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CHAPTERTWENTY-FOUR
Owen took directions to Millie’s flat from George, and they both received orders from Sally. He was to go immediately and fetch Millie back. Do whatever was necessary to charm Millie into returning. George must apologise when she arrived, promise never to keep secrets from her again. ‘Trust,’ Sally said, taking George by the arms and shaking him gently. ‘Trust is the most important element of any relationship.’
‘But Mum, what if she won’t come back? What if she prefers–’
Sally shook him again. ‘Georgie, listen to me. You trust Owen, don’t you?’
Owen saw the doubt creep across George’s face. They locked eyes for a second. Perhaps he should say something. Assure George he wasn’t interested in taking Millie from him. She wasn’t his type of girl. She was a girl looking for commitment, the sort he always tried to avoid.
‘Listen to me.’ Sally pulled her son’s attention back to what she was saying. ‘Owen. will persuade Millie. He’s good with words.’ And as if she had read her son’s mind, she added. ‘He’s your friend, not your rival. He’ll use his charm and intelligence, whatever is necessary, to get her to come back toyou.’
She released him and George slumped in a heap on the sofa, covering his face with his hands. Sally turned to Owen. ‘I know you can do it,’ she said. ‘But don’t come back without her if you expect a Christmas dinner.’ Until she winked at him, Owen almost believed she was serious.
Shrugging into his waterproof,Owen only half listened to George, telling him to be gentle. Don’t force Millie, don’t frighten her.Frighten her?As if he would. Did George expect him to threaten Millie, to chuck her over his shoulder, cave man style and march back with her. That certainly was not in his action plan. He didn’t have a plan; he had no idea how he was going to persuade Millie to return with him. Why did people always think he was good with words? He wasn’t He’d always thought of himself as the silent type.Why do people think I can charm girls?It never ceased to amaze him how different other people’s perception were to his own.
He slammed the door shut, hunched his shoulders against the rain and set out in the direction he’d been told. Ten minutes, George had said, only ten minutes away.
Fifteen minutes later, because he had taken a wrong turning and had to double back, Owen was standing on Millie’s doorstep. He pressed the entry button. It buzzed, and the intercom crackled.
‘Who is it?’
‘Owen.’
‘Just you?’
‘Yes, do you want me to go back and get George?’
‘No!’
‘Will you let me in? I’m getting soaked, and it’s freezing.’
Silence. Owen waited.
Just as he decided that the answer to his question must be no, the lock clicked, and the door inched open.
He went in and stood in a dark stairwell. Cold and echoing, concrete floor and steps; wrought iron guard rail. Victorian, he guessed, very Dickensian. Probably a warehouse before conversion. Top floor, George had said, so Owen took the stairs three at a time, leaving a trail of wet footprints.
A vertical slice of light rimmed the door at the top of the stairs. It was slightly ajar.
‘Millie?’
From inside, she answered, ‘Yes.’
He pushed the door, letting it swing open in front of him but didn’t go in. A shabby chic room was ahead, with Millie sitting on a stool beside a breakfast bar that separated the living area from a small kitchen.
‘Are you on your own?’ he asked.
She looked frightened by his question.
‘Yes, why? Are you a gangster as well?’
‘No.’ Owen shook his head. ‘Neither is George. He tries to act tough, be the big man, but you’ll find no one else as soft as George. It’s true what he said. He’s nothing like his father.’
‘Why are you here?’ She wiped her nose and turned large watery blue eyes on him. Owen guessed more tears were only one wrong word away. Be gentle with her, George had said. He would be.
‘I’m here to take you back, Millie.’
She stiffened at that.
