by Jill Mansell
Since there was really no answer to that, Danny rose to his feet.
‘Look, come on over and join in the rest of your party.’ He held out his hands. ‘Hang on to me and I’ll pull you up.’
‘Ouch,’ Miranda grumbled as he hauled her, in turn, efficiently to her feet. Her arms, slippery with Ambre Solaire, had required a firm grip. ‘What time is it?’
‘Four o’clock.’
‘Already? Oh God, and Greg’s coming round to collect me at six.’ Feeling fragile, she allowed Danny to guide her across the daisy-studded lawn.
He cocked an eyebrow at her.
‘Cancel.’
‘No way! I want to tell him what I think of him,’ Miranda said bitterly. ‘Then I have to tear him limb from limb. And when that’s all done, I’ll finish with him.’
Florence beamed; this was celestial music to her ears.
‘Darling, back with us at last.’ Reaching up, she patted Miranda’s shoulder. ‘Feeling better now?’
‘Oh yes, tons.’ Miranda collapsed on to the wrought-iron chair next to her. ‘Two hours to blast-off. If my head wasn’t pounding so much, I’d be brushing up on my kung fu.’
Danny, sitting back down next to Chloe, took off his sunglasses.
‘We’ve been working out the best methods of revenge. Chloe thinks you should let her answer the door.’
‘Like in one of those creepy movies,’ Chloe explained, ‘where I say, “Miranda? Miranda who? I’m sorry, there’s nobody by that name living here, this is my house.”’
‘Gaslight.’ Florence clasped her hands with relish. ‘Charles Boyer and Ingrid Bergman. Such a good film.’
‘Who cut your hair?’ said Miranda, momentarily distracted.
‘Darling, what a question! You did, of course, just before you passed out.’
‘What? My God, did I really?’
Florence barked with laughter. ‘While you were nineteen sheets to the wind? What do you think I am, completely loopy? Fenn did it.’
Oh yes, Miranda vaguely remembered that happening now. She must have passed out before the end.
‘It’s great. Suits you.’
Florence preened; she already knew that.
‘Anyway, we’re not so sure Greg will actually believe he’s going round the twist,’ Chloe told Miranda, ‘but Danny’s come up with another brilliant idea—’
‘Look, don’t you think you’re all being a bit mean?’
Every head abruptly swiveled in Bev’s direction. There was a brief, astonished silence.
‘Don’t look at me like that.’ Bev’s tone was defiant. ‘I’m just saying it doesn’t seem very fair. You’re ganging up on him because he didn’t tell Miranda he was married, but she didn’t tell me she was seeing Greg, did she?’
Miranda stared at her. Was Bev seriously leaping to Greg’s defense?
‘That was because I didn’t want to hurt your feelings!’
‘So?’ Bev retaliated. ‘Maybe he didn’t want to hurt yours.’
‘He’s asked me to move in with him! Don’t you think it’s about time he took the risk?’
‘Don’t squeal at me.’ Bev sounded cross. ‘I’m just saying, you liked him a lot. Up until this morning you were ready to move in with him!’
‘And?’ said Miranda.
‘I think you should give him one last chance to tell you, that’s all. He might be gearing himself up for it. Teetering on the brink, that kind of thing.’
‘Shame he couldn’t teeter on the edge of a high building,’ Chloe heard Danny, next to her, murmur under his breath.
Chapter 32
The last time Miranda had done any real acting, she’d been one half of a pushmi-pullyu in the school production of Dr Doolittle. Then, she’d tripped over her tail and fallen off the stage.
Now, acting for all she was worth, she was making the discovery that pretending to be normal was far harder than being the rear end of a pushmi-pullyu.
‘…I just can’t get over how easy it was! It’s so silly, I should have done it weeks ago. Bev was brilliant, she understood completely—’
‘That’s great,’ said Greg, ‘but you’ve hardly eaten a thing.’
‘Sorry.’ Miranda gave her Thai crab cake a feeble prod with her fork. ‘Still hungover, I suppose, from lunchtime. It goes to show, though, doesn’t it? Honesty’s the best policy. All that secrecy for no reason at all. Why couldn’t I have just come straight out and told her the truth in the first place?’
Gently, Greg leaned across the table and took the fork from her hand.
‘If you aren’t hungry, leave it. I won’t be offended. And I’m really pleased the Bev thing’s sorted out, but could we talk about something else now?’ His grey eyes crinkled at the corners as he squeezed Miranda’s twitching fingers. ‘Like us?’
It’s like that film The Stepford Wives, Miranda thought, where the woman suddenly realizes all the other women are really robots. She was here talking to Greg but he was no longer her Greg. He was Chloe’s husband, father of Chloe’s baby, and he had announced he was leaving her the moment Chloe had discovered she was pregnant.
‘Us?’
‘I want to be with you. I want to know when you’re going to move in with me.’
Despite everything, a lump sprang into Miranda’s throat. He was still Greg on the outside, that was the trouble. He was handsome and he loved her and men like that didn’t come along every day.
Oh God, it wasn’t easy, discovering that the man in your life—the one who had come along—was a big fake.
‘You have to have trust, that’s the thing,’ Miranda blurted out. ‘Absolute trust. No secrets. We don’t have any secrets from each other, do we? Because if we do, we should deal with them now. It’s the only way.’
Greg smiled. The drinking session earlier had left Miranda pale, but he thought she’d never looked more beautiful. Her dark eyes, huge and luminous, shone with emotion. Her strappy little black dress fitted like a second skin. She smelled gorgeous.
And she was his, all his.
No way was he going to tell her about Chloe.
Not a chance.
‘The only secret I have,’ Greg said slowly, ‘is how much I love you. Because you’ll never know.’
He lifted her hand to his mouth and kissed it, touched by the tears glistening in her eyes. With his free hand, he took a small velvet box from his jacket pocket.
Her breathing quickened.
‘Is that for me?’
‘No, it’s for that waitress over there, the one in the orange wig.’
Miranda no longer had fingers, she had bunches of pork sausages. Clumsily she struggled to open the lid. Oh God, this wasn’t supposed to be happening…please, please let it be earrings…
The lid sprang open.
It wasn’t.
Only one ring, and not the kind you’d wear in your ear. Actually, not even the kind you’d want to wear on your finger, Miranda had to admit.
Five minuscule diamonds and a lone emerald winked feebly up at her, set in a daisy pattern with a horrid gold filigree surround.
Oh dear, there was no getting away from it.
This was a truly tasteless ring.
‘Don’t worry if it’s a bit big,’ Greg assured her. ‘I can easily have it altered.’
It probably would be too big, of course, seeing as he had bought it for someone else. But Chloe had always claimed it didn’t sit well next to her wedding band; she had simply given up wearing it, a couple of months into the marriage. It wasn’t until after he’d moved out that he’d discovered it, at the bottom of his cuff link tin, stuffed carelessly out of sight like a spoilt child’s unwanted toy.
Perfectly good ring like that, may as well make use of it, Greg had reasoned. Chloe might n
ot have appreciated his excellent taste, but he was sure Miranda would.
That wasn’t such a terrible thing to do, was it?
No, it was not.
It made perfect sense.
Nothing wrong with being thrifty.
‘I don’t know what to say. It’s…incredible,’ said Miranda.
***
The kitchen window was wide open and Florence’s state-of-the-art CD player teetered precariously on the sloping windowsill. Frank Sinatra serenaded the small but noisy gathering beneath the mulberry trees. The threatened thunderstorms having failed to materialize, the night air was heavy with humidity and heat.
‘I can’t believe you’re all still here,’ Miranda declared. ‘Don’t any of you have homes to go to?’
As she made her way across the dimly lit back garden she almost tripped over a pile of empty wine bottles and Florence’s discarded sun hat.
‘Darling, it’s your birthday!’ Florence, definitely squiffy, nudged Fenn and Chloe to move up and make way for Miranda. ‘And we’re all agog! So tell us, how did it go? Except we’ve already guessed, of course, because it’s ten o’clock at night and you’re back here.’
‘I gave him a million chances,’ Miranda said flatly. ‘Not a word.’
‘So that’s that.’ Bev shrugged. ‘He’s a bastard after all.’
‘I could have told you that weeks ago.’ Chloe sounded amused rather than upset.
‘Does he know you know?’ Danny’s glittering dark eyes narrowed against the smoke from the candles flickering in glass bowls on the table.
Honestly, who does he think he is, the head of MI5?
Briskly, Miranda saluted.
‘No, boss. Carried out your instructions to the letter, boss. Mouth’—she mimicked the action—‘kept zipped.’
‘Well,’ Fenn murmured, ‘there’s a first.’
Bev was frowning.
‘Didn’t he wonder why you wanted to come back here?’
‘I said I felt ill. Told him I’d see him tomorrow, when my hangover was gone.’ Miranda picked up a half-empty glass and took an experimental sip. Actually, not bad. Maybe she was ready to start again.
‘Aah, “Strangers in the Night”,’ sighed Florence as the familiar opening bars floated down from the kitchen window. ‘I used to dance to this at the Café de Paris…da da da da daaa…Come on then,’ she announced abruptly, jabbing her cigarette in Miranda’s direction, ‘show us what he got you for your birthday.’
Fenn, spotting the faint glimmer of diamond chips before anyone else, said, ‘I think I can guess.’
Oh dear. You could know that someone was a bastard but still feel a bit mean, Miranda discovered. Self-consciously she waggled her fingers.
Whooping, Florence and Bev simultaneously made a grab for her left hand.
‘Ouch, I’m not a wishbone.’
Bev gazed across the table at Miranda.
‘It’s an engagement ring.’
‘God, it’s tiny!’ Florence crowed.
Abruptly, the knot returned to Miranda’s stomach. Conflicting emotions tangled inside her like yo-yo string. Greg might be a shit and a deceiver, but it was cruel to make fun of an engagement ring. Okay, so it clearly hadn’t cost a huge amount, but it was the thought that counted. Greg had gone along to a jeweller’s and chosen that particular style because he had thought it would suit her…
Across the table, someone was clearing their throat. Miranda looked up.
‘Actually, it’s my engagement ring,’ said Chloe.
***
At midnight, Fenn rose to leave.
‘Bev? I’ll give you a lift home.’
‘I need the loo first.’ Rocking on her high heels, Bev made a dash for the house.
‘I’ll show you out,’ said Chloe, observing Danny and Miranda still huddled together deep in conversation. ‘It’s past my bedtime too.’
At the front door, while they waited for Bev, Fenn said, ‘Tell Miranda she doesn’t have to be in until ten tomorrow.’
Chloe looked envious.
‘I wish my boss would say nice things like that to me.’
‘I’m not always nice. I can be terrifying sometimes.’
‘I know. Miranda’s told me.’
Fenn smiled briefly.
‘Then again, I’m not a complete ogre. She’s had a hell of a day.’
‘She certainly has.’
Chloe opened the front door and peered out, the orange glow from the streetlamps turning her hair to apricot.
‘So have you.’ Fenn hesitated, feeling awkward. Before today, he had never even met Chloe. ‘Are you all right?’
Upstairs, a lavatory flushed. Bev would be back at any minute.
‘Oh, I’m okay.’ Chloe nodded vigorously. ‘Better than I expected, to tell you the truth. It helps to know I’m not the only woman he’s treated like dirt. Poor Miranda, though…’
Fenn marveled at her attitude. She really did feel sorrier for Miranda than she did for herself. Accustomed as he was to the tedious, self-absorbed ramblings of much of his female clientele, Chloe’s lack of self-pity was like a breath of fresh air.
‘Ready,’ Bev announced, clattering down the stairs. ‘Bye,’ she told Chloe, giving her a kiss.
Fenn, following her lead, leaned across and kissed Chloe’s cheek as well.
‘Bye. Take care.’
There were dimples in Chloe’s cheeks that deepened when she smiled.
‘I really am fine, you know. You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Plus, I always did hate that engagement ring.’
Fenn laughed.
‘Okay. See you soon.’
‘Absolutely,’ said Chloe. The mischievous dimples reappeared. ‘See you at the wedding.’
Chapter 33
The salon was packed to bursting on Monday morning, but one voice was still clearly audible above the rest. Eleanor Slater, a former Tory front-bencher with a grossly inflated sense of her own irresistibility, was making sure everyone knew she was there. Since losing her seat at the last election, Eleanor had swiftly relaunched herself as a fearless radio interviewer, famed for her ability to flirt and simultaneously stick the knife in. There was nothing she was too bashful to say. She particularly relished embarrassing other people in public, and accusing them of being prudes.
She was grotesque, and Miranda would have loathed her even if she didn’t have a hangover the size of Harrods. She waited for Eleanor to stop booming instructions to her PA into her dictaphone.
‘…and firm up that interview with Terry for tomorrow morning. If he’s pushed for time, we’ll do it in his car between meetings.’ Leaving the tape running, she smirked provocatively at Fenn’s reflection in the mirror. ‘It wouldn’t be the first time, but don’t tell his dull little wife that. Now, what can I do for you, dear?’ She swiveled briskly round in her chair, eyeing Miranda with unconcealed amusement. ‘Are you waiting to ask me something or can you just not remember what you’re supposed to be doing next?’
Patronizing old cow.
‘Tea or coffee?’ said Miranda.
‘Tea.’ Eleanor was renowned for her split-second decisions; she didn’t hang about. ‘Anything, so long as it’s herbal.’
Miranda wondered if deadly nightshade counted as herbal.
‘Oh, and I need some contraception for this afternoon,’ Eleanor went on. Delving into her briefcase, she produced a ten-pound note. ‘Pop along to the chemist, would you, dear? Pick me up a packet of condoms.’ Her strident voice, so used to the tricky acoustics of the House of Commons, effortlessly drowned out a dozen hair dryers. ‘Actually, better make that two packets.’
Don’t try to embarrass me, thought Miranda.
Aloud she said, ‘What flavor?’
Oh
bum, now she’d probably get the sack.
But when she finally dared to look in the mirror, Fenn was carefully cutting the back of Eleanor’s hair and doing his level best not to smile.
By the time Miranda returned from the chemist, Eleanor had recovered her composure. She opened one of the cellophane-wrapped packs, took out two condoms and tucked them into the back pocket of Miranda’s violet jeans.
‘There you are, dear. Be Safe, Be Happy!’
This was the slogan adopted by the government for its latest For-God’s-sake-use-something campaign.
Miranda gazed without enthusiasm at the packet in Eleanor’s hand.
Happy? What was that?
Since she was planning on being celibate from now on, she would definitely be safe.
But she had no intention of being happy.
The door swung open behind them as Danny and Tony Vale, loaded down with video equipment, arrived in the salon.
Eleanor, a tireless media-whore, perked up at once.
‘Everywhere I go, I’m pursued by cameras,’ she trilled. Twirling round in her chair, she eyed Danny with greedy approval. ‘Now, now, I don’t remember fixing this up.’ She wagged a naughty-boy finger at him. ‘Which company do you work for, and who told you I’d be here?’
Danny surveyed her, his expression impassive.
‘Nobody did. We aren’t here to film you.’
Just this once—and despite her cracking headache—Miranda could have kissed him.
Witnessing the deflation of the strident ex-MP nobody liked, several other women within earshot sniggered.
‘They’re making a documentary,’ Fenn explained to a disbelieving Eleanor, ‘about Miranda.’
The filming took less than an hour. Afterwards, Tony Vale loaded the equipment into the back of a cab and headed back to the studio. Danny bore Miranda off to the coffee bar around the corner and ordered her a hot chocolate.
‘So, are you sure you want to do it?’
Miranda’s glass of hot chocolate was topped with whipped cream and cocoa powder. If she tried to drink it she’d look as if she’d been got by the Phantom Flan Flinger.