Miranda's Big Mistake (20 page)

It was a good job the lid of the loo seat was down. Otherwise Miranda, sitting cross-legged and hugging an empty bottle to her chest, would have fallen in.

‘Come on, Miranda, I know it's you. Open the door this minute.'

It was Danny's voice. And he was sounding bossy.

Bossy bloody Danny Delancey, thought Miranda, tipping her head back and draining the last few lukewarm drops of wine. Well, he could be as bossy as he liked. She wasn't scared.

She wasn't about to open the door, either.

‘Miranda.'

‘Danny,' she mimicked.

‘Still alive, then.' He sounded relieved. ‘Unlock the door, Miranda.' Pause. ‘We were worried about you.'

‘No need to worry about me.' She shook her head with such vigor she almost slid off the wooden loo seat. Tut tut, very highly polished, exceedingly dangerous…I could sue the hotel for that. Regaining her balance, she glared at the door. ‘Anyway, you aren't allowed in here. This is the ladies' loo. And you're a man.'

‘Possibly the nicest thing you've ever said to me.' Danny sounded amused. ‘Unlock the door, there's a good girl.'

‘God,' grumbled Miranda. ‘Nag, nag, nag. Oh, and by the way…no, I won't.'

‘Fine.'

Moments later, she let out a squeal as he dropped over the partition dividing her cubicle from the one next to it.

‘Who do you think you are,' Miranda demanded indignantly, ‘James Bond?'

‘Who d'you think you are,' Danny countered, ‘the latest recruit to the Oliver Reed School of Drinking?'

Miranda tried to leap to her feet, but twenty minutes of sitting cross-legged on a loo seat had seized up her knees and ankles completely. Whimpering with pain, she was forced to hang on clumsily to Danny's arms for support as Florence had clung to Tom earlier.

‘Ow, ow, my feet,
ow
—' yelped Miranda, her eyes screwed up in agony. The next second she felt herself being lifted up, swung round and plonked down again. The pain had stopped, though the soles of her feet still buzzed with pins and needles. Cautiously opening her eyes, she realized that her suspicions had been correct. Danny was now sitting on the toilet seat lid, and she was sitting on Danny. His arms were around her, keeping her in place. She could smell his aftershave. Close up like this—and she had certainly never been this close before—she couldn't help noticing he had really,
really
nice ears.

Well, ear. From this angle she could only see the left one. But the other one—Mr Right, Miranda thought with a stifled giggle—was probably just as attractive. In its own way.

‘What?' said Danny.

Better not tell him. He might think she was weird.

‘I feel like a ventriloquist's dummy.'

Danny waggled his fingers.

‘Look, no hands.'

He was humoring her, Miranda realized. Being kind. Overall, she thought she preferred him bossy—at least that way she could fight back.

For a terrible second, she thought she was going to burst into tears again. As if her eyes weren't already swollen and piggy enough.

Danny, glimpsing her expression, gave her waist a brief, meant-to-be-sympathetic squeeze.

‘Don't,' warned Miranda. Her lower lip trembled.

‘It's okay to cry. If that's what you want to do, just go ahead,' Danny reassured her.

‘Stop it. Please don't be nice to me.' She felt her eyes start to fill.

He gave her waist another squeeze. Miranda's rib cage began to shudder. Oh, the humiliation. This wasn't fair.

‘Can't you just say something horrible?' She blurted the words out in desperation. ‘Be sarcastic? Give me a slap and tell me to grow up?'

In reply, Danny reached up and smoothed her ruffled hair. His dark eyes were serious. For the first time ever, he wasn't teasing her.

‘Bastard,' muttered Miranda, ‘you're no help at all.'

Once she'd started, it was impossible to stop. This time she didn't have to pretend she was crying because of Florence and Tom. These tears, held back for too long, were all for herself.

Danny said nothing, he just held her and stroked her back and let the torrent of sobbing run its necessary course.

It felt like hours to Miranda, but when she finally hiccuped to a halt and glimpsed his watch as he wiped her eyes, she saw that it hadn't been that long at all. Less than ten minutes.

Still, she'd managed to honk and bawl her way through an entire loo roll, which was something. Quite an achievement, actually, in ten minutes.

‘Better now?' said Danny at last.

Miranda nodded and blew her reddened nose. Reluctantly she muttered, ‘Am I supposed to say thank you now?'

‘Don't let it trouble you.' He grinned at her. ‘Happy to help.'

Miranda swayed a bit on his lap. She felt light-headed with the relief of getting all that pent-up emotion out of her system. Thanks to the amount of wine she had guzzled in a short space of time, she also needed, quite badly, to pee.

‘Um, could you go now?'

Danny heaved a dramatic sigh.

‘That's right, use me and toss me aside like an old Kleenex. Blub all over me, soak my shirt—'

‘If you carry on much longer, it'll be more than your shirt that gets soaked,' said Miranda.

‘Ah. Right.'

‘Do I look terrible?' She blinked and rubbed her face, which felt salty and raw.

‘Not your best, I have to say.'

‘Oh God, and my make-up's in my bag, in the garden.'

Danny tipped her off his lap and unlocked the cubicle door.

‘You stay here. I'll fetch your bag.'

‘Could you call a cab?' Miranda sensed that her face was beyond repair. ‘I think I just want to go home.'

‘I'll take you.'

‘Make my excuses to everyone. Don't tell them I was crying,' she added hurriedly.

‘I'll say you're as pissed as a parrot. Again.'

Miranda nodded; that was far less humiliating.

‘Thanks.'

***

Bruce had to attend a trade fair in Bristol on Monday morning. He parked a short distance from Florence's house on Sunday afternoon, not particularly looking forward to seeing his mother but needing to hand the keys over to Chloe so that tomorrow morning she could open up the shop.

In the event, neither of them was in. The house was empty. Scribbling a note for Chloe, Bruce shovelled the bunch of keys through the letter-box and headed back to his car.

Before he could pull away, a green BMW drew up outside the house, reversing niftily into a space Bruce had considered earlier and rejected as too small. Irritated by the other driver's superior parking skills, he peered across to reassure himself it wasn't a woman.

It wasn't.

It was his mother's toyboy, Orlando.

Bruce's immediate instinct was to shrink down in his seat. If that was Florence in the passenger seat, he didn't want her to spot him. The prospect of being dragged into the house and having to witness his mother making sheep's eyes at that gigolo was more than he could handle.

But it wasn't Florence, he realized moments later as a tanned elbow—a
young
elbow—appeared, resting on the passenger-side open window.

Bruce sat bolt upright. Now this was promising. Well, well, in all honesty he hadn't thought Chloe had it in her.

Then the elbow shifted and the forearm came out, too thin to belong to Chloe. Bruce, peering harder, glimpsed an assortment of vaguely familiar silver bangles, then a flash of telltale blue-green hair.

Not Chloe, the other one…what was her name?

Miranda.

***

Something odd had begun to happen on the way back from the Salinger Hotel. Every time Danny pulled up at a junction or a set of traffic lights, Miranda discovered, he grew more attractive.

It was no longer confined to his ears. Each stolen glance—when he wasn't looking at her, of course—revealed yet another admirable feature. The straightness of his nose, those totally unfair eyelashes, not to mention the way his hair curled over his collar…

It was more than odd, Miranda marveled, it was astonishing. Like digging a hideous old polyester cardigan out of the back of your wardrobe and realizing that you'd made a mistake, it was actually the cardigan of your dreams, pink and perfect and one hundred per cent cashmere.

Breaking into her thoughts—oh, such delicious thoughts—Danny said abruptly, ‘We're here.'

‘You've been really kind,' Miranda told him. ‘Really really kind.'

‘I know. And you're really really drunk. When did you last have something to eat?'

She shrugged, trying to think.

‘Tuesday?'

‘You should eat.' He paused. ‘What?'

‘What what?'

‘Why are you looking at me like that?'

‘I don't know,' said Miranda, distinctly light-headed. Her elbow slid off the window frame with a thud. ‘Why are
you
looking like that?'

‘Like what?'

She pointed an accusing finger at him.

‘All gorgeous and, you know, sexy and stuff.'

His mouth twitched. Sexily.

‘See?' Miranda demanded. ‘You're doing it again.'

‘Now listen to me, you've had—'

‘Can I kiss you?'

Ha, that stopped him in his tracks! She saw his eyes flicker. Sexily.

‘Miranda.'

Even the way he said her name was sexy.

‘Or if you want to be masterful about it,' she offered, ‘you could always kiss me.'

‘I don't think I should.'

Miranda ignored this. He was looking at her with regret, not revulsion. Regret didn't count.

‘I want you to.' Reaching over, she grabbed his arms. Gorgeous, sexy arms. ‘If you don't do it, I will.'

Danny didn't speak.

So she kissed him. Sexily, and for all she was worth.

***

Bruce, who liked a tidy car, had despaired of Verity's sloppy habit of leaving spare coats slung across the back seat. This time, twisting round, he sent up a prayer of thanks for sloppy people everywhere. He would never moan at Verity again.

***

Miranda missed at first, losing her balance and only managing to make contact with—oof—the stubbled edge of his jaw. Undeterred, she levered herself upright and took fresh aim. This time her mouth landed on Danny's and she closed her eyes with relief. Bingo, this was more like it! Oh yes, this is miles better than being squashed into a toilet cubicle together, with his knees going numb and me bawling my stupid eyes out.

Even if the other contestant didn't appear to be giving it his all.

She peeled herself away for a second, to let him know she knew.

‘Seven out of ten. Must try harder, could do better.' Miranda cocked an eyebrow at him. ‘I think what we need is for you to put a bit more effort into this.'

Danny glanced sideways as a man in a turquoise cagoule shuffled past, clutching an envelope and heading for the post-box at the end of the road. It was a hot, sunny Sunday afternoon but the hood of the cagoule was pulled up and tied firmly around his face. One of those care-in-the-community types, Danny thought. With a morbid fear of rain.

But he had other things on his mind right now. Like how much longer he could reasonably be expected to fend off Miranda, when she was launching herself at him with all the subtlety of a Scud missile.

‘Or was that your best effort?' she was saying now, wagging her finger infuriatingly and sounding like a sarcastic schoolmistress. ‘Maybe it was, and you're just a really hopeless kisser.'

Right. Goaded beyond endurance, Danny took her in his arms and gave her what she wanted. Within seconds she was sighing and writhing helplessly against him like an ecstatic kitten. Equally abruptly, he pulled away.

Hopeless kisser indeed.

‘Wow,' gasped Miranda, panting for breath. ‘That was more
like
it.'

Danny acknowledged the compliment with a brief nod. Even if it was coming from someone who was howling drunk.

‘Thanks.'

‘I love you.' The wine was well and truly lodged in her bloodstream now. She could say anything,
anything
…

‘Miranda, don't.'

‘But I do love you!'

‘You do not.' Christ, did she think this was easy for him?

‘The house is empty.' She trailed her fingers enticingly across the front of his shirt, still damp where she had sobbed all over him. ‘Shall we go in?'

‘Why?'

Miranda rolled her eyes at his stupidity.

‘We could go to bed.'

Don't do this, thought Danny.

‘Why?'

‘Well, the general idea would be to have sex.' She gave him a playful thump on the arm. ‘And then maybe a little sleep, then something to eat, followed—with a bit of luck—by more sex. How does that sound to you?'

For heaven's sake, how did she think it sounded?

‘What happened to that pledge of eternal celibacy?'

Miranda looked appalled.

‘Oh no, I've changed my mind about that
completely
.'

Give me strength, Danny pleaded silently. Aloud, he said, ‘Not a good idea.'

He was shaking his head. Miranda stared at him.

‘Come on, it's a brilliant idea! Why can't we? Stop shaking your head like that and tell me why we can't!'

‘Because,' Danny said slowly, ‘you've had far too much to drink. And you'd only regret it in the morning.'

‘I would
not
regret it,' Miranda wailed.

‘You would.'

‘Why, because you're rubbish in bed? Is that it?' Perking up, she recalled that this was the technique that had worked so brilliantly just a couple of minutes earlier. ‘Why would I regret it, Danny? Because you're even more useless at sex than you are at kissing?'

Bugger, he was smiling at her. It wasn't going to work.

‘Possibly,' said Danny.

‘But I want to have
sex with you
!' Miranda thumped the steering wheel for emphasis.

‘Not with me,' said Danny quietly, aware that the chap in the turquoise cagoule had posted his letter and was shuffling back towards them. ‘Right now, anyone would do. You're just trying to punish Greg for hurting you. And prove to yourself that you're over him.'

Ouch.

‘Well, so what if I am?' Miranda pleaded. ‘Isn't that a good enough reason?'

‘Sweetheart, it's a terrible reason.'

‘You're no fun.' She clung to him, her empty stomach emitting a terrific rumble.

Shuffle, shuffle. The man in the hooded cagoule moved slowly past the car.

‘Come on, I'll make you a bacon sandwich.' Patting her arm, Danny opened the door.

‘Give me another kiss first. I'm miserable.'

He did, exerting superhuman control.

‘We could eat them in bed,' Miranda suggested hopefully.

‘I'm only coming in because I don't trust you not to set fire to the kitchen,' Danny told her. ‘As soon as you've finished your sandwich, I'll be off.'

***

Back in his car once more, Bruce watched the two of them disappear together into the empty house. Miranda's head leaned on Orlando's shoulder and his arm was around her waist. It was obvious what they were up to.

Damn, what he wouldn't give for a camera now. Still, he would make Florence believe him when he told her what he'd both seen and heard.

Bruce smiled to himself with satisfaction. Excellent. And thanks to that little tart Miranda doing Chloe's job for her, he'd saved himself five grand.

***

The party at the Salinger Hotel broke up a couple of hours later. Leila, almost comatose with boredom, drawled, ‘Fenn, let's get
out
of here.'

‘No chance, I suppose, that you two might give it a go for real?' Buzz, seeing that they were about to leave, had sidled up hopefully.

‘No chance at all.' Fenn jangled his car keys. ‘Chloe? Want a lift?'

Chloe looked up, startled, from her vanilla cream slice.

‘I'm fine, I'll catch a bus.'

‘Don't be silly. Come with us.'

Leila's slanting eyes narrowed with exasperation.

‘If she's in the car, you won't let me smoke.'

‘Correct,' said Fenn. ‘Tell you what, I'll give Chloe a lift and you can catch the bus.'

‘I've had enough of this,' Leila snapped. ‘Just because she's pregnant. You care more about her and her stupid baby than you do about me.'

She picked up a glass of red wine. Buzz, hardly able to believe his luck, fumbled for his camera. Stepping out of the way as Leila flung the contents of the glass at him, Fenn escaped almost entirely unscathed. Happily for Buzz, it still made a terrific picture.

‘Cheers,' he said, winking and giving the thumbs-up sign to Fenn.

‘Oh God,' whispered Chloe, ‘I'm so sorry. I'm
so
embarrassed.'

Like a furious pink pipe-cleaner, Leila stalked off. Fenn grinned at Chloe.

‘Don't be. I call this a pretty successful day all round.'

***

‘But you must mind,' Chloe protested, still shuddering at the memory of Leila's abrupt exit.

Fenn threaded the Lotus through the dawdling Sunday traffic, dying to stick his foot down but careful not to do anything that might alarm her.

‘Do I look as if I mind?'

‘No, but…oh God, you've got a splash on your shirt.' Chloe squirmed, feeling horribly responsible. Fenn's shirts probably cost more than the average package holiday to Ibiza.

‘Look in there.' He indicated the glove compartment. ‘I'm pretty sure Leila left a bottle of Perrier behind.'

She had, and a packet of Kleenex. Fenn pulled up in a bus lane, allowing Chloe to soak the blue-red stain with lukewarm sparkling water and go to work on it with a tissue. She scrubbed so energetically, a sheaf of papers slithered out of the glove compartment on to her feet.

‘The car's rocking,' Fenn observed with amusement. ‘People are going to wonder what we're up to in here.'

‘Until they see my incredible bulk and realize that getting up to anything would be pretty much impossible. This isn't working, by the way.'

‘It's only a shirt.'

Chloe peeked at the label inside the collar.

‘A Turnbull and Asser shirt. If we don't let the stain dry out, we can soak it in something biological—oh no, now look what I'm doing, wrecking your papers…'

Bending over with difficulty, she gathered up the dozen or so sheets and hurriedly smoothed out the heel marks. They were property details with eye-boggling prices.

‘The lease is up on my flat,' Fenn explained.

‘Hampstead, what bliss.' Chloe sighed with pleasure as she leafed through the glossy details. This was clearly the area he was concentrating on. She tried not to drool over a photograph of a white stucco villa overlooking the heath, with a pool in the back garden. It wasn't the kind of house-hunting she was used to.

‘I'm seeing that one tomorrow, after work,' said Fenn.

Chloe opened her mouth then quickly shut it again. She'd been about to say that if he wanted a second opinion, she would love to go with him…heavens, presumptuous or what? Why on earth would Fenn be interested in her useless opinion? Worse still, the estate agent might mistake them for a couple, and how embarrassing would that be for Fenn?

‘What?' He was looking at her oddly.

‘Nothing.' Chloe went a deep shade of pink.

There was a pause, then Fenn said carefully, ‘Look, if you aren't doing anything else, why don't you come along with me?'

Oh Lord, this was awful! He'd guessed what she was about to say and now he felt obliged to make the offer, simply because he was so kind…

‘No thanks,' Chloe said abruptly. ‘I can't. I'm busy tomorrow night.'

***

‘So you're back at last,' said Bruce when Florence answered the phone at ten o'clock that evening. ‘Where on earth have you been?'

‘Out dancing,' said Florence.

‘Oh, ha ha, very good.' Bruce sounded annoyingly buoyant, she realized—how she hated that mixture of sarcasm and joviality in his tone. ‘Though not with the gigolo, one presumes.'

One presumes. Honestly, young people today, where did they pick up this kind of language?

‘His name is Orlando,' Florence replied coolly. ‘And he isn't a gigolo. Why are you ringing, Bruce? If you want to speak to Chloe, she's in bed.'

‘I paid a visit to your house this afternoon—'

‘I know. Chloe has the shop keys, they're perfectly safe.'

‘Mother, will you stop interrupting? This is important. Your so-called boyfriend Orlando is cheating on you.'

Long pause.
Yesss
, thought Bruce triumphantly.

At last Florence said, ‘What do you mean?'

‘Orlando. And Miranda. I saw them outside your house, bold as brass. They were all over each other.'

‘Orlando and Miranda?
My
Miranda? All over each other, you say? I don't believe it!'

Florence was genuinely stunned.

‘And I do mean all over each other,' Bruce went on sanctimoniously. ‘We aren't talking about a quick peck on the cheek, oh no, this was serious. And then—I'm sorry to have to tell you this, Mother—they disappeared together. Into the house.'

‘And then they disappeared together into this very house?' parroted Florence, her eyebrows practically turning cartwheels as she kept Tom Barrett abreast of developments. ‘You mean, to have
sex
?'

Tom, still wearing his cassock and white surplice, refilled Florence's glass with bourbon and tut-tutted in a vicarish way.

Bruce said, ‘I'm afraid so.'

‘But that's fantastic!' Florence whooped, unable to conceal her delight.

‘What?'

‘Thank you, darling, I'm so glad you rang! You really have made my day!'

Bruce was still spluttering when Florence unceremoniously hung up, cutting him off in mid-quack.

‘Well, well, would you believe it? That wicked, wicked boy! To think I actually fell for all that guff about having to take Miranda home because she was drunk.' Florence's face was a picture. ‘And all the time they were…ha!' She clapped her gnarled hands with satisfaction. ‘About bloody time too!'