by Jill Mansell
‘Oh yes.’ Using her finger, which was on the unsteady side, she scooped off the top layer. Halfway to her mouth, the dollop of whipped cream slid free and plopped messily back into her glass.
‘Because I can arrange everything,’ said Danny. ‘But you have to be really sure.’
‘Look, I am.’ Miranda wished everyone would stop treating her like an invalid; she was trembly because she had a hangover, not because she was upset. ‘Didn’t we spend enough time going over this last night? Fenn’s all for it, Chloe’s all for it, it’s not going to cost anything because you’re going to sell it…’
She paused, frowning, and trawled her finger speculatively through the cream mountain once more.
‘What?’
‘The only thing I don’t get is, what’s in it for you?’
Danny fiddled with the clasp of his wallet, which was lying on the table. Now how was he meant to answer this one?
Or rather, how was he meant to answer this one without giving himself away completely?
‘There’s nothing in it for me,’ he said at last. ‘I just think you deserve better than to be treated the way he’s treated you. Chloe as well,’ he added. ‘You both deserve better.’
‘Do you like Chloe?’ said Miranda abruptly. For some reason the question had been preying on her mind all week. ‘I mean, do you…fancy her?’
Danny almost laughed aloud.
‘No. No, of course I don’t fancy Chloe.’
Next question, he silently willed her to ask.
Instead, Miranda let out a yelp as a blob of whipped cream dropped from her finger, landing on the front of her T-shirt.
‘Bugger.’ Scooping the worst of it off and gazing in dismay at the chocolate-streaked stain, she dragged a crumpled tissue out of the back pocket of her jeans. Something else flew out at the same time, catapulting through the air behind her and landing at the feet of a man engrossed in his copy of The Times.
Danny retrieved it while Miranda scrubbed energetically at her front with the tissue.
‘It’s no good, it won’t come out. Lucky we’ve got spares back at the salon.’
‘Um, you dropped this.’
The look on his face was to die for. He was trying so hard to appear nonchalant.
‘Oh, thanks.’ Miranda took it from him. ‘Always make sure I keep one with me at work.’ She patted her pocket. ‘After all, you never know who might come into the salon.’
Yes, yes, there was that look again…
‘You are joking,’ Danny said finally.
‘Of course I’m joking. Ha, you’re easily shocked, aren’t you?’ Beaming, Miranda neatly tucked the condom into his wallet, which lay unfastened on the table between them. ‘It was a present from Eleanor Slater, if you must know. And now it’s yours.’
‘Why?’ Danny gazed at his wallet in alarm. God, how horrible if using Eleanor Slater’s condom meant he had to think of Eleanor Slater. Now there was an effective contraceptive device in a league of its own.
‘You may as well have it,’ said Miranda. ‘The way my life’s going, I won’t be having sex again before I’m eighty.’
***
As they were leaving the coffee bar, Miranda’s attention was caught by a photograph of Miles Harper in The Times sports section.
Next to her, Danny was saying, ‘Everything that happens in life, it’s for the best.’
This was evidently meant to reassure her.
Flick, went the newspaper and Miles briefly disappeared from view.
‘Okay, come on, that’s complete cobblers for a start,’ Miranda retaliated. ‘If I ran out into the road now and got knocked down by a bus, what would be so great about that?’
‘Okay, stupid remark, forget I said it.’ Danny smiled. ‘I was just trying to cheer you up.’
‘Well, don’t. You’re useless at it.’
The man holding his Times turned a page and Miles magically reappeared.
‘What are you peering at?’
‘Nothing,’ Miranda said shiftily. But it was too late; he had already followed the line of her gaze.
‘Miles Harper? He did pretty well yesterday,’ said Danny.
Miranda had forgotten all about the Canadian Grand Prix. She’d had other things on her mind.
‘Where did he finish?’
‘Second.’
‘Second? That’s brilliant!’ Her eyes widened with delight. That would really move Miles up the table…heavens, it put him only seven points behind the current leader. Not that she’d been keeping score, of course. Well, not much…
‘There you go,’ Danny observed, his tone dry. ‘I knew I could cheer you up.’
Chapter 34
‘I’ve got mumps,’ Miranda croaked into the receiver. ‘It’s awful. I look like a gerbil with bulimia.’
‘Mumps!’ Greg sounded horrified. ‘I’ve never had mumps!’
I know that, you git, thought Miranda. Otherwise what would be the point of telling you I’ve got it?
‘Isn’t it a nuisance? I won’t be able to see you for a whole week—’
‘Longer than that,’ Greg cut in, concerned for certain parts of his anatomy. Didn’t mumps cause them to swell up agonizingly, like footballs?
Miranda rushed to reassure him. ‘Oh no, six days is fine. I checked with the doctor. Just as well, too, otherwise I’d have had to miss the wedding of the year.’
In the privacy of his living room, Greg stuck his hand down the front of his Nike jogging pants, making sure his testicles weren’t quietly swelling up behind his back…so to speak.
‘Wedding?’ No, thank God, they seemed okay. ‘Why, who’s getting married?’
‘Oh, it’s so exciting.’ Miranda’s voice was croaky but otherwise she seemed cheerful enough. ‘You’ll never guess!’
‘Not your friend Bev. Don’t tell me she’s bulldozed some poor sod into marrying her at last.’
‘No.’ Miranda sounded hurt. ‘Oh Greg, don’t say it like that, when we’ve just got engaged! You sound so anti-weddings.’
He grinned.
‘Only when they involve saying “I do” to Bev. So who is it then?’
‘Fenn and Leila. Next Sunday at the Salinger Hotel in Kensington. Can you imagine?’ sighed Miranda. ‘They’ve only known each other a month, but they just couldn’t wait. Isn’t it the most romantic thing you ever heard?’
‘Your boss is marrying Leila Monzani?’ Greg marveled. ‘Where’s the actual service being held?’
‘Right there in the hotel! Oh, and you should see the guest list,’ Miranda exclaimed. ‘Celebrities flying in from all over the world…I mean, are there any famous people Fenn doesn’t know?’
‘And you’ve been invited,’ said Greg, trying not to sound eaten up with envy. God, what he wouldn’t give to go along to a wedding like that, to rub shoulders with rock stars and actors and supermodels…well, if he wore sixteen-inch platforms he could rub shoulders with supermodels…
In her bedroom, Miranda covered the receiver and mouthed, ‘Jealous,’ at Chloe.
Chloe mouthed, ‘Daisy,’ back at her.
‘Oh yes, and Daisy Schofield’s going to be there.’ Enjoying herself immensely, Miranda pictured the expression on his face.
‘Daisy Schofield,’ Greg echoed, unable to hide his disappointment. This was so unfair.
Miranda paused. Timing, after all, was everything.
‘So you’ll be able to meet her at long last.’
Greg digested these words.
‘What?’
‘You’re invited too, dopey!’
‘Really? Hey, great.’
He was grinning uncontrollably, Miranda could tell. And trying so hard to sound cool. Bless his heart.
Bastard.
> ‘So don’t forget, will you? Make a note of it in your diary. Midday, next Sunday. Wear your best suit. Oh,’ she added as an afterthought, ‘and don’t breathe a word about this to anyone. We’re talking Top Secret here. Fenn and Leila want total privacy—the last thing they need is for the place to be hijacked by photographers.’
‘Oh, well, yes, I can understand that. Of course,’ said Greg in a trustworthy voice. ‘I won’t blab. Um…who’s going to be the best man?’
Miranda thought for a moment.
‘Can’t remember. I think Fenn said Mick.’
Mick?
Mick!
Deeply, deeply impressed, Greg swallowed and said, ‘Hucknall or Jagger?’
‘Oh, one of them, I don’t know,’ Miranda replied carelessly. ‘Does it matter?’
Christ, no.
‘I could get myself a new suit,’ said Greg, determined to sound casual.
‘A new suit?’ Miranda waggled her eyebrows at Chloe. ‘That’s an idea. Look, sorry to keep on, but Fenn’s drummed it into all of us. You won’t accidentally let slip about this to anyone, will you?’
The temptation was too great. Leaning across, Chloe listened to her husband’s reassuring reply.
‘I won’t breathe a word,’ she heard Greg say. ‘Darling, you know you can trust me.’
When she had hung up the phone, Miranda bounced off her bed. She rummaged amongst the tangle of necklaces in a blue china bowl on her dressing table.
‘What?’ said Chloe, sitting cross-legged on the carpet.
The copper pot-bellied pig, designed to be hung on a leather thong and worn as a choker, went sailing up into the air.
‘He said he wouldn’t breathe a word.’ Miranda pointed. ‘See? A flying pig.’
There was a gentle thud as it landed on the rug next to Chloe. Picking the pig up, she ran her finger over its upturned snout.
‘Where did you get this? He’s brilliant.’
Actually, he was rather brilliant, Miranda modestly acknowledged. Ugly and cross-eyed and with one leg longer than the rest, but with bags of quirky character. And hey, no one’s perfect.
‘I made him. Years ago, at school,’ she told Chloe. ‘I joined the metalwork class because I was in love with this boy called Denzil and he said girls who did metalwork were great.’
‘And did you end up going out with him?’ Chloe gave up on her boring pelvic floor exercises. Eagerly she said, ‘Was he your first boyfriend?’
‘Oh yes. And it changed Denzil’s life forever.’ Miranda rolled her eyes. ‘One date with me was all it took for Denzil to realize he was gay. To add insult to injury, he was expelled a year later for seducing the metalwork teacher.’ She shrugged and held out her hands. ‘What can I tell you? The story of my life. This is how much luck I have with men.’
‘Well,’ said Chloe, ‘I know that feeling.’
Miranda watched her pull open the neck of her lime-green cotton sweatshirt, peer down at her stomach and reach for the round cushion on the chair behind her.
‘Um…what are you doing?’
‘I need to be bigger for next Sunday.’
Chloe shoved the cushion up under her sweatshirt, unfolded her legs and solemnly studied her reflection in the dressing-table mirror.
‘I don’t know.’ Miranda was doubtful.
‘Too much?’
‘You look about fourteen months pregnant.’
The weird thing was, it actually suited Chloe. When you had blonde hair piled up with combs, and golden skin, and blue eyes that sparkled like the sea, Miranda realized, you could get away with almost anything, even stuffing a cushion the size of a sofa down your front.
Chloe thought she looked a fright, of course, but only because it was the automatic response of females everywhere to putting on weight. Plus, her self-confidence had taken a complete hammering when Greg had left.
Which couldn’t help.
‘That’s better.’ Miranda nodded approvingly when the big cushion was swapped for her rolled-up denim shirt. ‘Size-wise, anyway. I’m not so sure about those bits of collar showing through. Looks as if you’re about to give birth to something with huge pointy ears.’
Chloe pulled out the shirt and tossed it back on to Miranda’s waiting-to-be-ironed, hopefully-before-Christmas pile.
‘I can’t wait for next Sunday. God, I hope Greg buys himself a really expensive new suit.’ She looked at Miranda. ‘Nothing can go wrong, can it?’
‘Nothing.’ Miranda broke into a grin; she was looking forward to it too. ‘Just so long as he doesn’t come down with mumps.’
***
‘Flo? Dancing Queen, is that you?’
Florence, who had been wrestling with the Telegraph crossword, lit up at the sound of Tom Barrett’s gravelly voice.
‘Tom, you wicked old man! Are you ringing to tell me the date of the wedding? Hang on, give me a hand with this stinking crossword first. Attempt to hide donkeys in mountain slope before noon, eleven letters, something c, something e, something something something—’
‘Haven’t the foggiest, but I’ve got one for you. Old man abandoned by nubile young lassie—’
‘Oh, Tom, no,’ Florence exclaimed, cottoning on at once. ‘Not Maria. Don’t tell me she’s dumped you.’
Tom chuckled at her dismay.
‘Well, it was pretty mutual. Maria’s a sweet girl, the sex was great, but the novelty soon wears off. All she wanted to do was watch Home and Away and bloody Neighbours. She speaks broken English with an Australian accent. Oh, it was fun while it lasted, Flo, but it wasn’t love. She moved out last week, and the relief…’
Florence relaxed. He certainly didn’t sound heartbroken.
‘Where is she now, gone back to Thailand?’
‘God, no! Moved in with the fellow next door.’ Tom barked with laughter. ‘Handy, really. She pops round every evening with a hot meal for me. Even gives me the odd massage if my back’s playing up.’
‘Humph,’ said Florence. ‘Being fond of Neighbours is one thing, but isn’t that taking it a bit far?’
‘No ill feelings,’ Tom pronounced cheerfully. ‘It didn’t work out, that’s all. And I’m keeping myself busy, still playing golf…just joined a local theatre group, matter of fact. Great fun.’
He and Louisa had always been keen on amateur dramatics, Florence recalled. Acting had been their great passion. It was something else Tom had given up when his wife had died.
‘I’ll never forget that production you put on in Malta.’ As she spoke, the germ of an idea began to unfold. ‘You were a fine Professor Higgins.’
‘I had a fine Eliza,’ Tom replied fondly, remembering Louisa. ‘And there’s something else I haven’t forgotten about that show.’ His tone grew stern. ‘You fell asleep.’
‘Never mind that now,’ said Florence. ‘What are you doing on Sunday?’
‘Not watching endless videos of Home and Away, that’s for sure.’ Tom sounded immeasurably relieved. ‘Why?’
‘We’re putting on a small production of our own.’ Feeling like a movie mogul, Florence lit a cigarette and blew a row of smoke rings…damn, it really should be a Monte Cristo cigar. ‘You’d fit the bill perfectly for the role I have in mind,’ she told Tom, puff puff. ‘And I promise not to fall asleep.’
Chapter 35
‘You’ve been invited to Leila Monzani’s wedding?’
Adrian stared at Greg in disbelief.
‘Sshh, keep your voice down,’ Greg hissed, though the pub was almost deserted. He tried not to smirk with pride, but it was impossible. Just as it had been impossible to keep the news to himself. Still, it wasn’t as if he was blabbing it all around town. Ade was his best friend. He knew he could trust him. That was the whole point of best friends.
Adrian whist
led, impressed.
‘You’re going up in the world, lucky sod. Who else’ll be there?’
Triumphantly, Greg reeled off the list of names Miranda had given him. Ade gulped them down like lager after a lamb vindaloo.
‘Shit! You’ll be in Hello! magazine.’
‘I told you, no press.’
‘What, you mean nobody knows it’s going to happen? That could be worth something,’ Ade exclaimed. ‘A tip-off to one of the tabloids…they pay good money for that kind of info. Who’s Buzz Baxter working for now?’ he went on abruptly. ‘The Sun, the Mirror—one of the tabloids—a scoop like that’d be right up his street.’
Buzz Baxter was an old schoolfriend they still bumped into from time to time. Greg’s forehead creased with doubt.
‘But they don’t want any publicity, do they?’
‘Come on! One photographer, how terrible would that be? Give Buzz a ring,’ Adrian urged. ‘Earn yourself a few easy grand.’
Regretfully, Greg tilted his chair back on its hind legs.
‘Miranda would go berserk.’
‘Sometimes I wonder about you. Buzz wouldn’t reveal his sources, would he? And Miranda doesn’t know that you know Buzz. Simple,’ said Adrian, spreading his hands. ‘Home and dry. I’m telling you, mate, you’re mad if you don’t.’
They had another drink. Slowly, Greg allowed Adrian to overcome his reluctance.
‘She’d ask me. I’d have to lie to her.’
‘Oh, and that would never do, would it?’ Adrian jeered. ‘Keeping the truth from Miranda.’
Greg’s smile was rueful. He didn’t mention that he already had Buzz Baxter’s phone number tucked away in his wallet. Tipping Buzz off had, naturally, occurred to him as soon as Miranda had stressed—rather insultingly, he felt—the secrecy of the occasion. But this way, his conscience was clear. It had been Adrian’s idea, not his own. He was being conned, pressured, practically forced into going along with it.
Anyway, as Ade kept reminding him, nobody would ever know.
Thousands of pounds, in exchange for one simple phone call.
In all honesty, who could resist that?