Miranda's Big Mistake (17 page)

The last time Miranda had done any real acting, she'd been one half of a pushmi-pullyu in the school production of
Dr Doolittle
. Then, she'd tripped over her tail and fallen off the stage.

Now, acting for all she was worth, she was making the discovery that pretending to be normal was far harder than being the rear end of a pushmi-pullyu.

‘…I just can't get over how easy it was! It's so silly, I should have done it weeks ago. Bev was brilliant, she understood completely—'

‘That's great,' said Greg, ‘but you've hardly eaten a thing.'

‘Sorry.' Miranda gave her Thai crab cake a feeble prod with her fork. ‘Still hungover, I suppose, from lunchtime. It goes to show, though, doesn't it? Honesty's the best policy. All that secrecy for no reason at all. Why couldn't I have just come straight out and told her the truth in the first place?'

Gently, Greg leaned across the table and took the fork from her hand.

‘If you aren't hungry, leave it. I won't be offended. And I'm really pleased the Bev thing's sorted out, but could we talk about something else now?' His grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he squeezed Miranda's twitching fingers. ‘Like us?'

It's like that film
The Stepford Wives
, Miranda thought, where the woman suddenly realizes all the other women are really robots. She was here talking to Greg but he was no longer
her
Greg. He was Chloe's husband, father of Chloe's baby, and he had announced he was leaving her the moment Chloe had discovered she was pregnant.

‘Us?'

‘I want to be with you. I want to know when you're going to move in with me.'

Despite everything, a lump sprang into Miranda's throat. He was still Greg on the outside, that was the trouble. He was handsome and he loved her and men like that didn't come along every day.

Oh God, it wasn't easy, discovering that the man in your life—the one who
had
come along—was a big fake.

‘You have to have trust, that's the thing,' Miranda blurted out. ‘Absolute trust. No secrets. We don't have any secrets from each other, do we? Because if we do, we should deal with them now. It's the only way.'

Greg smiled. The drinking session earlier had left Miranda pale, but he thought she'd never looked more beautiful. Her dark eyes, huge and luminous, shone with emotion. Her strappy little black dress fitted like a second skin. She smelled gorgeous.

And she was his, all his.

No way was he going to tell her about Chloe.

Not a chance.

‘The only secret I have,' Greg said slowly, ‘is how much I love you. Because you'll never know.'

He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, touched by the tears glistening in her eyes. With his free hand, he took a small velvet box from his jacket pocket.

Her breathing quickened.

‘Is that for me?'

‘No, it's for that waitress over there, the one in the orange wig.'

Miranda no longer had fingers, she had bunches of pork sausages. Clumsily she struggled to open the lid. Oh God, this wasn't supposed to be happening…please,
please
let it be earrings…

The lid sprang open.

It wasn't.

Only one ring, and not the kind you'd wear in your ear. Actually, not even the kind you'd want to wear on your finger, Miranda had to admit.

Five minuscule diamonds and a lone emerald winked feebly up at her, set in a daisy pattern with a horrid gold filigree surround.

Oh dear, there was no getting away from it.

This was a truly tasteless ring.

‘Don't worry if it's a bit big,' Greg assured her. ‘I can easily have it altered.'

It probably would be too big, of course, seeing as he had bought it for someone else. But Chloe had always claimed it didn't sit well next to her wedding band; she had simply given up wearing it, a couple of months into the marriage. It wasn't until after he'd moved out that he'd discovered it, at the bottom of his cuff link tin, stuffed carelessly out of sight like a spoilt child's unwanted toy.

Perfectly good ring like that, may as well make use of it, Greg had reasoned. Chloe might not have appreciated his excellent taste, but he was sure Miranda would.

That wasn't such a terrible thing to do, was it?

No, it was not.

It made perfect sense.

Nothing wrong with being thrifty.

‘I don't know what to say. It's…incredible,' said Miranda.

***

The kitchen window was wide open and Florence's state-of-the-art CD player teetered precariously on the sloping windowsill. Frank Sinatra serenaded the small but noisy gathering beneath the mulberry trees. The threatened thunderstorms having failed to materialize, the night air was heavy with humidity and heat.

‘I can't believe you're all still here,' Miranda declared. ‘Don't any of you have homes to go to?'

As she made her way across the dimly lit back garden she almost tripped over a pile of empty wine bottles and Florence's discarded sun hat.

‘Darling, it's your birthday!' Florence, definitely squiffy, nudged Fenn and Chloe to move up and make way for Miranda. ‘And we're all agog! So tell us, how did it go? Except we've already guessed, of course, because it's ten o'clock at night and you're back here.'

‘I gave him a million chances,' Miranda said flatly. ‘Not a word.'

‘So that's that.' Bev shrugged. ‘He's a bastard after all.'

‘I could have told you that weeks ago.' Chloe sounded amused rather than upset.

‘Does he know you know?' Danny's glittering dark eyes narrowed against the smoke from the candles flickering in glass bowls on the table.

Honestly, who does he think he is, the head of MI5?

Briskly, Miranda saluted.

‘No, boss. Carried out your instructions to the letter, boss. Mouth'—she mimicked the action—‘kept zipped.'

‘Well,' Fenn murmured, ‘there's a first.'

Bev was frowning.

‘Didn't he wonder why you wanted to come back here?'

‘I said I felt ill. Told him I'd see him tomorrow, when my hangover was gone.' Miranda picked up a half-empty glass and took an experimental sip. Actually, not bad. Maybe she was ready to start again.

‘Aah, “Strangers in the Night”,' sighed Florence as the familiar opening bars floated down from the kitchen window. ‘I used to dance to this at the Café de Paris…da da da da daaa…Come on then,' she announced abruptly, jabbing her cigarette in Miranda's direction, ‘show us what he got you for your birthday.'

Fenn, spotting the faint glimmer of diamond chips before anyone else, said, ‘I think I can guess.'

Oh dear. You could know that someone was a bastard but still feel a bit mean, Miranda discovered. Self-consciously she waggled her fingers.

Whooping, Florence and Bev simultaneously made a grab for her left hand.

‘Ouch, I'm not a wishbone.'

Bev gazed across the table at Miranda.

‘It's an engagement ring.'

‘God, it's tiny!' Florence crowed.

Abruptly, the knot returned to Miranda's stomach. Conflicting emotions tangled inside her like yo-yo string. Greg might be a shit and a deceiver, but it was cruel to make fun of an engagement ring. Okay, so it clearly hadn't cost a huge amount, but it was the thought that counted. Greg had gone along to a jeweller's and chosen that particular style because he had thought it would suit
her
…

Across the table, someone was clearing their throat. Miranda looked up.

‘Actually, it's
my
engagement ring,' said Chloe.

***

At midnight, Fenn rose to leave.

‘Bev? I'll give you a lift home.'

‘I need the loo first.' Rocking on her high heels, Bev made a dash for the house.

‘I'll show you out,' said Chloe, observing Danny and Miranda still huddled together deep in conversation. ‘It's past my bedtime too.'

At the front door, while they waited for Bev, Fenn said, ‘Tell Miranda she doesn't have to be in until ten tomorrow.'

Chloe looked envious.

‘I wish my boss would say nice things like that to me.'

‘I'm not always nice. I can be terrifying sometimes.'

‘I know. Miranda's told me.'

Fenn smiled briefly.

‘Then again, I'm not a complete ogre. She's had a hell of a day.'

‘She certainly has.'

Chloe opened the front door and peered out, the orange glow from the streetlamps turning her hair to apricot.

‘So have you.' Fenn hesitated, feeling awkward. Before today, he had never even met Chloe. ‘Are you all right?'

Upstairs, a lavatory flushed. Bev would be back at any minute.

‘Oh, I'm okay.' Chloe nodded vigorously. ‘Better than I expected, to tell you the truth. It helps to know I'm not the only woman he's treated like dirt. Poor Miranda, though…'

Fenn marveled at her attitude. She really did feel sorrier for Miranda than she did for herself. Accustomed as he was to the tedious, self-absorbed ramblings of much of his female clientele, Chloe's lack of self-pity was like a breath of fresh air.

‘Ready,' Bev announced, clattering down the stairs. ‘Bye,' she told Chloe, giving her a kiss.

Fenn, following her lead, leaned across and kissed Chloe's cheek as well.

‘Bye. Take care.'

There were dimples in Chloe's cheeks that deepened when she smiled.

‘I really am fine, you know. You don't have to feel sorry for me. Plus, I always did hate that engagement ring.'

Fenn laughed.

‘Okay. See you soon.'

‘Absolutely,' said Chloe. The mischievous dimples reappeared. ‘See you at the wedding.'

The salon was packed to bursting on Monday morning, but one voice was still clearly audible above the rest. Eleanor Slater, a former Tory front-bencher with a grossly inflated sense of her own irresistibility, was making sure everyone knew she was there. Since losing her seat at the last election, Eleanor had swiftly relaunched herself as a fearless radio interviewer, famed for her ability to flirt and simultaneously stick the knife in. There was nothing she was too bashful to say. She particularly relished embarrassing other people in public, and accusing them of being prudes.

She was grotesque, and Miranda would have loathed her even if she didn't have a hangover the size of Harrods. She waited for Eleanor to stop booming instructions to her PA into her dictaphone.

‘…and firm up that interview with Terry for tomorrow morning. If he's pushed for time, we'll do it in his car between meetings.' Leaving the tape running, she smirked provocatively at Fenn's reflection in the mirror. ‘It wouldn't be the first time, but don't tell his dull little wife that. Now, what can I do for you, dear?' She swiveled briskly round in her chair, eyeing Miranda with unconcealed amusement. ‘Are you waiting to ask me something or can you just not remember what you're supposed to be doing next?'

Patronizing old cow.

‘Tea or coffee?' said Miranda.

‘Tea.' Eleanor was renowned for her split-second decisions; she didn't hang about. ‘Anything, so long as it's herbal.'

Miranda wondered if deadly nightshade counted as herbal.

‘Oh, and I need some contraception for this afternoon,' Eleanor went on. Delving into her briefcase, she produced a ten-pound note. ‘Pop along to the chemist, would you, dear? Pick me up a packet of condoms.' Her strident voice, so used to the tricky acoustics of the House of Commons, effortlessly drowned out a dozen hair dryers. ‘Actually, better make that two packets.'

Don't try to embarrass me, thought Miranda.

Aloud she said, ‘What flavor?'

Oh bum, now she'd probably get the sack.

But when she finally dared to look in the mirror, Fenn was carefully cutting the back of Eleanor's hair and doing his level best not to smile.

By the time Miranda returned from the chemist, Eleanor had recovered her composure. She opened one of the cellophane-wrapped packs, took out two condoms and tucked them into the back pocket of Miranda's violet jeans.

‘There you are, dear. Be Safe, Be Happy!'

This was the slogan adopted by the government for its latest For-God's-sake-
use
-something campaign.

Miranda gazed without enthusiasm at the packet in Eleanor's hand.

Happy? What was that?

Since she was planning on being celibate from now on, she would definitely be safe.

But she had no intention of being happy.

The door swung open behind them as Danny and Tony Vale, loaded down with video equipment, arrived in the salon.

Eleanor, a tireless media-whore, perked up at once.

‘Everywhere I go, I'm pursued by cameras,' she trilled. Twirling round in her chair, she eyed Danny with greedy approval. ‘Now, now, I don't remember fixing this up.' She wagged a naughty-boy finger at him. ‘Which company do you work for, and who told you I'd be here?'

Danny surveyed her, his expression impassive.

‘Nobody did. We aren't here to film you.'

Just this once—and despite her cracking headache—Miranda could have kissed him.

Witnessing the deflation of the strident ex-MP nobody liked, several other women within earshot sniggered.

‘They're making a documentary,' Fenn explained to a disbelieving Eleanor, ‘about Miranda.'

The filming took less than an hour. Afterwards, Tony Vale loaded the equipment into the back of a cab and headed back to the studio. Danny bore Miranda off to the coffee bar around the corner and ordered her a hot chocolate.

‘So, are you sure you want to do it?'

Miranda's glass of hot chocolate was topped with whipped cream and cocoa powder. If she tried to drink it she'd look as if she'd been got by the Phantom Flan Flinger.

‘Oh yes.' Using her finger, which was on the unsteady side, she scooped off the top layer. Halfway to her mouth, the dollop of whipped cream slid free and plopped messily back into her glass.

‘Because I can arrange everything,' said Danny. ‘But you have to be really sure.'

‘Look, I
am
.' Miranda wished everyone would stop treating her like an invalid; she was trembly because she had a hangover, not because she was upset. ‘Didn't we spend enough time going over this last night? Fenn's all for it, Chloe's all for it, it's not going to cost anything because you're going to sell it…'

She paused, frowning, and trawled her finger speculatively through the cream mountain once more.

‘What?'

‘The only thing I don't get is, what's in it for you?'

Danny fiddled with the clasp of his wallet, which was lying on the table. Now how was he meant to answer this one?

Or rather, how was he meant to answer this one without giving himself away completely?

‘There's nothing in it for me,' he said at last. ‘I just think you deserve better than to be treated the way he's treated you. Chloe as well,' he added. ‘You both deserve better.'

‘Do you like Chloe?' said Miranda abruptly. For some reason the question had been preying on her mind all week. ‘I mean, do you…fancy her?'

Danny almost laughed aloud.

‘No. No, of course I don't fancy Chloe.'

Next question
, he silently willed her to ask.

Instead, Miranda let out a yelp as a blob of whipped cream dropped from her finger, landing on the front of her T-shirt.

‘Bugger.' Scooping the worst of it off and gazing in dismay at the chocolate-streaked stain, she dragged a crumpled tissue out of the back pocket of her jeans. Something else flew out at the same time, catapulting through the air behind her and landing at the feet of a man engrossed in his copy of
The Times
.

Danny retrieved it while Miranda scrubbed energetically at her front with the tissue.

‘It's no good, it won't come out. Lucky we've got spares back at the salon.'

‘Um, you dropped this.'

The look on his face was to die for. He was trying so hard to appear nonchalant.

‘Oh, thanks.' Miranda took it from him. ‘Always make sure I keep one with me at work.' She patted her pocket. ‘After all, you never know who might come into the salon.'

Yes,
yes
, there was that look again…

‘You are joking,' Danny said finally.

‘Of course I'm joking. Ha, you're easily shocked, aren't you?' Beaming, Miranda neatly tucked the condom into his wallet, which lay unfastened on the table between them. ‘It was a present from Eleanor Slater, if you must know. And now it's yours.'

‘Why?' Danny gazed at his wallet in alarm. God, how horrible if using Eleanor Slater's condom meant he had to think of Eleanor Slater. Now there was an effective contraceptive device in a league of its own.

‘You may as well have it,' said Miranda. ‘The way my life's going, I won't be having sex again before I'm eighty.'

***

As they were leaving the coffee bar, Miranda's attention was caught by a photograph of Miles Harper in
The Times
sports section.

Next to her, Danny was saying, ‘Everything that happens in life, it's for the best.'

This was evidently meant to reassure her.

Flick, went the newspaper and Miles briefly disappeared from view.

‘Okay, come on, that's complete cobblers for a start,' Miranda retaliated. ‘If I ran out into the road now and got knocked down by a bus, what would be so great about that?'

‘Okay, stupid remark, forget I said it.' Danny smiled. ‘I was just trying to cheer you up.'

‘Well, don't. You're useless at it.'

The man holding his
Times
turned a page and Miles magically reappeared.

‘What are you peering at?'

‘Nothing,' Miranda said shiftily. But it was too late; he had already followed the line of her gaze.

‘Miles Harper? He did pretty well yesterday,' said Danny.

Miranda had forgotten all about the Canadian Grand Prix. She'd had other things on her mind.

‘Where did he finish?'

‘Second.'

‘Second? That's brilliant!' Her eyes widened with delight. That would really move Miles up the table…heavens, it put him only seven points behind the current leader. Not that she'd been keeping score, of course. Well, not much…

‘There you go,' Danny observed, his tone dry. ‘I knew I could cheer you up.'