Authors: Jill Mansell
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 anything 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.
No doubt about it. Millie's new man was married.
MILLIE DIDN’T GET THE chance to speak to her mother about Tim Fleetwood. When the front doorbell rang at eight o’clock the next morning she was still upstairs, asleep.
Nat, answering the door in his striped boxer shorts, found a middle-aged woman in a severe navy jacket and grey knife-pleated skirt on the doorstep.
‘Hello. Does Millie Brady still live here?’
‘Um, hi.’ Nat wondered if the woman was a probation officer. ‘Yes, yes she does. But she's not up yet.’
‘Don’t worry, it isn’t Millie I’m after.’ The woman smiled tightly and gestured towards her briefcase. ‘I was actually looking for Adele Brady, Millie's mother. I know she was down here visiting her daughter, but—’
‘Oh, right. No, Millie's mum's not here,’ Nat explained. ‘She's staying with Millie's dad.’
‘Really?’ The woman's eyebrows rose. ‘I thought they were divorced.’
‘They are. She's staying with Millie's dad and his ladyfriend.’ With a grin, Nat added, ‘Millie's mum's still young, free, and single.’
‘I see.’ Another chilly smile. ‘Well, I wonder if you could give me the address.’
Nat scratched his head, ‘I haven’t got a clue where they live. Hess? Hess?’ he yelled. The next moment, wrapped in a towel and still dripping from her shower, Hester appeared at the top of the stairs.
‘Hello. So sorry to trouble you. My name's Sylvia Fleetwood. Millie used to work for my husband and me.’ Flipping open her briefcase, Sylvia withdrew a handful of glossy brochures. ‘The thing is, Millie's mother is a client of ours and she's been desperate to get hold of some brochures. These were delivered to the office yesterday afternoon, so I thought I’d drop them off this morning on my way to work.’
‘Oh, right.’ Hester had heard all about Sylvia Fleetwood from Millie. Obsessively jealous and paranoid that other women were after her henpecked husband. As if any woman in her right mind would be interested in the kind of man who allowed himself to be henpecked. ‘Well, you can leave the brochures here. Millie’ll make sure her mum gets them.’
‘Mrs Brady is extremely anxious to see the brochures,’ Sylvia insisted. ‘It’ll be quicker if I take them to her now.’
Hester shrugged; it made no difference to her.
‘Okay, if you’re sure.’ She told Sylvia Fleetwood the address and helpfully gave her directions to Lloyd and Judy's hard-to-find house at the end of a narrow lane off the main road leading from Newquay to Padstow.
‘Thank you. You’ve been most helpful.’ Sylvia Fleetwood headed briskly back towards her car.
‘Bit keen, isn’t she?’ said Nat when they had closed the front door. ‘All that way, just to drop off a few holiday brochures?’
Hester squirmed with pleasure as he caught hold of her and began to kiss her neck.
‘That woman's so paranoid, she's probably doing it to keep Adele away from the office and out of her husband's sight. One glimpse of him and she's worried Millie's mum will be consumed with uncontrollable lust…’
‘Speaking of being consumed with lust.’ Nat's hands began to wander teasingly over her damp, towel-clad body.
‘Nooo! I’ll be late for work,’ Hester protested unconvincingly.
‘Tell the boss you’ll be half an hour late. Actually, don’t bother, I’ll tell your boss.’ His expression solemn, Nat removed her towel and let it fall to the floor. ‘Hester, you’re going to be half an hour late.’
She grinned. That was the blissful thing about being self-employed.
‘Oh, okay then. Thanks for letting me know.’
‘My pleasure,’ said Nat.
‘In fact, just to be on the safe side, maybe we should say an hour.’
As she took his hand and led him upstairs, Hester wondered if she’d ever been happier in her life. How could she ever have thought Lucas was more of a catch than Nat?
‘You’d think that woman from the travel agency would have Millie's mother's address on their computer files,’ she mused idly.
Nat, pushing her gently backwards through the bedroom door and on to the rumpled bed, murmured, ‘Sshh. You talk too much.’
When Millie emerged from her own bedroom forty minutes later, Hester was by the front door hurriedly dragging a brush through her hair and jamming her feet into a pair of pink Reeboks.
‘You’re late for work.’ Millie pretended she didn’t know why.
Hester winked. ‘Some things are more important.’
Frowning, Millie said, ‘Did I hear the doorbell earlier?’
‘Oh, yeah. Your mum's off to Trinidad.’
WHAT?
Millie blinked. ‘Excuse me?’
‘Or Tobago. One of the two. Trinidad and Tobago, that's what it said on the front of the brochure.’
‘Are you
serious
? My mother came round to tell me she's off to Trinidad and it didn’t even occur to you to wake me
up
?’
Hester's eyes widened with astonishment as Millie's voice spiraled up through several octaves.
‘Blimey, keep your knickers on. You sound like Bjork when you do that squeaky dolphin thing. And it wasn’t your mother who was here, anyway. It was that truly lovely ex-boss of yours.’
Faintly, Millie said, ‘You mean Tim Fleetwood?’
‘No, you twit. That bunny-boiler wife of his.’
Oh God. Sylvia.
‘What was she doing here?’ squeaked Millie.
‘Honestly, you aren’t paying attention at all, are you? She had these brochures your mum wanted. For Trinidad and Tobago.’ Hester enunciated the words slowly and carefully, since Millie was clearly having trouble keeping up. ‘She needed your mum's address so she could drop them round to her, that's all. And now, thanks to you, I really am late for work. I’m off.’
As the front door slammed shut, Millie clutched her head and murmured, ‘Oh shit.’
With Lloyd and Judy out of the house—having disappeared on one of their long, early-morning walks—Adele had the kitchen to herself and was enjoying a breakfast of Earl Grey tea, buttery croissants, and blackcurrant preserves. Keeping the sleeves of her lemon satin peignoir hitched up so they wouldn’t trail in the butter dish, she helped herself to more tea from the pot and idly admired her new French-manicured fingernails. The phone began to ring again, but since Adele knew it wouldn’t be for her at this hour of the morning, she didn’t bother to answer it. She had better things to do—like think about darling Tim—than spend all her time taking down messages for Lloyd and Judy like some downtrodden secretary.
The moment the phone stopped ringing, the doorbell started. Heaving a sigh of irritation—and
almost
dropping a jammy
blackcurrant down the front of her satin robe—Adele pushed her chair back and rose slowly to her feet. If it was that frightful old farmer-neighbor of Lloyd's, calling round for one of his dreary chats, she would just have to pretend not to understand a word he was saying— which, with his impenetrable Cornish accent, wasn’t difficult—and shoo him away. Preferably before he trod cow muck from his dirt-encrusted wellies into the house.
Her nostrils pinched in readiness against the farmyard stench, as well as the thought of having to converse with a man who kept his trousers up with blue nylon baler twine, Adele braced herself and opened the front door.
‘Are you having an affair with my husband?’ demanded Sylvia Fleetwood.