MILLIE'S FLING (19 page)

‘Mundane possibilities.’

Millie was disappointed about Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

‘Ah, but when you meet Mr. Right he won’t be mundane, will he? Everything about him will thrill you and that's how you’ll know he
is
Mr. Right!’

‘Oh well,’ said Millie, ‘easy. No problem. I’ll do that tonight then, shall I? Just pop down to our local wine bar and pick someone up?’

‘You could, of course you could.’ Orla was bubbling over with enthusiasm. ‘Anything's possible, isn’t it? That's the beauty of this whole scheme! But wine bars aren’t the only places to meet men. I mean, for example, come over here and take a look out of this window…’

Mystified, Millie untangled her legs and slid off the chaise longue. Orla, beaming with delight, moved to one side and put her hands on Millie's shoulders, pointing her in the direction of the shrubbery to the left of the velvety sloping lawn.

Below them, stripped to the waist and lifting rocks into a wheelbarrow, was a tanned, dark-haired man Millie had never seen before in her life.

‘Who's he?’

‘His name's Richard,’ Orla announced with pride. ‘He's our new gardener. So, what do you think?’

Millie was incredulous.

A set-up?

‘Did you hire him specially for
me
?’

‘Darling, don’t be silly, of course not. We’ve got a
huge
garden. Giles hates doing that kind of thing and I don’t have the time to do it. So there you go, we needed a gardener.’

Millie turned and gave her a long look.

‘Okay, fine, you needed a gardener. So what happened, you looked up “Gardeners” in the
Yellow Pages
, picked one completely at random… and when he turned up he just happened to look like that?’

Orla grinned and lit another cigarette.

‘Well, not quite.’

‘Go on then,’ said Millie. Tell me.’

‘I rang up eight gardeners and invited each of them over for an interview. They were all terribly
nice
of course,’ Orla explained, ‘and they all had heaps of gardenery-type qualifications.’

‘And?’

‘Well, some of them were old, and some were ugly, and two of them were… shall we say, rather attractive.’ Orla took an unrepentant puff on her cigarette. ‘So I casually asked them about their personal circumstances, you know, home life and such, and one of them turned out to be married with three children and a Rottweiler.’

‘Really,’ said Millie.

‘And the other one was single! He did have a girlfriend but they broke up a year ago. And he seems
so
charming and he has stomach muscles like you wouldn’t believe… ooh, and his favorite author's Salman Rushdie, isn’t that marvelous? I thought you’d like a man who knew how to read.’

Salman Rushdie? Oh please.

‘This,’ said Millie, ‘is shameless.’

‘No it isn’t, it's human nature,’ Orla brightly assured her. ‘Why hire an unattractive person to work for you when you can hire a pretty one? I’m telling you now, show me a man with an ugly secretary and I’ll show you a man scared to death of his wife.’

‘But you’re matchmaking.’

‘Absolutely not!’ Orla spread her arms wide. ‘Darling, I’m just… broadening your horizons. Giving you the opportunity to meet more people.’

‘More men.’

‘And why not? Why's that so terrible?’

‘It's cheating,’ Millie protested.

‘It's not cheating at all. It's called making the most of a situation, setting the ball rolling, then sitting back, and seeing what happens. It might work, it might not, but what do you have to lose?’ Orla gestured enticingly out of the window. ‘I mean, look at him! Crikey, if I were fifteen years younger I’d be down there chatting him up faster than you can say riding mower.’

Millie followed her gaze.

‘His hair's too short.’

‘Hair grows.’

‘I don’t believe the book thing for a minute. How can
anyone's
favorite author be Salman Rushdie?’

‘Okay, but he's still lovely,’ Orla insisted. ‘I promise you.’

Millie looked again at the man Orla was intending—metaphorically—to hurl her at. This was beginning to feel alarmingly like being bundled into an arranged marriage. She wondered how Richard-the-new-gardener would react if he knew about it.

Poor chap, and there was he thinking Orla had hired him purely on account of his dazzling horticultural techniques.

‘Well?’ Orla prompted eagerly. ‘You’re the important one. What do
you
think?’

Oh dear, what can I say? He has a great body, thought Millie, and a nice neck, and he definitely knows how to handle a wheelbarrow.

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.’

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 over 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.