Jill Mansell Boxed Set

by Jill Mansell

  ‘Someone else? Don’t tell me you’re pregnant—oh my God.’ Dev’s expression changed as she folded back a corner of blue and white striped blanket.

  A pair of coal-black eyes blinked bemusedly up at him. Beneath the rest of the blanket, a tail cautiously began to wag.

  Daisy, scooping the little dog into her arms, kissed the top of his head before proudly presenting him to Dev.

  ‘This is how much I missed Clarissa. I found him at the same rescue center. His name’s Clive.’

  Having been woken up, Clive squirmed and licked Dev’s hand with enthusiasm. With his sleek black coat and chunky wriggling body, he resembled a fat baby seal.

  ‘Any particular breed?’ Dev only said it to be polite; the puppy was clearly a hybrid through and through. Although the length of the body suggested a touch of dachshund.

  ‘He’s just Clive.’ Lovingly, Daisy kissed the dog’s funny pointy nose. ‘He’s unique.’

  ‘And you keep him in a cardboard box,’ Dev observed. ‘A battered Ambrosia Creamed Rice box at that. Classy.’

  ‘I bought him a proper basket, but he won’t stay in it. He likes this one best.’

  ‘Clive and Clarissa,’ Dev mused, then turned as they both heard frantic scratching on the other side of the office door.

  When he opened it, Clarissa catapulted into the room. Pam, looking flustered and wringing her plump hands, said, ‘I’m sorry, she just came charging through reception…’

  ‘I left the car window open. She must have squeezed through. No problem,’ said Dev.

  Quivering with interest, Pam peered past him at Daisy. ‘Everything OK in here?’

  ‘Absolutely fine.’ Dev smiled and firmly closed the door.

  Spotting the alien creature in Daisy’s arms, Clarissa briskly shot into reverse.

  ‘I bet everyone’s taking bets out in reception,’ Dev remarked dryly, ‘wondering how we’re getting on.’

  ‘Never mind us. How are these two going to get along?’

  With a joyous bark, Clive thumped his tail and wriggled to get down. Quivering with alarm, Clarissa flattened herself against the far wall. ‘She’s not sure yet,’ said Daisy with a grin. ‘She thinks she likes him, but she hasn’t quite made up her mind.’

  ‘Woof,’ barked Clive, desperate to win Clarissa over.

  ‘She just needs a bit of time,’ Daisy explained.

  ‘Woof woof woof.’ Clive writhed frantically in her arms.

  ‘It’s OK, sweetheart,’ Daisy spoke in soothing tones as Clarissa eyed him warily, ‘he’s not going to hurt you.’

  ‘Now who do they remind me of?’ said Dev.

  Acknowledgments

  Huge and grateful thanks to Marie-Louise Pecorelli, marketing manager of the fabulous Manor House hotel at Castle Combe, Wilts, for all her help in explaining to me how a hotel is run. Needless to say, the fictional characters in this novel aren’t nearly so efficient…

  Copyright © 2001, 2009 by Jill Mansell

  Cover and internal design © 2009 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover illustration © Nina Chakrabarti

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Landmark, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567–4410

  (630) 961–3900

  FAX: (630) 961–2168

  www.sourcebooks.com

  Originally published in 2001 by Headline Publishing Group, London

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Mansell, Jill.

  Millie’s fling / Jill Mansell.

  p. cm.

  1. Single women—Fiction. 2. Female friendship—Fiction. 3. Mate selection—Fiction. 4. Dating (Social customs)—Fiction. 5. Cornwall (England : County)—Fiction. 6. Chick lit. 7. Love stories. gsafd I. Title.

  PR6063.A395M54 2009

  823’.914—dc22

  For Lydia and Cory

  despite the fact that they are sick and tired

  of having books dedicated to them.

  Bad luck, here’s another one.

  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Chapter 52

  Chapter 53

  Chapter 54

  Chapter 55

  Chapter 56

  Chapter 57

  Chapter 58

  Chapter 1

  The view from where they were sitting was spectacular, but Millie Brady couldn’t help wondering why Neil had driven her up here today to Tresanter Point. He wasn’t normally the scenery-admiring type.

  Next to her, in the driver’s seat of his lovingly restored emerald green MG, Neil cleared his throat.

  ‘Right, well, I’ve had a bit of a think about this, and we’ve been together for quite a while now.’ Clasping her hand suddenly in his, Neil began to stroke it as if it were a nervous puppy.

  All of a sudden Millie began to have an inkling as to what this might actually be about. Oh blimey, oh heavens, surely not… surely he wasn’t gearing himself up to ask her to marry him…

  ‘Not that long,’ she put in hastily, ‘not really. Only three months.’

  ‘Still, we get on well, don’t we? And the landlord’s been dead funny about renewing the lease on our place. I think he wants us out of there.’

  Since this was the flat Neil shared with four of his friends, Millie wasn’t a bit surprised. The place was an indescribable pit.

  ‘So what I thought was, what with the two of us being pretty much an item these days—Millie, hello, are you listening to me?’

  ‘Mm? Oh, sorry.’ Millie forced herself to pay attention; she had been distracted for a moment by the arrival at the cliff-top beauty spot of a gleaming burnt orange Mercedes. As it had screeched to a halt, Millie couldn’t help noticing that the driver—a woman in dark glasses—had long, riotously curly hair the exact same shade of burnt orange as her car.

  She was smoking a cigarette at a rate of knots. And not looking at all happy, Millie observed as the woman removed her dark
glasses and began arranging a row of white rectangles along the dashboard, as if she were dealing out playing cards.

  Pay attention now. Come on, concentrate. Millie gave herself an admonitory mental shake. If someone’s asking you to marry them the very least you can do is listen; it’s only polite.

  ‘Okay, so how about if you jack in your place and we get somewhere of our own?’

  Neil gazed at her in triumph, his hideous ordeal over. There, he’d done it. Said what he’d come here to say. Now all Millie had to do was swoon with happiness and say yes.

  So he wasn’t asking her to marry him, Millie realized with a rush of relief. There wasn’t going to be any of that romantic down-on-one-knee business, followed by the production of a little velvet jeweler’s box containing an engagement ring. No church, no honeymoon, no solemn vows, none of that sloppy malarkey, oh no. Neil was plumping for the cheaper, more down-to-earth option, basically because he was about to be evicted from his current abode and because he’d rather stick red-hot pins in his eyes than iron a shirt or have to do a spot of washing-up.

  I’m only twenty-five. There has to be more to life.

  Anyway, what were those white rectangles on the dashboard of the Mercedes? And shouldn’t the woman with the chestnut hair— now out of the car—take a bit more care where she was going? The way she was wandering so close to the edge of the cliff was downright reckless, Millie tut-tutted; didn’t she realize that if she slipped and fell on to the rocks two hundred feet below she could be killed ?

  ‘You’re not saying anything,’ Neil complained. ‘I thought you’d be over the moon. No more having to share that poky little house with Hester—’

  ‘It’s not a poky little house,’ Millie replied absently. ‘And I like sharing with Hester.’

  ‘But we’d be living together. That means I’m serious about you. We’d be, like, a proper couple.’

  The wind was blowing the woman’s red-gold curls around her face but when she put up a hand to sweep her hair out of her eyes, Millie saw that she was crying. She also thought there was something familiar about the woman, but from this distance it was impossible to be sure.

  Except something wasn’t quite right here. The woman was still pacing up and down, smoking furiously, and pausing every now and again to peer over the edge of the cliff. Normally at a beauty spot you sat back on one of the benches thoughtfully supplied for the purpose and admired the stupendous view. This woman, Millie couldn’t help thinking, was acting more like an Olympic high-jumper psyching herself up to make her third and final attempt at the world record…

  ‘Okay, fine, if you don’t want us to live together, that’s up to you,’ snapped Neil, abruptly letting her hand drop. ‘Any normal girl would’ve been thrilled, but not you, oh no, I might have guessed you’d have to play hard to get. I mean, what d’you expect me to do? Beg?’

  Oh good grief, she was psyching herself up to jump.

  Only not upwards, Millie thought with a surge of horror. Belatedly she remembered that Tresanter Point wasn’t just a renowned beauty spot. It also had something of a reputation as a lover’s leap.

  A haunt for would-be suicides.

  This woman was planning on jumping down.

  ‘Any normal girl would be flattered,’ Neil was carrying on huffily. ‘Any normal girl would have been chuffed to bits, I can tell you. Honestly, I can’t believe you’re being so ungrateful, what I don’t think you realize is what a catch I am—hey! Where are you going? What d’you think you’re playing at now?’

  Millie was already out of the car, pelting hell for leather across the rough grass. The woman was currently standing with her back to her, engrossed in trying to light a second cigarette from the butt of the first. Her long indigo cotton dress flapped wildly around her legs, which were pale and bare. Her long copper hair, whipped by the brisk breeze, streamed behind her like a banner.

  Screeching to a halt next to the Mercedes, Millie saw that she had been right. The white rectangles propped up on the dashboard were indeed envelopes, each one bearing a different name.

  Either the woman was sending out invitations to a party or they were suicide notes.

  Right, okay, mustn’t panic, thought Millie. Panicking.

  Now what?

  BEEEP!

  Startled, the woman at the edge of the cliff twisted round. So did Millie.

  ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ Neil yelled bad-temperedly at her from the MG.

  ‘It’s okay! I’m just, um, asking for a… light.’

  Millie said the first words that sprang into her head. As Neil thumped the MG’s steering wheel in exasperation, she turned her back on him and for the first time came face to face with the woman who was about to End It All.

  Some instinct told Millie that if she stopped to wonder exactly what she should say, and whether whatever she was saying was right or wrong, she’d end up completely tongue-tied and too scared to say anything at all.

  The only way to go, therefore, was to plunge right in.

  ‘Well?’ Millie gazed steadily into the other woman’s puffy, sea green eyes. ‘Have you?’

  The puffy sea green eyes surveyed her as if she were mad.

  ‘Have I what?’

  ‘Got a light?’

  ‘Of course I’ve got a light.’ The woman inhaled irritably on her Marlboro and blew out a stream of smoke that was whipped into oblivion by the wind.

  ‘So? Could I have a light?’ Millie persisted.

  ‘You could. But you don’t appear to have a cigarette.’

  ‘You have, though. Okay, so could I have a light and a cigarette?’ Millie didn’t dare wonder if she was sounding as completely ridiculous as she suspected she did.

  The other woman sighed and flicked the Marlboro casually over the edge of the cliff. It sailed through the air, executing lazy somersaults as it went. Millie imagined a body doing likewise before crashing hideously on to the black, wave-lashed rocks below.

  Oh help, she felt sick just thinking about it.

  ‘Look, I know what you’re trying to do here,’ the woman sighed, ‘and I appreciate the gesture, darling, really I do, but there’s absolutely no need.’ As she spoke, her green eyes filled with fresh tears. Her trembling fingers scrabbled with the flip-top lid of the Marlboro packet, and as she clumsily extracted another cigarette, the rest slithered out, bouncing to the ground around her feet like spillikins.

  Millie helped her pick them up. The puffy eyelids and lack of make-up had effectively disguised the woman at first, but she recognized her now. Masses of red-gold hair, greeny-gold eyes, the Cartier watch, and that distinctive breathy voice… She was Orla Hart, one of the country’s best-selling novelists. Now in her late thirties, she had been successfully churning out popular fiction of the glitzy kind for the last fifteen years, and earning herself a fortune in the process.

  Click, went the lighter as Orla lit her third cigarette in seven minutes. Now probably wasn’t the time, Millie tactfully decided, to warn her that smoking could seriously damage your health and cause those unattractive little vertical wrinkles above your upper lip.

  ‘Look,’ Orla gestured in despair over her shoulder, ‘I was standing here, minding my own business, waiting for you and your husband to drive off. Couldn’t you just go now?’ she asked hopefully. ‘I’d be grateful, really I would.’

  ‘Oh brilliant,’ said Millie, ‘and where do you suppose that would leave me? In psychiatric care for the rest of my life, that’s where. I mean, how would you feel if you left me here to jump off the edge of this cliff?’ She raised her eyebrows inquiringly at Orla Hart.

  Anguished, Orla shook her head.

  ‘It’s no good. You don’t understand.’

  ‘Okay, so you may as well tell me. Because I’m not going anywhere until you do.’ Sinking to the ground cross-legged, Millie gave the grass next to her an encouraging pat. As she did so, they both heard the sound of an engine being started up and bad-temperedly revved behind them. Next mo
ment, the MG had reversed sharply, turned back on to the road in an explosion of gravel, and roared off.

  ‘God, I’m so sorry,’ Orla groaned.

  ‘Now I’m definitely not going anywhere.’ Millie shrugged and patted the grass again.

  ‘I feel dreadful.’

  ‘Don’t. He isn’t my husband anyway. Just my boyfriend. Well,’ Millie amended, ‘probably ex-boyfriend by now.’

  ‘And it’s all my fault. Here, have a cigarette.’

  Mortified, Orla knelt down next to her, opened the crumpled packet, and all but thrust a handful of Marlboros into her mouth.

  ‘No thanks, I don’t smoke. And I don’t mind about him being an ex.’ Realizing she couldn’t let Orla Hart shoulder the burden of responsibility for what had happened, Millie smiled. ‘Actually, you’ve done me a favor. It’s quite a relief.’

  ‘Lucky you. Not minding.’ Orla pressed her lips together, her chin beginning to wobble.

  Feeling suddenly brave—and prepared to rugby-tackle her to the ground if all of a sudden she tried to launch herself over the cliff edge—Millie said, ‘So that’s what this is all about, is it? Some man?’

  ‘Some man,’ Orla agreed wearily. ‘Huh, that just about describes him. Oh Lord, what must I look like? I don’t suppose you’ve got such a thing as a hanky?’

  By a complete fluke, Millie had a clean tissue in her jeans pocket. Feeling braver still as Orla took the tissue and noisily blew her nose, she said, ‘Husband?’

  Orla had decimated the flimsy tissue in one go. Wiping her eyes on the hem of her indigo dress, she nodded.

  ‘Not being funny, darling, but do you know who I am?’

  For a brief moment Millie considered shaking her head. She would have done if she hadn’t been the world’s most hopeless fibber.

  ‘Well, I didn’t recognize you at first,’ she admitted, ‘but I do now.’

  Orla summoned up a sad little smile.

  ‘So you probably remember all that awful stuff in the press a few months ago about my husband having an affair.’

  Cautiously, Millie said, ‘Well… kind of.’

  ‘With a younger woman, surprise, surprise. By the name of Martine Drew. She’s twenty-seven.’ Orla drew so hard on her cigarette she almost inhaled it whole. ‘But I love my husband so I forgave him. I did everything I could to save our marriage, including moving out of London and buying the house down here. And Giles was happy to move. He said it was just a silly blip and she didn’t mean a thing to him. He s-swore it w-was all over.’