Miranda's Big Mistake (9 page)

Saturday was always the busiest day in the shop. By five o'clock Chloe was looking forward to getting home and putting her aching feet up. Or she would have been, if only she knew her mother wasn't going to be there, ready to launch into round three of her tirade against Greg.

‘Hell,' Bruce said suddenly, ‘I haven't done the present yet.'

‘What present?'

‘Mother's. It's her birthday, that's why we're all trooping round there tonight.'

By the way he rolled his eyes, Chloe guessed he wasn't enthralled by the prospect of a duty visit to Florence.

‘What are you getting her?'

‘God knows.' Faster than a lizard's tongue, Bruce's gaze flickered over the stock on display. ‘Something around the hundred-pound mark. That fruit bowl, maybe. No, she had one of those for Christmas. Ah, candlesticks, that'll do. Those two over there.' As he nodded towards a pair of enamelled silver candlesticks, he picked up the phone and began punching out a number. ‘Gift-wrap them for me, would you, Chloe? There's a good girl. And pick out a card.' With his free hand he gestured towards the carousel.

‘I don't know what kind of card your mother would like.' Chloe was indignant, hurt on Florence's behalf.

‘She's sixty-two years old.' Bruce hunched his shoulders impatiently. ‘What more d'you need to know? Just grab something with flowers on.'

As she listened to him arranging a game of golf for tomorrow morning, Chloe wondered if he expected her to sign the card as well, maybe post it on his behalf. She had never met Bruce's mother, but they had chatted briefly on the phone several times when Florence had rung the shop to speak to him.

She'd sounded brilliant, Chloe thought rebelliously. Far nicer than her mean old son.

‘Use the gold paper,' Bruce called over his shoulder.

‘You mean the three-pounds-a-sheet stuff?' Behind his back Chloe pulled a scandalized face.

‘What the hell.' He flapped a pudgy, indulgent hand in the air. ‘It's her birthday. She likes a bit of gold.'

***

‘I'm sorry, we're about to close,' Bruce informed the customer pushing the door open at five thirty.

‘I know that, I'm Chloe's mother.' More than a match for Bruce, Pamela Greening swept past him. ‘He still isn't at home,' she told Chloe, who was lugging a box of china Dalmatians out of the stockroom. ‘That's four times I've been round there today and no one's in. Out with his floozy, I'll be bound. Scared to face me. Should you be lifting that?' She fixed her daughter with a disapproving eye.

Too late, Chloe realized that there were one or two facts she should have warned her mother not to mention in front of Bruce.

‘Mum, I don't care if Greg's out with his floozy.' It was a lie, but Bruce's attention had to be diverted somehow. ‘I don't care if he has a whole harem of floozies. Mum went to see him last night,' she told Bruce, pink-cheeked, ‘and he was with a girl.'

‘So that's why he walked out on you. He's found someone else.' Bruce nodded; he had suspected as much all along. Then he frowned. ‘But—'

‘Okay if I leave these until Monday,' Chloe blurted out, ‘now that Mum's here? And you've got Florence's birthday do to get to…oh, mustn't forget the present…' She thrust the gift-wrapped box, trailing spirals of gold ribbon, into Bruce's unsuspecting arms. He stared down at it, then with bewilderment back at her.

‘Why shouldn't you be lifting anything heavy?'

‘Bad back. Nothing to worry about,' Chloe assured him. ‘Just a touch of psoriasis.'

‘Psoriasis?'

‘Not psoriasis. Sciatica.' Was that right? She felt herself break into a light sweat. ‘Or lumbago.' That was definitely a back-achey kind of thing. ‘Maybe lumbago,' she amended, ‘the doctor wasn't sure.'

‘You didn't tell me you had lumbago.' Pamela Greening's tone was accusing.

‘It's not serious, just the occasional twinge. Come on, Mum, let's go.'

‘All right, all right, but you watch yourself,' her mother warned. ‘You shouldn't be lugging heavy boxes around anyway.' For good measure she wagged a finger at Chloe. ‘It's no good for the baby.'

***

‘Stay,' Florence urged when the doorbell rang. ‘Just for a bit.' She gulped down her tumbler of whisky. ‘I can't face them sober. Lord, this is worse than a visit from Social Services.'

Miranda got up to answer the door.

‘I'll stay on one condition. If Jason kicks me, I'm allowed to lock him in the microwave.'

‘Happy birthday, Mother.' Dutifully Bruce pecked Florence's powdered cheek.

‘Many happy returns,' Verity echoed, nudging Jason forwards. ‘Go on, darling, give Granny a kiss.'

‘You smell of whisky,' Jason told Florence.

‘Thank heavens for that, I'd hate to think I'd been drinking cold tea. And speaking of drinks.' She turned to Miranda, who was gazing with longing in the direction of the microwave. ‘Could you be an angel and do the honors?'

The birthday gift was unwrapped and duly admired. Elegant though the candlesticks were, they weren't to Florence's taste.

‘Beautiful, Bruce. Really beautiful. Wherever did you find them?'

This was purely for Florence's own amusement; did he seriously think she didn't know?

‘Spotted them in a little shop down in Covent Garden.' Bruce looked pleased with himself.

‘You should track down their supplier. This kind of thing would sell well in your shop. How's business, by the way?'

‘Oh, pretty good. Pretty good.'

‘And Chloe?'

Bruce's expression changed. He shook his head.

‘Ah well, bad news there. She's pregnant.'

‘Oh dear. Chloe's husband left her only a few weeks ago,' Florence briefly explained to Miranda. ‘My word, what a muddle. Poor Chloe.'

‘Never mind poor Chloe,' spluttered Bruce. ‘Poor
me
, more like.'

Florence kept a straight face.

‘Oh Bruce, what
have
you been up to? Don't tell me the baby's yours.'

Now it was Verity's turn to splutter.

‘Florence, of course it isn't his!'

‘Joke,' said Florence.

‘It's not a joking matter,' Verity declared vehemently. ‘How can Chloe
do
this to Bruce? She'll be wanting maternity pay, for heaven's sake! Months and months off work, money for doing absolutely nothing—'

‘She won't be getting it, of course,' Bruce interrupted. ‘I'll have to sack her. But it's not going to be pleasant…and as for the inconvenience it's going to—'

‘Oof!' gasped Miranda as Jason kicked her.

‘Darling,' Verity cooed, ‘how many times have I asked you not to do that? People don't like to be kicked.'

‘You can't sack Chloe just because she's pregnant,' Florence protested. ‘That's awful. Anyway, aren't there laws against that kind of thing?'

‘I can see up your skirt,' Jason told Miranda.

Miranda beckoned him towards her.

‘And I can see right through your head.' Peering through one ear, she said, ‘In here and out through the other side.'

‘You can't.' Jason was outraged.

‘Oh, I definitely can. Hang on, give me that drinking straw. If I slide it in, it'll go all the way through—'

‘Miranda's teasing you.' Verity's tone was stiff with disapproval. ‘Come over here, darling, and sit by me.'

‘I won't be sacking her because she's pregnant,' Bruce was explaining with exaggerated patience. ‘I'll come up with something else.'

Florence thought how much she disliked his habit of treating her like a seven-year-old.

‘But I thought Chloe was a model employee.'

‘She was. But now she's pregnant, she'll have to go.' He shrugged. ‘Money's money. We're a small business, not a charity.'

Bruce had it all planned. Since he may as well get maximum use out of her, he would allow Chloe to work right up to the birth, but keep a diary recording anything that could count as a black mark against her. When the baby arrived, the chances were she'd change her mind about coming back to work anyway, Bruce privately thought. But if she didn't—well, he'd have enough ammunition by then to prove to any tribunal that he was within his rights to sack her.

Jason was practicing violent karate chops on the edge of the coffee table. Glancing across at Miranda, Florence caught the reproachful look in her eye. You lied, the look told Florence, you promised I could put him in the microwave if he kicked me.

‘Darling, aren't you in a hurry to leave?'

The moment she said it, Miranda perked up. As she bent to give Florence a hug, she whispered, ‘Cheer up, soon be over.'

Verity pointedly looked away as Miranda's abbreviated pink and white polka-dotted skirt rode up her smooth brown thighs.

‘I can see your pants,' Jason crowed.

‘Have a good time.' Fondly, Florence patted her arm. ‘Miranda's found herself a nice young man,' she explained to Verity and Bruce when the door had closed behind her.

Verity, who disapproved mightily of Miranda's indecently short skirts and iridescent highlights, said coolly, ‘Has she indeed? And what color is his hair…
mauve
?'

***

Chloe hated it when her mother was right and she was wrong, but this time there was no getting away from it.

No matter how hard she tried to juggle the figures, they simply wouldn't balance.

‘You see, that's you all over,' Pamela Greening declared, ‘living in cloud-cuckoo land. If this is how much you bring in,' she tapped the sheet of paper with her pen, ‘and this is how much you have to shell out'—another triumphant tap—‘well, let's face it, you're sunk.'

Chloe rubbed her aching temples. She didn't know which was worse, struggling to add up or having to listen to her mother's incessant outpourings.

‘Set about getting that husband of yours back, that's what you've got to do.' Pamela nodded briskly

Oh God.

‘Mother, I know Greg. He's not going to change his mind. I'm on my own now.'

‘Ah, but you're not on your own, are you? You've got a baby on the way. You can't live on fresh air, my girl. Not that you could call London air fresh.' This last remark was accompanied by a snort of contempt.

‘I'll give up this flat. Find somewhere cheaper,' Chloe said wearily.

‘Oh yes, that'll do the baby a power of good, growing up in some filthy tenement with muggers and drug addicts lurking on every corner. No no
no
,' Pamela Greening went on, her expression firm. ‘Have another talk with Greg. I'm sure he'll help out. After all, that's what husbands are for.'

‘You see, the thing is, Mother,' said Bruce, ‘if we go through the bank, the amount of interest they'd charge would be extortionate. Then it occurred to me that you've got all that money sloshing around in your accounts…and it's not as if you're
using
it for anything…'

Verity had taken Jason through to the kitchen in search of Coca-Cola. As soon as Bruce had pulled his chair closer to hers and assumed an earnest expression, Florence had known what to expect.

Her heart had sunk.

It's my birthday and what do I get? A brief duty visit from my family and a request for money.

A request for
more
money, Florence amended. Whatever had happened to the last ten thousand…and the twenty before that?

‘How do you know I'm not using it? I may have plans,' she said calmly.

Bruce shot her a look of disbelief.

‘Plans to do what? You don't have a business to keep running. You never do anything, go anywhere…'

‘I know.' Florence shrugged, indicating with a wiggle of her empty glass that a refill wouldn't go amiss. ‘So maybe it's about time I started. Doing things and going places,' she mused, enjoying the expression on her son's face. ‘Jolly expensive things and frighteningly expensive places.'

‘Okay, fine, but surely you can spare
some
cash.'

Bruce's neck had reddened, signalling his discomfort. Normally, Florence remembered, she said yes straight away and scribbled out a check on the spot.

Oh Bruce, I'm your mother, not a gourmet meal-ticket for life.

Aloud she said, ‘Darling, pour me another drink, would you? Plenty of ice this time.'

In the kitchen a lot of furious whispering ensued.

‘I don't know why she has to be so difficult,' Florence heard Verity hiss. ‘You'll get everything when she dies anyway.'

‘Is Granny going to die?' Jason sounded enthralled. ‘When,
soon
?'

If this were a P.D. James thriller, Florence thought, I'd be lucky to see out the night.

Wheeling herself over to the kitchen doorway, she announced, ‘I'm sixty-two, Verity, not a hundred and two.'

‘Sorry, Florence, you weren't meant to hear that.' Tight-lipped, Verity braced herself against the fridge. ‘But it's true, isn't it? Bruce is your son. It's practically his money, and I don't think you're being terribly sensitive here. Can't you understand how humiliating it is for him having to ask you for something that's rightfully his anyway?'

Since nobody appeared to be getting her that drink, Florence maneuvered past them and did it herself.

‘How much do you need?'

Bruce's stubby fingers fiddled with the knot of his topaz Armani tie.

‘Fifteen.'

‘Fifteen pounds or fifteen thousand?'

Not in the mood for jokes, Bruce flicked her a glance and helped himself to a good inch of gin.

‘I'll give you five thousand,' said Florence.

Verity, looking as if a couple of hundred volts had just shot up her bottom, yelped, ‘Oh, come
on
, that's not—'

‘If it isn't enough,' Florence went on, ‘I suggest you sell that shiny new Mercedes.'

Heavens, this was so liberating! Like wriggling out of the world's tightest corset, Florence thought delightedly. I should have done this
years
ago.

‘You mean you want us to live like paupers, Mother? Is that it?'

‘I just think it would be nice to see you learning to support yourself,' Florence said pleasantly. ‘Living within your own means instead of relying on endless handouts from me.'

‘Okay, if that's how you feel.' Draining his glass, Bruce pointedly examined his watch. ‘Anyway, we'd better be off. Don't worry about us, Mother. The shop will probably go under, we'll sell the house, Jason will have to go to some godforsaken state school, but don't let that bother you for a second—'

‘Bruce, do you love me?' Florence interrupted him in mid-rant.

‘What?'

‘Do you love me?' Reaching for her cigarettes, she lit one, chiefly to annoy Verity. ‘Do you care about me, do you want me to be happy?'

‘That's a ridiculous question.' Still flushed with anger, Bruce shook his head. ‘Of course I do.' He put his arm around Verity's thin shoulders for emphasis. ‘We both do.'

‘It's just, you've been here for over an hour.' Florence gazed steadily at the pair of them. ‘And all we've done so far is talk about you. You haven't even asked me yet how I am.'

She saw Verity give him a meaningful jab in the ribs.

‘Mother, I'm sorry.' Like a small boy prodded into politeness, Bruce recited dutifully, ‘How are you?'

‘Extremely well, thank you. Feeling quite—what's the word—rejuvenated.' Florence beamed. ‘That's the amazing thing about ruts, isn't it? You don't realize quite how much of one you've been stuck in, until someone comes along and hauls you out.'

Bewildered, Bruce said, ‘You've lost me, Mother.' Surely this wasn't something to do with religion?

‘I have met someone,' Florence announced, ‘who makes me very happy.'

‘Good grief.' Bruce's double chins quivered, signalling his amazement.

‘A gentleman friend,' said Verity. ‘Florence, how nice. I'm so pleased for you.'

‘We want to enjoy ourselves. Have fun,' said Florence. ‘Travel the world,
in style
.'

‘So he's retired.' Bruce nodded with approval. Fellow must be loaded if he could afford holidays like that. ‘What line of work was he in?'

‘Ooh, this and that.' Florence gave her son and daughter-in-law a bright smile. ‘But he's not retired.'

‘If he isn't retired,' said Verity, ‘how's he going to manage to travel the world with you?' Although with computers these days, she supposed, anything was possible.

‘Easy.' The extravagant rings on Florence's fingers flashed as she waved her hand. ‘He's between jobs right now.'

‘So how can he afford to whisk you off—'

‘He's not whisking me,' Florence announced, ‘I'm whisking him.'

‘Mother, are you
mad
?'

‘He takes care of me. He makes me laugh. When I'm with him I feel
alive
again, for the first time in years.' Calmly Florence blew a perfect smoke ring. ‘And I don't care if people think I'm a silly old fool, because they don't know what he's really like. We're happy, and that's what counts.'

Bruce didn't like the sound of this at all. Suspicion wrinkled his forehead.

‘Why would people think you're a silly old fool?'

With a careless shrug, Florence said, ‘He's what you might call a younger man, that's all.'

Oh, terrific.

‘How much younger?'

‘Look, it's my life. If it doesn't matter to us, why should anyone else be bothered?'

‘Mother. How much younger?'

‘Quite a bit younger than me. Oh, all right, all right,' she admitted with a sigh. ‘If you must know, younger than you too.'

***

‘Look at you, all sparkly-eyed,' Florence said fondly, when Miranda returned just before midnight. ‘No need to ask if you had a good evening.'

‘I did, I did.' Kicking her shoes off, Miranda pirouetted around the sitting room.

‘So where is he?'

‘I'm playing it cool, keeping him keen.' Dizzy from spinning, Miranda threw herself down on the velvet sofa. ‘Don't want him thinking I'm a pushover. I mean, you know I am and I know I am, but he doesn't have to find that out just yet.'

‘Tactics,' said Florence. ‘I'm impressed.'

‘Me too.' Miranda grinned. ‘So how was your evening?'

‘Remarkably similar, as a matter of fact. I refused to give Bruce what he wanted. Except in his case, of course, it was money.' Florence's mouth began to twitch. ‘Actually, I did a bit of a naughty thing tonight.'

Sitting up, Miranda hugged her knees.

‘Don't tell me, you ate all the vanilla truffles. No, better than that, Jason kicked you too. You went berserk and dangled him by his ankles out of the window until he squealed for mercy.'

If Jason had tried to kick her, Florence thought, she would certainly have been tempted to go in for a spot of ankle-dangling.

‘I told Bruce and Verity I couldn't give them the money they wanted because I needed it for myself. I said I'd got myself a toyboy and that we were going to take off together on a round-the-world cruise and spend spend spend until every last penny was gone.'

‘You didn't!' Miranda squealed and clapped her hands.

‘Oh yes. You should have seen their faces. Sheer bliss,' sighed Florence. ‘When I assured Bruce that if we married he wouldn't have to call Orlando Dad, he almost had a panic attack on the spot.'

‘They really believed you?'

Miranda was by this time crying with laughter. She wiped her eyes with the front of her black lacy top; being black, it was handy for soaking up mascara.

‘They believed every word.'

‘But…Orlando!'

‘Seemed like the kind of name a gigolo would have.' Florence looked pleased with herself. ‘I didn't plan any of this in advance, you know. All spur-of-the-moment stuff. I just made it up as I went along. It was brilliant, I was
so
impressed with myself…heavens, I could become the next Barbara Cartland.'

‘One's enough,' said Miranda. ‘Anyway, there isn't enough pink lipstick in the world for the two of you. A fortune-hunting gigolo,' she went on, reaching for the box of vanilla truffles and generously offering one to Florence. ‘What gave you that idea?'

‘Tom Barrett and his mail-order bride, the girl he brought over from Thailand. I told you about him, remember?'

Miranda nodded.

‘You told me it wouldn't last.'

‘He knows that. Tom isn't stupid. But he's having fun, doing what he wants to do,' said Florence. ‘And his daughter isn't giving him grief about it. As long as Tom's happy, she's happy. She isn't having a nervous breakdown at the thought of all the money she won't be inheriting.'

‘So how long are you going to keep this up?' Miranda spoke through a mouthful of truffle.

‘Ooh, a couple of months, I thought.'

‘A couple of months! Isn't Bruce going to want to meet this no-good lover of yours?'

‘Probably.' Florence shrugged. ‘But he won't be able to, will he?' She took a jaunty swig of Scotch. ‘I'll tell him Orlando's fussy about who he meets and that, basically, Bruce just isn't rich enough.'