by Jill Mansell
‘No.’ Sasha looked amused. ‘Why?’
‘Well, look at you! You could have anyone you want. And here you are living with Lucas who does have anyone he wants. I mean, don’t you think you deserve better?’
‘Millie, are you serious? Lucas and I aren’t a couple! I have my own room here.’ Sasha gestured at the ceiling. ‘I pay him rent. Okay, we slept together a few times when we first met, but it didn’t take long for both of us to realize we were better off as friends. Nowadays Lucas does his thing and I do mine. In fact,’ she added with a grin, ‘there’s someone I’ve been seeing quite a lot of recently. He’s a lawyer in Truro. And Lucas is fine about it. But I can’t believe that all this time you actually thought we were an item. That’s just too funny for words!’
Millie couldn’t believe it either. Yet again, she’d managed to get hold of the wrong end of the stick. Sasha had looked the part and she’d simply jumped to conclusions, assumed they were living together like a proper couple.
‘I’m such an idiot,’ she said humbly.
‘And you’ve spent all this time feeling sorry for me. That is so sweet of you! Although I daresay Lucas perpetuated the myth—he does like to uphold this image he has of himself.’
‘Well, yes, he did drop the occasional hint.’
‘Shall I let you into a secret?’ The comers of Sasha’s generous mouth twitched with mischief. ‘Lucas doesn’t sleep with nearly as many girls as he makes out. He’s actually far pickier than you’d imagine.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Now this was hard to believe.
‘I’m not. It’s true.’ Sasha raised an eyebrow. ‘Of course, his bad-boy reputation would be in tatters if this got out, so you mustn’t breathe a word to anyone. But in his own way, our Lucas is quite a gentleman.’
‘Gentleman,’ Millie echoed faintly.
‘He has more morals than most men I know.’
‘Morals.’ Fainter still.
‘I know it’s come as a terrible shock. Why don’t you sit down?’ said Sasha kindly. ‘You’re looking pale.’
Clutching the appointments diary, Millie slumped on to one of the high kitchen stools.
‘It’s like discovering that Father Christmas doesn’t exist.’
‘I’m sorry I’ve shattered your illusions. I’ll make us that cup of tea.’
‘Oh bum,’ cried Millie as Sasha flung teabags into mugs and broke open a fresh packet of custard creams. ‘You’ve booked me in for Thursday.’
‘Hmm? Is that a problem?’ Humming happily to herself, Sasha glanced over her shoulder. Millie had been checking through the diary.
‘I can’t do Thursday. I’m in London.’
‘Oh. Doesn’t say that anywhere. You should have let me know.’
She was absolutely right. Gloomily Millie said, ‘I only found out yesterday.’
The booking was for her to appear at Polperro village hall at eight o’clock on Thursday evening, where a local family were holding a surprise party to celebrate the return of a brother who had emigrated years before to Australia. For a change, they’d composed a poem that was actually witty.
Mentally crossing her fingers, Millie looked up.
‘You couldn’t do it, could you?’
Sasha plonked a mug of tea down on the table and flicked the attached poem-sheet with a magenta fingernail, revealing the rest of the writing on the page beneath.
‘Sorry, big Royal National Lifeboat Institution bash on Thursday night. I’m booked to do my naughty nun.’ She winked, lit a cigarette, and did a lascivious wiggle by way of demonstration. ‘And I can’t let down our brave lifeboatmen, can I?’
Millie groaned.
‘You could always ask Eric,’ Sasha suggested.
Millie pulled a face. Eric the history teacher specialized in comedy kissograms. His Full Monty went down a storm with raucous women of a certain age who enjoyed a good laugh. Which was just as well, seeing as Eric—bless him—weighed fifteen stone and, minus his clothes, looked like a gyrating strawberry blancmange.
Millie, who weighed half that, sighed and said, ‘They want a gorilla. He’d never fit into the suit.’
‘In that case, you’ll just have to cancel the booking.’ Unconcerned, Sasha blew a smoke ring and slid the phone across the counter.
The contact number was there in the diary. To her shame, Millie realized that a fortnight ago she would have rung and canceled without a qualm. But now that Lucas had offered her the job of running the business, her conscience wouldn’t allow it. Letting people down smacked of inefficiency. It was deeply unprofessional.
Which meant, basically, that she was left with two choices. Either find someone else to step into the breach on Thursday night or cancel her own plans and do the job herself.
‘Do you want me to phone them?’ offered Sasha. ‘I could tell them you’ve been rushed to hospital with appendicitis.’
Decisions, decisions. It was still tempting.
‘No, it’s okay.’ Millie pushed the phone firmly out of reach. ‘I’ll sort something out.’
At six o’clock that evening, half-way round the supermarket, Millie heard a voice she recognized and promptly stopped dead in her tracks.
‘No no no, you’ve picked up the quick-cook pasta by mistake. We prefer the normal kind, remember?’
It was Sylvia Fleetwood’s voice, coming from the next aisle along. Unable to resist it, Millie skulked to the end of her own aisle and prepared to peer round into Sylvia’s.
‘Now, olive oil. Virgin, darling? Or extra-virgin? Which do you think we should go for? Ooh, and we mustn’t forget the ciabatta.’
Feeling very Charlie’s Angels, Millie sidled past a towering display of tinned tomato puree and spied on Sylvia and Tim, whose backs were towards her.
‘The extra-virgin, I think,’ Tim decided, having carefully weighed up the merits of each in turn. ‘It costs more, but the flavor’s infinitely superior.’
Sylvia was nodding in agreement. ‘You’re right, Timmy. Definitely the extra-virgin. We do prefer the flavor, don’t we?’
‘We do, darling, we do. Right, bread next. Are you sure about the ciabatta or shall we try the focaccia for a change?’
‘Focaccia’s fine by me,’ Sylvia crooned happily. ‘Infact, we may as well get a large one, you know how hungry we always are after our round of golf.’
Millie slipped away before they turned and saw her. Sylvia and Tim were back in the old routine, as if the hiccup that had been her mother had never happened. A dash of excitement had been more than enough for Tim, it seemed. He would never leave Sylvia and the endless comforting routines of their marriage.
Nat gazed with satisfaction around him at the gleaming kitchen, now freshly repainted and fully equipped with the tools of his trade. The pristine white walls were hung with aluminum pans and every cooking implement known to man. The pale grey tiled floor was spotless, as were the stainless-steel ovens. Within the next day or two they would begin stocking up the glass-fronted cupboards with supplies. The first menus, both set and à la carte, had already been agreed upon. In less than a fortnight, Kemp’s would open for business.
You had to give Lucas his due—when it came to getting things done, he didn’t hang about.
Opening the linen cupboard and running his hand down over the neatly stacked piles of marigold orange tablecloths and napkins, Nat wondered if he’d ever been happier in his life. And basically, he hadn’t. Everything was coming together now; he had the job of his dreams and the girl of his dreams. He also knew—without a shadow of a doubt—that he and Lucas were going to make a terrific team.
Through the swing doors, propped open to dispel the smell of fresh paint, Nat heard Hester laughing at some comment Lucas had made. They got on like a house on fire nowadays. Smiling to himself, Nat marveled at the irony of the situation.
Lucas Kemp was a man you could trust.
Nat made his way through to the dining room to find Hester wobbling on top of a stepladder, tweaking the last of t
he curtain pelmets into place.
‘Excellent,’ Lucas pronounced, turning to grin at Nat. ‘I’ll say this, your girlfriend knows how to hang a mean curtain.’
Proudly, Hester took a bow.
‘I am the queen of curtain-hanging. So, what’s the verdict?’
‘Fantastic.’ Having helped her down from the stepladder, Nat moved back to take a proper look. The room had been transformed in the past week. Out had gone the atrocious flower prints and hideous ruffles and flounces. In their place, the walls had been painted marigold orange and amethyst blue, great swathes of color glowing jewel-like against a white background. The patterned carpet had been ripped out too, revealing scuffed floorboards beneath. Now, thanks to an industrial sander and several coats of honey varnish, the wood gleamed with a life of its own. The paintings on the wall were modern, individual, and expertly lit. A talking-point chandelier by a local artist hung from the ceiling, chunks of violet and orange glass swaying and glittering in the sunlight. The marigold curtains needed tie-backs to stop them flapping about in the breeze from the open sash-windows.
‘Completely fantastic,’ Nat amended.
‘Especially the curtains.’ Hester gave him an encouraging prod.
‘Oh, goes without saying. Especially the curtains.’
‘Doesn’t matter how great the place looks,’ Lucas pronounced. ‘The food’s the important thing. Not too many people are going to say, “Ooh, I know, let’s go back to that place where the food was rubbish but they had those really great curtains.”’
Nat grinned. ‘The food in this restaurant is going to be even better than the curtains.’
Having heard a car drawing up outside, Lucas glanced at his watch. Great, the computer chap was here on time.
Chapter 53
As he pulled open the front door, Lucas recognized him in an instant. Well, well. He smiled his easiest smile and stuck out his hand.
‘Hi. I’m Lucas Kemp. Thanks for coming over.’
This was going to be interesting. Quite a coincidence too, the computer expert Fogarty and Phelps had recommended to him turning out to be Millie’s bloke. The one she so vehemently denied being involved with.
‘Hugh Emerson.’ He was smiling too, looking completely relaxed as he shook hands. Lucas checked for a wedding ring. There wasn’t one, but that didn’t mean anything. Privately, he was still convinced Hugh Emerson had to be married.
Lucas didn’t approve of extra-marital affairs. Why bother to get married if all you were interested in doing was cheating on your wife? And what did Millie think she was playing at? How could she have been silly enough to get involved with someone else’s husband in the first place?
He had, nevertheless, been struck by the evident strength of feeling between the two of them. No doubt about it, this was no casual fling.
Basically, Millie was in big trouble. One way or another it would end in—
‘Hugh! Good grief, what are you doing here?’ Hester let out a high-pitched shriek of delight and Lucas found himself barreled out of the way as she greeted Millie’s lover with an enthusiastic hug and a kiss.
Even Hugh Emerson looked momentarily taken aback.
‘He’s going to be designing the restaurant’s website.’ Casually Lucas added, ‘So you two know each other?’
It was a rhetorical question, obviously.
‘We certainly do! Millie and I both know Hugh.’ Hester gave Hugh Emerson’s arm a squeeze as she spoke. ‘We’re great friends, aren’t we?’
More and more interesting, thought Lucas, observing the flicker of reaction in Hugh’s dark eyes at the mention of Millie’s name. Interesting that Hester hadn’t added, ‘And of course, Hugh and Millie are having the most rip-roaring affair.’
More to the point, Hester didn’t even appear to be thinking it. Millie had evidently chosen not to confide in her best friend.
Which in turn made Lucas wonder whether, maybe, Hester was on friendly terms with Hugh’s wife.
Jesus, this was like being trapped in an episode of Coronation Street.
‘Why d’you want a website?’ said Hester, as Hugh and Lucas sat down at the computer.
‘Customers like to be able to see a restaurant before they use it for the first time.’ Hugh was rolling up the sleeves of his white shirt and loosening his tie. He slid a CD into the machine. ‘We can give them all the information they need, from a list of available tables to that day’s specials. They can book online and read the reviews posted up by other diners. Fogarty and Phelps have increased their turnover by four hundred and fifty percent since setting up their website. Okay now, I’ll just run through a few of my preliminary ideas. I don’t think a webcam’s viable, by the way.’ He glanced briefly at Lucas. ‘Too many men scared stiff of getting caught out having dinner with their secretaries. Anyone up to no good would avoid the place like the plague.’
He was right, of course. Lucas, who hadn’t thought of that, decided that this was because he, unlike Hugh Emerson, wasn’t a cheating husband.
Correction: a lying, cheating, no-good bastard.
Leaning back on his chair he said casually, ‘Are you married?’
Behind them, Lucas heard Hester’s speedy intake of breath. Hmm, evidently a touchy subject.
Hugh’s dark eyes remained fixed on the flickering computer screen.
‘Me? No.’
So why had Hester gasped?
Shaking his head in self-deprecating fashion, Lucas said lightly, ‘I must be losing my touch. I’d have bet money you were a married man.’
Hester didn’t suck in her breath this time, she let out a wail of dismay.
‘God, Lucas, you’re such a pillock sometimes! How can you be so insensitive? Hugh was married but his wife died, okay? And the last thing he needs is to be interrogated by a complete dumbbell asking stupid questions!’
Twisting round, amused by the expression of outrage on Hester’s face, Hugh said, ‘It’s fine, really.’
‘It’s not fine, it must be awful for you,’ Hester protested.
‘Look, all he did was ask if I was married. It’s a reasonable question. He didn’t know. And if it makes you feel better, I promise I’m not about to burst into tears. Which,’ Hugh added, ‘is what most people are terrified might happen should they accidentally mention anything to do with death or dying.’ He broke into a grin, as if remembering something. ‘In fact, Millie did it, the first time we met. She worked herself up into a complete state and I hadn’t even noticed what she’d been saying.’
Lucas wasn’t slow. It had taken him less than a second, following Hester’s outburst, to make the connection. Hugh Emerson was Millie’s Dropped-Wallet-man. It all fit together now.
Or rather, most of it did.
‘I’m sorry about your wife. How long ago?’
‘Ten months.’ Hugh was getting into the files, his hand expertly whisking the mouse to and fro, clicking on various icons.
‘Something like that must knock you for six,’ Lucas remarked. ‘I can’t imagine how you begin to get through it.’ He paused. ‘If it’s not a rude question, are you involved with anyone else yet?’
‘Oh for God’s sake,’ Hester exploded, incensed by such monumental lack of tact. ‘Just because you can’t imagine going without a shag for more than a week! Lucas, you moron, not everyone else is as obsessed as you are with sex. Hugh was happily married, can’t you understand that? Of course he isn’t involved with anyone else yet!’
Lucas was listening to Hester’s outburst—actually, she was magnificent when she was angry—but he kept his gaze fixed on Hugh’s profile. Blink and you would have missed it, but Lucas hadn’t blinked.
And the brief, giveaway flicker in his eyes told him all he needed to know.
‘It’s too soon,’ Hugh agreed, before pointing at the screen. ‘Right, here we are. See what you think about the layout of what I’ve done so far.’
They spent an hour going over all aspects of the proposed website. Nat had disappeared back i
nto his beloved kitchen and Hester, press-ganged into helping out, was hunched over a sunny window table busily compiling a list of must-haves to attend the opening night. Around two hundred guests were being invited for canapes, champagne, and maximum press coverage.
By the time Hugh closed down the computer, Hester had scribbled down a hundred or so names.
‘Your old boss from the radio station—I can’t remember his name,’ she announced, tapping her pen against the list.
Lucas winked.
‘Shouldn’t think he can either, the amount of white powder he’s shoveled up his nose. We’ll ask his secretary instead—Gloria pretty much runs the station these days.’ Taking the list from Hester, he swiftly added a few more names. ‘Orla Hart, Fogarty and Phelps. And Hugh, of course.’
‘Excellent decision,’ said Hugh. ‘Otherwise, I’d be forced to completely sabotage your appointments system.’
‘Representatives from all the local papers,’ Lucas went on. ‘The president of the golf club and his fat wife.’ He paused. ‘My grandparents.’
Hester burst out laughing.
‘Fancy you having grandparents! What are they like?’
‘Brilliant.’
‘And how do they feel about having you as a grandson?’ Hester glanced mischievously at his black leather trousers. ‘I bet your sweet little old granny spends all her time knitting, desperately trying to convert you to Fair Isle tank tops.’
‘My sweet little old granny,’ said Lucas, ‘could drink you under the table. She can also ski better than any of us, drive faster than us, and fly her own plane.’
It was Hugh’s turn to laugh.
‘I’m serious. And she’s a crack shot. They’re incredible, the pair of them,’ Lucas told him. ‘She still paints professionally. My grandfather’s retired from the RAF but he’s rebuilding an old Spitfire in a hangar in the back garden. Actually, theirs is a great story,’ he went on. ‘Grandad’s first wife was killed in a bombing raid during the war. He was devastated. Five months later he met this dazzling eighteen-year-old, Zillah, and fell head over heels in love with her. He was appalled, disgusted with himself, thought everyone would accuse him of never having really loved his wife—no respect for the dead, and all that—so he finished with Zillah and went back to flying Spitfires. This was nineteen forty-four and you didn’t know what would happen from one day to the next. Anyway, he came back from a mission several weeks later, drove up to a party at the Savoy, saw Zillah dancing with another officer, and realized there and then that she was the girl for him. Sod what anyone else might think. He had to marry her. And two weeks later,’ Lucas concluded with a brief smile, ‘he did.’