MILLIE'S FLING (47 page)

Stunned, Adele took a step backwards.

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘You heard.’

‘I’m sorry, this is ridiculous.’ Adele shook her head. ‘You can’t turn up on someone's doorstep and start accusing them of—’

‘Fine, let's put it another way. I know you’re having an affair with my husband, and I’m here to tell you it's over. God, the smell of you,’ spat Sylvia, her face wrinkling with revulsion. ‘I searched Tim's car this morning, and it stank of your cheap scent.’

This was too much; this was insupportable. Quivering with outrage, Adele snapped back, ‘It is
not
cheap, it's by Giorgio Armani.’

‘And it makes me want to be sick,’ sneered Sylvia. ‘How dare you try and steal another woman's husband? We have a happy marriage—’

‘Oh come off it,’ Adele laughed mirthlessly, since the cat appeared to be well and truly out of the bag. ‘He's been miserable for years.’

Sylvia shifted from one sensibly shod foot to the other, her eyes narrowing like a snake's.

‘I’ve come to tell you that it's time you left Cornwall. If you stay, I’ll make
your
life a misery, and that's a promise.’

‘But I’m quite happy here. And you can’t order me to leave. Just as you can’t order Tim to stop seeing me,’ Adele continued smoothly. ‘You see, you may have spent the last twenty years bossing him around and generally treating him like some little lapdog, but he is actually a grown man capable of making his own decisions, and I think you’ll find he doesn’t actually
want
to stop seeing—AAARRGH!’

Adele sprang back as the liquid hurtled towards her, spraying her face before she had the chance to throw up her hands. Jesus! Jesus! Tim's wife was a madwoman! If this was bleach… or some kind of acid… oh God, this couldn’t be
happening
…

Stumbling backwards, fumbling blindly for the phone in the hall, Adele whimpered, ‘Dial nine-nine-nine, oh please, not my face… just dial nine-nine-nine…’

Sylvia laughed at her distress.

‘You stupid bitch, look at yourself. Go on, you can open your eyes. It's not acid.’

‘AAAAARRRGGH!’ screamed Adele twice as loudly when she had peeled her hands away from her face. The front of her yellow satin robe was splattered with dense black liquid. It was dripping from her arms, her hands, her face, her hair. ‘WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU DONE TO ME?’ she bellowed, shaking her head furiously and spraying black droplets like a wet dog.

‘Given you something to think about.’ Sylvia smiled with grim satisfaction. ‘Not looking quite so gorgeous now, are you?’

Triumphantly she held up an empty bottle. ‘Don’t worry, it's only indelible ink.’

‘Indelible ink? Are you MAD?’ shrieked Adele, clapping her hands to her chest in horror. ‘This peignoir cost two hundred and fifty
pounds
.’

By the time Millie reached the house, Adele had gone.

‘Your car,’ Millie spluttered, as Lloyd and Judy came out to greet her.

‘I know. I’ve never been called a whore before.’ Lloyd chuckled, taking the situation in his usual easygoing stride. ‘I shall be the talk of the town.’

His beautiful red Audi, parked on the driveway, had been dramatically graffitied with the words, ‘TART,’ ‘SLUT,’ and ‘WHORE.’

‘Your father was too lazy to walk down to the beach this morning so we set out in my car,’ Judy explained. ‘We saw a woman in a grey Renault as we pulled out of our lane. She must have assumed Lloyd's car belonged to Adele.’

‘So Sylvia did all this before knocking on the door. Crikey, Mum must have been in a complete state.’

‘By the time we got back she’d been scrubbing away in the shower for a good forty minutes. That ink isn’t going to be coming off in a hurry. I can’t imagine what the other people on the train back to London are going to make of your mother.’ Lloyd was doing his best to keep a straight face. ‘It's the hottest day of the year and she's done up like a beekeeper… black veil, long-sleeved gloves, and a hat the size of a sombrero.’

‘This is all my fault,’ Millie fretted. ‘If I’d been awake this morning when Sylvia came round, I’d never have given her your address.’

‘Oh please, will you listen to yourself?’ Lloyd shook his head and tut-tutted. ‘It's your mother's fault for getting herself involved with a married man in the first place.’

‘So what's going to happen now? Is it all over between them?’

‘She was on the phone to Tim Fleetwood before she left,’ Judy said easily. ‘Reading out train times and basically telling him he had twenty-four hours to leave Sylvia and join her in London.’

Millie was wide-eyed.

‘Blimey, d’you think he will?’

‘Well, we could only hear Adele's side of the conversation.’ Judy shrugged. ‘But I have to say she sounded like a mother ordering a sulky teenager to tidy his room.’

‘I still can’t believe it,’ Millie marveled, polishing her sunglasses on the hem of her polka-dotted skirt. ‘Of all the men to have an affair with. How did he ever get away from Sylvia for long enough to see my mother? I thought she had him electronically tagged.’

‘He joined an evening class,’ said Judy. ‘Adele told me while she was packing.’

‘And Sylvia didn’t join up with him?’ This was astounding. Every year they had enrolled for some course or other, always as a couple.

‘He joined a men-only discussion group: The Role of the Male in the Twenty-First Century: Exploring Repressed Emotions.’ Heroically, Judy managed to keep a straight face. ‘Apparently, he told Sylvia he needed to discover his inner self. And it worked a treat, until Sylvia caught on last week. She turned up at the community center as the rest of the class was leaving and found out that Tim hadn’t actually bothered to attend any of the meetings.’

Millie still felt as if she were in some way to blame. She watched as her father licked an index finger and gave the indelible felt-pen graffiti on the bonnet of his car an experimental rub.

It wasn’t coming off.

‘Are you going to call the police?’

‘What, and have the poor woman arrested for a spot of grievous car-bodily harm?’ Lloyd laughed. ‘I don’t think there's any need for that.’

Millie nodded at the graffiti—hardly the kind you’d want to flaunt as you drove around Cornwall.

‘It's going to need a respray. That’ll cost a bit.’

‘My darling, look at it from my point of view.’ Lloyd placed a genial arm around her shoulders. ‘Thanks to Sylvia Fleetwood, my ex-wife has upped sticks and moved out, gone back to London for
good. Sylvia provided the answer to my prayers. She has removed the thorn from my side.’ His grey eyes crinkling at the corners, he lowered his voice and confided, ‘My darling, getting the car resprayed is a small price to pay, believe me. That woman has done me a massive favor. In fact, I should probably send her red roses and a crate of champagne.’

MILLIE WAS IN THE kitchen being taught by Nat how to create the perfect souffle omelette when the phone rang the following afternoon.

‘… and then you fold the egg whites into the beaten yolks with a metal spoon—no,
not
a wooden one…’

‘Millie, it's for you.’ Hester appeared in the doorway with a phwoarh expression on her face. ‘Some gorgeous-sounding French guy, says it's très importante.’

‘Excuse me.’ Nat feigned despair. ‘What's more très importante: some gorgeous-sounding French guy or my omelette-making masterclass?’

‘Ask a silly question.’ Briskly, Millie seized the phone. ‘Hello?’

‘Ah mademoiselle, bon soir. Per’aps you could eenform your charming friend that I am not only gorgeous-soundeeng but gorgeous-lookeeng also.’

Oh! Millie's heart began to flap about inside her rib cage like a landed haddock. This was definitely a turn-up for the books.

‘He says he makes Olivier Martinez look like Quasimodo,’ she told Hester, without covering the receiver. ‘Then again, we only have his word for it. He could look like Quasimodo's ugly brother.’

‘Ze thing ees, I need some ‘elp wiz a crossword,’ said Hugh. ‘Seexteen across, two words, six and three letters, cricketer found guilty.’

‘D’you know what I think?’ said Millie. ‘I think all men should speak all the time with a French accent. It ought to be compulsory.’ Shivering happily, she added, ‘Caught out.’

‘Hey, excellente, merci beaucoup mademoiselle. Actually,’ Hugh reverted to his normal voice, ‘the reason I rang was because—’

‘Don’t tell me, you’re dying to know what I said to my mother.’ Clutching the cordless phone, Millie sidled past Nat out of the kitchen. In the living room, she told Hugh what had happened.

‘So there you have it,’ she concluded several minutes later. ‘Mum's back in London scrubbing away at her face with Comet and a Brillo pad. My dad's busy celebrating. And my mother's lover has decided not to join her because he's too much of a wet lettuce to leave his wife.’

At that moment a shriek echoed through from the kitchen, followed by a volley of giggles. ‘Excuse my flatmate,’ Millie sighed. ‘Sounds like she's being ravished. Again.’

‘How's it going with those two?’

‘Oh, they’re still sickeningly happy, like a couple of newlyweds. Which I’m pleased about,
of course
, but…’

‘Still thinking of moving out?’

Why? Are you going to invite me to move in with you?
Really?
Wow, that’d be great!

Wisely, Millie kept this rogue fantasy to herself. Instead, she said, ‘Probably. Well, it makes sense.’

‘Where will you live?’ said Hugh.

Huh, so not with you, obviously.

‘Well, Lucas has offered me a room at his place. He says I’m welcome to stay as long as I like.’

There was a brief pause.

‘And will you go?’

‘I don’t know.’ Millie heaved another gusty sigh. ‘Seems a bit ridiculous, moving out of here to get away from all the sex that's going on… and ending up at Lucas's house. Talk about jumping out of the frying pan. Still, it was kind of him to offer.’

Unlike you, Mr. Can’t-take-a-hint.

‘He might expect you to sleep with him.’ Hugh sounded disapproving. ‘As a way of saying thank you.’

‘Suppose he might,’ Millie agreed.

‘You’d be another notch on his bedpost.’

‘I’ll let you in on a secret,’ said Millie. ‘Lucas has carved so many notches there's no actual bedpost left.’

When she hung up five minutes later, she wondered what the phone call had really been about. Was it her overactive imagination or had Hugh sounded as if he were biting his tongue, willing himself not to tell her she mustn’t sleep with Lucas?

Actually, it probably was her imagination. If Hugh had something he wanted to say, in Millie's experience he generally said it.

And it wasn’t as if he could be jealous, that just wasn’t possible, because he’d already made it abundantly clear that he wasn’t interested in being any more than friends.

Oh well, forget it. As if she’d be even remotely tempted to sleep with Lucas Kemp anyway.

Recalling the rest of their conversation yesterday, Millie marveled at Lucas's ability to get hold of completely the wrong end of the stick. Having dropped a casual inquiry about her love life into the conversation, he had shot her a knowing grin when she’d told him—perfectly truthfully—that she had no love life.

‘Come on, you can tell me.’ The grin had broadened and he had given Millie a persuasive nod. Gosh, he could be annoying when he wanted to be.

‘I just have,’ Millie repeated patiently. ‘I promise you, there's nothing to tell.’

‘Not what it looked like last night.’ Lucas was busy proving it was possible to be both annoying and persistent. Lightly he added, ‘I saw you.’

‘You did? Who was I with?’

He raised a teasing eyebrow. ‘You mean you can’t remember?’

He could have seen her with Richard at the restaurant… Jed at the club…

‘What time?’ said Millie.

‘Late.’

Ah. Millie felt herself going pink.

‘You can trust me, you know,’ Lucas went on. ‘I’m very discreet.’

‘Oh right, of course you are. So discreet that you announced to Hester's boyfriend that you’d slept with Hester.’

Lucas shrugged, unperturbed.

‘That was just common sense. No point trying to keep something like that a secret, not when Nat's going to be working for me. Better out than in, that's what I say.’

Millie marveled at his reasoning. She vowed never
ever
to tell Lucas anything remotely private.

‘Anyway. He's nobody,’ she announced.

Lucas gave her a playful smile.

‘So I was right.’

‘About what?’

‘He's married.’

Millie had looked flustered and hurriedly changed the subject, letting him think he’d hit the nail on the head. Basically, it had been the easy option.

Plus, of course, it was a lot less humiliating than having to admit the truth. That Hugh wasn’t married, he simply didn’t fancy her.

Come to think of it, even Jed hadn’t been interested.

God, I must have as much sex appeal as soggy shredded wheat.

The kitchen was empty, the beaten egg whites slowly deflating in their glass bowl. Hester and Nat had evidently sloped off while she’d been on the phone; she could hear scuffling noises and whoops of laughter filtering down from Hester's bedroom.