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

Mum. I don’t want to build up my hopes or yours, but I might be on the verge of meeting someone really nice.’
    ‘What does that mean?’
    ‘It means that there’s a definite possibility.’
    ‘Well, I’ll assume the poor man has no idea. Which probably means nothing will happen. Dear Lord, how I pray some fine man will come along and sweep you off your feet.’
    She continued along that line of thought until I was able to extricate myself from the conversation. As I hung up, my eyes were drawn to a picture of Dad on my dressing table. We used to be like a double act; where as Tony was always mad for any kind of sport and Trina loved to cook and make things, Dad was a drama teacher, and we were both into music and theatre, joining the local am-dram-soc, camping it up with other thespians. He made a cracking dame in panto, gave Hampshire the best Higgins in My Fair Lady, and fostered in me a deep and abiding love of amateur theatre.
    His legacy is Hamlets, and the project was my baby now. Thursday evenings and Saturday mornings were taken up with rehearsals. It could be pretty draining, since aside from theatrical stuff, I often ended up listening to all kinds of adolescent trauma and angst. Not that I minded. I remember how difficult it was to be a teenager. Even though I had an older sister to talk to, she was always too lofty, too goody-goody for my kind of traumas.
    I love working with the kids. I guess I get that from Dad. He was, however, more easy-going than I am, hugely funny and always my biggest champion. And that was my challenge – finding a guy who’d be every bit as good a dad as he was. Why would I want to settle for anything less? Remembering how much I loved him – still do love him – brought a massive lump to my throat, and I didn’t fight it. After all, if you can’t have a good blub on your dad’s anniversary, when can you?
    I wailed as I opened the wardrobe. Tucked away at the back, zipped into a suit cover, was an old thick woollen sweater of his. I pulled it out and buried my face in it, kidding myself there was still the faintest whiff of him on it; the soft fibres reminding me of cuddles I’d never have again. As the tears and hiccups threatened to overwhelm me, I pushed the sweater back into its cover, slid the zip closed and hunted for some tissues. I didn’t want to indulge my misery for too long, worried it might be upsetting Dad – if he was out there, hanging around on some spiritual plain and tapping into my emotions. I mean, there are times when I really think I feel him around me – usually when, out of the blue, I start singing The Rain in Spain or, occasionally, just before I wake up, I swear he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, grinning at me and telling me I’m still his Millie-minor.
    Well, you never know, do you?
     
    Sacha was seriously up for me pursuing The Golden Smiler. So, on Tuesday night, we headed off to Marshalhampton with the adolescent hope of seeing him. But the closer we got, the slower I seemed to be driving. I wasn’t sure it was such a great idea, especially with Sacha in tow, batting her eyelashes, flicking her blonde tresses and acting like my press agent.
    As we pulled into the pub car-park, which was surprisingly empty, we saw the sign – CLOSED FOR REFURBISHMENT. I wavered between relief and disappointment.
    ‘Bollocks!’ snapped Sacha. ‘Is this the only pub round here?’
    I shrugged and suggested we drive on to see if we might discover a second. We pulled onto the road and headed towards Romwick. Since our prime objective was scuppered, I found myself driving away from the pub faster than before. Maybe I wasn’t quite the go-getting-woman I’d thought I was.
    The country roads began to wind and dip…only I hadn’t accounted for them winding and dipping quite as much as they did. Suddenly, I was face to face with a tractor and half my life was superimposed across the windscreen.
    ‘ShI-I-I-It-!’ we both cried, as I stamped on the