MILLIE'S FLING (54 page)

Relocate to London?

Get a job in a travel agency?

Set about finding herself a new man, one she could fall in love with who might even love her in return?

In other words,
move on
?

Millie waggled her toes, briefly admiring the silvery-bronze polish on them. She gazed at the blank TV screen, then took another slurp of champagne and felt the bubbles pop on her tongue.

As the alcohol began to swirl through her bloodstream, she thought how nice it would be to hear Hugh's voice now, the light, sexy, amused drawl he used when he was teasing her.

The voice that made her shiver with longing.

The voice she craved, almost like a drug.

Ridiculous. Vigorously, Millie shook her head. No, no,
no
. It's almost half past midnight. You can’t possibly ring him now. Not unless you’ve got a jolly good reason.

Oh, but that was the trouble with phones, they were just too tempting. They were…
there
.

A hundred years ago, if you were in London and you experienced a sudden, violent urge to speak to someone in, say, Cornwall, you had to jump on to a horse and gallop the three hundred-odd miles in
order to do so. It probably took more than a week before you were able to reach the person and say what you wanted to say.

Millie, snatching up the phone and jabbing out the numbers, decided that it was all Alexander Graham Bell's fault. If he’d stuck to stamp collecting or train-spotting, she wouldn’t be able to do this now.

Ha, if it weren’t for Alexander Graham Know-it-all Cleverclogs Brainbox Bell, she’d never have got herself into this mess in the first place.

Oh well, too late, it was ringing.

Hugh picked up on the third ring. This was good, Millie decided. At least it meant he’d been awake.

‘Allo? Allo? Ah, bonjour m'sieur, thees eez the
News of ze World
, yes? I ’ave a scoop for you! A beeg,
beeg
item of gossip you weel not believe!’

IN CORNWALL, HUGH'S HEART began to pound. Unable to sleep himself, he had been lying in bed thinking about Millie. And now here she was, ringing him.

The question was, had Hester phoned her?

Feeling sick, forcing himself to sound normal, he replied gravely, ‘Oui, mademoiselle, this is the
News of the World
. You are through to the Beeg Beeg Gossip department. May I ask what this is about?’

‘Ah, mais oui! Ze beautiful bestselling novelist, Orla Hart! I tell you, you vill not
believe
zis!’

Hugh began to relax. He knew Millie well enough by now to know that she hadn’t spoken to Hester.

He still had a chance to get this right.

‘You’re slipping into German,’ he warned.

‘Bugger, so I am.’ In her hotel room, Millie took another slurp of champagne. ‘Better give up on the accent.’ She paused, then said, ‘You still won’t believe it when I tell you about Orla.’

‘Where are you?’

‘In London. In the poshest hotel you ever saw. Well, maybe not the poshest one
you
ever saw,’ Millie conceded. ‘But as far as I’m concerned, it's a palace.’

‘The Ritz?’

‘Nooo! The Royal Lancaster, overlooking Hyde Park
and
Kensington Gardens,’ boasted Millie. ‘Chandeliers like you wouldn’t believe and carpet so thick you could hide a sniper in it. Orla brought
me up here, we’ve been to an awards ceremony.’ Unable to resist name-dropping, she added proudly, ‘Michael Palin was there.’

‘Don’t tell me, Orla ripped off her clothes and did a streak across the stage.’

‘Nope!’

‘She ripped off Michael Palin's clothes and made
him
streak across the stage.’

‘If only. Much worse than that,’ Millie pronounced with relish. ‘Oh dear, maybe I shouldn’t tell you.’

‘Millie. You have to.’

‘Okay! Orla's been shagging! I caught her in the ladies’ loo… you’ll
never guess
who she was with.’

Hugh, clearly amused, said, ‘Michael Palin?’

‘Ha! Much much
much
worse. Christie Carson!’

‘You mean the ugly old bloke with the beard?’ Hugh was laughing now. ‘Her sworn enemy?
That
Christie Carson?’

‘I know, I know, but it turns out he isn’t old and he isn’t ugly. And they aren’t sworn enemies anymore. In fact, they’re probably in her suite right now,
still
doing it. Good thing Orla booked us into separate rooms!’ Millie exclaimed. ‘Otherwise I’d be spending the night curled up on one of the sofas in reception.’

Tucking her bare feet under her, she told Hugh everything. The longer they talked, the less she wanted to hang up the phone. She could happily carry on like this all night. Hearing his voice. Imagining his face. Picturing his dark eyes and the way his mouth curved up at the corners when he smiled…

Damn, getting tiddly now. The bottle of Veuve Clicquot was almost empty. And—completely pathetically—hot tears were beginning to well up in her eyes.

‘By the way, I’ve come to a decision. I’m leaving Cornwall, moving up to London,’ Millie blurted out. Tell him now, then you’ll have to do it, you can’t back down.

‘What? Why?’ Hugh sounded taken aback. ‘Why would you want to leave?’

‘I’ve just made up my mind. It's the best thing to do. Lots of people move to London.’

‘Lots of people living in London wish they could move to Cornwall.’

Tears were now rolling down Millie's cheeks. Silently, they dripped on to the starched cotton sheets pulled up over her knees. When she was confident she could sound normal—and not as if she was blubbing like a big baby—she said, ‘I just think I need a change. Nothing wrong with that. Oh, and there's something else I’ve decided.’

There was a long pause.

‘What?’

‘The next time we bump into each other, I’m going to show you something. My tattoo.’

‘Why?’

‘Because it doesn’t matter anymore. I’ll be moving away, won’t I?’ Draining the last dregs from the bottle into her tooth mug, Millie wiped her eyes. ‘Anyway, it's no big deal. Only a stupid tattoo. If you want to see it, you can.’

This is ridiculous. He probably isn’t even interested. So much for Con's brilliant suggestion.

Another, even longer pause.

‘I’d like that.’

He was just being polite, she could tell.

Glancing at her watch, Millie saw that it was almost one o’clock. Now that she’d stopped crying, her swollen eyelids were beginning to droop.

‘I suppose I’m keeping you up.’

Please don’t agree with me! Don’t say yes!

‘It's getting pretty late,’ Hugh agreed.
(Bastard. Wrong answer!)
‘Maybe you should get some sleep.’

He didn’t want to talk to her anymore. Feeling rejected, Millie knocked back the last inch of flat champagne.

‘I’m not tired. Are you tired?’

He sounded amused.

‘Actually, I am. Exhausted. And I do have a busy day tomorrow.’

Millie blinked hard. Here it was again, the oh-so-familiar brush-off. He’d been listening to her patiently, pretending to be interested, and all the time wondering how much longer she was going to be on the phone.

She’d been endlessly prattling on and he’d indulged her. Because he simply wasn’t the type to interrupt and retort, ‘For Christ's sake woman, will you
listen
to yourself?’ before slamming the phone down.

Oh God, I’m so
selfish
.

‘That's fine!’ Summoning up a carefree, cheerful voice, as opposed to a whiny, self-pitying, and somewhat-the-worse-for-drink one, Millie took a deep breath. ‘You get some sleep now. Sorry I’ve kept you up. You really should have said.’

‘No problem.’ Hugh sounded equally cheerful. ‘And I’m glad you rang. Bye, then.’

You pig, you just don’t get it, do you? You don’t understand me at all!

Aloud, Millie said, ‘Bye.’

At eight-thirty the next morning the phone shrilled next to Millie's bed.

‘What? What? Who is it?’ Jolted into consciousness, she stared blankly around the room. A strange room, with the door on the wrong side and unfamiliar curtains.

Extremely
posh
curtains.

The phone carried on shrilling. Feeling stupid, Millie realized
it hadn’t been the doorbell after all. That was the trouble with waking up somewhere you weren’t used to. The telephone didn’t ring like the one at home. It caught you on the hop, deliberately confused you…

Shrill, shrill.

Answering it might be a good idea.

Millie seized the receiver and mumbled, ‘Hello?’

If it was Con, she would kill him. It surely couldn’t be Orla, who never woke before nine. Particularly when she’d spent a torrid night shagging with the enemy.

‘Miss Brady? Good morning, it's reception here.’ The voice clearly belonged to someone who had been up since six and had eaten a muesli-and-orange-juice-type breakfast before jogging three miles to work. She sounded disgustingly healthy.

‘Oh, hi.’ Eyeing last night's empty bottle of Veuve Clicquot on the bedside table, Millie briefly closed her eyes and waited for her hangover to kick in. Oh no,
and
she’d phoned Hugh last night. Droned on and on like one of those sad people who rang late-night radio phone-ins and stubbornly refused to get off the line.

I’ve turned into a nuisance caller. Any more hassle and he’ll be forced to get one of those court order thingies to stop me harassing him—

‘Miss Brady, I’m sorry, but there appears to be some kind of mix-up with your reservation.’

The sun was streaming through the curtains Millie had last night forgotten to close. Averting her eyes from its glare, she huddled into the pillows.

‘Mix-up? What kind of mix-up?’

‘I’m really sorry. Maybe if you could come down here to reception we can get it sorted out.’

‘Now?’ Millie was having trouble concentrating. ‘You want me to come down
now
?’

The receptionist replied chirpily, ‘If you could, that’d be great. See you in a mo!’

A mo?

This girl had to be joking.

The phone went dead in Millie's hand. Little Ms. Bright’n’Breezy had hung up.

Regular bowels. Millie would bet a month's wages the girl had regular bowels.

But was that actually such a great thing? What if you had a bowel movement at seven-thirty every morning without fail? What if you were on the Central Line surrounded by fellow commuters at the time?

Ha! Wouldn’t be so great then, would it?

In the bathroom, Millie splashed cold water over her face, hurriedly brushed her teeth, and combed her morning-after-the-night-before hair into some kind of order.

Back in her room, she discovered the downside of not closing the curtains. Her suitcase, lying open on the floor next to the window, contained her white jeans. Sadly it also contained the Cadbury bar she had torn open and half eaten yesterday afternoon. The remaining half, having liquefied in the heat, had melted all over one leg of her jeans.

The moral of the story being, once you’ve started a Cadbury bar, always
always
finish it.

Wrecked trousers. Bugger. Champagne-stained suede dress. Bum. Bending down and rummaging through the extremely small case, Millie pulled out her best nightie—last year's Christmas present from Hester. Made of heavy lilac silk with a deeper lilac velvet trim, it really wasn’t nightieish at all. In fact, with its spaghetti straps, fitted bodice and just-above-the-knee hemline it could easily pass as a summer dress.

Which was just as well, seeing as it was going to have to.

Making her way down in the lift, Millie tried to imagine how the
mix-up could have come about. Had her room been double-booked? If the hotel was full, did that mean she was about to be turfed out into the street?

The lift doors slid open and Millie instantly spotted the receptionist in question. Everything about the girl was pert. She was even wearing her hair in pigtails. Her favorite film had to be, just
had
to be
The Sound of Music
.

‘Millie Brady?’ The receptionist flashed an apologetic smile. The badge she wore announced that her name was Wendi. With an i. ‘I’m sorry about this. He made me do it.’

As her perfectly made-up eyes slid sideways, so did Millie's. Before, she had been concentrating on Wendi-with-an-i. Now she saw who was standing a few feet away and her stomach went DOINNGGG, like a Sumo wrestler crash-landing on a trampoline.

Hugh was leaning against the desk, watching her reaction.

‘My God, I don’t believe this!’ Crazily, it occurred to her that maybe he had a twin brother he’d never told her about. Staring at him, Millie said carefully, ‘
Hugh?
’

‘Is this okay?’ Wendi looked as though she might be about to pounce on the nearest panic button. ‘You do know him?’

In a daze, Millie said, ‘Well, I thought I did.’

‘You told me Orla had abandoned you.’ Hugh's tone was conversational. ‘I thought you might not be safe here all on your own. Also,’ he added, ‘you did say that the next time we bumped into each other you’d show me your tattoo.’

‘You’re certain this is all right?’ Wendi needed reassurance. ‘I mean, he seems normal enough, but he did ask me to do something pretty weird just now. I told him straight, there was
no way
I was doing that.’

Having somehow made it from Cornwall, Hugh now appeared to have forgotten what he was supposed to say next. Similarly, finding it easier to talk to Wendi-with-an-i than to him, Millie
cleared her throat and said delicately, ‘Um… did he by any chance want you to dress up in a gorilla suit and burst into my room on roller skates?’

‘
What?
No!’ Wendi's eyebrows rocketed into her fringe. Turning to Hugh, she gasped, ‘My God, you really
are
weird.’

Hugh's tone was consoling. ‘I’d never have asked you to do that.’

‘What then?’ prompted Millie.

‘He wanted me to phone your room, put on a Dutch accent and ask you some kind of… well, here, I can’t figure it out.’ Wendi pushed a piece of paper across the desk. ‘I mean, this is bizarre. He says he's driven up here from Cornwall overnight, but how can anyone be that desperate for the answer to some dumb riddle?’