by Jill Mansell
‘Oh, those! Miranda told you about that, did she?’ Florence laughed, remembering their abrupt departure. ‘Ha, that was a funny old day.’
‘Actually—’
‘So where are you taking her tonight?’
‘Um, I think we’ve got a few wires crossed here.’
Click click, went Florence’s brain. She put down the bottle she was in the process of pouring and gazed steadily across at her visitor.
There was definitely something about those dark-brown eyes.
Click click click…
‘Oh dear,’ she exclaimed at last, ‘you must think I’m completely dotty. You aren’t Greg, are you?’
He smiled.
‘No, I’m not Greg.’
Now Florence knew why he had seemed so familiar. He didn’t resemble a television actor at all; he was someone she had seen before in the flesh.
Only fleetingly, mind you. And from a fair distance. Not to mention minus the spectacles she never wore but should perhaps start thinking about wearing…
‘You’re Hungry and Homeless,’ said Florence.
‘Well, kind of. But you can call me Danny,’ he replied with a grin.
He might not be who she’d thought he was, but Florence had already made up her mind. She liked him.
‘So you aren’t Miranda’s new boyfriend,’ she announced, holding his glass of wine out to him. ‘Pity. Never mind, you can still have a drink.’
***
When Miranda had heard the shrill ring of the doorbell earlier, her immediate instinct had been to leap out of the bath and race downstairs. Well, maybe throw on a few clothes first.
But Greg was early, she hadn’t even washed her hair yet and she’d been looking forward to this bath all day. Besides, Florence was there to entertain him.
Maybe I shouldn’t rush down, Miranda thought, sinking lazily back into the steaming, scented water. Let them have some time alone together; that way, they can get to know each other in peace.
‘Here she is,’ Florence announced twenty minutes later. ‘Oh my word, and she’s actually wearing a dress! Darling, you look a treat.’
Having been encouraged by the explosions of laughter filtering up the stairs—Florence and Greg were clearly getting on like a house on fire—Miranda had taken her time getting ready. Now, completely thrown by the sight of the wrong two people getting along like a house on fire—well, right woman, wrong man—she ground to a halt in the doorway.
Was Candid Camera responsible for this?
Chapter 20
‘Hello.’ Miranda looked at Danny Delancey, then at her watch, then at Florence. ‘Where’s Greg?’
‘Sshh.’ Florence raised her eyebrows in alarm. ‘Careless talk costs lives. Forget you heard that,’ she instructed Danny. ‘Miranda’s boyfriend is officially The Man With No Name. Honestly, darling,’ she returned her attention to Miranda, ‘if you’re going to be a secret agent, you’ll have to do better than that.’
Miranda took in at a glance the almost empty bottle of wine on the table, the relaxed way Danny Delancey’s arm was draped across the back of the sofa, the barely suppressed grins on both their faces. Almost as if they were in league with each other.
‘Where is he?’
Florence looked innocent.
‘Who?’
‘Greg.’
‘Sshh!’
‘It’ll never work.’ Danny was shaking his head. ‘You’ll have to call him something else. How about Percy?’
They were definitely making fun of her. Miranda sighed. And it was ten past eight, so where was Greg?
‘We mustn’t tease. Poor darling, she’s only just met the boy,’ said Florence. ‘It’s a traumatic business, this falling in love. No sign of him yet.’ Airily she waved Miranda over to the sofa. ‘But don’t worry, I’m sure he’ll be here soon.’
Being ganged up on was bad enough. When it was coupled with the first niggling oh-God-don’t-say-I’m-about-to-be-stood-up ripples of anxiety, the effect was horrible.
‘What are you doing here anyway?’ Miranda knew she sounded irritated but she didn’t care. Greg had never been late before. He wouldn’t stand her up, surely?
Daniel Delancey patted the space next to him on the sofa.
‘I was passing; just dropped by on the off-chance. We need to fix up a couple of dates for filming. This week, if you could manage it.’
Pointedly, Miranda perched on the arm of the sofa, as far away from him as possible.
‘I’m busy this week. I can’t take any time off work.’
‘Okay, but we could interview you here. Thursday evening would be good for us.’ He consulted his battered Filofax, then looked up. ‘Actually, any chance of seeing your room now?’
Not a chance in the world, Miranda thought with a shudder. Her room was currently awash with all the clothes she had tried on, discarded and flung to the floor.
‘No. And I’m busy on Thursday evening too,’ she added for good measure. Honestly, talk about impertinent. Did she look like someone with no social life at all?
‘Seeing your boyfriend, you mean?’ Danny glanced at his watch, his eyebrows registering dismay. ‘Oh dear, twenty past.’
Miranda gritted her teeth until her jaw hurt.
‘Danny, your glass is empty,’ Florence protested. ‘Come on now, have another drink.’
The doorbell went before he could reply. Miranda flew to answer it.
‘You’re here! You’re late!’
‘Accident on the Bayswater Road.’
‘Oh no…’
‘Not me,’ said Greg. ‘A bus and a Fiat Uno. The fire brigade are still trying to cut the driver out of the Fiat.’
‘That’s all right then.’ Miranda threw her arms around him. ‘So long as you’re okay.’
Smiling, Greg said, ‘Maybe I should be late more often, if this is the kind of welcome I get.’
‘Don’t you dare. I thought you’d stood me up.’ She covered his face with kisses, breathless with relief. ‘Come on, I want to introduce you to Florence.’
***
‘Well? What d’you think?’ said Miranda eagerly ten minutes later. Danny Delancey had made his excuses and left, and before they followed suit, Greg was paying a quick visit to the bathroom.
‘I think you should ring Danny and say Thursday evening’s fine. Playing the prima donna only works if you’re Elizabeth Taylor,’ Florence pointed out, ‘and you haven’t won any Oscars yet. They can always make this documentary without you, you know.’
‘I meant, what do you think of Greg?’ Miranda waved an impatient arm in the direction of the door. ‘Do you really like him?’
‘Oh. Well, yes, of course I like him. He seems very nice, quite…charming.’ ‘Quite’ was a useful word. It could mean perfectly charming, or it could mean slightly charming. You could take your pick.
Oh dear. Florence struggled to be fair. Greg did seem nice and he did seem charming; she just hadn’t automatically clicked with him as she had with the other one, Danny. Out of the two of them, she knew which one she preferred.
But that was beside the point; Greg was the one Miranda wanted her to like, and how could she fault him? He was good-looking, smartly turned out, polite…and clearly as taken with Miranda as she was with him.
And if the charm seemed a bit forced, a touch excessive…well, Florence conceded, he probably couldn’t help that. It was undoubtedly an unfortunate side-effect of having worked for years selling insurance.
‘He seems very nice,’ she repeated, reaching for her cigarettes and swiftly changing the subject. ‘Anyway, before you go, let me tell you about my visitor this afternoon.’
Miranda hid her disappointment. She didn’t want to hear about some boring visitor, she wanted Florence to sing Greg’s
praises—with delirious enthusiasm, preferably—and tell her over and over again how perfect he was. So far, all she’d got was very nice, pronounced in the kind of voice adults reserved for five-year-olds when they were handed a painting—Is it a tractor? Is it an airplane?—to admire.
Swallowing her impatience, Miranda forced herself to sound interested. She jiggled the loose shoe dangling from her foot and said, ‘Visitor. Okay, fire away.’
‘I asked Chloe to come round. Pregnant Chloe who works for Bruce,’ Florence prompted when Miranda looked blank.
‘Oh, right.’
‘She’s had to give up her flat. The husband refuses to help out financially. She’s a lovely girl.’
Just not very bright, thought Miranda, if that was the kind of man she’d chosen to marry in the first place.
At a guess, Florence had slipped the girl some money.
‘I told her she can move in with us.’
‘What!’
‘Not forever,’ Florence explained. ‘Just until she sorts herself out.’
‘But that could take years! She hasn’t even had the baby yet.’ Miranda was alarmed. ‘You mean you’ve offered her the room next to mine?’
Oh great, thanks a lot.
‘She’s desperate,’ Florence said calmly.
‘Honestly, and you call me a soft touch! All I did was share my sandwiches with a down-and-out,’ Miranda protested. Well, a bogus down-and-out. ‘Here’s you sharing your whole house.’
‘It’s big enough. Anyway,’ said Florence, ‘I get bored here on my own. I’ll enjoy the company.’
‘The company of a screaming baby?’ Agitated, Miranda jiggled the shoe right off her foot. ‘It won’t know how to play poker if that’s what you’re after. And what about all the sleepless nights? You definitely won’t enjoy those.’
‘I’m sure Chloe will have found herself somewhere else to live by then. Like I said, this is only temporary.’
‘Well, I still think you’re mad.’
‘Not mad, just bored. And look on the bright side,’ Florence said cheerfully. ‘It’ll annoy Bruce and Verity no end.’
Bruce and Verity weren’t the only ones. Miranda was relieved to hear Greg’s footsteps on the stairs.
‘You aren’t thrilled,’ said Florence as Greg appeared in the doorway. ‘I’m sorry, darling. Maybe I should have asked you first.’
She sounded disappointed. Miranda chewed her lip as guilt kicked in. It really wasn’t like her to be so uncharitable.
Oh, all right, so selfish and grumpy and mean.
This was Florence’s house, after all. She could fill it with whoever she liked.
‘Don’t worry, it’s fine by me.’ Miranda turned to Greg. ‘Florence is collecting waifs and strays,’ she explained. ‘We’re going to have a homeless pregnant girl moving in.’
‘Rather you than me,’ said Greg. He jangled his car keys, impatient to leave; pregnant women weren’t his favorite topic of conversation.
‘The thing is, the room’s going to need redecorating.’ Florence looked at Miranda. ‘I wondered if you wouldn’t mind giving it a coat of paint before she moves in.’
‘No problem.’ Miranda nodded vigorously, eager to make up for her grumpiness earlier. She touched Greg’s sleeve. ‘We could do it on Sunday, couldn’t we? Make it look really nice.’
‘I’d love to,’ Greg lied, ‘but I’ll be pretty busy myself this weekend. I’m moving too, remember.’ Clasping Miranda’s hand, he pulled her to her feet. ‘Right, we’d better be off. Nice meeting you,’ he added, flicking back his fair hair and smiling broadly over his shoulder at Florence.
‘Oh, and you.’
‘I feel a bit rotten,’ Miranda murmured, out in the hall. ‘I wasn’t very nice when Florence first told me about this girl moving in.’
‘I’m not surprised.’
‘Still.’ She paused, half in and half out of her jacket. ‘It might be fun. Babies can be cute, can’t they?’
‘Do you mind if we change the subject?’ said Greg, opening the front door. ‘You’re beginning to sound like Bev.’
***
‘Chloe’s doing what?’ Bruce pressed the phone to his ear and gestured furiously at his son to lower the volume on his Play Station. ‘Mother, hang on—I can’t hear a word. Jason, for crying out loud, turn it down. Now, Chloe’s doing what?’
‘Moving in with me,’ Florence repeated with maddening cheerfulness. ‘Isn’t it the most marvelous idea? Killing two birds with one stone!’
I should be so lucky, thought Bruce. Anger began to well up in his chest. Oh, this was too much.
‘I don’t see what’s so marvelous about it.’ His voice was cold. ‘I don’t see why you have to interfere with matters that have absolutely nothing to do with you. For heaven’s sake, Mother, you don’t even know Chloe!’
‘I do now. She came to see me last night.’
‘She came to see you?’ Bruce spluttered. ‘You mean she—?’
‘Don’t get your knickers in a twist,’ Florence interrupted. ‘I asked her to. Chloe needs somewhere to live and I have room to spare. I don’t understand why you’re shouting at me, Bruce. I thought you’d be pleased.’
Bruce’s mind was in such turmoil that for a couple of seconds he couldn’t remember why he wasn’t. Then it came to him: he was planning to sack Chloe.
Soon.
He exhaled heavily. Once you’d sacked an employee, it was easier all round if you never had to clap eyes on them again. If Chloe was going to be living with his mother, that wasn’t going to happen.
It would, in fact, be bloody awkward.
Knowing Florence, Bruce thought darkly, that was more than likely why she’d done it.
For this reason alone, he forced himself to calm down.
‘Okay, I can see why it helps Chloe out. But what’s in it for you?’
‘I’ll be getting myself a house-sitter,’ Florence replied chirpily. ‘Now that Miranda’s found herself a young man, she’s not going to be around so often. All the hanky-panky, I imagine, will be taking place over at his flat. And I’m going to be away a fair bit myself, of course…did I tell you that Orlando and I are thinking of Vegas?…so it makes sense to have someone here, taking care of the house.’
Las Vegas.
Bruce shuddered.
Twenty-four-hour-a-day gambling and a gigolo on your arm.
This was truly a nightmare. Florence had lost her marbles and now she was planning—gleefully, dammit—to lose all her money too.
‘Mother, I’m not sure Vegas is a good idea.’
‘Why not, too many wedding chapels?’ Florence teased. ‘Don’t worry, darling, Orlando’s already asked me and I turned him down.’
Thank Christ for that, thought Bruce. His hands were slippery with sweat.
‘I have no desire to be married by a crooning Elvis lookalike in a white polyester jumpsuit,’ Florence went on consolingly. ‘I told Orlando straight. If we decide to get married, we’ll do it in England, with a real vicar and in a proper church.’
Chapter 21
Greg’s new flat, in Maida Vale, was situated on the third floor of a modern apartment block set in landscaped gardens. The flat itself was small but adequate, and had been recently redecorated in shades of creams and greens that were only faintly reminiscent of municipal toilets.
‘This is great, I love it,’ Miranda enthused as she was given the full guided tour. It wasn’t strictly true, she much preferred old buildings to new ones, but what else could you say when someone was proudly showing you around their new home?
And this was Greg’s new home, so she would grow to love it.
‘Really?’ He put his arms around her. ‘I know it’s not huge, but it has its advantages. No Adrian, for a start.’
Miranda blushed again just thinking about it. How embarrassing had that been? Almost as embarrassing as the moment thirty seconds later when she and Greg were making their escape through the front door and a roar had gone up in the living room as one of Adrian’s friends, chucking a sofa cushion to one side, had triumphantly unearthed her bra.
Honestly, it was bad enough being a 34A without having it announced to a roomful of half-drunk football fanatics who immediately launched into a raucous chant to that effect.
Oh yes, the prospect of total privacy had a lot going for it.
‘No Adrian,’ Miranda agreed happily, ‘just us.’ She kissed him again, sliding her hands longingly under his rugby shirt. ‘I don’t think you’ve shown me the bedroom yet.’
Greg stroked her hair.
‘We’re going to do this properly. There’s no rush, we’ve got all the time in the world. Look, it’s only seven o’clock,’ he showed her his watch, ‘and you’ve been at work all day. You must be starving. I thought we’d go out and get something to eat first. Then, when we come back…well, you can see the bedroom.’ He grinned. ‘It’s Sunday tomorrow, no need to get up. If we want to, we can spend the whole day in bed. And I think I should warn you now, I’ll definitely want to.’
‘Except I promised Florence I’d decorate that room,’ groaned Miranda.
‘Put it off.’
‘I can’t. She had the paint delivered today.’
‘I thought you said the girl wasn’t moving in for another week.’
‘She isn’t, but Florence really wants the room done tomorrow. Otherwise the smell of paint will still—’