Miranda's Big Mistake (12 page)

Enchanted by this order and all in favor of a bit of cosseting, Miranda grinned at her.

‘You sound like a mother already.'

By one o'clock the second wall and the rest of the ceiling were finished and Bev had read aloud an entire two-thousand-word article in the
Sunday Express
speculating on the likelihood of Miles Harper and Daisy Schofield marrying before Christmas.

‘She's dead set on it and he's fending her off.' Bev held up the color supplement so they could see the accompanying photograph. ‘Miranda met him a few weeks ago,' she explained slyly to Chloe. ‘Miles asked her out, Miranda turned him down and she's regretted it from that day to this.'

‘Oh, no.' Chloe was sympathetic.

‘Ignore her,' Miranda said loftily. ‘I haven't regretted it for one minute. I'm perfectly happy with the way things turned out.'

‘Just as well,' Bev picked up her crossword pen and gave Daisy Schofield a handlebar moustache, ‘seeing as you haven't heard from Miles Harper since.' She studied the photograph with a critical eye. ‘I don't think she's that stunning, you know. Is it just me, or does she have a lopsided face?'

‘Only because you gave her a lopsided moustache,' Miranda pointed out.

‘My husband…well, ex-husband, whatever…' stammered Chloe, ‘thought she was pretty stunning.'

Miranda, thinking of Greg, drawled, ‘Show me a man who doesn't.'

‘So how long ago did he leave you?' asked Bev, for whom no situation was too delicate.

‘The day I told him I was pregnant, pretty much. It was April Fools' Day.' Chloe's tone was dry.

‘Can you believe that? What a bastard!' Bev made vigorous poke-his-eyes-out gestures with her fingers. ‘And what's he doing now?'

‘Don't know, don't care,' Chloe replied not altogether truthfully. Trawling her roller through the paint tray, she turned her attention to the third wall.

‘But up until the minute you told him about the baby,' Bev persisted, ‘you were happily married?'

Chloe nodded.

‘Yes.'

‘Is he likely to change his mind and come back?'

‘No.'

‘Has he found someone else?'

‘Bev, shut up.' This was more than even Miranda could stand.

‘Why? It's interesting!'

‘Chloe might not want to talk about it. She might find it upsetting. You could be about to make her cry.'

‘Okay,' Chloe said equably. ‘I think he does have a new girlfriend. But you're right, I would rather not talk about him any more.'

‘See?' Delighted with herself for being so sensitive, Miranda flicked her brush at Bev.

‘Not because it would upset me,' Chloe explained. ‘I just don't want to be bothered with thinking about him. If he doesn't want to know, that's his loss. But
this
'—she gestured around the half-painted room—‘is going to be my new home, and
I
'—she pointed to her stomach—‘am going to have a baby. And right now,' she announced firmly, ‘that is all I care about.'

Heavens, so strong and brave, thought Bev, just like one of those Danielle Steel heroines you secretly longed to punch in the teeth. She gazed at Chloe, impressed.

Miranda, who had never read a Danielle Steel book and was altogether less gullible, said, ‘So how much of that was bullshit? Seventy-five, eighty per cent?'

‘Pretty much,' Chloe admitted with a grin of relief. ‘Still, getting better. A fortnight ago it was ninety.'

***

Miranda spent the next hour washing and blow-drying her hair into a less spiky and altogether more grown-up style, and getting her make-up done.

‘I'm sorry, we've come to the wrong house,' Danny Delancey apologized when she pulled open the front door.

‘Oh, ha ha.' Why did he always have to make fun of her? ‘Bev did my face for me. It's okay, isn't it?'

‘The face is fine.' Danny took a step back in order to admire Miranda's outfit, top to toe. ‘It's the rest of you that's taken me by surprise. I'm just trying to think who you remind me of.'

Somebody nice, I hope, thought Miranda.

‘Got it!'

Some gorgeous, bright-eyed perky young actress, preferably. The kind everybody fancied.

‘Margaret Thatcher,' Danny announced, pleased with himself. He turned to the man behind him. ‘Don't you think?'

‘Minus about sixty years.' His companion stepped forward, holding his hand out for Miranda to shake. ‘Hi, anyway. Tony Vale. I'll be pointing the camera at you this afternoon.'

‘This time I've definitely got it! She looks like a teenager going to a fancy-dress party
as
Margaret Thatcher.' Danny grinned at her. ‘Is that your going-for-an-interview suit?'

Miranda ran her hands protectively over the navy-blue knee-length gaberdine skirt. However had he guessed?

‘Um…'

‘Have to take it off, I'm afraid.'

She bit her lip.

‘You mean, actually while you're filming?'

‘That's entirely up to you.' Cheerfully Danny lugged a heavy tripod past her into the hall. ‘We wouldn't force you.'

‘We're in here.' Miranda led the way through to Florence's living room. ‘I'm not sure about this nude stuff, though.' She sounded doubtful. ‘I mean, is it absolutely essential to the script?'

‘Nude stuff! What the hell's going on here?' Bev leapt up, outraged.

‘This is Bev,' said Miranda, as Florence and Chloe started to laugh. ‘Told you she was gullible.'

***

The filming, once Miranda had changed out of the terrifying navy suit and into her favorite cropped top and white jeans, took less than an hour. Danny's interviewing style was informal, which helped a lot, and Tony Vale organized the lighting and camera positions and generally made himself as unobtrusive as possible in the unnaturally tidy bedroom. Before Miranda knew it, Danny was saying, ‘That's great, now let's shift this stuff downstairs,' and Tony was scurrying out through her bedroom door with the light reflectors tucked under one arm and the camera cases swinging from the other.

‘Er…why?' said Miranda.

‘Your landlady. Great character,' Tony called over his shoulder.

‘Ten minutes, if that,' Danny explained. ‘She's just going to say a few nice things about you. Well, that's the general idea, but I suppose with Florence you never know.'

‘She'd better say nice things.' Miranda held the door open so he could maneuver the tripod through. ‘Or I'll twist her arms off.'

‘Florence, you're a natural,' said Danny when it was over.

‘A disgrace, you mean.' Miranda shot her an accusing look. ‘She was flirting with the camera.'

Florence's grey eyes sparkled. Thanks to the attentions of Bev, her make-up was immaculate and, for once, symmetrical.

‘Why not? You never know who might be watching.' She spread her gnarled fingers, palms upturned. ‘Just think, there could be some lonely Texan billionaire out there, desperate to find someone to keep him company in his rich old age…then he switches on the TV one day and
boom
, one look at me and he's smitten—'

‘I think that's being a bit greedy,' said Miranda. ‘You've already got Orlando.'

Danny looked interested.

‘Who's Orlando?'

‘Clear the table,' Chloe shouted, emerging from the kitchen with two massive plates of sandwiches. Bev, behind her, staggered in with the wine.

‘We're having a wrap party to celebrate the end of filming.' Florence eyed with amusement the front of Bev's flimsy white top, transparent where the condensation from the chilled bottles had sunk in. ‘Or we could make it a wet T-shirt contest, if you'd prefer.'

The phone rang just as Miranda was shovelling an asparagus sandwich into her mouth.

‘Shall I get it?' offered Chloe, who was nearest.

‘Don't worry.' Florence reversed like Damon Hill through the gap between the coffee table and the sofa and snatched it up. ‘Probably Bruce, ringing to make sure I haven't eloped.'

She listened for a moment, then waggled the phone at Miranda, who still had her mouth full.

Chew chew, swallow swallow.

‘Who is it?'

Florence smirked, relishing the moment.

‘He didn't give his name.'

‘What's going on?' said Greg when Miranda had seized control of the receiver. ‘Sounds like you're having a party.'

‘Oh, hi.' Miranda couldn't help it; she felt herself going bright pink.

‘Who is it, your new chap? Brilliant! Tell him to come on over!' Bev turned excitedly to Florence. ‘She's been keeping this one under wraps, it's all
deeply
mysterious. I haven't even been allowed to meet him yet!'

‘I thought you were decorating some bedroom,' Greg protested as Danny pushed a glass into Miranda's hand. As he filled it, the neck of the bottle went clunk against the rim.

‘I was! I mean, I have! Florence's new lodger turned up and helped me finish it in double-quick time. Then Danny and Tony arrived, we've just done a bit of filming—'

‘Shall I come over?' Greg wasn't at all sure he trusted Danny Delancey.

‘Tell him to get himself over here this
minute
,' Bev bellowed across the room.

Miranda jumped, then hesitated. Should she? It had to happen sooner or later…

‘Did you hear that?' she said lightly into the phone. ‘My friend Bev's here as well. Why don't you come on over? She's dying to meet you.'

‘Jesus, no thanks.' Greg sounded horrified. ‘You haven't told her, have you?'

Miranda knew exactly what he was thinking: a potential bunny-boiler on his case, that was all he needed.

‘Not yet, but—'

‘Just say I'm busy.' She could almost hear Greg shudder. ‘And you, watch yourself with that Danny character. Better still, fix him up with Bev,' he declared with satisfaction. ‘That should do the trick; those two deserve each other.'

Now there was an idea. Miranda gave it some thought as she hung up. Then, still lit up with happiness just from hearing Greg's voice, she grinned inanely across the room at Danny.

Making his way over, he studied her mouth with apparent concern.

‘Why the dopey smirk?'

‘It isn't a smirk. I never smirk. I'm not dopey either. I just wondered, do you have a girlfriend?'

Danny topped up her glass.

‘Why, are you offering? All applications for the post in writing, please. Just send a copy of your CV and a brief letter outlining why you feel you'd be the best woman for the job. If you make the short list, you'll be invited to attend an interview—'

‘So is that a yes or a no?' interrupted Miranda. Behind him, Bev was chatting to Tony Vale, but in a half-hearted fashion. Probably because he was in his forties, on the scrawny side, and had already told her all about his wonderful wife.

‘It's a no.' Danny's mouth twitched. ‘And if you don't mind me saying so, I think it's very brave of you to take the initiative like this.' He consulted his watch. ‘Look, I have to be at Heathrow by six tomorrow morning so I can't stay out too late, but we could have dinner somewhere if you like. I'm afraid I don't sleep with girls on a first date, but I'll only be away for a few days, so play your cards right—'

‘Honestly, are you ever serious? I was thinking of Bev!'

‘Excuse me,' said Danny, ‘are
you
being serious? Is this baby-making, desperate-for-a-man Bev we're talking about?'

Bugger, thought Miranda, who had forgotten she'd told him about that. It was like trying to sell someone pleurisy.

‘What?' Bev demanded, popping up behind Danny right on cue. ‘Who mentioned babies?'

Miranda sighed. Honestly, she did herself no favors.

‘Jelly babies,' Danny told Bev. ‘I was just saying, the green ones are my favorite.'

‘Mine's orange. So, is he coming over?'

‘Who?' said Miranda.

‘Your chap!'

‘He can't make it. He has…stuff to do.'

‘Oh well, never mind. Time I was making a move anyway.' Sunday night was leg-waxing night for Bev. She beamed at Danny. ‘Still, it's been fun, hasn't it?'

Florence wheeled herself over to them.

‘I've been looking at this one here.' As she addressed Miranda, she patted Danny's arm. ‘Imagine him with his hair slicked back. Wouldn't he make a marvelous Orlando?'

‘What is going on here?' Danny's dark eyes narrowed. ‘That's the second time I've heard the name. Who
is
this Orlando?'

***

‘Hi, it's me again,' said Miranda, grinning at Chloe as Greg picked up the phone. ‘The coast's clear. Bev's just left. It's safe to come over.'

Across the room, Chloe rolled her eyes like a mad woman and said teasingly, ‘Well, relatively safe.'

‘I'll be there in twenty minutes,' said Greg.

‘You'll really do it?' Florence was delighted. ‘You'll be Orlando for an evening?'

‘Why not? I've always wanted to be a gigolo.'

Danny grinned; the idea appealed to his journalistic instincts. Human reactions were what interested him more than anything. Particularly the meaner ones.

‘You won't be able to wear those clothes,' Miranda pointed out.

‘Look, who's the master of disguise here,' said Danny, ‘you or me?'

‘Couple of gold chains around your neck,' Florence prompted.

‘Shiny shirt,' said Chloe.

‘Skin-tight trousers, pointy patent-leather shoes. With heels,' Miranda added with relish.

‘This isn't
Saturday Night Fever
,' said Danny.

‘He's right, he mustn't be cheap and slimy,' Chloe told Miranda. ‘Bruce and Verity wouldn't fall for it. They know Florence would never go for someone like that.'

‘Okay, good clothes.' Reluctantly, because cheap and slimy would have been more fun, Miranda began ticking each item off on her fingers. ‘You'll have to borrow an Armani suit or something.'

‘Thanks.' Danny exchanged a look with Florence.

‘One gold chain,' said Chloe. ‘One's enough.'

‘Bit of fake tan,' said Miranda. ‘Ooh, and a diamond ring on your little finger! You can tell them it was a gift from your last lady friend.'

‘Go on then,' Danny gave her an encouraging nod, ‘lend us twenty grand.'

‘Cubic zirconium,' Chloe said promptly. ‘Argos catalogue. Let me know your size,' she told Danny, ‘and I'll pick one up.'

Miranda wrinkled her nose.

‘They still cost money.'

‘You take it back to the shop and get a refund,' Chloe explained. She was loving every minute of this. ‘When are you going to do it?'

‘Next weekend?' Florence looked at Danny. ‘Is that okay with you?'

‘Fine. You sort out the details and I'll speak to you when I get back from the States.' Danny stood up. ‘And now, I'd better make a move.'

When Tony Vale had left earlier, he had shaken hands—somewhat sweatily—with each of them in turn. Now, Miranda watched Danny bend and give Florence a kiss on the cheek, before moving around the table and doing the same to Chloe. Having mentally prepared herself—after all, she was next in line—she was miffed when he left it at that. All she received was a wink and a broad smile.

Miranda's toes clenched with irritation. What had the wink been, some kind of consolation prize? Even more embarrassing, she'd been tilting her head at an about-to-be-kissed angle, and now she had to pretend she'd simply been stretching her neck.

Men! Honestly, how pathetic were they? Danny Delancey was happy enough to bestow meaningless kisses on wrinkled old women—sorry, Florence—and ones who were pregnant, but when it came to real girls, girls like herself, he couldn't bring himself to do it. He was intimidated by the fact that she had a boyfriend. Scared, probably, that Greg—who was due to arrive at any minute—might burst through the door and challenge him to a duel.

‘Is your neck okay?' said Danny.

Wimp.

‘Just pulled a muscle.' Miranda carried on massaging vigorously, to prove that she hadn't been expecting any kind of kiss in the first place.

As he hoisted the camera case over his shoulder, Danny turned back to Chloe.

‘I can give you a lift home if you like.'

‘Are you sure? Oh no,' Chloe protested, ‘I'm miles out of your way.'

‘No problem.' Danny glanced with amusement in Miranda's direction. ‘I don't have a girlfriend, you see. So, plenty of free time.'

He was making fun of her
again
, Miranda realized, and bloody annoying it was too. Anyway, why was he offering Chloe a lift home? He didn't fancy her, did he? Okay, so she was a pretty girl, you couldn't argue with that, but oh dear, a pretty girl who was three months pregnant…?

***

‘I enjoyed that,' said Florence, watching from the window as Danny held open the passenger door of the green BMW.

With an odd sense of unease, Miranda saw him say something that made Chloe laugh. She tried to remember whether Danny had held the passenger door open like a gentleman when he had given her a lift home that time from the salon, or if he had simply jumped into the driver's seat and shouted, ‘It's open.' Which, let's face it, was pretty much par for the course these days in her experience. When men clapped eyes on her, Miranda realized sadly, their initial reaction wasn't to come over all exquisitely mannered, start tipping their hats and bowing and calling her ma'am.

She was no Scarlett O'Hara.

Maybe it was something to do with having blue hair.

I could dye it, thought Miranda, and stop being accident-prone, and learn to do flirtatious things with parasols—

‘They get on well together,' Florence declared with satisfaction as the car pulled away.

Chloe had swiveled round to wave up at them. Automatically Miranda waved back. Then she turned and frowned at Florence.

‘Yes, but it's hardly ideal, is it?'

‘What?'

‘You, matchmaking! Why would Danny want to be lumbered with someone else's baby?' Miranda began to hyperventilate; she flapped her hand indignantly out of the window. ‘And why would Chloe want to get involved with anyone
at all
? It's not fair on either of them, in fact it's—'

She stopped abruptly. Florence was spluttering with laughter.

‘Come on! Did I just offer to pay for their honeymoon? They get on well together, that's all I said. Where's the matchmaking in that?'

Oh dear, she'd overreacted. Biting her lip, Miranda paid elaborate attention to the BMW as it disappeared from view.

‘It was more the look in your eye,' she said defensively. ‘I know what you're like when you hit on an idea.'

‘Hit on a great one this evening, didn't I?' Florence gave her a nudge. ‘Asking Danny to go gigolo for a night. Roll on next weekend,' she chuckled. ‘I can't wait.'

Miranda's spirits lifted at the sight of Greg's car drawing up outside. As Danny and Chloe had been disappearing around one corner, Greg had been making his approach from the other end of the street. Like a relay race, Miranda thought, only without a baton.

Or synchronized swimming minus the nose-clips.

‘I'll just get my stuff,' she told Florence, jumping down from the window seat.

‘Staying over at his place tonight?'

‘Is that okay?' Miranda hesitated. ‘If there's anything you want me to do before I go…'

Florence looked at her, so eager to get away. It was stupid, she knew, but she felt like a mother bird watching her chick prepare to launch itself from the nest. In the year she and Miranda had lived together they had grown so close, it was hard to come to terms with the possibility that, for Miranda, the time had now come to move on.

I should be thrilled for her, thought Florence. She's falling in love, maybe for the first time in her life. I should be happier than this.

Oh, but if only Miranda could have chosen someone else to fall in love with.

‘I'll be fine,' she announced robustly. This was ridiculous, a severe case of empty-nest syndrome and she wasn't even the girl's mother.

I'm not going to have an empty nest either, Florence reminded herself. Miranda hasn't left yet. And when she does, I'll still have Chloe.

***

‘Party over?' asked Greg when Miranda greeted him at the front door with her overnight bag—otherwise known as an H&M shopping bag—clutched to her chest.

‘I thought we'd have another one, back at your place.'

‘Was that Danny Delancey's car I saw leaving just now? Are you sure he isn't a bit keen on you?'

‘If he's keen on anyone, it's Florence's new lodger.' Miranda wondered why the idea still rankled. Determinedly she pushed the thought to the back of her mind.

‘I thought she wasn't moving in for another week or so.'

Reaching up on her toes, Miranda kissed Greg full on the mouth. The last people she felt like talking about right now were Danny Delancey and pretty blond pregnant Chloe.

‘She isn't.'

‘So why was she here today?'

Greg didn't really want to know, he was just being polite.

‘Came to lend a hand with the painting, that's all. Now, can I ask you something personal?'

They reached the car. Greg leaned her backwards across the still-warm bonnet and ran his fingers across her exposed midriff.

‘How personal?'

‘Extremely, deeply and outrageously personal.'

Greg hesitated for a fraction of a second.

‘Go on then.'

‘Do you ache as much as I do after last night?'

Up close, with the last of the evening sunlight on her face, he could see the tiny, barely visible freckles scattered over Miranda's nose. Her dark eyes sparkled, her mouth curved up at the corners and her complexion was flawless.

Most people looked better from a distance, thought Greg. Miranda was even more gorgeous close up.

‘You're beautiful.' He couldn't help himself, he had to say it.

‘And you're a salesman.' She raised a skeptical eyebrow. ‘Anyway, you haven't answered my question.'

‘I love you,' said Greg.

‘You're still a salesman.'

Outwardly, Miranda was still joking, but inwardly he knew she believed him. Which was just as well, Greg thought. Because it was true.

‘You want me to be totally honest with you?' He was smiling as he spoke, his mouth inches away from hers. ‘Okay, I do, I ache just as much as you do. I ache like mad. And you know something else?'

‘What?' Miranda wondered if all the neighbors were watching. Spread-eagled across the bonnet of a car in broad daylight in the middle of dear old Notting Hill…well, it was hardly discreet.

‘I don't care that I ache,' said Greg. ‘It's not going to stop me. So if you want a good night's sleep, you'd better turn around now and head back into that house.'

As if she could, Miranda thought joyfully. She flung her arms around him. So what if she couldn't walk tomorrow, or push a broom, or wash hair. Who cared?

Apart from Fenn, of course, her grumpy employer, who could get quite funny about salon juniors who staggered into work incapable of carrying out the simplest tasks.

Then again, what did Fenn know about love? All he ever went out with were spaghetti-thin supermodels with minds as blank as their faces and Press Here buttons in their backs for when you wanted them to speak. And they never lasted longer than a few weeks; with his low boredom threshold, Fenn freely admitted that he didn't know why he bothered.

It was, all in all, a bit of a sad existence, Miranda felt. As if being photographed and appearing in as many magazines as possible was more important than being with someone you actually liked. Poor Fenn, he didn't know what he was missing.

‘If it takes you this long to make up your mind,' said Greg, ‘I must be losing my touch. Maybe I'd better just go home after all.'

He was doing his best to sound offended. Miranda ran her fingernails down his back.

‘I was thinking about my boss.'

‘Oh, great. Don't think about your boss, think about me!'

‘Okay, let's go.' Blissfully, she breathed in the scent of his aftershave. ‘Who needs sleep anyway?'

‘I love you.'

Miranda knew why he was saying it again. It was her turn now; he was waiting for her to return the favor. She shivered with happiness.

‘I love you too.'

Above them, Florence's living room window was flung open.

‘Any more of that malarkey in a public parking bay,' Florence yelled down at them, ‘and you'll get clamped.'