hate himself and Millie would certainly never forgive him.

  Not again.

  Hugh tilted his head slightly to avoid the glare of an approaching car's headlights. Misconstruing the movement, clearly thinking he was about to kiss her, Millie angled her own cheek towards his. Awkwardly, because a decorous peck on the cheek was so far removed from the kiss he wanted to give her, but knew he couldn’t risk, he did the gentlemanly thing. Fleeting contact, two inches from the corner of her mouth.

  They gazed at each other with silent, throbbing longing as the car moved steadily past them.

  Millie cleared her throat as she fumbled in her bag for her frontdoor key.

  ‘Doppelgänger's a gorgeous word.’

  ‘It's German. That's cheating.’ A tiny insect was dancing just in front of her face and he brushed it gently away with the back of his hand. ‘No foreign words allowed. Otherwise you just end up reciting types of pasta. Pappardella. Conchiglia. Vermicelli. See?’ He shrugged. ‘Those Italians have all the best words. Who can compete with that?’

  ‘Vermicelli means little worms.’

  ‘Exactly. That's why they win every time.’

  The taxi driver, having finished his cigarette and begun fiddling with the dial on his radio, located some sad local DJ with a penchant for country and western. Tammy Wynette yodelling, ‘Staaayaand by your maaayaaan,’ made them both jump.

  ‘God, now I’m definitely going,’ said Millie.

  Hugh smiled; she’d once told him she’d rather knit her own intestines into a vest than listen to country and western.

  ‘Let me know what happens with your mother,’ he said as Millie unlocked the front door.

  Now that they were several feet apart, it was easier to pretend they were just good friends.

  ‘Don’t worry.’ Millie waved over her shoulder as he climbed back into the cab. ‘First thing tomorrow morning, she's going to get the talking-to of her life.’

  Lucas had reached the end of the road and stopped. There was no other traffic about but he waited at the junction anyway, watching the goings-on in his rearview mirror with deepening interest.

  Nobody was more of an expert than Lucas when it came to body language. Interpreting those barely there, seemingly insignificant signals was what he did best; it was a particular talent, like possessing perfect pitch or the ability to paint like Degas.

  Not that there had been anythin
g insignificant about the signals being given out back down the road outside Millie's house. But whereas anyone else seeing them might simply have assumed that here was a couple who fancied each other, Lucas was able to read far more into the situation than that.

  This was Millie as he had never seen her before, caught up in the grip of emotions he seriously doubted she had ever experienced before. Lucas recognized the tall blond guy she was with—he’d bumped into them once, months ago, in a bar. But Millie had barely seemed to know him herself back then; there had been no atmosphere of intimacy between them. Lucas also recalled seeing him at Orla's party but was fairly sure he’d been there with someone else. Nor did he recall there being any contact between him and Millie.

  But there was no mistaking the situation now. This was serious. As he’d driven slowly past, they had been oblivious to anything but each other; the air around them had practically been vibrating with mutual longing. Pure Brief Encounter. Minus the railway platform, of course, and the billowing clouds of steam. If Lucas had tooted his horn they wouldn’t have heard it. If he’d leapt out of his car and danced naked on the hood they wouldn’t have noticed him.

  Interesting that Millie hadn’t mentioned this new development in her life.

  But what intrigued Lucas most of all was the fact that they were saying goodbye to each other on the doorstep, rather than taking the evening to its logical conclusion.

  When it was so clearly what both of them wanted to do.

  As he watched in the rearview mirror, Millie stepped back and the blond guy climbed into the passenger seat of the waiting taxi. Lucas was too far away to see the expression on her face, but he guessed she wasn’t wearing one of her phew-that's-got-rid-of-him smiles.

  The next moment, the taxi pulled away and Millie disappeared inside the house.

  Very interesting indeed, thought Lucas. Millie had found herself a man at last, one she was evidently head over heels in love with.

  And for some reason he wasn’t able to spend the night with her.

  Plus, she was keeping their relationship a secret.

  Ha! thought Lucas, entertained to recall all the times Millie had had a hissy fit and lectured him about his own sex life.