Millicent Pyle (53 and bank manager) is a respected member of her rural community but her innermost thoughts reveal a darker side.
The devil’s in the details. That’s what they tell me. Well, he was certainly in the wine, and the brandy last night, ’cause I’ve got the hangover from hell and a severe loss of memory.
What happened after the 6th glass of wine, or was it the 7th is anybody’s business.
All I know that I began with a double Amerigo Vespucci Brandy, just to start the evening off right. This was followed by a glass of Muscadet de Sevre et Maine with the stuffed Oyster mushrooms.
I had a glass of 2009 Macon Uchizy, ‘Les Maranches’ while I finished preparing the Thai Chicken, with Sticky Rice with Oriental Vegetables. Had a couple of glasses of the same while eating it, and the meal was finished with a half bottle of Samos, Vin Doux with the homemade lychee ice cream.
After that Alex, a recent friend, and I settled down on the sofa to talk. Talk is perhaps a little too strong a word. I think we just slurred at each other. Come to think of it, maybe it was me doing the slurring.
Don’t quite recall him actually having more than a spritzer, some sparkling water and a cup of tea. I think he made me a black coffee, because there’s leftovers in my special, ‘I’m a Banker’ mug.
When I woke at 4:30 this morning Alex was gone. No note. Nothing. Probably thinks I’m some dreadful kind of lush.
He didn’t get lucky as I was fully dressed, dishevelled, but dressed. At least he was a gentleman. I’m sure I won’t be hearing from him again.
I sent The Idiot out to get me some painkillers for this wretched head – brought back cheap paracetamol. Might as well have given me two bags full of Jelly Babies for all the good it did to my head. I tore strips off him long and slow and would have enjoyed it, if I didn’t shake after each word.
He returned from his second visit to the pharmacy with some over the counter medication that took a thin edge off my pain.
I started to prepare for my 2pm meeting this with the new Chairman and owner of the de Monfoux Vineyard in the Cumberforth, the next village, who I was apparently recommended to by the Reverend Spleen (God bless his cotton socks and his teaching) prior to his untimely departure.
“Sir Alexander Gulvenden de Monfoux.”
The Idiot stuttered out the words in his usual uncouth way, but it was my mouth that was wide open as in walked ‘Alex’. Alex, from the bar in London, and the same Alex who had seen the lush in me last night.
Now he stood in front of me in his navy couture suit, highly polished brogues, pristine white starched shirt and a tie with pink polka dots on a dark background. Handkerchief to match. I wanted to undress him right there
“Millicent,” he said, “so good to see you again. You look different all dressed up. Looking forward to doing business with you.”
I blushed till all the blood in my face ran cold. Said a hasty ‘hello’ and dismissed The Idiot who had a knowing smile on his face. I’ll dock his pay for that or better still get Ginger to scratch his precious green vintage VW Beetle. His pride and joy.
I’d been too drunk to ask Alex his surname last night and really didn’t care. I was just hoping to get lucky and even I couldn’t manage that. The devil really is in the details. Curse him!