by Jill Mansell
The girl, blinking nervously up at him, replied, ‘I don’t care about that, I was just checking they don’t have any calories.’
‘Here comes Leila,’ said Chloe. ‘Poor thing, she looks jet-lagged.’
Privately, Fenn thought that Leila, in her fluorescent tube dress, looked like the Pink Panther. And as for jet lag…well, it was impossible to tell. The half-closed eyes and dazed expression were pretty much a permanent feature. All the supermodels were wearing them this season. He’d tried teasing Leila about it, but she hadn’t got the joke. Beautiful she might be, Fenn thought with a regretful smile, but a sense of humor wasn’t her strong point.
He had persuaded Leila to come along with him today because her frequent trips abroad meant their time together was limited.
And about to become more so, Fenn thought sadly, realizing that yet another hollow relationship was ready to bite the dust. Why did he do it? What was the point of ever getting involved with these girls in the first place?
But he already knew the answer to that one.
Basically, depressingly—like Everest, only skinnier—because they were there.
‘Hi,’ said Leila, coiling her body on to the wooden arm of the bench next to Fenn. ‘Can we go now?’
Chloe had finished her chicken. Fenn took the empty plate from her.
‘I was just about to fetch Chloe a piece of raspberry gateau. Shall I get you one too?’
Leila’s eyelids flickered briefly, acknowledging the so-called humor of this suggestion.
‘No thanks. The wedding thing’s over, isn’t it? Why can’t we go?’
‘We’re celebrating.’
‘I don’t know anyone here.’
‘You know Miranda,’ said Fenn. ‘Go and dance in the fountain with her.’ Please, he thought, silently willing her to laugh and kick off her shoes. I’d love it if you did that.
Chloe saw the blank expression on Leila’s sculpted face.
‘Why?’
‘You might enjoy it.’
Leila looked at him as if he’d gone mad.
‘I’d get wet.’
***
The Salinger Hotel was famous for its Sunday-afternoon tea dances. Inside, the orchestra played sedate numbers from the twenties and thirties, and elegantly dressed couples moved decorously around the polished dance floor. Outside, in the garden, Miranda danced—rather less elegantly—with Tom Barrett.
‘We’re raising a few eyebrows,’ he told her, glancing up at the windows. ‘Monocles are popping out as we speak.’
‘That’s because I look like a tart, and you’re dressed as a vicar.’
‘My dear, I’m the envy of every man in that ballroom.’
Waltzing for all she was worth, Miranda said, ‘Oh Tom, aren’t you lovely? Why can’t I meet someone as nice as you, only forty years younger?’
Tom shouted with laughter.
‘God, I’m sorry,’ mumbled Miranda. ‘I suppose I just answered my own question. A walking disaster, that’s me.’ Stepping backwards instead of forwards, she pulled a face. ‘Not to mention a waltzing one.’
‘That’s no way to speak,’ Tom chided. ‘You’re not a disaster.’
‘I am.’
‘Refreshingly honest, maybe.’ Amused, Tom glanced over at Florence. ‘Can’t think where you get it from.’
‘Poor Florence. I feel guilty, twirling away while she’s stuck in her chair.’
‘I wouldn’t give much for your chances if she heard you calling her poor Florence.’ Tom’s smile was fond. ‘Good old Flo, she was quite something in her day.’
‘She still is,’ said Miranda. ‘And I wouldn’t give much for your chances if she heard you calling her old.’
He looked thoughtful.
‘Can she stand at all?’
‘Oh yes, with support.’
They grinned at each other.
‘Dare you,’ said Miranda.
‘Done.’
Florence looked up in alarm as Tom, his vicar’s robes billowing and his manner purposeful, approached her.
‘You’re not leaving already?’
‘I am not. I’ve come to ask for the pleasure of the next dance.’
Astonished, Florence said, ‘With who?’
‘You, you daft woman. And it’s with whom.’
‘Pah! You’re the daft one, Tom Barrett,’ Florence snorted, ‘if you think I’d let you fling me round in this chair like a child let loose with a supermarket trolley. Ridiculous, that’s how we’d look—’
‘Not in the chair.’ Tom shook his head. ‘You can stand, I checked with Miranda. And if I can haul a set of clubs round eighteen holes,’ he held out his arms, ‘I’m sure I can manage you.’
‘Lovely turn of phrase you have there,’ grumbled Florence. ‘Makes me sound like a sack of turnips.’
Tom smiled.
‘Turnips are quieter. Turnips don’t argue.’
‘Go and dance with a turnip then.’
Evocative music drifted through the open French windows as, inside the ballroom, the orchestra struck up the next tune. Irritatingly, it was one of Florence’s all-time favorites.
‘I’d rather dance with you,’ Tom said calmly. ‘Much rather.’
‘I don’t do the tarantella any more.’ Florence’s tone was truculent. ‘I can’t twirl.’
Sensing weakness, Tom raised an enquiring eyebrow.
‘Can you shuffle?’
‘Oh, I can shuffle.’
He nodded with satisfaction, reaching down and clasping his arms firmly around Florence’s waist.
‘That’ll do.’
***
‘Fancy a bop?’ said Buzz.
‘Why not?’ Chloe shook back her hair and stood up. ‘But if you try and undo my bra, I shall have to kill you.’
He grinned. Chloe was all right.
‘You’re a pregnant lady. I do have some scruples, you know.’
‘You amaze me,’ said Chloe.
***
It was the sight of Florence and Tom dancing together that finally did it for Miranda. One minute she was sitting kicking her heels happily in the fountain and the next there was a lump the size of the Rock of Gibraltar battling to burst out of her chest.
Shuffle, shuffle went Tom’s feet, in perfect time with Florence’s. He was smiling down at her, saying something and making her chuckle. And Florence was enjoying herself; the look on her face said it all. With her new short hairstyle, her jaunty hat and flowing dress of violet silk splashed with crimson orchids, she looked fabulous. And so happy that Miranda wanted to cry.
The next moment, to her horror, she realized that she actually was crying. Hot tears were spilling over on to her cheeks like lava out of a volcano and there was nothing she could do to stop them. Oh God, please don’t let anyone see me like this…
***
Tom Barrett, his snowy surplice billowing in the breeze, was dancing with Bev. Chloe had been persuaded to take a twirl round the garden with Tony Vale, still in his Blues Brothers suit and glasses but now wearing, as a finishing touch, Florence’s flower-bedecked velvet hat.
‘She isn’t inside,’ said Danny. ‘I can’t find her anywhere.’
Fenn frowned.
‘She wouldn’t have left without telling us. And her bag’s still here.’
Leila, busy lighting up yet another cigarette, said vaguely, ‘When I went to the loo earlier there was someone crying in one of the cubicles.’
Fenn stared at her.
‘Was it Miranda?’
‘How would I know? All I could see was her feet. Green nail polish with purple glitter.’ Leila exhaled a stream of smoke and pulled a face. ‘I mean, totally passé.’
‘Those were Mira
nda’s totally passé toes,’ Fenn said furiously. ‘Why didn’t you tell us earlier?’
Leila looked amazed.
‘You didn’t ask.’
Chapter 37
It was a good job the lid of the loo seat was down. Otherwise Miranda, sitting cross-legged and hugging an empty bottle to her chest, would have fallen in.
‘Come on, Miranda, I know it’s you. Open the door this minute.’
It was Danny’s voice. And he was sounding bossy.
Bossy bloody Danny Delancey, thought Miranda, tipping her head back and draining the last few lukewarm drops of wine. Well, he could be as bossy as he liked. She wasn’t scared.
She wasn’t about to open the door, either.
‘Miranda.’
‘Danny,’ she mimicked.
‘Still alive, then.’ He sounded relieved. ‘Unlock the door, Miranda.’ Pause. ‘We were worried about you.’
‘No need to worry about me.’ She shook her head with such vigor she almost slid off the wooden loo seat. Tut tut, very highly polished, exceedingly dangerous…I could sue the hotel for that. Regaining her balance, she glared at the door. ‘Anyway, you aren’t allowed in here. This is the ladies’ loo. And you’re a man.’
‘Possibly the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.’ Danny sounded amused. ‘Unlock the door, there’s a good girl.’
‘God,’ grumbled Miranda. ‘Nag, nag, nag. Oh, and by the way…no, I won’t.’
‘Fine.’
Moments later, she let out a squeal as he dropped over the partition dividing her cubicle from the one next to it.
‘Who do you think you are,’ Miranda demanded indignantly, ‘James Bond?’
‘Who d’you think you are,’ Danny countered, ‘the latest recruit to the Oliver Reed School of Drinking?’
Miranda tried to leap to her feet, but twenty minutes of sitting cross-legged on a loo seat had seized up her knees and ankles completely. Whimpering with pain, she was forced to hang on clumsily to Danny’s arms for support as Florence had clung to Tom earlier.
‘Ow, ow, my feet, ow—’ yelped Miranda, her eyes screwed up in agony. The next second she felt herself being lifted up, swung round and plonked down again. The pain had stopped, though the soles of her feet still buzzed with pins and needles. Cautiously opening her eyes, she realized that her suspicions had been correct. Danny was now sitting on the toilet seat lid, and she was sitting on Danny. His arms were around her, keeping her in place. She could smell his aftershave. Close up like this—and she had certainly never been this close before—she couldn’t help noticing he had really, really nice ears.
Well, ear. From this angle she could only see the left one. But the other one—Mr Right, Miranda thought with a stifled giggle—was probably just as attractive. In its own way.
‘What?’ said Danny.
Better not tell him. He might think she was weird.
‘I feel like a ventriloquist’s dummy.’
Danny waggled his fingers.
‘Look, no hands.’
He was humoring her, Miranda realized. Being kind. Overall, she thought she preferred him bossy—at least that way she could fight back.
For a terrible second, she thought she was going to burst into tears again. As if her eyes weren’t already swollen and piggy enough.
Danny, glimpsing her expression, gave her waist a brief, meant-to-be-sympathetic squeeze.
‘Don’t,’ warned Miranda. Her lower lip trembled.
‘It’s okay to cry. If that’s what you want to do, just go ahead,’ Danny reassured her.
‘Stop it. Please don’t be nice to me.’ She felt her eyes start to fill.
He gave her waist another squeeze. Miranda’s rib cage began to shudder. Oh, the humiliation. This wasn’t fair.
‘Can’t you just say something horrible?’ She blurted the words out in desperation. ‘Be sarcastic? Give me a slap and tell me to grow up?’
In reply, Danny reached up and smoothed her ruffled hair. His dark eyes were serious. For the first time ever, he wasn’t teasing her.
‘Bastard,’ muttered Miranda, ‘you’re no help at all.’
Once she’d started, it was impossible to stop. This time she didn’t have to pretend she was crying because of Florence and Tom. These tears, held back for too long, were all for herself.
Danny said nothing, he just held her and stroked her back and let the torrent of sobbing run its necessary course.
It felt like hours to Miranda, but when she finally hiccuped to a halt and glimpsed his watch as he wiped her eyes, she saw that it hadn’t been that long at all. Less than ten minutes.
Still, she’d managed to honk and bawl her way through an entire loo roll, which was something. Quite an achievement, actually, in ten minutes.
‘Better now?’ said Danny at last.
Miranda nodded and blew her reddened nose. Reluctantly she muttered, ‘Am I supposed to say thank you now?’
‘Don’t let it trouble you.’ He grinned at her. ‘Happy to help.’
Miranda swayed a bit on his lap. She felt light-headed with the relief of getting all that pent-up emotion out of her system. Thanks to the amount of wine she had guzzled in a short space of time, she also needed, quite badly, to pee.
‘Um, could you go now?’
Danny heaved a dramatic sigh.
‘That’s right, use me and toss me aside like an old Kleenex. Blub all over me, soak my shirt—’
‘If you carry on much longer, it’ll be more than your shirt that gets soaked,’ said Miranda.
‘Ah. Right.’
‘Do I look terrible?’ She blinked and rubbed her face, which felt salty and raw.
‘Not your best, I have to say.’
‘Oh God, and my make-up’s in my bag, in the garden.’
Danny tipped her off his lap and unlocked the cubicle door.
‘You stay here. I’ll fetch your bag.’
‘Could you call a cab?’ Miranda sensed that her face was beyond repair. ‘I think I just want to go home.’
‘I’ll take you.’
‘Make my excuses to everyone. Don’t tell them I was crying,’ she added hurriedly.
‘I’ll say you’re as pissed as a parrot. Again.’
Miranda nodded; that was far less humiliating.
‘Thanks.’
***
Bruce had to attend a trade fair in Bristol on Monday morning. He parked a short distance from Florence’s house on Sunday afternoon, not particularly looking forward to seeing his mother but needing to hand the keys over to Chloe so that tomorrow morning she could open up the shop.
In the event, neither of them was in. The house was empty. Scribbling a note for Chloe, Bruce shovelled the bunch of keys through the letter-box and headed back to his car.
Before he could pull away, a green BMW drew up outside the house, reversing niftily into a space Bruce had considered earlier and rejected as too small. Irritated by the other driver’s superior parking skills, he peered across to reassure himself it wasn’t a woman.
It wasn’t.
It was his mother’s toyboy, Orlando.
Bruce’s immediate instinct was to shrink down in his seat. If that was Florence in the passenger seat, he didn’t want her to spot him. The prospect of being dragged into the house and having to witness his mother making sheep’s eyes at that gigolo was more than he could handle.
But it wasn’t Florence, he realized moments later as a tanned elbow—a young elbow—appeared, resting on the passenger-side open window.
Bruce sat bolt upright. Now this was promising. Well, well, in all honesty he hadn’t thought Chloe had it in her.
Then the elbow shifted and the forearm came out, too thin to belong to Chloe. Bruce, peering harder, glimp
sed an assortment of vaguely familiar silver bangles, then a flash of telltale blue-green hair.
Not Chloe, the other one…what was her name?
Miranda.
***
Something odd had begun to happen on the way back from the Salinger Hotel. Every time Danny pulled up at a junction or a set of traffic lights, Miranda discovered, he grew more attractive.
It was no longer confined to his ears. Each stolen glance—when he wasn’t looking at her, of course—revealed yet another admirable feature. The straightness of his nose, those totally unfair eyelashes, not to mention the way his hair curled over his collar…
It was more than odd, Miranda marveled, it was astonishing. Like digging a hideous old polyester cardigan out of the back of your wardrobe and realizing that you’d made a mistake, it was actually the cardigan of your dreams, pink and perfect and one hundred per cent cashmere.
Breaking into her thoughts—oh, such delicious thoughts—Danny said abruptly, ‘We’re here.’
‘You’ve been really kind,’ Miranda told him. ‘Really really kind.’
‘I know. And you’re really really drunk. When did you last have something to eat?’
She shrugged, trying to think.
‘Tuesday?’
‘You should eat.’ He paused. ‘What?’
‘What what?’
‘Why are you looking at me like that?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Miranda, distinctly light-headed. Her elbow slid off the window frame with a thud. ‘Why are you looking like that?’
‘Like what?’
She pointed an accusing finger at him.
‘All gorgeous and, you know, sexy and stuff.’
His mouth twitched. Sexily.
‘See?’ Miranda demanded. ‘You’re doing it again.’
‘Now listen to me, you’ve had—’
‘Can I kiss you?’
Ha, that stopped him in his tracks! She saw his eyes flicker. Sexily.
‘Miranda.’
Even the way he said her name was sexy.
‘Or if you want to be masterful about it,’ she offered, ‘you could always kiss me.’