Miranda's Marriage

by Margery Hilton

  Miranda realized she'd typed the same paragraph a second time. With a guilty glance around to make sure she was unob­served she tore out the offending sheet and started again. She was being quite ridiculous worrying herself sick like this. Jason Steele had probably forgotten she even existed. Especially if Rena's latest tale was true.

  Was it? That Mr. Frears was being transferred to the Rome office, and that it sounded more like a demotion than otherwise? And that was partly why the American trip had been postponed and why J.S. was back today. And if the latest whisper that had gone through the building like wildfire was true J.S.'s affair with screen starlet Catrina Kay was over. Kaput! And Rena said that Mr. Frears was the cause of it all. He'd actually had the nerve to poach on J.S.'s personal territory.

  They said J.S. was crazy over her. That he'd squired her all over town, and that he'd once flown to Acapulco for one day to see her while she was there on location for a film. Miranda looked unseeingly at the still blank sheet in her machine. He must have wanted her pretty badly to go all the way to Mexico for one day. Was it true that he used to take a different girl out every night? After he'd had a disastrous affair with some debby type and really flipped his top when she married another man? But it was history now, they said, way back long before the day two months ago when Miranda began her new job as part of the giant Carona-Steele complex.

  She frowned. Her train of thoughts were leaving a distaste behind them, a distaste she was strangely reluctant to acknowl­edge to herself in connection with J.S. Unaware that she sighed aloud, Miranda tried to banish Jason Steel from her mind and concentrate on her work. If she was going to worry about anything it ought to be the problem of finding a more congenial place to live. Perhaps the one she was going to see this evening might prove the solution…

  But Jason Steele, despite his continued remoteness from the fifth floor of Carona-Steele, continued to haunt Miranda's waking moments. The day passed like any other working day, bringing no dread summons or ominous communication—but wouldn't it be in her salary at the month end?—and after a frugal tea at the Dine Lite she set off across town to inspect yet another desirable flatlet for sharing.

  For the first time since starting her search she felt more optimistic when she rang the doorbell. The road seemed a quiet, pleasant one, and the big Edwardian house was freshly painted, neatly curtained, and without that impression of burst­ing at the seams with humanity. In fact, it looked as though even poor Aunt Hester might have given her grudging ap­proval. The moment the door opened and the dark-haired woman stood there and smiled, Miranda felt even more hopeful and crossed her fingers.

  Mrs. Saunders introduced herself and looked searchingly at Miranda. What she saw seemed to please her, for she smiled again, more informally, and volunteered the information that this was her first experience of letting part of her house. Her two daughters were both married now, she was a widow, and her decision had been crystallized by the fact of her niece coming to London to work and wanting somewhere to stay.

  'So you would be sharing with her,' Mrs. Saunders went on, then gave an awkward gesture. 'I hope you'll forgive my saying this, but I have to be cautious. Jean's never been away from home before and my sister isn't very happy about the idea. She's convinced that every girl bound for London is auto­matically bound for the devil as well.'

  She smiled, but Miranda's oval face remained serious. 'Yes, I quite understand. That's why I'm here. Because I'm getting a bit out of my depth where I'm living at present.'

  Mrs. Saunders nodded, her dark eyes shrewd. 'Yes, it takes a' while to find your feet in a strange city, especially if it's the first time you've been away from home. Would you like to see the flat?'

  'Yes, please,' Miranda said eagerly.

  It wasn't very large, consisting of what had been the front bedroom and dressing-room on the first floor, but it was taste­fully decorated and the crisp new curtains were gay and modern. There were ample cupboards, a brand new sink unit and a bijou cooker were screened behind a light lattice par­tition with roomy shelves and compartments facing the lounge part of the room, and the furnishings, though unpretentious, were light and contemporary.

  'You can add your own bits and pieces to please yourself,' Mrs. Saunders said, smiling.

  She seemed to be waiting for some sort of comment, and Miranda hesitated. The rent was considerably less than the share she was contributing at her present place, admittedly a bigger and more luxurious flat housing four of them, but it seemed to her that a lot of expense had been entailed in Mrs. Saunders's conversion.

  'It's lovely,' she said at last, 'but it seems too reasonable.'

  'I've no desire to profiteer from youngsters, and as Jean's almost like family it wouldn't be right to,' Mrs. Saunders said in a matter-of-fact voice. 'And my conscience wouldn't let me charge you more for exactly the same thing. When would you like to move in?'

  Miranda was filled with elation when she made her way back to the flat. The unknown Jean wasn't arriving until the fol­lowing month, but Mrs. Saunders said that was no reason for Miranda to delay until then. So it was fixed; she was to move in at the week-end, and even though she knew nothing except what Mrs. Saunders had told her of her prospective flatmate, instinct told her she was going to be able to manage her life with a great deal less interference in future.

  But it was with some trepidation she faced breaking the news to Jane, Vanda and Louise, and for the first time she realized that she was afraid of them. They had all been curious about where she had gone the night of their party, and though she hadn't been able to resist telling them she had been out to dine with a man she had steadfastly refused to divulge his identity. It was doubtful if they'd have believed her, and the resultant interrogation would have been unbearable, but she could not help wondering what they would have said had she told them the whole truth about that night.

  However, her fears were groundless about their reaction to her decision. Louise was uncaring about anything except her own affairs at the moment; Vanda was in a mood to tease and pry; only Jane betrayed temper and grumbled at the prospect of having to find a new fourth girl. But it seemed Vanda knew a model who was dissatisfied with her present abode and might be interested.

  'She'd better be,' said Jane, 'or we'll have to ask you to pay up for another month. After all, we didn't ask you to go,' she added unpleasantly.

  Miranda could have made a pertinent retort to that, but she kept silent, thankful that one problem at least was solved.

  It proved a busy week, and it passed with surprising speed. Perhaps Susan would come along on Saturday and give her a hand with the move, she thought she'd walk with the stuff before she'd ask the other three to help…

  Susan was quite excited at the prospect of the move when Miranda broached the subject on the Thursday morning.

  'I was wondering what you were going to do,' she said, 'and I'd have offered like a shot. But I thought the others were bound to be helping and I didn't want to get in the way. Besides, you're so darned independent,' she added wryly.

  'I don't feel it—thanks a lot. You're a pal,' Miranda said fervently, 'I'll do the same for you some day. Only I'm a bit worried. I've booked a taxi and it'll be all right if it's a friendly cabbie, but it'll be just my luck to draw one who's in a bad mood and there, I'll be, dropping bits and pieces all over the place.'

  Susan giggled. 'My sister once left a case in a taxi. She was going to a party and staying at her friend's house overnight, and she'd packed her day things that she'd want for work the next day. She didn't realize what she'd done until the taxi had gone, and she couldn't remember the number. She wasted half the party on the phone, trying to track down the driver—it was one of those one-man affairs out in the suburbs—and when she did she found he'd gone off on a long run out into the wilds somewhere. She had frightful visions of going to work the next morning in a gold lurex trouser suit and then—'

  Miranda wasn't listening. She had stopped, and was staring across the main lobby.


  J.S. was coming out of the lift.

  He strode forward without looking to left or right. The stream of employees, some hurrying, some lagging, seemed to melt aside from the straight path he made towards the main doors.

  Miranda did not know she was turning, watching the tall, superlatively clad figure with eyes that were wide, or that her lips had parted and her entire mien betrayed that temporarily she was far from Susan's rambling little anecdote.

  The doors closed smoothly behind J.S. The bright morning sunlight caught the glints of silver in the streaks at his temples, making them accentuate the thick dark springy hair that re­fused to be sleeked entirely out of a tendency to ruffle. Why does a touch of steel in a man's hair makes him even more attractive? Miranda wondered inconsequently, while most women dread its appearance as a telltale of age. He had paused to speak to some­one, just beyond the huge abstract sculpture of steel that stood in the centre of the forecourt. She couldn't see his car. Was he going away? Because there was something—

  'Miranda! What on earth's the matter with you?'

  'Nothing. I—' She dragged herself back to normality and forced a careless giggle as she gave her attention to Susan.

  Inwardly her thoughts still turned to J.S. and a certain prob­lem which had come to nag her conscience now that the fear of the falling axe had diminished. It was the problem of her debt to Jason Steele. Perhaps it was of little consequence to J.S. himself, a man who seemed to think nothing of taking a day trip to Acapulco to see his girl-friend, but it was of considerable consequence to Miranda's fiercely independent spirit. What was she going to do about that hotel bill?

  Although it had been a quiet, rather old-fashioned hotel its tariff had not been exactly a cheap one, at least not to Miranda's way of thinking. If she'd had enough money on her she would have insisted on settling the bill herself, but she hadn't, and she still felt the tremor of that moment when she approached the hotel receptionist after breakfast. It had not been easy, but it was the only way to convince herself that J.S. had actually booked her in less than ten hours before, and that they would not demand payment. But her fears were quite groundless and she could laugh at herself now when she remem­bered the receptionist shaking her beautifully coiffured head and murmuring that she trusted Miss Meake had been comfort­able…

  Late that afternoon Miranda came to a decision, and before she could think better of it she found herself in the lift, pressing the button for the twenty-first floor.

  Long before it stopped, bringing that disturbing rush in her stomach, she was tense with uncertainty. The cloistered still­ness and the moss-springy feel of the carpet underfoot were instantly familiar, as were the white walls and the glass doors of the outer reception room. She could see that other door, the door to that burgundy and white office in which… Miranda swallowed hard and prepared to meet the haughty stare of Miss Mayo, who was already rising from her desk and advancing to deal with the invader.

  J.S.'s secretary was reputed to be infallible as well as un­flappable. No one knew her age, regarding which guesses ranged from forty to sixty, or a single detail of her private life. Some said she maintained an invalid father; others that she was actually married but believed in keeping personal and business lives apart, still wilder surmises had it that she was J.S.'s father's ex-mistress and had promised the old man on his deathbed that she would keep a guiding hand on the reins of Carona-Steele as long as his son needed her. Whatever the truth might be, no one had a hope of by-passing her except on the order of J.S. himself, certainly not a little typist from far below on the fifth floor.

  She eyed Miranda, a cool half-smile of inquiry not reaching her eyes as she waited for the stammered question.

  'Mr. Steele is in conference,' she said in crisp, off-putting tones. 'Is it important?'

  'Well, it's—' Miranda bit her lip. She had not bargained for so unyielding a barrier. After all, they were all part of the same set-up; where was the reasonable camaraderie that existed among most of the staff she knew?

  Already Miss Mayo had lost patience. 'If you leave the message I'll see that he has it the moment he's free.' She flashed the cool smile again, inviting the necessary communication with the confidence of one who has long coped with every exigency the business world could throw up, from blustering high-powered tycoons to apparently half-witted errand girls who seemed unable even to carry a straight message.

  Suddenly Miranda's courage failed her. 'I'll—I'll tell Mr.—I'll tell him to ring up,' she got out, and scurried towards the lift before the she-guardian could call her back.

  Luck, however, came when she least expected it. The next day she was waiting her turn to be served with her lunch-time coffee and sandwiches in the staff cafeteria when the phone rang. The voice of the unseen girl who answered behind the frosted glass partition was quite shrill and audible: A tray. Black coffee. Ham rolls. Fruit. At one sharp. For Mr. Steele.

  He must be staying in for lunch. But what about the she-guardian?

  He'd send her for her lunch at the same time, surely, Mir­anda decided. It was a pity she was due back herself at one, but it couldn't be helped. The manner of this debt had as­sumed enormous proportions and she had to settle it. She returned to her desk as usual at one o'clock, and waited until ten past. Then she took the five-pound note already secreted in her desk drawer, glanced round to see if anyone was watching, and slipped quietly from the office. The lift was waiting, empty, and the twenty-first floor appeared deserted when she stepped out a few moments later. She peered through the glass doors and sighed with relief to see the outer room of the suite was empty. The formidable Miss Mayo must be out to lunch—unless she was sharing it with J.S.

  Breathing a prayer that she wasn't—strangely, the thought of the secretary made Miranda more nervous than the thought of J.S. himself—she tiptoed into the outer room and across to the white door. She listened, then raised a hand that trembled slightly.

  Her knuckles met the white panel and at that precise moment the door opened. Miranda gasped, and only just man­aged to stop herself falling through.

  Jason Steele took an involuntary step back and put out a defensive hand. For a second they stared at one another, then he was the first to recover. He said: 'Well?' in a peremptory tone, and continued to stare at her with eyes which held not a vestige of recognition.

  'I—I—' Miranda gulped, her nerve almost failing her, and gave him a pleading look. 'You don't remember me, Mr. Steele, but you—I'm the girl—'

  The prepared speech deserted her and she trailed into a flummoxed silence. When he looked like that he positively in­timidated. She'd forgotten how tall he was close to, how broad his shoulders, how hard and determined the line of his jaw, and most of all she had forgotten the sheer forceful male domi­nance of him. Plainly he'd forgotten she ever existed; how fool­ish her concern, and how unfounded her fear of dismissal that had haunted her all last week.

  She took a deep breath. 'Mr. Steele—I'm sorry to interrupt your lunch, but I wanted to—'

  'It's little Miss Meake!'

  His mocking recognition ignored her endeavour to begin ex­planations. He stepped back and indicated the office behind him. 'Won't you come in, Miss Meake?'

  Her eyes betraying her uncertainty, she walked into the bur­gundy and white room that was more like a luxuriously fur­nished lounge than an office.

  He waved to the settee she'd once planned to sleep on and said dryly: 'What can I do for you this time, Miranda Meake?'

  'Nothing.' Without taking her eyes off him she sank down into the rich burgundy upholstery. 'I've been trying to see you all this week. I—'

  'Really!' he broke in. 'Am I so elusive?'

  'No, but…' It was proving more difficult than she had an­ticipated ; he seemed in a mood to make fun of her. The thought stiffened her and her head went up. 'I wanted to thank you, that's all.'

  'Whatever for?' A flicker of surprise lifted his brows. 'Do you mind if I continue my lunch?'

  'Oh no! I'
m sorry,' she exclaimed, instantly remorseful. 'I wouldn't have interrupted, but it was the only way I could catch you alone. You see, I wanted to give you this,' she rushed on, standing up and unfolding the crumpled note that was turn­ing limp in her warm clutch. 'I hope it's enough—but I don't know the exact amount. And I'd just like to say thank you, and I appreciate very much what you did but I can't possibly let you pay for it.' In her anxiety, she leaned over the desk. 'If it isn't enough please tell me.'

  'What on earth are you talking about?' He stared at her. 'And what's this?' He eyed the crumpled note she'd laid on his desk.

  'It's for the hotel bill.'

  'Oh.' He leaned back, and now there was an expression in his eyes that made her falter. He reached out and with a single contemptuous flick of his fingers sent the note sliding across the polished surface towards her. 'I seemed to remember telling you to forget it.'

  'Yes, I know. But I can't.'

  'Perhaps you would like me to remember a few other things,' he said dryly.

  She gazed back wordlessly, and a slight smile curled his mouth.

  'I remember now that I was going to fire you.'

  She made a small movement of her shoulders. Perhaps it conveyed a more fatalistic attitude than she knew, or perhaps a carelessness that piqued him.

  'Haven't you heard of sleeping dogs?' he asked.

  The soft catch of her breath was audible. She looked down. 'I had to offer to repay you, I can't help it. It seemed the least I could do.'

  He shrugged. 'Take it. I don't want your savings.'

  'But—'

  'I warn you, if it litters my desk I shall merely toss it in the waste-paper basket.'

  'You would throw money away?'

  He glanced up at her shocked expression and laughed unex­pectedly. 'Miranda Meake, I must warn you: I am not used to losing arguments.'

  'I can see that.' Unhappily, she regarded the despised note and then looked at him with a gaze more appealing than she knew. 'Honestly, Mr. Steele, I've no desire to argue with you, and certainly not to make you angry.'