Miranda's Big Mistake (10 page)

For Chloe, the next two weeks were a nightmare. Every day, during her lunch hour and after work, she trudged from hideous flat to even more hideous flat, desperately searching for anything remotely habitable.

Every evening, when her mother phoned from Manchester, Chloe lied brightly to her, insisting she was fine and giving the impression that the only reason she hadn't found somewhere else to live yet was because there were so many gorgeous properties to choose from.

And then there was work itself, more of a minefield nowadays than a shop, with Bruce feigning concern for her well-being when all the time—Chloe just
knew
—he was desperately plotting how he was going to sack her. His mood hadn't been improved, either, by the news that his mother had taken up with some unscrupulous toyboy and was evidently planning to squander all her money on him instead of giving it to Bruce.

‘She's gone barmy, completely barmy. I could get her committed for this,' he raged. ‘As for the business,' he muttered ominously, ‘I don't know how I'm going to keep it together, I really don't.'

The atmosphere in the shop wasn't a happy one. And, sod's law, the harder Chloe tried to be the perfect employee, the more things went wrong. Having never been late back from lunch before, she promptly earned herself two black marks in a week.

‘I'm so sorry, the bus broke down and I had to run the last half a mile,' she gabbled, bursting into the shop at ten past two. The flat she had rushed out to view had gone before she'd got there; another one pound forty wasted on bus fares.

‘I need you to be here on time,' Bruce told her, even though the shop was empty. As he noted Chloe's lateness in his diary with secret satisfaction he announced ominously, ‘This isn't good enough.'

As she was leaving that evening, Chloe saw a car she recognized parked on double yellows outside the shop.

Greg's friend, Adrian, beckoned her over.

‘Chloe, it's about your mother. These phone calls, they've got to stop.'

‘I've already told her that.'

Chloe reddened; every evening her mother delighted in recounting the details of her latest torrent of abuse. It was so humiliating. Not to mention pointless.

‘We have to keep the answering machine on all the time now,' said Adrian. ‘It's a real pain.'

‘I'm sorry. I don't want her doing it any more than you do.' Chloe fiddled agitatedly with the newspaper in her hands. She had three more flats to see and was desperate not to be late.

‘Anyway, Greg's moving out next week, so after that she'll be wasting her breath.' Adrian took a last drag of his cigarette and flicked it into the gutter. ‘Maybe you could pass the message on.'

Chloe's hands went clammy.

‘Greg's moving out? Where?'

Adrian gave her a measured look.

‘Since your mother's the reason he's going, I don't think he'd be too happy if I gave you the address.'

Be brave, be brave.

‘Is he…um, moving in with his girlfriend?'

‘I really can't say. Chloe, don't ask me any more questions, okay? I'm just the go-between here.'

At least he had the grace to look embarrassed. Chloe thought of all the meals she had cooked for Adrian during the first weeks after his own wife had left him. Then, he had been shocked to the core, frequently drunk and desperate for company. She had listened to his endless self-pitying ramblings, fed and watered him, even ironed his shirts when he'd told her Lisa had run off with their only iron.

How many times during those weeks had Adrian shaken his head and told her how grateful he was? ‘True friends, that's what you and Greg are,' he had burbled in maudlin fashion after his ninth or tenth can of Stella. ‘I mean it, I don't know what I'd do without the two of you.'

That had been then, of course, and this was now.

A whole year later.

Adrian was over Lisa. And he was sober.

‘I'm looking for a flat as well,' said Chloe. ‘Actually I'm late for an appointment. I don't suppose you could give me a lift to Finsbury Park?'

‘I would,' Adrian lied, ‘but I'm in a bit of a hurry myself.'

‘I've seen forty-three flats in the last fortnight. They've all been terrible.' She gave it one last try. ‘Please.'

But it was no good. He wasn't her friend any more; he was Greg's.

‘Sorry, Chloe. I just can't. You'd be better off taking the tube anyway.'

Better off jumping in front of it at this rate, thought Chloe as she watched the car pull away.

***

Two of the flats were awful but the third—in Clerkenwell—was okay. Chloe told the landlord she was very, very interested.

By the time she got home, there was a message on the machine from the landlord telling her that he had let the flat go to someone else.

Chloe reheated the remains of last night's pasta and drank a pint of her latest craving, strawberry milkshake. Then she ate two Chelsea buns and a tin of rice pudding, before running herself a bath.

While she could still afford hot water.

Afterwards, she surveyed herself in the bedroom mirror, peeling off her dressing gown as cautiously as a plastic surgery patient having the last bandages removed.

No wonder nobody wants to rent me a flat, Chloe thought, I'm so fat and hideous-looking I don't deserve one.

Covering herself back up—well, it wasn't fair on the mirror—she made her way through to the kitchen and unwrapped a packet of custard creams.

It was either eat or cry, and she was running short of tissues.

Not to mention time, Chloe realized with a stab of anxiety. In just over a fortnight she had to be out of here. If she didn't find herself somewhere else to live—and fast—she would be homeless.

Or, worse still, back in Manchester with her mother.

A bit of Dutch courage would have come in handy. Since she wasn't allowed to down a bottle of wine, Chloe psyched herself up with another biscuit instead.

Swallowing her pride along with her custard cream, she punched out Adrian's number.

Predictably, the answering machine picked up the call.

‘Greg, it's me. Chloe. I need to speak to you urgently.' Her voice began to quaver. ‘Please ring me back.'

Dropping the receiver on to the hook, she gazed at the phone.

Less than two minutes later, it rang.

‘What's happened?' Greg spoke without preamble. ‘Is something wrong?'

Was something
wrong
?

Oh no, everything's fine, thought Chloe, I'm pregnant and my husband's walked out on me and I'm probably about to lose my job and I don't have anywhere to live and if I don't stop eating I'm going to end up the size of the Millennium Dome—

‘Chloe? Are you there?'

It was weird, hearing his voice again. She gripped the receiver in both hands.

‘I've spoken to my mother. There won't be any more phone calls.'

‘Well, good. Not that it makes any difference to me,' said Greg. ‘As Ade told you, I'll be out of here by next week.'

Right, here goes, thought Chloe. She took a deep steadying breath.

‘Greg, I can't cope. Financially, I mean. I'm looking for a cheaper flat, but it's still going to be almost impossible to manage on my wages.'

Long pause.

‘You should have thought of that before you got pregnant,' he replied coldly. ‘So? What does this have to do with me?'

How had it come to this? We were so happy once, thought Chloe. Nobody could have been more charming than Greg when they'd first met.

But she thought she knew, now, what it was. The thrill, for Greg, was all in the chase. Once the novelty of marriage had worn off, he had begun to lose interest.

Basically, he had a short affection-span, Chloe reminded herself. Oh yes, and when it came to money, he'd always been a bit mean.

‘I thought…I thought maybe you could help me out.' The empty custard creams wrapper crackled as she curled her fingers helplessly around it.

‘Impossible, I'm afraid. I'm moving too, aren't I? This new flat's costing me a bomb.'

This new love-nest, you mean, thought Chloe.

‘The thing is, I was talking to Bruce about it. He told me I was legally entitled to maintenance. If I go to a solicitor, he'd be able to serve you with—'

‘No chance, Chloe. I'd fight it all the way. You chose to have this baby, I didn't. God,' he sounded disgusted, ‘you're a bitch, aren't you? First you wreck our marriage and now you have the nerve to expect
me
to support you. If you're in a mess, that's your fault, not mine. I'm the innocent party here and I'm damned if you're going to bleed me dry.'

‘I don't want to bleed you dry.' Chloe was instantly consumed with guilt; he had always been able to argue a case with terrifying efficiency. ‘But I'm desperate, Greg. I have
no
money, and as the law stands, you have to—'

‘Don't threaten me with the law! I'm changing my address, I can change jobs too. So the law's going to have its work cut out making me do anything.' He spoke with an air of finality. ‘Because they'll have to catch me first.'

***

Chloe was alone in the shop the next morning, disentangling bubble-wrap from a boxful of alarmingly delicate porcelain figurines.

When the phone rang, her shattered nerves reacted as if a bomb had gone off. Chloe's fingers jerked and an especially fragile porcelain daffodil, clutched to the bosom of a pallid-faced young country girl, caught on a corner of bubble-wrap and snapped off in her hand.

The figurines weren't wildly expensive, but that was beside the point. This miniature daffodil, Chloe thought, was in effect her pink slip.

She pictured herself, bags packed, climbing on to a coach about to head up the Ml.

Home to Mother.

Truly a fate worse than death.

‘Hello,' she sighed into the phone.

‘Oh my word, that won't do at all. No no
no
,' a familiar voice scolded her good-naturedly. ‘You're supposed to say “Good morning, Special Occasions, how may I help you?” in a
sickeningly
cheerful manner. I'm sorry, Chloe, you don't sound nearly enough like a lobotomized air hostess. Instant dismissal for you.'

Against all the odds, Chloe felt her spirits lift a little.

Just a notch.

‘Too late. I think I've just instantly dismissed myself. Hello, Mrs Curtis. How are you?'

‘In a very good mood. Is Bruce glaring at you?' Florence chuckled. ‘Don't worry. Put him on, I'll tell him not to sack you.'

‘Bruce isn't here, I'm afraid.' (This was a lie; she wasn't afraid, she was glad.) ‘He's at a trade fair in Birmingham. Shall I ask him to phone you when he gets back?'

‘Don't worry, it's not important. I'll give him a ring this evening. So,' said Florence, ‘how are
you
?'

‘Oh, fine.' Another lie.

‘Any customers in the shop?'

Puzzled, Chloe said, ‘No.'

‘Good. In that case, stop being polite and tell me how you are really.'

A lump sprang into Chloe's throat. These were the first words of genuine kindness she had heard in weeks. And they were coming from Bruce's mother, a woman about whom she may have heard a great deal—not all of it good—but whom she had never even met.

‘How am I really?' She felt hot tears prickling at the back of her eyes. ‘Not great.'

‘I shouldn't imagine you are. Bruce told me the situation,' Florence said in her brisk, kindly way. ‘Tricky to say the least. For other people too,' she went on. ‘I mean, they must wonder which they're supposed to do when they see you, congratulate or commiserate.'

‘I know.' Chloe sighed. ‘I've got myself into a bit of a muddle.'

‘So what's all this about instantly dismissing yourself?'

Florence didn't miss a trick, thought Chloe.

‘I've just broken a china ornament.'

‘Was it hideous?'

The pallid-faced country girl, minus her daffodil, gazed balefully up at her.

‘Pretty hideous.'

‘Probably a blessing then. Tell Bruce one of the customers did it.'

The lump in Chloe's throat threatened to expand.

‘I don't think he'd believe me.'

‘Is he trying to sack you?'

‘I think so.' Chloe's voice began to wobble. ‘Well, I can't really b-blame him.'

‘How about the flat-hunting? Any joy yet?'

Joy, thought Chloe. When did I last have any joy?

Her nose began to run with the effort of holding back a torrent of tears. Scrabbling in her pocket for a tissue, she mumbled, ‘No…sorry, I've got a bit of a cold…'

Clamping her hand over the receiver just in time, Chloe let out a sob—an inelegant great honking sound like a grief-stricken goose. Tears slid down her face and dripped on to the bubble-wrap on the counter.

‘Chloe, are you still there?'

‘A customer's just come in, I'll have to g-go.' Chloe stumbled over the words and hung up.

Twenty minutes later the phone rang again.

‘Find yourself a pen, write this down,' Florence instructed her. ‘Twenty-four Tredegar Gardens, Notting Hill.'

Chloe wondered what it was. The address of the nearest Samaritans, probably.

‘Got that?' Florence said briskly. ‘Good. Come and see me after work.'

Chloe began to understand why Bruce called his mother a domineering old witch and a law unto herself.

‘Um…actually, I've made appointments to view a couple of flats…'

‘Come and see me after work,' Florence repeated. ‘I'll expect you at six o'clock.'

Wheeling herself to the front door, Florence pulled it open. The girl on the doorstep was coatless, shivering and soaked to the skin. With her long blonde hair plastered to her head, stuck-together eyelashes and ankle-length blue cotton dress clinging to every curve, she looked like a voluptuous mermaid unceremoniously plucked from the sea.

‘Mrs Curtis? Sorry I'm wet. It was sunny this morning so I didn't bother with a coat, I didn't think it was going to rain—'

‘Even the weather's against you.' Reversing the chair, Florence waved her through. ‘Come in, Chloe. And call me Florence, for goodness' sake.'

Florence set great store by first impressions. It never took her longer than a few moments to decide whether or not she liked someone. She had done it with each of her husbands, and with Miranda too, when the arthritis had worsened last year and she had been forced to advertise for a lodger-cum-helper.

Twenty-three uninspiring applicants later—when Florence had been on the verge of giving up hope—Miranda had arrived. Apologizing profusely for being late because she'd been so busy eavesdropping on the tube that she'd sailed straight past her stop, she had promptly launched into the risqué joke she'd overheard.

They had taken to each other instantly. Florence, her life at the time something of a joke-free zone, had offered her the flat practically on the spot. And Miranda, with no family of her own—her parents having died in a car crash three years earlier—had been entranced by Florence's bawdy, irreverent attitude to, well, pretty much everyone and everything. She had moved in the next day, thrilled to be there and amazingly eager to please, and had been making Florence laugh—not always intentionally—ever since.

A cup of tea and twenty minutes in front of the fire, meanwhile, had done wonders for Chloe. Her rippling blonde hair was almost dry and the color had returned to her cheeks.

She didn't look as though she was about to reel off a string of jokes, but given the circumstances, that was understandable.

‘So you phoned your husband last night,' Florence prompted when Chloe paused halfway through the story.

‘Humiliating, I know. But I was desperate.' Chloe's shoulders rose and fell. ‘Not that it got me anywhere. Even if I did manage to drag him through the courts…well, that could take years.' Sadly she shook her head. ‘Anyway, I'm not the dragging-through-the-courts type.'

This, Florence decided, was more than likely what Bruce was banking on too.

Intercepting her thoughtful gaze, Chloe straightened her back and swept her hair away from her face.

‘I know it seems unlikely, looking at me now, but I do actually have some pride. If my husband's that desperate not to have any contact with us'—her hand touched her stomach in an unconsciously protective gesture—‘well, then I don't want his money. I'd rather do without it, manage by myself.'

The cobalt-blue eyes were clear, the set of her chin determined. If she had been crying earlier—and Florence was pretty certain she had been—there was no sign of tears now.

Down but not out, Florence noted with approval. The spark had been well hidden, but it was still there.

‘You've worked for my son for over three years and he's sung your praises more times than I can remember. Don't worry about your job,' she told Chloe. ‘I'll make sure he doesn't give you the sack.'

Chloe breathed out slowly. ‘That's really kind. You don't know what a relief that is.' Sensing that the meeting was at an end, she glanced at her watch. Six thirty-five. She'd missed the first appointment, but if she hurried she could just make the second.

‘Where are you going?' Florence raised her eyebrows.

Reaching for her bag and levering herself to her feet, Chloe said apologetically, ‘Florence, I'm so grateful. But I hope you don't mind if I rush off. You see, I have to—'

‘That isn't why I asked you to come here. I could have told you that on the phone. Oh well, you're up now,' Florence sighed, ‘you may as well take a look at it before you go.'

Chloe was confused.

‘Take a look at what?'

‘You'll have to go up on your own.' Florence indicated her wheelchair. ‘Top of the stairs, third door on the left.'

What was in there, Chloe wondered, Bruce's old cot?

‘Okay. Um, what am I looking for?'

If it was a cot, she hoped Florence wasn't expecting her to take it away with her now—to tuck it under her arm, perhaps, and lug it home on the bus.

‘I'm asking you to look at the room, child.' Florence's tone was suddenly brusque. ‘It's empty. If you want it, it's yours.'

***

‘Honestly, it's terrifying, like being a double-agent!' Miranda had to shout to make herself heard above the roar of the vacuum cleaner as she belted around Florence's sitting room hoovering up biscuit crumbs at a rate of knots. ‘I keep telling myself I'll wait until Bev hasn't mentioned Greg's name for a whole day. Then, when that happens, it'll mean she's over him and I'll be able to confess. But I'm beginning to wonder if it's ever going to happen. She talks about him practically nonstop. The only time she stops talking about Greg is when she asks me how things are going with my new boyfriend. I'm telling you, it's fraught. One slip of the tongue and I'm dead.'

She was kneeling on the floor now, bottom in the air, energetically Hoovering under the sofa. Florence, from the safety of her chair, said, ‘So what do you call him?'

‘Nothing!' Leaning back on her heels and pushing her spiky fringe out of her eyes, Miranda reached across and switched off the vacuum cleaner. ‘Just “my boyfriend”, or “my chap”. Of course, Bev's convinced the reason I won't tell her his name is because he's called something awful, like Horace or Percy. Or Engelbert.'

‘Wouldn't it be easier to
call
him Engelbert?'

Miranda gave her a measured look.

‘No, it would not.'

It was seven thirty and Greg—the boyfriend with no name—was due over at eight. Miranda kept glancing compulsively at the clock on the mantelpiece.

‘Go on, run upstairs and get ready.' Florence shooed her towards the door.

‘What's this?' Bending down, Miranda dug a pink ruffled hairband out from between the sofa cushions.

‘I had a visitor this afternoon.' The hairband must have fallen out of Chloe's bag, Florence realized. ‘I'll tell you about it later. You go and have your bath.'

***

The doorbell rang at seven forty-five. Mr Keen, thought Florence with amusement as she wheeled herself through to the hall. From upstairs came the sound of Miranda still splashing away happily in the bath.

‘He's here,' Florence yelled up the staircase. ‘Don't worry, I'll be gentle with him!'

Pulling open the front door, she came face to face with Miranda's new boyfriend. Black hair and dark-brown eyes, Florence noted with approval; she had always gone for men with dark eyes herself. The clothes—old jeans and a faded black polo shirt—were something of a disappointment, a bit casual for a hot date in Florence's view, but that was young people today. Anyway, the body beneath the shabby clothes more than made up for it.

‘Hello, come on in, lovely to meet you at last.' He reminded her of someone; an actor, she guessed, from the telly. ‘I've heard so much about you from Miranda. She's in the bath, by the way, so I'll look after you until she's finished tarting herself up.'

‘Oh, right.' He looked surprised but pleased. ‘Fine by me. It's nice to meet you too.'

‘Through here.' Reversing, Florence expertly guided him past her into the sitting room.

‘You aren't going to run me over with your wheelchair, are you?' he said with a grin. ‘Miranda warned me you might.'

‘Why would I want to run you over? Now, tell me what you'd like to drink. I've got a bottle of white wine open, but there's beer in the fridge if you'd prefer.'

‘Wine would be great. We'll try not to lose your glasses this time.'

‘My glasses?' Florence wondered why he sounded so amused. She hadn't the faintest idea where her glasses were—buried at the back of a drawer somewhere, probably. ‘To be honest, I never wear them. Too vain.'

When she turned around, Miranda's boyfriend was giving her a slightly odd look.

‘I meant the wine glasses you left behind on Parliament Hill.'

‘Oh, those! Miranda told you about that, did she?' Florence laughed, remembering their abrupt departure. ‘Ha, that was a funny old day.'

‘Actually—'

‘So where are you taking her tonight?'

‘Um, I think we've got a few wires crossed here.'

Click click, went Florence's brain. She put down the bottle she was in the process of pouring and gazed steadily across at her visitor.

There was definitely something about those dark-brown eyes.

Click click click…

‘Oh dear,' she exclaimed at last, ‘you must think I'm completely dotty. You aren't Greg, are you?'

He smiled.

‘No, I'm not Greg.'

Now Florence knew why he had seemed so familiar. He didn't resemble a television actor at all; he was someone she had seen before in the flesh.

Only fleetingly, mind you. And from a fair distance. Not to mention minus the spectacles she never wore but should perhaps start thinking about wearing…

‘You're Hungry and Homeless,' said Florence.

‘Well, kind of. But you can call me Danny,' he replied with a grin.

He might not be who she'd thought he was, but Florence had already made up her mind. She liked him.

‘So you aren't Miranda's new boyfriend,' she announced, holding his glass of wine out to him. ‘Pity. Never mind, you can still have a drink.'

***

When Miranda had heard the shrill ring of the doorbell earlier, her immediate instinct had been to leap out of the bath and race downstairs. Well, maybe throw on a few clothes first.

But Greg was early, she hadn't even washed her hair yet and she'd been looking forward to this bath all day. Besides, Florence was there to entertain him.

Maybe I shouldn't rush down, Miranda thought, sinking lazily back into the steaming, scented water. Let them have some time alone together; that way, they can get to know each other in peace.

‘Here she is,' Florence announced twenty minutes later. ‘Oh my word, and she's actually wearing a dress! Darling, you look a treat.'

Having been encouraged by the explosions of laughter filtering up the stairs—Florence and Greg were clearly getting on like a house on fire—Miranda had taken her time getting ready. Now, completely thrown by the sight of the wrong two people getting along like a house on fire—well, right woman, wrong man—she ground to a halt in the doorway.

Was
Candid Camera
responsible for this?