by Jill Mansell
Hester’s stomach rumbled loudly, she was starving and the cheese on toast smelled fantastic.
‘Newquay.’
‘Really? That’s a lovely place. Oh, Newquay! You mean you actually live here? That’s great.’’
Who Wants to be a Millionaire? thought Hester. Not Zelda, that was for sure. Still, what she lacked in concentration she made up for with dexterity; she was actually doing a brilliant job of trussing her up like a plastic-wrapped spatchcock chicken.
Setting a timer, Zelda crooned, ‘Is it starting to feel warm now?’
It was, actually. Hester nodded.
‘Good, good. That’s the minerals in the mud beginning to work, drawing out all those nasty toxins. It actually heats up to sixty degrees centigrade, you know.’
Hester tried to sit up. ‘What?’
‘Oh sorry, is that wrong?’ Zelda started tinkling again. ‘Maybe I mean Fahrenheit, I’m always getting those two muddled up! I can assure you, our miracle mud only becomes pleasantly warm, it won’t cause you any pain whatsoever.’
Now that she was enveloped in it, the smell of the mud had invaded Hester’s nostrils. So this was how it felt to be a hippo. Lying back, she gazed out of the window as Zelda finished plastic wrapping her right arm. Outside, the sky was blue, the sun was blazing down and Hester could hear the chatter and laughter of the punters sitting outside the bars and pavement cafés that stretched the length of Cavendish Street.
‘How long’s it going to take?’
‘Hmm? Ooh, half an hour. Then I’ll unwrap you and you can have a lovely warm shower.’ Zelda’s tone was soothing. ‘In the meantime, why don’t you have a little nap?’
Closing her eyes, Hester pictured herself emerging from the salon, possibly to the sound of audible gasps of admiration and a spontaneous round of applause from the assembled crowds. The extra inches having mysteriously melted away, she would be sleek and sinuous and as lump-free as a Delia Smith sauce.
Frustratingly, Millie was working tonight—she had some job on in Truro—otherwise they could have gone out together. With me looking ravishing, Hester thought smugly, and attracting all the attention for once.
Danielle had been right: coming here and getting mud-wrapped had been a fabulous idea. She was feeling better about herself already.
‘Could you open the window?’ said Hester. I’m feeling quite hot now.’
‘It is warm, isn’t it?’ Zelda fanned herself as she reached up to open the window. ‘There, that’s better.’
Puzzled, Hester gazed down at her supine body.
‘Am I smoking?’
‘Ooh no, you shouldn’t smoke, cigarettes are bad for you, you’ll get terrible facial wrinkles.’
‘No, I meant the mud on my body. I know it heats up but does it actually produce smoke?’
Zelda looked baffled.
But now that the window had been opened, it became clear there was smoke in the treatment room. It was eddying around in the breeze, slithering out of the window like ectoplasm…
‘Oh Jesus!’ squawked Hester, suddenly realizing where it was coming from. Jack-knifing into a sitting position, she pointed to the kitchen door, beneath which grey smoke was beginning to billow.
‘Shit, my cheese on toast!’
Zelda let out a decidedly untinkly screech, ran to the door, yanked it open—and promptly slammed it shut again as she was enveloped in a thick black cloud of smoke. ‘Aaargh, we’re on fire, the kitchen’s on fire, help, help, HELP!’
Chapter 34
Hester was off the treatment table in a flash—no mean feat considering her trussed-up condition.
‘Where are my clothes?’
‘Ohmigod, ohmigod, my boss is going to kill me,’ shrieked Zelda, her eyes wide with terror. ‘Help, police, ohmigod—OW!’
‘Sorry,’ said Hester, who had slapped her, ‘but you have to listen to me. WHERE ARE MY CLOTHES?’
‘I p-put them in the k-kitchen.’ Zelda whimpered and clutched her reddened cheek. ‘So they wouldn’t smell of m-m-mud.’
The smoke was everywhere now. Hester grabbed Zelda and propelled her out of the treatment room. Maybe in the front section of the salon there would be blankets or towels or a handily left-behind coat.
There weren’t.
The door of the salon crashed open and two holidaymakers masquerading as have-a-go heroes burst in. Hester knew they were holidaymakers because they were wearing gaudy shorts and sandals, their backs were white, and their fronts were burned traffic-light red.
‘This place is on fire! You have to get out,’ yelled the first holiyday maker, stumbling to a halt at the sight of Hester in all her muddy plastic-wrapped glory. ‘Blimey darlin,’ what happened to you?’
‘I’m going to get the sack for this!’ wailed Zelda, grabbing her handbag from the desk drawer and shooting out of the salon.
‘Anyone else in here?’ demanded the second holidaymaker.
Miserably Hester shook her head. Somebody must have already dialled 999—in the distance she could hear the nee-naw sound of a fire engine edging its way through the choked-up streets. She knew she couldn’t stay in here, but it was like plucking up the courage to bungee jump out of a helicopter.
The next moment, seeing her fear, the first holidaymaker did it for her. Only instead of pushing her out of the helicopter, he grabbed her in a clumsy attempt at a fireman’s lift.
Before Hester knew what was happening, she found herself hoisted over his shoulder. Her legs were bouncing off his beer belly, his sweaty arms were clutching her thighs, and her big bottom was stuck up in the air like a… well, like a big bottom stuck up in the air.
And then they were outside the salon, where everyone had gathered to watch. The pavement cafés and bars were packed and all eyes were fixed on Hester and her rescuer.
‘Blimey love, you weigh a ton,’ grunted fatbloke, lowering her to the ground. He was sweating profusely but looking ridiculously pleased with himself. Almost as if he expected her to be grateful.
Hester’s eyes prickled with smoke and shame. In her fantasy less than ten minutes earlier, she had imagined the crowd gasping with admiration at the sight of her.
But this was real life and instead here she was, slathered from neck to knees in what looked like the stuff that shoots out of cows’ backsides.
And miles and miles of plastic wrapped sausage-tight around her arms, legs, and midriff.
And a gunk-splattered orange bra.
And baggy, Sumo-sized disposable paper pants.
Needless to say, nobody was gasping with admiration.
The so-called adults were sniggering like schoolchildren. The schoolchildren themselves were pointing and shrieking with laughter. There were even babies whimpering and hiding their faces in their mothers’ skirts.
Hester winced as someone let out a piercing wolf-whistle. It was now, officially, time to die of embarrassment.
There was nowhere to hide.
Nothing to cover herself up with.
She didn’t even have her handbag, because Zelda had thoughtfully left it in the kitchen along with her clothes.
And nobody had even offered her so much as a T-shirt to cover her shame.
The road cleared and the fire engine eased its way through at last. Firemen leapt out and into action, unraveling hoses at a rate of knots. Within seconds, the hoses snaked furiously as torrents of water were aimed at the smoking salon. But even as the firemen did their job, they couldn’t help sneaking incredulous glances in Hester’s direction.
Just when she thought it couldn’t get any worse, there was a tap on her shoulder. Swinging round, puce with mortification, Hester saw that it was Lucas.
Oh God.
‘Here.’ Having taken off his cream linen jacket, he gently draped it around her shoulders. ‘Let’s cover you up.’
Hester knew she should be thanking him. Profusely, no doubt. Instead she muttered, ‘What are you doing here?’
‘I was having a drink with a friend.’
He indicated one of the bars with tables outside, further down the road. ‘Didn’t recognize you at first. My car’s just round the corner.’
Hester said rudely, ‘So?’
‘Well, we could unwrap you now, stand you in front of the salon, and ask a nice fireman to hose you down. Or,’ offered Lucas, dangling his car keys in front of her, ‘I could give you a lift home.’
Of all the people to see her looking like this.
‘What about your friend?’
‘Who?’ Lucas smiled. ‘Oh, no problem. She’ll wait.’
They headed for Lucas’s car, leaving a tearful Zelda to help the police with their inquiries. Aware that his jacket wasn’t completely covering Hester’s cow-poo-and-plastic-wrap look, Lucas waved a twenty-pound note at the gawping owner of a beachwear shop and selected a pink and white fringed sarong from the revolving stand on the pavement outside.
‘I can’t pay you back,’ whispered Hester. ‘My purse is in the salon.’
‘Don’t be daft.’ He put his arm around her, giving her waist a reassuring squeeze. When the plastic wrap squeaked he added, ‘And cheer up. One day you’ll look back at this and smile.’
This was such a ridiculous thing to say that Hester didn’t even deign to reply.
The journey back to the house took less than ten minutes. The spare key, thank God, was still in its fiendishly clever hiding place under the doormat.
Hester turned the key in the lock and wondered if she was supposed to invite Lucas in for a coffee. Would that be the polite thing to do? All she wanted was to be on her own. Damn, why did life have to be so complicated?
Why did she have to be wrapped in plastic wrap and cow poo?
And why, why, why had she jumped naked into Orla’s swimming pool the other night and begged Lucas for sex?
‘I’ll head back, leave you to it,’ said Lucas. ‘You have a nice shower, wash off all that muck.’ He paused. ‘Tell me, why do women do this mud thing?’
He’d been really kind to her. If he hadn’t turned up, she’d still be trudging home now. With a Pied Piper trail of sniggering children in her wake.
‘It’s to make us more beautiful,’ said Hester. ‘More attractive to men.’
‘Ah. Right. But you’re already attractive.’
‘Of course I am. I mean, look at me.’ She spread her plastic-wrapped arms. ‘Completely gorgeous.’
Lucas grinned and pecked her on the cheek. It was the kind of peck you’d give a five-year-old.
‘Go and have that shower. I’ll see you around.’
‘Yeah.’ Hester mustered a weak smile. ‘Thanks.’
The mud had dried on her skin. It took ages to wash off. After twenty minutes of energetic scrubbing, Hester stepped out of the shower and surveyed her naked body in the mirror. Pinker than usual, but otherwise exactly the same as before. There was a lesson to be learned from this somewhere. Nestling at the bottom of a Twiglet box, probably.
Millie wouldn’t be home before ten at the earliest. Wrapped in her dressing gown, Hester made a cup of tea and settled herself on the sofa with the remote control and the phone.
She punched out the code for Glasgow, then the number of the restaurant. Nat would be busy but even hearing his voice for a few seconds would cheer her up.
‘Nat?’ said a hassled-sounding male when Hester asked to speak to him. ‘He’s not working tonight, it’s his night off.’
Pleased, because this meant Nat wouldn’t be too busy to speak to her properly, Hester rang the pay phone at his lodging house.
‘Nat? He’s not here.’ It was another young male voice, one she didn’t recognize. ‘He’s out with Annie.’
Annie?
Annie?
‘Who?’ said Hester.
‘Anastasia.’
Anastasia?
Ana-bloody-stasia?
There was the sound of muffled voices in the background before the boy, clearly worried, said, ‘Sorry, look, I don’t know who Nat’s out with. Maybe he’s gone for a drink with some of the lads. Okay, bye.’
The line went dead. Hester stared at the receiver, as stunned as if the boy had told her that Nat wasn’t there right now, he was in hospital having his sex-change.
It had simply never occurred to her that Nat might do this. He wasn’t the type. He worked too hard. He loved her.
Except maybe now he’d changed his mind and decided he’d be better off loving someone else instead.
EastEnders was on television. Hester watched without taking in a word of it. Annie Annie Annie, that was a name that was almost bearable, rival-wise. It conjured up a picture of someone plump and a bit scruffy, with bitten nails, a friendly smile, and no dress sense.
But Anastasia… that was the kind of name that sent shivers of terror down your spine, because you just knew she’d be tall and exotic and ruthlessly chic, with Russian cheekbones and a wolfhound on a diamond-encrusted lead.
Hester buried her face in her hands. Nat had gone and found himself a Disney heroine.
Oh God, and it’s all my fault.
Chapter 35
The Castle Hotel in Truro was floodlit and impressive, the car park packed with sleek, top-of-the-range specimens that put Millie’s lime green Mini to shame. Having learned her lesson from the supermarket fiasco, she hauled her gorilla suit—stuffed into a black trash bag—out of the boot of the car and carried it through to reception.
The girl behind the desk was expecting her.
‘This is brilliant,’ she giggled. ‘We don’t get many gorillas here. We’re just not that kind of hotel.’
‘Okay if I change in the ladies’ loo?’ Millie held up her trash bag. ‘Then I’ll head on through and do my bit.’
‘I’ll come with you. I wouldn’t miss this for the world. The Drews are on table fifteen, bang in the middle of the restaurant.’ The receptionist reached beneath the desk and pulled out a disposable camera. ‘And it’s my job to record the happy event—Mrs. Drew gave me this and asked me to take loads of pictures. Oh, her husband’s going to get the surprise of his life!’
In the plush loos, Millie changed into the gorilla suit, fastened on her roller skates, and practiced reciting the fantastically naff poem Mrs. Drew had written in praise of her husband. As she was lowering the gorilla’s head into place, the receptionist pulled the door open and said, ‘Ready? This is going to be so great!’
‘Ready.’ Millie seized the bottle of cheap sparkling wine and the ‘You’ve Been Kemped’ T-shirt, and roller-skated over to the door. ‘Lead the way.’
The dining room was vast, high-ceilinged, and glittering with chandeliers. It was also packed with diners. Millie, glad she had the receptionist with her, heard the girl whisper, ‘There they are, at that table for two, dead ahead. She’s the one in the green sparkly dress, he’s wearing a dark blue suit.’
As they navigated their way between the tables, the tinkle of cutlery and hum of polite conversation petered out. Spotting them, the other diners stared and began to whisper furiously to each other. Laughter broke out. Millie, who loved this bit, prayed her skates wouldn’t slip on the highly polished oak floor, either sending her clattering to the ground or—more messily—pitching head first into a bowl of trifle.
Then the man who had his back to her at table fifteen turned around and Millie found herself with something completely different to worry about.
Because Mr. Drew wasn’t Mr. Drew at all.
He was Giles Hart.
And the girl sitting with him in her green sparkly outfit was the girl with sleek magenta hair who had been at the party on Saturday night. The one Giles had introduced as Anna, the dressmaker from Perranporth, newcomer to the area, and a member of the golf club.
In a flash Millie knew the truth. The poem she’d memorized said it all.
Three years ago today we met,
Three years of utter bliss,
I never knew one perfect man
Could make me as happy as this.
The girl was Martine Drew
.
Next moment there was another kind of flash as the receptionist took a photo with the disposable camera.
How could he?
How could he do this? How could he have the utter gall to invite his mistress along to Orla’s party and introduce her to his own wife?
Martine, meanwhile, was beaming with happiness, thrilled with the success of her surprise, and waiting expectantly for Millie to launch into her poem. Unlike Giles, she clearly had no idea that the person inside the gorilla suit might be someone acquainted with Orla.
Giles, who knew what Millie did for a living, was less sure. It might be her under all that fur. Then again it might not.
Millie watched him hesitate, redden, then decide to bluff it out.
‘Well well, what have we here?’ boomed Giles, sitting back in his chair. Spotting the bottle of sparkling wine in Millie’s paw, he added jovially, ‘Are you the wine waiter?’
‘Sshh.’ Reaching across the table, Martine gave his hand a loving squeeze. ‘Wait until you hear this.’ She nodded at Millie, indicating that it was time for the poem.
Click, flash, went the disposable camera.
Quivering with outrage, Millie took a step back and announced in a clear, carrying voice:
‘Why don’t you get yourself a life And stop this cheating on your wife?’
Improvisation wasn’t really her forte. It wasn’t great, but on the spur of the moment it was the best she could manage. Anyway, it did the trick. Giles, purple in the face, knocked over a glass as he leapt up from his chair. Everyone else in the room gasped audibly and held their breath.
Martine, staring at Millie in alarm, hissed, ‘What the hell’s going on? What are you talking about?’
Millie ducked as Giles’s arm shot out. For a scary moment she thought he was about to punch her. But Giles grabbed the gorilla head and, with brutal disregard for Millie’s ears, wrenched it off.
Pale eyes bulging, he roared, ‘Who put you up to this?’
‘I did,’ said Martine, groaning as she recognized Millie. ‘Oh God, it was meant to be a fantastic surprise.’
Click, flash, went the camera behind them, the receptionist really getting into her stride now.