Millie's Game Plan Read Online Free Page A

jeans. Faithful to my plan, I captured shots of all the interesting ones but struggled to consider any might be suitable. Surely the man I was looking for would take some pride in his appearance, plus, I am partial to a man in white cable-knit.
    Returning to collect my stool, I approached in a wide arc but Jim, with lightening reflexes, clutched at the canvas seat before I had chance to lift it. ‘You young ladies could do very well at these cricket clubs,’ he said, with a heavy and knowing nod.
    ‘Playing cricket?’ I asked.
    ‘No. Finding yourself a young man.’
    ‘Away with you,’ Frank chided. ‘This lot are almost as decrepit as we are. She wants something younger.’
    ‘How do you know?’ Jim turned to argue with him and I seized the stool.
    ‘I’m off, now. Lovely talking to you.’
    ‘Alright, dear. Come back and see us again, sometime,’ Jim grinned, waving a wrinkled palm at me.             
    ‘Absolutely. You might even see me next week.’ That would be after I’d had a chance to review the candidates. Then I could nurture my little friendship with Jim and Frank, tease out any useful data on those under scrutiny and engineer some introductions. This was social networking with a real purpose.
    Back in the car, I reviewed the photos I’d taken. No marks for artistic composition and, it had to be said, even fewer for content. I could feel my resolve wobble, which was so unlike me. I’m a fighter. At work, I’d been the second most successful account manager for the last two years and, if I continued at my current rate, I’d be number one this year. Imagine – Millie Carmichael beating smug old Simon Ostler to first place. The end of August would see the final reckoning and I would win the luxury week for two in some exotic destination. If I could do that, I could do this.
    I’d invested money in the camera and time in preparation. Only last night, I’d spent ages in front of the bathroom mirror, rehearsing a smile or twelve. It needed to be friendly and alluring, but above all, memorable. According to Sacha, her number one rule is: be memorable. She has a list of rules on how to succeed with men. I don’t believe she learned them at her mother’s knee, since her mother is a staid-looking salary clerk in a sausage skin factory. I think she’s just innately Good With Men, like some people are Good With Plants.
    ‘Arse into gear, Millie,’ I psyched myself. ‘Oldersbury will have more potential.’
    I drove slowly into the car-park by Oldersbury cricket green. As the tyres scrunched on the coarse gravel, a number of heads turned to look. I took a deep breath. At least the opposing team was from Beasley, which was a suburb of Winchester, with much more likelihood of single, upwardly mobile hunks. I slid out of the car, camera case in hand, but left the stool behind.
    Oldersbury were fielding, so nine from Beasley were seated outside the rickety pavilion, which was shored up by scaffolding. Next to it was a large tent with a hand-drawn sign displaying the word ‘TEAS’ but the door was zipped firmly shut. Seated on a rug at the far side, were three young mums with toddlers, one of which was screaming. I wandered in the opposite direction to scrutinize the talent. Without the prying eyes of Jim and Frank, and with growing confidence in my skills, I methodically snapped each of the fielders in turn. The telephoto lens was brilliant – bringing each guy into sharp focus without their knowledge. I could see how I might get addicted to being a member of the paparazzi – it’s almost like being invisible.
    Famous last words.
    ‘Do you have permission to do that?’ a female voice asked, verging on posh and tinged with menace.
    I lowered the camera, looking round to see a woman, barely older than I was but dressed like an ancient schoolmistress, in pleated skirt and buttoned-up blouse. ‘Do I need permission?’
    ‘Well, that depends on what you’re planning to do with the