Miranda's Big Mistake (11 page)

‘Hello.' Miranda looked at Danny Delancey, then at her watch, then at Florence. ‘Where's Greg?'

‘Sshh.' Florence raised her eyebrows in alarm. ‘Careless talk costs lives. Forget you heard that,' she instructed Danny. ‘Miranda's boyfriend is officially The Man With No Name. Honestly, darling,' she returned her attention to Miranda, ‘if you're going to be a secret agent, you'll have to do better than that.'

Miranda took in at a glance the almost empty bottle of wine on the table, the relaxed way Danny Delancey's arm was draped across the back of the sofa, the barely suppressed grins on both their faces. Almost as if they were in league with each other.

‘Where is he?'

Florence looked innocent.

‘Who?'

‘Greg.'

‘Sshh!'

‘It'll never work.' Danny was shaking his head. ‘You'll have to call him something else. How about Percy?'

They were definitely making fun of her. Miranda sighed. And it was ten past eight, so where
was
Greg?

‘We mustn't tease. Poor darling, she's only just met the boy,' said Florence. ‘It's a traumatic business, this falling in love. No sign of him yet.' Airily she waved Miranda over to the sofa. ‘But don't worry, I'm sure he'll be here soon.'

Being ganged up on was bad enough. When it was coupled with the first niggling oh-God-don't-say-I'm-about-to-be-stood-up ripples of anxiety, the effect was horrible.

‘What are you doing here anyway?' Miranda knew she sounded irritated but she didn't care. Greg had never been late before. He wouldn't stand her up, surely?

Daniel Delancey patted the space next to him on the sofa.

‘I was passing; just dropped by on the off-chance. We need to fix up a couple of dates for filming. This week, if you could manage it.'

Pointedly, Miranda perched on the arm of the sofa, as far away from him as possible.

‘I'm busy this week. I can't take any time off work.'

‘Okay, but we could interview you here. Thursday evening would be good for us.' He consulted his battered Filofax, then looked up. ‘Actually, any chance of seeing your room now?'

Not a chance in the world, Miranda thought with a shudder. Her room was currently awash with all the clothes she had tried on, discarded and flung to the floor.

‘No. And I'm busy on Thursday evening too,' she added for good measure. Honestly, talk about impertinent. Did she look like someone with no social life at all?

‘Seeing your boyfriend, you mean?' Danny glanced at his watch, his eyebrows registering dismay. ‘Oh dear, twenty past.'

Miranda gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt.

‘Danny, your glass is empty,' Florence protested. ‘Come on now, have another drink.'

The doorbell went before he could reply. Miranda flew to answer it.

‘You're here! You're late!'

‘Accident on the Bayswater Road.'

‘Oh
no
…'

‘Not me,' said Greg. ‘A bus and a Fiat Uno. The fire brigade are still trying to cut the driver out of the Fiat.'

‘That's all right then.' Miranda threw her arms around him. ‘So long as you're okay.'

Smiling, Greg said, ‘Maybe I should be late more often, if this is the kind of welcome I get.'

‘Don't you dare. I thought you'd stood me up.' She covered his face with kisses, breathless with relief. ‘Come on, I want to introduce you to Florence.'

***

‘Well? What d'you think?' said Miranda eagerly ten minutes later. Danny Delancey had made his excuses and left, and before they followed suit, Greg was paying a quick visit to the bathroom.

‘I think you should ring Danny and say Thursday evening's fine. Playing the prima donna only works if you're Elizabeth Taylor,' Florence pointed out, ‘and you haven't won any Oscars yet. They can always make this documentary without you, you know.'

‘I meant, what do you think of Greg?' Miranda waved an impatient arm in the direction of the door. ‘Do you really like him?'

‘Oh. Well, yes, of course I like him. He seems very nice, quite…charming.' ‘Quite' was a useful word. It could mean perfectly charming, or it could mean slightly charming. You could take your pick.

Oh dear. Florence struggled to be fair. Greg did seem nice and he did seem charming; she just hadn't automatically clicked with him as she had with the other one, Danny. Out of the two of them, she knew which one she preferred.

But that was beside the point; Greg was the one Miranda wanted her to like, and how could she fault him? He was good-looking, smartly turned out, polite…and clearly as taken with Miranda as she was with him.

And if the charm seemed a bit forced, a touch excessive…well, Florence conceded, he probably couldn't help that. It was undoubtedly an unfortunate side-effect of having worked for years selling insurance.

‘He seems very nice,' she repeated, reaching for her cigarettes and swiftly changing the subject. ‘Anyway, before you go, let me tell you about my visitor this afternoon.'

Miranda hid her disappointment. She didn't want to hear about some boring visitor, she wanted Florence to sing Greg's praises—with delirious enthusiasm, preferably—and tell her over and over again how
perfect
he was. So far, all she'd got was
very nice
, pronounced in the kind of voice adults reserved for five-year-olds when they were handed a painting—Is it a tractor? Is it an airplane?—to admire.

Swallowing her impatience, Miranda forced herself to sound interested. She jiggled the loose shoe dangling from her foot and said, ‘Visitor. Okay, fire away.'

‘I asked Chloe to come round. Pregnant Chloe who works for Bruce,' Florence prompted when Miranda looked blank.

‘Oh, right.'

‘She's had to give up her flat. The husband refuses to help out financially. She's a lovely girl.'

Just not very bright, thought Miranda, if that was the kind of man she'd chosen to marry in the first place.

At a guess, Florence had slipped the girl some money.

‘I told her she can move in with us.'

‘What!'

‘Not forever,' Florence explained. ‘Just until she sorts herself out.'

‘But that could take years! She hasn't even had the baby yet.' Miranda was alarmed. ‘You mean you've offered her the room next to mine?'

Oh great, thanks a lot.

‘She's desperate,' Florence said calmly.

‘Honestly, and you call me a soft touch! All I did was share my sandwiches with a down-and-out,' Miranda protested. Well, a bogus down-and-out. ‘Here's you sharing your whole
house
.'

‘It's big enough. Anyway,' said Florence, ‘I get bored here on my own. I'll enjoy the company.'

‘The company of a screaming baby?' Agitated, Miranda jiggled the shoe right off her foot. ‘It won't know how to play poker if that's what you're after. And what about all the sleepless nights? You definitely won't enjoy those.'

‘I'm sure Chloe will have found herself somewhere else to live by then. Like I said, this is only temporary.'

‘Well, I still think you're mad.'

‘Not mad, just bored. And look on the bright side,' Florence said cheerfully. ‘It'll annoy Bruce and Verity no end.'

Bruce and Verity weren't the only ones. Miranda was relieved to hear Greg's footsteps on the stairs.

‘You aren't thrilled,' said Florence as Greg appeared in the doorway. ‘I'm sorry, darling. Maybe I should have asked you first.'

She sounded disappointed. Miranda chewed her lip as guilt kicked in. It really wasn't like her to be so uncharitable.

Oh, all right, so selfish and grumpy and mean.

This was Florence's house, after all. She could fill it with whoever she liked.

‘Don't worry, it's fine by me.' Miranda turned to Greg. ‘Florence is collecting waifs and strays,' she explained. ‘We're going to have a homeless pregnant girl moving in.'

‘Rather you than me,' said Greg. He jangled his car keys, impatient to leave; pregnant women weren't his favorite topic of conversation.

‘The thing is, the room's going to need redecorating.' Florence looked at Miranda. ‘I wondered if you wouldn't mind giving it a coat of paint before she moves in.'

‘No problem.' Miranda nodded vigorously, eager to make up for her grumpiness earlier. She touched Greg's sleeve. ‘We could do it on Sunday, couldn't we? Make it look really nice.'

‘I'd love to,' Greg lied, ‘but I'll be pretty busy myself this weekend. I'm moving too, remember.' Clasping Miranda's hand, he pulled her to her feet. ‘Right, we'd better be off. Nice meeting you,' he added, flicking back his fair hair and smiling broadly over his shoulder at Florence.

‘Oh, and you.'

‘I feel a bit rotten,' Miranda murmured, out in the hall. ‘I wasn't very nice when Florence first told me about this girl moving in.'

‘I'm not surprised.'

‘Still.' She paused, half in and half out of her jacket. ‘It might be fun. Babies can be cute, can't they?'

‘Do you mind if we change the subject?' said Greg, opening the front door. ‘You're beginning to sound like Bev.'

***

‘Chloe's doing what?' Bruce pressed the phone to his ear and gestured furiously at his son to lower the volume on his Play Station. ‘Mother, hang on—I can't hear a word. Jason, for crying out loud, turn it
down
. Now, Chloe's doing what?'

‘Moving in with me,' Florence repeated with maddening cheerfulness. ‘Isn't it the most marvelous idea? Killing two birds with one stone!'

I should be so lucky, thought Bruce. Anger began to well up in his chest. Oh, this was too much.

‘I don't see what's so marvelous about it.' His voice was cold. ‘I don't see why you have to interfere with matters that have absolutely nothing to do with you. For heaven's sake, Mother, you don't even know Chloe!'

‘I do now. She came to see me last night.'

‘She came to
see
you?' Bruce spluttered. ‘You mean she—?'

‘Don't get your knickers in a twist,' Florence interrupted. ‘I asked her to. Chloe needs somewhere to live and I have room to spare. I don't understand why you're shouting at me, Bruce. I thought you'd be pleased.'

Bruce's mind was in such turmoil that for a couple of seconds he couldn't remember why he wasn't. Then it came to him: he was planning to sack Chloe.

Soon.

He exhaled heavily. Once you'd sacked an employee, it was easier all round if you never had to clap eyes on them again. If Chloe was going to be living with his mother, that wasn't going to happen.

It would, in fact, be bloody awkward.

Knowing Florence, Bruce thought darkly, that was more than likely why she'd done it.

For this reason alone, he forced himself to calm down.

‘Okay, I can see why it helps Chloe out. But what's in it for you?'

‘I'll be getting myself a house-sitter,' Florence replied chirpily. ‘Now that Miranda's found herself a young man, she's not going to be around so often. All the hanky-panky, I imagine, will be taking place over at his flat. And I'm going to be away a fair bit myself, of course…did I tell you that Orlando and I are thinking of Vegas?…so it makes sense to have someone here, taking care of the house.'

Las Vegas.

Bruce shuddered.

Twenty-four-hour-a-day gambling
and
a gigolo on your arm.

This was truly a nightmare. Florence had lost her marbles and now she was planning—
gleefully
, dammit—to lose all her money too.

‘Mother, I'm not sure Vegas is a good idea.'

‘Why not, too many wedding chapels?' Florence teased. ‘Don't worry, darling, Orlando's already asked me and I turned him down.'

Thank Christ for that, thought Bruce. His hands were slippery with sweat.

‘I have no desire to be married by a crooning Elvis lookalike in a white polyester jumpsuit,' Florence went on consolingly. ‘I told Orlando straight. If we decide to get married, we'll do it in England, with a real vicar and in a proper church.'

Greg's new flat, in Maida Vale, was situated on the third floor of a modern apartment block set in landscaped gardens. The flat itself was small but adequate, and had been recently redecorated in shades of creams and greens that were only faintly reminiscent of municipal toilets.

‘This is great, I
love
it,' Miranda enthused as she was given the full guided tour. It wasn't strictly true, she much preferred old buildings to new ones, but what else could you say when someone was proudly showing you around their new home?

And this was Greg's new home, so she would grow to love it.

‘Really?' He put his arms around her. ‘I know it's not huge, but it has its advantages. No Adrian, for a start.'

Miranda kissed him. Adrian meant well, but privacy—or rather the lack of it—had been an increasing problem recently. The other evening, back at Adrian's house, things had been progressing nicely in a bedroom direction when he had arrived home unexpectedly with a crowd of friends from the pub. Discovering Greg and Miranda sitting bolt upright on the sofa, taking in at a glance Miranda's pink cheeks, lack of bra, and wrongly done-up blouse, he had waved a four-pack of lagers and yelled, ‘Oops, coitus interruptus! Hey, don't mind us, feel free to carry on. We were going to watch the football but we can always watch you two instead.'

Miranda blushed again just thinking about it. How embarrassing had that been? Almost as embarrassing as the moment thirty seconds later when she and Greg were making their escape through the front door and a roar had gone up in the living room as one of Adrian's friends, chucking a sofa cushion to one side, had triumphantly unearthed her bra.

Honestly, it was bad enough
being
a 34A without having it announced to a roomful of half-drunk football fanatics who immediately launched into a raucous chant to that effect.

Oh yes, the prospect of total privacy had a lot going for it.

‘No Adrian,' Miranda agreed happily, ‘just us.' She kissed him again, sliding her hands longingly under his rugby shirt. ‘I don't think you've shown me the bedroom yet.'

Greg stroked her hair.

‘We're going to do this properly. There's no rush, we've got all the time in the world. Look, it's only seven o'clock,' he showed her his watch, ‘and you've been at work all day. You must be starving. I thought we'd go out and get something to eat first. Then, when we come back…well, you can see the bedroom.' He grinned. ‘It's Sunday tomorrow, no need to get up. If we want to, we can spend the whole day in bed. And I think I should warn you now, I'll definitely want to.'

‘Except I promised Florence I'd decorate that room,' groaned Miranda.

‘Put it off.'

‘I can't. She had the paint delivered today.'

‘I thought you said the girl wasn't moving in for another week.'

‘She isn't, but Florence really wants the room done tomorrow. Otherwise the smell of paint will still—'

‘Don't let her boss you around,' Greg interrupted impatiently. ‘She can't
make
you do it. What is she, some kind of slave driver? Just tell her tomorrow isn't convenient.'

‘Florence isn't a slave driver, she just wants the job finished. And I promised I'd do it. I don't want to let her down.'

Greg was frowning, not bothering to conceal his irritation.

‘I wanted us to spend the day together.'

‘But we can!'

‘In bed,' he said pointedly. ‘Not painting bloody walls.'

There was a horrible silence.

‘Oh God,' Miranda wailed suddenly. ‘We're having our first argument. Today of all days!'

Greg's expression softened at once.

‘No we aren't.'

‘I'm sorry!'

‘Don't be.' He didn't want to argue either. ‘I'm disappointed, that's all. I wanted our first day in the flat to be special.' Taking Miranda's face between his hands, he slowly kissed her. ‘You don't know how much I've been looking forward to this.'

‘I'm not hungry,' Miranda murmured against his warm mouth. ‘I don't want to go out to dinner.'

Greg, who was starving, said, ‘We can order something later.'

‘Do you hate me?'

‘No.' His lips brushed her neck. ‘I love you.'

It was true. He hadn't planned to meet someone so soon after Chloe, but it had happened. He had found Miranda and he didn't want to lose her.

He felt her shudder in his arms.

‘You do?'

‘I do.'

Miranda closed her eyes. This had definitely been worth waiting for. And to think that she had tried to wriggle out of Elizabeth Turnbull's hideous fund-raising party. She had only gone in the end because Florence had insisted and she'd thought it might turn up a marriage-minded man, with I-love-Mothercare signs in his eyes, for Bev.

‘We don't have to wait until later, do we?' Her embarrassingly out-of-practice fingers fumbled with the top button of his jeans. ‘I think I'd like to see the bedroom now.'

‘We've waited this long,' Greg teased. ‘Are you sure you wouldn't rather leave it until next weekend?'

Miranda unfastened a couple more buttons. They were in the hallway now, and she was easing him in the direction of the closed door that hadn't yet been opened.

‘Oh, I'm sure.'

Her hand landed on the door handle. The door opened and she began to reel him inside.

Oops.

A lot of clattering ensued.

‘Junk cupboard,' Greg murmured, pulling her out again. ‘Wrong door.'

‘I bet Mata Hari never had problems like this.'

‘I don't suppose Mata Hari wore a 34A bra.'

‘She didn't have Adrian and his friends to deal with.' Miranda unfastened the final button on his jeans. She leaned on the handle of the last door, nudging it open with her hip. ‘They aren't in here, are they?'

‘Better not be,' said Greg.

***

Reeling home at eight o'clock the next morning, light-headed from lack of sleep, Miranda only hoped she didn't look as bow-legged as she felt.

Oh, what a blissful night.

‘No need to ask if you enjoyed yourself,' said Florence with her customary lack of discretion. Her eyes bright with laughter, she handed Miranda a mug of strong coffee. ‘Go anywhere nice?'

Miranda tried hard to look demure.

‘Just a quiet evening in.'

‘Not too quiet, I hope. That's the trouble with these modern flats, the walls are so thin you can't unscrew a bottle of aspirin without the neighbors asking if your headache's better.'

Demure clearly wasn't working. Miranda slurped her coffee and grinned.

‘I didn't have a headache last night.'

‘You had a couple of phone calls.' Expertly reversing her chair, Florence reached for the message pad. ‘Your friend Bev rang, wondering what you were up to today. Said she might pop over later and give you a hand.'

Miranda didn't get her hopes up; Bev's hands were too perfectly manicured to be of any practical use. Sunday was traditionally her day to be at a bit of a loose end, that was all. Bev's idea of being helpful would be lounging about gossiping and every so often pointing up at a hard-to-reach corner and saying knowledgeably, ‘Missed a bit.'

‘Okay. Who else rang?'

‘Danny Delancey.' Florence held the pad at arm's length in an attempt to bring the scribbled message into some kind of focus. ‘He has to fly to New York tomorrow, so he wondered if you could do the interview this afternoon.'

‘Dangling from a step-ladder, with a paint brush clenched between my teeth? Oh yes, lovely.' About to roll her eyes, Miranda shot her a suspicious look. ‘I hope you said no.'

‘I did not, I said it would be fine.' Florence was unrepentant. ‘Today's the only time they can manage it, and you've put them off twice already. Anyway, I told them to come over at five, so you should be finished by then.'

‘
Five?
But I've arranged to meet Greg at six!' Honestly, this was so unfair. Was it Danny Delancey's mission in life to spoil all her fun?

‘Absence makes the heart grow fonder.' Florence shrugged with irritating lack of concern. ‘Ring him, tell him you'll see him at eight.'

***

‘Missed a bit,' said Bev, too busy flipping through one of the Sunday supplements to even point an acrylic false nail in the appropriate direction. Instead, she wriggled her eyebrows and nodded at a remote section of wall high above the door frame. ‘See? It's gone blotchy.'

‘It's all going blotchy,' Miranda grumbled. She leaned back on her ladder, rubbing her aching spine. ‘I'm going to have to do two coats.'

‘There's a piece in here about the best places to go to meet men.' Bev sat up on the dust-sheet-covered bed, sending half a dozen
Sunday Times
sections slithering to the floor. ‘It says health farms are good.' She looked up, interested. ‘I've never been to a health farm.'

‘The only men you'd meet there would be overweight, stressed-out businessmen who've been warned by their doctors that if they don't lose six stone they'll be dead by Christmas.' Miranda blinked as a spray of crocus-yellow emulsion ricocheted off the roller into her eyes. ‘And they'd all be going cold turkey because they'd had their mobile phones and laptops confiscated.'

‘True,' sighed Bev. ‘I can't bear men who twitch.' She read on down the list. ‘How about evening classes in car maintenance?'

‘Full of women desperate to meet men,' Miranda said briskly. ‘And no real men would ever go because it would be too unmacho for words.'

‘Kite flying!' Bev exclaimed, jabbing the page. ‘That's how you met Thingy! Well, it certainly worked for you.'

Miranda tried to imagine Bev, in her high heels, teetering up Parliament Hill, struggling to keep her hair in place with one hand and clinging for dear life to the handle of a somersaulting kite with the other.

Still, Thingy was a good name for Daniel Delancey.

‘I didn't so much meet him,' Miranda protested, ‘as hurl abuse at him.'

‘I could hurl abuse.' Bev looked indignant. ‘I'm great at that. I haven't always worked at Fenn's place, you know. I was once a doctor's receptionist.'

Splat, a dollop of paint slid off the end of Miranda's roller and landed on top of her head. This was worse than being dive-bombed by pigeons in Trafalgar Square.

Only yellower.

‘My legs ache, my arms ache, my back aches.'

‘Oh, stop being so neurotic. Take a couple of painkillers and stop moaning. You can't see the doctor until a week on Tuesday and that's final.'

Amazed, Miranda swung round.

‘What?'

‘That's me being a doctor's receptionist.' Bev was smug. ‘Told you I was good.'

‘But I
do
ache.'

‘I don't see why. You've only done half a ceiling and one wall.'

And spent most of the night having rampant, muscle-wrenching nonstop sex, thought Miranda semi-guiltily. Still, better not mention that.

‘I thought you came here to help me.' She tried a spot of wheedling.

‘I am helping you. I'm keeping you company.'

Great.

‘You could keep me company up this ladder.'

‘I get dizzy on ladders. And I'm allergic to paint.' Cozily, Bev snuggled up with the
News of the World
. ‘If I got any on me I'd go as blotchy as your wall.'

‘I wouldn't mind.'

‘I would. Anyway, I'm doing my bit later, aren't I? Making you look presentable for the TV cameras.'

As soon as Bev had heard that Danny Delancey was coming round, she had excitedly volunteered to do Miranda's make-up.

‘Nothing outrageous,' Miranda warned her now, a terrifying vision of Dame Edna looming into her mind. ‘A bit of eyeshadow, a bit of lipstick, that's all. Not too much foundation.'

Especially the last; Bev had a tendency to get carried away when it came to foundation.

‘Don't panic, you'll look great.' Leaning over, Bev smugly patted her handbag, bulging with every cosmetic known to Harrods Beauty Hall.

‘Okay, but easy on the foundation.'

‘Believe me,' Bev's tone was soothing, ‘right now you need all the help you can get.'

‘You're not my friend.'

‘I am your friend, I'm just being honest.'

‘If you were really my friend,' Miranda said sorrowfully, ‘you'd get off your big lazy bum and make me a chocolate spread sandwich and a banana milkshake.'

***

Miranda was jabbing paint into a corner of plaster coving when the door swung open behind her. She heard the satisfying clunk of china against glass.

‘I take it all back, Bev, you don't have a big lazy bum, and you're definitely my friend.'

‘That's really kind,' said an unfamiliar voice, ‘but actually, I'm not Bev.'

Miranda let out a snort of laughter and swung round. Blonde, pretty, curvy, loose shirt over stretchy trousers…

‘Chloe, right?'

‘Right.' Chloe grinned and held up a plate. ‘Chocolate spread sandwich, right?'

‘Hooray. Coming right down.' Miranda dropped the brush messily into the pot of paint and leapt off the ladder. ‘I'm Miranda, by the way.'

‘I guessed.'

‘I'd shake hands, but I'm all painty.'

‘I spoke to Florence on the phone earlier,' Chloe explained. ‘She told me what you were doing. I've come to help.'

‘Oh no, I couldn't let you do that!' Miranda gestured vaguely in the direction of her stomach.

‘I'm pregnant, not paralyzed from the chest down. This is a great color.' Having briefly admired the repainted wall, Chloe began to climb the ladder. ‘Go on, have a rest. Eat your sandwich and drink your milkshake.'