Millie's Game Plan (3 page)

So, on the first Sunday in June, I stepped from my air-conditioned baby Fiat into the hot afternoon sunshine. After the wettest May on record it couldn’t have been more perfect or surprising.

This day could very well change my life.

Less than a hundred metres away, I might actually discover the father of my children. I was standing in the car-park of Romwick Cricket Club, about to embark on one of the most important projects of my life.

From out of the boot, I took my smart new camera case – complete with brand new camera and telephoto lens – and a folding picnic stool.

I glanced at my reflection in the car window and wondered, not for the first time, whether the outfit was right; navy cropped trousers, white scoop-neck blouse and new, plum and white daisy chain sandals with matching plum nail polish. Did I look casual and approachable or like I’d spent two hours and forty minutes putting the look together? My hair had been up, down, half-up, plaited over one shoulder and was now clasped behind my head in a butterfly clip. A few tendrils had already escaped and were springing round my face in dark, wiggly corkscrews. I harrumphed, pressed my gloss-slickened lips together and gave myself a morale-boosting smile.

Surveying the scene before me of lush green grass, faded clapboard pavilion and at least a dozen men standing about the field, my hopes were high that today would yield a cornucopia of talent – a smorgasbord of knights in white flannels. I drew a deep breath, dropped my shoulders back (all the better to enhance my A-cup boobs) and sauntered over to watch the action.

I unfolded my stool and perched on the edge of the group of spectators – mostly lazing batsmen and a couple of sweet old men on ancient, striped deck chairs, who were sharing a tinfoil wrap of sandwiches. The local team was taking it seriously, with a ‘Roger’ (can’t imagine him called anything else) transmitting an incessant stream of commands to the fielders while the other team, from Itchenfield, appeared to have press-ganged rejects from the Glastonbury Festival, one of whom was barbecuing burgers on the boundary.

Hauling my camera and telephoto lens out, I busied myself with setting up the equipment and looking professional. The mere chance that my potential husband was in the vicinity, charged my system with anticipation. My plan called for careful observation and contemplation. I owed it to my future to cover all angles. But as soon as I focused on the field of play, an elderly voice wheezed, ‘My, that’s an impressive looking camera, Frank.’

‘Wasted on this game.’

‘Ooh, I don’t know. First time old man Cartwright’s turned out this year. If she gets a shot of him at the crease, it’ll be one for the archives.’

A wheezy chuckle followed. ‘
Aye, and he’s still upright.’

More chuckles.

I took a couple of pictures of the batsman, who was watching the bowler polish the ball on his crotch. In the interests of sporting trivia, I captured said crotch before scanning the fielders for someone promising. I’d vowed to shoot all contenders with equal professionalism: full-length, close-up, profile and always, always third finger, left hand. I liked to be thorough, whatever I undertook.

‘What are you up to, my dear – talent scouting for Hampshire?’

Oh, if he only knew.

I looked at the old chaps, who smiled – possibly remembering long-gone days when they might have made a play for me. I laughed politely.
‘No, just interested in sport photography.’

‘Sport?’
The nearest one lowered his voice, ‘You want to get yourself down to Southampton – home of Hampshire Cricket. Watch a professional game.’

‘Too expensive,’ I replied, with an apologetic wrinkle of my nose, and turned back to the game, eager to study the players.

‘You know, we don’t get many young ladies down at matches.’

All the more for me, I thought.

‘Nice seeing a pretty face, for a change.’

The other one spoke. ‘Are you a cricket fan?’

I looked across at them. ‘Not especially. I’ve just taken up photography. Sport seems more challenging than landscapes.’

‘Oh yes. What other sports have you tried?’

I took a breath. ‘Actually, this is my first.’

Well, that set them off. They appeared duty bound to impart as much knowledge of cricket as they could, and insisted I bring my stool closer so they could talk more quietly. Bad move. It put me in grabbing distance, which the nearest one – Jim – did frequently, squeezing my wrist as he imparted some nugget of information about The Ashes or ball seams (don’t ask) making it impossible for me to get away. Imagine my relief, when a ripple of applause signalled the dismissal of a batsman and my chance to escape.

‘I’m just off to take some shots from the other side,’ I said, leapt up and belted round behind the pavilion. I could feel their eyes on me as I trained the lens on a new batsman, who was encouragingly cute. Short but cute. In close-up he had a look of Brad Pitt but it couldn’t be denied – legs of a pit pony.

Next, I focused on players lazing outside the pavilion; they were an unkempt bunch from Itchenfield. At least half were in t-shirts and jeans. Faithful to my plan, I captured shots of all the interesting ones but struggled to consider any might be suitable. Surely the man I was looking for would take some pride in his appearance, plus, I am partial to a man in white cable-knit.

Returning to collect my stool, I approached in a wide arc but Jim, with lightening reflexes, clutched at the canvas seat before I had chance to lift it. ‘You young ladies could do very well at these cricket clubs,’ he said, with a heavy and knowing nod.

‘Playing cricket?’ I asked.

‘No. Finding yourself a young man.’

‘Away with you,’ Frank chided. ‘This lot are almost as decrepit as we are. She wants something younger.’

‘How do you know?’ Jim turned to argue with him and I seized the stool.

‘I’m off, now.
Lovely talking to you.’

‘Alright, dear.
Come back and see us again, sometime,’ Jim grinned, waving a wrinkled palm at me.             

‘Absolutely.
You might even see me next week.’ That would be after I’d had a chance to review the candidates. Then I could nurture my little friendship with Jim and Frank, tease out any useful data on those under scrutiny and engineer some introductions. This was social networking with a real purpose.

Back in the car, I reviewed the photos I’d taken. No marks for artistic composition and, it had to be said, even fewer for content. I could feel my resolve wobble, which was so unlike me. I’m a fighter. At work, I’d been the second most successful account
manager for the last two years and, if I continued at my current rate, I’d be number one this year. Imagine – Millie Carmichael beating smug old Simon Ostler to first place. The end of August would see the final reckoning and I would win the luxury week for two in some exotic destination. If I could do that, I could do this.

I’d invested money in the camera and time in preparation. Only last night, I’d spent ages in front of the bathroom mirror, rehearsing a smile or twelve.
It needed to be friendly and alluring, but above all, memorable. According to Sacha, her number one rule is: be memorable. She has a list of rules on how to succeed with men. I don’t believe she learned them at her mother’s knee, since her mother is a staid-looking salary clerk in a sausage skin factory. I think she’s just innately Good With Men, like some people are Good With Plants.

‘Arse into gear, Millie,’ I psyched myself. ‘Oldersbury will have more potential.’

I drove slowly into the car-park by Oldersbury cricket green. As the tyres scrunched on the coarse gravel, a number of heads turned to look. I took a deep breath. At least the opposing team was from Beasley, which was a suburb of Winchester, with much more likelihood of single, upwardly mobile hunks. I slid out of the car, camera case in hand, but left the stool behind.

Oldersbury were fielding, so nine from Beasley were seated outside the rickety pavilion, which was shored up by scaffolding. Next to it was a large tent with a hand-drawn sign displaying the word ‘TEAS’ but the door was zipped firmly shut. Seated on a rug at the far side, were three young mums with toddlers, one of which was screaming. I wandered in the opposite direction to scrutinize the talent. Without the prying eyes of Jim and Frank, and with growing confidence in my skills, I methodically snapped each of the fielders in turn. The telephoto lens was brilliant – bringing each guy into sharp focus without their knowledge. I could see how I might get addicted to being a member of the paparazzi – it’s almost like being invisible.

Famous last words.

‘Do you have permission to do that?’ a female voice asked, verging on posh and tinged with menace.

I lowered the camera, looking round to see a woman, barely older than I was but dressed like an ancient schoolmistress, in pleated skirt and buttoned-up blouse. ‘Do I need permission?’

‘Well, that depends on what you’re planning to do with the images. Are you a reporter?’

‘No.’

Her flinty eyes narrowed. ‘So, why are you here?’

‘I’m an amateur photographer.’ I flashed her my broadest smile, dimples an’ all. ‘I’m doing a project on village cricket.’

‘But isn’t it an invasion of privacy? Photographing people without their consent?’

‘Actually, no.’ I’d been in marketing long enough to know my stuff. ‘This is a public place, and so long as I’m not causing an obstruction or using the images for commercial gain, it’s quite legal,’ I smiled. ‘But I’m happy to ask the captain’s permission, if you could introduce me.’

‘The captain is my husband, and he’s bowling at present. You’ll have to wait until he comes in for tea.’

I stretched the smile. ‘Of course. When will that be?’

‘About an hour from now.’
She gestured towards the spectators. ‘If you’d like to watch the cricket, I’ll introduce you to Gordon when he comes off.’

An hour…watching cricket?
I nodded and followed her back towards the pavilion.

‘Here, you can sit with Marjorie and Ken; they’re two of our greatest supporters. I’m Tamsin, what’s your name?’

‘Millie.’

Introductions over, the snapping little dictator headed off to the teas tent and left me on the bench with my new acquaintances.
Ken leaned towards me. I pulled my arms in, instinctively. ‘Don’t pay any attention to Tamsin. Power’s gone to her head since Gordon became captain.’

‘I only want to take a few photographs.’

Marjorie glanced over to the tent. ‘I should get on with it if I were you, I don’t think anybody minds.’

Ken turned to the team behind us. ‘Any of you chaps object to having your photo taken?’

Chests were inflated, bellies sucked in and poses struck so I stood up, switched the lens back to normal and snapped away. They were a friendly lot, aged from teens to retirement. It’s a pity none of them quite came up to scratch. Oh, there were a couple of decent looking guys but, unfortunately, their wives and offspring were seated on the picnic rug.

I was just lining up a long shot when Tamsin’s face popped out of the tent. She was pink, either from the heat or, judging by the look she hurled my way, simmering
rage at my having blatantly disobeyed her. I backed towards Ken and Marjorie, scanning the bench for my camera case and wondering whether I could make it to the car before Tamsin attempted a citizen’s arrest. I zipped the camera case shut. I could hear her squeaky sandals advancing on me.

‘I thought we agreed, you’d ask the captain’s permission before you took any more photos?’

Ken responded, ‘She did ask. She asked this lot.’

Her mouth opened and closed, and her chippy little eyes did their damnedest to fossilize me. Though I was sorely tempted to hang around and really get up her pinched nostrils, my job there was done. I breezed
a cheerio to everyone and headed off to the car, my smile fading with every step.

What on earth was I doing, I asked myself, and would the camera shop give a full refund within forty-eight hours of purchase?

Sitting in the car, with shoulders slumped and weary brain, I wondered why I couldn’t just meet somebody in the normal course of events. Why had I set myself this absurd challenge, which was bound to fail? An image of Aubrey Riley’s ruddy face lurched into my head to remind me. His salmon and crab fishcakes had been very tasty. It would be no exaggeration to say they were the high point of the evening. But he should be in the Guinness Book of Records for the least talkative man ever to come out of Ireland.

I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel and stared at the men in cricket whites.

Nothing good had come out of the last two matches so what was the point of going to a third?

He
who endures, conquers
. That had been one of Dad’s favourite sayings.

‘Okay, Dad.
One more. But only because I said I would.’

Selecting Marshalhampton on the Sat-Nav, I sighed and headed off.

As I drove through the Hampshire countryside, Sacha’s words echoed in my brain. Most villages are inhabited by the Middle Aged and Already Married. I probably would have been better off at a leisure centre or the local bistro. My last sexual adventure, just after New Year, had been with a guy I met in a wine bar in
Windsor. It had been hot – really hot – fulfilling all my fantasies. I’d strapped the guy to a four-poster bed, slithered over his impressively sculptured body – all six-foot-three of him – and had my wicked way. Oh boy. That chiselled jaw, those clenched biceps, his well-toned thighs – all at my lustful mercy…

Actually, that
was
a fantasy.

I’d had to superimpose it over a very dull performance from a tax inspector called Tony.

Four teams down, two more to go. Next week I could try a few more – maybe. Trouble was, come the autumn, would I find myself hauling arse from one rugby club to another; trawling fire stations or maybe scrutinising any of the armed forces? Still, come the autumn, at least I’d have a delectable all-over tan from that exotic holiday I was going to win, which would surely increase my pulling power. Exotic holiday, yes – romantic, no. I’d promised to take Mum. She’d not had a decent holiday since Dad died. And no amount of persuasion or offers of financial help from the family had shifted her position. She was possibly the most infuriating person I knew. But when I won that holiday, I’d take no argument.

The sight of Marshalhampton lifted my spirits, slightly. It’s a picture-book location. The cricket pavilion sits on the village green, where a pale, flat, beautifully-mown strip runs down the centre of it. The roads flanking it are dotted with the kind of cottages you find on jig-saw puzzles. Sad to say, there are a couple of garishly out of place chalet bungalows from the seventies, but the general impression left me thinking of a cosy little village school for my future offspring, where they’d be taken on nature rambles through the forest and learn to skip around the maypole, although I’d probably draw the line at Morris Dancing.

However, Marshalhampton did appear to enjoy some of the hottest talent in Hampshire. And I’m not talking cricketing talent, although the scoreboard did boast an impressive ninety-eight runs. Compared with the previous two matches I’d seen, I decided Marshalhampton was hogging all the tasty guys.

It was a familiar scene. An elderly chap was seated at a table, writing down the scores and the batting team were chatting quietly while they watched the action. But the main difference here was a much larger number of happy villagers were enjoying the spectacle, and there was an altogether
more jolly atmosphere.

Spirits lifting, and wiser after my experience at Oldersbury, I ventured up to the scorekeeper and asked if I would be allowed to take photographs.

‘This for
Hello
magazine is it?’ he grinned. ‘No problem at all. Maybe if they’re good ones, can we use them on our website, eh?’

Things were looking up. ‘Of course,’ I beamed.

Wandering over to the edge of the boundary, away from the spectators, I surveyed the field. There were at least four guys under thirty-five and one definitely under twenty – cute but not eligible. Alongside the pavilion, there were some vaguely interesting possibilities too. But the guy who really drew my eye was out at the crease, preparing to receive the ball. I could see he was tall and definitely built for sport. Not your hollow-chested, beer-bellied, pickle-eating villager at all.

Crack! He whacked the ball the length of the field and, as it rolled over the edge of the field, a cheer of ‘Four’ went up from his jubilant team members. I watched as he raised his bat in recognition.

I trained the telephoto on him and heard myself gasp as he came into focus. How would I describe him?
Gorgeous
springs to mind but is too generic;
Golden
might do it because in the sunlight his hair and smile practically glowed;
Dreamy
sounds like something out of a teen magazine. But, of course, I knew better than to delude myself with first impressions. So I clicked the shutter and watched.

He wandered over to shake hands with the other batsman. I clicked again and captured a smile. He wandered back to the crease and appeared to share a joke with one of the other team. I clicked again and waited until he took up position to receive the next ball. Click. Click. Click. He blasted another ball into orbit. Wow! Who’d have known cricket could be such fun?

As the delighted crowd cheered, I lowered the camera and switched to view mode. I needed to reassure myself I’d recorded it properly. The last few shots had too much movement but the close-ups on his face were stunning. The late afternoon sun had given a warm glow to the whole image. His smile, as he shook hands with his team-mate, was an advertiser’s dream. It was a broad, open smile with eyes that crinkled at the corners, and his fair, sun-streaked hair was perfect for my taste – wavy and deliciously unkempt from the physical exertion of the afternoon. Colour of eyes? Difficult to tell, but I was prepared to lay bets they were blue.

It’s not easy holding a camera steady, particularly with that level of excitement but I raised it again to capture a few more shots and couldn’t believe my hands were actually trembling.

I gave myself a stern talking to. This was precisely what I’d feared I was capable of – latching on to the best looking guy and not considering all the possibilities. I glanced towards the pavilion. There must have been half a dozen women there who could easily have been his wife or girlfriend. Quickly, I flicked back through the photos. Aha. No ring on significant finger – he could still be single.

All the same, I’d vowed I’d do this strategically and dispassionately. I had to remember The Plan. This is research, Millie, I reminded myself. The rest of your life could depend on what you capture today.

A waft of Dior Addict assailed my nostrils. I recognised it because it was Sacha’s favourite of the moment. I looked up with a plummeting heart, fully expecting to see her swinging her hips and cramping my style. Instead, a startlingly pretty girl of about sixteen was hovering tentatively beside me. ‘Hello,’ I said.

She raised her hand as if to wave before pulling it back down quickly. ‘Hi. Are you from the local paper?’ she asked in a light voice with perfect diction.

‘Sadly, no. Just an amateur. Are you expecting a journalist?’

‘Oh, no,’ she shook her head vigorously. ‘Well, I don’t know, really. I…um…I’m starting photography A-level next year and I thought…well…’

‘Good for you. What camera do you use?’ I was, of course, now an expert.

‘I don’t have a good one, yet. Mummy says she’ll buy one in the holidays.’ She was gaining confidence. ‘Do you mind showing me some of your pictures?’

‘Of course. I’m doing a study of cricket.’ And stating the obvious. ‘Here.’ I switched the camera to view mode and showed her how to click back through the images.

She made positive noises about a few of the shots, including HIM. ‘What are you going to do with them?’ she asked, handing the camera back.

‘Not sure, yet. My name’s Millie, by the way, what’s yours?’

‘Arabella.’

‘Lovely name.’

‘Thanks.’ She blushed. ‘Would you like some tea? I think there’s probably some left.’

I gathered up my gear and followed her into the pavilion. The wooden building had a musty smell from being closed up for the winter. There was an old carpet in the middle of the floor and a couple of trestle tables along the far wall. A tall, elegant woman was gathering Tupperware boxes together and tidying the last few sandwiches and cakes onto a couple of plates. She stopped when she saw us and sallied forth to shake my hand. ‘Hello there. I’m Vonnie Marshal. You’re not new to the village, are you?’ She looked troubled, as if I might have moved in without anybody telling her.

‘No, no.
Just a visitor. My name’s Millie.’

‘Well, hello Millie. Would you like a cuppa?’

Arabella who, I discovered, was Vonnie’s daughter, eagerly informed her of my photography project.

‘How marvellous.
And Arabella, how lovely for you. Arabella wants to be a fashion photographer, don’t you, darling?’

Arabella blushed. She was tall with an elfin-like beauty; she could probably have worked on the other side of the lens. ‘Well, I’m not sure, exactly.
Fashion or celebrities, maybe even sports personalities.’ She smiled at me, perhaps wondering if she’d found a kindred spirit.

After eating three very welcome ham sandwiches (crusts still on) and a butterfly cake, I thanked Vonnie and excused myself, as there were a few more shots I wanted to get. ‘In the early evening light,’ I explained. In reality, I was gagging to catch a few more shots of the Golden Batsman.

Arabella was about to follow me, when her mother steered her towards the washing up, poor kid. Still, it left me free to continue, unobserved.

I wandered round the field, snapping the village pub, the cottages and a line of trees, which led to a rustic gate into the churchyard. Then I came back to set up on the other side of the pavilion for some group shots. Another cheer rang out, and a couple of chaps leapt into the air in celebration. I glanced up, just in time to see the ball heading straight at me. Instinctively, I held up my hand and it whacked me so hard I squealed.

‘Fffuckinell!’ I spluttered. Pretty restrained, I think, under the circumstances.

Doubling up over my hand, which surprisingly was still attached to my wrist, the stinging ache brought a lump to my throat. Around me I could hear voices of concern and even one saying, ‘Pity she didn’t catch it, we could use her at Deep Square Leg.’

But in spite of the pain and humiliation, I still had enough wits about me to register My Man loping athletically across the field – heading in my direction.

Whilst the look on my face was not what I had practised – it could have been considered memorable. All the same, I felt a complete prat for drawing attention to myself. This just wasn’t the scenario I’d planned.

I stared at the palm of my hand, now scarlet, and blew on it. A small group had gathered round me but parted to let My Man through.

‘I’m so sorry. Are you hurt?’ His voice was perfect – mellow, slightly husky and intimately directed at me. There was a warm waft of hot, clean linen and subtle cologne coming off him as he lowered his head to search my face for signs of distress. I could have whooped with delight when I noticed his eyes were, indeed, blue; proper blue, not grey or sage but blue like cornflowers, with a fine lacework of silver threaded through them.

Oh. He was waiting for an answer. What was the question?

‘Are you okay?’ he asked, genuine concern in his voice.

I managed to whisper, ‘Good,’ and swallowed, before repeating, ‘Very good. Thank you.’

He held out his hand to support the back of my wrist, and asked if I could flex my fingers. Feeling stupid, I tried, uncomfortably aware of the suggestive groping gesture they made and the quickening throb that was baking my palm. The heat from his hand transferred to my wrist and was mainlining through my arterial system, straight down to my solar plexus.

Unlike me, he still had the mental agility to structure a proper sentence. ‘It looks okay, I think. Probably be a bit bruised for a day or two, though. You might want to get it checked out.’

I shook my head. ‘No. S’fine. Don’t worry.’

‘Sure?’ Those eyes, so clear and open and totally unaware of the future I had planned for him, were fixed on mine. I gathered my senses and decided now would be a good time to hit him with my alluring smile. Actually, I’m not quite sure it was the smile I’d practised, but it was genuine. And it worked. He smiled back – the same smile I’d seen in the photo but this time it was for me. Oh, to see that across a bowl of Crunchy-Nut and Bran-Flakes every morning. ‘Great.’ He said quietly. ‘Well, I’d better get back. And I’m really sorry about the hand,’ he said, finally releasing mine.

‘Hope I didn’t ruin your score?’ I asked, wanting to keep him close.

His smile broadened. ‘No. It’s safe. The ball dropped over the boundary.’

‘Oh, well done.’ I added, surprised at my own magnanimity.

‘Thanks.’ He raised his bat in farewell and headed back to the pitch. Applause rippled from the spectators and I watched in admiration as he swiped the next ball in the opposite direction, scoring another four runs.

‘Nice one, Vic!’ someone shouted.

Vic, I thought, rolling the name around in my head, Victor. I supposed it was quite appropriate for an outstanding sportsman. Although, I couldn’t hear it without the subtext of mentholated chest rub.

My super-active ex, Jamie, had won the Victor Ludorum at school. I sincerely hoped it wasn’t an omen.

Packing up my camera, somewhat gingerly as my hand was absolutely killing me, I couldn’t help but think that if love at first sight was for real, then I’d literally been knocked for six.