by Jill Mansell
Not that she was mercenary, but it showed he cared, Miranda thought hastily, hugging herself as she watched Greg make his way over to the bar to settle their bill. In fact the evening was going so well, she wouldn’t care if pizza was all she ate.
I’ve met someone I really like, she thought joyfully, and he really likes me too.
‘Damn.’ Greg was back, frowning. ‘My credit card’s expired.’
‘Oh!’ Miranda reached for her bag and began hunting for her purse. ‘I’ve got some money here somewhere…’
‘It’s okay, I had enough cash on me to pay the bill.’ He motioned her to put her purse away. ‘It just means a bit of a detour. The new card’s at home. I need to pick it up before we head for the restaurant.’
Chapter 15
Not keen to be arrested for loitering, Pamela Greening had spent the last two and a half hours pacing the length of Milligan Road, planning in detail what she would say to her abysmal son-in-law when she finally got her hands on him.
She was at the far end of the street, three hundred yards from the house, when she spotted a familiar car approaching from the mailbox end.
Oh yes, that was definitely his white Rover pulling up under the streetlamp outside number forty-two.
Pulling her navy trench coat more tightly around her waist, Pamela marched purposefully towards the car.
‘Two seconds,’ Greg assured Miranda as he climbed out. ‘I know exactly where it is.’
‘Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.’ Waving him off, Miranda turned up the volume on the stereo as U2 launched into ‘Sunday Bloody Sunday’. This was blissful, they even shared the same taste in music. Imagine how horrible it would be, meeting someone as perfect as Greg, the two of you getting on like a house on fire, and then discovering that while you were a U2 girl, he was a…well, a Des O’Connor man.
With her eyes closed and the music blasting out, Miranda neither saw nor heard the middle-aged woman in the tightly belted trench coat hiss the word ‘Whore!’ at her through the car’s closed window before storming up the front path.
In the kitchen, Greg stared in disbelief at the scrawled note Adrian had left propped up against a dirty coffee cup.
Warning! Your mother-in-law was here looking for you and she’s coming back later. If you want to hang on to your ging-gangs, hide the bread knife!
Cheers, Ade.
PS If you murder her and need to dispose of the body, use the black binliners under the sink.
It was all right for Adrian to joke about it, Greg thought, she wasn’t his mother-in-law. Then he went hot and cold; if they hadn’t been late for the restaurant and Miranda had come in with him, she would have seen the damning note.
Crushing the gas bill into a ball, he threw it into the bin.
He liked Miranda a lot, too much to want to blow it on their first date. He certainly wasn’t about to tell her he was married with a pregnant wife. Not that that was his fault, Greg thought with renewed irritation, but some girls could be funny about things like that.
So much for tidying his bedroom earlier and changing the sheets. No way now was he going to risk inviting Miranda back later for a nightcap.
The sudden shrill of the doorbell made him jump. Jesus, who was that?
Miranda?
Or the mother-in-law from hell?
Feeling sick, Greg realized that either way, he couldn’t not answer it.
Praying it was Miranda, he pulled open the front door.
His head jerked back as Pamela Greening slapped him hard across the face.
‘So that’s why you left, is it?’ Furiously she indicated the car behind her with Miranda inside. ‘That’s why you abandoned my daughter? Well, let me tell you, I won’t stand for it! You’re going to face up to your responsibilities, my lad. Chloe needs her husband, that baby needs a father, and you have a duty to—’
‘Pamela, not now.’
Greg froze as over his mother-in-law’s shoulder he saw Miranda, in the passenger seat, observing the goings-on. This was a nightmare. He had to get out of here fast.
‘Oh no you don’t,’ Pamela Greening yelled as he slammed the front door shut behind him and tried to move past her. ‘I came here to talk to you!’
‘I don’t need this.’ Gritting his teeth, he forcibly removed her clawing hand from his arm. ‘I do not need this.’
In the car, Miranda stared open-mouthed at the bizarre scene. Until a few seconds ago she had been oblivious to everything, drumming her heels and singing along with Bono. Only when the last stirring chords of the song had faded away had she opened her eyes and seen Greg remonstrating with a middle-aged woman on his doorstep.
Now she watched him push past her and head back to the car. As he yanked open the driver’s door, she heard the woman—hot on his heels—shout furiously, ‘You’re not going to get away with this!’
‘My God, what’s going on?’ squealed Miranda.
‘Just ignore her.’
‘You won’t ignore me! I’ll make you sorry you ever—’
As the engine roared into life, Greg managed to wrench the door shut. The woman, her hands still scrabbling at the handle, leapt away as he stuck his foot down and screeched off down the road.
‘Sorry about that.’
‘Greg, who was she?’ Miranda swiveled round in her seat, peering back at the woman on the pavement. Then she turned and stared at Greg. ‘What the hell was that about?’
He shook his head and braked as they took the corner.
‘Client with a grudge. It happens, I’m afraid. She and her husband took out massive life insurance. Then he killed himself. The policy didn’t cover suicide but she won’t accept that.’ Greg breathed out slowly. They were safe now; his hands had stopped shaking. ‘Poor woman, I think she’s lost her mind. I’ve told her a hundred times the insurance isn’t valid and that the company isn’t going to pay out. But it just doesn’t sink in. She thinks I’m cheating her out of three hundred grand.’
‘You’re kidding!’ Miranda’s eyes were like saucers. ‘That’s terrible.’
Greg nodded.
‘She’s been harassing me at the office. Now, clearly, she’s found out where I live. I mean, I feel sorry for her, but what can I do?’
‘Tell the police, for a start.’ Urgently, Miranda clutched his arm. ‘She could be dangerous!’
Bloody dangerous, thought Greg.
‘We’ve already spoken to the police. It’s not worth it. They can’t arrest her until she actually does something illegal. But they’re aware of the situation,’ he added. ‘If my windows get smashed or the house burns to the ground, they’ll have a good idea who to blame.’
‘If your house burns to the ground?’ Miranda echoed the words, aghast.
‘Don’t worry,’ Greg smiled at her, ‘I’m fully insured.’
Was that meant to be reassuring? Miranda wasn’t the least bit reassured. It was, she thought indignantly, an outrageous state of affairs.
‘But what about breach of the peace, can’t they get her for that? Or…or, those stalking laws,’ she exclaimed. ‘I mean, that’s what this madwoman’s doing, isn’t it? Stalking you?’
Any minute now, Greg sensed, Miranda was liable to make a dash for the nearest phone box and start dialing 999.
‘She’s an old lady,’ he told her, ‘who’s just lost her husband. She’s out of her mind with grief. Would a spell in a madhouse really do any good? And besides,’ he went on gently, ‘imagine how I’d feel, knowing I’d helped to put her there. I wouldn’t be able to live with myself.’
‘Stop the car,’ said Miranda.
‘What?’
‘I said, stop the car.’
‘Why?’
Nervously, Greg looked around for a phone box. He couldn’t see one, but dare he r
isk it?
‘Because you are the nicest, kindest, most generous man I have ever met.’ Her voice catching with emotion, Miranda reached for him. ‘And I’m sorry, but I just have to give you a massive, massive kiss.’
‘Okay, moment-of-truth time,’ Greg murmured several highly satisfactory minutes later. ‘You may be about to change your mind about me.’
Miranda, wondering if she’d ever been happier in her life, kissed his earlobe before snuggling her head further into the curve of his shoulder.
‘Why?’
‘I have a confession to make.’
‘About what?’
‘The bit about me being generous.’
‘Why?’
‘My credit card. I forgot to pick it up.’
‘Oh. Well, I’ve got eight pounds in my purse.’
‘I’ve got about eight pounds fifty.’ Greg’s smile was rueful.
Miranda turned his watch towards her and peered at the hands in the dim amber glow of the overhead streetlight.
‘We’ve missed our table now anyway. That’s all right.’
‘Why is it all right?’ said Greg.
Between kisses, Miranda whispered, ‘Because sometimes I actually prefer pizza.’
Chapter 16
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! Month
s 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.