Chapter 23
“I really can’t thank you enough for coming, Lauren,” Millie gushed again, watching in awe as one of her favourite artists finished laying out paintbrushes on each easel. Lauren beamed and swung her hair up into a leopard print claw clip.
“You’ve already said thank you and honestly, it’s no problem. It’s my pleasure,” she replied. Lauren had gone above and beyond for the class she was taking in place of Millie’s – she had half expected her to turn up and just do a little talk about her artwork and offer some tips and that would have been more than appreciated. But instead, she’d arrived in a Transit van with her name and logo plastered on the side, barely squeezing down the lane and swinging into the solitary parking space outside the hall (which was more just a concrete standing, really). Inside, she’d brought enough artist easels and professional materials from her shop for all twelve people booked on to the course. With Millie’s help, they’d unloaded the lot and set it up, so it almost transformed the ordinary village hall into an artist’s workshop. She’d even brought a few spare easels to prop her artwork onto, adding vibrancy to each corner. One easel remained bare.
“I was wondering if you had a piece of your own work to put on this one?” Lauren indicated the empty easel. Millie’s jaw almost dropped.
“Mine? Why?” Lauren looked confused.
“Well, this is technically your class, isn’t it? I’m kind of just gate-crashing,” she chuckled. Millie’s heart swelled with pride – yes, this was her class. Which she had organised. Maybe there was a future for her in art, whether it was here or somewhere else. Perhaps she was good enough. If Lauren Shilton herself seemed to think so, then it must be a possibility.
She agreed to dash home and grab a piece to share. It would only take ten minutes tops due to her close proximity to the hall, but the start of the session was only fifteen minutes away – some people had even started to arrive already. Without hesitation, she flew out the hall and awkwardly half-ran, half-walked across the square and ascended up the lane. It had started to drizzle and so she pulled up her hood, nestling down into her scarf so only her eyes peeked through. It was the first time she had cursed the lane for being so long. And steep. Now she’d probably be sweaty for the session and that would make her feel stressed and…
BANG.
“Millie?!”
“Alfie?” It was the first time they had come face to face since their kiss and the air felt charged. Talk about an elephant in the room – try a herd of elephants.
“What’re you doing up this end of the village?” she said, indicating up the lane. He shuffled, almost looking shy.
“Well…I was looking for you, actually. But you weren’t in and then I remembered today is Lauren’s session? Isn’t it…?” He glanced down at his watch.
“Right now? Yeah! I’m just rushing back to grab some artwork, then I need to be back right away.”
“I’ll walk with you,” he said, more of a statement than a question and followed her the hundred or so yards back up the hill to her cottage. He waited patiently as she flustered around, slotting a painting into a folder and then bumbling back out, striding back down the hill.
“So, there was a reason I wanted to find you,” he started, raising his voice, as the rain was harder now, coming down in droves; he pulled his coat collar up around his face to offer some protection. He’d been hoping to track her down and have an honest, open conversation about what was going on in his life. He’d left it a few days but finally felt ready to talk, having made some huge decisions. This wasn’t quite how he’d expected to have that conversation, though. She glanced sideways at him briefly, her pace not faltering.
“I don’t want to be rude Alfie, but this isn’t a great time. The session starts in about two minutes, and I really don’t want to be late.” He nodded, understanding but frustrated at his timing. Why hadn’t he remembered the class was on now?
“I get it,” he replied as they emerged into the square and the hall was just there. She wasn’t stopping. “I just…I really need to talk to you.” Whilst not his intention, the desperation in his voice was clear and this caused Millie to stop before heading inside. She looked up at him from under her hood, fat raindrops dripping noisily from its rim.
“Ok?” she replied, her voice loaded with question. “I’m so busy this week…can it wait until Friday? Maybe in the evening, after the final session and when the press has gone?” She was referring to the last session of the week, which also happened to be the final session of the December run. Lauren was returning to run the last session, and local press had been invited to cover it for maximum exposure, in the hope the council would reconsider their plans for the hall and adjoining clock tower. It was going to be an extremely busy end to a manic couple of weeks and he knew she’d want to have full focus. Although he felt bursting to tell her sooner, he nodded and offered a smile.
“Sure. Come to mine after. We can chat then,” he said, and she offered a brief smile before darting inside, leaving him standing in the downpour, alone.
* * *
Drum and bass pulsated through the floor and up into Millie’s body, vibrating down all her limbs and buzzing in her brain. People jostled her either side and her shoes stuck to the floor, making her shudder. It wasn’t her idea of a great night, that was for sure. But it had been Sam’s idea and for once he’d asked her if she wanted to go out with him and his friends. She’d heard so much about “the gym lads” but had never actually met any of them. It was curiosity and intrigue which had driven her to go rather than an actual desire to go clubbing.
Whilst she wasn’t “old” she certainly felt ancient in the club, surrounded by impossibly thin and effortlessly cool-looking eighteen-year-olds, fresh out of sixth form and thrown into university. It was clear she’d missed the fashion memo too – all these girls wore flat shoes and casual clothing complemented by faces full of contour and big brows; a stark contrast to what had been on trend when Millie used to venture out at university. She felt hideously out of place in her leather-look black leggings, vest top and heels, more what had been in style when she was a fresher. “Mutton dressed as lamb” kept flickering in her head.
She stood self-consciously at a tall table, alternating her weight between legs because her shoes were already hurting her and scanning the room regularly for Sam; he’d been gone for ages. He said he was popping to the bar to get a round of drinks because that’s where his friends had just texted him from. He’d explained it was best she wait there and keep the table so here she was, alone and feeling it. Men walked past and scanned her up and down, raising her anxiety further. She had never been one to enjoy attention, however innocent it may have been (and this certainly wasn’t). How she wished Jenny was here – she’d know how to handle it.
She jumped at the feeling of someone brushing up behind her and was ready to turn and run when she realised it was Sam back from the bar and a gaggle of men arrived with him. He placed a tray of shot glasses on the table, filled with various, fluorescent-coloured liquids. He threw an arm roughly around her shoulders, pulling her head to his chest and instantly she knew he was drunk. He’d only been gone for ten minutes max, but he was clearly under the influence of something. His whole demeanour was different. She smiled as widely as she could but felt uncomfortable in his hold. She placed a hand on the arm round her neck in an attempt to feel some control.
“So, this is Millie,” he announced, slurring slightly on the s’s and all the men nodded and smiled mischievously. She couldn’t help but feel there was a hidden joke she was missing. She gave a little acknowledging wave.
“Does Millie do shots?” one of the guys asked and she made a face, indicating ‘maybe’ but that she clearly wasn’t happy about it. They all laughed coarsely and started picking up the small glasses. Sam, his arm still around her shoulder, placed one in between her fingers and they began to knock them back, swallowing in one and making excited noises to each other. She couldn’t help but stare, mostly in confusion, at the clear enjoyment they were getting from it. She peered down at the bright red liquid in the glass, bringing it to her lips and taking a sip before promptly spitting it back in. It was vile.
“BABE!” Sam yelled, noticing what she had done, placing it back on the tray. They all took another one, Sam draining her rejected one on top of the other two. They pumped the air with their fists and Millie looked across at Sam and thought she had never been less attracted to him in the many years she’d known him. Who was this person? She didn’t recognise him.
“What now? Shall we dance?” Before she could protest, Sam had dragged her to the dancefloor where it felt people were fighting more than dancing; she hadn’t remembered people being so wild in the clubs she’d visited during her university years. People were visibly drunk, thrashing around. Despite Sam being pressed right up against her, men were reaching out to touch parts of her body, women were gyrating, and the atmosphere felt heady and antagonistic, like anything could kick off at any time. She started to feel panic rise in her chest and indicated to Sam she wanted to get out of the crowd.
They pushed through the rabble until they reached the edge, but the air didn’t feel much clearer here. Sam moved over to the edge of the club, pressing Millie against the wall and slamming his mouth into hers. He tasted of alcopops and cigarettes (clearly that’s where he’d been for so long earlier, whilst she waited alone) and his hands squirmed around her body. She pushed him off and he looked shocked.
“What’s the problem?” he hollered over the sound of the thumping beat.
“I’m not comfortable. I want to go home,” she shouted back, not wanting to discuss it in depth here, where they could barely hear one another. She hadn’t been impressed with his attitude all night but talking about this whilst he was drunk wasn’t a viable option.
“Why?!” she lip-read.
“I’m just…tired,” she yelled, shrugging her shoulders. He rolled his eyes.
“Oh, come on Mils, live a little. It’s not like we have responsibilities, or a child to wake up for in the morning or anything.” She paused and blinked twice, unsure if she’d misread the words on his lips, or misheard over this ridiculously monotonous track. She detected the faintest hint of regret in his face and realised then he had said exactly those words. Shaking her head in slow anger, she pushed him in the chest and stormed through the crowd, shoving people out the way to get to the exit. She wasn’t sure if he was following because she didn’t look back, just continued to plough onwards. She barely managed to see the taxi rank through her blurry tears but felt relief wash over her as she slammed the door shut and the car sped away, avoiding contact with him. She sobbed so loudly but the taxi driver left her alone, used to having crying women on the back seat on a Saturday night.
She would never forgive him. Never. It had been mere months since she’d received that life-changing news and yet he goes and drops that bomb. Well, that was it. They were through. But of course, they weren’t. The following morning he’d apologised profusely, blaming it on alcohol and grief. And she’d accepted it because the truth was, she had no idea what she’d do otherwise.