Millie's Game Plan by Rosie Dean Page A

hereabouts for years, built a mill and houses for his workers. The mill’s gone, of course. Bombed during the war. But we’re still here.’
    There was a scrunch of tyres outside and the dogs, who had been consigned to their baskets, launched into a discordant chorus of barking, accompanied by the click and scuffle of claws on the tiled floor.
    Arabella grabbed a coat from the back of a chair. ‘That’ll be for me. Bye Mummy,’ she said, and leaned up to peck her mother on the cheek before giving me another double peck. ‘You must come again when I’m NOT going out.’ She glared at her mother.
    ‘Love to,’ I confessed – although that might all depend on how this evening progressed.
    Vonnie added a large jug of stock into the pan, which sizzled and spat.
    ‘Smells delicious, what is it?’
    ‘Pork à la Vonnie – a melange of recipes I’ve tinkered with over the years. I assume you’re not vegetarian?’ she asked, her forehead and brows crumpling in that irregular way a forehead does when due another shot of Botox.
    ‘No. I sometimes wish I was, I’d be a lot healthier, I’m sure.’
    ‘Nonsense. You’re already slim as a blade – how do you do it?’
    Slim as a blade? I relied on cellulite for my curves. ‘I don’t know. I eat pretty much what I like and I never go to the gym.’
    ‘Lucky you. Make the most of it, darling, it gets a lot harder.’
    She put a lid on the pan, opened one of the oven doors, and placed it in the centre. ‘There,’ she said, closing the door firmly and moving over to the sink to wash her hands. A collection of gold bracelets jangled on her wrist as she squirted three lots of soap into her palm.
    We took our drinks through to a small sitting room. The wallpaper was striking – huge pink and yellow tulips marched across a black background. Two squashy sofas in faded raspberry fabric sat opposite each other with two equally squashy yellow pouffes between them. Vonnie invited me to sit, and placed one of the pouffes so I could put my feet up. ‘I’ve had a long day. I expect you have too. Time to relax.’
    Relax? I was still overawed at the responsibility of photographing the first lady of Marshalhampton.
    Vonnie was seriously up for relaxing though. Her champagne flute was the largest I’d ever seen – somewhere between a small vase and a yard of ale.
    ‘So,’ I leaned forward, shunning the pouffe. ‘Do you have any particular location in mind? I’m sure there must be a lot to choose from here.’
    Vonnie took another sip, a curious little smile in her eyes. ‘One or two. I suppose it rather depends on the light, doesn’t it?’
    ‘Oh yes, lighting is very important.’ Thank goodness I’d borrowed a small spotlight from work – I might be able to do something clever with it.
    ‘I’m sure you can’t go far wrong, not with technology these days…a little blur here, a little airbrush there…’
    She was expecting the works. I’d have to call in a favour from Gus in the graphics department. He owed me one for not snitching on him after he threw up outside one of our client’s offices, the morning after a night on the lash.
    I tried to sound encouraging. ‘Well, I’m sure they won’t need too much doctoring. You’re probably very photogenic.’
    ‘Hell. I used to be. Fifty-three years and two children takes its toll, Millie.’
    ‘Two children?’
    ‘Yes. Arabella is my baby – a bit of an afterthought, really. Alexander is my eldest, he’s thirty.’ She took another large swallow of champagne. ‘Do you smoke?’
    ‘No thanks.’
    ‘Neither should I.’ She leaned over to an ornate cigarette box on a table at the end of the sofa. I almost laughed. I hadn’t seen anyone smoke Balkan Sobranie Blacks since Art college when, for a term, we thought it made us look cool and uber-creative.
    She clicked frantically on the lighter.
    Ooh, I could almost feel the need myself – and I hadn’t smoked for years.
    She closed her eyes against the plume of