Millie's Game Plan by Rosie Dean Read Free Book Online

spreadsheet when he’s using your laptop to surf porn sites.’
    ‘Do you know what? I wish I’d never told you.’ I started herding chunks of crispy duck around the plate and then fixed her with a look. ‘Sach, I want to meet a really lovely man who will become my husband and a wonderful father. So, I’m prepared to put time and effort into doing some research. If he’s the kind of man I want him to be, he’ll be delighted I made the effort.’
    ‘But won’t the foundations of your relationship be based on a lie?’
    With a slurp of Kir, I hit an oasis of mental clarity. ‘Actually, no, because it might be one of the traits he admires in a woman. He might want his children to grow up to be hugely successful. A passive wallflower is hardly going to breed the next Richard Branson or Stella McCartney, is she?’
    Sacha shrugged. ‘Okay. But you’d better ask me to be bridesmaid or I’m not coming.’
    I forced a smile. I needed to return to that positive mind-set I’d been cultivating so assiduously for the last couple of weeks. ‘That, my dear Sacha, will be up for discussion with my fiancé.’
    ‘I’ll drink to that,’ she announced, knocking back the last of the Kir. Then she leaned across and threw her arms around me. ‘I know this is really big for you, Mills. And I’m so glad I’m going to be in there at the beginning. I promise you, I’m behind you all the way.’
    ‘Thanks.’
    With a final squeeze, she smacked a noisy kiss on my cheek before demanding we treat ourselves to ice-cream with more of the Cassis.
    ‘Great,’ I agreed but couldn’t quite shake the idea I might go down in history as the biggest sexual deviant to come out of Europe since Lucrecia Borgia.

Chapter 6
    On Monday evening, I lay on my bed and imagined myself into the future, where the Royal Academy was holding a photographic exhibition entitled, Bowled Over. I saw myself in a figure-hugging cocktail dress, greeting my public with a cool flute of champagne. I imagined my adorable husband – Victor – standing proudly next to a ceiling-high shot of his face. I was being proclaimed the new Annie Liebowitz. Cameras flashed. And then my phone rang.
    Mother. ‘Hi Mum,’ I said, dreamily.
    ‘Hola, chica,’ she said, echoes of Andalucia on her tongue. ‘And why have you not given your old madre a call?’
    ‘I only spoke to you last week.’
    ‘I remember. Tuesday. Six days ago.’
    There was a pointed silence. My brain whirred and finally screamed, Shit ! It was Dad’s anniversary. ‘Oh no. I’m so sorry.’ How had I managed to forget? It had been three years and this was the first year when I hadn’t thought about him at 2.55pm, which is the time he’d died.
    ‘Probably best you get on with your own life. He wouldn’t have wanted you dwelling on his passing,’ she said and sniffed.
    ‘No, but I should have called you. I’m sorry. Have you heard from Trina and Tony?’
    (That’s Trina – christened Katarina – my older sister, happily married to an accountant called Elliot, with twin five year olds, Amy and Lucy; and Tony – christened Antonio – my younger brother who married his childhood sweetheart, Emma, and has a baby called Moses. Was it any wonder I put myself under such pressure to find a mate?)
    ‘Oh, yes. Trina’s rushing about, making the twins their outfits for ballet. I don’t know how she keeps it up, working full-time and chasing after those two. And she’s talking about another baby. Tony popped round with Moses this morning. He’s grown, you know – and so full of personality.’
    ‘Ahh,’ I crooned, with a mental note-to-self to see the little guy more frequently.
    Mum continued. ‘So, chica, are you any closer to finding me a handsome son-in-law, so that I might be bouncing your little niños on my knees before my arthritis gets too bad?’
    ‘Er…well…’
    ‘Dios mio!’ Her excitement crackled down the phone line. ‘Don’t tell me there’s good news?’
    ‘Hang on,