by Jill Mansell
Oh God, this was all so confusing, she could barely think and walk at the same time. Every step was like trying to wade through a field of her mother’s bread sauce.
‘Are you all right?’ Fenn said quietly, ducking his head as Bev swished past with a brimming glass in one hand and one of Florence’s cocktail cigarettes in the other. Bev was known to accidentally set fire to things when she was allowed custody of a cigarette.
Am I all right? wondered Chloe.
‘Ha!’ Sparks showered from the end of Bev’s Sobranie as she brushed it recklessly past Florence’s heavy brocade curtains. ‘Speaking of boyfriends, guess who’s downstairs?’
Miranda, through a mouthful of chewy bagel, said, ‘Who?’
‘Greg, you dipstick! Just as well you made your big confession earlier—hey, this is brilliant, he can come with us now that he’s here! He can, can’t he, Fenn? Greg can come along to lunch?’
Chloe’s world was turning crazily on its axis. She didn’t understand what was going on, but she’d experienced a similar sensation once before, on the Big Dipper at Blackpool.
Florence’s attention had been on her curtains, whose health was in danger of being seriously damaged by Bev’s dramatic way with a cigarette. Now, her head swiveled round as she realized that Fenn had leapt from his chair and was lifting Chloe on to the sofa.
Amazed, Florence said, ‘Chloe? What’s happening?’
‘Just lie back and breathe slowly,’ Fenn instructed Chloe. ‘Is it the baby? Shall I phone for an ambulance?’
Oh no, not a miscarriage, Miranda prayed, not on my birthday. And please don’t make it all my fault because I forced Chloe to drink that glass of champagne.
Swallowing her bagel at last, she gazed in horror at the scene being played out before her. All the color had drained from Chloe’s face and she was clutching Fenn’s hand. Fenn, down on one knee—for all the world like Hardy at Nelson’s deathbed—was taking her pulse and exchanging serious-looking glances with Florence.
The doorbell rang.
Chloe visibly flinched
‘I’ll call an ambulance,’ Florence decided, reaching for the phone.
Chloe blurted out, ‘No.’
‘Where does it hurt?’ demanded Fenn.
‘I’m okay, I’m okay.’ She brushed his hand away from her wrist and tried to sit up, her gaze fixing on Miranda. ‘Look, I’m really sorry about this, but is that your boyfriend out there?’
As she spoke, the doorbell shrilled again.
Mystified, Miranda said, ‘Who, Greg? Of course he’s my boyfriend!’
‘Ah. Pass me that glass, would you?’ Puffing her hair out of her eyes, Chloe nodded at Fenn. ‘It’s okay, I don’t need an ambulance. Just a drink. You could probably do with another one as well.’ She returned her attention to Miranda. ‘You see, I’m Greg’s wife.’
All eyes were now on Miranda, who looked astonished. Fancy making a silly mistake like that, jumping to conclusions and giving everyone a fright.
‘Don’t be daft. No, no, it’s a coincidence, that’s all,’ she explained to Chloe, her tone reassuring. ‘My Greg isn’t married.’
Chloe didn’t breathe a sigh of relief.
She said steadily, ‘Is his name Greg Malone?’
‘Oh, shit,’ Bev gasped.
It was Miranda’s turn to sit down, on a plate of bagels, with a bump.
Chapter 30
Florence answered the front door.
Well, somebody had to.
And there he was on the doorstep, smiling that boyish, winning smile of his, clutching a gaudy bunch of flowers in one hand and a Happy Birthday helium balloon in the other.
Florence smiled at Greg in much the same way as she had once smiled at her first husband upon discovering that he had been sleeping with the wife of his commanding officer.
‘Hello,’ said Greg, ‘I—’
‘She’s not here,’ Florence lied smoothly, as she had been instructed to do. Well, more or less. In reality, Miranda had covered her face with her hands and gabbled, ‘Don’t let him in, just get him out of here, I can’t see him now!’
‘It’s okay.’ Greg nodded easily. ‘I wasn’t expecting to see Miranda. I just wanted to drop these off for her, so she’d see them as soon as she got back from lunch.’ He grinned at Florence. ‘You know how girls are when it comes to flowers.’
‘Quite,’ said Florence. Reaching forward in her chair, she took the bobbing balloon from him. ‘I’ll tell Miranda you called.’
‘And I’ll be round to pick her up at six.’ Greg handed over the flowers. ‘Ask her to be ready on time, would you?’
This was accompanied by a charming smile, to make it sound more of a joke and less of a command.
‘Fine.’
Greg’s smile faded.
‘Is everything all right, Florence? Have I done something to upset you?’
Florence longed more than anything to tell him. The words were swelling up inside her like rush-hour commuters on a tube train, jostling to spill out. Oh, what she wouldn’t give to be able to speak her mind…
But it wasn’t her job; it was Miranda’s. And Miranda needed time to collect her own tumultuous thoughts. The last thing she had gibbered to Florence was, ‘Just get rid of him…don’t say anything…’
Mentally, Florence zipped her mouth shut and triple-padlocked it.
‘No.’ Wheeling herself backwards, she prepared to close the front door. ‘Everything’s fine.’
***
‘I don’t believe this, I just can’t believe it,’ Miranda wailed, reaching for her champagne glass. Glugging the contents like water, she closed her eyes, opened them again and peered around the edge of the damask curtain. But with Chloe leaning over her shoulder, there was no way in the world it could all be a terrible mistake.
That was definitely Greg climbing into his car.
Her Greg.
And Chloe’s Greg.
Miranda felt sick. It was like discovering that the man of your dreams was a puppy murderer in his spare time.
Bev, taller than either of them, stood behind Miranda and Chloe and hissed, ‘Bastard,’ as Greg’s car pulled away. She put an arm around each of them and shook her head. ‘I don’t know which of you to feel more sorry for.’
Chloe swiveled round, gazing at her in astonishment.
‘You don’t have to feel sorry for me!’
‘Nor me,’ Miranda squealed, batting Bev’s sympathetic hand off her shoulder. She was quivering, her spiky hair practically standing on end.
‘But you must be upset,’ Bev protested, taken aback.
‘Upset? UPSET? I’m not upset,’ bellowed Miranda, ‘I’m bloody furious! He’s a lying, cheating bastard and I’m just glad I found out now, before…before…Jesus, how could he do this?’
She had a terrible urge to kick holes in the wall, demolish a couple of bookcases, wrench Florence’s expensive curtains down from their poles. The bit about not being upset wasn’t true, of course, but those namby-pamby feelings would just have to wait their turn. Miranda took a deep, shuddery breath. Right now the anger was uppermost in her mind. In fact she was probably so angry she could explode.
‘You never told us your husband’s name was Greg.’ She turned to Chloe in disbelief. ‘All this time and you never even mentioned his name.’
‘Neither did you! You didn’t tell me your boyfriend’s name was Greg. Oh, crikey,’ Chloe gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. ‘Are you the reason he left me?’
This was too much, this was too horrible for words. Miranda’s stomach churned like a cement mixer in freefall.
‘When did he leave you? Bev, what was the date of that party…oh God, when did we meet Adrian and Greg?’
‘You met Adrian too…?’
&n
bsp; ‘It was a charity cocktail party,’ Miranda jabbered on. ‘Florence gave us her tickets. Daisy Schofield was meant to be there, but she didn’t turn up.’
Chloe twigged.
‘Bruce had tickets as well, but he couldn’t make it so he passed them on to me. I wondered where they’d gone.’
Bev had been busy riffling through the diary she carried with her at all times in case she was ever unexpectedly asked out. Finding what she was searching for, she looked up.
‘April the twenty-third.’
‘Bruce’s wedding anniversary,’ Florence remembered with a nod.
‘We were meant to be going to that party together. Except,’ Chloe said resignedly, ‘Greg had gone by then.’
‘So he went on his own and met Miranda instead.’ Florence snorted with disgust. ‘That does it. Next time Elizabeth Turnbull tries to bulldoze me into buying tickets for some bloody charity cocktail party, I’ll tie a knot in her neck.’
For Chloe, the relief was tremendous. Greg hadn’t left her for Miranda.
‘Next time I see Greg,’ said Miranda, ‘I’ll tie a knot in more than his neck.’
Chloe suddenly stifled a giggle.
‘Oh, excuse me! If we’re talking about my ex-husband, are you sure it’s long enough to tie a knot in?’
Glancing at each other, Miranda and Bev collapsed with laughter.
‘Anyone want another drink?’ Fenn sounded resigned.
‘I’m sorry, it’s a girl thing,’ Florence explained. ‘They have this way with words. Not for sensitive male ears.’
Thirteen years in the hairdressing business had more or less desensitized Fenn’s ears. In that time, he felt, he had probably heard it all. To take offense now would be like a Status Quo freak objecting to the mewing of next door’s kitten. But he was touched by Florence’s concern.
‘Why don’t I ring the restaurant, let them know we’re going to be late?’ He paused. ‘Then, if you like, I could cut your hair.’
***
Miranda, still hopelessly agitated, had taken up smoking in a major way and was even messier at it than Bev. In deference to Chloe’s unborn child and—more immediately—Florence’s soft furnishings, everyone had moved outside into the sunny back garden.
Florence ran arthritic fingers over her haphazardly piled-up hair. Normally Miranda dealt with it, but this morning she had executed the task herself.
Actually, executed pretty much described the end result.
‘It must be bad.’ Florence grimaced. ‘I’m sure you don’t make a habit of accosting strangers in the street, offering to snip them into shape.’
‘We aren’t in the street,’ said Fenn. ‘And I gave up smoking six months ago. It’s easier if I keep my hands occupied.’
‘From what Miranda tells me, you certainly do that.’
‘From what Miranda tells me,’ Fenn countered mildly, ‘you thought I was gay.’
Florence chuckled, unembarrassed.
‘I’m an old woman. Male hairdressers always were in my day.’
‘Well, I’m not. And you won’t be calling yourself old by the time I’ve finished with you.’ He watched her pull an eccentric assortment of combs from her hair and drop them into her lap. ‘Ready to go for it?’
‘Why not?’ Florence had endured months of badgering from Miranda, urging her to have her hair cut. ‘If you’re sure you’ve got time.’
Like Bev and her beloved diary, Fenn never went anywhere without his scissors. As he slid them out of their case, he glanced across at the table, around which Miranda, Bev and Chloe were huddled like witches.
‘I should think so. Anyway,’ he assured Florence, ‘I’m a fast worker.’
Her eyes, bright as a bird’s, met Fenn’s.
‘Miranda told me that too. Just do me a favor, would you, before you start?’
‘What?’
‘Take that champagne away from her.’ Florence nodded in the direction of Miranda and the rapidly emptying bottle clutched to her chest. ‘At this rate she’s going to spend the rest of her birthday flat on her back. Poor lamb,’ she added sympathetically, ‘and not quite in the way she planned.’
Chapter 31
‘Florence, hi. Is Miranda with you? Any chance of a word?’
Immediately recognizing the voice at the other end of the line, Florence said cheerfully, ‘I’m so sorry, Miranda can’t come to the phone right now, she’s unconscious in the garden.’
‘Blimey.’ Danny Delancey sounded impressed. ‘All your own work, or did you get Lennox Lewis round to knock her out?’
‘Cheaper than that. Two bottles of Moët,’ said Florence, ‘and one not terribly pleasant surprise.’
‘Will she be all right?’
‘Oh, fine. Her friend Bev’s out there now, covering her with Factor 15. So she’s well oiled in every sense, ha! And Fenn’s arranged for the restaurant to deliver the food here as soon as she wakes up. You could come over too,’ Florence said brightly, ‘even up the numbers a bit. I’m sure Miranda will be pleased to see you…poor darling, so far it hasn’t been the happiest of birthdays!’
Danny hadn’t even realized that today was Miranda’s birthday. Furthermore, he was struck by the difference between what Florence appeared to be saying and the tone of her voice. She was sounding distinctly jaunty.
‘Hang on.’ He frowned, mentally pressing Rewind. ‘What kind of unpleasant surprise?’
Oh dear, doing it again, thought Florence, and nobody likes a told-you-so. Before Miranda woke up she really must practice being more sympathetic and less smug.
‘Mr Right.’ She glanced happily in the mirror at her chic new hairdo. ‘Seems he isn’t so fantastic after all.’
‘Really?’
Danny, she sensed, was being careful to keep his own voice neutral.
‘I know, isn’t it fabulous?’ Sod diplomacy; if there was one thing Florence knew, for sure, it was that Danny was on her side. Gleefully she confided, ‘Turns out he was Mr Total Disaster all along.’
***
Uuurrgh.
Miranda, with enormous difficulty, peeled her eyelids open.
Uh oh, hangover. Now how had that happened?
More to the point, what on earth had been going on while she’d been er…resting her eyes?
Oh dear, as if waking up from a drunken stupor wasn’t a bewildering enough experience on its own. Miranda, struggling into a half-sitting position, found herself in a far corner of the garden. The next moment she flinched as Danny Delancey appeared beside her, holding out a packet of acetaminophen and a pint mug of orange juice.
‘Saw you waking up.’ He grinned down at her over the top of his sunglasses. ‘Thought you might need these. Want me to pop the pills out of the foil for you?’
‘I don’t understand.’ Moaning gently, Miranda shielded her own eyes from the sun. She had a pounding hammer-drill of a headache and—mysteriously—the most disgusting taste ever in her mouth. ‘The last thing I remember, I was sitting at that table over there, you weren’t here and Florence had long hair. The next minute,’ she frowned and held up her glistening arms, ‘I’m waking up on a sun-lounger with gloopy suncream all over me and my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth.’
‘And a knotted handkerchief on your head,’ Danny said helpfully. ‘Don’t forget the knotted hanky.’
‘Oh God.’ Miranda whipped it off.
‘Not to mention the cigarette butt lodged in your cleavage,’ he went on. ‘Well, I say cleavage…’
Great. Peering down, Miranda fished it out. How cool must she look?
She peered suspiciously up at Danny.
‘Did you put that there?’
‘I did not.’ He sounded amused. ‘According to Florence, you smoked eleven black Sobranies in seventy-five mi
nutes.’
Oh well, that explained the diabolical taste in her mouth. Hmm, thought Miranda, won’t be trying that again in a hurry.
‘Two at a time, at one stage.’
‘Okay, okay.’ She flapped a feeble arm at him to give her a break. ‘It’s my birthday. You’re supposed to be nice to me.’
‘This is nice. This is me being extra-nice on your birthday.’
Miranda swallowed two of the acetaminophen, sloshed them down with orange juice and eyed him with suspicion.
‘What are you doing here anyway? I didn’t tell you it was my birthday.’
‘I know. I rang to fix up a date for filming in the salon.’ Danny sat down on the grass next to the sun-lounger. ‘Florence happened to mention it.’ He hesitated, his expression masked by his dark glasses. ‘She also told me about the…Greg thing.’
Oh God, the Greg thing.
‘Why am I not surprised?’ Miranda said flatly. She gritted her teeth, making a mental note to tell Florence that, actually, she’d prefer it if details of her private life weren’t blurted out to all and sundry the minute she sank into a drunken stupor.
‘I’m sorry,’ said Danny.
Miranda closed her eyes as the horrible details, like stampeding wildebeest, came thundering back over the horizon to haunt her all over again.
‘Well, there you go, another one bites the dust.’ Her voice was brittle. ‘Wouldn’t it be great if it was an Olympic sport?’
‘What—getting plastered, smoking a million fags and falling asleep with a hanky on your head?’
Miranda smiled briefly, because he knew that wasn’t what she meant. He was just trying to cheer her up, make her laugh.
‘Getting it wrong. Getting it completely wrong every bloody time. Honestly, I’m better at it than anyone else I know.’
‘Come on, that’s not—’
‘True? Of course it’s true,’ Miranda wailed. ‘Look at you, I was convinced you were married and you weren’t. Then with Greg it didn’t occur to me for one second that he might be married, and he is. So how clever does that make me?’